Chapter Text
The first time is in Paris. Neville’s gotten them into some wizards-only nightclub under the Seine, and Harry is blitzed on Nev’s pot and Aperol. They’re on a world tour for Neville to collect plants and connections for him to open his own greenhouses next year, and for Harry to lick his wounds from flaming out of both Auror training and his relationship with Ginny spectacularly.
Wizarding Paris is a lot more integrated into Muggle Paris than London, and the whole club, including Harry, is hopping about madly to Mambo No. 5. Pierre, Nev’s Paris contact for rare plants and primo weed, has been handing Harry shots for the last few hours, and now he and three other stupidly tall French men have their arms slung over Harry’s shoulders, jumping and twisting around. Harry is just about crossfaded enough to not be self-conscious about it.
He’s having a hard time sorting out the cues, though, his brain firing a little slower than usual, and the way Pierre keeps kissing his cheek and gripping him by the shoulder is giving Harry a slowly growing full-body flush. Might be the Aperol, though. Harry’s just not sure if he’s flirting or just French.
The song is just winding down, and Pierre’s gone to the bar for more alcohol. He said he’d go for something magical, and Harry is deeply, deeply skeptical of his ability to stomach it. The music’s segued into something French and the DJ is charming rainbows of sparks to ricochet off the mirrored walls. Harry’s dizzy, and giddy, and then he spots Malfoy’s face in the mirror, staring straight at Harry.
They’d last seen each other six months ago, at the trials.
Harry turns to face him.
“Potter,” Malfoy says. He sounds like less of a rude little shitstain than he has in the last eight years.
Then again, Harry supposes he did testify to keep Malfoy out of prison.
“Malfoy,” Harry says.
“What brings you here?” Malfoy says.
“What?” Harry yells. The base is too loud and Malfoy’s voice is too deep.
Malfoy makes a face that he used to make at the stew on Thursdays, on the other side of the Great Hall, with Harry watching his every move.
He comes closer.
“What are you doing here?” He shouts in Harry’s ear.
“Nev’s around here somewhere,” Harry says, then becomes aware this will mean nothing to Malfoy. He gestures over to his left, where Neville is, his hands settled on the hips of an absolutely beautiful French girl as he grinds their hips together slowly to the beat.
Malfoy looks over, blinks, then looks back at Harry.
Harry shrugs.
This is when Pierre comes back, carrying about twenty shots of something that steams and sparkles. He hands two to Harry, and gestures to Malfoy, questioning.
Malfoy freezes. Harry shrugs again.
Within a second, they are engulfed by the ridiculously tall French men, knocking back what can only be some wizarding form of absinthe that no one has ever seen fit to tell Harry about.
Some familiar blippity-bloopety synthesizer noises crash into Harry’s auditory cortex, and he loses track of Malfoy as he finds himself yelling, “NOW LISTEN UP, HERE’S A STORY, ABOUT A LITTLE GUY WHO LIVES IN A BLUE WORLD” with an enormous group of French men whose names he doesn’t know.
Halfway through the first chorus, he catches sight of platinum blond hair ducking out the side entrance of the club, and he must be absolutely plastered, so he follows.
“Can I have a smoke?” he asks Malfoy, who’s leaning on the railing and looking up through the murky waters of the Seine, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Malfoy starts, looks as if he’s about to say something, then hands over his pack of Galoises. Harry drags one out, sparks it up with a thought and a snip of his fingers. “Cheers.”
“Potter.” Malfoy says. “Potter, this is awful. Can I not even come to my favorite clubs in Paris anymore?”
“Er,” Harry coughs around a lungful of smoke. “Excuse me?”
“I came,” Malfoy says, “all the way to France to escape the shame and stigma of the war, and here you are, stealing my favorite club.”
Harry blinks. “France isn’t that far.”
“You…ugh!” Malfoy turns back to the view, crossing his arms and pulling at his cigarette huffily.
“We’re only in France for the week,” Harry says. “No worries.”
“Thank Merlin,” Malfoy says.
They stand in silence for a moment.
“So. Longbottom…”
Harry grins. “Nev’s got game.”
Malfoy shudders. “I am going to erase from my mind that you ever said those words in that order.”
“What can I say, he’s got a really big—”
“Potter!” Malfoy is staring at him, aghast. If he had pearls, he’d be clutching them.
“Heart,” Harry says innocently. “You should let him have a go,” he says, trying not to laugh. “He’d loosen you up.”
Malfoy expression intensifies, and Harry loses it.
“Have you,” Malfoy says while Harry is still chortling, “let him have a go?”
“Don’t you read the Prophet?” Harry asks. “I’m a slut, now.”
When he and Ginny had called it quits, and he’d gotten trashed with Nev in Diagon Alley, they’d run a full two page spread about how he had cheated on her with every single one of his school roommates.
On the bright side, Ron had thought it was too funny to be angry about.
“I don’t,” Malfoy says. “Read that.”
“Wise choice,” Harry says.
Harry finishes his cigarette, stamps it out.
“No, but really,” Malfoy says. “Have you? With Longbottom?”
“Why?” Harry asks. “Jealous?”
Malfoy says nothing.
Harry remembers, suddenly, with the shocking clarity of the truly plastered, when he’d visited Malfoy Manor while Malfoy and his mum were still under house arrest. Lucius had already been in Azkaban, the weight of evidence against him too overwhelming. He’d just been there to tell them he would be testifying on their behalf at the trial, if that was something they wanted. Narcissa Malfoy had nodded sharply, thanked him, and ushered him out the door in less than ten minutes.
Her son had followed Harry to the gate, had asked him breathlessly why he was doing this, and Harry had mumbled something about it being the right thing to do. Malfoy’s eyes had been so sharp, so exacting, that Harry had added, “I can’t stop remembering how you looked when…on the tower, with Dumbledore. You didn’t look like this was your choice.”
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy had said, so raw that Harry had had to break eye contact.
“Yeah,” he had said, and then he had left.
So, Harry feels like he owes Malfoy a moment of honesty. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve fooled around with Nev some. He’s not too bothered what people say about him, and he’s also not going to sell the Prophet any pictures of my cock.”
“And you’re fine with…” Malfoy gestures vaguely to the club, to Nev and his conquest.
“’S not like I’m in love with him,” Harry says. “We’re mates, and he’s a good shag, that’s all. Anyway, Nev’s not exactly looking for a relationship right now.” Nev, to be honest, is mostly on a quest to shag his way through the world. Harry endorses this fully.
Malfoy nods. “Right then. D’you wanna dance with me?”
Harry considers, briefly, how Malfoy had looked, standing at the gate to his manor eight months ago, how he’d looked on the Astronomy tower, how he’d looked in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, sixth year, blood pouring out of him, and says, “Yeah, alright.”
Malfoy offers his hand and it costs Harry a bit of himself to take it. Malfoy’s hands are warm.
The air in the club is stifling. The bass is too loud. Harry gets four elbows to his chest before Malfoy’s found a spot he likes. His head is spinning and he’s wondering desperately how many things he’s said in the last ten minutes he’ll regret for the next ten years.
Malfoy pulls him closer, until they’re breathing the same air, until Harry can feel the corded muscle in Malfoy’s biceps because his hands have climbed up to clutch at them. He can feel the brand of Malfoy’s hands a the small of his back, where his skin is still freezing from standing outside in a T-shirt so tight it’s crawling up at the bottom.
“Relax,” Malfoy murmurs into his ear. “I promise not to sell pictures of your cock to any major newspapers.”
Harry chuckles against his own better judgment and lets his shoulders drop, lets his hips move with the music.
Malfoy’s got a bit of the white man’s overbite going on, dances from his knees and his shoulders, and Harry finds it just ridiculous enough to be a little bit charmed. He’s gotten used to dancing with Nev on this trip, and Nev dances like he fucks, all hip. It’s nice to feel like he can do something better than Malfoy, who’s always made Harry feel his social inadequacies too keenly. He drops his hands to Malfoy’s hips, guides him into the rhythm, lets himself get right up close to Malfoy’s whole body, thumbs the bones of his hips rising out of his stupidly low-cut trousers. A noise vibrates through Malfoy’s chest, and Harry can feel it even if he can’t hear it over the music
He spends a song or two just getting accustomed to moving with Malfoy. Pierre drops by with more shots, giving Harry a subtle thumbs-up. Harry’s feeling good by then, riding the edge of being just drunk enough to love the music and the sweaty, terrible air in the club. A few more shots, he’ll get overwhelmed and dizzy, a few less, his head will start aching and he’ll want to leave. This, right now? This is the bit he likes. Grabbing someone’s attention with his body, with his face, dancing up close and personal, taking his own sweet time deciding if he’s ready for Malfoy’s hands to dip lower, for Malfoy to come closer and kiss him.
He’s also maybe lost a lot of self-consciousness by the time Neville comes up to them. He’s spun around in Malfoy’s grip, shaking his hips rhythmically and yelling “Boom, boom, boom, boom, I want you in my room,” with the rest of the club. Malfoy is laughing with him, though Harry can tell he’s sliding beyond turned on into desperate with each grind of their hips together.
Neville must’ve spotted them before he came over, because he’s not looking shocked or horrified. He comes right up to them, grasps Harry’s waist from the front, matches their rhythm easily. He leans down to ask into Harry’s ear, “You sure about this, mate?” His hands are big, solid, and he feels so familiar that Harry debates saying, no, no, can Neville take him away instead. But Malfoy’s not protesting Neville’s presence, not doing anything but staying close, his long-fingered hands bumping up against Neville’s, and Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him.
“Yeah, I think so,” Harry says.
“Be alright if I go home with Nicole?”
“No worries,” Harry says, vaguely waving at Nicole. She doesn’t seem to mind her conquest for the night is dancing with two men.
Neville grins at them, says his goodbyes.
“Will you take me home?” Malfoy asks in his ear, and Harry shudders all over.
He turns around in Malfoy’s grip, loops his arms around Malfoy’s neck, kisses him. Malfoy tastes of smoke and aniseed. He pulls Harry even closer, kissing him deep and sloppy. When Harry pulls back for air, Malfoy’s lips trail down his jaw, his neck, and when Malfoy nips sharply at the joint between his neck and shoulder, Harry know they’re going home together.
Later, he’ll remember how normal he felt, leading Malfoy from the club, how he’d shivered on the walk to the apparition point but kept space between them in case there were reporters about, how he’d questioned if he was too drunk to even apparate, but he’d managed. How he hadn’t known quite how to bridge the gap, with Malfoy standing in his and Neville’s rented Paris apartment, his hands jammed awkwardly in his pockets, how he’d finally just thought, fuck it, crowded up tight into Malfoy’s space, said, “Hey,” and managed to sound charming and not half as stupid as he felt.
He wakes up bleary, late. He’s sprawled across his bed and his mouth feels dry and gummy. Malfoy grumbles against his shoulder, and Harry debates whether he should just stay in bed forever to avoid the awkwardness.
But his head is aching, and he needs coffee, and he’s a martyr at heart really. So he shifts, rolls until he can look Malfoy in the eye.
It’s a mistake, because Malfoy is adorable. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and now that Harry’s out of his grasp, he’s clutching at his pillow. He’s warm, and Harry’s known for at least four months that he always thought Malfoy was attractive (alright, so Hermione told him when he came out. Same difference).
It’s different now.
Different, because now he knows what Malfoy’s like in bed. What it’s like when Malfoy pushes him up against the doorframe, runs his hands up Harry’s shirt. How he was just gentle enough with Harry’s nipple between his teeth. How patient he was even though he’d been hard since the club, letting Harry take his time getting them both undressed, how he’d gasped when Harry had gyrated, just a little, on his lap, pressing them together. How, after, he’d spelled them both clean and pulled Harry into his grasp when Harry had already been drifting towards unconsciousness.
So here Harry is, in the too-bright light of midday in November in Paris, because of course he didn’t draw the curtains, watching Malfoy wake up.
It’s worse than Harry thought. He can think of approximately no things to say, and Malfoy draws in on himself the second he wakes up. He sees Harry looking at him and stiffens. He’s sitting up, asking, “What time is it?”
“Dunno,” Harry says. “D’you want-“
“I need to go,” Malfoy says. “I need.”
“Yeah.” Harry says. “Of course.”
Malfoy’s pulling his clothes on as Harry sits up slowly, repressing his groan at the pounding in his head.
“Malfoy, d’you want some coffee?” He asks.
“I,” Malfoy says. “I should really.”
“You’re already here,” Harry says. “We already had sex. Running out the door won’t undo that.”
Malfoy’s whole face flushes red.
Later on, Harry will realize that this is the moment where he should have just pushed Malfoy out the door and spared himself the trouble.
“That’s not – I’m not running away,“ Malfoy splutters.
“Really,” Harry says, “how would you describe this?” He’s not entirely sure where his glasses are, and also not sure where any of his clothes are, and he doesn’t want to get out of bed naked with Malfoy standing there in his trousers, shirt in his hands.
“I…well what do you expect? Would you like me to go shouting from the rooftops that I just had sex with Harry Potter?”
“I didn’t think you’d run away like you were ashamed,” Harry says.
“You can’t possibly be proud of this,” Malfoy hisses. “Ooh, I’m Potter, I’m such a good person I go around pity-fucking my enemies.”
“What the fuck, Malfoy,” Harry says, struggling out of the sheets at last and reaching out his hand to summon his glasses. They fly into his hand and the wire frame bends in his grip just a bit. “It’s not like I gave fucking Voldemort a blowjob.”
“That’s not what the Daily Prophet will say if anyone sees me here. Holy St. Potter, offering Death Eaters oral sex to convert them.”
Now that he can see, Harry’s gotten his pants on at least, and he stands to face Malfoy. “What the fuck does that even mean,” he says. “You said you were sorry. I believed you. What the fuck does last night have to do with all that?”
“Like you would even look at me if you weren’t off your face,” Malfoy says.
“I wonder why!” Harry yells. “You’re being so reasonable.”
“I apologize,” Malfoy says. He’s drawing himself up to his full height, a half a head taller than Harry, “I suppose I’ll just ride off into the sunset with you, then, and never mind that you put my father in prison.”
“HE DESERVED THAT,” Harry thunders. “And you know it.”
Within the next ten minutes, Malfoy has accused Harry of assaulting him in sixth year (not technically untrue), fucking half of Paris (categorically false), being too stuck-up to accept Malfoy’s offer of friendship (honestly baffling), and being a sore winner (debatable). Harry, in turn, has told Malfoy he’s a prejudiced berk, a hypocrite, a snob of a pureblood who probably just fucked Harry so it would seem like he reformed, and a coward who ran away to France instead of facing the consequences of his actions. As far as he’s concerned, all these things are true.
The whole apartment seems to shake when Draco slams the front door on his way out.
“That went well,” Neville tells Harry, sitting in his pants at the kitchen table.
“Ugh,” Harry says. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
Neville shrugs. “You seemed to think it was a good idea.”
“I was drunk.”
“I mean,” Neville says, pushing a coffee and a hangover potion in Harry’s direction. “You usually make better decisions drunk.”
He’s not exactly wrong.
When Ginny and Harry broke up – well, when Ginny had sat Harry down and told him in no uncertain terms that this wasn’t working and they both knew it – Harry had moved in with Neville for a few weeks. Just until things calmed down, and Ron wasn’t making weird noises about whether or not he should hurt Harry or Ginny, and until Ginny had moved her things out of Harry’s room. Neville had let him in and had given him a firewhiskey and, later, a joint.
He’d ended up staying with Neville for two months.
The thing was, he’d quit Auror training the day after the breakup, when he realized that having miniature panic attacks daily in the bathroom at work was a bad sign, and that he’d relied on Ginny to help him manage going to the Ministry in the mornings. He’d spent full weekends in bed, and that had been normal and alright when he had a girlfriend, except that he hadn’t wanted to have sex, he’d mostly just wanted to sleep and have someone there when he woke up from his nightmares.
He had basically nothing left to structure his days, except that Neville was opening up his greenhouses in a few months and he’d needed all the help he could get, so Harry had levitated sacks of soil around London for him, had helped him plant rows and rows of slightly dangerous plants, and that had segued naturally into getting high in the greenhouse together, because Neville didn’t just have greenhouses, he had a basement, and that basement was full of marihuana plants and magic mushrooms.
A few days into this routine, Harry had been baked enough to tell Neville he wasn’t entirely sure he even liked women at all, and that had probably not helped his relationship with Ginny.
“Want to find out?” Neville had asked.
It turned out Neville was not all that fussy about labels, and it turned out he was easy to please and generous in bed. He was careful to tell Harry he wasn’t after more than sex, and Harry was careful to not read into Neville’s kindness, because Neville was just like that. They had fun together, and a few nights a week, Neville would take Harry out to explore the wizarding club scene in London. Sometimes they’d go home together, and sometimes Neville would take someone else home and Harry would go home alone.
Neville called him “gun-shy”, said he was too worried about what people thought to relax, but Harry found he just wasn’t keen on having sex with someone he didn’t know. He liked the attention, he liked dancing, and kissing, but he wasn’t all that interested in the rest with a stranger.
The Prophet caught wind of this new habit of Harry’s after a few weeks, and while Neville, Dean and Seamus had laughed and laughed at the Prophet’s claims he was sleeping with all of them when, of the three of them, he was the one who went home alone the most, Molly Weasley had written him a series of concerned letters.
Neville had raised the question of his world trip a few days later, and it had seemed like a good idea, to get out for a while, to put off deciding what he wanted to do with his life.
They’d been on the road another two months before Paris, and Harry had spent it much the same as the weeks before in London: Getting high, getting drunk and going out. Neville had probably done some work at some point, but he was also a morning person.
“Ugh,” Harry says, sitting down on the rickety chair across from Neville. “Why did I do that?”
“I dunno,” Neville shrugs. “Weird choice for your first foray into casual sex.”
Harry downs his hangover potion and rests his forehead on his arms. “How do you do this?” He asks Neville.
“I don’t sleep with my archnemeses,” Neville says. “Come to that, I haven’t got an archnemesis.”
“Ugh.” Harry says again. “You knew this was a bad idea though.”
“I mean, was it awful?” Neville asks. “The sex?”
“No,” Harry says immediately, “no, it was great. Just.”
“So, why bother regretting it?” Neville asks.
“What if he calls the newspapers?”
Neville shrugs. “Who cares what they think? They think we’re fucking, too, remember.”
“We are.”
“Yeah, but they forgot all about that story after about a week. They’d forget this one too.”
“Fine,” Harry says. “Fine, fine. Ugh.”
“So,” Neville says. “We’re headed home soon.”
Harry, head still resting on the table, groans.
“Still don’t know what you’re doing when we get there?”
Harry groans again.
Neville tousles his hair. “You can’t just look sad until I give in and cook you breakfast,” he says, but that is exactly what happens.