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Even after eight years of being at the Ministry of Magic – three in Auror training and five more in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – Harry still loathed having to eat lunch in the canteen. It was invariably crowded, the food was terrible... he had to admit that the prices were cheap, but cheap was not enough of an incentive. He avoided going there whenever possible. Despite his best efforts, though, there were days like today when he simply could not find even the time to go grab a decent sandwich.
Looking at the selection of food available now towards the end of the lunch rush, his heart sank. There was something calling itself a cutlet that looked as if it were made of shoe leather, or possibly dragon hide. Also there was a putative bubble and squeak that appeared to have congealed at least three weeks ago into a substance that might serve to putty up cracks in a wall, but was not in the slightest appetizing as something to eat. The sprouts were grey, the salad limp and brown. Harry briefly considered skipping lunch altogether, but he had been out all morning interviewing witnesses to a possible Death Eater sighting and he was starving, so he reluctantly pointed to the cutlet and sprouts and the canteen witch handed him a plate.
Harry scanned the room. Every seat seemed to be taken. He paid his six Sickles and started moving between the tables, hoping that he had overlooked an empty place. On the far side of the room a dark-haired witch rose and left, and Harry hurried towards the spot.
"May I sit here?" he began to say, when he saw who the other occupant of the table was. Draco Malfoy. Of all the wizards to have to share a canteen table with, he had to end up with Malfoy. Without waiting for an answer, Harry set his tray down, dropped into the uncomfortable orange plastic chair, and began eating. The cutlet was just as tough as it had looked in the steam table, and took a good deal of sawing to separate a bite from the main portion.
Malfoy had not looked up, but he gave a kind of one-shouldered shrug, apparently no more pleased to have Harry at his table than Harry was to be there.
He had changed sides during the war, of course, Harry knew that well. It had been information supplied by Malfoy that had allowed him to find first the last Horcrux and then Voldemort himself. But he had never entirely trusted Malfoy's motivations, and since Voldemort's defeat and death Malfoy had done nothing to improve Harry's opinion of him.
If Harry had spent eight years working to make the wizarding world safe from the remnants of Voldemort's supporters, Malfoy had spent eight years acting as if he already had. He might have risked his life by spying against Voldemort, but that was no different from what half of Harry's friends had done. And Malfoy had made the most of it, proceeding to date his way through practically every witch anywhere near their age, and more of the wizards than Harry would have imagined, in under a year. Ginny had been one of Malfoy's first conquests; by then Harry had realized that he and Ginny would never be what he had once hoped, but they were still friends and when Malfoy dumped her it had been Harry who spent weeks trying to cheer her up again. Practically the only person Malfoy hadn't gone out with had been Harry himself. And then he had married Pansy Parkinson, after all that... although Harry remembered hearing recent gossip that Pansy had thrown him out. He wondered what the truth of it was. If she had, he suspected that Malfoy had richly deserved it.
Harry, by contrast, had been in precisely one relationship in the past eight years, and that had lasted for all of seven weeks, three days, and nineteen hours. Not that Harry was counting. And he sure as hell was not going to think about the reasons why he had not dated anyone at all in over six years. It was not as if his friends hadn't attempted to fix him up, time after time, while he as stubbornly kept refusing every offer.
But why was Malfoy eating his lunch here in the Ministry canteen? Harry had to suppose it was for more or less the same reason as himself. Malfoy worked as an Unspeakable, and presumably even he got so busy once in a while that the convenience of the canteen trumped other considerations. Malfoy could certainly afford to eat anywhere he liked, so it almost had to be a question of time.
"Would you pass the vinegar?" The bottle was sitting next to Malfoy's elbow, on the far corner of the table, and Harry didn't fancy trying to reach for it. He would probably knock it over by accident and spill all over Malfoy. Bad plan.
Malfoy shoved the bottle towards Harry, still not speaking or looking at him. Then he pulled his chair a little closer in, and his knee bumped against Harry's.
And Harry couldn't avoid thinking about why he was alone any longer, because that accidental impersonal touch from a git who had never so much as voluntarily given him the time of day sent lightning flashes along his nerves that went straight to his cock. He didn't fancy himself in love with Malfoy. Far from it. But he wanted to bend over and let Malfoy shag him senseless, had done for years now, and he knew that was about as likely as Sirius walking through his office door some afternoon to ask how he had been.
With a muttered, "Excuse me," Harry picked up his almost untouched tray and fled, shoving it into the rack near the door before hurrying back to work.
He could not see that Malfoy had at last looked up and was staring after him, chewing on his lip.
That night as Harry walked home through the fine drizzle of a dark February evening, he hunched his shoulders, feeling sorry for himself. Here it was less than a fortnight before Valentine's Day, and he was going to be alone on it for the seventh year in a row. Depressing. Sure, Ron and Hermione had invited him to come have dinner with them – Hermione had even promised not to invite someone as a date for Harry – but that wasn't what Harry wanted. He wanted Malfoy. It was small consolation that no one else knew that, that no one could feel pity for him. No one even knew that Harry was gay. He had cultivated the image of someone completely devoted to his work, so much so that he had no time for anything else except friendship.
He walked up the stairs and into his flat. This, too, suggested to his rare visitors that he had his mind on more important things than home decoration or even regular sweeping up. The tatty upholstery on the sofa and the scratches on the tables were mostly hidden by stacks of parchment, untidy piles of books, half-empty cups of tea, and the occasional stray sock. Every month or so he would cast a few housekeeping spells to keep the worst of the mess at bay. His bedroom was somewhat better; in the optimistic first days of that long-distant relationship, Harry had purchased a very expensive bedroom suite. At least the bed was large enough to let him sprawl out however he wished.
Hedwig hooted softly at him from her perch as he walked through the doorway. He dropped the carrier bag full of Indian takeaway on the nearest table, went to the refrigerator to get himself a drink, then tossed her an Owl Treat.
"Want to go for a fly, Hedwig? I don't have any letters to send tonight, sorry, but you could go out anyway."
She gazed at him solemnly, but when he opened the window she flew out of it. Harry was about to close it again when another, much smaller owl flew in. At first he thought it was Ron's Pigwidgeon, but this owl was far better behaved. It landed on Hedwig's perch and waited for him to take off the message before taking off again and disappearing.
There was no signature, and Harry did not recognize the handwriting. All it said was, "Look outside the door."
Harry had been an Auror for far too long to trust an anonymous message. He looked through the peephole, wand at the ready. No one there. The angle kept him from seeing all the way to the doorstep. He opened the door cautiously, an Impediment Jinx on his lips. Nothing, he thought at first. Then he looked behind it. There was a small package lying there, wrapped in brown paper. It seemed harmless enough, but he muttered an all-purpose Revealing Spell to see if it had been hexed in some fashion. Nothing. Safe. He closed the door and unwrapped it.
"Chocolate Frogs?"
As he lifted the packet out of its wrapping, another slip of parchment fluttered down. Harry grabbed and caught it.
Feeling inordinately proud of himself for the catch, though it was hardly a challenge compared with a Snitch, he read, "Do you still collect these?" in the same precise spiky handwriting.
Well, no. Harry had not collected Chocolate Frog cards since he had left Hogwarts. Which rather suggested that whoever had left them had known him at school but not since.
He shook his head. Very strange.
The aroma of rogan josh had escaped its cardboard and plastic enclosure and made its way to Harry's nose, reminding him that he had only eaten a few bites of his lunch and then a stale pumpkin pasty in midafternoon. He found a fork and started eating, glancing occasionally at the Chocolate Frogs and shaking his head..
Night was the loneliest time. Once in a while he went out with friends for dinner or to a club or show, but most of them were long since paired off and were happy to stay home with their partners, and lately children in some cases. Even when Harry did go make a night of it, being around couples brought a burning jealousy to his throat that, after a while, made being alone seem preferable.
Alone, at least, there was no one to interrupt him when he indulged in his fantasies. Harry dumped the now-empty takeaway containers into the bin and headed for the bathroom.
The mirror reflected a body that bore the scars of his earlier years. Harry had never accepted the offers to have them magically removed, any more than he had bothered with having his eyes charmed so that he could stop wearing his glasses. All his imperfections were part of who he was. And, actually, he was in pretty good shape. He went running every weekend, and usually a couple of evenings during the week too. He had no complaints about how he looked; and there had been enough people, mostly women but the occasional man as well, who had come onto him that he knew that it wasn't just his own ego that said he could easily find someone to shag if he wanted to. But he didn't want to...
He looked away and turned on the shower. The hot water running down his skin made his own hands feel like someone else's, and that was how Harry liked it. He scraped a thumbnail lightly over his nipple, then pinched it, hard and suddenly. His cock hardened, curving up to bump against his stomach, as he imagined that it was Malfoy touching him. With his other hand Harry began to fist himself, long firm slow strokes in a steady rhythm as the water beat down on his head, drowning out all thoughts except his fantasies of Malfoy, that fair hair darkened by the water, narrow lips drawn back to let him suck and bite and lick at Harry's skin. It took only moments before Harry came, thick white pulses that were quickly washed away.
Harry leaned against the cold tile. It was never enough.
The following day was a perfectly ordinary one. Harry worked with Tonks to collate the information that would let them track down the purported Death Eater, and by the time they were finished it was too late to actually go after the suspect until the next day. Instead of going directly home, he stopped by the Leaky Cauldron and had a few drinks with the Weasley twins in honor of the recent opening of a branch of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Rome. Fred's Angelina was off playing with Puddlemere United, and George had broken up with his latest girlfriend. They were both delighted to have Harry's company and discuss their latest line, clothing that turned transparent at unpredictable moments.
By the time he reached his flat, he was ready to go to bed. Tonks and he had agreed that a dawn start would be best, and Harry knew that he needed to be rested and alert, just in case anything went wrong.
As soon as he stepped inside he heard the tapping on the glass. It was the same owl, or one very like it. This time the message read, "Under the doormat."
He was still cautious. It could be a ploy to lull him into complacency for an attack, so again Harry checked the thin parcel for any nasty hexes or jinxes. It seemed clean. He opened it to find a photograph, a wizarding photograph. At first he thought it was of himself, but he did not recognize the other boy in the picture, and after a few blinks he realized that it was James Potter and Sirius Black waving up at him. A slip of parchment Spellotaped to the back said, "Thought you might like this."
Who on earth could have sent him this picture? Who would have even had an old picture of Sirius and James? Harry was baffled. He leaned the photograph up against the empty Butterbeer bottle from last night and rested his chin on his fists, pondering the possibilities.
So it went for the next nine days. Every night, sometime after he arrived home, the same owl would appear with a note telling him to look outside his door for some new small gift, always something that showed the anonymous giver knew Harry well, but not perfectly. So it couldn't be any of his friends. None of them would have bothered with being so secretive anyhow.
There was no one he felt comfortable with talking to about it, either. Hermione was far too busy as undersecretary to the Minister, Ron was unlikely to have any ideas that would help, Ginny was flying for the Montrose Magpies. Neville was teaching Herbology at Hogwarts since Professor Sprout's retirement, Tonks preoccupied with Remus and vice versa. Harry considered Fred and George, but he didn't really trust them to keep a secret, and he didn't want to be gossiped about – not any more than usual, at any rate.
On the fourth night, he had sent a message back with the tiny owl, asking, "Who are you?" He waited in vain for an answer, however; the messages and gifts remained anonymous. Harry could only hope that some clue would eventually solve the mystery.
It was just past five o'clock on Thursday, and Harry wearily laid down his quill and shoved away the parchment bearing his report on the cache of Dark Magic items that Tonks had stumbled across during their raid the previous week. Just identifying everything had taken them ages. The rest of the report could wait until tomorrow.
He stepped into the crowded elevator, surprised to see Malfoy on it. The Unspeakables' offices were on the ninth level. But perhaps Malfoy had had someone to meet on the first.
"Are you celebrating tomorrow, since Pansy left?" he heard someone asking, and strained his ears to hear Malfoy's reply.
"I don't know yet... there's someone I want to ask."
Laughter. "If you've waited till the day before Valentine's, I think you're too late!"
Harry wished he could hear the mumbled reply from Malfoy, but it would be far too obvious to turn around. So, Malfoy was already moving on to someone new? Harry wondered who it could be. Perhaps he was going back to one of his exes – there were enough of them, and surely several would be happy to be with Malfoy again.
The damp wind cut through his clothes as Harry went outside, and he briefly regretted not taking the Floo home for once. But his flat was not that far away, and the walk was good for him.
Today the post owl was later than usual. Harry found himself pacing around his flat, wondering if there would be no message at all tonight. Perhaps his elusive gift-giving friend was too busy, or had decided he or she had done enough already. When the tap of a beak on the glass finally came, he raced over to the window and let in a very rumpled-looking bundle of feathers.
"May I take you to dinner tomorrow night?" he read. "The White Sparrow on Feste Alley is excellent. I hope to see you there at seven o'clock."
Harry let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. Scribbling the single word "yes" in reply, he watched the owl fly away into the night.
It was a good thing it was Friday, Harry decided the next morning, because if he had not had to work he would have spent the entire day worrying about his blind date. The anonymous person knew him, and would be able to find him, but what if that person was late or Harry was a bit early? He would look like a total prat hanging about waiting for someone without being able to give a name or even a description to the restaurant staff. Determinedly he put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on work until five o'clock came and he was able to race home to dress.
The robes he had worn to Ron and Hermione's wedding were the most formal ones he owned. Were they too formal? He frowned into the mirror. His hair was sticking up in back, as usual. A dollop of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion would take care of that, but he still could not decide if he should dress more casually. Not knowing who he was to meet made it difficult. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he did not even know if his date was with a man or a woman.
In the end he wore the formal robes. The shops and restaurants on Feste Alley tended to be on the posh side, and it seemed the safest thing.
At three minutes of seven, he Apparated to the end of the alley and began walking along it. Harry had never been to the White Sparrow before and was not quite certain where it was. It proved to be about three-quarters of the way along, a quiet brick building with green woodwork that looked almost like a house, but when he turned the brass doorknob a well-dressed witch greeted him with, "Did you have a reservation, sir?"
"Er... I'm supposed to be meeting someone."
"What was the name?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted.
A tall wizard with thinning hair hurried up. "Mr. Potter, isn't it? Right this way, please."
Harry followed the man back. The seating area was arranged as a series of intimate small rooms, each individually decorated and just large enough for one couple. Most of them were filled. Harry was shown to one which had red velvet chairs flanking a small table, and fat white candles flaring dimly in wall sconces. No one else was there.
"I was asked to tell you that your party will be a few minutes late," apologized the maître d'hôtel. "Would you care for an apertif?"
"No, no thanks, I'll wait," said Harry, and the man bowed slightly before moving away.
Now Harry felt a twinge of apprehension. Perhaps this was all some kind of elaborate joke? He gnawed at the skin of his left thumb.
"Bite your nails much, Potter?"
The drawl of Draco Malfoy's voice made him jump.
"What's it to you, Malfoy?" Harry said sharply, embarrassed to be seen here without his date having yet arrived.
"It's a bit... immature, that's all. Not what I'd've expected of you." The words were sardonic, but the tone, surprisingly, was not. Malfoy sat down opposite Harry. "Waiting for someone, are you?"
"Yes." Harry bit off the word. "Not that it's any of your concern."
Malfoy lifted a hand, and a waiter seemed to materialize instantaneously.
"Sir?"
"The Veuve Clicquot, please."
"Very good, sir." The waiter vanished.
"Actually," said Malfoy, looking back at Harry, "I think it is my concern."
It took a moment for Harry to understand. "You? You're the one who's been sending those..." he broke off as the waiter came back with a bottle, opened it, and filled glasses for them both.
"I sent them," affirmed Malfoy when he had nodded his acceptance after tasting and they were alone again. He had the grace to look apologetic. "I didn't think you would agree if I asked you out directly. You've never given much indication that you more than tolerated me... and maybe you're not even interested in men... but I wanted to have one chance."
Harry unthinkingly downed his champagne in a single gulp, and then choked. Draco leaped up and swatted him on the back.
"Are you all right?"
Eyes streaming, Harry nodded, still dazed. He had been so convinced that Malfoy had no interest in him, ever since the war. And it was not as if he had not had reasonable cause for his conviction, not with the way Malfoy had played the field with so many others, but never Harry.
"Why?" he asked, when he finally had his breath again. "You never seemed to like me either."
"Would you believe that I was afraid?" asked Malfoy lightly, as if the answer did not matter.
Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Maybe. But why aren't you afraid now, then?"
"That's a long story. The short version is that something made me remember that we only have one chance at life. Why waste it in being... less than happy?" Malfoy lifted one shoulder in that same half-shrug he had given in the Ministry canteen. "So. I decided it was worth a try. And I thought maybe the secrecy would intrigue you enough to take a chance too."
It made a certain amount of sense, as Malfoy explained it. It didn't account for everything, but Harry could accept that Malfoy was not just arsing around.
Malfoy leaned across the table and touched Harry's wrist. "Look, Harry. Let's pretend that we never knew each other before. All right? Can we start fresh?"
"I guess so... Draco," said Harry, the name feeling strange in his mouth.
"Good." Malfoy gave him a brilliant smile. Harry had seen that smile before, and he supposed it should have seemed a warning, because it was the smile Malfoy gave all his lovers. Having it turned on himself felt different, though. "Now, let me order for you. Please. Do you like lamb?"
The rest of the meal sped by in a blur of tastes that flowed together like a symphony, distinct themes that blended into a harmonious whole. Grilled lamb, some kind of potato cake with herbs that Harry did not recognize, a carrot and fennel pureé, a caramel apricot tart – it was all marvelous.
At the end of it, Malfoy said, "I think you'll enjoy this. I had them decant it six days ago, when I made the reservation; it's a 1935 port."
Harry sipped at the dark liquid. He had never tasted anything like it in his life, and as the flavor stole over his tongue he mulled over what Malfoy had said. He had planned this dinner for nearly a week, even before he had actually asked Harry to come; he had spent almost a fortnight courting Harry through his messages and gifts.
"It's fantastic," Harry said. "Wonderful. Er. Can I ask you two questions?"
"What?" Malfoy's eyes were dark and a little wary.
"What would you have done if I had said no?"
"Eaten a very lonely meal."
"What do you plan to do now?"
"That depends on you."
The port had given him a sense of unreality. Harry heard himself saying, "Would you like to come home with me?"
Malfoy hesitated, and Harry had time to kick himself for being ten kinds of a fool before the answer came. "Are you sure? If you are, then yes."
"I'm sure." This chance might never come again. Malfoy might turn out to be a complete wanker after another date or two; Ginny had certainly thought so. His past history certainly suggested he would not stay with Harry for long. So Harry would take what he could, while he could.
He had not tidied up the flat before he had left. He had not expected to be bringing someone back with him. But if Malfoy noticed, he said nothing.
They were scarcely through the door when Harry had second thoughts. This was Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. Malfoy who had snogged, or shagged, or both, a good three-fifths of their generation in the wizarding world. Malfoy who had helped locate Voldemort, sure, but who had spent hours dining out on that fact when he had not risked his own life to kill him. Malfoy who...
Malfoy who had taken Harry's arm, turned him around, and was now kissing him as if Harry were bread and Malfoy was starving. And Harry found himself reciprocating as if kisses were air and Harry was drowning.
It felt... right, as that one former relationship – even after seven years Harry could not bear to think the name – had never felt. Malfoy's body fit against his own and he could sense the heat between them even through layers of robes. His cock was hard, achingly so, but he could not tell for sure if Malfoy was or not.
His glasses were in the way. Harry reached up and pulled them off, awkwardly, not wanting to break off that kiss even for a moment, but as he did so Malfoy leaned away, breathing hard.
"I assume you have a bedroom?"
Harry nodded. "This way."
They couldn't keep their hands off each other even for the minute it took to lead Malfoy down the narrow hallway and into the bedroom. Malfoy had already undone the buttons of Harry's robes and was tugging them off by the time they tumbled together onto the rumpled bed. Harry rolled him over and started to do the same, but Malfoy pushed his hands away.
"Let me." He stood up and began to undress, deliberately, leaving Harry to watch. And, oh yes, Malfoy was hard, long slender cock jutting red and beautiful from a nest of pale curls.
Harry could see how he had gotten away with everything – who wouldn't want that body? Except, apparently, his wife. Or was it Malfoy who did not want her? Harry shook his head, not wanting to think about it, but Malfoy evidently misinterpreted the movement.
"Not what you expected? Changing your mind already?"
"No." The word came from Harry's throat without conscious thought. "No."
He scrambled up to finish removing his own clothes, but again Malfoy said, "Let me," and stripped away Harry's last defenses along with his clothes when he ran his fingertips along Harry's spine, across his shoulders, and down his stomach, pinching his nipples along the way but pausing just short of Harry's cock.
"How do you want this, Harry?" asked Malfoy, low.
It was better than any fantasy Harry had ever had about him. Malfoy, asking what Harry wanted. "I want you to fuck me."
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure? It's been a while for you."
"Doesn't matter." And it didn't. If Malfoy ripped him open Harry would not care, tonight. "Lube's... somewhere."
"We won't need that." Malfoy touched Harry's cock, spreading the wetness that had seeped from the slit over the head of it, toying with the foreskin, tracing the vein that throbbed along the underside. He pushed Harry back onto the bed and knelt between his legs. "Not quite yet, but..." Malfoy's mouth engulfed Harry's balls, tonguing them, and he was saying something that Harry could not understand but knew had to be a lubricating spell from the way his arse suddenly felt.
He was not paying attention to that, though, not with wet heat and suction stretching his balls, and Malfoy's hands doing wicked things to his cock. Then Malfoy licked his way up and suddenly his teeth grazed Harry, not too hard, just enough to remind him who it was down there, sucking him off, Draco Malfoy, not entirely trustworthy but who the hell cared when Malfoy's throat had opened up to him and Harry was thrusting, unable to stop, fucking Malfoy's face until he came.
Malfoy let him do it, swallowing and then slowly licking Harry clean. If he had been too tender about it Harry could not have stood it, but somehow Malfoy's tongue was just rough enough not to jar on sensitive nerves.
"Now," Malfoy murmured, and probed a finger into Harry's arse. "Oh yeah, you're tight. No worries though." He flashed that brilliant grin again. "Let's just turn you over."
Harry grabbed a couple of pillows from the head of the bed and shoved them under his hips as he rolled over.
"That's right." Malfoy kept talking. "Relax for me, Harry, come on, relax, yeah, that's it," and Harry could feel himself being stretched out, carefully, Malfoy's fingers slipping in and out, sometimes brushing against his prostate and sometimes not, until he started rocking back against Malfoy, wanting more.
When Malfoy pulled his hand away, Harry tensed a little with anticipation.
"Relax," Malfoy murmured again. The head of Malfoy's cock was right there, right there, and Harry took a deep breath and exhaled it again, letting his muscles loosen as he breathed, and then, oh, then Malfoy was filling him, so slow, so tantalizing, and Harry tried to push back but Malfoy's hands were on his hips, preventing him.
It had been so long. Harry groaned as Malfoy pulled partway out and began another of those slow thrusts, then another, almost maddening they felt so good. His cock was hardening again too from the stimulation. Harry squirmed to get a hand past the pillow to wrap around it, bracing himself with his other arm as Malfoy finally picked up speed. Fisting himself in time with Malfoy's movements, he felt the slap of Malfoy's balls against his own skin.
Malfoy was chanting "Harry-Harry-Harry" with each thrust, his voice cracking, and when he came he grabbed Harry's hips so hard that his nails broke the skin in three places, but Harry didn't care, because about ten seconds later he shuddered in a second release that left him sprawled sticky across the pillows with Malfoy still inside him.
Slowly, Malfoy withdrew. He moved up to lie next to Harry, who rolled over to look at him.
"Thanks, Harry."
Harry blinked in surprise. "Uh... you're welcome. Thank you."
Malfoy smiled, this time a smile that would not have been out of place on a member of the winning team at a Quidditch World Cup, and put an arm around Harry.
"Happy Valentine's day."
Somehow, Harry was sure that this was not going to be the only time for them. Malfoy might have shagged more people than he could conveniently count, in the past. He might have married Pansy – and Harry still was curious about that. But if Harry had anything to say about it, both his own solitude and Malfoy's catting around were over. It was only a question of how long it would be before Malfoy would know that too.
"Happy Valentine's day," he whispered back.