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Harry stares at the parchment clenched between his hands, then up at Ron, who's still engrossed with whatever form he's busy filling in, as if Ron will help Harry to make sense of it all.
"They can't be serious."
"It's because you poisoned Jefferies," Ron says without looking up. "I'm just surprised it's not worse."
"I didn't poison him."
"You did."
"Only a bit ," Harry says, eyes dragged back down to the parchment like it has its own gravitational pull. "So I didn't let the potion simmer for the full twenty minutes. He got better. This,"—he waves the parchment—" this is egregious."
"He had purple blisters for two weeks, mate, and they were everywhere . You had to be expecting something."
Harry frowns as Ron continues idly with his paperwork. Of course Harry expected something after his Enervating Draught had caused Jefferies some… problems. But he'd expected a slap on the wrist or a week's probation, not an order to attend a seminar designed for Trainee Auror's fresh out of school and needing remedial training on their basic potions skills. A seminar taught, this time, by the Ministry's Head Potioneer.
One Draco Malfoy.
"Why him?" Harry moans before throwing the parchment onto his desk and leaning back in his chair. "He's got trainees teaching these classes most of the time. Why's he leading this one?"
"No idea." Paper rustles. Ron's quill taps against the inkpot. "Better buckle up, though. He's going to be a right bastard about it, I'm sure."
With his stomach sinking, Harry gets the feeling that Ron's right.
Walking into the lecture hall reminds Harry of his early days with the Auror Corps. It's true that he hadn't worked that hard during their training courses, but the open secret was that Harry Potter could have done nothing and still ended up in the Corps. Everyone knew why he was there, and it wasn't his Potions skills.
Of course, that's biting him in the arse now. He sits in the back row of seats with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up tight around his face. Fiddling idly with the strings, he gets a notepad and pencil out of his satchel and waits for the rest of class to file in. The Auror Trainees look painfully young, and Harry wonders how it is that ten years in the Corps have aged him so much. Trying to imagine where these children were when Harry first became an Auror successfully kills five minutes and any lingering belief that Harry's still young.
He's considering making the feeling worse by trying to figure out where they would've been when Harry defeated Voldemort when there's a noise from the front of the classroom that has Harry's head rising. It's not even a noise, more like an oppressive absence of sound, and he realizes rather quickly what's caused it.
Malfoy, a briefcase held in one hand, has walked into the lecture hall.
It only takes Harry a second more to realize that this is a horrible, horrible mistake.
It's been years since Harry last saw Malfoy. While they both work in the Ministry, they haven't bumped into each other, and though the Auror Corps certainly spends time in the Potions department, Harry hasn't ever been there for more than a supply run. He hasn't been avoiding Malfoy, perse, just keeping his distance.
Another mistake, because Harry is ashamed to realize that time has been incredibly kind to the man. Malfoy's wearing a pair of thin glasses that make his gray eyes shine like silver. His features have softened a bit with age, though they're still distinctly pointy. His cheeks are lacking the sunken, grief-struck look they used to carry, though, and there are laugh lines bracketing his mouth. Harry can't remember Malfoy laughing. Sneering, definitely, mocking him with a quirked corner of his mouth, absolutely. But as Harry wracks his mind for it, he can't find even a moment of Malfoy's mouth curled with laughter.
Malfoy's hair is a bit longer, and if it weren't for his glasses and his elegant fingers brushing his fringe aside, it'd be hanging in his eyes. His well-tailored black pants cling to his thighs like a desperate lover.
Perhaps worst of all, Malfoy's jacket is made of tweed with leather patches on the elbows, a white shirt and black waistcoat underneath, and Harry has to fight down the rush of heat the courses through him at the thought of Malfoy, all prim and properly put together, being ruined by Harry's hands and mouth.
Harry's going to hell. He's going to hell immediately. Even with all of the good he's done in his life, he's never going to overcome the impure thoughts racing through his head at the sight of Draco Malfoy looking like an academic wet dream in a room full of barely legal adults. He's thankful he put on a pair of comfortable denims instead of the joggers he'd considered briefly, as there'd be no way he could hide the stiffening line of his cock in those. Shifting in his seat, he does his best to adjust himself without drawing attention to himself.
"Good morning," Malfoy says, his voice loud and commanding. Harry's prick dutifully pays attention. "Today's seminar will be six hours long. There is a three hour lecture in the morning, followed by a thirty minute lunch, then a three hour practical after. I expect you all to pay close attention during the morning session, as it will cover many of the techniques and theories that you need to know in order to succeed during the second half of the seminar."
He looks around the room, gazing out over the top of his glasses, and his eyes pause whey they land on Harry. Corner of his mouth raised just slightly, he continues.
"You will be assigned a partner for the practical course, but as I count an odd number of students, that means one of you will be paired with me. " He smiles, and it's sharp like when they were at Hogwarts together, sharp like a paper cut. "Mr Potter, if you would be so kind to join me for the second half of class."
Harry tenses, accidentally pulling on his hoodie strings. The opening around his face closes in, and he hurriedly pulls at the edges before taking the hood off entirely. The room fills with quiet, excited voices as his face is revealed, and Malfoy's smile dims. Harry slumps into his seat.
"Do your best to keep the fawning to a minimum, ladies and gentlemen. Now, if you could get your note taking supplies out, we shall begin."
For the first ten minutes of Malfoy's lecture, Harry finds himself too distracted by the heads still turning his way to pay much attention to what the man's saying. But as the other students stop looking at him and start listening to Malfoy, Harry finds himself doing the same.
Malfoy is an understated, if enthusiastic, lecturer. The intensity of his voice draws Harry in, and though he's never been much for potions, Harry finds himself captivated. Something about the way that Malfoy explains the intricacies of brewing and the various interactions between the ingredients and the cauldron, and the way that the heat and magic brings it all together, grabs Harry's interest and doesn't let it go. He's bloody fascinated , and Harry has to admit that if Snape had been half as good at teaching as Malfoy, Harry might've actually learned something.
It doesn't hurt that Malfoy is, by any measure, significantly easier on the eyes than Snape had ever been. His fringe keeps falling into his eyes, and there's a bit of chalk across his forehead from when he brushed it away earlier. Harry's fixated on that smear of white, almost imperceptible against Malfoy's pale skin. His fascination shifts to the line of Malfoy's cheek, the jut of his jaw. There's a hint of a five o'clock shadow there, a darkening of his skin that Harry could feel if he were close enough to brush his cheek against it.
When Malfoy turns his back to the lecture hall to write on the massive blackboard at the front of the room, Harry can't help but notice the breadth of Malfoy's shoulders and the taper of his waist, or the way that Malfoy's trousers cup his arse.
Though Malfoy's entire… everything has Harry's mind wandering, his hands are the worst form of distraction. They're graceful, almost delicate, but the surety with which he holds his chalk makes Harry think of those fingers pressed against a wand or Harry's skin. They're strong, supple. The more Malfoy writes on the board, the more Harry's desperation to feel Malfoy's touch on his body grows. He wonders if Malfoy would cradle Harry's cheek as gently as he writes potions components on the board.
"We'll pick up here after lunch," Malfoy says, startling Harry from his lust-induced stupor. "Make sure to thoroughly wash your hands before you come back for the practical. Any outside contaminants could cause serious issues with the brewing process. You are dismissed."
It's far from an appropriate response, but Malfoy's order makes the fine hairs on Harry's arms and the back of his neck stand on end. Grabbing his notepad and holding it completely coincidentally and innocently in front of his crotch, Harry hurries from the lecture hall and to his office.
Ron's still sitting at his desk. There's butcher paper with a half-eaten sandwich sitting on top of it by his elbow, and his stack of finished paperwork has grown since Harry left this morning. Blue eyes a bit glazed when they rise to take in Harry, Ron's gaze turns laser focused.
"You all right, mate?"
"No." Harry falls into the chair before Ron's desk, tosses his notebook onto the surface, and then buries his fingers in his hair. "No, I'm not."
"Malfoy's been that much of a bastard, huh?" Ron clicks his tongue. "I knew he would be."
Groaning, Harry looks up. "That's the thing. He's been perfectly fine."
"I don't…" Ron frowns. "If he's not being a bastard, then what's wrong?"
Harry presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "He's perfectly fine is the problem. He's fit. He's bloody gorgeous."
Silence, then Ron starts coughing. Suspiciously. When Harry moves his hands away from his eyes, he sees that Ron is trying to disguise his laughter as a bout of tuberculosis.
"I'll kill you."
"Hermione owes me 10 Galleons for this," Ron says, still choking back giggles. "Merlin, she's going to be furious."
"What are you on about?"
Sighing deeply, Ron leans back in his chair, fingers laced together and resting on his stomach. "You remember sixth year, when you were going on and on and on about Malfoy? Well, Hermione and I made a bet."
"In sixth year."
"Yeah." Ron grins. "She's going to be furious she didn't put a time limit on it."
"What was the bet?"
"That you were into Malfoy. Or rather," he adds with a leer, "you wanted to be in Malfoy."
For a heartbeat of time, Harry considers the likelihood of conviction and the length of his resulting sentence if he were to jump across the desk and strangle Ron with his own smugness. But with a twenty year minimum for killing an officer of the law, Harry quickly casts the idea aside and says, "Fuck you," instead.
Ron wiggles his eyebrows, then picks up his sandwich. "Anyway, what are you going to do about it?"
"Do about what?"
"About wanting Malfoy," Ron says before taking a bite. Mouth still full, he continues. "You do want to do something about it, yeah?"
"Do I wa—" Harry pauses, confused. "I thought you hated him."
"He's okay, actually. I've gotten to know him a bit better the last couple of months."
" How ?"
Ron gives Harry a pointed look. "The inter-Ministry Quidditch league. The one you forgot to sign up for."
"I told you," Harry says, readying himself for an old fight, "that I was on a stakeout when the sign up form was due, and I was late owling it in."
"Likely story, Mr Potter. Anyway, he's Seeker on my team, and he's turned out to be less of a prat than he was at school. You're changing the subject, though. Are you going to do something about him being fit?"
"I'm pretty sure there are rules against that."
Ron grins. "Different departments means you're in the clear. It's why Hermione and I don't run into any issues. As long as she's in Magical Creatures, we're safe, and I'm going to ask her to marry me before she gets promoted out of it."
As soon as the words are out of Ron's mouth, they both freeze.
"Uh." Ron swallows again. "Pretend you didn't hear that?"
Harry jumps out of his seat before he's even aware he's moving, and by then, he's around the desk, arms wrapped around a stunned and laughing Ron. "Oh my God, you're going to get married! Ron!"
His arms pinned by Harry's enthusiastic hug, Ron pats at Harry's hip in response. "She's got to say yes first."
"You're a bloody idiot if you don't think she will." Harry squeezes Ron tight enough to crack his back, then lets him go to grab at his shoulders instead. "Oh my God, you're going to marry Hermione."
"I'm going to marry Hermione." Ron's grin is infectious and so full of warmth, Harry can feel it to his toes. "And you're going to ask Malfoy out for a coffee." Before Harry can protest, Ron holds up a finger. "Consider it a wedding present."
Groaning, Harry shakes Ron quickly, then pulls him into another quick hug. "Fine, you bastard. I'll see if he wants to get a coffee. What's the worst that could happen, yeah?"
The worst that could happen is that Harry spends the rest of his day trying to think of a way to ask Malfoy out without it being weird. The practical portion of the seminar is not nearly as easy as the lecture, and Harry's excitement over Ron's news, his inconveniently fierce attraction to Malfoy, and his nerves all blend together into a complete and total inability for Harry to do anything right.
"Potter," Malfoy sighs for the twelfth time, "you need to dice the slug root, not chop it. If you can't be consistent with your sizing, then you're going to have an uneven brew."
He takes the roots from Harry's sweaty hands, then quickly picks up a knife like it's an extension of his own body before easily and quickly slicing it into even pieces. Turning the board, he does the same in the other direction, before finally cutting through them a third time. The neat, tidy pile of cubes laid out across the cutting surface are almost mocking in their perfection.
"Now, try again." Malfoy presses the knife into Harry's hand and passes him another root. "And don't fuck it up this time."
It shouldn't be hot. Malfoy telling Harry to not fuck up should not be sexually attractive in the slightest. He should not feel a hunger to please, a desperate ache to make Malfoy tell Harry he's done a good job.
But as he carefully cuts the root, Harry can't help the surge of blood south when Malfoy hums his quiet approval.
Coffee , Harry thinks. Start with coffee.
Voice raised so the whole class can hear, Malfoy announces, "You should all be on the final step before brewing begins. Since this is a fast brewing potion, you will need to keep a careful eye on the cauldron. Pay close attention to the color changes or you'll miss the moment when you need to turn the flame down, then off. Thankfully, this doesn't have anything noxious in it, so there's no real risk if you overbrew, other than the smell and difficulty in cleaning the cauldron after. If you've got your diced,"—his eyes cut to Harry, then back to the room—"root ready, please add it to the cauldron and turn the flame onto high now.
"In approximately fifteen minutes, the potion should turn a bright teal, which will indicate that you want to turn down the heat to a low simmer. Once it mellows to more of a peacock green, turn the heat off entirely. If it gets to hunter, you've gone too far, and the potion will solidify. Good luck chipping it out after, and yes, I do expect you to do it yourselves."
Harry adds the root along with the rest of the class, then turns his burner on. There's not much potion in the cauldron—Malfoy's got them brewing smaller batches—but it'll take some time to heat all the way through. Harry takes his eyes off of the still surface of the cauldron and watches as Malfoy does a quick circuit around the classroom.
His lean legs carry him easily from table to table, and his voice, low and mellow like warm honey, answers questions and offers guidance with an ease that has Harry shivering. When Malfoy turns, he catches Harry staring, and his raised eyebrow does nothing to soothe the ache in Harry's veins.
Dragging his eyes away from Malfoy, he stares into his cauldron and watches as it shifts from a neutral grey to a slightly bluer grey. It takes a painfully long time for the color to noticeably change, and the old adage about watched pots and boiling ricochets through his head as he waits. But staring at the shifting color is much easier than staring at Malfoy and lusting, so he makes friends with boredom and turns down the heat.
His potion dutifully darkens, and when he turns the burner off completely, he's pleasantly surprised to realize that he's actually done a bang up job on the brew. Head lifting with barely repressed glee, he finds Malfoy leaning his hip against the other side of the table, that damned eyebrow still raised and his mouth kicked into a small, quiet smile.
"Well done, Potter," he says before pushing away to check the rest of the students' work.
The praise rings in Harry's ears, and he takes a step closer to the table, hoping it'll hide his body's response to Malfoy's words. It's wildly inappropriate to get an erection in the middle of a crowded lecture hall, but Harry doesn't seem to have any say in the matter.
Harry quickly bottles the potion, giving his hands something to do other than fret uselessly (or perhaps dip below his waist to ease a bit of the ache). With three neatly dispensed portions set on the table and the cauldron just needing a thorough washing, he hefts the cauldron's weight over to a line of sinks at the far end of the room and sets about scrubbing what little remains of the potion away. It's enough of a distraction that by the time he's done with the job and the cauldron is set out to dry with the others, his libidio has calmed down enough for him to walk comfortably again.
With the rest of the students finishing up, Malfoy walks to the front of the class again, his voice booming out across the room. "Well done, everyone. It seems that you'll all be more than capable of brewing the simple potions you'll need to accomplish your work as Aurors. A gentle reminder that the Ministry Potions Dispensary has all field-issue potions on hand, brewed by certified Masters, if you do not feel up to the challenge. However, you should all be secure in the knowledge that your basic skills are more than capable of managing the job on your own, should you put your mind to it. I will be sending performance reviews to your Supervising Aurors by the end of the week. You are all dismissed. Have a lovely evening."
Uncertain if he should approach Malfoy now or after the class has emptied, Harry stands next to the drying cauldrons, trapped by indecision. Malfoy has his head down, flipping through papers—likely the reviews he mentioned—with hardly any attention paid to the Trainees gathering their stuff to leave. Harry watches them file out of the class, their voices bright with success, and feels doubt sink its claws into his gut. He'll find Malfoy later, maybe try to ask him then. As Harry moves to join the mass of leaving students, Malfoy's voice cuts through the noise.
"Auror Potter. A word in my office, please."
Heart stuttering in his chest and a frown forming before he can stop it, Harry turns to face Malfoy. "I'm sorry?"
"I need to talk to you about your performance in class. Please, if you'll follow me."
His gut twists, but he keeps his mouth shut as he follows Malfoy into a small room off to the side of the class. Black letters spell out PRIVATE across the top of the frosted glass, and when Harry steps in after Malfoy, the door locks behind them with a quiet click.
"There are sound-proofing charms on the room," Malfoy says as he takes a seat behind a desk, gesturing for Harry to take the chair in front of it, "and privacy ones as well. The door locks when I enter and will unlock when I'm ready to leave."
"So you've trapped me in here?" Harry shakes his head. "I'm confused, Malfoy."
"I wanted to talk to you about your behavior during today's seminar."
"My what?"
"Your behavior , Auror Potter. It was wholly unacceptable."
Confused and rapidly growing irate, Harry takes a seat. "You're going to have to enlighten me here, Malfoy. I don't remember doing a damned thing, other than what you told me to."
"You did plenty of things I didn't tell you to." Malfoy leans back in his chair and examines his nails. His voice is calm, but Harry can read the tension in Malfoy's body. "Don't think I know what you're really here for."
"What I'm… Malfoy, if you've imagined some kind of conspiracy around why I'm taking this course—"
"You brewed that potion perfectly today, Potter." Malfoy's voice is firm, unyielding. "Other than your shoddy knife skills and poorly acted nervousness, it was textbook. Of course I'm aware of what brought you here, and I can only assume that it was intentional. Now, why you would subject yourself to my seminar when you've done your absolute best to avoid me since I joined the Ministry, I've no idea. If all you wanted was to catch me abusing the new trainees or acting in any kind of improper manner, well, you've wasted six hours of your life and mine, as well as risking the health and safety of a fellow Auror. Whatever your plan here today, I'm no longer the boy you knew at Hogwarts, and I will not do anything to put my career in jeopardy."
Harry blurts out, "Coffee," and watches as Malfoy's stern expression is washed away by confusion. "Do you like coffee?"
"I do," Malfoy says slowly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's that got to do with anything I've just said?"
"I also like coffee. And I was thinking, perhaps, you might want to have some. With me. In the near future." As Malfoy's expression darkens, Harry founders. "Or not at all. Not at all is fine, too."
"Are you…" Malfoy's brow furrows. "Are you telling me you deliberately poisoned a fellow Auror so that you could ask me out for coffee?"
"No!" Harry holds his hands up in a calming manner, though it seems to have the opposite effect. "I mean yes, but not… I didn't poison Jefferies on purpose. That was an accident. And I was made to take your seminar. Didn't have much choice in the matter, honestly, though you're really good at teaching. Like, shockingly good at it. But I am asking you out. For coffee." Figuring he's already dead at this point, he continues. "Or maybe dinner?"
"Is this a joke? Did Weasley put you up to this?"
Grimacing, Harry shrugs. "In a way? He said I should ask you."
"I'll kill him," Malfoy says under his breath. "Go out drinking with the idiot one time , and this is what comes of it."
"It's not a joke, though. Honestly. I, uh,"—Harry scratches at the back of his head and can feel his cheeks heating—"I'd really like to get to know you better."
"Really?"
The genuine surprise in Malfoy's voice has Harry breaking out into a smile. "Really."
"Well." Malfoy leans back in his chair, eyes wide. "That's… Hm. Unexpected."
"You look good in tweed," Harry says with a helpless shrug.
Malfoy's smile sets fire to Harry's blood. "I look better out of it."
Ah, Christ.
"But coffee first," Harry says through his painfully dry throat.
"Or dinner." Malfoy lets his eyes drift across Harry's body, his perusal slow and pointed. "I'm free on Saturday. You can pick me up from the Ministry Apparition point at 7. Dress nicely, no trainers or jeans. And," he adds as he finally drags his gaze back to Harry's, "if dinner goes well, you can get me coffee in the morning."
"In the…" The implication hits Harry low in the gut, and his denims go tight. At this rate, his cock's going to fall off from the aerobics it's gotten up to today. "Okay. I'll see you Saturday, then."
"Enjoy the rest of your day, Harry."
His name coasts over his skin like a caress.
Giving as good as he's getting, Harry puts on his best smile as he stands. "You, too, Draco."
It has its intended effect. Draco's pupils widen, and a blush blooms beautifully across his cheeks, down his neck, and under the collar of his shirt. If Harry had to guess, it goes all the way down.
He figures he'll know for sure by Sunday.