Chapter 7
Chapter Text
On Monday, Harry went to work. He tried not to think about Malfoy, told himself that Malfoy wasn't important right now, wasn't the point. He should be thinking about the spell, about how to undo it if the wand he'd ordered didn't work. Unfortunately, trying not to think about Malfoy meant that he ended up thinking about Malfoy, pretty much all day.
Parvati kept giving him odd looks, but the shop was rammed for almost the whole of his shift, so he managed to avoid her. He didn't particularly want to talk to her. She might try to probe him about his personal life, by means of asking if he'd had a nice weekend, and he might go mad and ask her the question he couldn't stop thinking about: if you'd listened to another guy wank, and knocked one out yourself while listening, was it OK to keep calling him by his surname? Or did that make them friends now? Harry had a strong feeling that wanking wasn't the same as friendship. And did he even want to be friends with Malfoy? What he wanted was to go home, back to the wizarding world. Back to his nice, simple straightforward life, where the only thing he had to worry about was vicious dark wizards trying to kill him. It was, he considered, far preferable to a world where he might conceivably, at some point, take off his trousers in front of Draco fucking Malfoy.
Harry wasn't sure if he was allowed to have his phone on him during his shift, even though Parvati had hers out constantly. She owned the shop, or as good as. Besides, he didn't even want to have it with him today. Then he'd know for sure whether Malfoy – Draco – Malfoy had sent him a text or not. He didn't know whether he wanted him to have or not. He told himself it didn't matter, was aware that wasn't true. He wanted Draco to have texted him, so they could have a proper conversation about reversing the spell, Harry told himself firmly, rather than one where Draco tried to distract him with embarrassing mind-fuckery. If, that was, it turned out he needed Draco's help. Which he wouldn't. He stuck his hands in his pocket and crossed all his fingers that he could fix his mistake by himself when the wand arrived. It was him who'd apparently torn reality – so surely he could mend it? All he needed to do was hang on till then, try not to lose his mind.
When Harry finished work, he refused a post-shift drink with Parvati and raced home to where his phone was. He checked it, to find a voicemail symbol, and then felt too nervous to listen to it. But that was stupid, he told himself, so he forced himself into it, and felt his heart sink when he heard Hermione speaking. "Have you tried buying a wand yet?" she said. "I had another thought, though. Can't you just – cast a spell that stops spells?" she suggested. "I mean, how did you cast the spell in the first place? Just revisit that scene and tell it to end. Call me," she ended, "if you want to discuss it further."
"I already tried that!" Harry told his phone. "It didn't fucking work!" But he supposed it wasn't Hermione's fault. It was a good enough idea.
Harry put the phone back down, feeling flat and disappointed. He told himself it was because he'd already tried Hermione's latest suggestion, but knew that he was lying to himself. Still, he thought – trying to cheer up, because he was being ridiculous – there was a good reason why Malfoy – Draco – hadn't been in touch, wasn't there? He was travelling to his venue, and doing whatever pop stars did at them. What did they do, Harry wondered. Check they didn't sound too dreadful, he supposed, and practise their dancing to make sure they weren't going to fall off the stage, that kind of thing. Draco would call after he'd finished his gig, Harry presumed. Providing he hadn't actually fallen off the stage.
^^^^^^
Draco – no, Malfoy, definitely Malfoy – didn't call him after his gig. So Harry didn't call him either, just went to bed, and slept badly.
^^^^^^
On Tuesday, Harry went to work. He was already sick to death of the monotony of it all, and he turned up in a towering bad mood. It was nothing to do with Malfoy, nothing at all. He was just fed up, and his new wand hadn't arrived yet, and even when it did, he had no expectation that it would actually work, and how the fuck was he meant to get home? He missed it fiercely. His job, his real house – the Muggle Grimmauld place just wasn't the same – his friends. How did Muggles cope? They coped fine, he thought, feeling a headache slot into place in his brain. It wasn't really the magic he missed, after all; it was everything else.
"Morning, oh ray of sunshine," Parvati said cheerfully, which helped about as much as a kick in the teeth.
Harry tried not to glower at her. It wasn't her fault, after all. "Morning," he said. "What are you so happy about?"
Parvati rolled her eyes. "No need to sound so pissed off about it," she said. "Honestly. Get out of bed on the wrong side again?" She didn't wait for a reply but, instead, bent down under the counter and came up again brandishing a newspaper. There, on the front cover, was a picture of—
"Maybe he's not gay after all," Parvati sighed, and leant her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. "I wish I'd managed to get tickets for his new tour. Our eyes might catch across the crowds, and he would instantly fall in love with me, and whisk me away from the beans."
Harry pulled the paper towards him. Draco – no, definitely Malfoy, one hundred percent Malfoy – was snuggling up to a very pretty brunette in a grainy photo on the front cover, their faces very close. DRACO MALFOY EMBRACES 'MYSTERY WOMAN' BACKSTAGE ON FIRST NIGHT OF UK LEG OF WORLD TOUR, the headline shouted. Harry pushed the paper back. After party. Right. That would explain why Draco hadn't called. Or rather, the 'mystery woman' would.
"You all right?" Parvati said sympathetically. "Sorry, babe, I didn't realise you'd take it so hard. He is fit, isn't he?"
"Not really my type," Harry said. And thought that if he had a type of man – which he didn't, because he wasn't gay, he was just really, really confused – it wouldn't be the sort who would turn him on one night and then go out making kissy faces with 'mystery women' the next. All of which was entirely beside the point, he thought, because if he had a type of man, whatever that was, it definitely wouldn't include Draco sodding Malfoy.
^^^^^^
The rest of Harry's shift felt a bit like wading through glue. He was bored, and upset, and angry at being upset, because what the fuck? It didn't make any sense. He tried really hard as he worked to fancy Parvati. She was beautiful, wasn't she? And funny. And light-hearted, and she seemed to like him OK. But when he tried to imagine kissing her, it felt a bit wrong, as if he was imagining kissing Hermione.
"Stop looking at me like that," Parvati said plaintively, when Harry was trying for a second time to imagine what she might look like with her top off and finding his imagination telling her to cover up, for Merlin's sake. "If I ever imagined the face a serial-killer cannibal might make as he eyed me up for the pot, that's the one you're pulling right now."
"I am feeling a bit peckish," Harry joked, and Parvati reached up to cuff him round the head.
"Seriously, Harry, you all right?" she asked, tilting her head to one side, her gold hoop earrings swinging as she did so. "I'm worried about you."
Harry felt even worse. It was bad enough he was making himself feel like shit over nothing, without dragging Parvati into it too. He tried to cheer up, but still caught Parvati glancing over at him, her face creased up with worry, when she thought he wasn't watching.
By the time Harry had got home, he'd convinced himself he didn't care about Malfoy and his mystery women. Fuck them. Harry just wanted to fix reality and go home. So he was surprised to find himself stalking straight to his dining room as soon as he got through the front door, grabbing his phone and typing out: Who's your girlfriend, Malfoy? Great shot of you in the papers.
Harry hit send, and then thought fuck. What on earth was wrong with him?
He felt a tiny bit sick when the phone almost immediately rang, the name Dickhead Supreme flashing up on the screen as the music played. He almost picked it up, but thought better of it. What the fuck was he going to say, anyway? Anything he could come up with would make him sound like a grade-A idiot. A jealous grade-A idiot. God. He was one, wasn't he? One dirty phone call appeared to be all it took for him to lose his mind entirely.
The phone finally stopped ringing, but then started again almost immediately. "Go awaayyyyy!" Harry told the ringing phone, and sat down at the dining room table, resting his head on the warm, friendly wood and wishing for the sweet release of death. It had to be better than this.
Harry's phone made the horrendous beeping that suggested he had a text message. He looked, because he was clearly a masochist.
Pick up the phone, Malfoy had sent. And the screen vanished as Malfoy called again.
NO, Harry sent, when the phone stopped ringing, prompting Malfoy to call again. Harry couldn't understand why he felt so angry, and – hurt, he realised. It was ridiculous. It wasn't as if he actively liked Draco – Malfoy – that way, was it? He didn't like men. And he definitely didn't like Draco. He just wanted to fix things and get back to normal.
Draco called again, and finally Harry cracked. "What?" he snapped.
"Potter – Harry," Draco amended, sounding both exhausted and tremendously pissed off, "I don't have time for your tedious gay crisis right now. I was due on stage five minutes ago, and I think Pansy is literally going to kill me if I don't go out there right now."
"My tedious gay—" Harry started to repeat, incredulous and actually really hurt this time, fucking hell. It was the first time he'd said the word 'gay' out loud about himself, he thought, and wanted to be sick.
"Look, shut up, OK," Draco interrupted, frustration rich in his voice. "You're not my boyfriend, and I see no reason why I should have to explain myself to you, of all people, but apparently it's in my fucking contract that I'm not allowed to be gay – at least, in public. So Pansy occasionally arranges for me to snuggle up with a girl from my record label staff, I hear, to maintain my manly heterosexual image. I didn't know this because – you know – I've been in this reality for fucking five minutes, or I might have warned you. All right?"
Harry swallowed, feeling like a dickhead, knocked sideways by his own emotions. "Yes," he managed.
"I begin to wonder if there's any fucking reality where I'm allowed to be myself," Draco said bitterly, "but—" He broke off, and Harry could hear someone else in the background talking very fast and very urgent-sounding. "I have to go on stage now," Draco snapped.
Harry said, "I'm sorry," and meant it.
Draco let out a noise of frustration. "Are you? No – I don't have time for this. I have to . . ." He trailed off.
"Call me afterwards," Harry said firmly, trying to pull himself together. He felt like his whole body had turned to jelly; boneless and wobbly.
Draco took an audible deep breath. "OK."
"I really am sorry, all right?" Harry said, and then felt guilty all over again. However he felt about Draco, he was about to go and perform in front of thousands of fans. It was probably the worst time for a row. "I bet you'll be amazing out there," he said.
"Of course I will," Draco snapped, and hung up, leaving Harry staring at his phone and wishing he hadn't been quite such an arsehole. Had he gone off on one about the 'mystery woman' because he still half-suspected that Draco was actually straight, and had successfully tricked Harry into thinking he wasn't? If that wasn't it, then Harry was left with the uncomfortable thought that he was just upset that Malfoy might like someone else. And right now, he could only just about cope with the idea that he might fancy Malfoy; the thought that he might have feelings for him beyond the physical was definitely a step too far.
^^^^^^
Draco called at just past midnight. "God, I'm tired," he said, without preamble. "I could sleep for a fucking week." He didn't sound tired, though; he sounded hyper, intense.
"How did it go?" Harry asked, trying to sound normal. He didn't feel very normal.
"Fine," Draco said, "but I didn't call to chit chat. Can we get back to—"
"My tedious gay crisis?" Harry interrupted wryly. He no longer felt angry about that, just stupid.
Draco snorted, but didn't say anything.
What was Draco doing now? Harry tried to picture it, and his imagination failed. He didn't want to think Draco was pulling a face, or smirking, or anything. He didn't sound like he was, at any rate. And if he was going to say something cutting, wouldn't he have already said it? Draco hadn't been the sort to keep his insults to himself in the past, so it seemed unlikely he'd start now.
"I think it's a tedious bi crisis, probably," Harry said, to fill the silence, and managed not to die at saying that out loud. It felt wrong, and uncomfortable, but at the same time such a fucking relief to say it to someone who got it, that he could have wept. He'd spent the hours waiting for Draco's phone call stressing out about whether or not Draco was genuine, and in the end had just decided that he didn't actually care. If Draco wanted to take the piss, he could go ahead. It was too late to take it back, anyway. He might as well be honest and make himself feel better, if nothing else. He was aware, though, of a low, burning hope that Draco wouldn't be too horrible about it, even if he didn't actually understand how Harry felt.Harry tried to get comfy on the drawing room sofa, but the cushions were too hard, the back too low. He'd only chosen to sit there to make sure he didn't accidentally fall asleep. "Are you – have you always . . .?" He wasn't sure what he was asking, didn't think Draco would reply anyway to questions about his sexuality. Not honestly, at any rate. It was personal, wasn't it? And—
"Oh, I got over my own tedious gay crisis years ago," Draco said flatly, to Harry's surprise. "These days it's more of a tedious close relationship with my closet, so to speak. Malfoy heir, remember." He did sound tired, now, a thread of unhappiness under the sarcasm. "Do we have to talk about this right now?"
"No, of course not," Harry said automatically. "Sorry." Did 'right now' mean that Draco could see a time when they would talk about it though? Harry found himself shivering with something inexplicable. Possibilities opening up in front of him that he wasn't sure were enticing or terrifying.
Draco let out a breath that was too bitter to be a laugh. "I never thought I'd hear you say sorry to me, and you've said it several times today. I should write it in my diary, to re-read whenever I'm having a bad day."
"Ha fucking ha," Harry said, feeling a twinge of irritation – of the pair of them, it should be Draco saying sorry, over and over until he was sick with it – but decided there was no possible benefit to be had by expressing this.
Draco yawned. "If you want some therapy for your deep-seated issues right now, you'd better speak up before I fall asleep. Being a teen sex god is tiring work."
"Um, what do you mean?" Harry asked cautiously, feeling his ears heat up but not wanting to make a prick of himself all over again.
"What are you wearing right now?" Draco said, a mocking edge to his voice.
Oh. Oh. "My terrible work uniform," Harry said, looking down at himself.
"Will you ever get the hang of this?" Draco inquired, sounding interested.
No, he probably wouldn't. But surely, after a tiring day, and after Harry's embarrassing mental breakdown, Draco wouldn't want to . . .
"Am I boring you?" Draco asked sweetly. "Perhaps you'd rather just go to sleep."
"No!" Harry said, in a bit of a flap, belatedly realising he sounded much too keen. "Draco, I . . ." What was he even saying? "Um, it is OK for me to call you that, isn't it?" he mumbled, feeling like a tosser.
"I – I suppose," Draco said, sounding caught off guard. "If you want."
An awkward silence bloomed.
"Where are you now, anyway?" Harry asked, to fill it.
"Oh, a hotel room somewhere," Draco said. "Possibly the north? I haven't had a chance to explore. Where are you?"
"Just at home," Harry said, and when Draco snorted, amended, "in the drawing room. Sitting on a really uncomfortable sofa, talking to a wanker."
"Charmed," Draco said drily. "Well, take that hideous uniform off, then. It's making my imagination feel sick."
"Now?" Harry asked doubtfully. There was wanking in bed while talking to Draco, and then there was wanking in a room that wasn't designed for wanking in while talking to Draco. He looked round to check there weren't any portraits eavesdropping on him, before remembering that portraits didn't do that in the Muggle world.
"Yes, now," Draco said, sounding impatient.
"All right, all right, keep your hair on," Harry said, putting the phone down on the sofa next to him and standing up to yank the horrible polo shirt over his head and then kick off his socks and trousers. He sat back down, now only wearing his pants, and felt simultaneously stupid and turned on. "Are you going to—" he started to ask, but Draco said shhhh, and he shut up, feeling like a wally.
"If – if I was there with you," Draco said, a little hesitant, "I'd . . ."
"Yes?" Harry said, swallowing hard. Were they really going to this? God. Last time had been . . . But they hadn't actually talked about fancying each other, had they? It had just been . . . wanking. Simultaneously. Sort of gay, but not exactly . . .
"Well, what would you want me to do?" Draco asked, to Harry's horror.
"I . . . uh . . ." He couldn't say these things out loud! He could barely think them without his head exploding.
Draco snorted. "You never struck me as the shy, retiring type, but OK. Right now, why don't you take whatever hideous holed underwear you're wearing off."
"My underwear is fine!" Harry protested, jerking it down with one hand and pushing it away with his feet. It felt really weird to be sitting naked on his sofa, the leather cool beneath his thighs. It was very quiet in the room, just the gentle tick tock of the grandfather clock, and the muffled swish of the traffic filtering through the thick velvet curtains.
"Sit back," Draco suggested, so Harry did so, although it wasn't very comfortable. "Spread your legs a bit."
It felt obscene. His cock was hard and heavy between his legs, his balls swelling.
"Why don't you touch yourself?" Draco suggested, as casual as if he was asking about the weather. "If I was there, I'd touch you."
"Would you?" Harry mumbled. He reached between his legs and took his dick in his hand, stroking himself loosely, trying not to make a sound.
"Yes," Draco said, an edge to his voice. "Close your eyes, Harry."
Harry closed his eyes. The world tightened to just Draco's voice, the slippery cool of the leather beneath his bare arse, his hand on his cock, his aching balls.
"If I was there . . . what would you want me to do?" Draco asked again.
It wasn't fucking fair, Harry thought, feeling his face blush bright even though there was no one there to see it. His hand tightened round his cock at the thought of Draco on his knees, and he caught his breath at the increase in sensation.
"Jerk you off?" Draco said as Harry wanked. "Suck you off?"
"God, yes," Harry mumbled.
Malfoy snorted a laugh. "Which?"
"The . . . second thing," Harry managed, feeling light-headed.
"All right," Draco said, but he didn't continue.
"All right?" Harry echoed, his toes curling.
"Next time I see you, I'll suck you off. If you want."
Harry's hand was moving without his brain having any input into the whole business – hard and fast, and it felt amazing. He couldn't stop groaning, each breath an oh of arousal.
"Do you want me to?" Draco asked, voice gravelly.
Harry wanted it so badly that he was half worried he might accidentally attempt to Apparate to Draco without his wand. Destination . . . Determination . . . Dick. He imagined turning up in front of Draco right now, hard as a rock and shaking with need. Would . . . would Draco reach out a hand and take over? Or would he sink to his knees and open his mouth and . . .
Harry's hand worked his cock frantically.
"God, the noises you're making," Draco said, sounding flustered.
Harry felt so embarrassed he wanted to die, but then again he definitely didn't, because he wasn't sure if the afterlife had orgasms quite as delicious as the one that was building up in his groin right now.
"Are you thinking about it?" Draco continued, still shaky. "Your cock in my mouth. I want you writhing, begging me for it. I'll suck you so slow that you'll lose your mind."
Harry thought he was halfway there right now. "Draco," he managed, not sure what he wanted. "Please . . ."
"Are you close?" Draco asked, voice wild, and Harry could hear him swallow.
"Yes," Harry managed, though gasps. "Merlin. I want—"
"Tell me," Draco breathed.
Harry felt so fucking turned on that he couldn't talk, could only groan. "You," he said, wanking faster. He was so fucking close, coasting on the edge. "I want you," he said, and he came with a whole body shudder, opening his eyes to see come shooting out and pooling on the carpet in front of him. He couldn't bring himself to care. He felt fucking amazing.
Draco cleared his throat, and Harry felt a now familiar flush of embarrassment rise up as his orgasm dissipated.
"I'd say it's fairly conclusive that the thought of other men is a turn on for you, judging by that little experiment," Draco said grandly.
Harry snorted. Other men? Or just . . . Draco? He didn't even know any more. This was so fucked up, he didn't know where to start. "And how about you?" he asked, still panting as his heart rate tried to go back to normal.
"Me?" Draco asked, sounding smug. "Oh, I already have plenty of evidence that I'm queer."
"No," Harry said, "I meant . . . did you?" He didn't think he'd heard Draco, uh, joining in, and the thought was vaguely unnerving. Did that mean Draco didn't fancy him?
"I was magnanimously concentrating on you, Harry," Draco said.
"But aren't you . . .?" Harry asked, wincing at the plaintive note that threaded his voice.
"What?" Draco said unhelpfully.
"Hard," Harry said, blushing all over again.
There was a short silence. "Well, yes," Draco said, now sounding a bit more unsure of himself. "I mean, you said . . ." He shut up. "Never mind."
Harry couldn't remember what he'd said, only how turned on he'd been. He thought his brain might have melted. "Well, you should," he said firmly. "Uh . . . you know."
"You mean . . . now?" Draco asked, voice faint.
"Yes," Harry said firmly, and then felt his ears start to burn. Was he meant to talk sexily at Draco now? He didn't think he could. He could defeat Dark Lords OK, but when it came to this. Um. What had Draco said that had got him going? Oh. He supposed he could . . .
"I'd like to try, um, doing it to you too," he said, thinking about going down on Draco, and discovering that it might be even more of a turn on than the thought of Draco doing it to him.
"It?" Draco mumbled. His breaths were coming quicker now. Was he actually touching himself? God.
"You know. With my mouth," Harry managed. "I want to know –" he swallowed hard – "what it feels like. What, you know. What you taste like." He wet his lips, thinking about it. He'd received blow jobs before, of course, but never given one. What would it feel like, Draco's cock in his mouth? Merlin, he was in danger of getting hard again already. This was ridiculous.
"You want to . . ." Draco gasped out, sounding incredulous, and then swore faintly beneath his breath, and again.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I really want to. Do you want me to?"
"I'll let you do whatever the fuck you like," Draco gasped out, sounding completely lost.
That was possibly the hottest thing Harry had ever heard. His heart was beating wildly. He wished he could see Draco right now . . . Watch him . . . "I – I want to touch you," he said, barely able to hear himself over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. He pictured Draco, stretched long and pale and almost undone. If he was there, he would . . . put his mouth on Draco's nipples. Suck them. Kiss a trail down his stomach. Lick his cock, over and over.
Fuck. Harry felt his own cock actually harden again at the idea of it.
Malfoy was breathing faster now, groaning and going silent, before groaning even louder than before. "Fuck," Malfoy gasped out between great gulping breaths. "I'm—" He made a series of choked sobs, and then a garbled string of swear words fell out of his mouth as if he couldn't hold himself back. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck fuck," he stammered, and then groaned out, "Oh Salazar," before falling silent. Well, apart from the panting. He sounded as if he'd just finished a ten-hour Quidditch game, as if he was so out of breath that he could barely suck in any air at all.
Harry's head swam, his cock hard and uncomfortable between his legs. But also . . . had Draco really just come? In, like, under a minute? "Did you just . . .?" he asked, because fucking hell that was the hottest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "Already?"
"Yeah, fuck you, shithead," Draco said, between gasps. "You try lasting any longer after all that. For fuck's sake. Have you any idea what you do to me?"
Harry's heart was beating so wildly that he could barely breathe. Had Draco really just said that, or was it just his fevered imagination?
"You can pretend I didn't say that if you like," Draco said into the awkward, pounding silence, still breathless but with a challenging edge to his voice.
Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. It was hot like burning, but it was also . . . It made him feel odd, and awkward. As if he didn't want to be having a wank on the phone with Draco at all, but instead holding his hand, or kissing him, or—
Kissing him. Harry thought he must be going mad, but God, he really did want to kiss Draco. Over and over again, until his lips were sore.
"Or would you, in fact, like to know that you take the starring role in pretty much all of my dirty little fantasies?" Draco inquired, the edge to his voice now sharp and painful. "And have done for an embarrassingly long time, in fact. It might explain a few things, maybe."
It didn't fucking explain anything, Harry thought, other than that Draco appeared to have gone mad.
"Harry," Draco said, firm and relentless.
"Yes?" Harry finally managed.
"I want to do more than hear you come. I want to watch you jerk off. I want your dick down my throat. I want you to come on me."
Oh my fucking God, Harry thought.
"But let me get this clear: this is all I want, all right? All I will ever want from you. I don't want a boyfriend. Or pity. Or your friendship. I want to have fun, and I want to get you out of my system, and then I want you to fuck off out of my life, whether we're stuck in this fucking reality or not. All right?"
Well, that was fine by Harry. He didn't want a boyfriend either, and if he did want one, it wouldn't be this vicious, stuck-up Slytherin who switched from warm and teasing to what felt very much like violent hatred in the space of thirty seconds. "Fine!" Harry said.
"Great!" Draco said. "Goodnight then, Potter," and he hung up without waiting for Harry to say goodbye.
He'd called him Potter again, Harry realised, tossing the phone aside and feeling completely wrung out and overemotional. And horny. Very fucking horny.
Harry spat hard into his right hand and wrapped it round his dick, jerking off to the sound of Draco Malfoy telling him he didn't want Harry as a boyfriend, he just wanted him to come on him, playing over and over on a loop in his brain.
^^^^^^
Harry woke up the next morning to a banging on his door. He lay there for a few seconds, before leaping up and grabbing the nearest pair of trousers and top and nearly falling down the stairs as he attempted to dress and run simultaneously.
He opened the door with his head stuck in the neck of his T-shirt, hoping very much that he'd managed to do up his fly.
"What a sight to start the morning," Parvati's voice said judgementally from somewhere the other side of the cotton. "Hang on," she said, and soon Harry felt her yanking at the top. Her blurred face emerged as she did so, and he managed to keep both his nose and his ears attached to his head, but it was a close-run thing.
"Don't you normally wear glasses?" Parvati asked, bending down to pick up two Styrofoam cups of coffee and pushing one into his hands.
He took a long, burning sip. "Probably," he admitted, and took another sip, starting to feel more alive. He'd felt too worked up to go to bed until the small hours of the morning, and the shower he'd had once he'd finally felt exhaustion hit him hadn't helped him sleep. Had he really told Draco he was bi . . .? And then had one of the best orgasms of his life? And . . . and then Draco had gone all vicious and unpleasant, but had said he fantasised about him, and had done for ages, unless Harry's overheated imagination had dreamed that up. He felt like he should feel more freaked out than he was, wondered if he was just saving up a proper meltdown for later.
"One day I'll knock on your door and you'll be in your uniform and ready to go," Parvati said, giving him a little shove back in the house. "Not wearing yesterday's trousers, with your T-shirt on back to front."
Harry drank more coffee rather than reply. Should he text Draco? He probably shouldn't text Draco. Draco wouldn't have texted him. Draco didn't want to be his friend, Harry's brain helpful reminded him; he only wanted to suck his—
"Go back upstairs and wash your face," Parvati ordered, stealing his coffee.
Harry did so, trying to stop himself from thinking; it was clearly dangerous. When he got back down – wearing his uniform this time, his hair marginally tidier and the world in focus – Parvati was tapping her foot impatiently, so he scooped up his phone and just shoved it in his pocket without checking it, grabbing his keys and following her out of the door.
Draco wouldn't have texted anyway, Harry thought, his finger finding the 'on' button in his pocket and pressing it hard. He wouldn't have texted, and—
His phone made that horrible, noisy beeping noise, and he would have spilt coffee all down his front if he hadn't already put the lid back on, thank fuck.
"Only knobheads have their phone on maximum volume," Parvati said judgementally. "Just saying. Who's texting you?"
"Probably Draco Malfoy," Harry said.
"Yeah, you wish," Parvati said, giving him a nudge in the side. "Tell him I want a front-row ticket to his gig at Wembley on Friday."
Harry passed her his coffee cup and dug the phone out of his pocket, dodging as she tried to peer over his arm to read the message. "Fuck off!" he said.
"It's probably Orange, isn't it," she said with satisfaction, "telling you that you've got all your minutes left for another month, you sad bastard."
"Ha ha," Harry said, trying to look at the text through half-shut eyes in case a) it wasn't Draco at all or b) it was something filthy.
It was Draco – or, rather, 'Dickhead Supreme'. I appear to be on a bus, the first message said. It's not even seven a.m. Why am I on a bus? What have I done to deserve this, Potter?
And then his phone beeped again, and he had to dodge Parvati a second time. Actually, you'd better fucking not tell me what I've done to deserve it. And if you're still asleep while I'm awake and on a fucking Muggle bus, I'll remember this and bear a grudge for the rest of eternity.
Harry snorted. His first instinct was to ask Draco why he was texting him, given that Draco didn't want to be his friend, but he was too bemused about the whole bus-thing to work up the energy to be fucked off. Knowing Draco, it wouldn't even be a regular, normal person's bus he was moaning about, but rather some swanky private coach with comfy seats, velvet curtains and gold taps in the loo. And besides, what if this string of early morning, pissy texts was actually a 'morning after' peace offering? A silent acknowledgement that Draco had ended their conversation by being a massive arsehole? Miracles did happen, Harry thought dubiously.
On my way to work, he texted back. Apparently, I'm meant to ask you for a front-row ticket to your next concert. And then he thought for a second. Fuckface had called him 'Potter' again, hadn't he? Harry didn't want to be friends with Draco, but . . . he didn't not want to be friends with Draco either. He sent a second text: And it's Harry.
The reply came through almost immediately. It sounded smug. Sadly, all my concerts are still sold out. And I know your name is Harry, idiot. Are you having an identity crisis on top of everything else?
"Oi, Harry, stop smirking at your phone and help me open up," Parvati said cheerfully, shoving his coffee back at him.
"I'm not smirking!" Harry protested.
Parvati gave him a look. "No?"
"No!" Harry said. "Only tossers smirk."
"Takes one to know one," she said sweetly, unlocking the shop door and moving to the alarm panel to key in the code.
Got to go. Beans to stack, you know how it is, Harry texted one handed. Then added Enjoy the bus! and switched off his phone, shoving it back in his pocket, before going to turn on the tills.
^^^^^^
The rest of Harry's shift passed slowly. He was too busy to check his phone, and besides, every time he reached into his trouser pocket to wrap his fingers round the lump of plastic, Parvati managed to slide up beside him and grin at him.
"You're up to something," she said, the light of gossip in her eyes, "and I'm going to get it out of you, or die in the attempt."
She'd followed up this dire warning by flipping through a newspaper and reading his horoscope out loud. "For Leos, the movement of the stars means that everything suddenly seems to make sense, fall into place and feel right. Open up your heart – look forward, not back. You never know what will happen!" She tapped the paper and then winked at him. "You should just confess to Auntie Parv. If I find out you've got a secret girlfriend—"
"I don't!" Harry protested.
"—or boyfriend and you haven't told me," she continued seamlessly, "I'll never forgive you."
Harry definitely didn't have a secret boyfriend. He barely had a secret friend, he thought. Hadn't Draco made that perfectly clear? And he was OK with it! Totally OK with it! As long as he and Draco could be civil to each other, then everything would go smoothly. Harry would fix the spell, once he'd received his wand. And possibly before that, he and Draco would . . . have fun, Harry thought resolutely, trying not to think about anything inappropriate at work, particularly not with Parvati using her X-Ray vision on the side of his face. You didn't need to be friends to have fun.
And maybe, Harry thought, trying to convince himself, if he had fun with Draco, he'd get the whole 'gay' thing out of his system, and could go back to the wizarding world ready to find a real relationship – a person to spend his whole life with. Ready to be normal again. It wasn't as if he liked Draco specifically, was it . . .? He was just getting carried away by the thrill of it all. By how excited, and alive, this thing with Draco was making him feel; the world fizzing with possibilities he'd never let himself even consider before. Harry groaned into the pallet of kitchen rolls he was unpacking, considered the fact that he didn't seem very good at separating sex from emotion, and then tried not to think at all.
As soon as Harry's shift was over, he dodged Parvati, who was lurking by the shop exit, her coat already on and her Walkman in her hand. "You're lucky I have an appointment with Radio One, or I'd be following you home and making you spill," she said threateningly as he attempted to be invisible without the aid of his invisibility cloak.
Harry wasn't sure what she meant, but he thanked Merlin for small mercies and waved cheerfully. "See you tomorrow!" he said, and fled.
Once he got home, he felt curiously disinclined to go inside. So, instead, he walked up the flight of stone steps that led to his front door and sat down on the top step, stretching out his legs. He took out his phone and wondered if he should call Draco. Draco probably wouldn't answer, Harry thought. But . . . he might. And it wasn't like Harry had anything better to do.
Draco picked up after only a couple of rings. "I'm busy," he said, but he sounded amused rather than irritated at being interrupted.
"Then why did you answer, mandrake-breath?" Harry said, leaning sideways against his iron railings and turning his face up to the sky. The sun was very warm today, and a light breeze ruffled his hair. He could hear laughter and talking on the other side of the phone and wondered where Draco was right now and what he was doing. Talking to Draco in the daytime didn't feel as awkward as he'd thought it might; instead, it felt exciting, like Harry's blood was fizzing.
"I'm kind of live on air right now," Draco said, faux awkward, to the background of more laughter. "Harry, say hello to Chris Moyles, Comedy Dave and –" he paused for a moment "around five million drivetime listeners, I'm told."
Harry could hear a small, tinny chorus of male voices saying hello, Harry! "Er, I'll go then, shall I?" he asked, bemused.
"They're asking who you are," Draco said cheerfully. "Mmm, how to explain to the listeners. Harry and I . . ."
"Didn't go to school together," Harry supplied drily. "Good luck with that one."
"I think Harry and I are best described as . . . deadly enemies," Draco said, dropping his voice to deep and confidential. More laughter in the background.
Harry snorted. Deadly enemies? Maybe he'd thought that once upon a time, but for the past couple of years it would be more accurate to describe their relationship, such as it was, as one where they both ignored each other for dear life. Was Draco being facetious, or did he really think that, deep down? He shifted uncomfortably, the stone step feeling hard under his backside.
"No, seriously, though," Draco said, tone light-hearted. "Everyone needs a nemesis, right? Mine's called Harry Potter."
"Fairly sure mine was called Voldemort," Harry muttered.
"Well, it was lovely to chat, but I'd better get back to the interview," Draco said, too brightly to be genuine, and immediately hung up, leaving Harry looking at his phone and feeling baffled.
He didn't have long to remain baffled, though. Less than thirty seconds later, Parvati came racing down the street towards him, bounding up the steps and then collapsing in a heap next to him.
"You! You!" she said, tugging headphones out of her ears and turning a look of burning outrage on him. "I've just had to run here all the way from the shop! I think I might die!" she panted out. "Were you just on the phone?" she demanded, staring at the phone in his hands.
Harry considered this, and decided the best course of action would be to deny everything. "No!" he said unconvincingly, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
"So you weren't just on the phone talking to DRACO MALFOY?" she demanded. She didn't have her hands on her hips, but it was a very hands-on-hips tone of voice.
"No!" Harry squeaked.
"So if I looked at your phone, there wouldn't be an entry for DRACO MALFOY in there?" she said, leaning in closer. Harry could almost see up her nose.
"Actually, no," Harry said cheerfully, pleased to get a question he could answer truthfully. He withdrew his phone from his pocket again, scrolling to his phone book to where Draco would sit alphabetically and showing her the screen.
She snatched it from him and pulled a face. "You're weird, you are," she said. "Why are two of your friends in your contact list as 'Dickhead'?"
"You don't have nicknames for your friends?" Harry said, tugging the phone back. Parvati didn't want to relinquish it though, and there was a brief fight.
"He was talking to you though," Parvati said. She put one of her earphones back in her ear and passed the other to Harry. "He's on Radio One right now, being interviewed about his latest tour. They're giving away tickets to his Wembley dates if you phone in."
Harry could hear Draco talking to what sounded like a pair of Muggle radio presenters. He sounded . . . pleasant. Chatty. It was incredibly surreal.
"You should phone in," Harry said, taking the earphone out and passing it back to Parvati, who glowered at him.
"Amazing coincidence that Draco's friend was called 'Harry Potter'," she said with deep, biting sarcasm.
"Definitely," Harry said, nodding hard and trying to look convincing.
Parvati's phone beeped, and she pulled it out to look at it. "Fuck, I'm late," she said. "I should have been at the tube station to meet Padma five minutes ago. But don't think you're getting out of this one!" she said. "I will count this as an unspeakable betrayal of our friendship if you don't get us tickets to see him at Wembley. And backstage access. And I want to know the full story of how you became friends!" she said, already haring off down the stairs.
"We're not friends!" Harry called to her back. It wasn't technically a lie, he thought, wondering why he was so reluctant to tell the truth. It was just – things were complicated enough in this new reality, without him having to introduce all his old school friends to their idol, Draco Malfoy. It was enough to send anyone round the twist.
"Liar!" she yelled, as she started to jog off into the distance, shoving her earphones back in her ears as she did so, her long, thick plait swishing as she ran.
Feeling strangely stung, Harry pulled his phone back out of his pocket. You can be my nemesis if you promise to get me two tickets to Wembley, he sent to Dickhead Supreme. Maybe he should send Parvati and Hermione together, he thought glumly. They could bond over how amazing Draco was.
OK, arsehole, came the reply, almost immediately. And then, hot on its heels, I'll sit you right at the back, so your ugly mug doesn't put me off x
Could Harry live comfortably in a world where Draco Malfoy sent him texts with kisses at the end? Harry put his phone back in his pocket and felt very, very peculiar.
^^^^^^
Tuesday slid into Wednesday, which in turn became Thursday, without Harry having much input in the matter. He continued going to work, because it was something to do other than brood about his situation or text Draco. The brooding definitely wasn't helping – either the situation or his sanity. He was starting to feel as if the walls were closing in on him. He still didn't know what he'd done to change the world like this, not really. Was it all completely fake, a figment of his imagination? Or was this how the world would really have been, if the wizarding world had never existed? Every night he stuck his head out of the window and tried a quick Finite Incantatem, just in case, but every morning he woke up again to a world that was resolutely Muggle.
The more he found out about his life here, the more unsettled he became, the possibility that he was actually just going mad reasserting itself. He found himself overthinking things, tiny details adding up to make him feel unhinged. Like Parvati reading out his horoscope the other week. She'd said he was a Leo. Leo meaning lion. Lion meaning . . . Gryffindor. What if his brain had just fixed on his star sign and invented Gryffindor, as a way to make his dull life more exciting? He didn't believe that, but once the seed of doubt had been planted, he found it hard to dismiss it entirely.
Other things popped up in his mind that he'd never noticed before, to conspire to make him feel like the wizarding world was just a crazy thing he'd invented. Diagon Alley . . . if you said it fast, it sounded like 'diagonally', didn't it? And . . . and Knockturn Alley, that was nocturnally, and the very street he lived on, in a grim old place, was called . . .
He found himself asking Parvati – once he'd managed to get her to stop interrogating him about Draco for five seconds – if she knew why he owned twelve Grimmauld Place in the first place. She'd looked at him funny, clearly unnerved, and said, "Well, when your Uncle Sirius passed beyond the veil—" and had broken off at the look that must have been on his face. Beyond the veil! Apparently that was just a thing he said, and Parvati thought it was a charming, if old-fashioned way to talk about a death. Even if he hadn't made it up, creating the wizarding world out of his twisted imagination, it was still alarming. It was as if his old life was bulging into this one, trying to reconcile the two universes, to knit them more tightly together. What if the longer he stayed here, the more difficult it became to get back?
Draco remembered the wizarding world, Harry told himself firmly when his brain threatened to send him into an unwelcome panic attack. But thinking about Draco wasn't a very relaxing way to spend his time either – the thought that Draco had fancied him for an embarrassingly long timealways at the front of his mind, threatening to make him lose his marbles – and calling him even less so. And besides, Draco was so busy. He seemed to be constantly moving, always in the middle of something – surrounded by people on his tour bus; talking to the media and to fans; sound-checking, rehearsing, performing. He nearly always replied to Harry's texts immediately, and that made Harry feel infuriatingly guilty, as if he was piling added stress on to Draco that he didn't need.
Harry had never thought he'd feel guilt over Draco Malfoy of all people, but when Draco had called him late on Tuesday night, tetchy and irritable, so tired he could barely talk without yawning, he'd found himself telling Draco to fuck off and go to sleep, rather than prolonging the conversation. Draco hadn't called him after that, only texted, and to be honest Harry was OK with that. Sort of. The buzz he felt from their intense, late night conversations – he still couldn't entirely believe they weren't a figment of his fervid imagination – had barely faded, and even thinking about what Draco had said made him feel sick with anticipation and dread. In his texts, Draco felt less intense, less infuriating. He didn't stir up quite so many floods of emotions Harry didn't particularly want to feel. And Harry was entirely capable of using his right hand without Draco on the other end of the phone; he certainly had no problems there.
As Harry left work after his shift on Thursday though, to find Draco had sent him half a dozen snide texts in a row – whinges about how tired he was, and how much being universally adored was a terrible drain, and if he had to smile at another fan he thought he might die, and why had God made him so beautiful anyway – he still thought the whole thing was really fucking odd. It was almost as if the Draco he was corresponding with was a different person, someone he didn't know at all. And yet, there had been times at Hogwarts – fifth year in particular, when in hindsight he'd spent the whole year basically stalking Draco – that he'd felt like he knew Draco practically inside out.
Was this person he was exchanging texts with – texts! – really the same person who'd called Hermione a filthy word and wished she was dead? Who'd broken his nose on the dirty floor of a train carriage? Who he'd accidentally sliced open and nearly killed with a spell 'for enemies' in a Hogwarts bathroom? It didn't seem plausible.
Beautiful? Looked in the mirror lately, have you? he sent back as he walked through the busy streets, trying not to bump into the other pedestrians. Draco fucking wasn't beautiful. He was all sharp edges and harsh expressions, and he was striking, yes, and OK Harry did find him intensely attractive at certain angles – particularly when joined with the memory of him whispering I want you to come on me in his ear – but that wasn't the same as beautiful, Harry told himself crossly. There was no need to go overboard.
I just met a girl with a tattoo of my face on her thigh, though, Draco texted back smugly, which made Harry nearly collide with an irritated man in a smart suit and very shiny shoes. Fucking Malfoy.
When Harry got in through his front door, it was to a slim envelope and a Sorry you were out card with red edging. He pushed his thumb under the envelope's seal and slit the paper, pulling out two printed tickets and a compliments slip printed with UNITED TALENT and the words: I'm not sure you deserve these, but Draco made me. Pansy x
Harry took a closer look at the tickets, his heart doing something uncomfortable in his chest that he tried to ignore. DRACO MALFOY: THE 'WHAT I WANT' TOUR, he read. 'WEMBLEY ARENA.' The seats were both Block A3. Harry swallowed hard, looked at the Sorry you were out card and tried to pull himself together. The missed parcel was probably his new wand, wasn't it? He should dash to the sorting office right now – it was only just down the road – and pick it up. With any luck, it would actually work, at least well enough for him to channel his magic and cast a proper Finite Incantatem. Then he wouldn't have to go to see stupid Draco pretend to be a Muggle pop star. Wouldn't have to deal with how stupid Draco made him feel. Could just go back to normal – to his job, to his friends, and to his actual, real life, where thinking about Draco, and what they might do together, didn't make him feel so turned on and terrified that he didn't know what to do with himself.
When was the gig, anyway? Harry looked at the tickets again. Tomorrow night, of course it was tomorrow night. Well, it wasn't like he had plans, was it? Block A3. Draco hadn't even sent him good tickets.
I thought I asked for front row, he found himself texting, wondering if he was mock-aggrieved or actual, real-life aggrieved. Scared I'll be close enough to see you miming?
I did send you front row, idiot, came the immediate reply. And then, straight after, Will you come?
Yes, Harry texted, before he could lose his nerve, and then headed straight back out the door to the post office, to pick up the wand that would mean that he didn't have to follow through with it.
^^^^^^
Harry definitely wasn't prepared for the crashing, bewildering sense of disappointment that flooded him when he Summoned a cup of tea and it made its way straight into his hand with barely a wobble. He followed it up with a Lumos that was so weak it would have got him kicked out of Hogwarts for incompetence, but it worked first time. It fucking worked.
The wand didn't feel right in his hand – strangely harsh, something about using it setting his teeth on edge – but it still felt like an actual, working wand, the wood warm and pulsing under his fingers. He could almost hear it humming as he used it, very faint and almost unpleasant, as if it didn't want to be used and was only tolerating him for now. Could it tell he missed his real wand? The idea was unnerving, but who knew when it came to wands. They were confusing and mysterious objects, disturbingly alive at times. "I'm sorry," he told it self-consciously, putting it carefully on the dining room table. "But thank you for helping."
By the time it was dark again, Harry was no longer even sure if he did want the wand to help. He was seeing Draco tomorrow; maybe he should wait until the weekend to try his Finite. It would be a shame to find himself in another reality with a singing Malfoy and not experience it first-hand, wouldn't it? he thought. Ron would never forgive him. And there was what might happen after he'd experienced singing Malfoy, Harry tried not to think, feeling sick and excited all over again. Ron would never forgive him for that either.
It was that that decided him, in the end. He couldn't hang about in this wrong mirror world, just on the off-chance Draco hadn't been taking the piss and would actually follow through on his promise to suck his dick. If Draco wanted to suck him off now, he might still want to in the wizarding world, Harry thought doubtfully. And even if he didn't, Harry thought, trying to buck himself up, it wasn't as if he was desperate, was he? Or unpopular? There'd presumably be at least one other gay – or bi, or whatever – wizard out there who was actually nice, and who Harry would fancy, and—
What the hell was wrong with him. He didn't want a boyfriend. He just wanted to be single, and get on with things.
Harry stood up with some difficulty, his limbs completely seized up and his feet dead lumps of pins and needles after sitting still for so long. He grabbed his new wand and managed to stagger out of the dining room and up the stairs to the gloomy living room, plonking himself down on the enormous wooden trunk in front of the huge sash windows. He jammed the bottom sash open, the view out partially obscured by the ornate iron scrolls of the mock-balcony outside. Still, if he squished in close to the window and peered upwards, the sky unfurled in front of him, dark and lush and dotted with faint stars. Well, this was it. Goodbye odd Muggle life, he thought, half with hope and half with regret. He pointed his wand at the sky, concentrated hard, relaxed his shoulders, channelled his inner Hermione – Fin-eet-ay In-can-taaa-tum – and said the spell out loud.