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The first time it happened, Harry thought he’d finally gone mad.
It wasn’t going mad that he found surprising – several of the Prophet’s more prolific columnists had been speculating on that fact for years, after all – rather, it was more the timing of it that flummoxed him. After all, no one would have blamed him if he’d completely lost it during The War, when he’d had Voldemort in his head and his friends dying all around him. Or if he’d gone off the deep end during his Auror training, because looking back, jumping right into chasing down the remaining Death Eaters instead of taking a well-deserved break from being the Savior was a little mental in of itself. The papers had all assumed that he’d finally gone round the twist when he quit the Aurors just eleven months later and disappeared for two years to travel the world. Personally, Harry had thought that his long-overdue break from sanity would have happened after he got back to England and moved into Grimmauld Place by himself and suddenly faced long empty days filled with nothing.
But instead of pushing him over the edge, he’d settled quite comfortably into a routine, and so what if that routine seemed more suited to a Wizard at the end of his years rather than a hale twenty-three-year-old with his whole life ahead of him? Harry didn’t mind at all; in fact, he welcomed the comfort of his routine. Mornings he spent doing some much-needed updating around the house or puttering about the garden, weather permitting. Then a modest lunch alone, unless it was Tuesday, when he met Ron for fish and chips, or Thursday when he popped round to the Ministry to join Hermione for sandwiches. Sundays, of course, he spent at the Burrow. A few times a month he traveled to Hogwarts to deliver a guest lecture to the NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
When he’d first come back to England Harry had expected to be bored out of his skull, but he wasn’t. It took him a few months for it to really sink in, but for the first time in his life, he was really truly honestly at peace.
Which made it all the more baffling why he’d gone off his trolley now when, for the first time in his life, he had no reason to.
It was just half-three, which meant it was time to spend the height of the afternoon sitting in the front parlor with a cup of tea and a few Quidditch magazines. But when Harry had walked into the room, he’d found himself already there.
He tried blinking rapidly. He tried giving himself a pinch. He tried squeezing his eyes shut and counting to ten and telling himself that when he opened his eyes again, the other Harry would be gone.
It hadn’t worked.
At somewhat of a loss for what to do next, Harry just stared. And stared. And took a sip of his tea. And stared some more.
The other Harry was still there, leafing idly through a Quidditch magazine and drinking his own tea from Harry’s favorite blue mug. He was sitting in Harry’s favorite chair, and had his feet propped up on the corner of the coffee table, exactly as Harry had planned to do because it was just what he did every afternoon at teatime. He was even wearing the faded green Holyhead Harpies t-shirt that Harry was certain he’d thrown into the hamper last weekend after he’d spilled curry down the front. Edging a bit closer, Harry could just make out the stain.
Harry stared some more. He wasn’t overly familiar with hallucinations, never having had one before, but shouldn’t it have begun to fade by now? Seconds continued to tick by and still the other Harry stayed resolutely substantial.
“Um,” Harry said. “Excuse me…”
He trailed off, because hallucinating was one thing, but talking to his hallucination struck him as quite another. Though, did it really count if he knew he was talking to a hallucination? Could crazy people tell they’d gone crazy? He made a mental note to ask Hermione about that.
Other Harry tried to flip the page of his magazine and take a sip of tea at the same time, and ended up dribbling some down his chin.
“Bugger,” Other Harry muttered, and blotted at his chin with the back of one hand before he drained the last of the tea from his cup.
“Oh,” said Harry. “You can talk? Can you, um, hear me?”
Other Harry didn’t reply, so Harry edged a bit closer, and then noticed for the first time the other changes around the room. There was an unfamiliar knitted afghan thrown over an arm of the sofa. An ugly blue vase Harry certainly didn’t own sat on a small table near the door. The bookshelf was now crammed with row upon row of solemn-looking leatherbound books. The vase was closest, so Harry reached for that first. His fingers passed right into it, feeling remarkably like he’d just plunged his hand into a bowl of cold pudding. The slimy, creepy feeling made him shiver and he pulled his hand back. The vase was still there.
Over in the armchair, Other Harry reached for his mug and lifted it to take a sip, but found it empty. He frowned into it, then looked up toward the door, his gaze meeting Harry’s.
“Hey!” he called. “While you’re up, can you bring me another cup of tea?”
Harry jumped. “Me?”
Harry flinched again as another voice came floating up the hall.
“I’m not your house elf!”
Other Harry grinned, and Harry realized then that his gaze wasn’t fixed on him, but rather the door behind him. “I know. You’re a good deal prettier and tend to iron your ears a lot less. Two sugars, please!”
“Tosser!” came the reply.
Still smiling to himself, Other Harry returned his attention to the Quidditch magazine. He seemed disinclined to do anything else, so Harry thought he might as well take a look at who else he was hallucinating in his home. The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He reached for the doorknob, and again felt that cold pudding sensation, but before he could pull his hand back, the room wavered and a small pop echoed all around him.
Harry looked back. The blue vase and its little table had disappeared from beside the door. The knitted blanket was gone from the sofa. The bookshelves were once again empty and, most importantly, Other Harry was gone from the chair.
Harry stared for a moment, expecting him to reappear. When he didn’t, Harry backed slowly out into the hall and shut the parlor door behind him.
Just this once, he thought he’d break routine and take his tea in the garden.
****
“Hermione, do you think that crazy people can tell if they’ve gone mad?”
Harry tried to phrase the question as casually as possible, but Hermione still put down her glass of water with a slow carefulness that belied her sudden concern.
“I’m not sure, Harry, why do you ask?”
Harry shrugged a shoulder. “No reason. Just wondering,” he said, suddenly changing his mind. He’d walked into lunch today fully intending to tell Hermione everything about his encounter with Other Harry, but it had been three days with no reappearance, and telling her would only throw her into a frenzy of concerned research. No reason to bother her with it if the problem had solved itself.
Their food arrived just in time to provide a perfect distraction. Harry picked up his sandwich – roast beef with sharp cheddar cheese and a creamy horseradish sauce – and took a huge bite, then let out a little moan of pure pleasure.
“This is so good,” he and Hermione said at the same time.
Harry blinked at her, surprised, but she only laughed.
“You’re so predictable these days,” she teased.
Harry swallowed his mouthful and grinned back. “Well, after Dark Lords and basilisks and whatnot, I’m pretty happy with predictability,” he said. “The most excitement I get these days is deciding what color to repaint the hallway, and I’m more than fine with that.”
“Oh, how are the renovations going? I really ought to stop by, but I’ve been so busy.” A lock of hair fell into her face as she tilted her head to take a bite of her sandwich, and she pushed it aside with one thumb.
“It’s fine, I know how it is,” Harry said, waving a chip in her direction before popping it into his mouth. “It’s going well. Um, well enough, I suppose. I’ve finally finished with the kitchen and just ripped up the carpeting in the den this morning. But I feel like no matter what I do, it doesn’t change the feel of the place.”
Hermione frowned. “How do you mean?”
Harry leaned forward a little. This was another thing he’d been meaning to ask Hermione. “So, Grimmauld Place has always been gloomy, yeah? And when I started this, I thought that a few coats of paint and a good cleaning would brighten it up.”
“And it hasn’t?” Hermione asked. She sipped at her water.
“Yes and no. It looks brighter, but it doesn’t feel any brighter. It’s hard to explain. It feels like no matter what I do, the house doesn’t like it. I mean, I know it’s just a house and all, but… it’s strange. And kind of creepy,” Harry sighed. He ate another chip. “Maybe when you come over you can give me a second opinion?”
“How about Saturday night?” Hermione asked. “Ron’s going out with some coworkers, so I’m free.”
“Great,” Harry said with a smile. “I’ll make us that pasta you like.” He leaned forward a little and determinedly put Other Harry out of his mind entirely. “Now. What’s the latest Ministry gossip?”
****
Harry went home that afternoon and spent an hour painting swatches of different colored paint in the hallway until the strange disapproving feel he got from the house grew too much to handle and, still undecided, he took a short walk around the neighborhood, then returned home and made his afternoon tea. He approached the front parlor cautiously, but found it empty. He settled on the sofa with his tea and magazine. It was silly, but he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to sit in his chair.
Later that afternoon, after ten minutes spent eying the swatches in the hall, followed by another short walk around the neighborhood to get rid of the itchy feel of being watched from between his shoulder blades, and an hour spent revising his notes for the next lecture he was preparing for Hogwarts, Harry returned to the parlor with a butterbeer in hand and switched on the wireless. The Harpies were playing the Wimbourne Wasps tonight, and Harry hadn’t missed a single one of Ginny’s games since he’d come back to England.
Forty minutes into the match, he went to the kitchen to get himself another butterbeer. He was just closing the refrigerator door when the mouthwatering aroma of beef and vegetable stew he absolutely hadn’t cooked wafted through the room. Harry froze, and then a loud clang from behind him startled him so badly that the bottle of butterbeer slipped from his fingers to shatter on the floor. Harry whirled around.
Other Harry was back.
As Harry watched, the other him clanged his wooden spoon against the rim of the pot to dislodge a bit of mushroom that stuck to it and set it aside on the counter. He then fetched napkins and silverware and went into the dining room. Harry trailed after him, and watched as Other Harry set the table for two, humming to himself as he lit candles and fiddled with a vase of roses set in the middle of the table. On his way back to the kitchen, Other Harry paused in front of the china cabinet and used the reflection in the glass door to prod uselessly at his hair.
It struck Harry then: the candles, the flowers, the preening, the beef stew that took so much chopping he only made it for special occasions… His other self was getting ready for a date.
Just then, the doorbell rang, and Other Harry broke into a grin that lit up his whole face. He hurried for the door. At a loss for what else to do, Harry followed along, then brought up short as he caught a glimpse of swirling snow through the front window. It was barely October, but it was snowing? Other Harry reached for the doorknob and the world wavered and popped again, and Harry found himself alone in the hall. When he looked out the window again, he only saw the riotous orange-gold of the aspen tree just outside.
****
It happened again on Friday night. Harry had spent the day tiptoeing around his house, flinching at every sudden sound, but Other Harry had not returned. And now, at nearly midnight, he was just emptying his bladder before bed when the sudden hiss and spatter of the shower running nearly made him miss the toilet altogether. Craning his neck over his shoulder, Harry could just make out Other Harry, dressed in the same green flannel pajamas Harry wore now, standing at the sink and brushing his teeth. But if he was there, then who was in the shower?
Harry finished as quickly as he could, shook the last few drops from his penis and tucked it away before edging cautiously to the shower, giving Other Harry a wide berth. Ignoring the cold pudding feel of the black and white curtain which had appeared instead of the faded blue striped one he hadn’t gotten around to replacing yet, Harry gently tugged the shower curtain back and caught the barest glimpse of the man within, an impression of pale skin and long limbs and a pert arse and a head foamy-white with shampoo, before the room wavered and popped and Harry was alone, the sudden silence ringing in his ears.
Bloody hell, this had to stop.
He was going to have to tell Hermione.
****
Saturday night was the perfect time. Hermione was here, and Ron was otherwise occupied. Not that Harry didn’t love Ron every bit as much as he loved Hermione, just that his two friends were better in different scenarios. Ron was the one that Harry went to when he needed a solid ear to complain into, because sometimes it was nice to have a friend that would rant right along with him about a problem instead of trying to solve it for him. Ron was the one that Harry went to for Quidditch games and the occasional late-night pint at the pub.
Hermione was apparently the one that Harry went to when he’d gone round the twist.
But he didn’t do it while Hermione helped him finish up dinner. And he didn’t do it while they ate, or while they cleaned up the kitchen, or while he gave her a quick tour of the updates he’d done to the house since the last time she’d been over. He’d been worried that she wouldn’t understand what he’d meant when he’d talked about the house disapproving, but as he talked about his next plans for renovating, the house did seem to grow a bit dimmer around them and they quickly retreated to the brightly lit kitchen to fetch the rest of their wine.
Now they were taking their glasses and the open bottle of pinot noir to the front parlor for a quiet evening in, and Harry thought that he should probably definitely tell her now, while she’d had enough wine to soften the blow that her best friend had finally gone mad, but not enough that she’d get all weird and emotional about it. He needed a calm and composed Hermione, ready to leap into researching action on his behalf and help him figure out how to fix this.
But as they reached the door, Harry heard the low murmur of the television set that he most definitely hadn’t left on. ‘Oh no, not again,’ he just had time to think to himself before Hermione pushed the door open. Other Harry was back, sprawled on the sofa with that knitted afghan thrown over his legs and a butterbeer in one hand, staring idly at the telly as it played an ad for a Mercedes convertible driving too fast along a winding cliff side road.
Harry hadn’t even realized that Hermione had stopped until she turned back to him, her eyes wide with shock.
“Harry?” she asked uncertainly and looked back to the sofa.
The relief that washed through Harry made him giddy. “Oh thank god, you can see him too.” He laughed, sharp and nervous and delighted with this new reassurance of his sanity. “I thought I was losing my mind.”
Hermione’s brows had drawn down and together, and Harry could practically see the gears cranking along in her head. “This has happened before?” She noticed the blue vase by the door and reached out for it, drawing her hand back with a shudder when her fingers sank into it.
Harry nodded. “A few times. He doesn’t seem to be able to see me or hear me or anything, and he’ll disappear in a minute or two.”
“Hmm,” Hermione said. She went over to the bookshelves and skimmed quickly over the titles before circling the sofa to examine a magazine draped over the arm.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked.
“Looking for clues,” Hermione said. She pointed at the magazine. “Potion Masters Monthly, July 2005.” She looked up at Harry. “Two years in the future. Do you plan on taking up Potions? Most of the books on the shelf are potions texts as well.”
Harry shook his head. “Not a chance. That must be the other bloke’s.”
“Other bloke?” Hermione echoed. She’d already wandered off to the table by the window and was examining a pile of Owl Post.
“Yeah. I haven’t gotten a good look at him, but I’ve heard him a few times. I think Other Harry’s got a live-in.”
Hermione turned back to him, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. “A live-in? And it’s a bloke? Is there… something you’d like to tell me, Harry?”
“I…” he began. He hadn’t planned on coming out to his friends until he had a reason to. No boyfriend, no reason, right? But now Hermione was watching him carefully and oh god he was going to have to tell her that too.
“It’s back on!” Other Harry yelled as the telly finished playing ads and returned to the football match.
“Coming!” the mystery bloke yelled back from farther back in the house.
Then footsteps echoed up the hall, coming closer, closer, and then a wobble and pop and Other Harry and his football match and his mysterious live-in were gone.
Harry sighed into the silence. “I’m pretty sure I’m gay,” he said, then added cheerfully, “But at least I’m probably not crazy.” He drained the rest of the wine from his glass and then gave himself a refill from the bottle before topping off Hermione’s. He thought they could both use it.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” Hermione said. It didn’t sound like a request.
“I guess we’d better sit down,” Harry said, and headed for the sofa before coming up short. Other Harry was making him run out of places to sit.
Hermione brushed by him and plopped herself down in the armchair, and when nothing happened he felt silly for avoiding it all week. He sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, and told her everything. He told her about the few drunken encounters he’d had with other men during his travels, told her about how afraid he’d been that people would treat him differently if they found out. He told her about his fear that he’d never be able to make Grimmauld Place feel like a home. And he told her about all of the episodes with Other Harry he’d had. Hermione made notes as he talked about the latter, then added in her own as well.
“So do you know what could be causing it?” Harry asked hopefully. Having no secrets left made him feel pleasantly empty inside.
“Not a clue,” she said, folding her paper and tucking it into a pocket. “But I have some ideas of where to start looking. I’m sure I’ll find something that’ll help.”
And Harry believed her. Research was what Hermione did best, and she hadn’t let him down yet.
****
After Hermione left, Other Harry began showing up with alarming frequency. He was in the garden pruning the roses on Sunday morning, and then sweeping bright golden leaves off the back porch, with an old Gryffindor scarf wound round his neck. He appeared in the parlor again at teatime, but by now Harry was sort of getting used to him, so he just sat on the sofa with his own tea until Other Harry left, and then reclaimed his chair.
Other Harry brushed his teeth and washed dishes and watched football and read magazines, appearing multiple times a day, and Harry always paused whatever he was doing to watch him do these mundane tasks, resuming his own when Other Harry vanished.
It wasn’t until Wednesday that Harry learned anything else about the other bloke. He was painting the hall a pale barely-there yellow that he thought looked especially nice against the dark wood of the wainscoting when a sudden explosion from the basement had him whirling around so fast that pale yellow droplets flew from his brush to spatter the floor. Other Harry appeared an instant later, bursting out of the kitchen and tearing off down the hall. Harry followed, catching up just as Other Harry yanked open the basement door, releasing an acrid cloud of smoke.
“Are you okay?” he called down, waving his wand to dissipate the cloud before he stood in the narrow doorway, blocking Harry’s view of the basement
“Perfectly,” came the acerbic reply, accompanied by footsteps coming up the stairs. “This is exactly what I meant to do, after all. I think I’ve singed my eyebrows off.”
Other Harry’s shoulders slumped in evident relief. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
An inelegant snort preceded the reply, “To do what, make a bigger explosion? You’re crap at potions.”
Other Harry hummed, unfazed by the insult. “I’m pretty good at cleaning things, and I assume you’ll want a shower. I could join you. Make sure you get all that gunk off you.” He shrugged. “Or just get you off.”
“Well…” The other voice was heavy with feigned reluctance. “I suppose I’ll let you help. I know how much you like to feel useful.”
Other Harry stepped back, grinning, and the hallway wavered and popped, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of the man coming up the stairs. And it suddenly clicked where he’d heard that faintly familiar voice before, because he’d know that shock of white-blond hair anywhere.
****
“Hermione,” Harry exclaimed as he burst into her office.
She looked up from the pile of parchments she was sorting through and came halfway out of her seat. “Harry, what’s happened?”
He flung himself down into one of her hideously uncomfortable guest chairs. “Do you think that Other Harry is the future me? I mean, is what I see really going to happen?” Please say no, he thought desperately, please say it won’t.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said carefully, resettling in her chair. “Has something happened?”
Harry couldn’t look at her so he stared up at the ceiling. “I saw his live-in.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Malfoy.”
“Oh.”
He looked at her again, to find her watching him thoughtfully. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Just, oh?”
“It does make sense,” she said. “I heard he’s just finished his Masters in Potions, so that would explain all the texts and the magazine.”
“But Hermione,” Harry said, because she was talking about it like it was fine that Other Harry and Malfoy were living together. “It’s Malfoy.”
“Yes, so you’ve said.”
She still didn’t seem to get it, so he repeated. “It’s Malfoy.”
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Harry, I heard you.”
“No, I really don’t think you did. Because if you did hear me tell you that my possible-future self is living with Draco bloody Malfoy then I really don’t think you’d be this calm,” Harry told her. He was starting to get worked up again because all he could think of was the understated intimacy of Harry brushing his teeth while Malfoy showered. Oh god, they were probably fucking. The thought made him feel a bit faint.
Hermione sighed again. “Breathe, Harry. I’m going to go get you some tea.”
By the time she had returned with the promised cup of tea in hand – two sugars, just as Harry liked – he felt much calmer. He sipped at it, letting the pleasant warmth spread through his belly as he let the soft scratching of Hermione’s quill against the parchment lull him into something resembling peace.
Eventually, Hermione set the quill aside and folded her hands primly on the desktop before her as she regarded Harry evenly. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Better? No, not really,” Harry said and balanced his teacup on one knee. “But calmer, yeah.”
“Good,” she said and reached across the desk to lay her hand over his. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”
****
Over a week later, Harry had just come back from a walk and was hanging his jacket in the hall closet when they came in through the front door, jostling each other in their haste to get out of the rain that hadn’t been there just a second ago. Malfoy brushed droplets of water from his wool sweater and Other Harry shook his hair and removed his glasses to wipe the raindrops from them.
“Well,” Malfoy said wryly. “That was certainly refreshing.”
“Refreshing?” Other Harry echoed. “It was fucking freezing.”
A coy smile curled Malfoy’s mouth. “Cold, Potter? Here, allow me to warm you up.”
He stuck his hands under Other Harry’s shirt, and Other Harry yelped and squirmed away, but Malfoy stuck his hands down the back pockets of Other Harry’s jeans and hauled their hips together as he caught Other Harry’s mouth in a bruising kiss. It obviously wasn’t their first kiss, because it wasn’t soft or gentle or shy, the way Harry thought first kisses should be. It was hard and vicious and desperate, the way everything had always been between them, and Harry’s mouth went dry as his counterpart grabbed Malfoy and slammed him up against the wall. Malfoy moaned and hooked one leg around the back of Other Harry’s thighs as he rocked his hips up, and all Harry could focus on was how the light blue paint of the walls, the same pale blue of winter skies, set off Malfoy’s complexion perfectly, because if he focused on the rest he was going to lose it right here in the hallway.
They certainly looked like they weren’t going to stop, so Harry found himself a bit surprised when Malfoy broke the kiss, dodging awkwardly as Other Harry tried to reclaim his mouth.
“I think,” he said, soft and breathless, “you ought to show me the bedroom.”
“God yes,” Other Harry said. He grabbed Malfoy by the hand and practically dragged him to the stairs.
Harry didn’t watch them go, didn’t follow them as they went up. Just stood in the hallway until it wobbled around him and the walls were yellow again. Then he shrugged back into his jacket and went outside into the bright autumn sunshine for another walk. He stopped by the hardware store on his way back, and when he got home he set about repainting the hallway pale blue.
****
“Harry!”
Mid-afternoon found Harry in the kitchen, brewing his usual mug of tea. At the sound of the familiar voice followed by footsteps coming up the hall, he smiled and reached up into the cabinet for a second mug.
“Harry!” Hermione said again as she burst into the kitchen. “I’ve got it!” She waved a letter excitedly in his direction.
“Got what?” he asked, pouring hot water into the second mug.
“Your house. All those things it keeps showing you? It’s your house!”
Harry plopped a tea bag into the hot water and passed the mug to Hermione before taking up his own. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Hermione took a deep breath, inhaling steam and the sharp scent of Earl Grey. It seemed to center her. “Right. As you know, I was doing research for you. I tried to find anything similar to what you’re experiencing, and I found three separate cases that are exactly what you’re dealing with.”
“Oh,” Harry said, feeling brighter than he had all day. Earlier that morning he’d been forced to watch as Other Harry and Malfoy had a screaming row, shouting terribly hurtful things at each other for two blokes who snogged in the hallway and curled up on the sofa together to watch football matches and fetched each other cups of tea. Caught up in his tantrum, Malfoy had picked up that ugly blue vase from the parlor and pitched it at Other Harry. The vase had shattered against the wall just beside his head, and Other Harry hadn’t hesitated as he hit it with a quick Reparo and hurled it right back at Malfoy, and the whole thing had left Harry feeling a little on edge. “Have you found a way to make it stop?”
“Well…” Hermione said. “Sort of, but not really.” She sighed. “You’re probably not going to like this.”
“Story of my life,” Harry muttered. “Just tell me.”
“Well, all of the other situations I found involving these… glimpses, are very similar to yours. Every case had a residence that had belonged to a powerful pureblood family for generations before passing to someone unrelated.”
“I’m not unrelated,” Harry said with a frown. “Sirius was my godfather.”
“Yes, but you’re not related by blood. The house doesn’t recognize you as a Black and so doesn’t see you as qualified to own it,” she pointed out.
“So,” Harry said, and his frown deepened. “The house is trying to make me leave?”
Hermione hesitated for an instant. “The house is trying to get you to bring Malfoy here.”
“What?” The mug nearly slipped from his hand and Harry set it on the counter before he dropped it. Honestly, out of all the things he’d expected, his house being sentient and trying to play matchmaker hadn’t even made the list. “The house wants a Black living here again, so it’s trying to set me up with Malfoy? Why him? I mean, there’s Andromeda and Teddy, why not them?”
Hermione did her best to hide a smile. “I think they’re a bit old and a bit young for you, respectively.”
Harry scowled at her. “You know what I mean. I plan on leaving this house to Teddy anyhow, isn’t that enough?” Something Hermione had said belatedly clicked in his mind. “Wait. When you said that there was sort-of-but-not-really a way to make this stop, you didn’t mean…”
“I’m afraid I did. The visions will stop if you get Malfoy to live here with you.”
Harry groaned. “Wonderful.”
Hermione gave Harry’s arm a pat, her fingers warm from where they’d been curled around her mug of tea. “I know it’s not the answer you were hoping for, but at least it’s an answer. I’ve written to the families I’d found, and two wrote me back. I’ve brought their responses for you to read yourself. It happened a few generations back so there’s not much detail, but I thought you’d like to see it anyhow.”
“Right,” Harry nodded.
He led the way out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the parlor.
“That’s a lovely color you’ve picked for the hall,” Hermione commented.
Harry thought of his other self pushing Malfoy up against the wall, his face flushed and his hair very bright against the blue. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
****
After Hermione had told him about the house, it began to show Harry more scenes of the possible-future-Harry interacting with Malfoy, all variations on the same theme of their odd version of domestic bliss.
That very evening, Harry started as someone came pounding down the staircase, and looked up to find a flustered Malfoy, clad only in a towel with shining drops of bathwater still clinging to his chest and his damp hair darkened to merely blond. His bare feet left moist footprints on the stairs.
“Potter!” he shouted. “What did you do with my robes? The black wool ones with the little jet buttons on the cuffs and up the front. I specifically remember you said you were going to launder them for me and they’re not in my wardrobe and my interview is in thirty minutes and I am going to be late.” He paused to suck in a breath. “Potter!”
Other Harry appeared from the kitchen. “Calm down, Draco—“ he began, and Harry winced because even from his view on the sidelines he could see from Malfoy’s face that it was precisely the wrong thing to say.
“Calm down?” he repeated incredulously. His towel slipped a bit and he clutched at it with one hand. “Calm down? I am thirty minutes from what is likely the most important interview of my career. Hipworth Potions Co. – Britain’s foremost supplier of potions since 17-bloody-81? If I get this position my career is made and I assure you that I will not get this position if I do not find my good robes, which I know you—mmph!”
Other Harry cut him off quite effectively by taking hold of Malfoy’s head in both hands and kissing him soundly. He pulled back a few moments later, leaving Malfoy a bit dazed but blessedly quiet.
“Draco,” Other Harry said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’ll get your robes, and you’re going to go upstairs and fix your hair while I bring them to you. And above all, you’re going to quit worrying about this because you’re absolutely brilliant and that position’s as good as yours, even if you went in there wearing a burlap sack. It’s going to be fine. Now.” He took Malfoy by one shoulder and steered him back to the foot of the stairs. “Up with you.” He gave Malfoy’s arse a little pat.
Malfoy blinked at him before recovering a bit of his composure. “I am brilliant, aren’t I?” he murmured as he started up the stairs.
Other Harry shook his head fondly and watched him disappear over the landing before he headed down the hall to the laundry room.
Harry stood in the hallway after they’d disappeared. Even though he’d seen lots of other scenes between the two of them play out, it always threw him a bit how comfortable they seemed around each other. How happy they looked together. How every lingering glance showed just how obviously they were in… love?
Well. That was a thought Harry wasn’t going to pursue without a nice bracing cup of tea. He went to the kitchen and the warm yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread assaulted his nose. Other Harry stood at the counter, slicing into a somewhat misshapen loaf of bread, and good god that smelled wonderful. Harry decided then and there that he needed to learn how to bake bread.
As he watched, Other Harry spread a thick slice with Nutella and took a bite. His eyes fluttered shut and he moaned. Harry’s mouth watered. Just then, Malfoy wandered in, sniffed the air appreciatively and glanced down at the loaf.
“You’re getting better at that,” he said. “That one came out almost round.”
Other Harry rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a bit lopsided. I’m going to eat it, not enter it in a beauty pageant.” He held out his Nutella-smeared slice. “Here, try.”
Malfoy leaned forward and took a bite from the slice of bread held out to him. “Mmm,” he said as he chewed.
“You’ve got a little… just there,” Other Harry gestured at his own face.
Malfoy’s tongue darted out but missed the smudge of chocolate on his upper lip. “Did I get it?”
“No, but allow me.”
Other Harry fastened his mouth to Malfoy’s, licking away the smudge. Malfoy slid one arm around his waist and pulled him close as he deepened the kiss. The slice of bread tumbled from Other Harry’s fingers to land sticky-side-down on the tile floor and neither of them noticed as Draco focused on pushing Other Harry back against the counter and Other Harry curled one hand around Malfoy’s bum. Malfoy lined up their hips and rocked forward, and Other Harry groaned.
The scene vanished with a pop, leaving Harry standing alone in his kitchen with his mouth gone dry and his cock half-hard.
“Well,” Harry said aloud, and found that he couldn’t think of anything beyond that. So he said again, “Well.”
****
Malfoy and Other Harry vanished from the sofa. They’d been sitting there for a few minutes, curled together under that knitted blanket, while Malfoy regaled his version of Harry with every mind-numbingly boring detail of his day of potions research. Other Harry didn’t really seem to be listening; instead he stared, transfixed, at the shapes Malfoy’s mouth made as he talked. They’d probably start snogging again soon. That seemed to be Other Harry’s preferred method of getting Malfoy to shut up.
It had been two weeks since Hermione had worked out that it was his stupid house sending these visions, and Harry was ready to tear his hair out over it, ready to throw things and just scream. Every time he turned around, there was another little glimpse into his other self’s life with Malfoy and it was getting increasingly difficult to reconcile this version of Malfoy with the cruel and sneering one he remembered from Hogwarts.
Sometimes he was tempted to find the real Malfoy and try to start them down the path to this brilliant future together, but then he remembered Malfoy’s foot coming down on his nose, Malfoy swooning dramatically before an imaginary Dementor, Malfoy’s lip curling around the word Mudblood, and Harry just couldn’t do it. He didn’t think he could take it if he went out searching for this warmer gentler loving increasingly-familiar version of Malfoy, and found the one he remembered from school instead.
“Is any of this real?” he demanded, frustrated. “How can I tell if it’s real? If there was just some way to prove…”
“Potter!” Malfoy’s voice echoed up from the entryway. “I’m leaving.”
“I don’t know why you bother to tell me,” Other Harry replied from somewhere back in the house. “It’s noon on Tuesday. I do pay attention to your routines, you know.” His voice took on a posher, crisper accent as he said, “Tuesday’s when they get in the new issues of Potions Weekly.” Other Harry laughed and his voice went back to his own. “Honestly, they’re not going to sell out. Not many people get that excited over potions magazines.”
Malfoy snorted. “Just for that, I’m not going to bring you back any Quidditch magazines.”
Other Harry laughed again. “That’ll certainly teach me. I’ll have to order the new issue by post. Oh, the horror!”
They fell silent.
“Tuesdays at noon,” Harry said to himself. Today was Tuesday and it was just half-eleven now. If he hurried…
Harry hurried to his den. He had plenty of time to send a quick owl to Ron bowing out of their standing lunch date and get himself to Diagon Alley. If he went to Flourish and Blotts and Malfoy was there. Well. Then he’d know, wouldn’t he?
****
Harry hadn’t really believed that it would happen, but Malfoy walked into Flourish and Blotts at just five minutes past noon. He took a few minutes to linger by a large display near the window featuring Harry’s latest unauthorized biography. Malfoy picked up one from the nearest stack and flipped through it, pulling faces and rolling his eyes so hard that Harry was a little afraid he’d do himself permanent damage. Eventually he replaced the book on its stack and meandered back to the magazine section.
Harry trailed after him, wishing that he’d thought to bring along his Invisibility Cloak. Instead he did his best to keep out of sight, lingering behind shelves and peering casually through rows of books. Malfoy looked good, Harry noted. A little younger than he’d gotten used to seeing him, and his hair was a little longer. He had to keep shaking it out of his eyes as he leafed through the magazines. Harry wanted to brush his fingers through it, the way he’d seen his other self do a few times before while they sprawled on the sofa together. The other Malfoy had especially seemed to like that, lolling with cat-like pleasure at the touch.
This Malfoy would like that too, Harry knew. Because it was Tuesday at noon and here he was, just like the house had shown he would be.
Malfoy collected a few magazines before he went deeper into the stacks and spent a few minutes perusing the shelves of academic journals. A few times he half-turned in Harry’s direction, and Harry quickly ducked out of sight before he could be spotted. He squeezed by a book cart loaded with teetering stacks of the tawdry romances that Mrs. Weasley pretended she didn’t read and followed along as Malfoy went deeper still, back into the used book section where he browsed through dusty leather-bound tomes for long enough that Harry’s left knee to begin to ache from standing.
“As it so happens,” Malfoy said conversationally, “I am neither blind nor deaf, and you haven’t gotten any better at stalking people since Hogwarts.”
Caught, Harry stepped out from behind his shelf. “Um. Hi.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows arched up. “Is that it?”
“Um,” said Harry.
Malfoy’s eyebrows rose a little higher. “Really, you just wanted to say hello?”
That sounded reasonable enough – much more reasonable, at any rate, than the truth – so Harry nodded.
“Well,” Malfoy said. “Now you’ve said hello, so if you’ll kindly bugger off and leave me to it?”
He didn’t sound all that irritated when he said it; really, it was pretty damn close to the wry amusement Harry heard all the time from the Malfoy in his house, just a few short steps from what had become Harry’s favorite tone from him. The one that was theatrically put-upon and exasperatedly fond in a way that said you’re an idiot and I love you anyway all at once. His pulse quickened at the notion that the Malfoy in his house and the one standing here in front of him might be the same person after all.
“What if I don’t?” Harry blurted out.
Malfoy had started to turn away, but he stopped and looked back at Harry, head cocked ever so slightly to one side. “What if you don’t what?”
“Bugger off,” Harry said. “What if I didn’t just want to say hello? What if I wanted to talk to you? Um. I heard you got your Masters in Potions. That’s impressive. What else have you been doing?”
Malfoy watched him warily for a moment before he said, “That’s more or less been my life for the last two years. I’ve got an internship with St. Mungo’s that starts in December, so until then I’m just killing time.”
Harry smiled and waited, then prompted. “I think this is where you’re supposed to ask me what I’m doing.”
Those eyebrows rose again. “Am I?”
“Well that’s sort of how conversation works.”
Malfoy snorted, and Harry found that noise endearingly familiar. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation, Potter.”
“I think we’re doing okay here. I mean, we haven’t hexed each other or anything.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes. Not hexing each other is indeed an essential part of conversation.”
Harry’s smile broadened into a grin. “So that’s what we’ve been doing wrong all these years.” His stomach rumbled and he pressed a hand to it. “Sorry, I sort of skipped lunch. Would you like to continue not hexing each other somewhere with food?”
“I…” Malfoy hesitated and Harry could practically watch him weigh the decision as he made up his mind. He sounded faintly surprised with himself as he said, “Alright.”
Harry waited as Malfoy paid for his small stack of magazines and academic journals and then they walked the two short blocks to a café that Malfoy suggested. As they sat together at a too-small table, it felt every bit as awkward as a first date should. Harry prompted Malfoy to talk about getting his Masters and his upcoming internship, and then told him a bit about his project of updating Grimmauld Place. As they talked, Harry caught more and more glimpses of the Malfoy he’d grown familiar with, and he let that tenuous familiarity set him at ease and carry him through the conversation.
Gradually, Malfoy relaxed into their conversation as well. He angled his body toward Harry, smiled a bit too often and his eyes lingered on Harry a little too long than was proper. His fingertips brushed against Harry’s as they both reached for the sugar at the same time, and when Harry’s shoe nudged Malfoy’s under the table, Malfoy didn’t move his foot away. At first, Harry was afraid that he was imagining it, but by the end he’d realized that Malfoy was gently flirting with him. So Harry smiled too much back at him and let his own gaze linger as well.
At the end of the afternoon as they stood just under the front awning of the café, Malfoy offered Harry another small smile. “Well, Potter. This wasn’t so bad. I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible if we were to do it again sometime.”
“How about Saturday?” Harry asked. That was five days from now, long enough that he didn’t seem overly eager, he hoped.
Malfoy shrugged. “I’m having lunch with my mother, but I’m free after that. Say, for dinner? Around seven?”
Harry grinned. “It’s a date,” he said.
Malfoy hesitated, his expression sliding rapidly through surprise and disbelief before settling on uncertainty. “Is it?” he asked with forced casualness.
“Oh. Um, that’s just an expression,” Harry said, and his heart soared at the way Malfoy’s face fell. He rushed on, “But it could be. If you’d like.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’d like it to be.” He had a split second of fear that he’d pushed for too much too fast, but Malfoy only smiled.
“I think I’d like that too.”
“Great!” Harry said. “I’ll owl you and we’ll figure things out from there?”
“Right,” said Malfoy. “Until Saturday, then.” He brushed his fingers lightly over the back of Harry’s hand, then Disapparated.
Feeling happier than he had since this whole ridiculous house thing had started, Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld Place. It was almost half-three and although he’d just had lunch and didn’t want tea, Harry found himself going into the front parlor anyhow.
“Well, I’ve just had lunch with Malfoy,” Harry announced. He felt a bit silly talking to a house, but Hermione had said it might help. “He’s agreed to go out with me. We’ve got a date this Saturday.”
The room shivered and changed around him as the house showed him a variety of scenes between Other Harry and Other Malfoy. Them snogging on the sofa. Laughing together as they read something from the Prophet. Bickering over the proper way to string up fairy lights and decorate their Christmas tree. Other Harry sitting on the sofa with Other Malfoy’s head in his lap, fingers gently carding through the soft blond strands.
The room stopped on another Christmas scene, Other Harry dressed up in a formal robe that the real Harry didn’t own yet, fiddling with something in one hand. Harry moved closer, just in time to see Other Harry flick open the small black velvet box and stare down at the platinum band inside. Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Other Harry hid the box away just as the door opened, his face breaking into a smile so genuine that it made Harry’s heart hurt to see.
For all that he was fed up predestination, having had enough with prophecies and fate and destiny to last a lifetime, Harry found himself fervently hoping that these scenes really did come from his future, because he desperately wanted to be that happy. The room trembled and disappeared with a pop.
“I guess I’m doing things right, then,” Harry said aloud.
He didn’t think it was his imagination that the house had started to look a little brighter.
****
The house started to show him more images of Draco after that. Harry watched him brew potions, rant about irritating coworkers, laze on the sofa listening to Quidditch matches on the wireless, and make tea. It showed them fighting. It showed them making up. It showed them exchanging chaste good morning kisses, and heated snogging, and a dozen idle innocent touches that turned into something more.
Because of that, Harry could only think of Draco as Draco now, no longer Malfoy. Because he really couldn’t bring himself call someone by their surname after he’d seen them get thoroughly fucked by some future version of himself.
The house had shown them shagging all over. The parlor sofa was a favorite, as was the shower and, for some reason Harry hadn’t worked out yet, the dining room table. But Harry liked seeing them together in his bed – their bed – the best. When they were in bed together, it seemed more intimate. They held each other a little closer, spoke a little softer, and Draco looked at Other Harry like he was the most precious thing in the world. No one had ever looked at Harry like that, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to wait much longer before someone did.
One thing remained the same through all of those particular scenes. The other Draco always made an odd sort of half-sobbing noise before he came, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the real one did that too.
He eagerly counted down the five days.
****
Their first official date went well, though it started raining on the way home, and they sprinted the last block back to Grimmauld Place. Harry unlocked the door, shivering so hard that the key rattled against the lock before he managed to slot it in, and as soon as the door opened Draco elbowed him aside in his haste to get inside first. Harry laughed and shoved him back and shut the door behind them as Draco brushed sparkling raindrops from his sweater. Harry shook his wet hair out of his face and removed his glasses to wipe the water from them.
He felt a vague sense of déjà vu but honestly couldn’t place it until Draco announced in a voice as dry as his clothes were wet, “Well. That was certainly refreshing.”
Harry froze with his glasses halfway to his face. “Refreshing?” he echoed as the memory of watching this very scene play out slammed through him. He forced himself to slide the glasses back onto his nose and said carefully, “It was fucking freezing.”
Draco turned to him, a sly smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Cold, Potter?” he asked, sidling closer. “Here, allow me to warm you up.”
Harry knew what was coming next and caught Draco’s hands before they could slip under his shirt. “Hey now…” he began, but before he could get out any more than that, Draco crushed his mouth against Harry’s.
So. This had been their first kiss after all. It wasn’t anything at all like what Harry thought firsts kisses should be, but he gave a mental shrug and decided to go with it. He slammed Draco back against the wall, and Draco whimpered at the impact but his mouth never left Harry’s. He wrenched one hand free and slid it around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer as they snogged. Harry felt Draco hook one leg around the back of his thighs, felt the hardening length of Draco’s cock press against his own as Draco rocked his hips against Harry’s, and Harry felt his heart pounding against his ribs because he knew what was coming next.
Sure enough, Draco tore his mouth away from Harry’s, and despite himself, Harry tried to recapture it.
“I think you ought to show me the bedroom,” Draco said, his breath ghosting across Harry’s cheek.
“God yes,” Harry said and used his grip on Draco’s wrist to haul him toward the stairs.
They went up, half tripping over the steps and each other in their haste to reach the top. Harry led Draco down the hall and into the bedroom, so eager to get Draco out of his clothes and into bed that the soft rhythmic creak of bedsprings didn’t register until he opened the door.
“Oh fuck,” he said, and tried to back out but Draco refused to move. His hand clamped down around Harry’s wrist.
Other Harry and Other Draco were in bed already, just as naked and occupied with each other as Harry had hoped to be with the real Draco. Other Draco was on his knees and forearms, arse in the air, offered up to Other Harry, who knelt behind him, pressing into him with slow, even strokes. Harry couldn’t drag his eyes away from how the other Draco’s arsehole, slightly reddened and shiny with lubricant, stretched around the cock inside him, how his hips tilted just so as he rocked back with every thrust.
Other Draco arched his spine and pressed back hard against Other Harry with a small cry. “Oh fuck, oh yes, right there. Just like that… just there, right there,” he panted.
Other Harry moaned and his fingers tightened their hold on the slender hips before him. “Fuck, Draco. You’re so… God, this is so…”
“I know, fuck, I know. Don’t stop, don’t stop.” Other Draco sounded close to sobbing.
Other Draco wrapped a hand around his own cock and stroked once, twice, three times, and then came hard, hips bucking as he whimpered through his orgasm, and Other Harry’s thrusts sped up until he came with a gasp. They collapsed onto the bed and curled into each other and shared slow, sleepy, sated kisses and even now they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, gently stroking anywhere they could reach. The room wavered and a pop echoed as the scene disappeared.
Draco turned to Harry, his grip on Harry’s arm tightening hard enough to bruise. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.
“Um,” said Harry. “It’s kind of complicated.”
“I suggest you try to explain,” Draco said. His voice had gone weirdly flat. Harry had heard that tone often enough from Other Draco to know that it meant he was furious.
“Um,” said Harry again. “My house wants me to shag you.” And that sounded unbelievably stupid so he rushed on, explaining, “It’s upset that there’s no Blacks living here, so it’s been trying to get me to shag you so you’ll live here because you’re a Black. Well, technically you’re a Malfoy but your mum’s a Black and I guess that means you count. Um. I guess I should have warned you about that, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want anything to do with it because it’s so bloody weird. Or you’d think I’m crazy.” Harry paused and stared into Draco’s stoic face. “I’m not crazy,” he added.
Draco released his arm, and took one step back. Then another, and another. Harry watched him walk down the hallway, listened to his footsteps go down the stairs and fade down the front hall, and then the front door slammed shut with a bang that echoed back to Harry.
“Well,” he said to the house. “You’ve certainly bollixed that up for me. Thanks for that.”
Harry stripped out of his wet clothes and flung them in the general direction of the hamper. He couldn’t even work up enough energy to be really irritated at Draco for running off. Harry certainly couldn’t blame him for that. Because, honestly. A matchmaking house that showed pornographic glimpses of the future? Why did such strange shit always happen to him?
After changing into a clean pair of underpants, Harry crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over him, listening idly to the sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpane. He didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the hall until they’d nearly reached his bedroom. They hesitated by the door, then came inside. Harry sighed and didn’t roll over.
“Really, haven’t you done enough?” he said to the house.
“Potter,” Draco drawled. “I haven’t even started.”
Harry sat up and stared at Draco, his Draco, with his wet clothes and rain dampened hair. “You came back.”
“I never left,” Draco said. He yanked his sweater over his head and tossed it aside so he could fumble with his belt. “I was about to but your barmy house yanked the door out of my hand and slammed it shut.” His trousers dropped to the floor and Draco stepped out of them. “And then it showed me exactly what I’d be missing if I left.” His shirt came next, and he shrugged out of it and let it fall to the floor as he stalked over to the bed. “Budge over. It’s bloody cold out here.”
Harry scooted over and Draco slid into bed beside him.
“What did it show you?” Harry asked.
Draco’s mouth curled up in a sly smile. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” He scooted closer and slid one arm around Harry. “You really do have the strangest house.”
“I have the strangest life,” Harry said. He felt a bit dazed, still not quite able to believe that Draco was really here with him, really in his bed and holding him close and, oh god, mostly naked.
“So,” Draco said, and he was close enough that his breath tickled Harry’s neck. “These things your house shows. Are they the future?”
“Sort of,” Harry said. He trailed his fingers lightly up Draco’s ribs just because he could. “We can change them, though. When we were… in the hallway, just earlier, I knew you were going to try to put your hands under my shirt because I’ve seen that before. But this time I stopped you. So I think everything will happen, but while it’s happening we can change it.”
“Hmm,” Draco said, and the deep satisfaction in his voice tugged at Harry’s curiosity. “That’s good to know.”
Harry pulled back a little to get a better view of Draco’s face. “What did the house show you downstairs?”
Draco nuzzled at Harry’s neck. “It showed me us. Together. I looked so happy with you. I’ve never been that happy in my life, and if there’s a chance that will come true, well then. I want to try.”
Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. He kissed Draco, and Draco’s lips parted obediently for him as his tongue pressed cautiously against Harry’s. This wasn’t the desperate, heated snogging that had started down in the hallway. This felt like something different. Like a promise, like a beginning.
Slowly and without breaking the kiss, Harry moved so he lay atop Draco, warm skin pressed against his own. One of his hands tangled in the damp strands of Draco’s hair while Draco’s hands slid down his back to cup his arse. He shifted his hips slightly until he felt Draco’s erection hard and hot beneath his own, and Draco rocked up against him with a soft whimper.
With some effort, Harry pulled his mouth away. “Are we really going to…?”
“Yes,” Draco said and nipped lightly at the corner Harry’s jaw. “Merlin, yes.”
“So how do you want to…?” Harry began and couldn’t finish the thought because now Draco was nibbling his way along the line of Harry’s jaw and Harry found he couldn’t string together a coherent thought while that went on.
With a small kiss to Harry’s chin, Draco pulled away slightly. “You’re going to take me on my hands and knees, aren’t you? I mean, that’s what we saw.”
“But that might not have been this time. Or we can change it if you want,” Harry said and paused to suck lightly at Draco’s neck. “The house has been showing me things for a while. Sometimes you take me on my hands and knees, though that seems to be more for special occasions, I think. Or when you’ve had a rotten day at work.”
Draco chuckled softly. “That certainly sounds like me,” he said and pressed his mouth to Harry’s.
In the end, they recreated the scene they’d watched play out, with Draco bent over and Harry kneeling behind him. (“They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Draco had said and Harry hadn’t been able to argue with that.) It was an exquisite sort of torture for Harry to keep his strokes slow and even with Draco’s body so hot and tight around his own. He desperately wanted to take Draco hard and fast but he wouldn’t last long at all if he did that, so instead Harry focused on trying to find the right angle, the precise tilt of his hips that would make Draco cry out. Beneath him, Draco let out a breathy moan and arched his spine, pressing back against Harry just as Harry shifted slightly, and there it was, that little cry he’d been waiting for.
“Oh fuck, oh yes, right there. Just like that… just there, right there,” Draco panted, desperate.
Harry tightened his grip on Draco’s hips until the tips of his fingers whitened and he was sure he’d leave bruises. With Draco crying out wantonly, it was all Harry could do to keep from slamming into him. Just a little longer, just a little more.
“Fuck, Draco. You’re so… god, this is so…” he choked out through the haze of his own pleasure, because this was so brilliant and so beautiful and it felt so bloody good that he couldn’t even come up with words for it.
“I know, fuck, I know. Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Draco begged, and he sounded close to sobbing. He took his own cock in hand and fisted it roughly one, two, three more times and then came hard, his release spattering the bed sheets.
And the broken whimpers he made, the way his arse clenched tight around Harry’s cock as Draco’s orgasm ripped through him, it felt like too much and not enough and Harry lost what little control he clung to. He slammed himself into Draco, his thrusts growing quicker and more erratic until a white-hot ball of pleasure burst in his belly and exploded up his spine. He shoved himself as far into Draco as he could get and hung on, hips twitching helplessly, trying to get impossibly closer as his cock pulsed and he emptied himself into Draco.
Harry took a moment to regain a little of his breath before he carefully separated himself from Draco and they both dropped to the mattress together, heedless of the damp spots on the sheets. Their legs tangled together, and Harry rubbed his hand along Draco’s side while Draco swept his fingers through Harry’s hair.
“That was brilliant,” Harry murmured.
“Of course it was. It was with me, wasn’t it?” Draco replied softly.
Harry laughed and tapped his foot against Draco’s ankle. “Your modesty becomes you.”
Draco snorted, that ridiculously inelegant sound that Harry loved, so at odds with Draco’s crisp tones and posh accent and aristocratic demeanor. Then again, this Draco in his bed, all flushed and sweaty with charmingly rumpled hair was at odds with that too, and Harry found he liked it just as much.
“I won’t move in with you yet, you know,” Draco said.
“There’s that modesty again,” Harry said, giving Draco’s ankle another tap before he dragged his toes along Draco’s instep. “I haven’t asked you yet.”
“Mmm,” Draco said with a smile. “But you will.”
“I will,” Harry agreed. “And you’ll say yes.”
“Yes,” said Draco. “I believe I will.”
****
Harry sat stiffly on the sofa as butterflies thrummed in his belly. Around him, the parlor was impeccably decorated, with tinsel and colored fairy lights strung up along the walls, and a huge stack of presents beneath the lavishly ornamented tree set up by the window. It was their fourth Christmas together, their third since Draco had moved into Grimmauld Place, and Harry accepted that he might have gone a bit overboard with the gifts this year, even just that morning slipping another two under the tree: a shiny new cauldron elaborately etched with daffodils and a sage green cashmere sweater that would set off Draco’s complexion perfectly. Some part of him evidently felt that the more gifts he bought for Draco this year, the less nervous Harry would feel about the most important one he’d bought. So far it hadn’t worked.
Reaching into his pocket, Harry pulled out a small black velvet box and flipped it open to stare at the platinum band inside. He’d taken to carrying the ring around with him like a talisman for the past few weeks, and had several times been sorely tempted to just propose and get it over and done with so he could quit worrying about it already, and the hell with what the vision had shown him. But he’d thought of them both dressed up in their formal robes before leaving for the Christmas party, the parlor all done up festive and the fairy lights gleaming off Draco’s hair, and Harry had forced himself to wait until Christmas Eve.
Footsteps echoed up the hallway, and Harry snapped the box shut and jammed it into his pocket just as the door swung open. Draco wore his fine black wool robes, the ones with the little jet buttons, which Draco insisted had landed him his position with Hipworth Potions Co. Harry, of course, told him he was being ridiculous, that his own talents had gotten him the job, but Draco would hear none of it. The robes were lucky, he’d said, and nothing Harry said would convince him otherwise.
Well, right now Harry was willing to take those robes as a sign. He’d take all the luck he could get.
“Well?” Draco asked and spread his arms. “Will I do?”
“Absolutely,” Harry said, crossing the room to Draco. “You’ll absolutely do.”
The black robes with their rows of fussy buttons and high collar made Draco look slim and pale and a little severe, and Harry loved it because as haughty and untouchable as they made Draco look, Harry knew it was just a façade. He’d had the real Draco in his bed that morning, whimpering and damp with sweat, cheeks pink with exertion as Harry’d fucked him into the mattress. And later that night, after they came home from the party, Harry knew he’d get to take Draco upstairs and undo all those little buttons one by one and strip those robes off him like the elegant wrapping of the best present he’d ever receive.
Harry had originally planned to wait until then to propose, in the quiet intimacy of their dark house, but with the setting sun slanting through the windows to light Draco’s hair and the dazzling smile that lit his face, he just couldn’t wait.
“Draco,” he said, swallowing past the nervous lump in his throat. “There’s, um, something I—“
“Can it wait?” Draco interrupted. “Sorry, I know I was a bit slow to get ready and I don’t want to be late.”
“Um, no. It can’t, actually,” Harry said, and opened his mouth to continue but Draco cut him off again.
“Well, I suppose we can talk as we put our coats on,” he said and then turned and went back into the hall.
“Wait!” Harry said, hurrying after him. “You need to—I’m trying to ask you… That is, I want to talk to you…”
“You can talk and put on your coat at the same time, Potter. I know I’ve seen you do two things at once before,” Draco said with fond exasperation.
“But I…” Harry began. This wasn’t going at all like he’d imagined it would. He fumbled for the ring in his pocket and managed to pry the lid open. Maybe if Draco saw the ring he’d figure out what the fuck was going on and just bloody well cooperate for once in his life. “Draco Malfoy, I—“
“I will,” Draco said without turning around.
Harry faltered. “You will? But… You haven’t seen… I haven’t asked you yet.”
Draco turned back to face him with a smile. “Do you remember our first night together?”
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown. “What? Yes?”
“Well, this is what the house showed me.” Draco reached out and plucked the ring from the box and slid it onto his finger. “I saw us, and I saw how happy we were, and that’s what convinced me to go back upstairs to you.” He held out his hand and tipped his head to one side as he admired his new ring.
“Oh,” Harry said, recovering himself somewhat. “Well. I’d planned to say how much I love you and go on about how attractive you are or how happy you make me or something. You know, make it sort of romantic.”
“I know,” Draco said. “You did, the first time I saw. It was really very sweet but you did tend to go on a bit, so I thought that this time I’d just skip straight to saying yes so you could kiss me.” He paused, then hinted broadly, “I have said yes, you know.”
Harry rolled his eyes at that, but couldn’t hide a smile. This wasn’t at all like he’d imagined, but it was just so perfectly them that he wouldn’t change a thing about it. “I assume that means you’d like me to kiss you now?”
“You assume correctly,” Draco said with a smirk.
So Harry did.