6 - star quality - LIGHTREADER

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

I bought a new wand, Harry texted Malfoy as he ate a bowl of cereal the next morning. He wasn't sure why he was texting Malfoy, but then he wasn't sure why he was doing anything any more. Malfoy didn't even want to help, did he? He'd made that clear, the day before. Before Harry had done all that wanking, he remembered, not sure if he was ashamed of himself or not. At least Malfoy would never have to know, he thought, wincing. No one ever needed to know.

He spooned some more cornflakes into his mouth, feeling embarrassed and filthy as the memories hit him with more intensity. He'd wanked in thehallway. Thinking about Malfoy. God, he was a mess. To his surprise and discomfort, the phone beeped almost immediately with a reply.

Of course you did. Find Ollivander, did you?

Was that sarcasm? Harry presumed it was sarcasm. Still, he thought, shovelling in more cornflakes, that wasn't a bad idea, if the worst came to the worst. Maybe Ollivander still had the skill, deep inside, and if Harry went on at him enough, he might turn his hand to wands just to get rid of him. No, but good idea, he sent. And then added, Thanks, because he might as well. Maybe it would annoy Malfoy, he thought, trying to rouse himself into a more normal state of mind. That would be good.

Sleep well? Malfoy shot back.

Harry nearly choked on a cornflake that went the wrong way, but washed it all down with tea. He had, in fact, slept pretty well, after all that, er, hard work. What on earth was he meant to reply? He decided not to overthink it, because Malfoy was undoubtedly laughing at him. Yeah, great. You?

The answer, when it came, was short:

;-)

Harry stared at the text, and as he stared at it, another one came through.

That's Muggle for winking, by the way. I hope you're impressed x

Harry stared at that one too, wondering if it was too early in the day to have a lie down with a cold flannel on his forehead. He'd only just got up, after all, and he might end up with indigestion. Had Malfoy really just sent him a text with a kiss on the end? Did Malfoy know that an x meant a kiss? Was he taking the piss?

Harry thought about it some more and decided that, yes, Malfoy was one hundred, million percent taking the piss. He was probably wetting himself with laughter right now at getting one over on him. At stupid, mixed up Harry, and his stupid, mixed up feelings. So he sent back: Very xxx and waited for a sarcastic response that proved Malfoy had only done it to be an arsehole. After ten minutes, though, nothing else had come through, so Harry finished his breakfast and went back upstairs to clean his teeth, before he decided what to do with the day.

Once he'd got ready, Harry wondered what he should do with himself. It was Sunday, wasn't it? He didn't have to work at the shop again until Monday, if he remembered right. He felt disinclined to call Hermione back; she would undoubtedly want to talk to him about Malfoy, and he didn't want to think about Malfoy any more, let alone listen to her bang on about him and his many amazing achievements. This decision also ruled out Malfoy and his dubious help – or, rather, lack of it – at least for today. And his wand – hand-whittled by a druid at midnight and made from a branch that had fallen naturally from a holly tree, the description said – was on order and would allegedly arrive within two to three working days, so there was nothing to be done there apart from wait. What else was there he could do?

Harry went for a walk to get some fresh air. He tidied his house from top to bottom, the novelty of hoovering his own place, rather than casting a household charm, wearing off after only a couple of minutes. He had some lunch, and tidied up again. He switched on the TV and watched some kind of property programme, feeling both bored and baffled. And he looked around, at a house that barely showed any signs of his life in this reality, and wondered if this was really how it would have gone, if he hadn't been magic, if he hadn't gone to Hogwarts. A bare house. No family, and barely any friends. An unfulfilling job. An empty life. Merlin, was he really that pathetic?

As evening set in and the sky started to darken, Harry contemplated his boring, wasted day and vowed he wouldn't do that again. He opened a window and leaned out, concentrating hard at the night sky. "Finite Incantatem!" he yelled at the blue-black clouds, and a dog barked back at him, as if to tell him you're wasting your time, mate. Was he ever really a wizard, Harry wondered bleakly, or had he just had an amazingly vivid dream? But no, he reminded himself. He'd Scourgified his trousers off at Hermione's, hadn't he? Not his finest moment, but evidence, nonetheless, of his magic. And . . . there was Malfoy. He remembered, blast him.

Harry went and got his phone, and didn't text Malfoy. Malfoy hadn't texted him, after all. He didn't text Malfoy as he watched a baffling programme where people were told how much their ancient ornate clocks and antique diamond brooches were worth, and looked smugly surprised about it. He didn't text Malfoy as he brushed his teeth and decided to go to bed early. He didn't text Malfoy as he sat on his bed, looking at his phone, waiting for Malfoy to text him.

How was your day? he texted Malfoy, and then lay back on the bed with a groan. Fucking Malfoy.

Harry's phone started ringing, and he fumbled for it, his heart suddenly beating wildly. "Hello?" he said, forgetting to check that it was actually Malfoy before he answered.

It was actually Malfoy. Of course it was. "Tiring," he said, without saying hello back. "It's hard work being beautiful and talented. Feel glad you've been spared," he added in a drawl.

"Ha ha," Harry said.

"So, where are you right now?" Malfoy asked.

"Uh, in my bedroom," Harry replied, and then wished he hadn't. He must be suffering from some sort of illness, he thought miserably. An illness that made him completely stupid, to give Malfoy such an obvious opening for extended, embarrassing unkindness.

"Oh?" Malfoy replied. How he could imbue the word with such meaning, Harry didn't know; the fucker sounded both supercilious and knowing. A terrible mix. "Give me a moment," Malfoy continued, and Harry could hear him talking to someone else, very low and muffled, before the sound quality changed to more of an echoey silence, just the sound of footsteps followed by the click of a door. "Are you in bed?" Malfoy asked.

"Ye-es," Harry said slowly, wondering if he should just hang up, but something compelled him to add, trying to sound simultaneously calm and sarcastic, "well, on my bed."

"Hm," Malfoy said, and Harry could hear a rustling as he . . . sat down? Possibly. Harry tried not to think too hard. He was already anxious about the direction this conversation seemed to be going in. The urge to hang up rose again, and Harry found he was holding the phone so tightly that his hand was aching. "So . . ." Malfoy continued, and Harry heard the gulp as he swallowed something. "What are you wearing right now?"

"I – what?" Harry said, but Malfoy didn't reply, just left a silence – a mocking one, Harry thought. He looked down at himself. "My underpants?" he tried, wondering what on earth he was doing. "And, uh, my socks." And for some reason he found himself adding, "There's a hole in the toe. Maybe I should throw them away. Why, what are you wearing?"

"A hole in the toe?" Malfoy muttered. "For fuck's sake." Then, before Harry could protest that not all his socks had holes, and he hadn't learnt how to mend things yet, and why the hell did it matter anyway, and maybe Malfoy should consider just fucking off and dying, Malfoy cleared his throat and said, voice suddenly smooth, "I just got out of the shower, actually, so I'm in my bathrobe. Green silk. Very . . . clingy."

This smooth and obvious lie had the same effect on Harry's anxious semi-arousal as a short, sharp Aguamenti. There was no way Malfoy was being serious; it was now obvious that he was only trying to wind him up, to trick him into saying things that would embarrass him even further. "Oh, really?" Harry said, his voice coming out flat and unimpressed. "That the best you can do?"

Malfoy made a choking noise, as if whatever he was drinking had gone down the wrong way. "I beg your pardon?"

"Green's not my favourite colour," Harry said, "for reasons you can probably understand."

"Not your favourite . . ." Malfoy echoed, and Harry was suddenly aware that he couldn't tell if Malfoy sounded arsey or . . . embarrassed. He hadn't really been trying to be sexy. Had he? The idea was ludicrous. Malfoy wasn't gay. It was all an act. To get one over on Harry. Wasn't it? Before Harry could think through the implications of this fully, though, Malfoy said, tone now hard and unpleasant, "Would you prefer if I wore something else?"

Harry would prefer to start this phone conversation over from the beginning, before it got all pointed and unpleasant, that's what he'd prefer. He should definitely have hung up earlier. This confusion over whether Malfoy meant it was much more unnerving than the thought that he was just teasing Harry to be unkind.

"Or is that you'd prefer someone else?" Malfoy snapped. "I could tell you that I'm wearing women's knickers if you want. Or maybe you want to hear that I have ginger pubes; is that your kink? Is your issue that you're not gay, or bi, or whatever, but that you're only into Weasleys?"

Well, that had escalated fast, fucking hell. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry snapped back. Women's knickers? Malfoy was an arsehole. "Just fuck off if you're going to be like this," he added, and Malfoy immediately hung up.

Harry lay there for a while, baffled and angry, but the anger soon faded and left confusion in its wake. Had Malfoy really just rung him up and . . . tried to be sexy? And had Malfoy really flown off the handle and . . . Harry tried to replay what Malfoy had just ranted at him. Something about Harry being into ginger pubes, he thought with irritation. Malfoy had seemed angry that Harry had – what? Dated Ginny? Harry stared at the ceiling, blinking as the hanging light left trails and heat spots behind his eyelids. Harry knew he wasn't always very quick on the uptake when it came to the emotional stuff, but he also wasn't an idiot. Malfoy had come across as jealous. It seemed unlikely, but what other explanation was there? If there was one, Harry couldn't think of it.

But Malfoy wasn't gay. He definitely wasn't gay. Why the fuck would he be jealous of Ginny dating Harry, though, if he wasn't gay?

Just as Harry was wondering what he should do, and trying not to hyperventilate as a range of completely impossible thoughts flooded his brain and tried to make themselves at home there, the phone rang again. He shouldn't answer it this time, he told himself. He definitely shouldn't answer it.

"Hello?" he answered, nervous all over again.

"Well?" Malfoy demanded.

The nervousness slid away. "Well what?" Harry snapped. "You hung up on me!"

"You told me to fuck off!" Malfoy countered.

"You – you accused me of something to do with ginger pubes!" Harry said, because it was ridiculous. Malfoy didn't say anything though, so Harry said, cautiously, not quite able to believe he was actually saying this out loud to Draco Malfoy, "You do know I split up with Ginny well over a year ago, right?"

"I really don't care," Malfoy said, in possibly the least convincing manner anyone had ever said anything at all in.

Was this the most surreal conversation Harry had ever had? Possibly. Probably. But dwelling on Malfoy's feelings about Ginny was a fast Floo to being hung up on again, Harry suspected, and he didn't want to think about it anyway. It was too weird.

"So, er, what are you really wearing?" Harry asked, because he was a Gryffindor, and always would be, even in a world where he wasn't. There must be a real reason why Malfoy had asked about clothing, and Harry felt determined to work it out. "You'd better bloody well not say women's knickers, you tosspot," he added, to head off Malfoy immediately taking the piss again.

Malfoy snorted. "I am actually wearing a bathrobe, thank you very much. But . . ." Harry heard him take another sip of his drink; the ice chinked close to the phone. "It's a hotel one. Very large, like being hugged by an enormous, shaggy towel." He let out a satisfied sigh. "I was just having a quick nightcap with Pansy. She's just as difficult to shake off as she ever was," he said, voice tinged with amusement. "I thought abandoning her to have a shower would make her fuck off out of my suite, but when I came back into the living room she was still there, still talking about my schedule for tomorrow. I only called you to get her to actually go away."

"Thanks!" Harry said, strangely stung by this.

Malfoy sniggered. "Well, and to have a bit of fun. That went well," he added, an eye-roll in his voice. "Are you always this suspicious?"

"Hey!" Harry said, still deeply suspicious but trying not to sound it. "Can you blame me? We're not exactly – I mean . . ."

"Yes, I suppose," Malfoy said. "God, this gin is good. Have you really got a hole in your sock?"

"Yes?" Harry said, looking at it. The sock was, in fact, more hole than sock.

"Then you should take it off. To throw it away, of course," Malfoy said casually.

Harry felt his heart start to speed up. "Should I?" he asked.

"Of course," Malfoy said. "Unless your feet are cold," he added, a note of challenge in his voice. "Or you're chicken. An uptight chicken," he expanded.

"All right, for Merlin's sake," Harry said, mostly to make him shut up. And besides, he fucking wasn't chicken. If Malfoy wanted to play mind games with him, then he would play mind games with Malfoy right back. He reached down and tugged his socks off, chucking them over the side of the bed and on to the floor. "Done," he said firmly. "Well?"

"Hmm," Malfoy said, voice low and soft and tinged with amusement. "I bet your boxers are fit for the bin too."

Harry looked down at his underpants. "They're Y-fronts," he said. "And they're hideous. But what about you? Are you wearing sexy Slytherin socks, arsehole?"

Malfoy let out a snort. "Wanker. Actually, I have some poor quality hotel slippers on my feet. Very cardboardy."

"Then you should take them off," Harry said, because clearly he was insane.

"Why? Do you have some revolting foot fetish?" Malfoy asked, sniggering.

"Yes," Harry said firmly, and found himself smiling as Malfoy made a noise of laughing disgust. "Got your toes out yet?"

"So vile," Malfoy said, sounding relaxed and amused, "but yes."

"Liar," Harry said, shifting on the bed to make himself more comfortable. His shoulders and neck ached with tension, and he tried to make himself relax.

"I'm not sure how I'm meant to prove the nakedness of my feet," Malfoy said, still amused. "You'll just have to take it on trust, Potter. Can you do that?"

"What, trust you?" Harry asked, and realised it had come out sounding a bit more unpleasant than he'd intended when Malfoy didn't say anything in response. Could he trust Malfoy? Not about the feet thing, that was stupid, but . . . He gnawed at his lip. He wanted to be able to trust Malfoy. Everyone deserved a second chance, even someone who'd fucked up quite as spectacularly as him. And . . . he hadn't put a foot wrong since his trial, had he? Harry still didn't know the details of his punishment – Auror Robards hadn't let him go near the paperwork, or the arrangements for Malfoy's weekly check-ins, on pain of pain – but as far as he knew, Malfoy had been, well, good. And he hadn't given any awful interviews to the press, unlike his disgusting father. He'd kept himself to himself. Was it enough?

He was overthinking this, he decided. He wanted to be able to trust Malfoy, didn't he? Maybe he should try it, see how it went. He didn't have much to lose at this point, anyway. Well, apart from all his dignity.

"I have complete faith in your disgusting bare feet, Malfoy," he said. "I . . . trust you. OK?"

"My feet are not disgusting," Malfoy said after a moment, and he sounded a bit weird, but Harry decided he was probably overthinking that too. He preferred his awkward conversations more straightforward, on the whole. Or not taking place in the first place, for preference. "But . . ." Malfoy continued after a moment, tone now very casual, which instantly made Harry feel suspicious, "let's just say I told you I'd just taken my dressing gown off and was actually completely naked, would you believe me?"

Harry snorted. "No."

"No?" Malfoy said, sounding a bit cross.

"Well, you haven't, have you?" Harry said, thinking was pretty reasonable. "I'll believe you if you actually do it."

"All right," Malfoy said, and Harry's insides did an uncomfortable lurch. All right? "Since you asked so nicely."

Harry could hear faint rustling sounds. It didn't mean that Malfoy was undressing, he supposed, trying not to panic. He could just be bouncing on his bed, to take the piss.

"Do you believe me now?" Malfoy asked, an edge to his voice.

Harry's cock believed him; he was almost completely hard, his cock straining at the rough fabric of his underpants. He shifted uncomfortably. "Um, yeah," he said. "Are – are – aren't you cold?" he found himself asking, like an idiot.

"Am I cold?" Malfoy asked, sounding as if he agreed with Harry on that one. "What are you, my mother?" And then he snorted. "Urgh, don't make me think of my mother right now, what's wrong with you."

Harry didn't know what was wrong with him. He was on the phone with Draco fucking Malfoy, he had a hard on, and allegedly Malfoy was naked. Could he be responsible for the shit that came out of his mouth right now? It seemed unfair that he was being asked to think at all.

"Anyway, if I'm cold, then surely your Gryffindor sense of fairness compels you to be cold too," Malfoy continued.

"I think fairness is possibly more of a Hufflepuff trait, if you think about it—"

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted, with aching politeness.

"Yes?" Harry said, feeling a shiver of something inexplicable tremble through him.

"Don't be dense."

"I'm not dense!" Harry protested.

"No?" Malfoy queried.

Harry looked down at the erection straining his underpants. If he took off the pants, then he'd be naked. With a hard on. Talking to Malfoy. Who was also naked. And – possibly gay after all, Harry thought. Was Malfoy hard too? Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. God, he hoped Malfoy wasn't taking the piss.

"Did you never jerk off in your dormitory with your little Gryffindor gang?" Malfoy asked, to Harry's horror.

"No!"

"Not even with the light off?" Malfoy pressed.

"No!"

"What a bunch of prudes," Malfoy said, sounding amused. "No wonder you're being so weird."

"I'm not being weird," Harry protested, "and even if I was being weird, I think it's understandable that I'm being weird." He reconsidered this. "You know what I mean."

"Sure," Malfoy said lazily. "If you like." He let out a soft noise that made Harry freeze. Was Malfoy . . .?

"You don't have to join in," Malfoy said, and he sounded slightly breathless now, his words coming out slow and soft. "You can just listen, if that's your thing."

Did Harry want to listen to Malfoy wanking? Or pretending to wank. How would he actually know for sure? His brain told him this was not the best idea he'd ever had and that now was definitely, positively, absolutely the time for him to hang up, rather than expose himself to Malfoy's inevitable ridicule, but his cock overrode the decision by taking all the blood from his body and doing a throbbing, pounding thing that made it impossible to think.

"Ohhh," Malfoy said, right in Harry's ear, so faint it was almost inaudible. Harry's hand shot down to his underpants, tugging them down his thighs. His cock caught up in the fabric, but sprung free, twitching wildly. Fucking hell, Harry wanted to touch himself. He tried to breathe slow and steady, willing himself to just lie there.

It was very quiet in the room. And very quiet on the phone. Harry couldn't even hear Malfoy breathing. Was Malfoy even still there? Or was he . . .

Malfoy took in a ragged breath, and then another. He'd been holding his breath. The sound – the thought – did horrendous things to Harry's self-control. He shifted on the bed, digging the fingers of the hand that wasn't clutching the phone into the sheets. He lifted his neck to look down at his cock, feeling it twitch again. A bead of liquid emerged from the tip, very slowly falling towards his stomach in a long, thin strand.

He flung his head back on the pillow, wet his lips, screwing his toes up tight and clenching his arse cheeks. He wasn't going to wank with Malfoy listening. He wasn't going to wank with Malfoy listening. He wasn't—

Malfoy made a low groan, and then went completely silent, as if he was holding his breath again. "Malfoy?" Harry managed, feeling hot with an uneasy mix of embarrassment and arousal.

"Yes?" Malfoy said. He sounded short of breath. "Fuck's sake. You want to chat?"

"Are you actually . . . you know," Harry managed, trying not to die. His balls ached, and he widened his legs, trying to resist the urge to fuck the empty air for some, any, relief.

"Am I actually . . .?" Malfoy asked after a moment, sounding more normal all of a sudden. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No-o," Harry said, feeling awkward all over again. "I just . . ."

"What, you want a running commentary?" Malfoy demanded.

Harry thought about this, and nearly came untouched. "Um," he said, meaning to say no and his cock saying fucking hell, yes please. He could picture Malfoy lying there, alone on his hotel bed. Cock in hand, arching his back as he jerked himself off.

He could also, on the other hand, picture Malfoy lying there smirking, fully dressed, trying very hard to remember this conversation so he could pour it out into a Pensieve later and torture Harry with it.

"This is . . ." Malfoy said, sounding a bit weird. "God, Potter. You . . ."

Harry squeezed his eyes tight shut and tried to erase the thought of naked, wanking Malfoy from his mind. Malfoy was clearly gearing up to say something nasty, and—

"Fine," Malfoy said quickly, as if he was talking himself into it. "I'll . . . Fine. Whatever. If it's weird, it's your own fault, remember that."

What the hell?

"OK, get comfy," Malfoy said.

Harry looked down as his erect, reddened cock. Comfy wasn't quite the word, was it?

"Right," Malfoy said, and Harry realised he sounded nervous, which was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. Malfoy would never actually do it.

"Are you wanking yet?" Harry asked, because he was tired of being incoherent and of Malfoy maybe taking the piss. "Because if you are, you should get on with it. I've got to go to work tomorrow," he said firmly. "So I can't stay up too late."

Malfoy spluttered. "Yeah, fuck you too, Potter," he said, but this time he didn't hang up, as Harry half expected. Instead, he was quiet for a moment, and Harry could hear the rustling of fabric. "Just getting more comfortable," Malfoy said, voice low and a fraction awkward. "OK, Potter, I've got my hand back on my dick now. Happy?"

Harry looked at his own dick. It didn't look happy. It was swollen and reddened, and there was already a tiny pool of liquid on his stomach from all the dripping. He swallowed hard. "Mm."

"God, that feels good," Malfoy said, a catch in his voice. "I'm going to . . ." Harry could hear him spit. "Just let me . . . Ohh," he said. "That feels hot."

Harry strained his ears, tried to catch the sounds of tiny movements. "Are you, uh, hard?" he asked, and couldn't believe he'd said that out loud.

Malfoy let out a breath. Maybe he couldn't believe it too. "Of course I am, you complete idiot," he said. "How the fuck you get by as an Auror with those shit powers of deduction . . ." he said, words choppy and breathless. "Are you hard?"

Harry was so hard it was agony not to touch himself. "Yeah," he admitted, losing his self-control for a moment.

"Right, running commentary," Malfoy said, breathing heavily. Harry held his breath. "I've – I've got my hand on my cock and I'm stroking it really slowly," Malfoy said. "Because this is fucking weird and I've never been so horny in my fucking life. Shit," he choked out. "I – I – I— God."

God indeed. And Harry didn't even believe in god. He believed in his cock though, and he believed that if he didn't jerk himself off right now there was a possibility he might actually do himself an internal injury. So he let go of his death grip on the sheets, and curled his fingers around his cock. It felt amazing. So amazing that he couldn't stop himself from groaning. Out loud. So that Malfoy could hear.

Malfoy didn't laugh, though. He just let out a choking noise and said, "You're actually . . . Potter . . ."

Harry was too busy trying not to come in under ten seconds to reply. He just grunted, clenching his thighs and arching his back at the feelings coursing through him. His balls ached like crazy, and he wrenched his hand from his cock, trailing his fingers in the pool of liquid on his stomach and stroking them agonisingly over the head of his cock. He grabbed his cock again and slid his hand up, as slowly as possible, and down again. Each slow slide was amazing. Infuriating. But not as amazing and infuriating as the sound of Malfoy's breathing in his ear, each ragged breath almost a sob.

Malfoy was breathing faster now, groaning and going silent, before groaning even louder than before. "I want . . ." Malfoy gasped out between great gulping breaths. "I want . . ."

What did Malfoy want? Harry's body was singing. "What . . ." he gasped out.

"I . . ." Malfoy said, sounding peculiar. "I think I'm going to come soon."

"Yeah?" Harry said, feeling the coils of arousal tighten in his groin, the sensations building. He tightened his grip on his cock, pumping harder. He couldn't have slowed down if he'd wanted to, his need driving him to the edge. "Me too," he choked out, as he teetered on the edge of his orgasm, his stomach clenching rock solid, his thighs shaking like crazy.

"Potter, I—" Malfoy said wildly, and then he groaned, so long and low, the noise blurring into a stream of swear words, that Harry guessed he'd actually come.

The thought of Malfoy actually coming . . . the noises he was making . . . Harry pumped his cock furiously and came into his fist, collapsing back on to the bed and panting so hard that it was actually difficult to breathe.

When he'd recovered enough for his brain to switch back on, he wasn't sure what to say. Malfoy was silent on the other end of the line, which was no help. What did you say to a guy you hated some of the time, pitied some of the time, and yet couldn't stop thinking about pretty much all of the time? Not to mention, Harry thought, someone he'd just had his first gay experience with. Did that count as a gay experience, he wondered wryly. It had felt pretty gay. He expected to feel different, somehow, but instead he just felt wrung out and anxious, as if he'd made a mistake and was expecting it to rise up and punch him in the face any moment now. He still couldn't quite believe it had been real.

"Poor show on the running commentary," he found himself saying through a yawn, post-orgasm tiredness slowing down his brain and turning him into a lunatic. "You didn't even announce the main event."

Malfoy made a choking noise of shock, and then started laughing. "You think you could do better? I'll remember that for next time."

Next time? Harry's insides did a nervous dance of arousal and terror. "Er, no, it's fine. Great job, Malfoy. Very . . . Great job," he said again, clearing his throat.

"Thanks," Malfoy said, faintly mocking, and then he yawned. "Excuse me," he said, not sounding very sorry. "You're not boring me, I promise. It's just been a long day."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said, feeling himself relax a fraction. He could do this. It was only talking with Malfoy. He unrelaxed again. He didn't know how to talk to Malfoy! The wanking had been a walk in the park compared to actually talking to him. "So, uh, what do you think to coming to see Hermione with me, try to convince her to help," he found himself saying to his alarm. There was nothing he wanted less!

"Granger?" Malfoy spluttered. "Is now a good time to talk about her? Can't you at least wait until I've put my cock away," he added plaintively.

Harry laughed. "No, but seriously. This reality's Hermione doesn't even know Ron, and—"

Malfoy groaned. "Seriously, Potter. Must we talk about that pair of . . ." He cleared his throat, clearly thinking better of his sentence.

"Pair of?" Harry asked, deciding not to let him off.

"Pair of good friends of yours," Malfoy said stiffly. "The know-it-all and the ginger-pubed wanker," he amended, his voice a laugh.

"You were jealous of the ginger-pubed wanker," Harry reminded him. It felt like a hundred years ago now. The world was possibly now arranged into pre- and post- 'wanking with Malfoy'.

"I was not!" Malfoy said, in tones of horror.

"You were, though," Harry said, finding the whole business strangely amusing. None of this felt real. None of it was real, he supposed. Maybe he was floating in a vat somewhere, after all, he thought. Maybe it was Malfoy who'd put him there.

Malfoy, whether real or not, was making a vomiting noise. "Urghhhhh," he said. "Please tell me you were telling the truth when you claimed you never fucked Ron Weasley. It's bad enough knowing you did his sister."

"Sorry, but we actually screwed every night," Harry said, and found the silence that followed was very ringing and unpleasant. "Hermione joined in too. And sometimes Neville."

"Fuck you," Malfoy said warmly.

"While you were shagging Blaise and Theo, allegedly," Harry said, feeling that odd stab of jealousy in his guts. "Did you really never sleep with Crabbe or Goyle?" Harry winced after he'd said it. He still sometimes had dreams about Vincent, and he'd never been his friend. Malfoy had never seemed to like him very much either, to be fair, but . . .

Malfoy said, very cool, "No, Potter, I didn't fuck my dead friend."

Oh God. "Draco, I—" Harry said, in a panic.

"I did fuck Blaise and Theo though," Malfoy interrupted, his voice normal again. And then he paused. "Did you just use my first name?"

"By mistake!" Harry said. "I swear!"

"And if you're a very good boy, Harry Potter," Malfoy continued, as if Harry hadn't answered, "at some point I might fuck you too."

Harry felt his mouth go bone dry.

"Or you could fuck me, perhaps," Malfoy mused. "Let's leave it as a TBC. But right now, it appears I'm going on tour for a while. Will you survive without me?"

"Yes!" Harry said immediately, still caught between terror and arousal at the idea that he might actually – in real life – with Malfoy. It was a bloody good thing Malfoy was fucking off, he thought. And he didn't need Malfoy to fix the spell. He could do it himself! He wasn't useless.

Malfoy sniffed. "No need to sound so enthusiastic, Harry."

Harry! "Can I, er, come and hear you sing?" Harry asked. He meant it as a piss take, but it came out sounding serious, and he realised he would, in fact, quite like it. It would either be entertaining, or it would be terrible – and therefore entertaining. He was on to a winner. He could even take Hermione, he thought. Introducing her to Malfoy – to Draco? – now that would be entertaining too. He could hear Malfoy sing, and then he could run away, very fast, before he had to look him in the eye.

"Can you come and hear me sing," Malfoy repeated. "Well, it depends a bit on whether you can get a ticket," he continued, sounding horrendously smug. "I hear the entire tour sold out in under seventeen minutes."

"Yes, all right," Harry said. "Do you know all the words yet?"

Malfoy uttered something foreign and incomprehensible. It was the fucking poem again, Harry thought. What was wrong with him? "Do you actually know what that poem means?" he demanded.

"No," Malfoy said, sounding unembarrassed. "That's hardly the point. Goodnight, then, Harry."

"Oh, er, goodnight then," Harry said, but he was speaking to the dial tone; Malfoy had already hung up.