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Chapter Text

On the first day of the time loop, Harry woke up at 7:30am. He, of course, had no idea that he was experiencing his first loop day. Had he known, he might have chosen to rise at a more suitable hour; 6:00am, perhaps, in order to maximise the day. Alternatively, sleeping in until noon in order to block out the mundanity of repeating one singular day over and over might have been the saner thing to do.

But, alas, Harry did neither of those things.

Instead, blissfully unaware of the crap heading his way, he rose, took a freezing cold shower – thanks in no small part to the Curio Box he’d brought home a few days ago, which had completely fucked his Heating Charms – and headed out. His cupboards were empty, filled more with dust and cobwebs than edible food, so he grabbed a pastry from the little patisserie down on the corner. Stuffing his face with flaky pastry, stewed strawberries, and browned sugar, he made his jolly way down towards the Popham Street Apparition Point.

It was necessary to crouch down when one wanted to Apparate out of there, partaking in a demented sort of shuffle on the spot before the magic would take hold. It wasn’t a glamourous way to commute to work, crouching on a set of damp concrete stairs that were partially hidden behind a cluster of bins. They had bright blue lids, which some might call charming, and ‘call 4 tabs’ spray painted on the side. Sitting on the A24 in peak hour had to be more exciting.

All the same, Harry liked it well enough. It was quiet, close to his house, and didn’t smell quite as much like stale piss as it used to. It also offered the brilliant excuse of stopping into one of the charming little breakfast places that had popped up along the High Street, since he was going to be in the area.

A gardener in a large floppy hat was down the side of the church when Harry walked past. The old chap was brandishing a rather large pair of garden shears that looked ready to outright decimate the small tree he was pruning. He gave Harry a decisive nod as he passed, eyeing the pastry in Harry’s hand like it had personally offended him. Perhaps he hadn’t had time for breakfast yet and was experiencing the same kind of envy that hit Harry whenever he was too busy with work to head round to Ron and Hermione’s for stew night.

Ron had one day decided to take up the mantle of family cook, raiding Molly’s cookbook stash in the night like an absolute fiend. He’d learned his lesson when his parents and sister burst down the stairs in their nightclothes brandishing their wands, while he stood there ‘puffing his chest out and looking heroic’, as he described it. Hermione, for her part, said he’d been cowering in fear and holding Great Cakes of Great Britain over his face like a child playing hide and seek, but he wasn’t in a position to take sides. Not even when he’d seen Ginny’s memory of the evening firsthand and had been reduced to tears of laughter so thick she’d had no choice but to yank him out of the Pensieve.

Despite Ron’s trauma, he’d not been scared off cooking and made the most moreish stews Harry had ever eaten. They were close to the best things he’d ever put in his mouth, which was a hard contest to win, when one reviewed all the options.

Harry groaned around the pastry in his mouth, the sweetness of the strawberries and the brown sugar merging with the memory of the salt and the gaminess of Ron’s mouthwatering Lancashire hotpot.

The brown takeaway bag went inside one of the bins when Harry reached the Apparition Point. It crinkled as he balled it in his fist, apparently catching the attention of a black and white cat. It peeked its head around the side of one of the more distant bins, fixing Harry with an oddly human look. Its mouth opened, tiny and pink, as it meowed at him. He fought the sudden urge to meow back, grimacing at himself. He settled for a jaunty wave as he glanced around and pulled out his wand.

I’ve lost it, he thought to himself. I’m meowing at street cats. Ginny’s going to lose her mind.

When Harry had moved back into Grimmauld Place a few years ago, dead set on fixing the place up and turning it into something that was at least halfway habitable, nobody had been happy about it.

Hermione had teared up at the thought of him ‘rattling about on his own in that god awful place’. Ron had said he was going to get tossed out the window during the night by a poltergeist. Luna had said he’d worsen his Nargle infestation (which was apparently Very Bad). Dean had said he’d never pull again. Ginny claimed she’d started a bet with her brothers – sans Ron, who had stood by Harry and refused to participate publicly, though Harry had suspicions that he’d placed a bet under Arthur’s name – about how many cats Harry would end up with after the Black family madness got to him.

Meowing at strange cats in the street didn’t exactly bode well for him.

Harry turned on the spot in his crouched position, knocking an empty beer bottle to the side as he did so. It clinked as it rolled, orange and white label flicking in and out of view.

The Carkitt Market Apparition Station was always much quieter than its counterpart on the bustling Diagon Alley. The latter had a constant stream of wixen rushing in and out, so caught up in their own heads that it was nigh on impossible to escape without getting an elbow to the side or a shoe against your heel. The people there were also more often than not fans of the very British way of complaining about others not moving as fast as they would like; loud sighs, raised eyebrows, and a tap, tap, tapping of feet against the worn cobblestones.

Harry’s preferred morning commute spot, though slightly further away from any of the Ministry entrances, was far more relaxed. Nobody cleared their throat disapprovingly or very obviously reshuffled their items to indicate their displeasure. It was pure serenity.

Well, until Harry sighted him, that was.

Malfoy was stood outside his shop, seemingly pottering about. He was standing on the tips of his toes as he reached up to adjust the sign over his door. A miniature blue watering can dangled from the fingers of one hand, tilting just enough that a few stray drops of water pattered onto the cobbles. He seemed to be struggling a bit, his arm extended as far as it possibly could be, his balance shaky. With an audible puff of breath, he nudged his sign back into place, the wooden placard swinging back and forth cheerfully. Why he didn’t use magic or, hell, get a new sign, Harry didn’t know. Malfoy was a nonsensical person who did nonsensical things; trying to make sense of him would get Harry nowhere. If only he’d the mental strength to follow that exact thought himself. Not doing so had gotten him into more than enough strife over the years; yet there he was, watching Malfoy as he walked down the lane, away from the Apparition Point.

Malfoy noticed Harry when he was a few shops down, by the barbershop with the stripy rotating pole in the front window. His pale eyebrow twitched slightly when he made eye contact with Harry, though he offered no other recognition of his presence. Posh twat.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly but paired it with a sharp nod; an acknowledgement, but also an assessment.

The flowers in the box above Malfoy’s shop window seemed to turn in Harry’s direction as he walked by, vibrant blue and violet and ivory petals leaning towards him as if in greeting. They were rather fetching, those flowers. Harry enjoyed looking at them while waiting for his takeaway in the evenings. They were much nicer when Malfoy wasn’t standing near them. Hell, the whole bloody street was.

Gemma was already in the office when Harry arrived, as she was most mornings. Harry hadn’t the faintest idea of when she got there, just that it was far earlier than needed. He’d tried to catch her out once, rocking up at eight instead of nine, but she’d been behind her desk all the same, sipping tea out of her purple mug with tiny black sausage dogs printed on the sides.

She liked to get up early and go for a run before the bloody sun came up, apparently. Harry wasn’t sure that type of person actually existed in real life and thus was inclined to believe that she and Ron had some sort of bet going on that he hadn’t cottoned onto yet.

“Morning, Harry,” Gemma called out. She nodded towards his office door. “Memo from Robards came about twenty minutes ago; says he needs to move your meeting from one to two. I rescheduled your meeting with Perry to accommodate, but Smith wants to see you as well. Didn’t give a time, as usual.” She rolled her eyes and held up a bundle of letters. “Also, the Post Office owled and said your letterbox is full and you need to go and empty it. No amount of ‘but he’s Harry Potter’ did it for them, I’m afraid.”

Harry froze with a hand on the doorknob of his office. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t. Surely you’ve more faith in me than that?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow. Gemma wiggled her eyebrows at him in response. He waved a hand over his office door, unkeying the wards. When he shoved it open a crack, the letters flew from Gemma’s hand and arranged themselves on his desk.

“Do anything much for the weekend?” Harry plopped himself down in the visitor’s chair that sat on the other side of Gemma’s desk. She swatted at his hand when he reached for the plate of biscuits she had in front of her, and pretended to look offended.

“Took my niece and nephew to the seaside. They bloody loved it, simple creatures. Give them an ice cream and a chip and it’s all over.”

A faint smile crossed Harry’s face. He’d like to take Teddy on holiday to the seaside one day. Andromeda had, once, when he was very small. He’d apparently bawled the second his tiny toes touched the water and hadn’t been able to be consoled until she’d dragged him all the way back home. He was getting bigger now, old enough to remember things like that. If only Harry wasn’t so bloody tired all the time. He spent the weekends winding down from the hectic work week that never seemed to stop, where he was expected to be functioning at max level every second of the day. Sometimes he didn’t even have time to mentally debrief, because crime didn’t take a day off.

Oftentimes he had to go back into the office on a Saturday night or a Sunday morning to sign urgent paperwork, or work out the kinks for an unexpected field mission, or liaise with the bloody Maltese Ministry. Time with Teddy, as much as Harry hated to admit it, often got put on the backburner.

“Oi.” Gemma lifted the plate of biscuits and shoved them at Harry. “Take one, you sad sack. You look a bit shite today, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow, though he did take a biscuit. “I do.”

“Glad we got that out of the way. There a reason?”

“Heating Charms are all screwed up. Nothing worse than a cold shower when you haven’t had a great sleep.”

Gemma winced. “You’re welcome to come by mine if you need. Mind, HR would have both our heads, especially if it got leaked.”

Images of Prophet headlines flashed across Harry’s vision. He shuddered, biting down hard enough on his next biscuit that his teeth clicked together. “Bloody nightmare.”

It was at that moment that Harry heard his least favourite sound of the day; the Floo in his office chiming with a jaunty tune that signified someone of importance trying to call through. His predecessor had either loved their job a little too much, or they’d been overcompensating for the pain of the aforementioned Floo calls. In any case, no one needed to hear the shrill tones of Mary Had a Little Lamb over and over again on a daily basis. No human was strong enough to endure that. Harry hadn’t killed Voldemort for that, of that he was damn sure.

On the flip side, Harry hadn’t the fucks to spare to fill out what seemed to be the longest form in existence to get it changed. Apparently, such a thing required multiple contractors educated in Charmwork, building work, and musical theory to come out – each of whom needed high enough levels of clearance to be allowed entry into the office of the Deputy Head Auror.

It was fucking madness. Madness and bureaucracy.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of Floo powder and coloured flames and Firecalls. The urgent matter at hand was related to international apparition licences, of which Harry was apparently the only man for the job. Usually, that sort of thing was handled by those with a lower Ministry clearance than he held, but every dealing with the Maltese Ministry got escalated up the chain of command.

They’d been funny about working with the British Ministry since the year prior, when a pair of interns on placement from the French Ministry somehow managed to Apparate directly into the centre of Palace Square. It had caused a proper international incident which resulted in no more French Ministry interns in Britain, the Maltese Ministry losing their shit so severely that the German Ministry needed to be called in to mediate and leading to Harry spending two hours hunched in front of his shit government-grade Floo, signing off on paperwork that was well below his paygrade.

Gemma shot him a sympathetic smile when Harry finally hobbled out of his office, grimacing and rubbing at his lower back like he was a good two decades older than his actual age.

Next up was a meeting – thankfully in the conference room that time – to discuss the open creature smuggling case the Department had been working on for the past five months. They were finally getting close to a break in the case, having secured an informant that seemed credible.

After that was a series of meetings with each of the Senior Aurors, organising teams for various missions out in the field. Each of them blurred together and Harry was eternally thankful for the automated Quick-Quotes Quills that the Department used in all the meeting rooms. He’d never remember what the fuck he’d spent his day doing, otherwise.

He managed to scarf down a stale sandwich from the Ministry cafeteria in the break between meetings, damn near choking on a slice of dry rye when Zacharias Smith stuck his head through the open door and fixed Harry with his signature beady stare.

“Ah, you’re free, are you, Auror Potter? Good. I’ll discuss my pitch with you now then.”

And that right there quickly became the worst part of Harry’s day. Dealings with Smith tended to do that. He had an even more instantaneous impact on Harry’s mood than Malfoy did. At least Malfoy tended to keep his mouth shut the majority of the time; Smith couldn’t do that if he was being paid to.

Gemma was at her desk when Harry stuck his head through the door to wave at her. She lowered her handheld mirror and flashed him a smile. It looked more than a little funny, given she had bright red lipstick covering only her bottom lip.

“Heading out?” she asked.

“You know better than to be getting dolled up for me,” Harry joked.

She shot him a deadpan look and raised her mirror again. “I know this might be hard to believe, but I’ve got a hot date tonight.” Her words came out a little garbled, given she had her mouth hanging open. She rubbed her lips together and grinned at her mirror. “She’s taking me to some swanky new wine bar on Horizont Alley. Not saying I’ll call out tomorrow, but I’m also not not saying that.”

Harry pointed a finger at her and plastered on his best attempt at a serious expression. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

She gave him a salute, though she used her middle finger rather than her whole hand. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

“I can still fire you,” Harry called over his shoulder as he turned to leave. He grinned at Gemma’s dramatic gasp.

By the time Harry shuffled his way out of the Ministry Atrium, it was dark and a little windy, the air having gained a bite to it that it hadn’t had that morning. Not having thought to bring a coat, Harry increased his pace as he entered Carkitt Market. He tilted his chin down, shoulders hunched against the next gust of wind. The flowers in the box above Malfoy’s shop window were hunkered down for the night, although a few stray petals did seem to perk up as he walked by.

He stopped by Gustoso on the way to the Apparition Point, shifting from foot to foot as he placed his order. It was an Italian restaurant that was solely responsible for feeding Harry at that point; his diet was at least one quarter garlic bread. He couldn’t be blamed, however; he’d made converts of anyone trying to lecture him on his dietary choices – aka, Hermione and Ginny – by taking them there. One visit was enough to change the mind of any naysayer.

As Harry waited for his order, he leaned against the wood panelled wall and looked out the window, taking stock of each of the Victorian-style facades of the shopfronts. Nobody stopped to gawk at him through the window; an impossibility if he’d been doing the same thing in Diagon.

He began to zone out as he stood there, garlic and butter and the bite of acidic tomato sauce filling his nose. He snapped back to reality as the light above Malfoy’s shop turned on. There were flats above each of the shops in the wizarding shopping districts; Harry had been in more than a few of them while investigating cases, and one or two during his personal time. Malfoy lived above his shop; that much Harry knew.

There was a flash of blond in the large sash window on the first floor, Malfoy’s body a blur. He was gone as quickly as he came, the heavy curtains spelled tightly closed. Harry glanced away, cheeks heating as he realised he might have been caught staring. Malfoy had the eyes of a bloody hawk, as Harry had previously discovered.

He’d been peering into Malfoy’s shop window one day, early on in his time with the Aurors. Not for any particular reason, he’d just wanted to see what Malfoy was up to. Malfoy, in his typical git fashion, had kicked up a right fuss and had demanded, loudly and publicly in the middle of the street, to know if he was under official investigation, or if Harry was slipping back into his stalker behaviours of yore. Harry, never one to be able to hold his tongue around Malfoy, had snapped back with something that he could barely remember, vision tinged red at the edges.

The whole thing had caused a right unnecessary scene and Robards hadn’t seemed to like it’s a free country as Harry’s reasoning for his admittedly mildly stalkerish behaviour. Nor had he enjoyed Harry’s backup answer of Malfoy’s a massive cunt, what can I say. Neither of which he had been able to put down on the paperwork he’d been handed to dismiss Malfoy’s officially filed complaint.

Harry had no idea what he’d put down in the end, but he’d not had any incidents with Malfoy in the years since, which he supposed was probably a good thing.

All thoughts of Malfoy melted away the moment Harry was handed his container of beef ragu and loaf of garlic bread, fresh from the oven. He cracked it open as he walked towards the apparition point, tearing off the end of the loaf with his teeth. He was far too hungry, far too tired, and far too grouchy to wait.

He glanced back towards Malfoy’s storefront as he spun into his Apparition. It was dark and shuttered, closed up for the night. On the upper floor, a flash of light as the curtain moved just so.

Tomorrow’s a new day, Harry thought to himself. Thank fucking Merlin I don’t have to do that again.

*

Harry’s second loop day started, funnily enough, exactly like the first.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes as his wand alarm went off at 7:30am, buzzing and whining until he finally slapped a hand on it to shut it up. He grumbled to himself as he washed in the shower, hopping from foot to foot and shaking the freezing water from his eyes.

“This weekend,” he muttered, rubbing his fluffy blue towel up and down his arms. “It’s getting fixed this weekend, or I’m breaking into Ron and Hermione’s and staying there.”

A new morning called for a new café, so Harry took a roundabout journey to the Popham Street Apparition Point, stopping into a Danish place on the way. He munched on a slice of apple cake as he walked, a spring beginning to form in his step. Although the weather hadn’t improved since yesterday, today was a new day. He was one step closer to the weekend, one step closer to his next playdate with Teddy, and one step closer to his next dinner at Ron and Hermione’s. Those were things to be positive about.

Someone who was clearly not attempting to be positive about the day ahead was the church gardener. He was pottering about with his oversized shears and floppy hat again, muttering to himself as he moved about the garden. He paused when Harry walked by, glancing up and glaring as though Harry had personally offended him.

Briefly, Harry considered that perhaps he wasn’t supposed to be eating near the church, but that was nonsensical. Sure, it wouldn’t be polite to stuff one’s face when listening to a sermon, but Harry wasn’t inside the church, he was just walking by. It wasn’t as though he were about to walk up to the stained-glass windows and smear some sugar on the panes. As far as he was aware, he wasn’t committing some egregious faux pas by eating a slice of Danish apple cake on his way to work.

The black and white cat from the previous day was hanging around the Apparition Point again, sniffing around and generally looking far too clean to be there.

“Hello, lovely,” Harry cooed, clicking his tongue. He crouched down and held out a piece of apple cake, giving the cat what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Have a bit of this, I’m sure it’s much tastier than the sewer rats you’ve probably been chasing.”

The cat didn’t look impressed, nor did it take Harry up on his very nice and very genuine cake offer. It hopped on top of one of the bins and meowed at him disapprovingly. It had on a collar, Harry realised; a lovely red leather one with a shiny silver tag.

The lovely Victorian shop facades greeted Harry when he Apparated into Carkitt Market, as per usual. He paused for a moment to run his thumb over the symbol on the low, wrought iron fence that surrounded the Apparition zone. It was painted a dark forest green; a matching colour to one of the old study rooms on Grimmauld’s first floor. The animals on the fence reacted to his touch, the Erumpent raising its trunk in acknowledgement, the Atlas lion tossing its regal mane.

The spring in his step abruptly faded when Harry sighted Malfoy. He was out the front of his shop attempting to fix the sign again, balancing on the tips of his toes as he batted the wooden placard into submission. He glanced at Harry as they crossed paths but quickly looked away, muttering to himself under his breath.

Surprisingly, Gemma was in the office when Harry arrived, reclining at her desk with tea and a plate of biscuits. She flashed him a smile when he entered, waving a handful of letters in his direction. “Morning, Harry. Memo from Robards came about twenty minutes ago; says he needs to move your meeting from one to two. I rescheduled your meeting with Perry to accommodate, but Smith wants to see you as well. Didn’t give a time, as usual.”

“Bloody hell, again? Smith really doesn’t let up, does he?” Harry grumbled, unkeying the wards on his office door.

“Also, the Post Office owled and–”

“Bugger the Post Office.” Harry jogged over to her desk and sat down in the chair opposite, grabbing a handful of biscuits before she could pretend to tell him no. “Tell me how the bloody date went! Or don’t, if it’s very much a ‘HR no’ situation. Then maybe redact the details.”

“My date?” Gemma blinked at him, her brows furrowing. “You mean the one at Vino Roccia?”

Harry shrugged. “Whichever one was yesterday. I know you claim to be a catch, but there’s no way you get asked out enough to forget the poor lasses who ply you with drinks.”

Gemma looked at him as though he were very odd indeed. “That’s tonight, not yesterday.” She picked up the plate of biscuits and held it out, waiting for Harry to take another handful. “And you better not be keeping tabs on me, I know how you get.”

“You don’t. You weren’t there in school.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Didn’t need to be, mate. I’ve heard enough.”

Just as Harry was about to rebuff her again, Mary Had a Little Lamb started up, ringing painfully in Harry’s ears. He sighed, hefting himself out of the chair.

A frazzled looking brunette man had his head through Harry’s Floo when Harry walked into his office. The man started speaking Maltese at such a rapid pace that it took the translation spells a moment to kick in.

Harry listened for a moment, brow furrowing in concentration, before holding up a hand to cut the man off. He looked very displeased about that indeed, but that was fine because it was about to be a very short meeting.

“No need to worry about this, it’s all been sorted,” Harry said decisively.

“When?” the man asked, raising his eyebrows in a rather condescending manner.

“Yesterday. Over the course of about four bloody hours.”

“One moment.” The man’s head disappeared from the flames, though his shoulder remained. It moved up and down as he did something off-call, likely flipping through a stack of paperwork. The day that the wizarding world shifted towards computers would be a very happy day for Harry indeed. When his head returned to the flames he looked decidedly unimpressed. “No record of the paperwork. Please refer to International Apparition Form number 172 for the following–”

“We did this,” Harry repeated, gritting his teeth. “It’s already done. Yesterday.” His lower back was beginning to twinge already, kneeling on the floor. “Check with your supervisor.”

“I am the supervisor.” The man’s tone was reaching snootier and snootier heights. “As mentioned, please refer to International Apparition Form number 172–”

“I’m telling you, we don’t need to do this again. It’s been done. You must have lost the paperwork on your end.”

He couldn’t tell what the man said in response because he paused the translation spell. Harry could guess, however, that based off the tone, body language, and general demeanour, that he was being told to ‘fuck off’ in every language aside from English.

Eventually he was told, point blank, that if any witch or wizard acting in official capacity as directed by the British Ministry wanted to set foot on Maltese soil again, Harry needed to shut his mouth and fill in the relevant paperwork. He did so, begrudgingly, because the man looked so deadly serious that Harry half expected that he might cause yet another international incident if he said anything contrarian.

So he sat there and filled in the exact same forms as he had the day before. A headache started to form between his eyes by the fifth form, a proper pounding by the seventh.

Gemma winced in sympathy when Harry hobbled out of his office some time later, grumbling and groaning and very much in need of a stiff drink before lunch.

As the day wore on, meeting after meeting, it became very clear that everyone aside from Harry was losing their fucking marbles. Or possibly suffering from a case of mass amnesia.

Robards wanted to go over the same notes from his meeting with Kingsley that they had looked at the day before, the Senior Aurors seemed to have no record of the field teams they’d already assembled and signed off on, and Smith – glorious fucking Smith – seemed to delight in taking the absolute piss, recounting, in painstaking detail, what they had discussed yesterday, as though Harry hadn’t also been there.

By the time he left for the day, Harry’s head was pounding so firmly that he barely spared a thought to wave at Gemma as he passed by. He even skipped dinner, trudging home and all but throwing himself into bed without fanfare. He barely managed to kick off his shoes before he fell into a deep sleep, head spinning with gnarled knots of coworker incompetence and eye watering Ministry bureaucracy.

*

“Fuck off,” Harry groaned. He slapped a hand on his bedside table, wincing at the sound of his wand alarm. When he finally silenced it he rubbed his hands down his face, waiting for the inevitable roll in his stomach that signified a headache that had stuck around for too long.

Surprisingly, he felt fine.

Harry stretched his arms above his head and let out a deep breath. He retook that breath rather sharply when he kicked off the blankets and saw a pair of red tartan pyjama bottoms covering his legs.

“What…” He pinched them, feeling the worn material between his fingers. Definitely real, not a figment of his imagination. But he was entirely confident that he’d not undressed before bed the night before. He’d been so exhausted and wrung out that he’d collapsed into bed in his work trousers and button up, anticipating a restless night. So why was he dressed as though that had never happened?

He spared a brief thought that perhaps he’d been sleepwalking, but quickly dismissed it. He’d never heard of someone just changing clothes and then tucking themselves into bed; what happened to the eating weird stuff out of the fridge or peeing in the laundry basket?

After a quick check of both the fridge and the laundry basket, and nearly braining himself on the stairs in the process, Harry concluded that perhaps it hadn’t been him at all. Maybe Gemma had owled one of his friends to come round and check on him after seeing him leave work in such a state. But Neville or Ginny or Luna would definitely have left a note if they’d been round. Not to mention that both Ginny would rather carve her eyes out than get Harry starkers – as he’d been told point blank – and Luna would be more likely to rearrange Harry’s house then tend to him in bed. But Neville … yeah Neville could have done it.

Ten minutes later saw Harry crouched in front of his downstairs Floo, knees aching, as he fielded question after question from Neville about why Harry wanted to be undressed by him.

“It’s not that I want it, mate, I’m asking if you have.”

“You’re asking if I’ve snuck into your house in the night, gone upstairs, and stripped you down?”

“Then put my kit back on, yeah. That bit’s important.”

Neville blinked at him. “Harry, are you … hitting on me?”

Luna’s high, tinkling laugh filtered through the flames. “Harry, how wonderful. Nev is a catch, I quite agree.”

Neville’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’m not sure that we’d be up for a third right now, but we could let you–”

Harry ended the call so abruptly that the fireplace spat a cloud of ash right into his face. He spluttered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, as Neville and Luna’s words rung in his ears.

By the time he made it out the front door he was most definitely late. He had no time to carefully select which place on the High Street to grab breakfast from, darting through the door and grabbing the first pre-wrapped thing he laid a hand on. It was a banana muffin, tasty though a little stale. He scarfed it down as he jogged down Popham Street, sparing a glance at the church garden.

The gardener was there again, floppy hat pulled down low, shears hiked up on his shoulder. He stared at Harry again, seeming to look right through his soul in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

Like the bloody ghost of Christmas past, Harry thought to himself, shoving a chunk of muffin into his mouth.

His next step faltered as he realised that the gardener had been wearing the exact same clothes as the previous two days; a bottle green set of dungarees and a white henley. He’d been hacking away at the same bush too, the one that looked far too small for the shears he was using on it.

Harry’s hair started to stand on end when he rounded the bend and caught sight of the Apparition Point. The black and white cat was in the same spot, head poking out from behind one of the bins. It meowed at him, pink mouth opening and closing as it watched him.

It was becoming apparent rather quickly that something was very, very wrong.

He Apparated away without sparing a moment to check his surroundings, landing in Carkitt Market on unsteady legs. The shopfronts blurred together as he rushed down the lane, heading for one of the Ministry entrances. He spared a shred of thanks to the universe for Malfoy having already gone inside, his shop sign properly aligned for the morning.

Harry didn’t let up his pace until he reached his office, opting for the stairs rather than the notoriously slow lift. The last thing he wanted to do while a crisis was brewing was make small talk about old Mrs Jones’ cat’s diet, or listen to Mr Adams natter on about the weather these days. He leaned against the open door as he caught his breath, sweat beginning to bead on his brow.

Gemma gaped at him, a stack of letters clutched in her fist. “Are you alright, Harry? Is there an emergency? Should I call–”

“No.” Harry shook his head, nearly unseating his glasses. “Just – your date. Was it yesterday? The one at the wine bar?”

“Uh … are you sure you’re alright?” Her eyes narrowed and she stood up. “Really, you look–”

“Shite, I know. You already told me – at least I think you did.”

“Right.” Gemma’s hand twitched towards her wand, like she was going for it based on instinct alone. “My date’s tonight. I don’t remember telling you though. You’d better not be–”

“Keeping tabs on you, I know. And I know the meetings have been changed around and the Post Office sent an owl and–” His mouth snapped chut with a click when Gemma frowned and pointed at the chair in front of her desk.

“Sit.” Her tone made it clear that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Despite very much not being in charge of Harry, he was inclined to let her. “Something’s clearly going on. Do you want me to get Robards?”

Harry shook his head rapidly. “Kingsley. Get Kingsley.”

Gemma’s eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared under her bangs. “Fuck, alright. Stay there and don’t touch anything.”

It took less than five minutes for Kingsley to rush in, looking more harried than Harry had seen him since the war. He loomed over Harry, still sat in the lumpy visitor’s chair, and peered at him intently.

In a hushed yet dangerous voice, Kingsley whispered, “What did Harry Potter see when he failed to meet his end at Lord Voldemort’s hand?”

Harry swallowed, breath catching in his throat. It was morbidly amusing that there was more than one possible answer to the question, though now was clearly not the time to joke about it. “King’s Cross.”

“Good.” Kingsley relaxed a fraction but didn’t step back. “And what was the one condition I agreed to abide by in order to have Harry accept his position here?”

“That Ron wouldn’t be asked to go into the field.”

After a pause, Kingsley stepped away. He regarded Harry with an assessing gaze as he twirled his wand in his fingers. “Have you been Cursed?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied.

“Poisoned?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Hexed?”

“Unlikely.”

Kingsley leaned in closer, brow furrowing. “Forgive my frankness, Harry, but you do look rather tired. Take the rest of the day off. I’ll liaison with Head Auror Robards and arrange to have someone take over or reschedule your meetings. If you’re still out of sorts tomorrow, talk to Robards about it. I’ll have my secretary contact a Potions supplier and have an order of Pepper-Up filled for you. I’ll have one of the Senior Aurors bring it by your house this afternoon.”

There was nothing else for it. He’d been dismissed.

Though he couldn’t say that he wasn’t thankful not to have to speak with the twat from the Maltese Ministry for the third day in a row. One more International Apparition Form number 172 and he’d have torn his hair out.

So, Harry thanked Kingsley, assured a rather harried Gemma that he was probably fine and there was definitely nothing to be overly concerned about, and headed home. He kept his head low as he headed down the street, not particularly keen on being noticed. As he passed Malfoy’s shop, he caught a glimpse of a white-blond head through the thick leaded window. Though he passed by quickly, it was enough time to notice how high Malfoy’s shoulders were, drawn up tight. There was tension visible in the line of his back, the straightness of his spine. His hand shook as he reached up to grab something off a higher shelf, a thick book propped open in the crook of his arm.

*

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

Before Harry had gone to bed, mood alternating between hyperactive and giddy from the Pepper-Up and tired and sluggish from the Dreamless Sleep he’d taken later, he’d set up a test. A test for the universe, as it was. Something he couldn’t dismantle, even if he experienced an intense bout of sleepwalking.

His bedroom looked, for lack of a better term, like a bomb had hit it.

Before retiring for the evening, Harry took every single pair of darned socks out of his drawer and used them to spell a ‘H’ in the centre of his bedroom floor. He hung his Auror robes up on the curtain rod, put a red velvet throw pillow on top of the dresser, and turned all his picture frames around. He also went downstairs and laid out a thick woollen blanket on his dining table; if anyone broke in during the night to rearrange his things, they’d likely think it was just a shit tablecloth.

Lastly, and most secretly, he hid one of Hermione’s abandoned hair combs under the cushion of the saggiest armchair in the downstairs living room. To mitigate any extenuating factors, such as a rogue Poltergeist who had moved in without Harry realising and was causing mischief, he used the Invisibility Cloak.

It felt odd, stepping inside his wardrobe and draping the Cloak over his head. He’d not used it properly since his school years, not having had the cause to. He wasn’t authorised to use it on work missions out into the field, as the magic couldn’t be tampered with. Not that he’d been all that keen to publicly advertise that he had it in his possession, what with all the rumours about him and the elder wand that spread like wildfire in the months after the Battle of Hogwarts. So, he hadn’t been too disappointed when Kingsley had pulled him aside one day and told him to leave it at home. He brought the Cloak out sometimes when Ron was around – it became quite a funny bit of fabric when one was a few beers deep. Other than that, it tended to sit there collecting metaphorical dust.

Now, it was sort of exciting bringing it out. It felt like he was back in school, moving on the balls of his feet as he followed a teenage Malfoy down a deserted corridor. Every shadow on the wall was Filch or Mrs Norris rounding the corner, every rattling of pipes the footfalls of other students around him.

It was a foolproof plan, really.

Until it became blatantly obvious that there was something much bigger at work, because when Harry awoke the next morning, he awoke to a completely normal bedroom. Nothing was out of place; no darned socks on the ground, no throw pillow on the dresser, no crimson robes on the curtain rod. The smiling faces of his friends stared out at him from the picture frames that were scattered about the room, each facing outwards, as was correct.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, leaping out of bed and rushing to the door. He didn’t bother to take stock of what he was wearing; he’d gone to bed in a pair of bright orange Chudley Cannons pants that he was fairly certain had once been Ron’s. Based on the fact that he couldn’t feel the morning breeze on his legs, he was back in the same red tartan pyjama bottoms as before. The wretched things had started to develop into a symbol of his own personal waking nightmare; he couldn’t escape them. No matter what he wore to bed they were always there in the morning, taunting him.

There was only one thing left to check: his Hail Mary, the comb.

Falling to his knees in front of the sagging brown armchair, Harry thrust his hand under the cushion and groped for the comb. There was only dust there, bits of grit getting under his fingernails and making him shudder.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered again. He fell onto his arse and drew his knees up, breath coming faster. “What the fuck do I do now?”

He wanted nothing more than to call Hermione. Even if she couldn’t fix whatever the fuck was going on herself, she would at least listen. She’d believe him without question. But she wasn’t there, both her and Ron having jetted off to Australia to spend the week with her parents. They were supposed to be getting back tomorrow; Harry was going to surprise them at the Portkey Terminal and cook them dinner while they unpacked. If that even was tomorrow. What was tomorrow, really? He had no idea what today even was anymore. He didn’t even know where they were; Sydney or maybe Brisbane? Either way, it would take a full day for a long-range postal owl to fly that far, and double that for it to return with Hermione’s response.

Harry jumped when he dug his nails into the skin of his palm just this side of too hard. He gritted his teeth, rubbing at his hand where it smarted.

His options were limited. He could stay home and assume everything was fucked but would right itself again in the morning, or he could go into work and try explaining himself to Kingsley again. With all the hundreds of departments the Ministry had, all the apparent geniuses they paid eyewatering amounts of money to keep on retainer, surely someone could explain to Harry what the fuck was going on.

Harry didn’t rush to the Apparition Point that morning; he took his time, leisurely soaping his body up in the shower and washing his hair with some posh lavender scented soap that Luna had given him. He walked a few blocks further down the High Street to a French patisserie and spent a good few minutes evaluating each of the pastries in the display case. After having settled on a chocolate croissant, he walked towards Popham Street, humming under his breath.

He resisted the urge to wave at the gardener when he walked by; no matter how many times Harry relived the morning, the man’s mood never lightened. It was a bit of an injustice, really; if anyone deserved to be pissed off beyond belief, it was Harry.

Once at the Apparition Point, Harry tossed a chunk of flaky pastry in the direction of the bins. The cat poked its head out and meowed, fixing the proffered food with an assessing look.

“Peace offering,” Harry said, crouching down on the stairs. They had the exact same eau de piss smell as the few days previous, which was both comforting and disconcerting.

Everything was exactly as expected in Carkitt Market; the same elderly witch was dragging a bright red wheeled trolly down the lane; the same middle-aged man held up a copy of the Prophet in front of his face as he passed by; the same girl was shooting a series of window cleaning spells at the façade of a tailoring shop. All was well.

All, that was, aside from Malfoy.

The blond git was out the front of his shop again, watering can in hand, staring at Harry like he was a wad of gum on the bottom of a very expensive leather shoe. He looked fairly close to pitching the watering can at Harry’s head, actually. Harry wondered, briefly, at what speed the watering can would have to travel before he would be justified in tackling Malfoy to the ground, when the git opened his mouth.

“Oh, jolly fucking good,” Malfoy crowed. He gestured wildly, sending fat drops of water onto both the cobblestones and his shoes, though he didn’t appear to notice. “It’s you again. Of bloody course it is. Just my luck.”

I should be the bigger person, Harry thought to himself. The righteous one. The one who keeps his head up when he’s being harassed in the street. The one who–

“Get bent, Malfoy,” Harry shot back. He stopped in front of Malfoy’s shop, though he kept a good few metres of space between them. He fixed Malfoy with his best Deputy Head Auror Intimidating Glare.

If anything, Malfoy seemed emboldened by Harry’s response. He had a crazed look in his eyes, not unlike the flashes of adrenaline some cornered wizards got before they whipped out their wands and started something they couldn’t hope to finish. The grey of his irises was torrid, dark like waves crashing in a storm. There was an energy there, a life, that Harry hadn’t seen since before their sixth year at school. There’d been a glimpse of it, some tiny piece, when Malfoy had reached for Harry in the Room of Requirement that awful day. He’d looked crazed then too, clearly aware that his life was on the line, and he had to put it in the hands of the person he considered his worst enemy.

“It would be you,” Malfoy muttered. He had begun to pace, brows furrowed as he stared Harry down. “How lucky I must be, getting to see your stupid bloody face every day in perpetuity. Exactly what I wanted out of a probable rip in space and time. Fucking Potter.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He watched as Malfoy kicked at one of the cobblestones, wincing when he did it a bit too hard. “A rip … in time?”

No, he thought to himself. No, no, no. Anyone but Malfoy, for the love of Merlin himself.

Malfoy rolled his eyes at Harry, though his expression was rather strained. “If you must know, I’ve managed to get ensnared in some sort of time loop.” He held a hand up primly, watering can dangling from his fingers. “No need to call St Mungo’s, I’ll book myself a nice long stay in a private room there when I’ve figured out how to make anything stick longer than a day. Nothing to worry your daft little head about. Carry on as you are, with whatever boring tasks you fill your time with.” And then he reached out and booped Harry on the nose.

“You’re fucking with me,” Harry said, frozen, at the same time as Malfoy smugly proclaimed, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

I’ve managed to get ensnared in some sort of time loop.

Time loop.

“Oh fuck,” Harry groaned.

“Yes, well.” Malfoy turned on his heel and walked towards the front door of his shop, glancing back over his shoulder like he expected Harry to chuck him in a Body Bind at any second. Harry had half a mind to, actually.

“Me too,” Harry shouted, darting towards Malfoy. “I’m here as well, you colossal wanker.”

Rather than falling to his knees and weeping great tears of joy, or saying thank you, or expressing any sort of normal emotion, Malfoy instead let out a bark of laughter, gave Harry a shove, and flipped him the middle finger. He flashed it to the rest of the street too, rotating his body to give the full experience to the wixen there, all of whom seemed to be in various stages of shock.

A few people gasped.

Down the lane, a baby started to cry.

Malfoy turned back to Harry and offered him a grin that was all teeth.

“Suck my cock, Potter,” he said, and slammed the door in Harry’s face.

No amount of banging on the door, shouting, or unlocking spells would let Harry in. Malfoy shuttered the blinds, activated his wards, and effectively told the world to fuck off.

Ordinarily, that would have been alright. But it was no ordinary day.

Harry thought he might genuinely be going into a state of shock at the reveal that not only was he in a time loop, but he was stuck in one with Malfoy of all people. Why, how, and what the fuck were all major threads taking up space in Harry’s mind.

When Harry reached the Ministry, still reeling from Malfoy’s revelation, he bypassed the Auror Department and went right to Kingsley’s office. He received an almost identical spiel as the day before, though this time it was accompanied by the offer of a paid holiday to any location in Europe that Harry could name.

Rather than suffering through another Floo call with Malta, Harry again took the offer of an afternoon off and headed home to regroup.

He needed to see what Malfoy knew; clearly it was more than Harry.

Fuck, Harry was willing to bet that Malfoy was somehow responsible for it happening in the first place, otherwise why else would he jump to a bloody time loop? It was nonsensical. But, then again, Malfoy was a nonsensical bloke, always had been.

The most daunting part of it all was the inevitable fact that he was going to have to talk to Malfoy again. On purpose. The man who had booped his nose not three hours prior.

And if that wasn’t just as daunting as a possible rip in space and time.

Harry sat down at his kitchen table, poured himself a stiff drink at twelve in the afternoon, and waited for the day to begin again.

Chapter Text

Malfoy emerged from the depths of his shop at exactly 8:17 in the morning.

Harry knew this, because he’d been standing there for a good half an hour. He had a cramp in his neck from staring at the upper floor, watching the sash window for any sign of movement.

Malfoy’s eyebrows twitched inwards when he saw Harry, lifting his arm as though checking a watch. He wasn’t wearing a watch, so he stood in his shop doorway, staring at his bare wrist. He looked gormless as anything, like a Mooncalf during a solar eclipse. His confusion shifted to palpable annoyance in the blink of an eye, brows drawing down and mouth twisting into a sneer.

“Oh, bloody fuck,” Malfoy groaned. He had the tiny watering can in hand again, bumping against his hip. “You. Why are you here? Why are you anywhere near me, quite frankly?”

“Well,” Harry started. He pinched himself on the thigh so that he wouldn’t take that hand and give Malfoy a good, solid shove. It might solve a lot of his issues if he did, actually. “I wanted to talk to you about–”

“What is it about today that made you come here? How the buggering fuck have I influenced that?” Malfoy threw his hands out to the sides as he spoke. He upended a good cup of water onto Harry’s shoes as he did it, so it might well have been intentional.

“Malfoy, shut up.” Harry huffed, shaking his foot to get some of the water off. “I wanted to talk to you about the time–”

“Oh, lovely. Rehashing old memories is exactly what I wanted out of my own personal time loop experience. Five bloody stars this is.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and fixed Harry with a bemused look. “Am I really going to have to do this every day with you? Just my bloody luck. Oh, and no need to call St Mungo’s, I’ll book myself–”

“A nice long stay in a private room?” Harry cut him off. “When you’ve made things stick for longer than a day, that is.” Stepping closer, Harry lowered his voice, flashing Malfoy his best Serious Auror Expression. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t boop me on the nose this time, you colossal wanker.”

Malfoy stared at Harry a moment, blinked, then slammed the shop door in his face.

“Malfoy,” Harry shouted. He banged on the door, not caring one iota that he was probably attracting the attention of every person on the street.

The door swung open, nearly smacking Harry across the face.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, get inside,” Malfoy hissed, as though Harry had slammed the door on himself.

“You’re off your rocker,” Harry muttered. He followed Malfoy into his shop, waiting until the door was warded shut behind him. Malfoy flipped the bright yellow sign on the door to ‘closed’ and spelled the blinds shut over the front window. He fixed Harry with a look that was somewhere between desperation and barely contained hysterical laughter, or tears. That would be most unwelcome, considering the last time Harry had happened upon Malfoy in such a state, he’d nearly offed him.

Stood in the centre of his shop, Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Would you like to explain to me what the fuck is going on, or should I keep guessing?”

A miniature eel tried to bite Harry’s elbow through its glass jaw. He stepped away from the shelf it was sat on, his skin crawling. “Why would I know?”

“Because you’re you. And if going to school with you taught me anything, it’s that ridiculous shite has the tendency to follow you around. You’re a bloody magnet for it.”

Harry shrugged. “You know more than me; I hadn’t thought of a time loop. Is that an actual thing?”

“You …” Malfoy made a noise that sounded like he was screaming with his mouth closed. “How many days has it been for you?”

“Since…?”

“Since this started.” Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “Fucking hell, are your brain cells dying when the day resets? You don’t have many of those to spare, so I’d be mightily concerned if I were you.”

“You’re just as charming as ever.” The eel made another go for Harry’s elbow, batting its open mouth against the glass. He fought the urge to be petulant, to say, why should I tell you?

As irritating as Malfoy was, he was, unfortunately, Harry’s best option thus far.

He’d ditch Malfoy once a better one came along, but there was no light on that particular horizon yet. So he supposed he’d best play along.

“This is day four. Or five, if you count the first one.”

“I do,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “I do count the first one.”

Harry waited for a moment, though no further information was volunteered. “And you?”

“The same.” Malfoy gave a long, overdramatic sigh. “This is some kind of test, isn’t it? The Ministry’s finally lowered itself to illegalities once again.”

“Would this be illegal?” Harry glared at the eel, which wiggled its tail menacingly. “It would probably be classed as surveillance, which, last I checked, wasn’t illegal.”

Malfoy flashed him a shark-like grin. “Yes, you’d know all about that when it comes to me, wouldn’t you? And no, Potter, it would be classed as psychological torture by any sane wizard. So I suggest you report that back to whatever imbecile you answer to these days.”

Harry tilted his head to the side, surveying Malfoy. His body language was awfully closed off, but that was to be expected, given that it was Harry he was talking to. His lips were rather red, actually. Like he’d been biting at them.

“What?” Malfoy demanded. He looked seconds away from stomping his foot like a child. “Have I passed or failed now that I’ve figured it out? I still have a lawyer on retainer, as I’m sure you well know.”

“I don’t know any more about what’s happening than you do.” Harry shook his head and sighed. “It’s not the Ministry. Or not the Auror Department, at least. I would know about it, if it was.”

“Oh, yes, how could I forget?” Malfoy rolled his eyes so dramatically that he actually managed to unbalance himself. He caught himself on a shelf of jars not unlike the one beside Harry, though his didn’t seem to contain pissed off looking fish. One of the jars fell to the floor at Malfoy’s feet, cracking and showering the floorboards with a yellow powder.

“Uh,” Harry said, taking a step back. “That’s not dangerous, is it?”

Malfoy threw him a look that made it clear just how monumentally stupid he found Harry to be. “It’s powdered marigold, Potter, you proper idiot. It was in at least four of the potions we brewed for our N.E.W.T.s.”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t do them, did I?”

“You’ve brewed a potion. At some point in your life, you have brewed a potion. You’re supposed to have basic knowledge of the subject to even be an Auror.”

There was that closed mouth scream again. It was music to Harry’s ears, in a masochistic kind of way.

“Right.” Malfoy tugged at his hair again, tapping a foot against the floorboards. “So to be clear, you have no idea how we’ve both managed to end up in this mess?”

“Yep.”

“And you have no idea how to get us out of it?”

“Nope.”

“And,” Malfoy said, more hysterical than before, “we seem to be the only people who are aware of the day resetting, and thus will likely need to interact in order to fix it?”

“Seems that way, yeah.”

With that, Malfoy strode past Harry and disappeared into one of the back rooms. When Harry followed, pushing aside a heavy beaded curtain, he found Malfoy chugging whisky straight from the bottle, eyes watering.

“This is clearly going to go well,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy lowered the bottle and gasped for breath, glaring at Harry. “I’m not offering you any.”

“Yeah, great,” Harry said cheerfully. “You’ve just made a bad day even shittier, congratulations.”

“I’ve been told that I tend to have that effect.” Malfoy resealed the bottle and leaned against his workbench, palms flat on the wood. He raised an eyebrow at Harry and pursed his lips. “What are we going to do?”

Harry clicked his tongue and glanced over his shoulder. “You planning to clean up the jar you smashed?”

“The loop will do that for me, thanks ever so.” Malfoy grabbed for something on a high shelf and yanked at it. He unravelled an entire roll of what looked like butchers paper, letting it pool on the workbench. He pulled out a padded stool and sunk onto it, smoothing out the paper in front of him. He raised his eyebrows at Harry and jerked his chin at the paper. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Sit down and help me.”

In a turn of events that shocked no one, the brainstorming did not go well.

It seemed as though Malfoy took personal offence to every word that came out of Harry’s mouth, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly at every suggestion. Increasing the volume of said suggestions was the easiest solution that Harry could think of, though it wasn’t particularly effective.

“Have you,” Malfoy huffed loudly, “recently come into contact with a curse, hex, potion, or Dark object of any kind?”

“You asked me this already,” Harry replied, louder still. “Twice. If you still think I’m somehow doing this to you, I swear–”

“Don’t write on that bit, I’m doing something there.” The sharp end of Malfoy’s elbow dug into Harry’s side; it was far pointier than it had any right to be. “For fucks sake, Potter.”

Out of spite, Harry dug his quill in harder.

The parchment ripped.

Malfoy’s eye visibly twitched.

“Hello. Oi, is anyone in there?” A man’s voice, muffled; he was almost certainly standing on the stoop.

“Customers of yours?” Harry asked sarcastically. He paused when Malfoy let his wand drop from his sleeve. He wrapped his fingers around it and stepped towards the door that led from the back room into the main area of the shop. “Uh, bad customers of yours?”

“Nobody’s come in the last few days, not when the sign’s been flipped to closed.”

“I’m sure it’s fine–”

“Are you joking?” Malfoy laughed sardonically. “We’re currently experiencing a rip in space and time. That doesn’t just happen, Potter, you idiot. Someone or something had to cause it, so forgive me for being a little on edge about strangers showing up at my door uninvited.”

A series of bangs sounded, someone knocking firmly on the glass. “Aurors, open up.”

Harry jumped to his feet and followed Malfoy out onto the shop floor. Though the blinds were closed, Harry could see the outline of a number of owls perched on the sill, their wings throwing shadows across the floorboards.

One of the men was immediately recognisable as Densley, a mid-level Auror who always filed his paperwork on time, and who had once bought Harry a beer at one of the only Ministry pub nights he’d been to. Densley’s gaze landed on Harry as soon as Malfoy opened the front door. His expression was serious, as was that of the woman standing next to him. Harry recognised her from one of the hiring panels he’d sat on the year before, though he couldn’t place her name.

“Auror Potter,” Densley said, nodding at Harry. “Are you alright?”

“Uh…” Harry’s gaze flicked to Malfoy, then back to the Aurors. “Yes?”

“You didn’t come into work this morning, sir.” The woman stepped forward, her bright red hair catching the light. Rutherford, that was it.

“Last I checked, being late to work wasn’t an Auror matter.” Malfoy spoke in his usual slow drawl, but there was an undertone there, something strained.

“It is when there’s a safety concern,” Densley replied. He was glaring at Malfoy, Harry realised. Malfoy was glaring back, of course, but he was a prickly bloke; Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen Malfoy smile. Densely, on the other hand, had the demeanour of a stuffed bear. He walked around the halls calling the younger men lads and had a picture of his daughters on his desk. He baked a cake for Gemma’s birthday the year prior when Harry hadn’t had the time. Yet there he was, staring Malfoy down as though an arrest was imminent.

“Uh, I’m fine,” Harry said. “Very fine. Sorry about, uh, not sending an owl earlier. I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Densley stared at Harry for a moment, before turning to glance at Rutherford. “I think you should come back with us, Auror Potter. Just to sort a few things out.”

“I really am fine,” Harry said, trying his best to sound as though everything was normal.

Densley leaned in close to whisper in Harry’s ear, though his voice was loud enough to be heard clearly by both Rutherford and Malfoy. “I’m going to have to insist, Auror Potter. We need to make sure you’re not under the influence of anything or anyone, given your present company.”

When Harry glanced over at Malfoy, he saw him looking downright murderous. His fists were clenched so tightly that Harry felt a flash of concern that Malfoy might actually draw blood.

“Go,” Malfoy said, spitting out the word. “Bugger off back to the Ministry, I’ll deal with this myself. It’s not as though we’re getting anywhere anyway.”

“How gracious of you,” Rutherford muttered.

“There’s a good lad.” Densley paired his words with a pat on the shoulder, steering Harry out onto the street.

Harry supposed that he could have insisted on staying, though what would it really accomplish, aside from raising more suspicion? Malfoy was clearly uncomfortable with that sort of thing, and it wouldn’t do Harry much good to purposefully piss him off at that point in time. Not when he and Malfoy might have to work through the whole insane mess together.

Harry winced when Malfoy slammed the door of the shop shut, the bang reverberating down the quiet street. A few of the owls – official Ministry ones, Harry noted, the kind that had tracking spells embedded into their bracelets – took flight at the harsh sound, hooting and soaring into the air.

“Lovely bloke, that Malfoy,” Densley muttered. He shook his head in a way that looked distinctly disappointed. Rutherford laughed, muttering something back that was likely an insult, though Harry wasn’t paying enough attention to catch it. He echoed their laughs, though his sounded far more hollow.

At least you know the Ministry cares about you, Ron’s voice sounded in Harry’s head. You’re not expendable.

Not anymore, Harry’s own words shot back. They were hazy, the memory of them tinged with alcohol.

That’s got to count for something, Ron had said with a laugh. They’re never letting you go now, mate.

Harry had laughed then too, though his heart hadn’t been in it. In fact, it had sounded just as hollow as the chuckle he let out then, walking down Carkitt Market, away from Malfoy’s shop and away from what was looking to be the only hope he had of getting his shit situation sorted.

*

The area around Malfoy’s shopfront was far busier when Harry returned a few hours later. His skin tingled from the last Detection Charm that Robards had cast on him. His boss’s expression had grown more and more grave as Harry tried to explain that, for the first time in his life, he’d simply forgotten to come to work, and it was a complete coincidence that it happened on the same day that he’d decided to pay Malfoy a social visit. The more he spoke, the more he sounded like Ron trying to convince Hermione that he wasn’t drunk while he was, in fact, horrendously drunk.

“You hate Draco Malfoy,” Robards said, pacing back and forth behind his desk. “We had to restructure the bloody field teams so he wouldn’t sue the entire Department for unlawful harassment.”

Harry fought the urge to question whether looking in someone’s window and frowning at them a few times really constituted unlawful behaviour, but then he remembered counting Robards’ increasing number of grey hairs as they had meeting after meeting with Malfoy’s lawyer. The phrase was no doubt burnt into his brain.

“I, uh, decided to make amends?” Harry forced a smile, though he could feel that it was all teeth.

Robards pointed a finger at Harry. “Go home. Do not visit Draco Malfoy. In fact, don’t visit anyone.”

Harry flashed Robards a salute, left the building, and walked straight to Malfoy’s shop.

Direct order or not, a time loop was afoot.

He picked up a couple of prepackaged sandwiches on the way to Malfoy’s, grabbing them off the floating shelf next to one of the coffee carts. It wasn’t the good one; this one used Tesco Classic, or so Hermione said. Harry was fairly certain she’d had it out with the old witch working the cart once previously and was more than likely motivated by that, but he threw his support behind her regardless.

Most days. What she didn’t know in an endlessly resetting day wouldn’t hurt her.

“Ugh,” Harry muttered, biting into the corner of one of the sandwiches. It was horrendously dry, despite the wetness of what claimed to be mayonnaise. He was fairly certain they were Tesco branded as well, lending credence to Hermione’s theory.

He banged on the door of Malfoy’s shop a few times before there was any acknowledgement of his presence.

Malfoy scoffed as he opened the door, rolling his eyes at Harry “Back so soon? Would’ve thought you’d have wanted to stay with your delightful friends.”

“They’re not friends,” Harry said around another mouthful of simultaneously dry/wet prawn mayonnaise. “They’re coworkers.”

“Just say subordinates and save us all the embarrassment.” Malfoy’s nose screwed up as he stared at Harry’s sandwich. “Why the fuck is there uncooked fish in bread on my doorstep?”

Harry held out the other triangle shaped box. “I got you one too. Hospitality and all.”

Malfoy stared at the proffered sandwich with a similar expression that one might wear when seeing aspic for the first time. “No. I am not going to include ‘thank you’ in that, as bad gifts do not deserve thanks.” He stepped to the side so that Harry would finally walk through the front door. “Besides, I’ve already eaten, so you might as well have both.” An arm shot out to stop Harry from walking further inside. “But you are not eating in here, I work hard to keep pests out of the wares. Bloody thankless job that is. Eat on the stoop for all I care.”

So that was how Harry found himself taking alternating bites of sludgy prawn mayonnaise and dry-as-a-bone chicken and sweetcorn while sitting on the front stoop of Malfoy’s shop. It was a sight better suited for the small hours of a Sunday morning, when everything still had a fuzz to it and your ears felt out of sorts when you stood outside. Not a pleasant weekday morning in the centre of Wizarding London.

“I’ve hit a new low,” Harry muttered to himself as he made eye contact with Oliver bloody Wood, of all people, from across the street. Fit, gorgeous Oliver Wood. Thank God for the time loop or Harry would never pull again.

Malfoy was hunched over his workbench when Harry made his way inside, crumbs safely brushed off his fingers. He was tracing his finger over something he’d written on the butchers paper, mouthing along with it. He had his quill tucked behind his ear, the vibrant white feather curling around the lobe. The nub of it left a tiny dot of ink on his hairline, right by his temple. Harry wondered if anyone had ever told him it was there or if he lived in blissful ignorance.

The relative peace lasted only minutes, abruptly killed when Malfoy called him an imbecile, yet again.

“I can’t tell you about the cases I’ve worked on recently,” Harry sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. His glasses fell onto his lap, bouncing off his thigh. “It’s protocol.”

Malfoy scoffed. His cheeks coloured, petal pink under the high ridges of his cheekbones. “You’re in a fucking time loop. Fuck protocol.”

Despite his years working with the Aurors, Harry still had a lingering fear of an ear-piercing alarm sounding if he so much as hinted at classified information to someone outside the Department. Way back in training, they’d been told a horror story about a bloke who had done just that, spilling everything to a pretty girl he’d met in a bar. She’d gone to the Prophet the next morning, the case had fallen apart, and he’d been booted from the Ministry with a black mark on his name. For someone with a somewhat irrational fear of abandonment, Harry was not about to let that happen to him.

“It’s not that simple,” Harry said, but Malfoy cut him off, words sharp.

“If it were anyone else that you were here with – Granger or Dean Thomas or Terry fucking Boot – you would tell them, wouldn’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth to say no, but the answer was probably closer to yes than he’d be comfortable directly stating. Pissing Malfoy off, while usually a fun activity, was counterproductive in their present situation. Not that he’d spill all the Department’s secrets to just anyone, but Malfoy being, well, Malfoy was certainly something that needed to be taken into consideration.

He didn’t need to answer because Malfoy’s spine stiffened, the silence louder than if he had spoken.

“Well jolly fucking good,” Malfoy muttered. He scribbled something down on the butchers paper, then crossed it out. “I’ll bloody well do it myself then, shall I? No need for you to help, of course.”

“Don’t be a dick–”

“I would advise you to shut the fuck up, Potter,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth.

Harry’s skin started to prickle, his blood pressure rising. “You don’t have to be such a prick about it.”

Malfoy scoffed. “My apologies that I’m not fawning like a sycophant. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve forgotten that not everyone will do that.”

“There’s a difference between that and acting like a wanker.”

Malfoy muttered something under his breath. His fingers tightened around his feathered quill, knuckles white.

“Sorry, what was that? At least have the bollocks to say it to my face.”

“Look.” Malfoy tossed his quill onto the workbench. Harry watched as it rolled a few times, white feather turning over and over. “Let me make this very clear to you; I do not like you. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse that you don’t like me either, but I want to get this sorted. There is no worse fate that I could imagine than spending an eternity with you, of all people. I’d sooner run naked through the streets.”

Harry stood up, letting the stool he’d been sitting on crash into the wall behind him. He shook his head and fixed Malfoy with a glare. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. I see you haven’t changed one fucking bit.”

As he turned to go, he watched Malfoy’s shoulders draw upwards, his spine going rigid. He’d clearly been hit right where it hurt, though Harry certainly wasn’t going to apologise for it. Not now, and definitely not to Malfoy.

*

The first thing Harry did when he rose the next morning was brainstorm what to do with his day. What were you supposed to do if you had unlimited time? Learn a new language? An instrument? Go to the gym and start properly working out like your best mate had been trying to convince you to do for years? Work out how to trade on the stock market?

Sure.

But what Harry did was make a list of bakeries to visit around Islington.

He started with Red Door, a tiny French place off St Peter’s Street, buying croissants in three separate flavours. He stuffed his face with the chocolate one as he walked to Angel Caravel on Prebend. There, he purchased both a hot chocolate and a mocha, carrying his armload of wares to Towpath Gardens. He spread out on one of the benches there, lining up his food and drink, alternating bites and sips in rotation.

After not too long, he began to experience what he first attributed to some kind of land seasickness, his stomach rolling and pitching as he watched a bright red narrowboat go by. The sailor waved to him as he went by, looking jolly fucking happy to be there.

Harry, no longer happy to be there, groaned and clutched at his stomach.

Upon introspection, he realised that eating nothing but sugar that morning was probably what was causing him to feel like utter shit, but who could tell, really. He certainly wasn’t a doctor.

He took another bite of chocolate croissant and groaned anew, stomach protesting.

He took a detour on the way home, stumbling into a Tesco Express and receiving a hefty dose of side-eye from the cashier. He felt a decent bit better after a bottle of water and treated himself to a cappuccino from a coffee cart that smelled like honey and powdered sugar. Feeling a bit bad for the café across the street from the cart, he decided to try his very first macchiato not two minutes later.

His third coffee of the day had the benefit of increasing his walking speed, but it also made his skin buzz rather worryingly. The harried but kind looking woman fixing the sign out the front of the yoga studio asked him if he was alright as he rushed by.

“You don’t look well, love,” she called out. “Come in and practise your downward dog, maybe.”

Seeing as his chakras would just reset when the day did, Harry powered homewards, sweat beading on his brow.

Later, after laying on the couch for a bit and feeling very sorry for himself indeed, Harry trudged upstairs to splash some water on his face.

“You,” he said, pointing at his blurry reflection in the mirror, “have made some poor choices.”

He couldn’t argue with himself on that one.

A photo of his younger self with Ron and Hermione beamed out at him from his mantle when he went back downstairs. It had been taken on a Hogsmeade weekend, likely in Sixth Year, judging by Ron’s haircut.

Harry was struck by a pang of what felt like homesickness, which made little sense given that he was sitting in his own lounge room at that present moment. But it seemed to be exactly that. He’d never gone so long without talking to one of his best friends before. If Hermione was away on a work trip, Ron would come round to knock back a few beers. If Ron was off seeing a Quidditch game in America, Hermione would come round to chat to Harry about his day. If they both went away, they sent Harry a postcard or called him on the Floo or sent him an owl. Not every day, of course, but never longer than a week.

He missed them something awful.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the picture. He watched as his teen-self raised a hand to wave at the camera. Ron had an arm over his shoulders and his chin on the top of Hermione’s head. She was visibly trying to fight a smile but it kept taking over, creeping across her face as she nudged Harry with an elbow.

What would Hermione do? Harry thought to himself.

He then very quickly tried to unthink that thought, because it was fairly obvious what Hermione would do.

Hermione, in her infinite wisdom, would almost certainly put aside any longstanding disagreements and mortal enmities and work with Malfoy to find a solution.

What had Malfoy spent the day doing, Harry wondered. Had he, like Harry, decided to relax and take his mind off their shit situation? There was no way in hell he would’ve bought an armful of cheap pastries and eaten them on a park bench. That was a special experience all Harry’s own. No, Malfoy probably took a Portkey to France, ate at a Michelin starred restaurant, and walked out without paying his bill. Maybe attempted to buy the Eiffel Tower while he was there. That seemed more accurate.

So, discontent with Hermione’s imagined advice, Harry turned to his next best option.

What would Ron do?

Ron, Harry was sure, would flip Malfoy two fingers and run in the opposite direction. Ron would go eat his weight in chocolate frogs or buy a Quidditch team or jump in the Thames, just because he could. Particularly if Hermione was none the wiser and couldn’t point out what a terrible idea those things were likely to be.

The next morning, Harry took Ron’s imaginary advice and resolutely ignored the uneasy feeling in his gut that urged him to go and speak to Malfoy.

Instead, he owled in sick to work and set off for London. Rather than Apparating or taking the Floo, he jumped on the Underground for the first time in years. He’d not taken it since he’d gone with Ron, Dean, Seamus, and Neville on a night out, completely sloshed. Neville had somehow fallen over the ticket scanning machine and ended up in a heap on the other side. Seamus had laughed so hard that he fell over and knocked his head on the wall. They’d only made it from Leicester Square to Covent Garden through the grace of Luna herself, who all but floated down the stairs, leaned Seamus’s weight on one shoulder and Neville’s onto the other, and walked all five of them onto the train. She’d simply blinked when Ron drunkenly begged her not to tell Hermione, but Harry had suspicions that she was fully aware, given her deadpan expression when they all spilled out onto James Street; although, that could have just been exasperation, given that she’d managed to walk there a good ten minutes faster than they’d made it on the Tube.

It was far less exciting when sober; the graffiti and the faint smell of vomit were both far more noticeable.

He got off at Blackfriars and set off along the Thames, determined to walk a good length of it before lunchtime. There were all manner of things to contend with, which kept Harry on his toes. Less hazards of the Dark Wizard variety, but more cyclists and groups of elderly power walkers and students with enormous backpacks and tourists with disposable cameras who stopped every ten metres and took up the entire walkway. Harry was fairly sure that he’d gone at least double the distance that his starting point indicated, given how much weaving and sidestepping he’d had to do.

He left the Thames when he reached Chelsea, feet sore and patience wearing thin. The main streets there offered a number of lunch options, of which he took proper advantage of. He wandered the streets as he ate, stomach thankfully reset after his pastry sugar debacle the day prior. His tired feet eventually took him to the V&A; an impressive building with double doors and more ornately crafted stonework than Gringotts.

Though the rooms there were filled with all manner of colourful, impressive creations, what caught Harry’s eye was the display of green army figurines. They weren’t unlike the ones he’d had once, an entire lifetime ago. He’d collected them from between the couch cushions and under the hallway table, lying dusty and forgotten after Dudley had grown bored of them. He’d hidden them under his mattress in the cupboard under the stairs, tucked away next to the ripped bit of monopoly money and the easter egg wrappers that he balled up and used as marbles. They’d been the only things he had back then that were his.

He had plenty of things now; an entire house filled to the brim with stuff, friends, an overflowing Gringotts vault, a sense of purpose … yet somehow, when the nights turned dark early and there was a chilly breeze blowing, Harry felt nine years old again, huddled under the stairs. It never went away, not fully.

Shaking his head to clear it, Harry wondered, again, what Malfoy was doing. Certainly not staring forlornly at a piece of plastic wearing an army uniform, that was for sure. Malfoy probably had no idea what an army man even was. Harry would bet his entire vault that Malfoy had grown up with all the toys he’d ever wanted, given to him as soon as he’d asked for them. He felt a fresh wave of annoyance at the thought.

As he prepared to Apparate home, he could have sworn that he saw a flash of white-blond in the corner of his eye, turning the corner onto the main street. Before he could fully register it, the person was gone.

*

The next day, Harry went down to the seaside.

Well, up to the seaside, given that Skegness was north of London.

It was also, as Ron would say, ‘a bit fucking grim,’ but Harry didn’t mind so much. It was … quaint? A little kitschy maybe? Either way, the seagulls circling overhead and the distant sounds of children screaming – hopefully from excitement – brought his middling mood up a little.

He’d debated owling Neville that morning, or Flooing, or just popping over there and inviting himself in, but what good would that do? He’d end up having to have the same conversation over and over again and Neville wouldn’t remember any of it. It was beginning to get tiresome, the whole loop business.

Had Malfoy made any progress with his research? Surely he had. Perhaps he’d even managed to find a way out of the loop and had just left Harry there to flounder. He’d definitely do that, if given the opportunity.

Harry ruminated on it as he walked up and down the pier and took a ride in one of the spinning teacups. He turned the thought over in his mind as he ate tikka masala on a bench in front of a pool lounge. He was still thinking about it when he went to bed that night in a cheap B&B that smelled of bleach and cigarette smoke, the wind briny as it brushed past the parted curtains.

It was with a loud gasp and a racing heart that Harry awoke the next morning, sitting upright in bed so fast that his head spun. His thoughts raced by a mile a minute, tangled threads of an endless rollercoaster that refused to stop, of Harry’s hair fading to grey and his hands turning knobbly as the loops increased in speed. He ran his tongue over his teeth to check that they were still there; thankfully, everything seemed to be in order.

Everything except his location.

He panted as he shoved his glasses on roughly and looked around the room.

Gone were the faded wallpaper and floral duvet of the Skegness B&B, the sea breeze and the faint sound of grinding metal. Instead, he was back in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, letting himself fall back down onto the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “Fuck this for a laugh.”

It was incredibly jarring, waking up in a completely different part of the country from where you went to bed. He felt out of sorts all morning, irritable and jumpy. The freezing cold shower very much did not help – and, really, why that day of all days? – and Harry found himself becoming increasingly grumpy as the morning wore on. No hot water, no proper food in the cupboards, no mates to vent to. Life was fucking grim.

And what he needed to do that day was no doubt going to make it even fucking grimmer.

Harry Apparated into Carkitt Market a little before lunch time, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tilting his head down. It would be just his luck that someone from the Auror Department would see him with Malfoy and would kick up a fuss again.

He needn’t have worried because Malfoy wasn’t even there. Harry spent a good five minutes banging on the door, alternating between swift three-punch knocks and tapping out tunes to popular songs; ‘Dance Like a Hippogriff’ made quite a pleasant beat, as did ‘Hoggy Warty Hogwarts’. Despite the impromptu concert, Malfoy didn’t appear.

At first, Harry suspected that he might be hiding in one of the back rooms, operating under the assumption that Harry’s colleagues had come to question him again. That theory was quashed when Harry managed to work the tip of his wand under the door and cast Homenum Revelio. He was more surprised than anything that doing so hadn’t tripped the wards; he’d had to whittle out a bit of the wooden stoop to do it. Ordinarily he’d feel bad about that, but it would just repair itself overnight.

Harry’s stomach started to rumble something awful after the first hour of sitting on Malfoy’s butchered stoop. Enticed by the smell of tomatoes and parmesan, Harry trudged over to Gustoso. He ate his lunch by the front window, sitting at the little table that was typically reserved for those waiting on take away orders. It was mildly embarrassing, both asking to sit outside of the regular dining space and being stared at by every person that walked in the door, but the other tables didn’t have a good enough viewpoint of Malfoy’s shop. At least there he could stare to his heart’s content while he stuffed his face with ravioli and garlic bread. Stakeouts made for hungry work.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think that Malfoy was deliberately staying away just to piss him off.

It wasn’t until it was starting to get dark that Harry finally caught sight of him. He too had his chin tilted down, his face in shadow. He had on a thick knitted jumper that looked far too big for him and looked frightfully similar to those made by Molly Weasley. No doubt it was horrendously expensive and designed to look ‘rustic’ or some rot.

Shoving his half-eaten slice of tiramisu to the side, Harry raced out into the lane.

Malfoy’s eyes widened when he saw Harry, hand instinctively going for his wand before his expression shifted into a resigned recognition. “Potter. We meet again.”

“Yeah.” Harry put up a finger and braced his hands on his knees, panting to catch his breath.

Malfoy let out a snort. “Aren’t Aurors supposed to be fit?”

“I am,” Harry said, between gasps. “I’ve been sitting all day waiting for you, idiot. And I’ve a full stomach.”

“What a hardship,” Malfoy muttered, though he made no move to walk away. “And you waiting on me?” He pretended to swoon. “Merlin, I suppose that a million young witches would kill to hear that, wouldn’t they?”

“And wizards,” Harry supplied. He straightened up, heart rate finally beginning to calm.

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched upwards, but he still looked decidedly unimpressed. “Why are you here? Have you finally figured out that you need my assistance? Come to grovel?”

“I’m not going to apologise.”

“Stubborn as anything,” Malfoy muttered. He turned towards his front door, unlocking the wards with a wave of his wand. His eyes narrowed when he saw the state of his stoop. It looked worse in the light of the street lanterns than it had earlier. “What the fuck happened here?”

“That I might be more likely to apologise for.”

Malfoy’s muttering increased in intensity. The few words that were audible to Harry were stupid and Potter and possibly braindead, but who could tell?

Harry set his shoulders, took a deep breath, and soldiered on. “I think we need to work together.”

“Oh really?” Condescension dripped from Malfoy’s tone. “What a novel thought. Never would have come up with that one myself. They should give you another Order of Merlin for it.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry hissed. “I’m agreeing with you. I think we should do our best to put our shit behind us and try to figure this out. Not being able to talk to anyone or properly do anything is so crap.”

Malfoy’s shoulders seemed to relax a tad. He sighed, though it sounded more forlorn than anything. “Quite.”

Harry’s eyes landed on a paper bag in Malfoy’s hands; it was rectangular and vaguely book shaped. “Where have you been, anyway? I’ve been here since lunch.”

Pointed white incisors sunk into the petal pink of Malfoy’s bottom lip. He gnawed at it, thumb rubbing a circle on the brown paper. He paused for a moment before answering. “I made an attempt at outside research, but the library off Diagon turned me away from the restricted section, as I’m sure you’re overjoyed to hear. There were no books on time magic that were accessible to me as far as I could tell, so I went to the British Museum instead.”

Unable to help himself, Harry raised his eyebrows. There was no wizarding section in the British Museum, he was fairly sure. Magical antiques tended to be held in private collections owned by old Pureblood families. They didn’t give those types of things up easily, as Harry had quickly learned on the job.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Figures that you would never have stepped inside a museum even once in your life.”

“Actually, I went to the V&A the other day. The Victoria and Albert Museum in–”

“I know the one.” His tone was cutting, belaying his irritation. “Don’t look so shocked.” He chuckled once, the sound devoid of humour. “Perhaps we’re not so different after all.”

Though Malfoy’s comment was obviously sarcastic, Harry couldn’t help but turn it over in his mind as he stood there. He’d never, not in a hundred loop days, have expected Malfoy to visit a Muggle museum. Why would he? Harry had heard him laugh, time and time again during their school days, about the stupidity of Muggle inventions, how subpar their artwork was, how silly their culture. It may have been said with the tone and lilt of Lucius Malfoy, but it had still come out of Draco’s mouth.

“I’ll leave you to your crisis of faith, shall I?” Malfoy tapped his foot on the ground and raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“Did you want to…” Harry nodded towards the open shop door. He felt his cheeks heat when Malfoy shot him an amused look.

“No, actually.” Malfoy brushed his hair off his forehead and let out a sigh. He looked quite tired, now that Harry was paying proper attention. His skin looked a little sallow, his eyes dull. “I’m rather tired and there’s nothing more I’d like to do than have a hot bath and a cup of tea. I’ll need to make a proper go of reading this before it pings itself back to the sale shelf come morning.” He threw Harry an exasperated look. “Merlin alive, you can come back tomorrow if you’re so inclined.”

“Tomorrow.” Harry nodded to himself. “Right.”

“Shall we say … seven?”

“Seven?” Harry felt his eyes bug out a little. “No. Too early.”

“Don’t be so bloody difficult. I want to make as early a start as possible so we can get out of this mess.”

Harry spluttered. “I need to wake up first.”

Malfoy’s answering smile was all teeth. “So wake up earlier.”

“I can’t. My wand alarm goes off at 7:30.”

“Ah.” Malfoy blinked. “That … I concede the point.” His expression made it clear just how painful those words were for him to utter. “So, when?”

“No earlier than eight. I need to, you know, shower and stuff.”

“Fine. Be here at eight o’clock sharp.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Harry’s eye twitched.

Malfoy flapped his hand, nearly hitting Harry with his book. “Go on then.”

Harry did, though he made sure to stomp his feet extra hard. It was the principle of the thing. He flipped two fingers over his shoulder when Malfoy laughed at him.

Once home, he regretted not taking his half-finished tiramisu with him when he left Gustoso. He could very much go for a bit of comfort, a consolation prize to soften the blow of having to interact with Malfoy every day for the foreseeable future.

Despite knowing it wouldn’t do anything, Harry set his wand alarm for six o’clock the next morning.

“Take that, universe,” he muttered, before letting himself fall into a deep sleep.

The universe, as expected, did not take Harry’s thoughts into account.

*

“So, what’s the connection here?” Malfoy lifted his cup of tea to his lips, letting the steam curl under his nose. The sight of it made Harry’s skin prickle, imagining his glasses fogging up if he did the exact same thing.

“What connection?”

“Between you and me.” Malfoy inhaled deeply, the corners of his mouth ticking upwards. He’d been working away at the same cup since Harry had arrived an hour ago, seemingly doing more smelling than drinking. “We seem to be the only two people aware of what’s going on. Why us?”

“Uh … we both live in London?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Along with millions of other people.”

“We went to school together–”

“Be serious, Potter.”

“I am.” Harry let out a huff. He glared at Malfoy as the git took a sip of his tea. He’d not offered Harry one, which was rather rude.

Malfoy tapped a finger against his chin. “We both work for the Ministry, although a good chunk of the wizarding community does.”

“You work for the Ministry?”

Malfoy did not work for the Ministry. Harry would know about it if he did. He would have seen Malfoy in the lift or in the Atrium or heard someone having a whinge about him in the hall.

“In a consulting capacity, yes.”

“Where?” Harry cried. “With what Department?”

Malfoy’s expression turned interested. “The DMLE.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“For what? Testing the bloody holding cells? Making sure our Stunners are up to task?”

“Potions information. Unless it’s somehow escaped even your keen eye, I do run a Potions business.”

“Yeah, with … ingredients. You don’t … suspects …” Harry trailed off as Malfoy’s grin grew wider and wider.

Now that he thought about it, folders did seem to just get tossed into his inbox when it came to Potions as a sub-speciality. He didn’t think he’d even been given the name of their Potions consultant; each person was assigned a number for security purposes, but he always found it out. Harry had personally met with all the DMLE’s other consultants. He’d vetted them, picked their brains on a number of cases. It was his job.

All their consultants except for one, apparently.

One that was leaning back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, shit-eating grin on his face.

“That’s not the connection,” Harry said decisively.

“I think it might be. We do work so closely with one another.”

“It’s not. I’ve been into work heaps of times since the loop started and nobody knows anything about it. I asked Robards, I asked Gemma – I even asked Kingsley.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy was back to tapping a finger on his chin. “I still think that’s it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

Malfoy’s mimicry of Harry’s voice as he repeated his words was so high pitched and grating to the ears that Harry actually laughed. Malfoy froze at the sound, his cheeks colouring ever so slightly.

“I don’t know why you’re focusing so much on a connection between us.” Harry tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling. It was just as clean, free of all dust and cobwebs, as the main area of the shop. “There’s always a task or a moral or something that you need to complete. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

“Hang on.” Malfoy’s voice turned serious in a way that sent a tiny shiver down Harry’s spine. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve seen this before? That you have knowledge on this very specific subject that you’ve failed to share?”

Harry tipped his head down to look at Malfoy, who appeared exceedingly pissed. “Haven’t you seen Groundhog Day?”

“A groundhog? You think that a rodent is doing this?” Malfoy stood up and all but sprinted towards the front room of the shop. A loud clanging soon followed, glass jars smacking together. “I have rat poison right here. I could modify it to take down a larger mammal, but the base would stay the same. We’ll be out of this in hours.”

“Malfoy,” Harry shouted. He repeated it when the din didn’t cease. “It’s a movie. I saw it in a movie.”

Malfoy’s head poked through the door. He’d somehow managed to transform his hair into complete disarray, like he’d been on a broom in a windstorm. There was a streak of green on his cheek that, if Harry wasn’t mistaken, looked like pesto.

“So an oversized rat isn’t responsible for this?”

“Uh,” Harry said, snorting to himself. “No, I don’t reckon so.”

Malfoy let out a muffled screeching sound as he disappeared from view.

“Sorry to get your hopes up,” Harry called out. Later, when Malfoy was seated back at the workbench with a foul expression on his face, Harry asked again if he’d seen the movie.

“No,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth.

“Figures.” Why he’d expected Malfoy to have seen a Muggle film, he didn’t know.

“Perhaps I should watch it. For research purposes.”

“You’d watch it? Really?”

Malfoy bit down on his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. “If you genuinely think it will help, I suppose.”

And Harry was absolutely not going to turn down the opportunity to see Malfoy watch a Muggle film. He’d hate it, Harry was certain.

“Speaking of help, where are Granger and Weasley? I thought you three had become surgically attached at the hip?”

“Not here.”

“Obviously.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “How many times have you had to explain all this to them now?”

“No times.”

“Potter. We are working together here. This could be important. In fact, it is important. We’re both aware that Granger could speed up this process tenfold.”

“They’re not here,” Harry said again. “They’re visiting Hermione’s parents in Australia. I haven’t spoken to them at all.”

Malfoy hummed, his tone turning interested. “And you don’t think it’s rather curious that this would happen at the exact time that you’re separated from your inner circle? It would be perfect for catching you unawares, leaving you without help.” He reached for a quill and scribbled something down on his trusty butchers paper.

“I still don’t think that someone’s doing this to hurt me. It doesn’t feel malicious or Dark, and I’m well aware of what that feels like. I’m tired when I wake up, but it’s because I’ve had a shit sleep, not because I’m being drained by a curse. The only thing that feels cursed is the cold fucking shower, but I don’t think that’s related to the loop.”

A furrow appeared between Malfoy’s brows as he frowned at Harry. “Time can’t feel malicious, Potter, that’s nonsensical. That doesn’t mean that you’re not cursed. You being the target of some nefarious plot is still our best lead.”

Harry threw his hands up. He didn’t know why he bothered speaking if Malfoy wasn’t going to listen. “Why me and not you, then?”

“Oh, I’ve become used to being collateral damage when it comes to you, Potter. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that it’s happened again.”

Chapter Text

Going down to the Ministry archives had been Malfoy’s latest bright idea. It was exactly the kind of place that Harry could picture Hermione in, endless rows of shelves and bookcases, stuffed almost to the point of collapse, crowded with files and boxes and thickly bound books. Harry had been down there a few times to grab old case files, though he’d always had an assistant with him. If he didn’t call for one himself, then one would materialise almost like magic when he got down there. Even if you didn’t see the archivists that worked among the stacks, they saw you.

That was exactly why he was in no way surprised when Malfoy was – quite literally – thrown out of the archives and out onto the street.

Harry stood in the doorway of one of the back exits to the Ministry, watching as Malfoy brushed grime off the seat of his trousers. He’d landed squarely in the middle of the pavement, feet in the gutter, looking rather fucking sad, if you didn’t know who he was. The type of bloke who looked so down on his luck that you might offer him the Greggs sausage roll you’d just bought, rather than eating it yourself.

If, like Harry, you did know who Malfoy was, then the sight of him was just funny.

“Stop laughing,” Malfoy hissed. He grimaced at the black streak that marred his palm, picked up from some unmentionable section of the pavement on which he’d unceremoniously landed. “No unauthorised access,” Malfoy muttered, mimicking the nasally drone of the elderly witch who had tossed him out. “Honestly, who lets a bloody volunteer decide who gets access to Ministry files?” He rounded on Harry, pointing a finger between his eyes. “You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?”

Harry shrugged. “I did say–”

“You could have at least tried to throw your weight around. Does being Deputy Head Auror grant you no authority anymore?”

“Not over the archives, no. Different section of the Ministry.”

“Useless.” Malfoy stepped into the shadow of an alcove, the one that hid the exit door that they’d been booted out of; to Muggle eyes, it appeared to be a boarded-up storefront, paint flaking from exposure to the elements. He hunched over and pulled his wand out, spelling his hands clean. “Tomorrow, we’re doing it with a proper plan.”

“Oh, a proper plan? So you admit that this one was shite, then?”

Malfoy pursed his lips, looking very much like he wanted to deck Harry right there in the middle of the street. “Same time tomorrow. Bring your Cloak.”

*

Though he knew full well that Malfoy’s revised plan wouldn’t work either, he still went along with it. It was more than a little amusing to see him fail, knock him down a peg. He met Malfoy out the front of his shop bright and early, steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Malfoy glared at him, then at the cup, then at the heavy coat that Harry had chosen to wear, despite it not being in any way appropriate for the season, and sighed heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, pale brows drawing together. He looked so deeply pained as he said, “Please tell me that you didn’t wear that because I said to bring a cloak.”

Patting the folded-up Invisibility Cloak that rested inside his pocket, Harry replied, “No idea what you mean. My assistant said this one’s very fashionable.”

It was fun for all of ten seconds, before Malfoy’s entire head turned red, and he pulled out his wand. Feeling in real danger of being hexed in the middle of the street, Harry rolled his eyes and told Malfoy to give it a rest.

“I’ve got it here – don’t have a fit.”

“You are, quite honestly, the most annoying person I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. It’s a wonder you even made it to your first birthday and your parents didn’t just pitch you right out the window.” With a flourish, Malfoy whirled around and began to strut his way down the street in the direction of the Ministry.

He didn’t stop when they reached the Atrium, stalking toward the lifts as though he had every right to be there.

Which, fuck, maybe he did, given the whole ‘Ministry consultant’ part of his job.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, grabbing the aforementioned git by the elbow and steering him in the direction of the coffee cart. “You need to put it on before we get in the lift; what if someone gets off at the same floor and then thinks you’ve done a runner?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, though he did allow himself to be led. “What, like some common criminal?”

“That’s pretty close to accurate for you, yeah.”

“I was pardoned,” Malfoy hissed. His eyes landed on the door to the men’s toilets. He held out a hand, lifting his eyebrow when Harry didn’t immediately deposit the Cloak there.

“I’m not giving it to you where everyone can see; it’s a restricted item.”

Being seen entering a public bathroom stall with Malfoy was definitely one of Harry’s more questionable ideas, but it wasn’t as though anyone would remember seeing them. It occurred to Harry as he watched Malfoy disappear under the Cloak, that they probably could have done the exchange on the very top of the statue in the middle of the Atrium and it wouldn’t have mattered one iota in the long run.

In order to make sure they got down to the archives undetected, Harry had to keep the seemingly endless waves of Ministry workers from walking into Malfoy’s invisible form. The best way to do that once they got into the lift was to shove Malfoy in a corner and stand right in front of him. That position also had the added benefit of allowing him to be a nuisance to the one person who deserved it.

Grinning, Harry leaned back against Malfoy, making sure to use his elbows to manoeuvre into a position that was comfortable for him but incredibly irritating for Malfoy, if his huffs were any indication. Harry stepped on the toe of Malfoy’s boot when Malfoy kicked him in the ankle, no doubt jostling the Cloak.

“Oh, Mister Potter!” Mrs Jones shuffled into the lift, stepping in front of the woman who had been next in line to enter. She blocked the entrance, seeming completely unconcerned with the disgruntled grumbling from those still in line. “Thank dear Molly when you get the chance, would you? Godric’s been much perkier since I introduced those herbs into his diet. Goodness, what a mess all that’s been.” She stood far too close, fixing Harry with a beady stare. “You smell awfully nice today, dear. Have you finally found a lovely lady to do your laundry? My, we do worry about you at times.”

There was a choked sound from behind Harry as Malfoy struggled to muffle his laughter.

Mrs Jones turned her shrewd gaze to a spot over Harry’s right shoulder, her eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Harry cried, leaning back further against Malfoy and ramming his heel against Malfoy’s shin. “Uh, Angelina Johnson, we’ve, uh, shacked up.”

Mrs Jones gasped. “Isn’t she married to one of the Weasley boys?”

Harry shook his head and pasted on his best faux sad expression. “Ugly divorce. Hasn’t made the papers yet. But my washing’s all taken care of now, so that’s something.” He kicked Malfoy again.

A sharp pain flared across the top of Harry’s shoulder, making him jump half a foot in the air as Mrs Jones turned the conversation back to her cat’s diet.

“And so I’ve got Godric on – Merlin, are you alright, dear?”

“Yep,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “Just remembered that I was supposed to feed George’s cat this morning.”

“Not Molly’s George?” She was visibly horrified.

“Uh…” Harry watched as the lift doors opened onto level six. “I got him in the divorce. The cat. And Angelina, obviously. Nice talking with you, Mrs Jones.” He gave the old woman a jaunty wave as she stepped out of the lift, mouth open.

Malfoy waited only a moment before shoving Harry forward with his entire body weight, sending him careening across the thankfully empty lift. His face smashed into the grate in an unwelcome imitation of the first time he’d been to the Ministry with Arthur, back in his fifth year of school.

“You,” Malfoy said, yanking the Cloak off his head and fixing Harry with a dumbfounded look, “are an utter, blithering idiot.”

“Did you fucking bite me?” Harry cried, rubbing furiously at his shoulder.

“No,” Malfoy lied, pulling the Cloak back over his head. “I’ll fucking do it again if you so much as put your foot in my direction.”

Harry resisted the urge to tackle Malfoy against the wall, which was rather good of him.

The lift doors slid open to reveal a thankfully empty hallway, though Harry could hear hushed conversations overlapping in the distance. Keeping his head down, he walked towards the entrance to the archives with Malfoy on his heels. There was a woman sitting at the front desk, the same one who had materialised and thrown Malfoy out the day before. Her eyes widened in recognition when she saw Harry, though she quickly settled into a professional spiel that he was now well familiar with.

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Harry said, shooting her a thin smile. He could feel Malfoy breathing down the back of his neck.

They got maybe ten steps into the archives before an alarm sounded, a high-pitched ringing that had Harry clapping his hands firmly over his ears.

The one thing more unpleasant than that, however, was the elderly woman rising from behind the desk and screeching unauthorised access over and over, as though that would make the message really sink in. The sound of Malfoy running away was nearly drowned out by the racket, but not quite. The woman’s head turned to follow the sound, mouth agape.

Harry’s ears were ringing when he finally made it out onto the street. His shoulder was properly smarting too, a phantom imitation of Malfoy’s ridiculous method of protest. He was rubbing at it when he caught sight of Malfoy lurking round the corner, looking every bit the not-quite-convicted criminal that he was. Harry stomped over, trying his best not to glare at anyone who happened to be crossing the street at the same time he was.

“I can’t believe you ran away,” Harry muttered, grabbing the Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his pocket. “At least see the plan through to the end.”

“What, to the cells?”

“Sure, if you like.”

“I have no desire to be stuck in a small room with you, I can assure you.”

Harry pointed at his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “My shoulder hurts.”

Malfoy shot him the most gormless look Harry had ever seen, and that was saying something. “Are you five?”

“You bit me.”

“Yes, well, you were being rather annoying. Stop bringing it up, we have work to do.”

Despite being knocked back twice now, Malfoy was reluctant to give up the lead he’d latched onto. In his mind, the archives were the be all and end all of getting out of the loop and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

After the third hour of watching him scrawl out battle plans on a piece of parchment that he wouldn’t let Harry touch, Harry began to lose interest.

“You’re really bloody obsessive, aren’t you? Seems pathological. Like the type of thing you’d hear about on a police news broadcast.”

Malfoy didn’t react, content to continue scribbling down what looked like a mathematical equation. “Some people would say that my ability to focus is a positive aspect of my character.”

“Yeah, well, you’d take what you can get, wouldn’t you?”

“At least I’m doing something.”

“I’m … doing something.” Harry put down the quill he’d been attempting to spin on the tip of his pointer finger. “I’ve seen Muggle basketballers do this, it looks really cool if you get it right.”

Shooting him an exasperated look, Malfoy shook his head. “I’ve no idea what that sentence even means.” He snapped his fingers in front of Harry’s face. “Focus. You’ve a job to do tomorrow.”

“I’ve always got a job. Even in the bloody time loop someone’s given me a job.”

“Oh, how difficult it must be to be sought after. Poor Potty.” Malfoy shoved a bit of parchment in Harry’s direction; thankfully one with writing on it rather than numbers and squiggly lines. “You’re going to the archives tomorrow and you’re going to look for books on chronological displacement. Dippets, Merwood, and Clearwater are the best in the field, so even better if you can find something by one of them. Bring back whatever you can, memorise what you can’t.”

Harry glanced between Malfoy and the parchment. “Fat lot of good that’ll do me.”

“Idiot,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “I’ve written it all down here. Just–”

“And in the morning that piece of parchment will be where, exactly?”

“Fuck.”

*

Malfoy dutifully copied the list the next morning, shoving it into Harry’s hand through the letter box.

“What, you’re not going to come out and see me off?” Harry pulled his fingers back before Malfoy could close the slot on them.

“Thought I’d have a lie-in, actually. Let you pull your weight for once.”

Malfoy did sound a little tired now that Harry thought about it. Not that he thought about it much, because why would he care? He didn’t, so he wasn’t about to spend any time on it.

Harry lurked around the Atrium, waiting until Mrs Jones entered one of the lifts before joining the line. He made small talk with one of the witches from Games and Sports about the Falcons’ odds for the season (dreadful) and the new pastry offerings at the Atrium coffee cart (fuck all). He was feeling rather accomplished, however, because he’d not been kicked, bitten, or verbally eviscerated all morning. It was downright peaceful.

The witch at the archive desk waved Harry through as easily as she had the second time; no alarms sounded, and Harry was free to wander through the aisles at his leisure.

Now his only issue was that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

Harry wasn’t a research guy. He was a do things guy. A jump in with both feet guy. An action guy.

Research was Hermione’s thing. Or Gemma’s, or a trainee Auror’s, or the job of whatever admin assistant he’d been assigned that day.

It was like being back in first year at school, trying to make heads or tails of the moving staircases. Harry bumbled down the aisles, alternating between staring at the parchment in his hands, and peering up at the signs that seemed to be in Latin. Perhaps they were even written in code. You shouldn’t need a cipher to find a regular old book in a government library. An elected government. They were supposed to be of the people. The dead language of Latin wasn’t of the people.

Regardless, Harry was more than a little fucked.

Malfoy’s words from the night before rung clearly in his ears – don’t look at anyone, don’t speak to anyone, don’t let your pockets get searched, don’t ask for help, don’t tell anyone what you’re doing, blah, blah, blah.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering around aimlessly and mentally crying over Latin script, the word ‘time’ caught Harry’s eye – embossed golden letters on a purple spine. Though he walked up and down the aisle a good four times, there didn’t seem to be any books on chronological displacement that Harry could see. He did find a novella on moon phases by Argustus Merwood, which he leafed through. No doubt that wouldn’t be good enough for Malfoy, though.

A wrench in the already dubious plan was the sheer number of people who seemed set on inserting themselves into Harry’s business.

“Alright, dear?” Ingrid from Finance asked, stopping to chat as she Levitated a stack of files down one of the rows.

“Slow morning upstairs, eh?” said Angus from the Floo repair division.

“Did you catch the game over the weekend, Deputy?” asked Trainee Auror Marcus – why he was down in the archives, Harry hadn’t the faintest. He definitely had fieldwork to do.

He couldn’t go five minutes without someone stepping round the shelves and trying to engage him in idle conversation. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think there was a sign in the Atrium detailing his live location, topped off with an invitation to bother him without punishment.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t make real sense of any of the research in front of him. He’d tried to make notes on the backside of Malfoy’s parchment, but it just ended up being loose dot points, like moon = gravity and time maybe not linear?? and black holes – Merwood says yes.

Bloody hell.

As much as it pained him to think about it, the two of them would have been better off if Malfoy had been able to take the lead. He’d likely have been able to pick apart the concepts in the stodgy old books, given his apparent base knowledge on the subject. He probably knew Latin as well, the bastard. The Malfoys seemed exactly the type to get their kid a Latin tutor.

Harry’s eyes unfocused as he attempted to read the words electromagnetic waves for the third time in a row. With a deep sigh, he closed the book and stood up, leaning against the shelves as he waited for his sudden headrush to clear. Might as well take a few of the books to Malfoy and see what he could do with them, he supposed. If he could pull something from them, the day wouldn’t be a complete waste.

The witch at the front desk took on a pained expression when Harry put the books down and asked to check them out, telling him that he didn’t have authorised access – Harry was going to hear those words in his sleep – to do so. Reading them in the stacks was fine, apparently, but taking them off the premises was not.

Harry debated turning around and slipping the books under his jumper, but the thought of the dreaded alarms going off again stopped him. It was downright bloody embarrassing getting caught out for sneaking around as an adult, let alone with a bunch of books stuffed up his shirt.

Malfoy looked properly unimpressed but not all too surprised when Harry returned to his shop empty handed. His eye twitched when Harry presented him with the notes he’d scrawled on the back of the parchment but he kept his thoughts to himself.

“It was a long shot, anyway,” Malfoy sighed, crumpling the parchment in his fist. He stared at the ball for a moment, turning it around on his fingertips before letting it drop to the floor with a soft thump. He slapped himself on the forehead and turned to Harry, eyes wide.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did you just have a stroke?”

“Maybe. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. You’re going to go down to the Department of Mysteries, explain the situation, and ask if they have any insight into what the fuck is going on. I cannot believe I didn’t think of that.”

Harry blinked, watching as Malfoy gave himself an honest to God pat on the back. “Do you want to explain how you know that the Department of Mysteries even exists? I know they don’t give you that information as a consultant, it’s the most secret Department in wizarding Britain.”

Malfoy shot him a deadpan look. “Let’s just say that my father knew a lot about what went on in the Ministry and passed along that knowledge. Liberally.” Smirking, Malfoy continued, “And if you really think that’s the most secret Department, you haven’t opened your eyes.”

Harry chose to ignore that comment for his own sanity. “I can’t just go down there, it’s under Fidelius. Hence the secret Department thing.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “You’re Deputy Head Auror.”

Harry shrugged. “Robards probably knows where it is, but I don’t.”

“Didn’t your lot break in during fifth year? I seem to remember a number of small bats flying out of my nostrils in the lead up to that particular incident. Traumatic, the whole thing.”

“They did something to the area after we messed it up. Changed it around and all.”

“Describing all but destroying the entire Time Division as messing it up is downplaying rather a lot, wouldn’t you say?”

“Seriously, how do you know about this?”

Malfoy flapped a hand in Harry’s direction. “That doesn’t matter. Can you do it or not?”

Chewing on his lip, Harry considered it. There was no way that Robards would disclose anything without due cause, and Harry had no legitimate reason to ask – nothing that he could prove, anyway. In fact, he’d likely get written up just for asking. Kingsley would assume he’d been Confunded if he made any real attempts to get the information, and they’d keep him under lock and key for the rest of the day while they made sure that he was still of sound mind.

“The odds,” Harry said, pointing two finger guns at Malfoy and pretending to fire, “aren’t good.”

Malfoy picked up the ball of parchment and threw it at Harry’s head. “What are you, a magic eight ball?” He ignored Harry’s questions about how he knew what a magic eight ball was, preferring to pitch the parchment ball at his head again. “I have another idea. I already hate it and you will too.”

We have to kiss, Harry thought.

“No,” Harry said out loud.

Malfoy peered at him. “I haven’t told you what it is yet.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Go on.”

“There must be clues that we’re missing. We’ll each follow each other for a day and see if there’s anything we can pick up; any odd characters lurking about, stray spells, cauldrons bubbling under desks that have gone unnoticed, that sort of thing.”

“You still think someone’s targeting me, don’t you?”

“Of bloody course I do, Potter. Do you agree or are you going to be difficult again?”

“I’m not difficult,” Harry said, difficultly.

“Good.”

Malfoy rubbed a hand over his forehead, looking far more tired than he had in previous days. Harry wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or suspicious about that, so he decided to be neither.

Instead, he bid Malfoy goodbye and went and had a long, fulfilling lunch at Gustoso and definitely didn’t think about Malfoy at all.

*

Having Malfoy follow him around all day was, predictably, a great bloody nuisance.

When Harry arrived at the shop in the morning, lips sticky from the honeyed pastry he’d eaten as he commuted, Malfoy was already there waiting. He didn’t look quite as tired as the day before; instead, a determined expression coloured his face. He had on a tweed coat that looked like something that Arthur might wear – a fact that Harry immediately told him.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and pushed his hair back off his forehead. The strands looked damp still, which was another interesting change from the previous days. “I wasn’t aware that any wizard of Weasley origin had taste but thank you for correcting me. Perhaps I’ll send him a fruit basket.” He hiked his leather bag up higher on his shoulder, tapping his foot on the cobblestones.

“You realise you’re not working today, yeah?” Harry’s eyes fell to the expensive looking brogues on Malfoy’s feet. Ridiculous. “You’re following me around, there’s no need to impress anyone.”

Malfoy’s expression turned sharklike, a twinkle dancing in his eye. “Are you saying I look impressive, Potter? My, my.”

“You’ve never been impressive in your life.”

Malfoy clicked his tongue and began walking. “That may be a protest, but it’s certainly not a denial.”

Harry ignored the beads of sweat that had begun to prickle at his temple. He was so caught up in coming up with a good rebuttal that he forgot to keep an eye out for Mrs Jones. She ended up in the lift with them again, shouldering her way to the front of the line and blocking anyone else from boarding.

“Oh, Mister Potter,” she shrieked, shuffling closer, despite the already close proximity. “You simply must thank–”

“I’ll let Molly know that the herbs worked,” Harry said, giving her a thin smile. “She’ll be thrilled.”

“Thrilled,” Malfoy muttered, shaking his head. He nodded at Mrs Jones when she turned her shrewd gaze in his direction. “Did you know that Potter was discovered to have the IQ of a walnut? It’s a wonder they even let him in this place.”

Mrs Jones let out a girlish giggle, swaying slightly on her feet. She didn’t glance at Harry, not even when he shot her a look that hopefully displayed the level of betrayal he was feeling. “Oh, you must be the Malfoy boy. Dreadful business with your parents, wasn’t it?”

“Uh…” Malfoy’s gaze slid in Harry’s direction for a moment. “Yes.”

“Quite.” Mrs Jones opened her bag and began to rummage. “I’ve a niece your age who would make a lovely–”

“Great chatting with you, Mrs Jones, but you don’t want to miss your floor.” Harry gently guided her out of the lift and closed the grate before she could protest. He glared at Malfoy when the git gave their companion a jaunty wave. He wasted no time before whipping out a quill and a piece of parchment, writing down Mrs Jones’s name on it.

“She’s our first suspect,” Malfoy informed him, inking the final letter with a flourish. “She clearly has motive.”

“What, because Molly gave her herbs for her cat?”

“No, because she’s borderline obsessed with you.”

Though it was annoying, Harry was forced to concede. “I don’t think she’s quite mental enough to have trapped me in a time loop though.”

“That remains to be seen.” Malfoy stepped in front of Harry so that he could leave the lift first, nearly tripping him over in the process. “What’s next?”

“Next is Gemma.” Grinning, Harry wiggled his eyebrows at Malfoy. “She’s going to hate you.”

In fact, Gemma did not hate Malfoy.

Malfoy did not hate Gemma.

Harry, however, had been given a new reason to hate his life.

Gemma looked surprised when Harry walked into the office with Malfoy in tow and she made no attempt to hide it.

“Who’s your friend?” she asked, looking Malfoy up and down.

Malfoy stepped forward and held out his hand for her to shake. “Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure.”

The widening of Gemma’s eyes could surely have been seen from space. “Are you really?”

“We’ve recently buried the hatchet,” Malfoy explained. His expression looked nauseatingly sincere.

“And you’re here because…?”

“He’s my intern,” Harry said, stepping in front of Malfoy. “My adult intern.”

“Now, now, Potter, there’s no need for secrecy here, not with … Gemma, was it? Gorgeous name. I’m an outside consultant tasked with developing some new processes to streamline the Department, and I’d love to get your expert thoughts on the matter.”

That was all it took to set Gemma off. She outlined, in excruciating detail, everything from the quality of tea in the breakroom, to the general insult that was Zacharias Smith. Malfoy listened with rapt attention, elbow on Gemma’s desk as he nodded along, taking notes as he went.

The sudden appearance of Mary Had a Little Lamb was a welcome reprieve, until he remembered that Malfoy would be joining him in his cramped office.

The infuriating man from the Maltese Ministry was none too pleased to find Malfoy there when he stuck his head through the Floo. Harry waved him off and attempted to blow through the stack of Apparition Forms as quickly as possible. Regardless, it still took long enough that Malfoy began to rifle through Harry’s personal belongings, opening drawers and picking things up off the bookshelf.

“Stop it,” Harry hissed when Malfoy got on his knees to look underneath Harry’s desk.

“Sorry?” the Maltese man asked, brows furrowing.

“Not you,” Harry said, shaking his head. “There’s a … pigeon loose in the office. Really annoying.” He winced when Malfoy kicked him, though he managed to hide it from the Ministry worker.

“Good news,” Malfoy said, once Harry finally closed down the Floo call. “Your office doesn’t appear to have been tampered with in any way, aside from your truly abysmal décor choices.” He spun Harry’s wheely chair around in a circle. “Also, your job is really fucking boring.”

“Try having that call for the … I don’t even know anymore, fourth? Fifth time?”

Malfoy glared at Harry when he forcibly stopped the rotation of the chair. “I like Gemma. I don’t think she’s cursed you. And by extension, me.”

There was a knock at the door and the woman herself stuck her head through. “Oh, good, I was half expecting you two to be bent over in the buff. Biscuits?”

Harry declined, stomach rolling. Malfoy looked just as green as Harry felt.

“Auror Dawlish is ready for you in Conference Room 11,” she said, voice dripping with faux sweetness, as she closed the door.

“I take it back,” Malfoy said, “I don’t like her, and I definitely think she cursed you. She just cursed me with that horrendous mental image.” He shuddered. “Actually, I’d rather forget it. Let’s get on with something more interesting, yes? I’m bored.”

“Sorry that I’m not entertaining enough,” Harry replied. He kicked at the base of the wheely chair, sending Malfoy careening across the room. “Come on, Dawlish is a proper wanker if he has to wait.”

The expression on Dawlish’s face when Malfoy followed Harry into the conference room almost made the whole time loop ordeal worth it. His mouth dropped open and his eyebrows climbed so high they almost merged with his receding hairline.

“Auror Potter,” he drawled, sliding his wand into his hand, “I wasn’t aware that we were bringing convicted criminals to confidential briefings now.”

“Don’t mind him.” Harry made a mental note to bring the Invisibility Cloak next time they did this.

“Acquitted criminal, thank you,” Malfoy said brightly. He slid into the chair opposite Dawlish and folded his hands on the table, looking between them expectantly. “So, what are we doing today?”

“Shut up,” Harry whispered.

“Potter,” Dawlish said, his tone a warning.

Malfoy held his hands up and leaned back in his chair.

“He’s here for a reason,” Harry said, flipping open the topmost file that Dawlish had brought with him. “Don’t ask me what it is, it’s confidential.” Drawing on his knowledge from the previous two times he’d already had that very meeting, Harry immediately began divvying up the Aurors assigned to fieldwork duty without waiting to be prompted. Dawlish looked more than a little impressed and was highly satisfied with Harry’s picks. As he should be, because they’d been his suggestions a few days ago.

“I must say,” Dawlish said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand for Harry to shake, “I’m impressed. Very impressed. You’ve certainly got my vote when Robards moves up, Potter.”

Smiling sheepishly, Harry tried very hard to ignore the snort that came from Malfoy’s direction.

After that came more of the same, hashing out mission plans with Proudfoot and then Bell. Malfoy grew considerably more bored as the hours ticked by, though Harry was thankful that he didn’t start rifling through files or spinning on his chair this time. Instead, Malfoy injected unhelpful comments into the discussion, then sat back as though waiting for Harry to hex him. It was only after Proudfoot finally stared him down and asked if he was genuinely simple enough that he thought Amsterdam was likely to be snowed out in July, that Malfoy finally shut his mouth.

Malfoy slipped out in the scant thirty seconds between Proudfoot leaving and the junior Aurors filing in for a team meeting. He returned a short while later with a boxed sandwich in each hand, likely procured from the Ministry cafeteria. Bursting in without knocking, he stopped short in the doorway, comically evil smirk freezing on his face, as the eight junior Aurors all turned to stare at him in bafflement.

Rubbing his forehead, Harry muttered, “Don’t ask,” which seemed to be good enough for everyone there. Thank Merlin for seniority and a collective hero worship complex.

Malfoy sat off to the side, munching on whatever he’d managed to procure for himself. He kept jotting things down on a piece of parchment, earning him a healthy dose of side-eye from more than a few of Harry’s colleagues when it happened at particularly sensitive times. Harry himself was in no way concerned with Department confidentiality anymore and thus did not give a single fuck. Malfoy could have noted down the Ministry’s self-destruct codes and Harry wouldn’t have batted an eye. At this point, he might even help Malfoy use them.

Harry’s head was starting to throb something awful when the meeting finally wrapped up and the junior Aurors trickled out. Most made absolutely no attempt to hide their curiosity about Malfoy’s presence, openly whispering to each other as they left.

One of the boxed sandwiches hit the table in front of Harry with a thwap, making him jump.

“I did get one for you,” Malfoy said. “We’ve not eaten all day and I’m not completely horrible.”

Turning the box over in his hands, Harry couldn’t help but grimace. “Seagrass on rye? Are you trying to keep my cholesterol down?”

“I picked the foulest option available. It was a fair guess, considering the raw seafood one you ate the other day.”

Harry grumbled but did unwrap the sandwich. The brown bread was so dry that it stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was able to be pried off only by the slimy wet tendrils of seagrass that sat between each slice. It was, quite possibly, the most dreadful thing Harry had ever put in his mouth – and he’d once sucked off Marcus Thornby after a seven-hour long Quidditch match.

“Is it really that bad?” Malfoy’s smirk had taken on a new life – he looked properly fucking delighted watching Harry suffer. “I think there’s black pepper on there at least.”

“The bread’s worse than the seagrass.”

“Fuck.”

Harry summoned one of the empty glasses stacked at the end of the conference table and filled it with water, determined to get the sandwich down if it was the last thing he did. Neither Malfoy nor stale rye bread were going to win.

It was at that moment that Smith walked in. He paused, staring at Harry for a beat. What a sight he must have made – cheeks bulging with bread, water beading on his lips.

“Are you free, Auror Potter, or are you training for an eating contest?”

As much as he wanted to tell Smith to fuck off, he’d agreed to a proper run through of his day. That, unfortunately, also included his meeting with Smith.

Swallowing heavily, Harry shook his head. “Come in, I was just finishing up.”

The smug look was wiped from Smith’s face the instant he caught sight of Malfoy. His lip curled as though he’d smelled something dreadful, and his face paled ever so slightly.

“Potter, is this on the agenda?” Malfoy asked through gritted teeth.

Content to ignore him, Harry signalled for Smith to take the chair opposite him. The quicker this started, the quicker it would be over. “What’s your pitch?”

If he’d thought that Malfoy was bad earlier, it was nothing compared to how he acted around Smith. There were exaggerated yawns, snide comments, and even a genuine threat muttered under his breath. That last one had Smith whirling around in his chair, only to be met with a saccharine sweet smile from Malfoy.

“I’d really rather we conducted this meeting privately,” Smith hissed, lips thinning as he pressed them tightly together.

“What, afraid I’ll knock another one of your pretty teeth out?” Malfoy batted his eyelashes like some swooning Victorian woman. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking expectant. “I can, if you like. You need only ask.”

Smith turned to gape at Harry. “Are you really going to let him threaten me like that? In the middle of the DMLE?”

“I’ll look over your pitch tomorrow,” Harry replied, fully content to ignore him. “Swing past Gemma on your way out and she’ll find a time.”

“Thank you, Auror Potter,” Smith said, standing up stiffly. He shook his head when he looked at Malfoy, face going red. “The likes of you should never have been allowed to set foot inside the Ministry again. You should have been locked up and the key obliterated.”

Malfoy waggled his fingers in the air. “Bye, Zacharias, you interminable git.”

“Good mates, are you?” Harry listened as Smith’s stomps grew quieter and quieter. “I’d’ve thought the two of you would get on, considering you’re both insufferable wankers.”

“That,” Malfoy said, gasping dramatically, “is a horrendous thing to say to a person. Being compared to Smith is the lowest of lows. Not even Grindelwald deserves that.”

Pausing, Harry asked, “Did you really knock out one of his teeth?”

“He deserved it.”

That, Harry could believe. He’d wanted to do the same more than once over the years.

Malfoy yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “What now? I take it you head home to wallow in misery for the rest of the evening?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “How do you feel about strip clubs?”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped. He stared at Harry for a moment, mouth opening and closing. “You’re not serious. You’re not.”

Harry grinned. “No. But I could be.”

“Fuck’s sake, I thought this day was finally about to get interesting.” Malfoy sighed dramatically. “Well, I’d best follow you home, then. Perhaps you somehow manage to piss off a Demiguise on the way there.”

Harry stuck his head into the office to wish Gemma good luck on her date, laughing when she hinted at calling in sick for a day that seemingly would never come. Malfoy eyed him curiously as they talked, lips slightly pursed as though attempting to solve a puzzle.

There was a light breeze outside, an unwelcome chill rising in the air. Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and squared his shoulders, taking care to walk closer to Malfoy in an attempt to have him block the wind.

“You do realise that I’m supposed to be walking you home?” Malfoy’s hair kept falling over his forehead and into his eyes with every gust, which appeared to be annoying him immensely.

“We’re not going to mine yet, we’re going to Gustoso.”

“What, the Italian place?” Narrowing his eyes, Malfoy continued, “The date hotspot?”

“Is it?” Now that he thought about it, there were always couples there. And they did have a live musician most of the time, and the same tealights that Madam Puddifoot’s used to put out on Valentine’s Day.

“You’re a lost cause.” Malfoy stopped in front of the door to the restaurant, jerking his chin in its direction. “Well? Open the bloody door for me, Potter.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re not on a date, so no.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “It’s polite.”

“Well, then you open it for me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not very polite, is it?”

The door swung open then, revealing one of the waitresses. She smiled at them and asked if they’d like a table, eagerly waving them through before she received a response.

They were seated in one of the back corners, the space private and secluded. Harry hoped that was more for his benefit as a celebrity than the assumption that he and Malfoy genuinely were on a date, but given that he usually sat in the vicinity of the front window, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Thank God everyone would forget overnight, and he wouldn’t be forced to endure question after question about his ‘new boyfriend’ at work tomorrow.

Harry couldn’t contain his groan when he picked up the menu to see the same dishes he’d been eating day in and day out for the past week or so. He felt like he could actually feel his blood thickening in his veins and his body growing sluggish from an excess of sugar and carbs. Though he loved Gustoso, there was a limit for how much repetition he could handle in his diet; a limit that he had well and truly reached.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in his direction. He looked quite ominous with the candlelight highlighting his angular features, like some Dark wizarding overlord. “You don’t look pleased. I thought you enjoyed the food here.”

Harry’s stomach pitched dangerously as he stared at the words ‘ricotta cannelloni’. “I do.”

“Really? You look like you might cry if someone waved a carbonara in your direction.”

“I’m not going to cry; I just need to eat a vegetable. Or something without cheese or oil, at least. Or tomato sauce. Or butter.”

Malfoy stared at him. “Potter, you’ve taken us to an Italian restaurant.”

Harry replied, “I’m very aware of my shortcomings.”

“Is there a particular reason that you’ve decided to torture yourself? Do you have a secret sadomasochism kink that I’ve been unwittingly brought into?”

Thankfully nobody seemed to be paying them any attention, though Harry cast a Muffliato around their table just in case.

“Oh Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, upper lip curling in apprehension. “Don’t tell me we’re about to have a deep conversation about this.”

“No, I just don’t want to see ‘Saviour’s Sexual Sadisms’ on the front page tomorrow.”

“Potter.” Malfoy leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “There is no front page. There’s no tomorrow.” His brain seemed to catch up with what he’d just said and he slumped against the table, forehead against his folded napkin. “Fuck, there’s no tomorrow.”

“Is everything alright?” The waitress gave Harry a wave from outside the Muffliato. He quickly brought it down, offering her an apologetic smile. “Uh, what can I get for you both?”

“I’ll have the pappardelle with lamb ragu.” Malfoy’s voice was muffled by the linen tablecloth. “Potter will have a vegetable.”

“A … a what?” The waitress paused, Quick-Quotes Quill hovering by her shoulder.

Malfoy tipped his head up, looking rather haunted. “A vegetable. Whatever you’ve got, just throw it on a plate. No sauce or seasoning needed.”

Harry shook his head. “Ignore him. I’ll have another of whatever he just ordered.”

Once the waitress left, Malfoy sat up straight and frowned at Harry. “You said you wanted a vegetable.”

“Yes, but without inconveniencing everyone.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I do not understand you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

They sat in silence for a bit, listening to the live jazz act perform an old Muggle tune. The singer had on a full three-piece suit with a bright red cape and a ridiculous curly moustache.

“He’s really bloody going for it,” Harry muttered, watching as the man lay back on the bench seat he’d been provided as a prop, kicking his leg in the air.

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “So why the sudden hatred for Italians and their glorious food?”

Harry rolled his eyes. He debated ignoring Malfoy, but his neck was beginning to hurt from looking over his shoulder. His choices were to keep that up or stare longingly into Malfoy’s eyes, since Harry had unfortunately been seated facing the corner. Talking at least gave him something to do.

“I’ve been eating the same food over and over since the loop started and it’s starting to get old. I think it might actually be ageing me, having a pastry every morning.”

“It’s not possible for you to be feeling the effects of your diet, your body doesn’t remember it.”

“Fine, then I’m feeling emotionally shit about it. That doesn’t reset.”

Malfoy lifted his eyes skyward, staring up at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, chest visibly puffing, before directing a long-suffering look in Harry’s direction. “I went shopping the day before this started.”

“Good for you? Are you really about to have a brag in my time of need?”

“No, I’m–” Malfoy pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. “I’m offering for you to come round for breakfast. I’ve enough for a full English each for a week, not that we need that much. You can share if you promise not to make a mess, not be a nuisance, and most of all, not get in the way of my morning routine.”

There were certainly benefits to what Malfoy was offering; Harry truly thought he might keel over on the pavement if he ate another sticky pastry or stale prepackaged sandwich. He was done. His body and mind were done. A man could only endure so much hardship. Spending more time with Malfoy than necessary was a hell of a trade-off, but it might be worthwhile in the long run. And it wasn’t as though he needed to go every day, once or twice would surely suffice.

What didn’t make sense was that Malfoy was offering it in the first place.

“Wow,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair and adopting what he hoped was a casual, confident pose. “That was almost nice of you. Did your personality also change when the day reset?”

“Shut up, Potter, I’m extending an olive branch. Don’t make me regret it.”

Their food arrived then; plates heaped high with pasta. Harry did his best to look enthusiastic, though Malfoy could see right through the façade, if his smirk was any indication. His grin widened when Harry discreetly vanished some off his plate so he didn’t have to eat it all.

Despite himself, Harry was already getting excited about the prospect of a home-cooked meal. He’d just eat beans on toast if that was what Malfoy served him, and what a sorry state that put him in. Ron would weep.

“What time should I come by tomorrow?” Harry twirled a bit of pasta around the tines of his fork, delaying his next bite.

“What time is it that you usually darken the Market with your presence? I’ll be outside, in any case. That’s where I was the first day, I believe.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “You realise that you’re not coming round for breakfast tomorrow – we’re doing my day, just as we did yours. Don’t be difficult.”

Harry resisted the urge to have a whinge, but only just.

Malfoy pointed his fork in Harry’s direction; a bit of pasta swung dangerously from the end, threatening to shower Malfoy’s shirt with droplets of sauce. “Consider that your test day; if you manage not to irritate me exponentially, I’ll feed you. If you do, you can go live off Danishes for all I care. Choose wisely.”

Unable to help himself, Harry began to smile. “That’s a big ask.”

“For you? Yes, it is.”

Malfoy then launched into a robust explanation about why every single person Harry had come into contact with that day wanted him trapped in a time loop and launched through the centre of a black hole. Despite everything, Harry found that he wasn’t hating it. Even if Malfoy was being his usual git self, it still beat facing the situation alone.

Especially if he got a steaming hot full English out of it.

*

The breeze was low, the sun was somewhat shining, the birds were singing, and Harry had sausage on his mind.

That’s just you on a typical Saturday night, mate, Ron would have said, if he were there. Unfortunately, said long-time best mate was off pissing about on the other side of the planet, completely oblivious to Harry’s plight. His once sausageless plight that was now seemingly turning around, thanks to Malfoy.

Sausages were the first thing Harry thought of when he woke up. He lay there in his bed for a few extra moments, imagining them sizzling in a pan, eggs spread out on either side. His mouth watered at the image and his eyes slipped closed as he groaned low in his throat.

His next thought was, fuck, I’m hard.

After that it was, when did I last have a wank?

It had to have been ages ago because he hadn’t the faintest.

With a spring in his step, Harry leapt out of bed, cock swinging at full mast, and made his way to the shower to have a wank. He was definitely going to be thinking about sausages, he decided as he pulled his shirt over his head. Bugger actual people, that wasn’t his main focus.

He soon remembered exactly why he hadn’t had a wank in a good two weeks now – the bung fucking water system.

Harry’s smile wilted at the same rapid pace that his cock softened, every inch of him covered with ice-cold droplets that might as well have been jettisoned straight from the Arctic Ocean and into his showerhead.

“Fuck,” Harry whined, running a hand down his face. It was exactly what he needed before yet another full day with Malfoy; and to top it off, there would be no cooked breakfast. Brilliant.

So, freezing cold and wankless, Harry made his way to Carkitt Market. Both the cat at the Apparition Point and the church gardener stayed well out of his way, apparently able to sense the sheer depths of despair that he was carrying around with him.

That or they just had enough tact not to ask.

Malfoy, however, did not possess any tact.

“You look like shit warmed up,” Malfoy said by way of greeting. He’d clocked Harry as soon as he’d Apparated onto the street, miniature blue watering can dangling from his fingertip as he watched Harry approach.

“Yeah, well, takes one to know one,” Harry replied.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Harry bit back the urge to say you don’t make sense, as though they were both still eleven years old. It wasn’t much of a stretch – he felt eleven years old every time he spoke with Malfoy.

Instead, he said, “My shower’s still fucked and I haven’t had a wank in weeks.”

“Ah,” Malfoy grimaced. “Yes, that would do it. Not that I’ve any idea why you decided to tell me that but … well…” and then he reached out and pat Harry once on the shoulder like some elderly professor.

Harry blinked. “Are you going to tell me ‘jolly good’ now?”

Malfoy blinked right back at him. “Would you like me to?”

“I’d like you to move the watering can so it stops dripping on my shoes, actually.”

True to his character, Malfoy let a few more droplets fall onto the toes of Harry’s Converse before retracting it. He turned to Levitate the can upwards and over the flowers, showering the box above the window. The water swirled as though mimicking a tiny rainstorm, localised over the front window of Malfoy’s shop. It was quite lovely, in a way. The type of charm that Neville would like.

Malfoy stood on the tips of his toes as he reached up to adjust the wooden sign above his front door. A deep furrow developed between his brows as he did it, and he looked moments away from sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth like some deranged cartoon character. Harry resisted the very strong urge to poke him to see if he would fall over. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

“You’re not going to smack me on the nose again, are you?”

Malfoy paused, arm still stretched above his head, and fixed Harry with an exasperated look. “Obviously not, since that didn’t occur in the original day, did it?” He let himself fall back onto flat feet, stepping back to steady himself. “And don’t exaggerate; I tapped your nose and nothing more.”

“And why exactly did you feel the need to do that?”

Although Malfoy wasn’t facing him any longer, Harry could see the pinkness that was rapidly rising on his cheeks. Good – he should feel embarrassed. It was a bloody deranged thing to do to your mortal enemy.

“Well,” Malfoy said, waving his wand and calling the watering can back. “I also thought about punching you outright, but then I figured that, knowing my luck, that would be the day the loop ended and I’d be stuck with the consequences. So, I had to find a balance between something that would piss you off and something that wouldn’t get me thrown straight into Azkaban without a trial.” He turned on his heel and walked into his shop, leaving Harry to follow along behind him.

The morning sun filtered in through the large front windows, catching on the tiny dust mites that danced in the air. The rays glinted off the seemingly endless array of jars filled with colourful powders and liquids and what looked like swirls of raw magic churning around and around, bumping against the lids. There were no sounds inside the shop except for the sound of Malfoy’s feet against the scuffed wooden floorboards and the faint ticking of a clock; they melded with the ambient noise from the street outside, snippets of conversations and clicks of shoes on cobblestones. It gave the store a cosy atmosphere that Harry immediately found himself drawn to.

“So, I suppose I should give you the proper rundown since you’re going to be here all day and not just in the back room being a bother.” Malfoy ran his hands along the top of his front counter, as though brushing off a layer of non-existent dust. “I see customers by appointment only, walk-ins irregularly. On the first day of the loop, I organised work for Miss Lim and an odd fellow named Jim, and invited them both into the store. I also completed a callout for Mrs Havisham, who would have me round to open the bloody letterbox for her if I’d allow it.” He pointed at a spot in the corner by the desk, inclining his head. “Have you met Lionel?”

“Sorry, who?”

“Lionel,” Malfoy repeated. He approached a large wooden box that was affixed to the wall above the desk; it had a round hole in the front, like a large camera lens. Malfoy rapped gently on the side of it with his knuckles and whistled, the sound sharp. His lips pursed as he did so, pink tongue darting out to wet them. Harry averted his eyes before he could be caught looking, cheeks flushing red.

After a moment, something in the box moved. Harry reached for his wand on instinct, curling his fingers around the handle as he waited for something to burst out and attack him.

What emerged was a bright blue bird with yellow spots, its mouth open on a surprised chirp.

“This is Lionel.” Malfoy made a cooing noise, which sounded incredibly odd coming from him of all people. He stroked a finger down the back of the bird’s head, smiling when it moved into the touch. “He’s a budgerigar. And my receptionist.”

“Answers the phone, does he?” Harry approached slowly, not wanting to scare the bird and have it launch its fluffy little body at his face.

“I don’t have a phone,” Malfoy replied, deadpan.

“Yes, thanks, I’m fully aware of that.” Harry lifted a finger, pausing to give Lionel the option to pull back. He grinned when Lionel turned his small head in Harry’s direction, fixing him with a warm yet beady stare. “How old is he?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Two hundred years, I think? Maybe three.”

“Um.” Harry watched as Lionel rubbed his quite possibly corpse head against his thumb. “Is he a zombie? Or reanimated, or whatever wizards call it?”

The look that Malfoy gave him displayed exactly how touched in the head he thought Harry was. “No, Potter. He’s a clock.”

It was then that Harry noticed the mechanism that connected Lionel to the box, through the round wooden lens hole.

“Ah.”

“Here you go, you lovely thing.” Malfoy reached past Harry to offer Lionel a palmful of what looked like seeds.

“If he’s a clock, how can he eat?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “The seeds aren’t real, Potter. They’ll dissolve once he ingests them. Merlin, do you ever have any fun?”

Staring at Lionel the zombie clock bird as he ate from Malfoy’s outstretched palm, Harry asked himself that same question.

*

Harry reached out a hand, fingers hovering within touching distance of a jar of sparkly green powder.

“No,” Malfoy said, not looking up from his slip of parchment.

Harry shuffled down the next aisle, stopping in front of a set of empty vials. He’d seen videos of people playing music using the rims of wine glasses; perhaps potion vials did the same thing?

“No, Potter,” Malfoy called out again. His stool squeaked as he shoved it backwards.

Harry held up his hands, though Malfoy couldn’t see him. “I didn’t touch anything.”

“You were thinking about it, I could tell. Your thoughts are rather loud.” Malfoy rounded the corner and leaned against the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest. He fixed Harry with a look that was frighteningly akin to an irritated parent. “You are a bull. In a china shop.”

“I haven’t broken a single thing.” Harry pointed vaguely towards the front door. “You were the one who broke the jar the first time I was here. Maybe you’re the bull.”

“Something’s bull here,” Malfoy muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “Need I remind you that Miss Lim is going to be here any moment, so if you could just–”

The nasally whine that passed for Malfoy’s voice was cut off by the front door opening. Lionel, in his shining receptionist glory, began to sing some sort of demented greeting tune. It rivalled Harry’s office Floo chime in its trauma to the ears.

Malfoy rushed to greet a very pretty young woman with flowing dark hair and almond shaped eyes, ushering her towards the front desk. Lionel cut himself off when he caught sight of Malfoy, tilting his head and turning to look at Harry with his hundred-year-old undead expression. It made Harry nervy enough that he briefly considered that perhaps Lionel was the one responsible for the loop. Perhaps Malfoy was currently in possession of the Master of Death himself, sitting in a wooden box in his potions shop. It was certainly possible; stranger things had happened.

The sound of giggling filtered through the rows of jars, Malfoy’s amused chuckle joining in. Unable to help himself, Harry slunk along the aisle and poked his head round the side to get a better look at whatever had made Malfoy laugh.

Miss Lim – Pamela, Harry had seen on the appointment slip that Malfoy had told him not to read – was sitting on the stool that Malfoy had vacated, one leg crossed over the other. She had on a rather short skirt that gave Harry pause; she also seemed to be suffering from some type of eyelid deformity, what with the way she kept batting them in Malfoy’s direction.

The git in question was examining a necklace, its velvet-lined wooden box open on the desk. He had his wand raised, a Lumos shining from the tip, as he twisted it this way and that.

“I should probably be able to insert a mild one into the gem, but nothing stronger than would be available over the counter. Legalities.” He rolled his eyes at the final word, waving his hand as though the laws of everyday people were beneath him.

Pamela giggled again. The sound of it was starting to annoy Harry quite a lot. He glanced at her legs when she uncrossed and recrossed them; she was smiling up at Malfoy as he worked. That was also irritating; surely it was more difficult to get work done when someone was staring at you all the time? Surely she could tell that it bothered Malfoy. Assuming that it did. Regardless, it was bothering Harry. When he stared at Malfoy, at least he did it without injuring his eyelids in the process.

Harry straightened up and stepped out from behind the aisle, intent on … something. Before he could announce himself, Pamela caught sight of him. She jumped off the stool, nearly colliding with Malfoy as he attempted to place her necklace back in its box.

“Harry Potter,” she gasped, hand against her chest.

“Nope,” Malfoy said without looking up. “Highly realistic charm. He does look shockingly real though, doesn’t he?”

“Oh.” Pamela looked visibly disappointed. “Is it for marketing? So people think he shops here?”

“Yes…” Malfoy trailed off. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Let’s get that invoice written up, shall we? And you can finish telling me all about your evening out with the girls.”

Harry struggled to contain his snorts of laughter as he watched Malfoy finish up the interaction, irritation rising whenever Pamela leaned on the desk and pushed her tits together. Malfoy seemed immune to the whole thing, wildly professional even as Pamela seemed ready to hike up her skirt and ask to be fucked over the counter, fake-Harry be damned.

She continued to giggle even as Malfoy closed the shop door behind her, ushering her out and promising to Floo call her every day with updates about her necklace. His spine stiffened as Harry started to laugh, his pale cheeks colouring.

“Don’t even start,” Malfoy muttered, but his own shoulders started to shake.

“Fuck,” Harry said, rubbing his stomach. “You could have asked me to leave, it would have been less painful than watching that.”

“That’s the third time she’s come in this month.” Malfoy rubbed a hand over his forehead as he strolled back over to the desk to file Pamela’s paperwork. “It’s always the most asinine requests, but she pays the consultation fee, so what am I going to do? Not take her money?” He shook his head, snorting to himself. “She hasn’t caught on yet, clearly.”

“What, are you not interested?” Harry’s laughter ceased, his breathing returning to normal. “She was quite fit, and she obviously fancied you.” He tried to ignore the way those words curdled in his stomach; it was absolutely none of his business and it was beyond him why he even cared in the first place. Malfoy could do whatever he wanted – it was probably just that Harry preferred that it not happen in front of him. He’d never liked watching that sort of thing when out with his mates either.

“Am I … not interested?” Malfoy raised both eyebrows and fixed Harry with a long-suffering look. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Alright, fine.” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. “She was fit, it was a stupid question, I know. And I’m sure you’re all ‘no sex with customers’ anyway.”

Malfoy made a choking noise, head buried in a desk drawer. “Sure, Potter. That about covers it, I’d say.”

There was a bang then as Lionel shot out of the hole in the clock, starting up his greeting song as the door to the shop swung open again.

*

Harry was still musing about Lionel as he followed Malfoy down the cobbled lane of a quaint little town in Somerset, a wizarding village that Malfoy claimed was named Potterville. Harry hoped with every fibre of his being that Malfoy was just fucking with him, but he honestly could not be sure.

“Is he magical? Lionel?”

“Of bloody course he’s magical, he’s a talking bird, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Parrots can talk.”

“Lionel is not a parrot, and don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll be properly miffed.”

“Hmm,” Harry said, tapping a finger on his chin. “Had a thought earlier about him being the Master of Death. True or no?”

Malfoy shot him a look that was pure bafflement. “What the fuck goes on inside your head?”

“I’m just saying,” Harry continued, sidestepping a bin that was leaning at a rather concerning angle. “Have you ever seen the two of them in the same room?”

Deadpan, Malfoy replied, “Have I ever seen the Master of Death and my clock in the same room?” He slapped a hand against his forehead. “Buggering fuck, you’re right, how could I never have considered that before? Truly, you’re a scholar of the ages.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Fuck me, you’re a headcase. Turn right here.”

They were on route to Mrs Havisham’s cottage; one of Malfoy’s regular customers who he bestowed house visits upon twice a month. She was an elderly woman who was ‘mad as a sack of bats’, according to Malfoy, but ‘harmless physically, negligibly damaging mentally’. And she apparently adored Malfoy.

That was something Harry had to see.

Prior to that day, he would have said that Malfoy was, at best, tolerated by the general populace of wizarding London. Not spat on in the streets, but certainly not on the guest list of important political gatherings. He was the type of bloke that might get a few looks from passersby, parents pulling their children a little closer to them when he walked past after the sun went down. None of those behaviours applied to the pre-time loop version of Harry, naturally – he personally would’ve had no problem upending a pint over Malfoy’s head in the pub, but no one else had Harry’s history with Malfoy. A history that was known by the majority of the Auror Department, which had been fun at first, but seemed less exciting now that Harry knew that Malfoy was a rather boring bloke instead of some shady wizarding mafia figure like he’d convinced himself.

As it turned out, a large chunk of wizarding London seemed to do more than just tolerate Malfoy’s presence – they seemed to find him knowledgeable, pleasant, and enjoyable.

Harry still couldn’t quite believe it. Ron would check him for a knock to the head when Harry relayed the whole sordid tale. Hermione might sign him up for a therapist then and there. Nobody who had known the teenage version of Malfoy would believe it, yet the evidence had sat there right in front of Harry in the form of Pamela, the odd bloke named Jim who wanted to grow elephant tusks for a costume party and cracked endless jokes with Malfoy about it, and now Mrs Havisham.

“Who’ve you brought with you, then?” The elderly woman peered at Harry through the thickest glass lenses he’d ever seen. Not an ounce of recognition showed in her stare, which delighted Harry more than it probably should have.

“My intern.” Malfoy flashed Harry a smirk over his shoulder, echoing Harry’s words from the Ministry. “My adult intern. Late career change and decided he wanted to learn from the best.”

Mrs Havisham looked Harry up and down very slowly. “He smells like parsley.”

Malfoy turned to glance at Harry, his face a mixture of amusement and concern. “Uh … does he?”

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes.

Harry felt an honest to God bead of sweat begin to form on his brow. “Uh, I may have opened a jar or two back at the shop. No idea what was in them.”

Malfoy sighed. “Course you did.” He turned back to Mrs Havisham, flashing her a smile. “Now, what was it that you wanted me to take a look at? I’m sure myself and my incorrigible, parsley-scented intern can see to it.”

Mrs Havisham had some nerve to talk to Harry about smelling like herbs – her entire cottage reeked of rosewater. It was as though she’d upended a cauldron of it on the carpet and let it sink in. His nose started itching within seconds, so he was relieved when Malfoy followed Mrs Havisham out the rear door and into the back garden.

The two of them started talking about garden potions then, of all things. The words ‘soil acidity’ and ‘PH levels’ had Harry’s brain powering down with a near audible whirr. He tuned them out, wandering over to a set of rose bushes and poking at one of the thorns with his thumb. Unsurprisingly, it did hurt a bit, though it didn’t draw blood. What hurt more was the smack that Malfoy bestowed upon his shoulder when he saw Harry do it.

“Stop being unprofessional,” Malfoy hissed. It was quite loud, though Mrs Havisham didn’t seem to hear it. “If you damage any of these bushes, I’m making you pay for it. They’re Andean roses, extremely rare and hugely bloody expensive.” He raised his eyebrows when Harry’s hand twitched back towards the bush. “I’ll tie your hands, don’t think I won’t.” His cheeks coloured rapidly when Harry failed to suppress a laugh. He turned on his heel and directed Mrs Havisham over to another spot in the garden, bending down to rub a bit of the soil between his thumb and forefinger.

“So,” Harry said a few hours later. They were leaving Mrs Havisham’s with a stack of rock-hard biscuits and a postcard from Blackpool that looked to have been printed in the 1960s. Harry, privately, was also nursing a rather sore thumb; Malfoy hadn’t chosen to mention that the Andean roses had the tendency to bite when one got too close to their buds. He’d found that out himself the hard way. “Didn’t know you were a gardener. Bloody jack of all trades, you are.”

“Yes, yes, jack of all trades, master of none, I’ve heard it all before.” Malfoy tucked the bundle of biscuits into his pocket and sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tips of his fingers were stained brown from the dirt. “Any other jokes you’d like to make before we head off? Or do you need help coming up with something that’s actually witty?”

Harry shrugged. “Give me a few and I’ll think of one.”

“Brilliant. I’m waiting with bated breath, but don’t let that rush you.”

They walked in silence for a moment, soles clicking against the cobbles.

It occurred to Harry then that he hadn’t seen Malfoy write up an invoice for Mrs Havisham like he’d done with flirty-Pamela and odd-tusk-man-Jim. In fact, Harry wasn’t sure that he’d exchanged any form of money with her at all.

“Why didn’t you charge her?” he asked. “We spent, what, three hours there? That’s a lot of missed time for brewing potions, or fixing your hair, or flirting with customers that you could have been doing instead.”

Malfoy pursed his lips, staring straight ahead as they walked. “My mistake, I was so distracted by how utterly dry the soil in her yard was that I must have forgotten. I’ll get it next time.”

“No,” Harry said, frowning slightly. “You wouldn’t have forgotten. You just didn’t charge her.”

It didn’t add up, considering Harry knew that Malfoy wasn’t exactly rolling in Galleons anymore; most of the Malfoy family assets had been seized after the war and auctioned off for rock-bottom prices. Harry had no idea where the proceeds had gone; Hermione had been on the committee formed to deal with that kind of thing, but she’d never brought it up to him or Ron. It didn’t make sense for Malfoy to forgo a good half-day’s earnings twice a month for no good reason, not when he no longer had access to his inheritance.

Harry’s first instinct was that the old woman had something on Malfoy, some old family secret that he didn’t want getting out, or she was harbouring a wardrobe full of Dark objects for him, or she was secretly some ex-Death Eater in Polyjuice disguise. But she hadn’t seemed malicious, nor had she seemed like she had an agenda; she was perfectly content to chat to Malfoy about gardening potions and soil health for the better part of an afternoon.

It took a while for Malfoy to respond; they were at the Potterville Apparition Point – Harry hadn’t been game enough to ask Mrs Havisham if Malfoy was correct or not about the name – before Malfoy stopped and let out a breath, fingers fiddling with the end of his sleeve.

“Mrs Havisham reminds me of my mother,” he said quietly. Then, louder, “She’d no doubt be turning over in her grave if she knew I was comparing her to a retiree; I’d be boxed round the ears.”

Harry waited for a moment, tendrils of something unsettling curling deep inside his chest. Narcissa had liked to garden; he didn’t know how he knew that, whether it had been from overhearing Malfoy in school, or if he’d seen a picture of it in the Prophet, or in one of those awful memories when Voldemort was still inside his head. Still, he knew it all the same.

“Is it the roses – the rare ones?” Harry asked. “Did she grow them too?”

Malfoy’s smile was stilted, melancholia rolling off him in waves. “Yes. She had the most beautiful garden in England, all cultivated by hand. The roses in Mrs Havisham’s yard were propagated from the same original plant as hers; they’re essentially sisters.”

“That must be nice,” Harry said, dropping his eyes to the cobbles. “Being able to visit her, in a way.”

Malfoy’s tone took on a sharper edge as he pulled his wand out, preparing to Apparate. “It would be nicer if the Ministry hadn’t seized all my family’s assets and then razed my ancestral home to the ground. That would be preferable, I’d say.”

Swallowing, Harry said nothing. He certainly didn’t bring up the fact that he’d stood by and let that very thing happen, that he’d thought, at the time, that it was justice well served. He thought that Malfoy deserved to be tossed out with the ample funds still available to him to start off fresh, for better or worse. The Manor didn’t deserve to exist anymore, not when there were people who had their lives abruptly ended within the confines of its walls.

Harry’s personal feelings aside, Dark magic had seeped deep into the foundations there. Bill had been a member of the team who had inspected the site, and he’d come out shaking, face pale and drawn. It had been a unanimous decision to get rid of it, for the betterment of wizarding kind. The last thing anyone wanted was for some wayward teenager intent on going against the mainstream to get their hands on the kind of raw Dark magic that had been allowed to fester in those rooms.

The gardens though … there hadn’t been Dark magic there. The plants had been beautiful, cultivated to perfection, carefully tended. Harry had watched Bill take a bright white daisy from one of the bushes and tuck it into his pocket to take home; he’d seen Fleur wearing it in her hair at lunch the next day.

There had been true evil in that place, but there had also been good. Death, but also life. Harry just hadn’t cared to see it at the time. None of them had.

Chapter Text

When Harry turned up at the shop the next morning, he thought that perhaps Malfoy had forgotten about their breakfast arrangement. There were no lights on that he could see through the drawn blinds, and Malfoy certainly wasn’t standing on the stoop waiting to greet him.

It felt a bit presumptuous trying the door handle, but a few minutes of dithering in full view of the hordes of commuters was long enough. The sheer embarrassment of the public thinking that Harry had been stood up by Malfoy of all people was borderline traumatising.

The handle turned easily under Harry’s touch, the wards shimmering as they let him through. On the other side of the shop floor, Harry could see Lionel poking his head out of the box above the desk; clearly, he didn’t see Harry as a customer because he didn’t bother to alert anyone of his presence, the lazy thing. Or maybe he was just nervous that Harry was this close to clocking on to his secret necromancy powers.

Harry’s next round of dithering was thankfully done away from the prying eyes of those outside; instead, he got to stand in the middle of the shop and wait for Malfoy to work out that he was there. He started touching a few of the jars in an attempt to poke at Malfoy’s spidey senses, though he stayed far away from the jar of parsley that had gotten him into strife the day before. Messing with Malfoy’s carefully ordered shelves seemed to work, as he heard steps coming down the back staircase right as he placed his thumb on the lid of a vial of long-life hangover potion, the kind that left your tongue all gritty after swallowing it.

His immediate thought upon catching sight of Malfoy was oh fuck, I’ve walked in on him undressed. The second was where the hell did Malfoy get a knitted jumper?

Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest – arms that were clad in beige knitwear that looked thick and ridiculously soft – and raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re just … what … hanging about downstairs? Were you waiting for me to come and fetch you like a lost Crup?”

Harry’s gaze landed on the stretched collar of Malfoy’s jumper; the material was so misshapen there that it hung loose, showing part of his collarbone. It made Harry feel … something. Irritation, most likely. He was just taken off guard, that was all. Malfoy was always so buttoned-up in his tailored Oxford shirts and brogues that a simple jumper was basically the equivalent of wearing joggers to a nightclub. It just wasn’t done.

“Thought you might have forgotten me. Also, I was being polite.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “How could I possibly have forgotten you when your very existence irritates me enough that I’m able to zero in on you in a crowd? It’s a talent that is painfully unique to me.” He turned to head back up the stairs to his flat, over-large jumper sleeves falling down to cover his hands. “And you wouldn’t know politeness if it smacked you in the face, Potter. Hurry up, I’ve got eggs on.”

The sight of Malfoy in cosy knitwear was abruptly forgotten when Harry walked into the kitchen to see – true to Malfoy’s word – a full English in progress. He swayed, overcome with emotion, and caught himself with a hand on Malfoy’s kitchen table. It had a tablecloth on it, one of those linen ones with the red and white cheque that cartoon characters would take out for picnics.

Malfoy brushed past him as he headed for the stove, giving the eggs in the pan a wholly unnecessary poke with his plastic spatula. He squinted at Harry, sharp gaze assessing. “Are you quite alright?”

“Malfoy.” Harry braced himself with both hands on the table and flashed Malfoy his best ‘please-buy-me-a-drink-you-much-older-man’ eyes. “I don’t know how to say this, but you might actually be alright.”

Malfoy’s entire head turned crimson, like a wad of bleached straw sat atop a ripe tomato. “Stop. I don’t accept your … declaration, or whatever that was.”

“I don’t know how to write poetry,” Harry said as he came up beside Malfoy to peek into the pan. The smell of bacon wafted into his nose, nearly sending his eyes rolling back in his head. “But I’ll learn it for those mushrooms. And the sausage. My god, the sausage.”

The spatula hit Harry in the forearm then, Malfoy swatting him away from the pan. “Stop it. Go sit down before you cry on them or something equally pitiful. Honestly, I almost feel sorry for you, you poor deprived tosser.”

“Yes, feel sorry for me. I’ll take every bit of pity you’ve got if I get that in return.” Harry did as he was told, sitting down on one of the rickety looking but solid feeling wooden chairs. He dragged it a few steps closer to the oven, hypnotised by the smell of the fry up, but stopped when Malfoy turned to glare at him.

“Do you have any idea where to go from here with regards to our predicament?” Malfoy inhaled through his teeth as a bit of oil landed on the back of his hand. He fixed the offending pan with the same irritated look that he’d given Harry.

Shrugging, Harry leaned back in the chair and watched Malfoy potter around the kitchen, poking the things in the pan every few moments. “Seems like following each other around was a bit of a dead end.”

“I really don’t know what else there is to look into. We’ve tried and failed at researching the problem, we’ve asked around, we’ve examined our own lives with utmost scrutiny…” Malfoy trailed off, frown deepening. “I’m missing something, I know it. I can feel it, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Have you examined Lionel?” Harry stood up and went to fill the kettle, thinking he should at the very least make them both a cup of tea instead of sitting on his hands while Malfoy worked. “I reckon he’s hiding something behind those beady little eyes.”

“Potter.” Malfoy’s tone was slightly exasperated, but amused. “You’ve an obsession with my bird. You’ve given it an unhealthy amount of thought.”

Unbidden, Harry’s brain decided the best course of action to hearing Malfoy say the phrase ‘my bird’ was to chuck him image after image of Pamela’s long, bare legs and simpering smile, and Malfoy’s answering chuckle. “No,” he said, indignation audible in his voice. “I couldn’t care less about your bird, actually.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll be crushed. Well, as crushed as a piece of charmed wood can be, I suppose.” He reached out to smack at Harry’s hand, stopping him from opening one of the overhead cupboards. “Sit down, you tosser, before you break something you can’t afford to fix. How do you take your tea?”

Rather than pointing out that Harry probably had ten times the number of Galleons in his vaults compared to Malfoy’s once-cavernous ones, he simply said, “one sugar and a splash of milk.”

Malfoy muttered something under his breath that sounded like Merlin wept – he was a tea purist, no doubt. Figured.

Sharing a meal with Malfoy was only slightly less weird than Harry might have expected. Malfoy nattered on and on about random topics that were only vaguely connected; so-and-so’s botched dye job, the weather forecast for next weekend that remained unchanged for them in the loop, the Arrows’ prospects in the upcoming season. At least, he was fairly sure that was what Malfoy was going on about – he only listened to every third word, content to choke himself on Malfoy’s delicious sausage.

Judging by the rapid darkening of Malfoy’s cheeks, neck, and ears, Harry’s moans were borderline pornographic. He knew he should probably be embarrassed but he couldn’t for the life of himself care about propriety when there was a plate full of some of the best food he’d ever eaten in his life right in front of him.

“Fucking hell, Potter,” Malfoy muttered. “You’re going to aspirate on those beans and die right here at my kitchen table.”

“Worth it,” Harry replied, though it came out as a mumble.

Malfoy’s face contorted with concern, eyes widening. “Fucking hell, the bacon’s Tesco’s Finest – it’s not exactly restaurant quality.”

With a shameful amount of sincerity, Harry looked right at Malfoy and declared, “It is to me,” before shovelling three mushrooms into his mouth in one go.

“Merlin, help me,” Malfoy said under his breath. He wasn’t able to hide the pleased look on his face, though he turned away from Harry.

The lack of attention on Harry let him look at Malfoy for a bit longer. The jumper he was wearing was either one of those ludicrously expensive ones that was deliberately made to look shabby while costing the equivalent of half a week’s wage, or it was handmade. The latter was more likely, given the state of Malfoy’s vaults.

Harry brandished a bit of sausage in Malfoy’s direction, pointing the end of it at his chest. “What’s with the jumper?”

Malfoy glanced down at himself, a confused frown furrowing his brow. “It’s on the cooler side today?”

“No, I mean … you’re not wearing a suit.”

Malfoy’s brow lifted. “I don’t often wear a suit.”

“Yeah, but you wear all the…” Harry waved his hand in Malfoy’s direction again. “The fancy shite. Tailored and with buttons.”

Something crossed Malfoy’s face then, softening the sharp edges of his features. He fiddled with the end of one of the sleeves, wrapping the material around his pointer finger. “Greg knitted it for me. He took up the hobby as part of his rehabilitation and he got rather good at it.”

“Greg as in Gregory Goyle?” Harry gaped, watching as no less than ten different expressions slid across Malfoy’s face, before settling on bemusement.

“The very same.”

He tried to picture Goyle, great hulking beast of a twelve-year-old that he’d been, holding knitting needles and Flooing Malfoy to ask for his measurements. Goyle deciding on beige as Malfoy’s colour. It was pure madness.

“Are you jealous?” Malfoy asked, voice dripping with faux sweetness.

Harry shoved the last bit of sausage into his mouth rather than answer that. There was no upside to responding; Malfoy would twist whatever he said.

It was after they’d both cleaned their plates and drunk an additional cup of tea in complete silence that Malfoy brought it up again.

“What do we do, Potter?” There was no amusement in his voice now. His shoulders hunched forward, hair falling across his forehead. “How bloody long have we been here now, and we’re no closer to working out what’s going on? We’ve got no leads, no evidence, no solid theories. It’s downright disheartening.”

“Let’s just …” Harry shifted in his chair, fighting the urge to flick a bit of tea at Malfoy so that he’d look annoyed rather than hopeless. “Let’s not think about the loop for today. I’m bored of doing the same shit over and over again anyway. Let’s do something fun.”

“Fun?” Malfoy sounded properly offended by the word. “Me and you? And, what, just stick our heads in the sand and ignore everything?”

“Yes.” Harry pushed his empty cup away and stood up. “We’re going to have fun. I don’t care that we’re not mates or that you think I’m a git or that you actually are one. We’re in this together, and we’ve made literally no progress, so we might as well fuck around for a bit. What do you say?” He held his hand out to Malfoy in a mimicry of their first year at school, when Harry had turned away from Malfoy and set their years of animosity in motion.

This time, however, the hand was accepted. Malfoy pulled himself up to a standing position, jumper sleeve falling down to pool over Harry’s hand as well. He gave Harry a decisive nod, the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

“Fun,” Malfoy agreed. “Me and Harry Potter. My father’s rolling in his grave.”

“Now,” Harry said, “we plan. Whatever we do, nobody else is going to remember it. So we might as well go big.”

Malfoy’s expression turned curious, his smile widening. “And what is it that you’ve always wanted to do?”

*

The London Dungeons smelt musty, damp, and a little bit like old fry oil. There were tourists with bum bags and loose flapping cargo shorts everywhere, and small children with sticky faces shrieking and running about.

Malfoy looked utterly horrified.

Harry was in his element.

“This,” Malfoy hissed, elbowing Harry in the ribs as they, along with a crowd of tourists, were ushered down a dimly lit hallway, small lanterns casting dramatic shadows along the walls. “This is what you’ve always wanted to do?”

It wasn’t, but he’d needed to think of something on the spot after his speech to hype Malfoy up, and that was what had come to him. In fairness, Harry had never been to the London Dungeons. He’d wanted to, a few years back when Seamus and Dean took Luna for a laugh, but it had seemed like too much of a safety risk at the time. He’d been working a high-profile smuggling case, and being in a place with dark, tight spaces, no real exit, and no use of a wand to defend himself? Best not to risk it, not even to see Seamus accidentally pitch himself out of the little boat on rails and into the very shallow river, though he’d nearly kicked himself for that decision when Luna brought a photo of the incident to the next pub night. The polaroid had featured a grinning Dean flashing two thumbs up, and a very wet Seamus being accosted by two women in medieval dress.

Speaking of medieval dress, Malfoy seemed to be having a rough time with that very thing.

“Potter, that man has pustules on his face. Pustules. You’ve taken me to the infectious disease ward at St Mungo’s, haven’t you?”

“He’s a performer, Malfoy. I think he’s supposed to be a plague victim. Or someone with syphilis, maybe.”

“Syphilis.” Malfoy let out an honest to God whimper.

Harry’s grin widened.

When the crowd funnelled themselves into the next room, Malfoy took the opportunity to simultaneously step on Harry’s foot and elbow him in the stomach, likely hoping that either the cover of darkness or the tight space would hide his deviousness. Unfortunately for him, he tripped over Harry’s shoe instead. Harry shot out a hand to steady him, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip. Malfoy had been fortunate enough to have an elderly woman in front of him who Harry had no desire to see knocked to the floor – there was clearly no other reason for them to be touching. In fact, Harry was going to let go immediately. Right now.

Righting himself, Malfoy turned his head to look at Harry, pursed his lips, and said, “Hmm.”

Harry quickly retracted his hands – intentional silence from Malfoy put him on higher alert than a snappy comeback. It was like having a troll in the other room who suddenly stopped banging about, or a forest going silent. “What? What’s ‘hmm’?”

Pursing his lips, Malfoy regarded him for a moment. He stepped back into the scant bit of free space available to him. “Never you mind.”

“I’m minding.” A woman next to Harry shushed him; he hadn’t even noticed that the actors had begun their scene. He leaned closer to Malfoy, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’m minding. Tell me.”

Batting at his shoulder, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Stop being annoying and watch. You’re the one who dragged us both here, so pay attention.”

Harry had been told before that he had ‘one of those faces’.

Typically, it was said by a middle-aged wizard in the midst of a drunken stupor, who draped themselves over his shoulder and claimed he looked just like that bloke, Harry Potter. Then, when denied their due correctness, would claim that Harry’s nose was shaped wrong or his eyes were too close together, but he still looked like the wizarding world’s biggest celebrity. Luna was more fond of saying it in the context of Harry having ‘kind eyes’. Ron said it when Harry was being, what he called, ‘an utter sket’ – this was often preceded by Harry beating him in a game of pool at the pub, which he must certainly have cheated at since Harry was ‘pants’ at pool, and Ron was ‘a pool god’, and Harry had ‘one of those dodgy faces. Don’t look at me like that, Hermione, you know I’m right’.

Apparently, Harry also had ‘one of those faces’ that got picked for the dubious role of audience participation.

It was rather dark in all of the rooms, so it would have been difficult to tell, but Harry was fairly sure that Malfoy was close to wetting himself when Harry got called up to the front to lie on a gurney and pretend to be some poor Victorian era medical malpractice victim. Malfoy was hunched over, hands braced on his knees, as he wheezed loudly. The woman next to him kept shooting him concerned looks, likely debating whether or not he was having a genuine panic attack, or possibly an asthmatic reaction of some sort.

“And what will become of him, this unruly peasant covered in muck?” The performer shouted, brandishing a large plastic knife in Harry’s direction.

Somewhere in the crowd, a woman gasped.

Malfoy wheezed again.

“I shall cut off his hand before the infection spreads to his brain!”

Malfoy staggered over to the wall and buried his face in his hands to muffle the sounds of his laughter. Harry pushed up on his elbows to glare at him. The performer lifted the sheet covering his torso over his face, crowing about how he would need to be restrained if he refused treatment. Thankfully, the sounds of Malfoy losing his absolute shit were drowned out by the shrieks of the crowd as the performer waved a fake hand in their direction, still talking about Harry’s supposed affliction.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” Harry asked as they walked to the next room. A spot of fake blood that had landed on his arm was being highly resistant to his attempts to wipe it off.

“Unruly peasant,” Malfoy hissed, rubbing at his stomach. “Imagine if I’d called you that in school – Weasley would have pushed me down the grand staircase. I’m just glad that someone else is finally seeing my vision.” He wiped at his eyes, small peals of laughter escaping every few moments. “Fuck, my cheeks hurt.”

Harry blinked, watching as Malfoy rubbed at his face, mouth stretched wide on a grin. He looked rather nice like that, pointy features twisted by elation, grey eyes bright and shining, even in the dimness of the room. It made Harry feel odd, something coursing through him that he couldn’t identify, wasn’t sure that he had a word for it.

The smile was wiped off of Malfoy’s face when they rounded the next corner and were suddenly faced with a burly bloke in a dirty vest and puffy sleeves who jumped at them, laughing raucously. Malfoy let out an ungodly shriek and grabbed at Harry’s arm, fingers squabbling as he made to shove Harry in front of him like a shield.

“Fuck off,” Harry laughed, wiggling out of Malfoy’s grip. “Good to know that you can still hold your own in a fight. And if we actually got threatened, I reckon I could run faster than you.”

Malfoy glanced down at his hands as though he couldn’t believe he’d willingly put them on Harry. “You’re dead wrong, Potter.”

“After this is finished, we’ll have a race. No magic, no cheating.”

Malfoy stuck out his bottom lip. “But I like cheating. It livens up the game, if you’re smart enough to think of it first.”

“If you cheat, I’m not doing it.”

“Fine. But only because I know I’ll win.”

Malfoy did not win.

He did, however, fall on his face in St James’s Park, right in front of a school group. They all stared at him with wide eyes, brimmed hats shifting in the breeze, as he rubbed dirt off the bridge of his very red nose.

Harry flopped onto his back on the grass, arms and legs akimbo, and grinned up at the sky. “This is my favourite day ever.”

He would later deny to himself the noise that left his mouth when Malfoy appeared suddenly above him and unleashed an armful of damp leaf matter all over his head and chest. He must have looked quite unhinged, sprinting after Malfoy with a wet leaf plastered to his cheek, but it was worth it to see the fear in Malfoy’s eyes as he screeched that Harry deserved it, they were definitely even now, and he should not, under any circumstances, retaliate.

The school group laughed uproariously when Harry tackled Malfoy to the ground, nearly sending them both into the lake, so really Harry was just doing his bit for the good of the community.

“So,” Harry said, panting up at the sky, “what did you want to do now?”

Malfoy was on his back next to him, breaths coming equally fast. He’d run much quicker when being properly chased, though it still hadn’t taken long to catch him. “Push you into the Thames. Truly, Potter, if I’d had my wand…”

“Brilliant. So, what have you always wanted to do? Aside from, you know, your usual Dark wizarding shite.”

“Sod off,” Malfoy muttered, though his mouth did lift at the corner. “You won’t do it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll do it. Why wouldn’t I do it?”

Malfoy’s eyes darted to the side. He looked quite antsy, actually. Well, until Harry started poking him. Then he looked irritated, which was much closer to his default state.

“I want …” Malfoy’s voice dropped in volume. His cheeks pinkened, though from embarrassment, shame, or leftover exertion, Harry didn’t know. “I want to nick something.”

Harry couldn’t help the snort that escaped from his mouth.

Malfoy glared at him, clearly offended. “Sorry, was that not exciting enough for you? Perhaps we’ll go steal a vehicle instead then.”

There was a fair amount of irony in Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater, responsible for a number of illegal or otherwise immoral acts during the war, being embarrassed about committing minor thievery. Ginny had once said that Malfoy didn’t have a killer instinct, and Harry was now thinking she was definitely onto something. She’d followed that up by calling Malfoy a snivelling coward, but Harry was on the fence about that one these days.

“Bugger it.” Harry sat up and turned to face Malfoy, poking him with the tip of his shoe. “Get up, let’s go nick something.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, disbelief colouring his features. “Really?” he asked, deadpan.

“Sure, why not? There’s not really anything to lose, is there?” Whatever they took would return itself when the day reset, so what was there to feel guilty about?

“Alright, Potter.” Malfoy pushed himself up and rubbed his hands together, brushing off the dirt that had gotten smeared there when Harry tackled him. “Let’s go burglarise a proper English business.”

The corner shop that Malfoy chose for their grand plan of tomfoolery had a number of massive British flags plastered across the front windows, unpleasant fluorescent lighting, and a cashier who was more interested in reading his newspaper than watching Harry. He lurked by the display of shirts that were clearly targeted at tourists, if their crap ‘keep calm’ knockoff slogans were any indication. He tried to stay within eyesight of the cashier, hoping to function as a distraction.

“Is he looking?” Malfoy hissed, far too loudly.

Harry glanced at the cashier, trying not to move his head too much. The man sniffed loudly and turned to the next page of his paper. “No. Get on with it.”

For some reason, Malfoy decided to rise onto his tiptoes as he moved to the next aisle, lifting his knees high as he walked. He looked like some demented version of a ‘sneaky’ cartoon character. It took every bit of willpower Harry had not to burst out laughing and ruin the whole thing. He watched as Malfoy looked around, searching for absolutely nobody, given the shop was empty aside from them, and plucked a packet of crisps off the shelf. It crinkled menacingly as Malfoy stuffed it into his pocket, threatening to give them away at any moment. He turned to nod decisively at Harry, then proceeded to creep out the front door of the shop, still on tiptoes, still bringing his knees so high on each step that they nearly hit his chest.

Harry caught up with Malfoy a few minutes later, rounding the street corner and jogging down the small alleyway they’d arranged to meet on if anything went awry with their bout of thievery.

Malfoy grinned widely and shook the bag of crisps in Harry’s direction. “Look.” He giggled – genuinely giggled – which sent Harry into recurring snorts of laughter. “Should we eat them or is that too far?”

“Of course we’re bloody eating them. You don’t steal a packet of crisps and then bin them straight away.”

Malfoy held the packet out of Harry’s reach, shaking it frantically. “They’re mine, I stole them fair and square. Back to the park, come on.” He didn’t stop grinning like an idiot, the cat that got the proverbial cream, the entire walk back to St James’s. Once there, he did offer Harry one of the crisps – cheese and onion, pure brilliance – claiming to be ‘caught up in the moment’. He only gave Harry a minor bit of grief when took another crisp, and then another, content to rest his weight on his elbows and munch on his prize slowly.

It was dark by the time they made the long walk back to the Leaky Cauldron. Coming into the pub from the Muggle side always felt a bit nostalgic; Harry had only done it a few times as an adult, always Apparating or Flooing directly to one of the wizarding streets, or into the Leaky itself. It was no less sentimental with Malfoy; the comforting scent of stale beer, layers upon layers of cleaning charms, and the mumbling of Tom as he worked the bar were welcoming to Harry in ways that he wasn’t sure he could explain to anyone else without sounding as though he were stark raving mad.

“I’ll stay here for a bit, I reckon.” Harry stopped next to an empty table, bracing his hand on the backrest of a nearby chair. “I’ve not got anything for tea and those crisps didn’t quite cut it.”

“Oi, don’t rag on my spoils of war.” Malfoy’s grin faded slightly as a few of the patrons turned to watch them. “Right, I suppose I’ll leave you to it then.”

Harry was struck by an odd urge to thank Malfoy or something equally insane. Thank him for what, he had no idea. It wasn’t as though Malfoy had done anything aside from nick a packet of crisps and get thrown on his arse in a park. But still, it felt unfinished.

“Malfoy, wait,” Harry called out. He cringed as more heads lifted to look his way. Malfoy’s back stiffened but he turned to look at Harry from over his shoulder. “Did you still want to do breakfast tomorrow?”

The tension seemed to melt out of Malfoy’s shoulders, his posture relaxing under Harry’s gaze. He pressed his lips together for a moment, the corners lifting. “Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll feed you, if you insist.”

“Good,” Harry nodded. “As, you know, you should.”

Malfoy snorted, shaking his head and muttering git under his breath, just loud enough for Harry to hear. He strode out the back door of the Leaky, making for the hidden entrance to Diagon in the courtyard. He didn’t move quickly enough, however, to hide the pleased expression on his face.

Harry pondered that look as he ate his greasy plate of fish and chips, Tom the barman hovering over his shoulder the entire time. Malfoy, he thought, must be truly deprived of human connection to be pleased at the prospect of spending more time with Harry. But, then again, Harry was also looking forward to the morning. It wouldn’t do him any good to hide that fact from himself; Malfoy made a bloody good full English and was an alright conversationalist, once you got past the general prickliness of his personality.

Despite Malfoy being Malfoy, Harry couldn’t deny that he’d had a rather good day. It had been his best day yet since first getting stuck in the loop. And somehow, maddeningly, Malfoy had helped to make it that way.

It was a mightily fucked up thought and probably indicated that Harry was losing his grip on reality, but at least he was keeping it real with himself.

He’d liked spending time with Malfoy.

Malfoy, it seemed, had enjoyed spending time with him.

Hell had frozen over, pigs had begun to fly, and Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had grown to tolerate each other’s presence.

*

The following days progressed in a similar fashion: Harry would turn up at Malfoy’s house with damp hair and a persistent chill caused by his house’s shit plumbing, and Malfoy would tease him as he served Harry a plate of warm food from a stovetop that he refused to let him near, until one fateful day when Harry saved an entire pan of quiche from catching alight and Malfoy realised Harry was better at cooking than he had been at Potions. They spent their days completing tasks that ranged from menial to outlandish; one of them would throw out a suggestion of what to do and they would take turns completing it. They went to see Big Ben and Harry took a picture of Malfoy pretending to lean against it, telling him to go closer and closer until he nearly had success at making Malfoy fall into the river. They went to the British Museum and Harry listened as Malfoy ranted about the theft of Egyptian artefacts for a solid twenty minutes, spluttering when Harry brought up the crisp incident from a few days before. They’d been thrown out when Malfoy shoved him into a pillar in retaliation for the comment. They’d gone for a walk along the Thames, taken a tour of the sites where Jack the Ripper had struck, and visited a Primark. The latter had been Malfoy’s idea – he’d been struck dumb by the bustling store and sent properly round the bend at the sight of the escalators. He’d forced Harry to ride them no less than five times, gripping at Harry’s arm for dear life each time they had to step off at the end.

Over the days, Harry began to learn little quirks about Malfoy; the way that he craned his neck to check both ways at every pedestrian crossing, despite the light being green; how he preferred his fried eggs to be seasoned with dill instead of pepper; that he enjoyed making self-deprecating jokes almost as much as he enjoyed insulting Harry, now that he knew that Harry would laugh along with him most of the time.

One of his more interesting – or odd, depending on how you wanted to look at it – quirks was his morning routine.

Harry himself had a morning routine – that wasn’t what was out of the ordinary. Harry preferred to lie-in a bit after his wand alarm went off. He showered first, then made himself a cup of tea if he had time, before buying a pastry on the way to work. Sometimes he even made his bed before setting off for the day (mostly only when Hermione was coming round and was liable to give him a look if she thought he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself).

Malfoy’s routine was less a preferred guideline and more an exact timing system that was planned down to the minute. He had a certain amount of time that he let his tea brew for, an allocated number of minutes with which to dress, a particular moment that he spelled the curtains open. He had it down to a science; it was almost like a dance, watching him do it. Harry was surprised that he hadn’t worn a path through the floor, since he stopped and turned and crouched in the exact same spots every day. There, in front of the third cupboard from the left, Malfoy squatted to grab out two white breakfast plates with strings of honeysuckle printed around the rim. That creaky board by the breadbox was where Malfoy leaned over the counter to reach for the metal tin that housed his teabags, a red thing in the shape of a double-decker bus. It honked its horn if you pressed down on the front window with two fingers. Malfoy tucked the curtains back at the same angle, tying them with the same fist-sized knot. He sat on the same couch cushion to read a few pages of his book – the only thing that changed as the days passed. He read quickly, moving from The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde, to The Geographic Distribution of Magical Cryptids in Asia, to Masie to Mooncalf: Where Did She Come From and Where Will She Go? seemingly without pause.

Harry felt like he’d been a saner person before knowing any of that information.

After the third day of watching the perfectly choreographed routine play out, Harry decided to ask him about it.

“Are you doing this whole routine thing because of the loop, and you need to be able to – I don’t know – control some of the predictability?”

Malfoy lowered his cup of tea and fixed Harry with a quizzical look. “Sorry, did I miss the bit where I hired you as my shrink?”

“Maybe you need one. Not because of that but because of you’re … you. Your you-ness.”

“You really are the most eloquent person I’ve ever had the misfortune of speaking to. To answer your question, no, this is simply how I like to do things. It works well and is efficient, and I won’t forget anything because it’s all automatic.”

Harry nodded to himself. “So it’s not the loop, then? You’re just like this?” He automatically ducked, anticipating that a slice of buttered toast travelling at speed would quickly be heading his way, but Malfoy just tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “What? What’s that face for?”

“Nothing. No reason.” There was a twinkle in Malfoy’s eye that made Harry’s own eyes narrow in response. He took the last mushroom off of Malfoy’s plate in retaliation.

It took a bit of time for Harry to see the full routine in all its mildly concerning glory. It wasn’t until the next supremely odd occurrence that he was given the chance – Malfoy doing something nice for seemingly no personal gain whatsoever.

“Potter,” Malfoy said one morning, over a plate of scrambled eggs. He’d been visibly biting his tongue since Harry had arrived, snatched the spatula from Malfoy’s hand, and proceeded to show him up completely with how well he cooked. He didn’t tell Malfoy that he’d made them more times than he could count – he and Ginny had made a thing out of it after the war, whipping up plate after plate as a competition to impress Neville and Luna. The incident had become well known amongst their friend group as The Great Bisexual Break-up Scrambled Egg Debacle, leading to Ginny realising she had more of a crush on Luna than Harry, and Harry coming to the realisation that he was more interested in shooting glances at Neville’s bare biceps than Ginny’s.

Malfoy’s hair was still wet, curling just slightly at his temples. He was wearing one of his knitted jumpers, a lilac one this time that made his skin look almost dewy. He had it pushed up to his elbows, fabric bunching at the joint. He was looking at Harry with an expression that told Harry two things; one, that he was in a mild amount of pain (likely emotional), and two, that he was already regretting what he’d started.

“Potter, I think we can both agree that this debacle has gone on long enough. At this point I would be doing the equivalent of a public service by not letting you turn into an icicle.”

“Elaborate.” Harry pointed his fork at Malfoy, holding up the tines so it looked as though there were prison bars running across his face. It was rather therapeutic when Malfoy was being annoying. “You’re doing that thing again where you have a conversation in your head and decide I’ve somehow heard it as well.”

“I don’t do that,” Malfoy, who very much did do that, replied. “I’m talking about you showing up for breakfast every morning looking so bloody pitiful. Honestly, you’re like a wet Niffler who’s just had their pile of gold confiscated. It brings the mood down.”

Harry, who had heard and discarded a number of Malfoy’s complaints about his face since the loop started, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it’s shit. Can’t do anything about it though.”

“Ah, but you can.” Malfoy held out his palms in a ‘ta da’ motion. “Hence my good deed to the general public. I have hot water here. You are in need of some. The wizarding world will surely crumble if you freeze to death one morning or spontaneously combust from Arctic-induced frustration, and I’ll get blamed for it somehow. I’m future proofing, really.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “Just say you want me to get in the buff at your place – don’t dance around it.”

Malfoy’s entire head turned red, though he didn’t break eye contact. “I do not. I will tolerate it. Weather the storm of your bare arse in my vicinity. Compartmentalise those memories and shove them even deeper than the ones of my parents committing war crimes.”

The bit of scrambled egg in Harry’s mouth became somewhat of a hazard as he inhaled the thing, coughing and slapping at his chest. Through his watering eyes, he could clearly see Malfoy’s satisfied expression.

“In return,” Malfoy continued, “you will proceed with your current cooking endeavour. You haven’t yet burned down the kitchen or ruined any of my good pans, so I must declare you at least halfway competent in this area. Those are my terms.”

“What, keep doing what I’m already doing?” Harry wiped at his eyes, chest heaving. “If I didn’t know better – and I do, remember I’ve known you since we were eleven – I’d say you were actually doing something nice for once.”

“Delusion,” Malfoy said, standing up to take Harry’s empty plate.

And so Harry began his mornings not by stepping into frigid water and completing the most rudimentary scrub possible in order to get out of the bathroom as quickly as he could, but instead by Apparating over to Malfoy’s place with a bag of toiletries slung over his shoulder, still clad in his tartan pyjama bottoms and loose Radiohead shirt with a hole in the shoulder.

Malfoy was adamant about him Apparating, despite it meaning that he had to key Harry into the wards every single morning.

“Just let me Floo,” Harry whined. “I’ll even cast a cleaning charm on the hearth after I come through, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“It’s not. I’ve got the Floo blocked because Mrs Greengrass has decided to throw all appropriate social conventions out of the window and pester me before nine o’clock on a weekday. It’s incessant.”

He relented after a bit more moping on Harry’s part, declaring that he’d ‘show him, alright’, which probably shouldn’t have sounded quite so terrifying.

Harry had spent less than ten minutes in Malfoy’s flat with the Floo open to calls, before he relented and was forced to admit that Malfoy was right about keeping his Floo blocked.

Mrs Greengrass simply would not be ignored. She called and called again, keeping it up even when Malfoy answered and told her that he wasn’t interested in participating in the luncheon that was apparently more important than both his and Harry’s sanity. Letting her catch sight of Harry had been a huge mistake, her fervour only increasing as she tried to get Harry to agree to come along too.

“It’s the social event of the season,” she cried in a shrill voice, gazing meaningfully at Harry. “We must have you both there. Draco, dear, I simply won’t hear otherwise.”

“Why?” Harry groaned, when Mrs Greengrass attempted to call back yet again.

“She thinks this is the key to finally getting me back into the fold. And I think she probably promised my mother that she’d look out for me. I suppose I would appreciate it, in a way, if it wasn’t eight forty-five and she wasn’t interrupting my sacred cup of tea time.”

“But why you? I thought you were, you know, shunned now.”

“Fucking hell.” Malfoy snorted into his cup of tea, wincing as the Floo chimed again. “She, along with many of the other Pureblood families, are likely to not be anywhere near as familiar with my financial situation as the Aurors are. They’ve probably decided that I’m having some kind of rebellious phase and choosing to live in a two-bedroom flat above a shop as some sort of statement. A middle finger to ‘the man’, if you will.” Malfoy glanced up, grey eyes glinting with something. “And she’s probably still hoping that I’ll marry her daughter. Seems to have slipped her mind that I’m outrageously gay.”

Drops of tea showered the table as Harry spluttered, eyes wide as he gaped at Malfoy. “Sorry, what?”

“Ah.” Malfoy’s lips curled into a smirk. “So you didn’t know. How curious. That wasn’t in my file, I take it?”

He didn’t give Harry the opportunity for a rebuttal, just cleaned the table with a flick of his wand before making his way over to the Floo to tell Mrs Greengrass to fuck off again, in a more socially appropriate fashion.

*

“What type of things do you cook at home?”

Malfoy leaned back against the counter as he watched Harry crack eggs into a pot of boiling water. They’d been making an effort to utilise the ingredients in a different way each morning, trying to avoid getting sick of them. It had been working quite well so far; they’d made scrambled eggs, then fried, then poached. They’d made an omelette and a quiche and even French toast, though Malfoy had fucked that one up by leaving the tray in the oven for too long. They’d sampled every single spread in Malfoy’s cupboards, even one right at the back that had been under Stasis that Malfoy thought Blaise Zabini’s mother might have made while they’d still been in school.

The apricot jam was Malfoy’s favourite, Harry noticed. He licked the knife clean after he put the spread on, the point of his pink tongue darting down the flat sides of the utensil as he twisted the red and white chequered lid back into place. He hummed as he did it, a bright, rhythmic sound of pure happiness that cut through any lingering frustration that Harry carried when he woke up, irritated at reliving the same day yet again.

If Malfoy noticed that Harry had picked up on this fact about him, he didn’t call attention to it. It was as though it were a mere coincidence to him, that Harry spread thick orange paste over his toast – in the toaster for exactly two and a half minutes; the same amount of time that it took for Malfoy to pull open his curtains and move his chosen book from the shelf to the coffee table in preparation for his reading time – without him having to ask.

Harry glanced at Malfoy over his shoulder, noting the way that the green knitted jumper he was wearing pooled at his wrists. It was in danger of catching on the string of the teabag, actually. “How many of those did Goyle make you?”

“Four. He’s working on a black and white one currently, in a much smaller size than these. The silhouette is a bit ridiculous. And answer my question.”

Harry poked at the round of one of the eggs with the tip of the straining spoon. “Nothing, really. I get a takeaway most nights.”

Malfoy’s brows furrowed, a line appearing in the middle. “Your job is clearly maddening at times, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t cook when you’re clearly able to.”

Harry shrugged. “I used to have to do it a lot as a kid and I hated it.”

Suddenly he was small again, perched atop a red plastic step stool as he struggled to see the entirety of the pan, knowing that if he let the bacon burn he’d be derided and ridiculed. His uncle had been fond of telling him he was useless and stupid, but Aunt Petunia’s comments had hurt more. They carried a sharper edge, the curling of her upper lip and the word disappointment spat out with force. If Uncle Vernon had always expected Harry to fail, Aunt Petunia seemed the opposite, as though she’d expected better, had almost wanted Harry to succeed, yet he’d fallen short yet again. It felt more personal somehow.

Swallowing, Harry poked at one of the eggs again, watching as it bobbed up and down in the water. “I don’t cook at all now, not if I’m by myself. I help Molly sometimes – Mrs Weasley.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “I gathered.” His voice was softer somehow, the sharpness gone. He wasn’t moving, seemed frozen where he stood, cup of tea held against his collarbone.

Something bubbled up inside Harry’s chest, an odd sort of yearning. It wasn’t dissimilar to being drunk and suddenly finding yourself discussing your bedroom escapades with your close mates, laughing and smiling and oversharing. He wanted to tell Malfoy, even if it was just because he happened to be there, in the right place at the right time.

“It feels like winning sometimes, not doing it. Like I’m taking something back that my aunt and uncle took from me.” He glanced at Malfoy, noted the slight curl to his mouth. It wasn’t a true smile, not really. It was turned down at the corners, tinged with sadness or maybe even regret, rather than happiness.

“Eating fried dough every morning feels like winning?”

“In a way, yeah.”

There were a few moments of silence as the water boiled in the pot. The eggs would need to come out soon and Malfoy hadn’t put the toast in yet. A hand settled atop Harry’s wrist as he reached for the breadbox. The click of Malfoy’s throat was audible as he gently pushed Harry back.

“I’ll do it,” he said, voice quiet. “You’re in charge of the eggs.”

Later, once Harry had put the eggs on the plate and smeared apricot jam across Malfoy’s toast and marmite on his own, Malfoy fixed him with an assessing look. His brows, still drawn together, hadn’t separated since Harry had started talking about his aunt and uncle.

“It’s understandable, you know.” His rounded vowels were tinged with something unreadable. “But I’d be remiss not to inform you that your choices seem rather unhealthy. How are you not breaking out in spots every day?”

A grin pulled at the corners of Harry’s mouth, uncontrollable but soft, private. “We’re a bit old for that, don’t you reckon?”

“Nonsense. If I don’t eat at least one portion of fruit each day, I get the most awful spottiness on my forehead. And more than the recommended amount of white sugar? It’s ghastly. I’d offer to show you, but I care about my own wellbeing too much to allow that to happen.” Malfoy stood up, reaching to swipe Harry’s empty teacup from the table. “And you appear to have gotten over your cooking aversion somewhat. The loop’s been good for something, at least.”

“I haven’t,” Harry replied. “I just … I don’t mind doing it with someone else. With you.”

Malfoy’s shoulders drew up as he stood in front of the kettle. It was a minute movement, one that Harry likely wouldn’t have taken notice of if he hadn’t already been looking. It wasn’t a shameful thing to admit, surely, that he enjoyed doing something with Malfoy? It wasn’t as though he could spend time with anyone else.

“Perhaps,” Malfoy said, busying himself with making tea. He didn’t look at Harry, breezed right past what he’d said. “You could shift your lingering frustration onto something less necessary for your everyday survival? Laundry, perhaps? There are a hundred and one spells to make that shite chore easier. Or you could get a house elf.”

“A house elf? Hermione would kill me. You’d never find my body.”

Malfoy rinsed the cups under the tap, then refilled them with water, taking care to make sure the spout flowed over the teabag rather than past it. “I could hire one and lend them to you. For a fee, of course.”

Harry shook his head. He grinned, leaning back in his chair to watch Malfoy. “She’d show some leeway to me, I’d reckon. Ron might be able to convince her. But you? Your bony arse would end up in an unmarked grave in the North Sea.”

The force of the glare that Malfoy threw Harry’s way was enough to get him to let out a bark of laughter. “My arse is not bony,” Malfoy muttered, slamming the fresh cup of tea on the table in front of Harry. “I have it on good authority.”

It took Harry a bit to realise, once Malfoy had retreated to the couch and cracked open his book of the week – a thick biography of an Elizabethan era Hogwarts headmaster – that Malfoy hadn’t asked Harry how he took his tea. Actually, Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had asked. Yet he’d made it perfectly, exactly how Harry liked it.

Warmth spread through Harry’s chest as he sipped at it, watching as the rays of sunlight moved slowly across the floorboards, listening as Malfoy flicked through page after page.

The warmth was because of the tea.

Some of it, at least.

Chapter Text

“As much as this is a rather enlightening arrangement, I would be remiss not to ask if you wanted me to take a look at your house’s magical core to see if I can fix whatever’s gone awry.” Malfoy’s eyes lingered on Harry’s bare collarbone. Steeling himself, Harry waited for the inevitable snap of this isn’t a nudist resort, Potter, or put some bloody clothes on, you’re damaging my eyes, but no such quip came. Instead, Malfoy pressed on. “You would likely need to redo the counterspells every morning before using your shower, but it would still be better than nothing.”

“Why? You getting sick of me already?” Unable to help himself, Harry winked as he shirtlessly made his way towards the kitchen, wanting to get the tea started before his stomach started to rumble.

“No,” Malfoy replied, the word almost a squeak. “I just thought you might be more … comfortable at home, is all.”

It was Harry’s turn to let out a noise of surprise. He froze with his hand in the tea bag tin, waiting for an elaboration that never came. Surely, he hadn’t … Harry hadn’t been loud when he’d touched himself under the warm spray of Malfoy’s shower. He’d pressed his palm against his mouth when he came, and it hadn’t been more than a whimper anyway. He was overthinking it. Malfoy was an odd sort of bloke – maybe he was finally getting tired of Harry messing with his morning routine. That was probably it.

Harry’s spent cock twitched in his jeans. It perked up as Harry’s thoughts wandered to what it had felt like to finally give himself a tug, to be able to pull himself off surrounded by warmth and steam and the smell of Malfoy’s body wash, and …

Fumbling, Harry summoned a shirt and tugged it over his head, not caring if the fabric stuck to his still-damp back. His entire body felt flushed; a winning combination of his shower, his recent orgasm, and the fantasies that refused to be cowed.

There was a layer of tension hanging in the air that hadn’t been there before, thick and cloying. Malfoy certainly wasn’t helping matters, given that he was staring right at Harry, eyes slightly narrowed. Harry knew he was, because he turned to stare right back at him.

Aiming for casual, Harry leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest; effortless, aloof, thy name was Harry Potter. “Magical house cores? Fancy yourself as a bit of a handyman, do you?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and mirrored Harry’s pose, letting the wall behind him take his weight. “I’ve been told that I know my way around a malfunctioning charm, yes.”

“Are you going to turn up in dungarees and a tool belt? I’ve a flannel shirt I could lend you. And a hammer, probably. Come to think, do you even know what a hammer is?”

Malfoy lifted one pale eyebrow, drawing Harry’s attention to the pronounced arch of it. “I was planning on coming round to help, not to take a starring role in a bad porno. But I suppose it’ll be your house, so you get to decide.”

Whirling around in an attempt to hide both his splutter and his rapidly heating cheeks, Harry yanked the tea bags out of the cups before they were fully steeped. Malfoy would have his head on a spike for it, no doubt, but needs must. How did Malfoy even know what a porno was, let alone a bad one? Was there a thriving wizarding porn industry that Harry was completely unaware of? Did Malfoy keep a stack of saucy memory vials under his bed that he watched after Harry went home? Did he touch himself when he did it? Stupid question – of course he must. What did he think about? Did he–

“Fucking hell,” Malfoy muttered, much closer than he had been before. Harry hadn’t even heard him approach, too busy fighting the mental image of his school rival in a pair of ratty denim dungarees and nothing else, twirling a hammer on his fingertips. He’d knock on the door and Harry would … would … slam his head into the upper cabinet because that was not where his brain should be going. One proper orgasm and he was out for the count, not to be relied upon.

Malfoy’s breath tickled the back of Harry’s neck as he leaned around to grab his subpar cup of tea, slowly sliding his fingers across the curved porcelain.

“Potter.” There was a smirk in Malfoy’s voice, clearly audible. “As much as I do love to see you have a mild crisis – Merlin knows I do – I’d also like to know if you’re accepting my offer or not, so I can brush up on my knowledge of house magic first. I’ve a book.”

“Course you do,” Harry said, sounding somewhat strangled. He cleared his throat, turning around so that he was facing Malfoy instead. “Yeah, let’s do it. Give it a go.”

“Lovely. We’ll make an evening out of it.” Malfoy’s eye twitched as he took his first sip of tea, lip curling in disgust. “Potter, what the fuck? This is absolutely awful. And here I thought that you’d improved your tea making skills.” He pressed his lips together around a smirk. “Or were you distracted?”

“No,” Harry shot back. He couldn’t hide his own reaction to the taste of the tea. Malfoy definitely saw it.

“Good.” Grey eyes sparkled, pink lips parting on a grin. “Couldn’t have that now, could we?”

*

“For Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy muttered, pausing on his front stoop and frowning at the sign hanging above the door. It groaned as it swayed in the wind, ancient hinges protesting even the slightest of movements.

Harry nearly ran into the back of him as he closed the door, stopping with his nose mere inches from the nape of Malfoy’s neck.

“That thing is tilted every day. Every bloody day. I think I’m beginning to develop a nervous tic.” Rising onto his tiptoes, Malfoy reached up to gently smack at the side of the flat wooden board, trying to get it into an appropriate position. “See that hinge there? It’s misaligned. Once I fix it, it’s usually fine for a week or so, but it just had to be today that it needed readjusting.” He let out an angry huff, body pitching violently to the side as he fought to keep his balance.

“Why don’t you just use magic? You know – that thing your parents thought you were the most superior people in the world for having?”

Malfoy shot him a deadpan look over his shoulder before resuming his ridiculous slapping. “The hinges on this stupid thing are so bloody old that any magic could crack them.” He smacked at the sign again, sending it swinging wildly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “But you doing that is fine?”

“It’s not my rule but it is my problem.” Malfoy huffed again, losing his balance.

“Bloody hell – here.” Harry settled his hands on Malfoy’s hips, palms fitting nicely into the slight curve there. He waited for Malfoy to push him away, to yell and carry on a bit and embarrass them both, but no such protest came. Instead, Malfoy rose up again on the balls of his feet and leaned his weight into Harry’s hold as he stretched his arms above his head. His hair smelled like strawberries, Harry realised, likely from the pink bottle in his shower. Harry had stared at that very bottle as he had a wank that morning, hand flying over his cock under the warm spray. Quickly, to distract himself, he focused on the task at hand, rather than the way that Malfoy’s body felt under his fingers. “Why not just replace the whole sign? Seems like it’s seen better days.”

“If you think I haven’t tried that already, then you’re even more stupid than you look. Everything has to be original since the entire bloody street is heritage listed. I’d get smacked with a ridiculously large fine if I tried, and the paperwork would no doubt be served by your own delightful subordinates. Publicly too, if I could hazard a guess.”

Harry swallowed as another rush of fresh strawberries, fluffy cream, and warm summer sun filled his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better to have the signs replaced rather than risk the whole thing falling off and breaking the door or flying into a window? It looks heavy enough that it could crack a cobble, actually.”

Malfoy threw him a deadpan look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Take it up with the council. Maybe you’ll actually get somewhere, unlike me. Fucking hell, yes, that’s it.”

Nearly choking on his next breath, Harry’s hands tightened reflexively on Malfoy’s hips. Thankfully, the sign seemed to have been fixed. The crisis of Harry’s rapidly racing pulse was averted. He stepped away from Malfoy, putting some much-needed distance between them as soon as Malfoy steadied himself.

What the fuck am I doing? Harry thought, rubbing his hands down his face as Malfoy checked the shop wards. I’ve gone insane. The social isolation has finally gotten to me.

The click of Malfoy’s shoes grew fainter, paused, then returned to stop next to Harry. There was a sharp poke to Harry’s ribs, making him groan in protest.

“Are you having a crisis?” Malfoy asked. “Shall I tell you which ones I could help with and which I’d rather not?”

“Unless you’ve suddenly got a solution to all this, then no.”

“Well.” Malfoy sniffed haughtily; the sound was nostalgic enough to tear Harry from the knife edge of insanity he’d been teetering on. “I was going to offer to let you pick the film for this evening, but now I don’t think I will.”

“You have to. You’ve never seen a film, so you don’t know what to look for. You’ll pick a crap one.”

“I won’t. I have impeccable taste.”

“How do you know?” Harry dropped his hands and grinned. “Did your mum tell you that?”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“How bloody good. Shall we go?”

“Yes.” Then, once they’d reached Muggle London, “For future reference, I can offer assistance for the following crises: bad haircuts, a wine stain, a fuck up in the space-time continuum, parental loyalty, and gay.”

He quickly strode ahead as Harry devolved into gasps of shocked laughter, bending at the waist even as he tried to catch up to Malfoy’s increasingly quick pace.

Harry was proven correct that Malfoy had no idea what to look for in films about five minutes into their designated browsing time at the video rental store.

“This one,” Malfoy insisted, shoving the case against Harry’s chest.

“No.”

“Don’t be a prat.”

“I’m not watching Revenge of the Swamp Monster.”

“I’ve suffered enough; give me this.”

The glowing red eyes of the swamp monster seemed fixed on Harry, as they glared out of their host’s shadowy form. In the top right corner of the cover, a black sliver of a boom mic could be seen.

“Pick something else. Something that doesn’t have a monster on the cover.”

From behind his back, Malfoy produced another plastic case. This one had an enormous pair of tits on the cover, censored only by a large banner claiming that the film was, ironically, uncensored.

“Well,” Harry muttered, taking the proffered DVD, “this doesn’t look very gay.”

Malfoy sniffed, apparently taking offence. “I do have other interests, you know. I’m not only my sexuality.”

Blinking, Harry turned the video over to look at the back. “And your other interests lie-in … lesbian porn? What section did you even get this from?”

Malfoy pointed to a red beaded curtain that separated the main room from a darker, more mysterious one.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered, hiding the salacious cover with his hand.

“The women in that one … do they really have sexual relations with each other? And you can watch them?” Malfoy’s head tilted to the side, his eyes fixed on the back of Harry’s hand, where it was protecting other patrons from seeing a large pair of tits unannounced.

“Looks that way, yeah.”

“Hmm. How curious.” Despite pretending to be interested in such matters, Malfoy’s pallor had taken on a distinctly grey tinge. “That would certainly be appealing to some.”

“Sure thing, Malfoy. Let’s borrow Groundhog Day and get the fuck out of here before someone we know sees us with this.”

For once, Malfoy didn’t protest, though he did insist that Harry buy a large bag of rainbow popcorn for them to snack on as they watched the film, claiming that Harry had unfairly overruled everything else he’d wanted, so he owed him that much.

“I’ve saved you, is what I’ve done,” Harry muttered, handing over a few pounds to the cashier. “Your innocence is intact thanks to me.”

Malfoy raised both eyebrows, regarding Harry with a look of utter bafflement. “You’ve an interesting view of me, Potter.” He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Innocence. Honestly.”

There was little time to ponder exactly what Malfoy had meant by that, as they were being moved out of the way for the next set of customers to approach the desk.

If Malfoy had seemed shocked when roaming around the video store, he looked downright taken aback when they reached Harry’s house.

“This is it? This?” The pinkness of Malfoy’s tongue was visible as his jaw dropped. He gestured wildly at the now visible front door of Grimmauld Place.

“Yeah? Why, do you know it?” Harry teased, pushing open the front gate.

“Don’t toy with me, you wanker,” Malfoy muttered, gently kicking at the back of Harry’s ankle. “I cannot believe you didn’t mention that we were heading back to my ancestral home when you were having a whinge about faulty house magic.”

“Isn’t the Manor your ancestral home?”

“I have more than one ancestor, thanks ever so.”

“I know. I have a tapestry that tells me as much.”

“I’ll hex you – don’t think I won’t.”

Grimmauld’s dreary front hallway was certainly not comparable to the warmth of Malfoy’s flat, the cosiness of the pillows and thick living room rug, the rickety wooden dining chairs and the shelves upon shelves of books that Malfoy seemed to know by touch alone. It didn’t have the same welcoming feeling to it, but it was still home. It was his.

And now Malfoy was in it, which was an entirely different realm of fuckery.

“Well,” Malfoy said, looking around with an assessing gaze. “It doesn’t appear to regard you insidiously, which is positive.”

“Did you think it would?”

“I wasn’t sure. Typically, the house would work with you to fix any pressing magical issues that heighten your discomfort; I thought that perhaps it might have turned hostile if it was refusing to do so.”

“You … sound like you actually know what you’re talking about.” It was difficult to keep the surprise from his voice. Malfoy clearly caught it if the look he threw Harry’s way was any indication. Harry couldn’t be blamed for feeling that way – Malfoy certainly did talk a lot of shit, and some of it was bound to be either untrue or at least heavily embellished.

“Go get the film ready, and I’ll have a look around. I assume you’ve not set up any traps around the place? There used to be a few in the upstairs rooms when I was a child. I ended up with purple lines all down my legs when I accidentally tripped one once. Traumatic.”

“Uh, not that I’m aware of, no.”

When Harry turned his back, Malfoy disappeared into an adjoining room, the click of his shoes the only indication of the direction he’d chosen. Harry found him in the library, seemingly browsing. He traced long, pale fingers down the spines of books older than both of their grandparents; possibly older than their last names, in the case of a few ancient Black family heirlooms.

Clearing his throat, Harry leaned against the doorframe. “Magical cores are usually against a main internal wall, aren’t they? Pretty sure the one here is by the stairs on the next floor up.”

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively, leaning down to inspect a thick tome that looked as though it might have a dust jacket made of genuine human skin. “Indulge me.”

“What, by letting you poke around my house?”

“That too.”

Dust motes danced in the air as Malfoy made his way around the room, steps silent on the thick carpet. He seemed to fade into the background, completely at one with the house, as though the magic there was shrouding him from Harry’s view. Perhaps it was recognising Malfoy’s authority instead of Harry’s. It wouldn’t be all that surprising.

“What’s this?” Malfoy pointed at one of the porcelain cat figurines that dotted the bookshelves. The cat, sensing the attention, flicked its bushy tail back and forth. “It doesn’t appear to be dangerous.”

“Gifts from Luna.” Harry nodded at the sculpture of a crocodile wearing a wide-brimmed hat and holding a fishing rod. “She brings things back whenever she travels. Couldn’t find a better place to put them all.”

“Couldn’t find a proper spot for this either?” Malfoy leaned down to grab something off the floor, hidden from view behind one of the plush couches. He held it up, shaking off the dust that clung to the material. “What does ‘H’ stand for? You, I presume?”

A lump formed in Harry’s throat, hard and unbidden. Malfoy turned the Weasley jumper over in his hands, brow furrowing as he tried to work out what exactly it was, aside from the obvious.

It was clear when Malfoy made the Weasley connection; he let out a small huff of breath as his gaze flicked from the jumper to Harry and back again. He folded it, leaning it against his thigh as he smoothed down the arms.

“It’s in good nick despite sitting in the sun for Merlin knows how long. Whoever knitted it chose good fibres.”

“Molly,” Harry said, his voice thick. “Molly Weasley made it for me. I have others too.”

“Yes, I remember you wearing them back at school. I always thought they were …” Malfoy shrugged, holding the folded jumper out for Harry to take. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

The material was soft against Harry’s fingers. He held the jumper against his chest, crossing his arms over it. “Do you think they realise something’s wrong? I keep thinking they must.”

Malfoy’s gaze was assessing. “The Weasley clan?”

“Ron. Hermione.”

“Ah. I’d … expect not.” Malfoy pressed his lips together, turning to face the shelf that housed a bright orange bear wearing a Chudley Cannons scarf. “As much as that probably hurts to hear, it does neither of us any good not to be realistic.”

“I’ve never … done something like this without them. They’ve always just been there.”

Every step of the way, through the darkest moments of Harry’s life, Ron and Hermione had been right beside him. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to finish this without their input or their guidance. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to figure out what the finish line was in this instance. He was unmoored, untethered. But still, somehow, mostly unbroken.

“Fuck.” Harry pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them to stay dry. He’d not cried properly in years, didn’t know his body even knew how to anymore.

Later, he thought to himself. Not here. Not in front of Malfoy.

Being vulnerable about his aunt and uncle was one thing – he’d chosen to speak about that. This, he hadn’t, and he had no desire to. There was no love lost between Malfoy and Harry’s best friends, and he had no desire for Malfoy to downplay Harry’s emotions about them. He probably wouldn’t; he wasn’t quite that cruel, not anymore, but Harry wasn’t willing to take that risk.

“I miss them,” was all he said.

Malfoy’s mouth opened but nothing came out. He took a few steps forward, hand outstretched, as though offering up a handshake. When he was close enough, he clasped his palm over Harry’s upper arm, squeezing gently. They stood there like that for a few moments, watching the dust motes twirl in the air.

“I’m going to go check upstairs,” Malfoy said. Quiet, placating. “You said the film’s a pain in the arse to put on, yes? Perhaps it could be useful to get started on that?”

“Good shout,” Harry agreed. He cleared his throat, blinking against the slight soreness in his eyes. “I’ll do that.”

Malfoy shouted after him as Harry left the room, voice carrying through the silent house. “And don’t forget my popcorn.”

Against all odds, it made Harry smile.

It took a good bit of time to get the telly to cooperate. It had the tendency to go fuzzy every few minutes, black and white flecks blooming across the screen as the magic interfered with the electricity or the signal. It had improved since Harry had dragged it from the den and into the ground floor study. The room had been part of an extension at some point in the house’s history and, as such, didn’t have the same intense level of magic baked into the walls. The picture still went a bit blurry, and it took forever to get the thing warmed up after it had been turned on, but it was miles better than before.

Harry nodded to himself, pleased as anything, as the opening shots of Groundhog Day flashed across the screen. He paused it just as Malfoy strode through the door, a wooden box in his hands.

“Potter,” he announced, haughty voice dripping with authority, “you’re an idiot.”

“Oh, good, I was wondering where you’d gotten to. Ready to start?” He patted the couch next to him, nodding at the telly.

“Why did you not mention that you were in possession of a Curio Box? Surely you’ve done this on purpose – even you’re not that thick, I refuse to believe it.”

He’d definitely forgotten to mention it.

“Yeah, it’s fucked with the Heating Charms. Can you fix it?”

Malfoy gaped at him. “Can I fix it? Do you have any idea how rare these are?”

“Yeah. It’s from work. Wish I’d never volunteered to bring it home, it’s been bloody annoying.”

“You’re something else. Truly a unique specimen of a person.” Malfoy tossed the box onto the side table next to him, watching as the runes carved into the wood briefly flashed white. “It’s unstable, that’s for sure. I had a bit of a poke around and it seems harmless enough, but it’s unbalancing the house’s magic.”

Harry sat up a little straighter, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “It won’t remove the Fidelius, will it?”

“No, that’s a different sort of magic. I can almost guarantee that if you’d used your oven recently, you would have noticed that it was less powerful than it should be. Lights would be fluctuating in intensity too. Little things like that, the magic increasing and decreasing as the box draws it in and pushes it out. You need to remove the box from the house and give the magic some time to resettle back into its normal rhythm, but you don’t have the luxury of that under our current circumstances.”

Harry could already feel Malfoy’s indignation over what he was about to ask. “Hear me out: if it’s messing with Grimmauld’s magic, could it have caused the time loop?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, dropping onto the singular free couch cushion available to him. “Although you might be used to being the centre of the universe, given our school years and your subsequent fame, rest assured that you are not. If it’s not too much trouble, please pull the pin out of your neck so that your abnormally large head can deflate. It would be much appreciated. In short: no, it’s not likely to be responsible.” He grinned when Harry kicked at his ankle, flipping him off and insisting that Harry not keep him waiting any longer.

“This is technically research,” Harry said, shuffling forward until he could reach the play button on the DVD player with the very tip of his toe. “So make sure that you pay attention.”

Never in the history of the universe had anyone ever been so enthralled by Bill Murray.

To Malfoy, however, he was God in the form of a middle-aged man.

“Did you see that, Potter?” Malfoy shrieked, grabbing at Harry’s arm as Phil Connors drove a speeding car down the sleepy streets of Punxsutawney. “Merlin, what a cause for excitement. This is exhilarating.”

Harry, for his part, spent most of the movie hiding fits of uncontrollable laughter by burying his head in the bag of coloured popcorn. It was as though every single thing that happened in the film was the wildest, most daring feat of bravery that Malfoy had ever witnessed. It wasn’t unlike how Harry might expect a Victorian child to act, if teleported into the modern day with no prior warning.

“He’s a bit like you, you know,” Harry said, pointing at the screen. “Phil Connors. Dry, deadpan, a pain in the arse.”

“Shut up, Potter, Phil is a hero. You wouldn’t know what a hero looked like if it scarred you right across the forehead.”

Harry nodded to himself. “Brilliant. Glad to know that your ability to read people hasn’t improved since school.”

Somehow, Malfoy managed to flip him off while also stuffing his face with a fistful of popcorn. It was truly an epic feat for the ages.

“We should do more things like that,” Malfoy said, later, watching with unfettered glee as Phil presented Rita with an ice sculpture of her likeness.

“What, manipulate nice women into liking us?”

Malfoy’s upper lip curled. “Gross. Don’t be daft. No – crazy things. Wild ideas. Shenanigans, Potter.”

“What, you want to make an ice sculpture? Surely there’s an ice rink around here that we can visit. They might get a bit miffed about the whole carving bit, but we could probably bribe them.”

“I mean like stealing cars or entering a competition that we know we’ll win. Living life, creating memories.” Malfoy’s eyes were alight, shining with mirth. “I’ve never done a proper shenanigan before.”

Harry was struck with the sudden urge to pat Malfoy on the head. “Nicking a packet of crisps is a bit different to stealing a car. Not sure your tiptoe method would work there. But sure, it could be fun.”

“Alright.” Malfoy turned to face Harry, folding his legs underneath himself. “We’ll make a proper competition out of it. I know your lot always loved the thrill of the stakes, and I rather enjoy winning.

Ideas began to form in Harry’s mind, flashes of colour and the sound of his own laughter as he made a fool of Malfoy, all within the confines of a game that only they would remember. “We could pick tasks for each other? Make it really interesting.”

“Yes.” Malfoy clapped his hands together, chuckling gleefully. “I’m starting. You, Harry Potter, are going to quit your job tomorrow. You can thank me later.”

“Fine.” Familiar tendrils of anxiety began to creep into Harry’s gut, always resistant to his attempt to push them down. It was a misguided sense of responsibility that fuelled it, as he well knew. But knowing that the world wouldn’t fall apart if you didn’t take up an important role in managing the safety and security of others wasn’t the same as feeling it. And feel it he did.

“What’s mine? My task.” Malfoy was practically vibrating in his seat. The sharp points of his canines were visible where they dug into his bottom lip.

Raising his chin, Harry offered Malfoy his last out. “You definitely want to do this? No backing out.”

Haughtily, “I do have a sense of pride, you know. I’m very sportsmanlike.”

“Fuck off, you liar. Well, your task is to water your flowers tomorrow at the standard time.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Grinning, Harry said, “And you’re doing it in the buff.”

“And when we’re back to normal, what does the winner get?” The words were forced out; the grinding of Malfoy’s teeth audible.

Harry shrugged. “Whatever they want.”

Malfoy’s grin turned sharklike. He held out a hand, his own elbow poking him in the chest as he waited for Harry to take up his offering. “I accept. Shake on it.”

Harry tried to ignore the way his own fingers slid alongside Malfoy’s, callouses catching and rubbing. It was futile, but that was alright – he’d certainly have the upper hand tomorrow.

*

For the first time in many days, Harry had some actual pep in his step as he walked up the stairs to Malfoy’s flat. It was going to be a good day; he could already feel it.

Malfoy was at the kitchen table when Harry let himself in, a book lying open in front of him. He flashed Harry a sharp grin as he rose to stand. “Have you done it? I’ll need proof, obviously.”

“Figured I’d do it from here to save you having a whinge about it.” Harry pushed the sleeves of his jumper up to pool around his elbows; Malfoy’s flat was always warm, even when he didn’t have a fire going. It was the complete opposite of Grimmauld Place, which seemed to leech the warmth out of your bones if you sat still for long enough.

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Malfoy waved a hand in the direction of the Floo before sinking down into his previously vacated chair. He marked his page with a green ribbon, tucking the ends in so that the fabric was in no danger of being accidentally tugged free.

Harry’s stomach pitched dangerously as he crouched in front of the now open Floo, throwing in a handful of powder to activate it. It was as though he were watching himself from the outside as he spoke the directions to be navigated to the Ministry’s internal system, his vision going fuzzy at the edges.

“Password?” A bored voice droned.

Cringing, Harry spoke the key words into the Floo. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.” Somewhere over his shoulder, Malfoy muffled a snort of laughter. “A few of Robards’s favourite things,” he clarified, waiting for the ding that signalled the final successful step of the Floo connection.

“Who the fuck is he,” Malfoy crowed. “Dolores Umbridge?”

“Good morning, Auror Potter.” Robards looked more than a little bent out of shape, frowning as he openly catalogued Harry’s surroundings. “What brings you to your current location rather than into the office? Also known as the place you are contractually obligated to be at this moment.”

“Uh, I quit?”

Behind him, Malfoy shouted, “Say it with feeling, Potter.”

Eyes narrowing, Robards said, “Merlin’s tits, is that Draco Malfoy?”

“I quit. The job’s ridiculous, I hate the paperwork, and I’m somehow too bored and too anxious at the same time. I’ll come in tomorrow to work things out, but for today I quit.”

A beat passed. Then, “Take the day. We’ll discuss this further tomorrow.”

Malfoy’s shout of, “He quit, you bellend,” was drowned out by the Floo connection closing. But Robards definitely heard it, judging by his expression.

Sitting back on his heels, Harry said, “He definitely thinks I’m under an Imperius.”

Malfoy hummed. “Any chance the flat might get raided? Reckon we should just bugger off for a bit?”

Whirling around, Harry pointed a finger in Malfoy’s direction. “No chance. You haven’t done your part yet.”

Malfoy’s pale cheeks visibly darkened. “After breakfast. Come over here and help.”

His idea of help was starting to look awfully like do it for me where the daily cooking was concerned. Harry didn’t much mind it though; he liked having something to do with his hands that wasn’t fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper. It was also nice to have something to focus on visually that wasn’t Malfoy himself. Staring at a bloke for hours on end was a bit much, even for Harry.

Harry meandered his way through making breakfast, feeling oddly light, almost weightless. He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of adrenaline rush from making the Floo call, or if perhaps it was a strong sense of relief; had he actually wanted to quit his job? Had he just never allowed himself to give it any thought, not once considered it as an actual option? He had absolutely no plan for what he might do instead, if this was the real world and not some ridiculous pocket of life that existed outside of proper space and time. He had skills, sure, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were. Ron would tell him, if he were there. He’d know just what to say.

“You’re burning the bacon,” Malfoy said, his voice nearly a whisper. He was so close to Harry that his chest was almost pressed against Harry’s arm, a wholly unnecessary brush of contact.

“It’s caramelisation,” Harry replied, but he did turn the heat down.

“And you’re definitely not wanting to change the task you’ve set? No new bolts of inspiration that you want to take advantage of?”

Grinning, Harry shook his head. “This was your idea, Malfoy. Deal with it.”

“In that case, you’d best make use of a Stasis Charm.” He turned on his heel, stalking down the short hallway that led to both his bedroom and the bathroom that Harry had begun to think of as their shared space.

“Where are you going? You can’t jump out of a window and run off – I’ll find you.”

Malfoy stopped, turning to glance at Harry over his shoulder. “What a terrifying thought. I’d report you to your boss for misuse of Auror resources, but you seem to no longer be employed. And I’m not running, I’m simply going to do some upkeep first.”

It was Harry’s turn to feel his cheeks heat. He turned back to the stovetop, poking at the bacon as he willed his mind not to come up with mental images of what Malfoy could be referring to. That train of thought inevitably led him to sausage, which quickly replaced the bacon in the pan. Far too much sausage – more than either of them would eat. Malfoy was bound to have a whinge about food wastage, despite no food actually being wasted at all. But it couldn’t be helped; Harry was just a man, just a typical bloke who enjoyed a good sausage. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary was Malfoy’s attire when he emerged from his bedroom some thirty minutes later. He had on a soft white bathrobe that fell to mid-thigh, cinched at the waist by a firm knot. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Harry’s mind was on the sausage train again.

That blissful state of abject horniness was immediately halted, a metaphorical bucket of ice water dousing his entire head as he read the initials BZ on Malfoy’s bathrobe. That wasn’t Malfoy’s monogram, that was for sure. It wasn’t his bathrobe then, either.

A bitter, acrid ball settled in Harry’s stomach. It was a feeling that he recognised but in an abstract way, despite not having experienced it in many years; it was jealousy. Actual, proper jealousy. And it was over a fucking towelette bathrobe of all things.

“I can’t decide,” Malfoy said, crossing one leg over the other and flashing a few inches of milky white thigh, “if you want to fuck the food or kill it. Your glare is awfully confusing.”

Ignoring him, Harry asked, “Who’s ‘BZ’?” He chanced a look at Malfoy and immediately wished he hadn’t; Malfoy’s self-satisfied smirk was a blight to the senses.

“How funny that you should ask. I don’t know if you remember my good friend Blaise Zabini. Slytherin, tall, dark, and handsome?” His smirk widened just a fraction. “Shared a very cosy dorm space with me for seven years? Some might have even called it intimate.”

Harry tossed a plate onto the table in front of Malfoy. “Breakfast.”

Peering at the food, Malfoy’s eyebrows raised considerably. “This is nearly all sausage.”

Sitting down opposite him, Harry replied, “Yes.”

“Sausage and burnt bacon?”

The aforementioned bacon crunched as Harry bit it, splintering between his teeth. “Don’t start.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were distracted.”

“Not. Just sad to be unemployed, is all.”

Malfoy let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like bugger off, but he tucked into his – to be fair, crap – plate of food.

Harry brandished his uncut sausage like a weapon, pointing it in the direction of Blaise Zabini’s monogrammed initials on Malfoy’s bathrobe. “So, how’d that happen? Did you have a spa day? Paint each other’s nails?”

Malfoy pursed his lips and fixed Harry with an assessing look. “As fun as it is to torture you, I won’t choose violence today. Blaise lived here for a bit, after his mother stopped approving of some of his more radical choices.”

“What, like marrying for love? She killed all her husbands for their money, didn’t she?”

Malfoy clicked his tongue, tutting. “I wasn’t aware that you listened to high-society gossip, how scandalous. And no, more the ‘fighting against Muggleborn discrimination’ angle.”

Vague snippets of memory flashed through Harry’s mind; Hermione working on a proposal, aided by a group of their old classmates. Long nights at the Caffe Nero down the road, ink stains on her fingers. He and Ron had been busy with Auror training at the time; it had been a source of consternation between his two best friends, one that he hadn’t wanted to delve into for fear of widening the rift between them even more. He did, however, remember one piece of information that had irked Ron at the time, that Zabini had been–

“He’s straight, you know. Blaise.” Malfoy’s eyes twinkled, shining in the morning light. “Just in case you wanted to know.”

“I didn’t,” Harry said, feeling the bitterness fade from his tongue almost immediately. He looked up and met Malfoy’s gaze, fighting the very normal, biological urge to let them drift lower. “Can you hurry up so we can get on with it?”

“If I didn’t know any better, Potter, I’d say you want to see me in the buff.”

Shaking his head, Harry stood up to put the kettle on. “Don’t flatter yourself. Tea?”

The tea made it downstairs with them, Harry clutching his cup like a lifeline as he followed Malfoy across the room. He took it upon himself to prop open the front door, leaning against the jamb and crossing his arms over his chest, waiting to see what would happen.

Malfoy stood in the middle of the shop floor, visibly dithering about. He kept messing with the knot at his waist, winding the tie around his fingers again and again.

“So,” Harry said, grinning. “Do I win already? That’s a pretty poor showing from you.”

The movement of Malfoy clenching his jaw was visible even from across the room. “You sure as fuck have not won. I don’t lose, Potter.”

And with that, he yanked his robe off and tossed it over the nearest shelf, fluffy white tie swinging back and forth.

Thankfully, Harry’s automatic reaction to seeing his schoolboy rival completely naked was to clench his hand rather than release his hold on his teacup. Otherwise it would be lying shattered on the floor, warm liquid covering his feet. He did, however, nearly swallow his tongue.

Oh no, Harry thought to himself as Malfoy stalked – there was no other way to describe it, really – across the shop, making a beeline for both the open door and Harry, who was frozen in a state of simultaneous shock, horror, and horniness.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

Malfoy was hot.

That was a disaster of epic proportions.

Of course, Harry had known that, objectively. It wasn’t as though it was an easy thing to deny, which is why he never had. But feeling it was a completely different thing altogether. And Harry definitely felt it. Part of him did, anyway.

Harry’s gaze was drawn to the pull of skin over Malfoy’s abdomen, the subtle physicality there. His eyes traced the line of pale hair on his stomach, following it as it became a golden thatch at his groin. It was neatly trimmed, which answered the question of what exactly Malfoy had been doing in the bathroom to ready himself for public nudity.

But more than that, the vastly more pressing sight, was the thick pink cock that rested just underneath, nestled in what remained of the hair. It bounced as Malfoy walked, seeming rather happy to be there, despite the persistent look of embarrassment on Malfoy’s face.

If Harry hadn’t been tracking Malfoy’s movement, his head rotating as Malfoy slipped past him and out the door, he would have been able to figure out exactly when he became visible to everyone on the street. It took mere moments for the gasps to begin, murmurs and whispers, surprised and scandalised and possibly even impressed.

Part of Harry’s motivation for setting that particular task was to see the reactions of the public, but now? Now he could not have given less of a fuck. Malfoy’s cock was magnetic north and Harry’s pupils were a compass.

Malfoy’s head was aflame when he stalked back inside, tossing the watering can onto its designated spot on one of the shelves. Despite his obvious mortification, he held his head high, shoulders back and spine straight. If you couldn’t see his face, his posture might have been mistaken for confidence. His cock led the way, bobbing happily between his legs.

Gritting his teeth, Malfoy hissed, “Never. Again.”

Harry hid his grin in his teacup, watching as Malfoy wrapped himself in the soft white bathrobe, hiding himself from view. “We’ll see.”

*

Malfoy’s eyes were narrowed, his gaze locked on the way Harry’s bowl was balanced on his bent knee. Every twitch that Harry’s body made, every sharp intake of breath, every movement of his fingers was catalogued by Malfoy.

Just to be contrarian, Harry poked the bowl, watching as it tilted dangerously. It was empty, its contents having been finished a good ten minutes prior – but Malfoy didn’t need to know that.

It was payback for what he’d put Harry through earlier; his face was still flushed, warm with embarrassment. He’d completed three laps of the British Wizarding Library at a full run while disapproving tuts followed him the entire way. Malfoy had watched with unrestrained glee, clapping eagerly when Harry finally crossed the designated finish line.

He hadn’t been laughing when Harry dragged him straight to the closest O2 store with instructions to purchase a mobile, after discussing his options at length with the shop assistant. Watching Malfoy fumble through a comparison of various cost plans while not knowing what a credit card or proper forms of identification were – or what a mobile phone actually was, for that matter – had been sheer brilliance.

Malfoy had tripped him over as soon as they’d returned to the shop, sending Harry sprawling as he whinged about thinking he was buying a mobile for a baby’s crib, for whatever bloody reason. And now he was taking it out on Harry’s empty stir-fry bowl.

“I’ve been thinking,” Malfoy said, darting out to grab the bowl from atop Harry’s knee before he could be intercepted. “That film we watched where Phil–” He pretended to swoon “–was in that godawful prairie rat predicament. He looked the same the whole way through.”

“So?” Harry pretended to scowl as Malfoy sent their empty bowls to the kitchen with a wave of his wand. “We haven’t changed either and it’s been a fair while.”

“That’s exactly what I was wondering about – ageing.” Malfoy tucked his feet underneath himself and sat up straighter, clasping his hands together. “Think about it: the day resets every morning and we’re just as tired or hungry or horny–” He ignored Harry’s sharp intake of breath “–as we were the first day, regardless of what we did before we went to bed. I could have three wanks right before nodding off and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference the next morning.”

“Do that regularly, do you?” Harry tried to ignore how strangled his voice sounded.

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. “I have. As an experiment.”

“An experiment,” Harry muttered under his breath, feeling a little weak at the knees.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Malfoy pressed on. “However, there’s something that doesn’t change. When the reset happens, our hearts are still pumping, and our lungs are still working. Our brains remember, so there must be continued blood flow to those areas. If those things don’t change when the day renews, perhaps there are other parts of our bodies that are conscious of what’s happening. I do wonder about our souls though.”

“What, because they’re separate from our bodies?”

“Precisely. Are they ageing, even when our bodies don’t appear to be?”

Harry frowned, listening as the dishes scrubbed themselves clean in the other room. “Is it dangerous, do you reckon?”

“It … it shouldn’t be, no.” A furrow appeared between Malfoy’s brows. He looked deep in thought as he chewed on his bottom lip. “I do think it’s best if we both get a good and proper check-up when this is all said and done, however. I doubt there’s a precedent for this.”

“Speaking of the film…” Harry leaned back, shooting Malfoy what he hoped was a confident grin. “Do you think if one of us died, we’d both still wake up in the loop tomorrow? Phil did, so we might.”

Malfoy was silent, though his eye did twitch the most minute amount. Actually, he looked ready to go for his wand. What he thought he would do with it if he got it, Harry hadn’t the faintest.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, sod off, I’m not threatening you with anything.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, though it looked more teasing than anything. “Oh, aren’t you now?”

“No, I just think the idea that we might be genuinely immortal at the moment is pretty interesting. Don’t you agree?”

A rush of air left Malfoy’s nose. He raised both eyebrows, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You would think that, you bloody Gryffindor. And I don’t care that we’re far enough outside school that it’s naff for me to call you that; if the shoe fits. And I do agree with you, actually, but I’m certainly not about to test the validity of an immortality theory without absolute confidence of its success.” There was a beat of silence before Malfoy’s expression turned more than a little exasperated. “And you’re not going to, either.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, grinning. “I have a feeling that watching me do that might be a good experience for you. A bit of a dream come true for your pratty fourteen-year-old self.”

“Cathartic, maybe, but I’ll stick to streaking and disturbing the peace, thanks ever so.”

“I knew it.” Harry tipped his head back against the couch, letting it tilt to the side so that he was still looking at Malfoy. “You care. You care about me not dying.”

Malfoy’s cheeks took on a pink tinge. “I don’t. Do it, see if I care.”

“You do.” There was a teasing note to Harry’s tone, yes, but there was something else there too. He didn’t want to look at it too deeply; there was a difference between intentionally flirting with Malfoy and having his muscle memory take over and do it for him. Or whatever part of his mind or body he could blame in that moment. The next thing to blame was his lack of a brain. “You know, there’s something we haven’t tried.”

“What, about your flawed immortality theory?”

“No. About breaking the loop.” Warmth was starting to build in Harry’s stomach, egging him on. It was a foreign feeling, but he didn’t altogether mind it. “I thought about it once, at the start. It’s common in some Muggle stories like fairy tales.”

Malfoy’s head tilted to the side as he listened intently. He was leaning forward ever so slightly, into Harry’s space. “I was under the impression that we’d both tried everything that we could think of. Why not push for it, if you believed it could help?”

“You would’ve said no. But we could try it now.”

“Try what?” Malfoy’s confused expression seemed to be warring with something else, something that Harry couldn’t quite place.

Harry swallowed. His tongue passed over his bottom lip as he focused on that warmth in his stomach, grasping hold of it. “Kissing. Sometimes – most of the time, actually – in fairy tales it breaks curses.”

Malfoy blinked at him. His eyes had taken on a somewhat glazed quality. “Well that’s properly stupid. Kissing? Why on earth would that break a curse? And I thought that you were adamant that you hadn’t been cursed?”

Harry shrugged. “Might be worth a try. You never know, maybe one of us is secretly a princess.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said; his shocked expression had morphed into something more familiar, the shape of his mouth forming words of gentle teasing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you want to kiss me.”

Stuck somewhere in the wide valley between truth and denial, Harry replied in the negative. “No,” he said, far, far too quickly.

Smirking, Malfoy leaned his chin on his fist, his arm propped up on the back of the couch. “Not that I could blame you if you did. I’m rather fit.”

“Rather fit?”

“And you did spend far longer than was proper ogling my cock this morning.” His smirk widened as Harry began to stammer, a snappy reply caught in his throat. “I suppose we could give it a go.”

“Wait, really?” Harry’s brain whirred to a stop, unable to process Malfoy’s response. “You’d want to?”

“I don’t … it’s an experiment, Potter. It’s for science.” Malfoy’s cheeks had turned a deep pink, but he hadn’t moved away from Harry yet. “Come over here.”

Harry went, shifting onto his knees as he moved into Malfoy’s space. He paused, hovering over him as Malfoy tilted his head back to watch.

“Um,” Harry said, feeling rather off balance suddenly. “How should I…?”

“Fucking hell,” Malfoy muttered, and then his hand fisted in the material of Harry’s jumper as he pulled him down.

Malfoy’s lips were warm and soft and slightly slick when they pressed against Harry’s. They parted on a silent gasp, his hot breath washing across Harry’s skin. Every part of Harry’s body was on fire. His pulse thumped in his ears as he moved his lips against Malfoy’s, his fingers digging into the roundness of Malfoy’s bent knee. He wanted to be closer, to press his chest against Malfoy’s, to align their hips, to –

With another tiny gasp, Malfoy pulled back. He rested his head against the arm of the couch, blinking up at Harry as he crouched between his legs. His lips were wet from touching Harry’s, from where Harry’s tongue had lightly grazed them, too tentative to push in further.

Malfoy’s pale throat worked as he swallowed. “Well,” he said, voice slightly breathless. “That was one of the more … productive tests that we’ve conducted.”

The only thing productive about it was the attention that Harry’s cock had started to pay to the fact that he was still crouched between Malfoy’s spread legs.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, nodding to himself. He couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s lips; they were still parted, his eyes just as soft as they had been when he first pulled back from the kiss. Harry’s hands itched to reach out and touch, to put his hands on Malfoy and see where he’d be allowed to take this.

It was then that Malfoy sat up again. He laid his palm on Harry’s chest and guided him gently back to sit on his haunches, giving them both more breathing room.

“In the spirit of things,” Malfoy said, breaths coming quickly, “I’d like to propose another test.” There was a glint in his eye, a challenge there. The tension was quickly fading from the air, much to Harry’s disappointment.

“Does it have anything to do with what we just did?”

“No.” Malfoy’s face was flushed, though he didn’t look displeased.

“In that case, this is going to go badly for me somehow, isn’t it?”

Malfoy crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you and your willingness to not be a twat just for the sake of it.”

Slowly, Harry said, “Go on.”

Malfoy leaned forward, eyes widening meaningfully. “I think you should dye your hair.”

“No.” Harry shook his head frantically. “No way.” The kissing was a much better idea. They should go back to that instead of fucking with one of Harry’s better features. Arguably. He’d been told that his hair was very grabbable, under certain circumstances.

Malfoy pursed his lips. “It’s the best way to test its growth; we’ll be able to see your roots clearly and measure accordingly.”

“The roots,” Harry agreed, eyes widening. He realised then that he had a death grip on the arm of the couch, fingers digging in painfully. “It’s too dark, the colour won’t take. Dean tried to do it once for a party and it went horribly. Nearly ruined Neville’s bathroom sink.”

“But if you went blond, we’d match – how fun.”

“No, not fun. I’m not letting a bottle of bleach anywhere near my head, especially if it’s in your hands.”

Malfoy’s pout deepened. “Fine. Then we’ll compromise.”

*

Compromise turned out to be a bottle of pink hair dye and a barber. And a set of frosted tips, because Malfoy had a whinge about not wanting to just ‘take one for the team’ – it was an equal amount of pain and suffering for both of them, or nothing at all.

So, Harry found himself in a black leather barber’s chair one afternoon, watching as a man with two full sleeves of tattoos who went by the name of Keith cut, styled, and spiked his hair. He bleached the very ends with a mixture that was frighteningly blue in colour, though seemed to be turning white as the dye soaked in.

Harry’s only consolation was that Malfoy had fared worse.

Darren, Malfoy’s assigned barber, had been properly liberal with the dye as he applied it to Malfoy’s head in a plastic sink, chattering eagerly about a recent football game as he hovered. The detachable shower head he had in hand nearly whipped Malfoy across the face three separate times as he joked about some player or another not having a hope in hell of scoring, given the goal was smaller than that of a standard barn and he couldn’t even make that easy shot.

The streak of neon pink that ran through Malfoy’s hair looked properly shit. Even Keith the barber seemed to think so, though he didn’t say as much; rather, he grimaced at Malfoy’s directions and proceeded to commiserate with him about the non-existent bet that Malfoy had presumably lost. It wouldn’t have looked quite so bad if he’d done his fringe or spiked it all up into a mohawk – that was the style that Harry had begged him to go for, purely for a laugh. Instead, he’d opted to stain pink the very roots of his hair, right along the part.

“All the better to track the growth,” Malfoy insisted as he examined his head in Daren’s mirror. “I feel like quite the trendsetter.”

“It’s proper cool, actually,” Darren insisted, crossing his arms over his chest and pondering Malfoy’s reflection. “Like something from a fashion mag. Are you a model?”

“Right,” Harry said loudly, rising to stand. They had to leave before Malfoy’s overlarge ego got any bigger.

“You know,” Malfoy said once outside, “we probably could have just measured our fingernails instead.”

Harry, who had just noticed how completely fucked his hair looked in the reflection of the shop window, groaned.

“Your hair is truly a marvel. It’s whatever the opposite of a World Wonder is.” Malfoy frowned, reaching over to twirl a strand of Harry’s hair around his finger. “How is it both curly and straight at the same time? That makes no sense.”

“At least I don’t look like I got shat on by a vibrantly neon bird.”

“I don’t look like that.” Malfoy clapped his hands to his head, peering at himself in the window reflection. “I don’t. Dazza said I looked cool.”

“He sure as fuck didn’t say you could call him Dazza.”

“It was implied. We’re mates now, we’ve been through a lot together.”

Harry yanked a lock of hair down from his forehead, examining the white ends of the strands. “I look like a really crap punk. So do you, actually.”

“Punk.” The word seemed to roll around in Malfoy’s mouth as he tested it out. “And what would such a person do?”

Harry shrugged. “Stick it to the man. Rebel. Wear leather and shave most of their head.”

“Well,” Malfoy blanched, “I’m not doing that. The head shaving, anyway. But I’ve worn Quidditch leathers before and they were quite comfortable.”

Images of Malfoy wandering into a punk gathering clad in his Slytherin team Quidditch leathers, a wide grin on his face, threatened to take Harry out at the knees. “Reckon that’s probably not going to cut it.”

“Rebelling, then. I’ve stolen a packet of crisps already, I’m well on my way there.”

Glancing around, Harry’s eyes landed on the set of stairs that descended into the nearby tube station. “Alright, Guy Fawkes. Your next task is to hop the ticket barriers.”

It took a good bit of explaining about what ticket barriers were, why they were needed, and why it was a bad idea to hop over them in full view of police officers, before the specifics were agreed upon. Malfoy refused to say yes until he knew the true depths of fee-dodging degeneracy and could have an unprompted whinge about tax dollars that he did not pay to a government that was not his own.

The whole thing was uproariously funny; Malfoy, a man who had apparently never heard of either ‘stealth’ or ‘urgency’, threw one leg over the ticket barrier, gave the nearby baffled police officers a wave, and then hopped right over. He held his arms up in the air like Harry had seen gymnasts do at the Olympics, twirling around with a flourish.

The humour ended right around the time that Malfoy turned and made a beeline for Harry at a full sprint, two very irritated police officers in tow.

Sprinting through the streets of London while engaged in what could technically be classed as a police chase was quite exhilarating, though. The officers stopped to radio for back up when they all reached the entrance to Hyde Park, though they were certainly still on their heels.

“Here, here, here,” Malfoy hissed, grabbing Harry by the wrist and nearly sending him careening to the ground. He pointed his wand at their feet, swirling it around and around in a circle. Harry’s stomach swooped when they began to Levitate, rising in the air until they were level with the bough of a tree, some twenty feet up.

“We’re so fucked,” Harry muttered, watching as three police officers became visible on the path below. He struggled to stifle his sudden burst of laughter, receiving a half-hearted glare from Malfoy in return.

“This is all your fault, you realise. You influenced me to break the law once again.” Malfoy groaned, pressing his face against his forearm. “They’re definitely going to find us. We’ll get hauled to whatever shit Muggle version of holding cells exists.”

“Still holding cells,” Harry helpfully supplied.

“Non-magical ones. The beds will be so uncomfortable, and my back simply can’t take that. I don’t care that it’ll just be for tonight, I’m far too delicate.”

An idea came to him, suddenly. Humming to himself, Harry pulled out his wand and began to conjure. He cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, Malfoy, and their direct area of tree, and got to work. Malfoy watched, gaze shrewd, as Harry transformed leaves, sticks, and an unused bird’s nest, into a rather rustic looking treehouse. It was missing both windows and a front door, but the holes were there, so that had to count for something.

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered, staring at the bright red carpet that Harry had managed to lay over the floorboards. “That looks properly shit.”

“Careful,” Harry said, shuffling up the tree branch he was sat on and heaving himself through the door hole, “or I’ll put a sign on the front saying no Malfoys allowed.”

The Malfoy in question rolled his eyes. “My father will be so very hurt that he’s not allowed in your special little club. But it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve banned me from one, would it?”

“You’re not actually having a whinge about fifth year, surely?”

Turning his nose up haughtily, Malfoy replied, “I might be.”

Harry snorted. “And I didn’t ban you, your sheer levels of wankery banned you.” He shook his head, trying to hide the amusement that was surely writ across his face. “Shut up and get in here before someone sees and rightfully arrests you.”

“I’d fight the charges.” Malfoy stood, bracing his weight on the trunk of the tree. “I have a good lawyer.” He wobbled, unsteady on his feet. His knuckles were white, fingers gripping the rough bark.

Leaning through the door frame, Harry held out a hand. He raised his eyebrows when Malfoy didn’t take it. “Come on, you look like a baby deer learning how to walk.”

“I,” Malfoy hissed through gritted teeth, knuckles whitening even further, “am graceful and dignified. You’d not know about that even –”

“Malfoy.” Harry wiggled his fingers. “Take my fucking hand before you test out the immortality theory by accident.”

The largest motivator was unknown; did Malfoy accept because he genuinely thought he might fall, or because he simply did not want to give Harry the satisfaction of being proven right? Whatever it was, he clasped his fingers around Harry’s outstretched hand and let himself be guided into the safety of the treehouse. The structure groaned menacingly as it took on more weight, swaying slightly with the breeze.

“This is certainly not up to code,” Malfoy hissed. He sat down on the floor, pressing his palms against the soft carpet. “I take it we’ll be up here a while?”

Harry nodded in agreement, sinking to his knees and sticking his head out the door. The police officers were still wandering around, their radios crackling loudly.

Malfoy kicked out his legs, lithe limbs stretching nearly the entire width of the treehouse. “It’s rather fun being a deviant.”

Harry couldn’t help the snort that he let out. “Don’t let anybody but me hear you say that.” He flopped onto his back, shuffling to the side until his body was parallel with Malfoy’s.

“As if,” Malfoy said, quieter now. His sarcastic tone had lost its edge, like a point that had been sanded down. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly when Harry turned his head to look at him, pondering what to say next. A joking quip would do, or perhaps another tease about his hair. He could even continue the ‘deviant’ comments or enquire about what they should do for breakfast the next morning.

Instead, what came out was, “There are flecks of blue in your eyes, you know.”

Malfoy looked surprised, lips parting slightly and eyes widening.

The thing was, it was true. It might have been an odd comment to make, but Harry couldn’t deny that he had noticed it. He’d spent weeks with Malfoy now, from the moment he woke up to the time he went home to sleep. He’d gotten a good, proper look at him during that time. He knew the state of Malfoy’s hair when he was fresh out the shower, had seen how it curled around his ears as it dried. He knew how Malfoy looked like when he was concentrating, the tip of his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. He bit his lip when he was frustrated or amused, and his eyes sparkled as he lined up a joke at Harry’s expense. Harry knew how he took his tea, how he preferred his fried eggs, how long to leave his toast down for it to be exactly as crispy as he liked it.

And Harry knew the colour of his eyes. He’d known for years, deeming it a noteworthy feature as a teenager, another thing to complain about, but he’d never been physically close enough to Malfoy to take notice of the variety of hues there.

Harry’s voice dropped an octave, softening and smoothing, like velvet in his mouth. “They’re not just grey, like I always thought they were. There’s a powdery blue around the middle, and the ring is a … darker grey, like slate. They’re not shallow, they’re … there’s more than just grey.”

“Yes, I … I’m aware.” Malfoy swallowed, throat clicking.

Harry couldn’t help but mimic the movement. His mouth felt dry as he spoke, tongue stumbling over his words. “Spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror, do you?”

The side of Malfoy’s mouth lifted; petal pink lips still parted. “Not as much time as you spend looking at me, apparently.” It was clearly a joke, but it felt more like an admission somehow, an opening. The point of Malfoy’s tongue swept across his bottom lip, tracing a small red spot where his canines had dug in.

The air felt thick, pressure settling on Harry’s shoulders as he leaned over. His nose dragged alongside Malfoy’s, glasses shifting with the contact. Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered closed, grey-blue kaleidoscope hidden from view. He gasped when Harry kissed him, a tiny, quiet thing that was nearly hidden by the slick sound of their mouths sliding together. He tilted his head, parting his lips and dragging his tongue alongside Harry’s.

A sudden clench in his stomach made Harry draw back. It was more difficult than it should have been, keeping those inches between their bodies. He fought the urge to roll atop Malfoy, to straddle his hips and kiss him again, deeper, wetter, properly. He could taste Malfoy’s peppermint tea on his tongue, a breath of fresh air that did nothing but cloud his mind.

Malfoy’s lips were red. They shined, slick and parted. “Why did you do that?” It was questioning, not accusing. Curious, not angry.

Harry lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “We’re doing crazy things, right? Nothing crazier than that.”

Malfoy licked his bottom lip again, pale brows furrowed. Harry wondered if he could taste earl grey, just as Harry could taste peppermint. “But we know it won’t break the loop. We’ve already tried it.”

Hoping that his expression was blank, Harry stared right back. “I didn’t say I thought it would break the loop, did I?”

“No, I … I suppose not.” Malfoy tilted his head to the side; his teeth sunk into his bottom lip as his eyes dropped to Harry’s mouth, pausing there. “Did you like it?”

Unable to lie, Harry replied, “Yes.”

He wasn’t sure who moved first. Perhaps it was both of them, Harry rolling towards Malfoy at the same time that Malfoy reached out, hand finding the back of Harry’s neck. The next kiss was deeper, more intense than the last. Malfoy wasn’t shy about parting his lips and sliding his tongue alongside Harry’s. He sucked Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth, gasping when Harry’s grip tightened on his shoulder. His fingers gripped the back of Harry’s head firming, tangling in the strands. He brought their chests into alignment, using his weight to force Harry down, pressing him back against the plush red carpet.

Harry groaned into Malfoy’s mouth, holding him tighter, closer. His other hand slid down Malfoy’s back, resting at the base of his spine. His fingers traced the bottom of Malfoy’s shirt, dipping in just enough until the pads were pressed to bare skin.

Malfoy whimpered, lips parting seemingly involuntarily as he kissed Harry harder. His thumb brushed Harry’s nipple, moving so lightly that it might have been able to be played off as an accident. Harry couldn’t help but arch into it, heat rushing down his spine to pool in his stomach.

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered. He moved his thumb back to Harry’s nipple, rubbing and circling. He swallowed each of Harry’s gasps with his tongue, his lips, the drag of his body pressing all along Harry’s. “You’re so hard,” he said, under his breath. He moved his thigh, pressing it against Harry’s cock.

“We should come, it’ll be weird if we don’t.” His logic wouldn’t have held up under scrutiny, but Malfoy accepted it readily enough. He shifted back, undoing his trousers as Harry unbuttoned his jeans.

The sight of Draco Malfoy with his trousers around his knees, tight black pants exposed, shouldn’t have been as erotic as it was. Harry’s cock seemed to think it the hottest thing it had ever seen, given how it twitched and leaked, straining against the fabric that contained it.

Malfoy resumed his movements on Harry’s nipple as he knelt between Harry’s legs and thrust down, grinding their cocks together. There was no Muffliato on the treehouse, which had definitely been a mistake. Despite clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his enthusiastic noises, they still seeped out. Malfoy wasn’t faring much better, biting down on his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut, breathing hard as he swivelled his hips. He pitched forward when Harry slid a hand down his back to grab his arse, pulling him in closer on his next grind. His hand was under Harry’s shirt, fingers rubbing and teasing as he thrust.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, tipping his head back and letting his arm fall to the side, away from his face. “Fuck, Malfoy, I’m gonna–”

Malfoy whimpered in response, grinding harder and tightening the circular movements of his hips. He kissed Harry as Harry came, pressing their mouths together and swallowing his groans, soothing them with his tongue.

Heat flooded Harry’s entire body, radiating out from his cock in waves. The feeling of his come coating the inside of his pants was erotic, pressed against his twitching cock by Malfoy’s movements as he chased his own pleasure. He let his head fall back, panting, as Malfoy thrust against him. Malfoy’s hard cock kept catching on the underside of Harry’s spent balls, sending jolts of heat and sensitivity through his entire lower half. He waited, watching as Malfoy’s body grew stiff, his shoulders shaking and hips grinding as he came, pressed against Harry. He gasped when Harry lifted a hand to trace the shell of his ear, subconsciously leaning into the touch. A tiny line appeared between his brows when Harry dropped his hand, though he didn’t say anything, voiced no concerns.

He was rather quiet after he rolled off. Aside from casting a cursory cleaning spell at them both, he didn’t say much at all.

Chapter Text

The next day, Harry could think of nothing but what they’d done.

It consumed his every thought; he woke up hard in his pyjama bottoms, cock demanding attention. He thought of it when he was in Malfoy’s shower, warm water cascading down his back, that damn pink shampoo bottle staring him in the face. He remembered it when they cooked breakfast, his brain overlaying Malfoy’s expression as he’d come spectacularly, over his amused frown when Harry flipped the fried eggs too early.

Had his waist always been that tapered, or was his shirt just tighter that day? Did his trousers usually fit that snug around his pert arse? Was his hair more tousled than normal, or was Harry just remembering how it had looked after he’d run his fingers through it? How he’d gripped it as Malfoy leaned in closer and pressed their mouths together, how he’d …

Harry thought of nothing else.

But he did compensate expertly by teasing Malfoy a little extra. There certainly wasn’t any real bite to it, but he liked to think that Malfoy didn’t notice the change. He’d definitely have called Harry out on it if he had.

Probably.

Maybe.

Harry had been struck so cockdumb that he hadn’t even protested Malfoy’s newest insane challenge – something that had absolutely no benefit and would only serve to piss off Harry’s already tetchy house even further.

“This is going to go so fucking badly,” Harry muttered. He peeked over the back of the couch, watching as Malfoy set the final firework in place. Right in the centre of his living room rug.

“Remember,” Malfoy said, grin widening, “it’s only temporary.”

And then he set the fireworks off.

The good news: Grimmauld Place didn’t burn down.

The bad news: Harry was definitely going to have to air the place out before nighttime, unless he wanted to go to sleep with gunpowder lining the inside of his nose.

“Worth it,” Malfoy said, coughing, as he heaved open one of the large leaded windows.

A small horse trotted by Harry’s feet, its Conjured body bright pink and shimmering with unexploded powder. It tossed its head when Harry whispered the incantation to set it off; he watched with delight as it attempted to charge Malfoy in retaliation.

“Bloody Weasley products,” Malfoy pointed his wand at the horse, bursting it into thousands of shiny rainbow sparkles. “They’ve got it out for me, I’m telling you.” He leaned forward to brush a few specks of glitter from his hair. They stuck to the pale strands, twinkling like tiny stars. The dye had disappeared overnight, as they’d both expected it would; Malfoy no longer looked as though he’d been the recipient of an unfortunate egging. He’d huffed about not caring, actually, stating that the pink had washed him out. Privately, Harry agreed that he looked much better without it.

“And next up we’re giving our loyal listeners the chance to win the trip of a lifetime to–”

“Oh,” Harry cried, grabbing for the radio and turning up the volume. He waved Malfoy closer, grabbing his sleeve and pulling at it when he didn’t comply. “Quick, in the study.”

Sighing, Malfoy followed Harry down the hall. “I still don’t quite understand what you’re expecting me to do here.”

“Be your usual charming self.”

Grimmauld Place’s sole phone was located in the downstairs study about three feet from the telly. It hung on the thick window frame, putting it as close to the outside world as it could possibly be, while still residing under the Georgian slate roof. Still, the signal was drowned out by crackling noises more often than not. Though not that many people called Harry’s landline; it was mostly just Ron when he was drunk and wanted a laugh.

But now it was about to be the location of Harry’s new favourite activity: watching Malfoy attempt to blend in with Muggles.

“Here.” Harry shoved Malfoy down onto the padded stool that he’d prepared for exactly this purpose and began to dial the number that he’d first memorised two days ago. A robotic voice welcomed him to BBC Radio 1 and encouraged him to listen to the newly changed menu options.

Malfoy was in no danger of being bitten by the plastic receiver, but he clearly didn’t know that, given the obvious look of suspicion on his face. “And I’m expected to … converse through this?”

“Yep. Remember the thing you tried to buy at O2? The plastic rectangle with the pictures?”

“Ah yes,” Malfoy nodded solemnly. “The talky minutes. Cheaper after nine in the evening, but not on the weekend.”

“Listen. They’re about to start talking.” Harry walked backwards in the direction of the door. “Stay there. Answer their questions. Be your brilliant self.”

Malfoy flipped him off.

Harry made it back to the lounge just as the final notes of Jump by Girls Aloud faded out. The radio host’s voice was jaunty and upbeat as he welcomed back the loyal listeners of the show. Harry sat on the floor with his back against the couch and a grin so wide his face began to hurt.

“And now we have our next contestant, who is fighting to earn the holiday of a lifetime. Please welcome to the show, Draco from Wiltshire.” There was a beat of silence. “Draco, are you there?”

“Uh, yes?” Draco’s voice sounded quite far away; Harry could picture him holding the receiver in front of his face rather than by his ear.

“Good, good. Now, tell us a bit about why you’re fighting for this holiday. What does Magaluf mean to you?”

“Mega what?”

The announcer’s next chuckle was slightly more strained. “Did you visit with your family as a sprog? Or maybe for a wild lad’s holiday? Stag do? You might not remember if you had, God knows we’ve all been there. Always a shocking plane ride home afterwards.”

“My parents used to take me to the south of France as a child. I don’t believe that I’ve ever been on a plane, but I could check?” Malfoy leaned further away from the receiver as he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Potter, what is a plane?”

After taking half a second to force down his laughter, Harry yelled back, “A big broom.”

“Ah, I’ve taken a broom, yes,” Malfoy said, his words filtering into the room via the radio.

“A broom?” The announcer sounded half a second away from terminating the call.

“Yes, it’s much too far to Apparate.”

“Right … Well, let’s get this party started. Remember, Draco, you need to get all ten questions correct to win the holiday of your dreams. Are you ready?”

“No,” Draco replied.

“Great! First question: Who is the current President of France?”

Harry could have sworn that he heard Draco blink through the call. “President? France’s Minister for Magic is some Debre fellow. Useless sot.”

“Who is the bestselling solo British musical artist of all time?”

“Celestina Warbeck.”

“Interesting. Also known as one of Britain’s greatest heroes, who famously plotted to blow up the English Parliament?”

Malfoy’s snort was louder than his words. “Probably Potter, the insufferable idiot.”

Harry didn’t hear the rest of it because he was too busy laughing. He was then repeatedly beaten over the head with one of his saggy throw pillows.

“You’re an evil person,” Malfoy hissed, whacking him again. “We’d have been better off with the Dark Lord still cutting about.”

Harry clutched his stomach as he wheezed with laughter. “You’re hopeless. A proper idiot. I can’t believe you called me Britain’s greatest hero. That’s in my top five moments now. Ron’ll combust.”

“I thought it was what they wanted to hear.” Malfoy abandoned the pillow and attempted to achieve … something. Some kind of hand-to-hand combat. He knelt over Harry and grabbed at his arms, forcing them above his head.

“You’re lucky I’m in a state right now,” Harry said, gasping as his laughter subsided, “or else I’d have you pinned in two seconds flat.”

“You’re not as strong as you think you are.” Malfoy looked downright devious as he pressed Harry’s wrists against the carpet. “No wands, I could take you. With wands too, actually.”

“We’ve already done this once and no, you can’t.”

“I was distracted at the time. I’d just committed theft.”

Harry snorted. He tested Malfoy’s hold on his wrists, pushing up into it. Malfoy tightened his grip just slightly. He shifted on his knees, spreading them to give himself more leverage. The position did something to Harry’s stomach, a swooping sensation that curled down towards his groin. He cleared his throat and pressed up against Malfoy’s grip again.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking between Harry’s wrists and his face.

“Nothing. What are you doing?”

“Restraining you for the good of my health. It’s cathartic.”

Harry hummed, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. Malfoy’s gaze tracked the moment.

“You can, you know,” Harry said. He licked his lips again, the corners of his mouth lifting when Malfoy tracked the movement.

“I can what? Pin you? I already have. You’ll never escape.”

“You can kiss me. You clearly want to.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, though he didn’t loosen his grip. “I don’t.”

“Don’t lie, you’re shit at it.”

“I’m not, you are.”

“Malfoy.” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Fine.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “But only because you’re begging me to.”

Harry’s protest was swallowed by the press of soft lips on his own. He parted them, unable to hold back a groan as Malfoy shifted against him, bringing their upper bodies into contact.

Malfoy drew back just slightly, staying close enough that his nose brushed Harry’s. “Did that suffice?”

No, Harry wanted to say.

Instead, he muttered, “You sounded like a right git on the radio.”

He could feel Malfoy’s answering smirk against his lips. “Yet you liked it, didn’t you?” The pressure disappeared from Harry’s wrists as Malfoy rose to stand. There was a visible bulge in the front of his trousers, though he didn’t seem to be paying it any mind. “Come along, I’ve a gift to show you.”

Harry groaned, letting his head thunk against the carpet. “Is it a gift for me or for you?”

Malfoy’s smirk was downright dangerous. “For the world, Potter. You’re going to hate it.”

*

“Is that me?”

“Obviously. Have you forgotten what you look like?”

“No, but why is it me? And where did you even get that picture?”

“I have my ways. And it was in an edition of the Prophet a few months back.”

Harry’s own face stared back at him, looking down on Tottenham Court Road from a full storey in the air. The aforementioned face sat above the wide expanse of skin that was his bare torso. Said torso was glistening slightly in the flash of the camera, completely covered in the vodka that Seamus had poured down him under the guise of doing the world’s most excessive body shot.

He was half naked, covered in alcohol, on a billboard. On Tottenham Court Road.

“Do you like it?” Malfoy’s tone was so damn pleased. “It’s a rather fetching shot, actually. In a ‘dirty nightclub’ piss up sort of way.”

 “How did you even get the money to rent a billboard out?”

Seamus’s tongue was touching Harry’s navel. It looked downright pornographic, made even worse by the fact that the image was unmoving. In the original version of the picture, Seamus devolved into peals of laughter before he could go through with his body shot plan and had to be hauled away by Dean.

Malfoy shrugged. “Geminio Charm. Although the owner of the billboard seemed quite put off by my offering of the money. Do Muggles simply haggle for this sort of thing? Pay in favours?”

Two women stopped on the street and began to whisper to each other as they stared up at the billboard. Harry caught the words inappropriate and council complaint.

“How much money did you try and give him?”

Scoffing, Malfoy replied, “There was no try about it. In the end he accepted my four briefcases of Muggle notes just fine.”

“He definitely thought you were a mob boss of some kind. Or a hitman, maybe. Or laundering money.”

Another gasp sounded, accompanied by a muttered oh my.

Malfoy looked up at the billboard and tilted his head to the side. “I can see why that one was the quarter’s bestselling edition of the Prophet. Truly, how many knickers were dropped that day, do you think?”

Barely resisting the urge to clap his hand over Malfoy’s mouth, Harry stepped closer to him and dropped his voice an octave. “I bet you didn’t have to go far to find that picture. Reckon you had it hidden away somewhere close by; top bedside table drawer, yeah?”

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The side of his mouth quirked up, though he didn’t turn to look at Harry. “You’d die to know what’s in my bedside table drawers, wouldn’t you?”

“Not as much as you want me to.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy stepped away, cheeks pink. “Now that you’ve seen my gift, there’s something else I wanted to take care of.”

Malfoy often turned the Heating Charms up in his flat during the evenings. He said that it made him feel cosy, not having to wrap himself in multiple layers as he read a book on the couch. That the Manor had always felt cool during his childhood, even when all the fireplaces were lit.

“I thought I might as well make things easier on both of us.” Malfoy said as he led Harry down the hallway of his flat, “As fun as it’s been to make you wait on the front stoop in your pyjamas, I thought it more convenient to key you into the wards instead. That way you can just Apparate straight in.”

“What, and get started on making breakfast without you even saying a proper hello?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t been enjoying it. And I’ll not ignore you, I’m not rude.” The look that he flashed Harry was, in fact, quite rude.

“You’ll still have to redo it every morning to let me back in.”

“Thanks ever so, I’m well aware of that. The things I do for you, honestly. It’s a proper bother.” He shook his head dramatically. “Seeing how your magic interacts with the core will let me pinpoint the intricacies of the incantation needed.”

Harry felt his eyes glaze over. “Right. Is it hard?”

Smugly, Draco said, “Not if you know what you’re doing.” He stopped in front of a closed door about halfway down the hall and tapped on it with his knuckles. “The magical core of the flat’s in here. When I say so, put your hand on it and I’ll get it all sorted out.”

“This is a linen cupboard.”

“Yes, well we can’t all have had magical homes bequeathed to us in the will of dead not-even-relatives, can we?”

Harry couldn’t stifle his answering snort. Malfoy smirked in response.

The incantation was familiar; Harry had allowed almost all of his friends’ access to Grimmauld Place through the same process. Malfoy’s spell was similar although his pronunciation was different and seemed to include far more Latin.

“Now,” Malfoy said, twisting his wand.

It was almost embarrassing, Harry’s reaction.

When his hand came within touching distance of the glowing magical core, tendrils reached out to curl around his fingers, sliding along his knuckles. They were warm, like testing the temperature of a fresh bubble bath. He gasped, feeling his eyes slip shut as the feeling of Malfoy’s raw magic seeped into his skin. It rushed through his bloodstream, settling in his chest. Their magic mixed there, combining and knitting together, travelling back down Harry’s arms and into the glowing core of the house. His jeans had grown tight at the front, denim straining as his cock filled.

Then, suddenly, it stopped. Malfoy finished the incantation and stepped back, sliding his wand into his pocket.

“I think a cup of tea is in order, don’t you?”

His words were fuzzy, hard to make out through the ringing in Harry’s ears. All Harry could do was nod as he let his arm fall to his side, fingertips tingling, the scent of raw magic filling his lungs.

Malfoy looked up when Harry walked into the kitchen, heated gaze settling on the front of Harry’s jeans. His cheeks darkened slightly as he turned, leaning back against the counter. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re rather hard.”

“Uh, yeah, I have.” He was struck by the sudden urge to apologise. Thankfully, Malfoy let out a small huff of laughter before he could embarrass himself further.

“I do remember you saying something about being sexually deprived at the beginning of the loop. Have you finally fixed that, or do you still not know how to wank properly?”

Mildly indignant, Harry replied, “I know how to wank properly.”

Malfoy lifted one pale eyebrow. He took a sip of his tea before setting it down on the counter. He cast a casual Stasis Charm in its direction – an action that sent Harry’s pulse racing. He tilted his head to the side, gaze dragging down Harry’s front. “I’m not sure that I believe you.”

“Are you asking me to show you?”

With a smirk, Malfoy said, “If you like.”

And, yes, Harry would like. Rather a lot.

Harry let his hand drop to the front of his jeans. He cupped his hard cock and squeezed gently, letting Malfoy see the pull of the material. He watched as Malfoy’s eyes darkened and his lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them.

“Should I–”

“On the couch,” Malfoy said. His tone was far more authoritative than his appearance would suggest.

He followed Malfoy into the living room, waited for him to sink down onto the couch. Malfoy’s posture was aloof, long legs spread, back against the armrest, his body facing towards the length of the couch. He nodded at the spot next to him, mouth twisting into a smirk.

Malfoy’s voice was quiet, more a breath than anything else, as he said, “What are you waiting for?”

Harry tugged his jeans off and slipped a hand inside his pants to curl around the base of his hard length. His eyes slipped closed as he did it, the touch of his own hand more erotic than it had ever felt before. His fingers were still zinging with the effects of channelling his and Malfoy’s raw magic; it gave the feeling of numbness, almost like someone else was touching him, like Malfoy was.

“Malfoy,” Harry groaned, squeezing the head of his cock. His knees bent, threatening to give.

“Come here,” Malfoy said, breathless. His eyes were dark when Harry met his gaze, pupils blown wide. He didn’t reach out to touch when Harry sat astride him, knees on either side of Malfoy’s thighs. “Show me. I want to see how you touch yourself.”

Nodding, Harry began to move his hand. He groaned loudly when he felt Malfoy’s fingers at the waistband of his pants. He let Malfoy tug them lower, let him free his aching cock so that he could see.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispered. He dropped a hand to the front of his own trousers, squeezing his cock through the fabric.

“You too. I want to see you.”

Nodding, Malfoy complied. He pulled his cock through the opening in his trousers and began to wank himself, eyes fixed on Harry. His cock was redder than the rest of him, ruddy and flushed. Did it taste like his strawberry body wash or like musk, like headiness?

Harry’s cock twitched as he watched Malfoy wank, wetness spilling over his fingertips to slick the way. He whimpered when a drop of it fell onto Malfoy’s hand, beading on his knuckles.

“Draco,” Harry groaned, speeding up his hand. “Fuck, I–”

“Come on my cock,” Malfoy said. “Fuck, do it.”

The words were a jolt of heat straight to Harry’s balls. He shuddered, twisting his hand under the head and angling it down towards Malfoy.

“Are you thinking about it?” Malfoy asked. “How it’ll look? Is that what you picture when you touch yourself in my shower, when you bite your hand and think I can’t hear you? That I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Fuck, do you … do you listen?” Harry groaned, thighs twitching.

“Would you like me to?”

Before Harry could embarrass himself by babbling that yes, he very much would like that, he felt the tightness in his balls abate in a sudden rush. Groaning, he began to spurt over Malfoy’s hard cock, painting white streaks over his rapidly moving fist.

“Oh fuck,” Malfoy gasped, tipping his head back. He clenched his jaw as he came, cupping his free hand over the head of his cock. He smeared his come across his own skin, mixing it with Harry’s as the movement of his fist began to slow.

Though the sight of their combined release coating Malfoy’s cock was erotic, what drew Harry’s attention was his face. Malfoy was downright gorgeous as he came, throat exposed, bottom lip caught in his teeth, jaw clenched. It was a landscape that Harry wanted painted across his wall, a tapestry woven by the gods.

“Potter,” Malfoy groaned. He let out a laugh, lips curving into a smile. “You’ll have to take your own picture if you keep staring.”

“Your eyes are closed, you can’t even see. And call me Harry when you’ve got my come all over you.”

“I can feel you looking.” One of Malfoy’s eyes opened, and his grin widened. “Does that mean you’re going to call me Draco as well, like we’re proper little buddies? Or is that only applicable if you’re covered in my semen?”

Swallowing, Harry said, “Yeah, I suppose I will.”

“Hmm.” Draco braced his arm on the back of the couch and pushed up, nudging Harry’s nose with his own. “Harry. Do you like that?”

Rather than replying, Harry kissed him instead. Draco was still smiling, his lips parting around a grin as Harry tried to deepen the kiss. Thwarted, he moved his lips to Draco’s neck instead, sucking gently.

“Settle,” Draco said, laughing breathlessly. “My hand is quite literally covered in come and I don’t fancy getting a headrush from getting hard again this fast.” He pulled back, fixing Harry with an intense look. “How about a repeat after dinner? You can sit in my lap, Harry, and I’ll wank you. Is that agreeable?”

“Stop,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to the centre of Draco’s bottom lip, “talking so posh. There’s no one here but us.”

“I could do that.” Draco licked a stripe across Harry’s upper lip, flicking his tongue over his Cupid’s bow. “But why, when you seem to like it so much?”

And, yeah, that was a fair assessment.

Harry groaned, moving away and tucking his soft cock back into his pants. “Did you want something from the cupboard, or shall we get a takeaway?”

Cupping a hand over his own soft cock, Draco shivered. He swallowed, grey eyes still dark. “You decide.”

His decision kept them on the couch for a good while longer.

*

Once the floodgates opened it was difficult to close them.

Really, Harry didn’t know what he’d expected. He’d always liked sex, had sought it out where possible and always had a pretty decent time. Draco, for his part, was a proper flirt and had been for as long as Harry could remember. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Draco was more than a little voracious when he was allowed to be.

But that still didn’t mean that Harry couldn’t be surprised about it.

The first thing that he noticed upon arriving at Draco’s flat in his pyjamas – in the living room this time, rather than on the front stoop – was the decided lack of Draco himself.

There was no surly blond git on the couch, book open on his lap; no complaints about stocks or the weather or the general state of the universe emanating from the kitchen. There were no jokes about Harry’s hair or his clothes or his untimeliness. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Draco was up to something.

Taking great care to keep his steps light, Harry crept down the hallway. Every few moments he checked over his shoulder, expecting to see Draco lurking behind a pot plant or a curtain, waiting for an opportune moment to jump out and scare the shit out of Harry.

The house was silent.

A Homenum Revelio whispered under his breath revealed nothing. Then, a curl of magic drawing his eye further down the hall, beyond Draco’s thick bedroom door.

With a huff, Harry holstered his wand. No longer caring if he was discovered, he tapped his knuckles against the door and cleared his throat dramatically. Draco’s voice, muffled through the wood, invited him in.

“Did you die?” Harry asked, opening the door a crack. “Or have you somehow managed to defy all the rules and get sick overnight?”

“Neither.” Draco’s voice was deep, scratchy, like he’d just woken up. It was unusual for him, completely out of the ordinary. Draco didn’t deviate from his routine; it was the one solid thing that Harry had grasped onto way back when all this started. He was a creature of habit and he very much liked that.

Harry’s eyes adjusted as he stepped further into the room, gaze falling on the figure curled up under the sheets. There was something extra in the air – the heaviness of sleep hanging around, perhaps.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Draco sat up slightly, fixing Harry with an oddly frustrated glare, considering he’d been the one to invite him in. “Just thought I’d have a lie-in, is all. Is that not allowed?”

“You don’t have lie-ins. Reckon you’re allergic to them.”

There was a soft thud as Draco’s head fell back to his pillow. “I can sometimes be persuaded. Occasionally.”

Harry stepped closer, bare toes curling in the carpet. He dropped his bag of clothes by the side of Draco’s bed, smiling when Draco rolled his eyes. “Did you want me to open the curtains? Bit dark in here.”

A frustrated huff fell from between Draco’s lips. “No, I don’t. Would you – come closer.” He shot out a hand when Harry did as he was asked, long fingers curling around Harry’s wrist. He pulled, dragging Harry onto the bed with him. He nearly took an accidental elbow to the face, which would have served him right.

“You can’t manhandle me.” Hopefully the lie wasn’t completely audible. “What are you–”

“Close your mouth until you have something useful to say.”

Harry swallowed as Draco pulled up the covers and dragged his arm underneath. Draco’s body was warm to the touch, Harry’s fingertips tingling in response to the temperature difference as he let Draco guide his hand down his body. Pink lips parted on a gasp as Draco pulled it lower and lower, brushing past his ribs.

“Are you not wearing anything?” Again, Harry swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth.

“What did I say,” Draco rasped, dragging Harry’s fingers over his hipbones, “about talking.” Bypassing his cock, Draco kept going. The blanket shifted as he drew his knee up and opened his legs.

Though the touch of his hands on Draco’s bare body was alluring, what Harry couldn’t help but focus on was his face. His eyelids fluttered as he guided Harry’s movements, yet he kept them open, watching Harry’s face. His lips parted further, heat radiating off his body.

“I had some extra time this morning,” Draco said, pressing Harry’s hand behind his balls, against the warmest part of him. There, between his legs, he was already wet.

“Oh god,” Harry groaned. Unable to help himself, he pressed his fingers against Draco’s hole, stretched and ready. The tip of his thumb slid in easily as he traced Draco’s rim, sliding over his velvety soft skin.

“I thought,” Draco said, voice breathy, “instead of you having a wank in my shower, why not have me instead?” He gasped, laughter breaking the sound in two, as Harry yanked up the blanket and slid underneath, situating himself between Draco’s spread legs.

Dragging his hands up the inside of Draco’s thighs, Harry asked, “Can I touch you as well? Or do you just want to fuck?”

“I’d certainly hope that you would.” His foot nudged Harry’s arm, gently guiding it away as he flipped onto his stomach. “Not my cock though – I’d rather not embarrass myself. You did take your time getting here.”

It was a blessing in disguise, not being able to see Draco’s body clearly; Harry’s cock was already rock hard. Seeing Draco spread out for him on rumpled sheets would have been too much; he’d have been set off immediately. The blanket blocked out most of the light, leaving shadows of pale skin and the overwhelming smell of sex. It was thick under there, humidity making tiny beads of sweat appear along Harry’s hairline. There was something else there too, something sweeter.

“Did you really buy lube that’s the same smell as your body wash?” Harry shifted closer, running his hands over Draco’s arse.

Draco shivered, pushing back into Harry’s touch. “The scents shouldn’t compete, you idiot. They should complement each other.”

“Fuck, my mistake. How could I not have known that?” Harry pressed a kiss to the back of Draco’s thigh. He felt a shudder run through him when Draco groaned and tilted his hips, waiting. He pressed his thumb to Draco’s rim, drawing tight circles around the outside. It made Draco shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin. “What did you think about, when you were opening yourself up?”

Draco widened his legs and pushed back, trying in vain to fuck himself on Harry’s thumb. “I said you could touch, not tease. Trust me when I say I’ve had quite a lot of that this morning.”

Indulging him, Harry dipped his thumb inside briefly before drawing it back out. It made a wet pop as he pulled it back, coated in slickness. “What was it that you pictured me doing to you when you were fucking yourself on your fingers?”

“Something involving your cock.” Draco reached back to grab at Harry’s arm. He attempted to pull him forward, to draw him closer. His fingers tightened dramatically around Harry’s wrist at the first touch of Harry’s tongue between his legs.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned against Draco’s skin. He pressed his face as close to Draco as it could go as he swirled his tongue in tight circles, dipping it in and out of Draco’s body.

All of Draco’s muscles seemed to lock up at once. He trembled, holding tight to Harry’s wrist as though clutching a lifeline. His moans were muffled through both the blanket and the pillow that he had no doubt buried his face in, but his body was responsive enough for Harry to read.

Draco trembled, legs twitching, back arched. His gasps increased in intensity even as Harry drew back for breath. His hand had transferred to Harry’s hair, fingers curling in the strands as he attempted to tug Harry’s face towards him, to press his tongue inside again.

A bead of sweat ran down Harry’s temple; it was hot under the blanket, the air drenched in the smell of sex. Harry’s head started to spin as he leaned down to press a final kiss to Draco’s hole, parting his lips and dragging his tongue over the rim. He tugged the blanket off his head, letting it fall over his shoulders to pool on the bed behind him. Draco’s body was spread out before him, ready and waiting. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor; the scent of exertion touched everything, muskiness and sweat and sex.

Draco’s skin was warmer than Harry’s remaining clothes; he shivered when Harry fitted himself between his thighs, rising up onto his knees. Harry tugged his tartan pyjama bottoms down just enough to free himself, letting them pool around his knees. He squeezed the base of his cock with one hand, trying to ward off his impending orgasm, as he gathered some of the slickness from Draco’s hole with his fingers, rubbing it along his length.

“Harry,” Draco said, voice deep and breathy. “I am about to expire. If you could be so kind as to get the fuck on with it, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Harry leaned over Draco’s body, hands on either side of Draco’s head. He pressed a kiss to the side of Draco’s neck, then another when Draco moaned.

“Harry,” Draco repeated. He rubbed his arse against Harry’s cock, making a frustrated noise when it didn’t magically slip in by itself. He turned his head, licking the taste of himself from Harry’s bottom lip as Harry began to press inside.

The position gave Harry the perfect view of Draco’s face as he began to take his cock; Draco’s jaw clenched at first, his pale brows drawing together. Then, as he adjusted, his mouth dropped open and his eyes slipped shut, breath puffing from between his lips. He began to work himself on Harry’s cock, hips rolling in tight circles as he dragged Harry where he needed him. The sight of his back arching made Harry’s mouth water.

Sliding an arm around Draco’s chest, Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck and let him move, allowed him to take Harry’s cock exactly how he wanted to. The urge to fuck, to rut into the willing body beneath him, was almost impossible to resist, but so were the noises that Draco had begun to make, the throaty moans and the breathy gasps.

“Don’t come,” Draco hissed, moving his hips faster. “I’m so fucking close already, don’t you dare come.”

Harry inhaled the smell of fresh strawberries, sweat, sex, Draco. He tilted his hips, giving Draco more of his cock to work with, a firmer surface to fuck back against. He shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought against the coiling in his stomach, the searing heat at the base of his cock.

“Touch me,” Draco ordered, groaning. “Just the head of my cock. Get it wet.”

Shaking, Harry braced himself with one palm, biceps bulging, as he lifted his other hand to Draco’s mouth. He felt his cock twitch as Draco licked over his palm, tongue dipping between his fingers. The head of Draco’s cock was damp enough that additional slickness was wholly unnecessary. It was hot, thick, velvety in Harry’s grip. He did as asked, curling his fingers around the head and wanking slowly, keeping the same pace as the sensual rolling of Draco’s hips.

“Kiss me.” Draco turned his head, breath puffing between damp lips. “I want to taste you as I come.”

“How close are you?” Harry tensed his thigh muscles, trying all that he could to hold back his own orgasm.

“Not yet,” Draco whispered against his lips. “Not for you. I want your cock hard.”

Nodding, Harry kissed him. It was more a press of open mouths than anything with proper technique. Draco licked along his teeth, drawing Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth. He panted as his body began to lock up, kissing messily as his cock twitched in Harry’s grip. He came with a groan, breath hitching as his hips continued to roll, dragging Harry’s cock in and out at his leisure.

“Fuck, you’re still so hard,” Draco whispered. He shuddered, batting Harry’s hand away from his wet, softening cock. “I want to make you come like this.”

Harry rested his forehead against Draco’s temple, breathing hard. “Can I move?”

The corner of Draco’s mouth lifted. “Do you want to?”

Swallowing, “No.”

“Good.” The word was more a groan than anything.

Draco began to move again, rolling his hips in tight circles, just as he’d done before. It dragged the head of Harry’s cock along his inner walls, soft and slick and warm. It was torture in the most erotic way.

“Let it happen,” Draco said. He drew Harry’s face towards the side of his neck and held it there. “You can feel it building, can’t you? It’s right there.” He circled his hips, groaning. “Harry,” he whispered, clenching down around Harry’s cock as he moved. “Now. Come now.”

A moan ripped its way from Harry’s chest, released against Draco’s damp skin. His muscles locked up as he came, letting Draco drag it from him with every grind, every roll of his hips. His body shook with the effort of not fucking forwards, of holding himself still and letting Draco take. He came and came until his balls were sore, his cock oversensitive.

“Are you not going to pull out?” The circles of Draco’s hips had gotten smaller with the effort of keeping Harry’s soft cock inside. “Should I do it for you?”

Harry laughed weakly when Draco slid his knees flat, lowering himself to the bed. It caused his arse to briefly tighten around Harry’s cock, before it finally slipped out in a wet rush that coated the insides of Draco’s thighs. Unable to help himself, Harry rubbed his cock against Draco’s arse, his first proper movement since they’d begun.

Draco’s surprised laugh grounded Harry’s swirling head, cutting through the fuzziness in his ears. He guided Harry down until they were lying on their sides, both panting from very different types of exertion. He laughed again, a grin forming on his flushed face.

“This is quite the development.” Draco licked his lips, eyes still dark. “You’re rather good, aren’t you?”

Harry swallowed, ignoring the warmth that rushed through his body. He rolled his eyes and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberries. “You ambushed me, you git.”

“There was only so much dithering about I could handle. And I think it turned out rather well.”

Harry was more than a little inclined to agree.

Groaning, Malfoy stretched his arms towards the headboard. His shoulders popped with the movement, back muscles rippling as Harry watched. “I’m due another shower. Feel free to accompany me if you’d like.”

“A lie-in. I need one. I’m knackered.”

Snorting, Malfoy flicked Harry gently on the side of the jaw. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Do you realise how hard it is to stop yourself from coming?”

“No. Haven’t had reason to try.” Malfoy grinned. He turned Harry’s head towards him and pressed a kiss to the bow of his lips. It was almost shy – a direct contrast to what they’d just done. “Come on, we’re doing something different for breakfast today.”

*

“I thought you said it was my choice.”

“It is. So pick.”

“You keep making suggestions.”

“As I am allowed to do, Potter. Pick before I pick for you.”

Unsure whether he wanted to kiss Draco silly or push him into the nearest bin, Harry busied himself by skimming the café’s menu. It was bright pink with black writing that curled at the end of each word. The tails of the ‘y’ and the loops of the ‘s’ weren’t altogether unlike Draco’s hair as it dried, just above his temples.

A pointy face filled Harry’s vision. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I’ve killed you, haven’t I?” Draco snorted, pressing his lips together in a failed attempt not to smile. “If a bit of morning sex was all it would’ve taken for you to be vanquished, imagine the look on the Dark Lord’s face–” His words became muffled when Harry clapped a hand over his mouth. He frowned, eyebrows meeting in the middle, as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Harry let his hand drop, grinning. “You done?”

Draco pursed his lips. “I want an almond croissant. Your freedom of choice has been revoked.”

“And we’ll get that. But I wouldn’t be doing this properly if we didn’t eat all the best stuff.”

Draco had insisted on having breakfast out, suddenly keen to see what Harry’s usual weekday fare consisted of. Naturally, he’d lasted about five minutes before offering an unsolicited opinion, then making requests (demands), then attempting a rather obvious manipulation in favour of what he’d now decided he wanted.

It pained Harry greatly that he found it attractive. Truly.

Leaning in, Harry dropped a handful of coins onto Draco’s outstretched palm. “You’re going to go to the place next door – the one with the dog on the sign – and get a blueberry muffin and an apricot Danish. Nothing else. Do not get sidetracked by the fairy cakes, they’re shit. And don’t take an upsell.”

Draco rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, striding towards the café. “I’m well-versed in Muggle interactions now, I’ll have you know. You don’t get to be a git just because I made you come your brains out this morning.” He flashed a smile at a man who had turned his head to gape openly. “I’ll be more adept than you at this, just you wait.”

Draco returned from the café with five separate bags, complaining that he’d not been given enough coins to avoid having to duplicate them.

This was, apparently, not classed as falling for an upsell.

“I’m not gullible,” he insisted, shoving the bags into Harry’s arms without care. “The woman at the counter was awfully nice. She said my hair was the colour of starlight. Starlight, Harry. And there were all these extravagant cakes – it would have been a crime not to get one. And the cream buns that pair with them, and then the teacakes that work as a palate cleanser. It wouldn’t have been sensible not to.”

He let out a muffled sound of surprise when Harry kissed him. He relaxed into it for just a moment, hands pressed against Harry’s chest, before he stepped back and raised a very unbothered eyebrow.

“We,” Draco said haughtily, “are not having sex on the street. I don’t care that nobody will remember, I’m drawing a line.”

“Shut up.” Harry laughed, shuffling the bags around so that he had a better grip. “I wanted a snog, not a lay. And I’ll do it again.”

Rosiness bloomed in Draco’s cheeks. He rubbed his lips together, eyes dropping to Harry’s mouth. “See that you do. After I’ve sampled my stellar business decisions.”

The fairy cakes were shit, as Harry had said they would be.

Draco refused to admit it, putting away mouthful after mouthful as he stared Harry down, looking more like an assassin eyeing up a target than a bloke sitting cross-legged in a park with icing on his fingers. There was a spot of pink right by the corner of his mouth that Harry couldn’t help but stare at. Draco definitely knew it was there but did not seem inclined to remove it.

“Do you think,” Draco said, tilting his head to the side as he studied Harry’s probably embarrassing expression, “that if we fucked all day, our bodies would still be ready to go again tomorrow?”

A bit of Danish decided that was the opportune moment to lodge itself in Harry’s airway.

“There’s a high likelihood that we could break some kind of record, if we wanted to try.” Sighing dramatically, Draco grabbed for Harry’s hand and cast Aguamenti into his cupped palm. “Although we’d have to be careful not to still be up when the loop resets. I tried it early on, it’s awfully disorientating.”

“So’s going to sleep in another bed. Fucks with your head.”

Draco paused, eyebrows raising. “Been picking up, have you? Going out on the town? Taking advantage of not having to owl anyone the next day?” His mouth pursed, eyes narrowing. He looked every bit like he’d just sucked on a very tart lemon.

Grinning, Harry tilted his head to match the angle of Draco’s. “Are you jealous?”

Draco’s lip curled. “No. It’s you who’s prone to that, if I remember correctly. Does Pamela ring any bells? You seemed awfully put out by her presence. If I didn’t know any better–”

“Draco.” Harry smiled up at him as he thumbed at the corner of Draco’s mouth, right over the icing. Draco leaned into it, lips parting just so. “I’m not interested in picking anyone up. And I haven’t, not in a fair while.”

A breath gusted over Harry’s thumb as he drew it back, Draco’s eyes locked on his. “What is this?”

It gave Harry pause because what was the correct answer to that question? They weren’t anything that anyone else would recognise because they couldn’t be, not in their current predicament. They’d been thrown together because nobody else understood what was happening. It wasn’t a choice, not to begin with, but now it sort of was. Now, Harry elected to spend his time with Draco, making idiotic choices and goading him into things. And, more shockingly so, he enjoyed it.

There was a certain intimacy in it, spending endless hours with someone in a pocket of time with no obligations and no responsibilities. There was no judgement, no concern, no outside opinions to care about. They just … were. Harry liked it. He wanted it to continue. He wanted to keep touching Draco, to spend more time with him, to know him better than he ever could have in their normal lives. Draco was a puzzle that Harry ached to decode. He’d started to but he was in no way finished yet. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be.

But was that what Draco wanted? Did he want to be something, or was he, like Harry had been early on, influenced by the shared intimacy of their situation, by the convenience of it? Would he still want to see Harry after the loop, or would he find that to be an odd suggestion?

It didn’t really matter, Harry supposed. Not when they were still in the loop with seemingly no end in sight. No use properly worrying about it yet.

So, Harry smiled softly, rubbing his thumb over Draco’s knee. “It’s whatever we want it to be.”

Something passed over Draco’s face then, something Harry couldn’t read. He cleared his throat and held out a fairy cake, one with bright blue icing and a tiny flower on top.

“They’re shit,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

“Try it?” Draco asked, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “For me?”

And who was Harry to resist?

*

By 3pm, Harry thought he might legitimately be going insane.

They’d spent the early afternoon at the park, steadily working their way through the ridiculous number of sweets that Draco had been conned into buying, until they were both lying flat on their backs and groaning up at the sky. It called up memories of when Harry had done that very thing by himself in an effort to ignore Draco early on in the loop.

Stuffing your face with sugar until you felt sick was far more entertaining when there was someone else there to commiserate with, to tell you that, actually, they were feeling far worse because they’d eaten the bite of muffin that you had been too weak to finish.

It had fully taken Harry out, leaving him to lay half on the couch, one leg dangling on the floor and arms thrown out to the sides. He’d put his tartan pyjama bottoms back on, caring little for the come stain down the thigh.

Draco had raised a rather lofty eyebrow at the sight, but had been sufficiently cowed when Harry pointed out that it was his come and he could lend Harry a new pair if he was that bothered by it. In response he’d buggered off downstairs, apparently never to be seen again.

Until Harry started hallucinating.

There was no other explanation for it; Draco’s voice filled the space, but Draco himself was absent.

Harry, in his state of sugar coma, readily welcomed death and could not muster more than a pitiful Homenum Revelio, which revealed nothing.

It was then that Harry focused enough on the sounds coming from the bedroom – a space where Draco decidedly was not – to understand what he was saying.

“I’ve always loved Magaluf, yes. We went there often when I was a child and I have the fondest memories.”

“No.” Harry sat up sharply, stomach rolling. He hobbled down the hallway in the direction of the sound, Draco’s haughty voice ringing in his ears.

The radio announcer was firing off trivia questions in a jaunty tone that grew more and more excited by the second. And Draco was answering them. Correctly.

Gone were the answers of his first attempt; the one’s he spouted off this time didn’t even come close to breaking the Statute of Secrecy. There was no Celestina Warbeck, no French Minister for Magic, and certainly no Harry himself. There was just correct Muggle trivia, straight from the mouth of Draco bloody Malfoy, rattled off before the announcer could even finish asking the questions.

“The First National lottery took place in what–”

“1994.”

“On what street did the Great Fire of London–”

“Pudding Lane.”

“When it began, how many episodes of EastEnders were–”

“Two.”

“The annual boat race between Oxford and Cambridge is held–”

“April.”

“What was Princess Diana’s–”

“Frances.” Draco paused, waiting for a question that would not arrive.

Loud sirens sounded through the radio, making Harry jump and fall back against the bed. The announcer had evidently forgotten that he did not need to yell into his microphone in order to be heard, as he shouted about Draco winning the fucking Magaluf holiday.

“Who’s the lucky plus one, Draco?” the announcer shouted.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was batting his eyelashes, Harry could tell. “Perhaps a hero will sweep me off of my feet.”

“If all else fails, a lad’s holiday might be in order,” the announcer crowed. “Another massive congratulations to Draco from Wiltshire for not only winning the holiday of a lifetime, but for breaking the Radio 1 record for fastest answering time in our standard format. Tell me, Draco, you didn’t have a man on the inside? Maybe our lovely producer, Bell, feeding you the answers?”

Draco laughed rather deviously. “Nothing of the sort. Just proper British intelligence.”

Harry was waiting at the front door of the shop when Draco returned.

Well, he stood there and then had to run back up the stairs when Draco Apparated directly into the lounge room, that was.

Draco regarded Harry with an amused expression, head tilted to the side. “I take it you heard?”

“When the fuck did you even learn that stuff?” Harry rubbed at his stomach, grimacing. Sprinting up the stairs hadn’t been one of his better ideas.

Draco shrugged. “I listened to the lady who gets on every day that I don’t. Judy. She’s from Sheffield. Definitely deserves the holiday, in that case.”

“I’ll eat my own shirt if you’ve ever been to Sheffield. There’s no way.”

“So what if I haven’t?”

“So don’t be a git.”

“Have you ever been to Sheffield?”

Harry paused for a moment. “No.”

“Then I rest my case. And you’d best hope you’ve got plenty of Galleons lying around in one of those oversized vaults of yours – you know, the ones that have my family name on them?”

Narrowing his eyes, Harry asked, “Why?”

Draco looked frightfully smug. “Because you’re buying us a Portkey to Magaluf tomorrow.”

“Draco.” Harry held up his hands and approached, as though Draco were a spooked deer. “You didn’t actually win a holiday to Magaluf. I mean, you did, but you also didn’t. The hotels and stuff won’t be valid for us on any day but today. And the prize definitely wouldn’t be active as soon as tomorrow.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “I want my holiday. I won it fair and square.”

Harry snorted. “You did not.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Fine, I cheated. But I still won it. And I want to go.”

“You’ve some idea about how much last-minute Portkeys cost, yeah? Especially long-distance ones?”

“Well,” Draco’s next smirk was slower, more heated, “aren’t I so lucky to have you kicking about, bankrolling my every whim? You’re a proper sugar daddy.”

Harry’s next breath seemed to catch in his throat. “Come off it.”

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “You’re no fun. And I have an ulterior motive for wanting to take a trip; perhaps the loop is tied to some kind of location spell. I know we’ve both left London since the first day, but maybe that’s not far enough? The Mediterranean would be.” He flashed Harry an obviously fake smile. “What a coincidence. So, you’ll go down to the Ministry first thing, yes?”

“This is manipulation.”

“This is me wanting a holiday. A lad’s holiday, Harry. We’re both lads, so we should go on a holiday.”

“Do you even know what a lad’s holiday is?”

“Yes,” Draco replied. “A trip taken by men.”

“I’ll make you a deal.” Harry crossed the room, hand outstretched. “I’ll get us an outrageously expensive Portkey tomorrow, but we’re going to have an actual lad’s holiday. You’re going to let me plan the activities according to what blokes do in Magaluf, and you’re going to participate in all of them. Deal?”

Setting his jaw, Draco nodded once. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

Harry immediately began to plan.

He’d learned from the best; Seamus was about to be very, very proud of him.

Chapter Text

The Portkey dropped them in a sheltered cove with rocks at their back and clear blue water lapping at their shoes. A number of white boats dotted the vista and colourful jet skis zipped up and down the coastline, churning calm currents into small white peaks. A hundred metres or so down the beach, a man had his head tilted down, beady eyes following the path of the metal detector he was holding.

It was a far less secluded location than Portkeys would usually have you land in, making Harry think that the witch who had grumpily put his together really did have it out for him. Nothing said fuck you like nearly forcing someone to break the Statute of Secrecy by accident.

Draco shifted from foot to foot, frowning down at his shoes. “The Spaniards call this a beach? Where’s the sand, it’s all rocks?”

Deadpan, Harry replied, “Draco, you’re from England.”

He was flipped off in place of a proper reply.

Their hotel was close to the main nightlife strip, a squat double storey building with a façade that was painted a rather unsettling shade of light brown. The woman manning the front desk could not have given less of a shit that the pair of them were checking in after booking a last-minute reservation, carrying only a single backpack between them.

“He’s not got pills in there,” Draco said, rather unhelpfully, as he pointed at Harry’s bag. He flashed Harry a wide grin, evidently thinking himself a proper comedian.

There was no reaction from the receptionist, who handed Harry a physical key to their room with a deadpan look on her face.

“You’re going to get us both arrested,” Harry muttered, leading the way up a flight of cracked concrete stairs.

“I’ll remind you that we’re on my dream holiday, not yours. I’ll do what I like.”

“No, you’ll do what I like because we’re on a lad’s holiday. I, the Chief Lad, have planned this for us and you, lad in training, have agreed to the deal.”

Draco mimicked him in falsetto as they unlocked the door to the room, but thankfully didn’t start shouting about illegal substances again, so that was a win. His shit imitation turned into something crossed between a scoff and a giggle as he took in the rather spartan lodgings.

“This place has definitely not been renovated since the 80s.” Harry tossed the backpack onto the bed, finally catching sight of Draco’s face.

Draco had his arms crossed over his chest and an absolute shit-eating grin plastered on. He stared pointedly at Harry and then at the one double bed in the room, arching an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” Harry said, tugging at the stubborn zipper on his backpack. “It’s not like we’ll be sleeping in it anyway.” He felt his face heat when Draco started laughing. “Not what I meant. Get over here and come experience the first proper bit of a lad’s holiday.”

“No,” Draco gasped, as Harry tossed him a ball of fabric.

“Usually the shirts would be properly customised to the trip, but this was the best that the shop had without ordering something in.”

When he’d gone on lad’s holidays with his Gryffindor mates, their shirts all had corny things like Lions on the prowl and Hogwarts Class of ’98 World Tour screen-printed on them – the latter of which had managed to drive away whatever slim chance any of them had of picking up. Anyone who wasn’t a witch or wizard thought their school’s name was actually a declaration of them all having an STD – as they were informed, loudly and tactlessly, by a drunken girl in line for the toilets at a Mykonos club.

These souvenirs were a tad raunchier and far, far shittier.

Draco shook out his shirt, holding it up in front of him and turning it around to inspect it. “Certified Ladykiller? Really?” The bright pink outline of a woman parting her legs wasn’t exactly the height of artistic taste, but it was marginally better than Harry’s, which stated Ask me about my cock underneath a picture of a rooster.

“We can write our names on the back.” Harry tossed a black marker in Draco’s direction, grinning when it bounced off his forehead.

“This is so shit,” Draco muttered. He scrawled Malfoy across the back of his shirt in looping script.

“They’re supposed to be nicknames, not your actual name.”

Draco sighed but did cast a colour-correcting spell at the shirt. It had the unfortunate consequence of turning the entire thing a vivid lime green.

“At least make it pink to match your old hair,” Harry teased. “I have fond memories of your short-lived punk phase.”

“Give me that.” Draco snatched Harry’s shirt from his hands and pressed it against the wall, messily inking the words Saint Scarhead onto the fabric. He curled his lip when he was handed back his green shirt with the addition of the rather apt moniker of Ferret Boy. “I am decidedly a man, not a boy.”

“What you are is a ferret. Put it on.”

The look that Draco shot him as he pulled his shirt over his head was nothing short of diabolical. He smirked the whole bloody time, stretching his arms above his head and running his hands over his stomach to smooth the themed shirt out once he finally put it on. He tucked the bottom of it into the waistband of his shorts, looking every inch a posh twat out on the town for the first time. The backs of his knees, something so rarely seen, were almost as white as the milky insides of his thighs, right at the top where they met his groin. The realisation made Harry start to sweat.

They made a beeline for Punta Ballena, Draco darting into the very first bar he saw and sitting down right beside a pair of microphone stands. He eyed them like he was expecting one to start sprinting towards him with homicidal intent, the cord swinging menacingly.

It wasn’t hard to decide what to order.

A fishbowl was clearly a brand-new concept to Draco, if the look on his face when Harry set it down on the table was anything to go by. He poked at the overlong straws, pinching one between his thumb and forefinger. “Why is it orange?”

“Because,” Harry said, “it’s a Spanish sunrise.”

“Ah,” said Draco. “Obviously.” He had a rather funny look about him after taking his first sip, face screwing up as he got his first hit of sugar syrup and tequila. “That’s fucking vile.” He snatched the bowl from Harry’s hands when he tried to draw away, taking another long pull from the straw. “Awful. Go get another.”

Draco and fishbowls were a bad combination.

He was fascinated by them in the way that a small child might show their parent a flower they had picked while on a walk, or an interesting stick that had been lying on the pavement. He kept getting up to order more of them in different flavours after drinking barely any of the preceding one. He’d add it to the growing degeneracy on their tabletop, grinning widely and exclaiming that Harry simply had to try the next one. Thankfully there were no shortage of tourists wanting to get drunk on the cheap and who readily took the barely touched drinks off Harry’s hands.

“Potter,” Draco said. He leaned the point of his elbow on the tabletop, resting his chin on his palm. “We’re on holiday.”

“I hoped you would already know that, considering it was you who forced me to go.”

A rather dreamy look took over Draco’s face then. “Don’t be a git. I only mean … well, I don’t do this very often anymore. Not since … not for a while.”

There was an excited screech off to the left as a group of girls stepped up to the pair of microphones, giggling and falling over themselves.

Harry’s tongue tasted of orange and lime and sugar. He ran it across his teeth, waiting for Draco to continue. When he didn’t, he asked, “Where did you last go?”

“Paris.” A smile then, more private than the last. “With my mother. We spent a week there, right before the Ministry … did what it did. We went for walks along the Seine and bought a bottle of Muggle wine from this tiny little place in the Latin Quarter and we slept with the windows open every night. It was … peaceful.” Draco’s smile twisted into something cheekier. “Unlike now, with all that racket.” He nodded at something over Harry’s shoulder; the group of girls had begun to belt out a pop tune that was mostly unrecognisable through their slurring.

Harry was struck by a sudden urge to hear Draco talk more, to recreate what he’d been speaking of in some way. “We can go, if you like? Find somewhere else that’s quieter.”

“Actually–” White teeth gnawed against a plump bottom lip, sugary sweet tongue pressing past them, “–I’d like to see you get up there.”

Shaking his head, Harry immediately replied, “Nope. No chance.”

“Oh, yes. In fact, let’s do it together.”

Harry laughed, watching as Draco’s eyes twinkled under the colourful bar lights. “They won’t have any Celestina Warbeck ready to go. And you don’t know any Muggle songs.”

Draco waved his hand dismissively. “Those girls don’t seem to know any, either. And besides, the words are on that tiny telly up there. I’ll just read them.” He pushed his bottom lip out in an overdramatic pout. “Please, Harry. We’re on holiday – I want to embarrass myself. And you, obviously.” He slid one of the long straws from the fishbowl into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around it and hollowing his cheeks just so. He also knew exactly what he was doing, judging by the look on his face.

“Alright,” Harry groaned, rising to stand. “But we’re not doing anything by the Spice Girls or Queen – everyone will immediately know if we get the words wrong.”

“I can offer you one veto – those are my terms.”

“You don’t get to set terms – it’s you who wants to do this.”

“I think,” Draco said, leaning in close enough that Harry could smell the sugar on his lips, “that I can.”

Wannabe was Draco’s first choice. Despite dying a little inside, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to use his veto; not when Draco looked so genuinely delighted as he enlisted the help of two drunk girls to assist with his selection. The three of them bent over the plastic folder that held the list of tracks, heads bumping together as they whispered.

That’s definitely what he looks like when he goes out with Pansy, Harry thought.

Then it was, and probably that prick Zabini.

 Then, even better, fuck, does Goyle go too?

The mental image of Gregory Goyle absolutely tearing up the stage as he belted out a Girls Aloud tune was simply too much to bear. Harry had no choice but to finish off one of the fishbowls right then and there, as an apology to his brain.

“Harry,” Draco hissed, scrunching up his face and gesturing wildly for Harry to join him on the stage. “Get up here, we’re on now.”

As predicted, there were a rather large number of raucous shouts when the first notes of the song began to play. Harry, age twelve, would have said that Draco was well-practised in the art of buying friendships; the goodwill being extended to them now, earned via no less than eight free fishbowls doled out to whoever wanted them, was proof enough that his assumption had been correct.

Something else that Harry had been correct about: Draco was downright shit at karaoke.

He didn’t seem to care all that much, clutching a half-drunk fishbowl against his chest as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, bobbing his head as he muddled his way through a poor imitation of Mel B. He picked up the song somewhere around the second chorus, belting out the lyrics in a manner that could only be described as tone deaf, but he did it with such gusto that nobody in the bar seemed to mind.

It was at the exact point where Draco screamed ‘slam your body down and wind it all around’ at the top of his lungs while shimmying his upper torso, bright blue liquid sloshing onto the already sticky floor, that Harry felt his mind clear of thoughts. All thoughts but one, that was.

I, Harry said to himself, am going to fuck that man tonight. In our shitty hotel room in Magaluf.

He could feel Ron’s pride through all the miles between them. It was comforting, no matter how imagined it was.

They exited the stage to cheers and shouts and a number of very bad attempts at whistling. There was no time to bask in their new-found glory, however, because Draco grabbed his arm and hissed, “Leaving. Now. Quitting while we’re ahead.”

They made it to the mini golf venue with plenty of time to spare until it shut. Draco was endlessly fascinated by the glow in the dark balls, holding them up to his eyes and twisting them around to inspect them. He kept questioning Harry about the chemicals in the paint – why he thought Harry had those answers was anyone’s guess. Thankfully, he stopped short of demanding that the teenager manning the front counter tell him if there had been any Mongolian Pasque petals involved in the paint-making process.

He also cheated. Often and rampantly.

It was as though the rules of golf did not exist.

What was par? Draco didn’t know.

The ball was supposed to be putted only by the club, rather than nudged in the right direction with the tip of a shoe? Brand new information.

Manipulating the scorecard by erasing all of his previous numbers and replacing them with better ones? Draco was offended at the accusation.

Well, he might have been, if he hadn’t completely misunderstood the rules of golf and given himself the highest number possible (100) and added a minus to the front of all Harry’s scores.

The thing was, he looked so bloody pleased while doing it, getting on his knees to bat the ball through a tiny Dutch windmill, pretending to touch his toes so that he could get a hole in one, tapping Harry’s ball out of the way with the tip of his club, then pretending that he’d never done such a thing.

He did it all with a smile on his face, his eyes bright and sparkling. He shot Harry a devious little smirk every time he tried to be sneaky; Harry wanted nothing more than to kiss it off his face, but they were pushing their luck already – an attendant had already begun to hover.

The last straw was Draco picking up both of their balls and holding them in front of his trousers. They were booted swiftly after that; Draco crowed about winning all the way down the boulevard. Harry, to his own immense shock, found the whole thing endlessly amusing rather than irritating.

Dinner had been left unplanned; Harry had been under the assumption that Draco would have Strong Opinions on where to go and what to eat that he hadn’t thought to sort something in advance. That was apparently Very Bad and Showed A Typical Lack Of Foresight.

“Well?” Draco held his arms out to underscore his dramatics – he immediately pulled them back in as a group of tourists stumbled into the gutter not half a foot from him. “What do lads usually eat on their big holidays here?”

“Uh…” Harry cast his mind back to older, blurrier times, watching his own mates commit to questionable evening plans on the fly. “Muff, mostly.”

“Ah,” Draco said. “Well, we’re not doing that.”

So, no muff.

But there was pasta instead.

“I warned you.” Harry bit down on his lip to curb his laughter. Draco was poking at his plate in a perfect imitation of Harry himself, back when he’d been subsiding solely off of pastries and his body had been ready to shut down. “I told you it was a tourist trap.”

“That phrase in wizarding districts of major holiday destinations does not mean the same thing as it does here.” Draco lifted a bit of watery tomato sauce with his fork. It was definitely canned. And likely microwaved. “This is Spain, for Merlin’s sake. They have proper food in this country; I’ve seen it myself.”

“Muggles don’t have Apparition. They have to truck things in.” Harry winced as he crunched down on a bite of paella that was more charcoal than rice.

Draco peered at him like he was stupid. “You don’t need magic to not make shit food. You just need to care. I think I can taste actual tears in this; I might go check on the chef.”

“The uni student putting shit in the microwave back there is definitely not going to want to hear your posh whining.”

“Microwave,” Draco mouthed, a look of horror crossing his face.

“Does make me miss Gustoso, a little.” Then, before taking the time to think about what he was implying, “We should go back there again.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on his spaghetti. His words rung clear in Harry’s ears then, The date hotspot?

To Harry’s own surprise, that didn’t make him want to go back any less. In fact, it might have been the opposite, had he had the chance to think about it a little more.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Draco caught sight of a woman handing out a stack of paper flyers.

“No.” Harry shook his head, snorting as he looked down at the card that Draco had tossed at him.

“Yes. This–” Draco stabbed the paper with his finger “–is a once in a lifetime experience. Where else am I going to see … Sandy perform such a feat?”

“You’re joking. There’s no way you’re serious.”

Draco leaned forward, brows lifting. “I am as serious as this woman right here.”

And so, they went to watch a girl launch ping pong balls a great distance using the strength of her pelvic floor and nothing else.

Half an hour later, Harry found himself on the verge of death. He’d been doubled over with laughter nearly the entire way through the show, entirely unable to catch his breath at the sight of Draco’s face. His stomach hurt, his head spun, and his entire face ached from smiling.

Draco, for his part, was white as a ghost – Casper let loose on the streets of Magaluf. Never had a man been more traumatised by small plastic balls and one single vagina. He looked, quite legitimately, like he’d recently seen battle.

Without saying a word, Draco speedwalked straight to the bar next door and ordered the largest cocktail on the menu; something called the Davy Jones’s Fucker. It was served in a large plastic pirate ship, complete with sails that fluttered in the breeze and a moveable gangplank. Harry found himself in possession of said gangplank not five seconds later, when Draco whacked him upside the head with it.

“You should have warned me,” he hissed, hugging the pirate ship to his chest like a lifeline. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“I did warn you. Sort of.”

Drace threw him an exaggerated mock glare. Then he glanced down at his pirate ship, back to the bartender, who was occupied with pouring a lone line of shots, and took out his wand. He cast a Notice-Me-Not over himself, Harry, and the pirate ship, before fucking legging it down the street. Harry had to struggle to keep within range of the spell as he ran, lest he lose Draco for good.

They stopped at the beach, wandering down onto the sand, now cool in the moonlight.

“I will never,” Harry said, picking his way between two groups of drunken girls who were attempting to outclass each other’s slurring vocals, “let you get on the piss with Seamus. He’s a notorious glass thief, has half the Leaky’s pint glasses in his cupboard at home. You’d both rob the place blind.”

“Already hiding us from your friends? What a crying shame.”

The intense warmth that flared through Harry’s chest at the mention of ‘us’ was hard to ignore. The recurring thought of it was bad enough; the nights spent pondering that very concept, alone in Grimmauld Place or on Draco’s couch with his socked feet poking at Harry’s leg, asking for a hand to be clasped around them as if to say I’m here, I’ve got you. It was even harder to process that term – us – coming out of Draco’s mouth.

So, naturally, Harry didn’t try to.

It appeared quite difficult to sit down when one was balancing a large plastic ship filled to the brim with sugary liquid – Draco was only half managing it. Harry could certainly have offered to help, but it was far more entertaining to see Draco struggle – a fact that he was apparently all too aware of.

“Harry, you great fucking oaf, help me.” Draco started to sit down, aborting the movement when alcohol sloshed dangerously against the faux-wooden rim.

“Looks like you’re managing alright. Go on, give it another go. Tip it towards yourself this time – another rite of passage on a lad’s holiday is getting waterboarded with a shite cocktail.”

Draco’s face was shadowed in the moonlight. His tone was amused when he said, “Help me sit down and I’ll give you a snog.”

The pirate ship wasn’t too bulky to hold. It was alright, had a curve underneath that fit nicely against a palm.

Harry’s palm, because he’d damn near wrestled the ship from Draco’s grasp before he’d finished speaking his offer.

Draco hissed as he sat down, shooting a few Warming Charms at the ground. “Why is sand so fucking cold at night? It’s got no right.”

“I nearly froze my toes off once, sitting on Bournemouth Beach in the winter. Bloke I was with was on this magic detox and refused to let me cast anything, even when all ten of them turned purple.” Harry snorted at the memory of Ron’s face when Harry had turned up at his flat, teeth chattering maniacally. “Hermione nearly murdered him. Sent him a Howler every day for a week until he showed up at her office and begged her to stop.”

Draco shifted closer to Harry, pressing the sides of their thighs together. “That is not a force I would like to be on the receiving end of.” He glanced at Harry, a small smile on his face. “And did it last? After Granger released the full force of her … Granger-ness on the poor sod?”

Harry shook his head, grinning. “Definitely not. No coming back from that with Hermione. She’d have given me a bloody lecture on upping my standards.”

“And…” Draco paused, long fingers pinching one of the pirate ship’s tiny sails. “What about now? You said the other day that you’d not seen anyone in a while.”

“It’s a bit difficult to. What with me being me.”

“Let me guess.” Draco took a long pull of his drink, wrapping his lips around the top of one of the straws that were crafted to look like masts. “The ones that want to date you because of your celebrity status get bored when they see how frighteningly un-celebritylike you act in your downtime? And the ones who might otherwise be perfect for you are put off by the existence of said status? Stop me if I’m too far off.”

“Nope, that sounds about right.” The taste of the cocktail was sweet, flooding Harry’s tongue with orange and lime and the searing bite of tequila. Draco’s hair was luminescent in the moonlight, silver on silver. “And what about you? I didn’t see any heart-shaped picture frames in your flat. No monogrammed initials, aside from that one bathrobe.”

A slow smile spread across Draco’s face. “You’re going to set that robe alight, aren’t you? It’s your sworn enemy.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s alright when it’s inside out. Or on the floor.”

Draco’s laugh was low and so obviously pleased. “To answer your question, no, I’m not seeing anyone.” His smile turned sardonic, sharpening at the edges. “Same thing as you, really. Nobody wants to date someone who was a Death Eater, and those that do want it a little too much, if you understand me.”

Unable to help it, Harry blanched. “I hope you reported them.”

Draco rolled his eyes, taking another long sip of his drink. “You can’t report someone for having thoughts, Potter. I did, however, notify your esteemed colleagues about any collections of Dark artefacts that indicated a more than academic curiosity of the subject.”

The Harry of a few months ago would have thought exactly that – anyone with even the slightest connection to Dark magic, thoughts or not, wasn’t to be trusted; Draco chief among them. Hell, he would have probably pushed for a case to be opened about it, would have overseen the operation himself, even if he hadn’t been allowed out into the field in pursuit of it.

He didn’t think that now. About Draco, or otherwise.

“It’s been nice, this,” Harry said, leaning back on his hands and looking out onto the calm waters of the Mediterranean, “getting to know you. The only good part of this whole shitty loop, really.”

“What,” Draco grinned, setting the pirate ship down on the sand and mirroring Harry’s pose, “you didn’t enjoy getting those little white tips in your hair? Running from the police? Being on a billboard?”

“It’s been fun,” Harry agreed.

And it had been – fun and incredibly frustrating and, quite literally, life altering. Harry felt different now. Something had changed in him, like a tap that had been turned off too tight finally getting to let out some water. There had been anger there that he’d never noticed, sadness too, anxiety. It had never come out, the floodgates staying firmly closed, but now he could recognise that it had always been there. Whether it was the reassurance that nothing he did would be remembered by anyone but the two of them, that he was free to fuck up and fuck about, or if it was the addition of Draco himself, he didn’t know.

But everything they’d done, the breakfasts, the arguments, the petty theft, the getting to know each other, the sex … all of it amounted to a firm ball in the centre of Harry’s chest that refused to loosen. It emitted pulses of light and heat and a churning in his gut that acquiesced only when he could get his hands on Draco, to touch his hair or his arm or his cheek, to make him tea or to remind him which chapter he was up to in his book, to run a hand through his soft hair.

It had been simple to fall into a routine with Draco. Away from their normal lives – no responsibilities or outside influences – it was just easy. Harry wanted that – he craved that ease, that sense of companionship that was hard-won but felt so right.

He wanted it now, but he also wanted it when the loop ended – if it ever did. He wanted someone in his space who knew how he took his tea, what his favourite jumper was and what he liked to watch on telly in the evenings. He wanted the intimacy of a space that was his and someone else’s – one other person’s, specifically.

Harry’s voice was quiet. It seemed to catch on the wind, carried out over the water. “Getting to spend time with you … I wouldn’t trade it. I’m glad for it.”

Draco’s reply was hesitant, a sardonic edge to his words. “If we’re in here for another ten years, you won’t be.”

“The loop could end tomorrow,” Harry said, tilting his head to the side to watch Draco. “Who knows?”

The corner of Draco’s mouth turned up, his smile wry. “It won’t.”

“Then in five years I might be slowly losing my mind, but I still won’t regret having gotten to know you. I’ll still … I’ll still want that – you. In five years – ten – I’ll still want you. I know it.”

Draco swallowed deeply, blinked. He turned to look at Harry, gaze searching. “You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because … because I haven’t said anything. I’ve given no indication that … we haven’t even discussed … I could be manipulating you, using your emotions for my own personal gain.”

Harry smiled despite himself. “You’re not.”

“How do you know? You’re clearly not in your right mind.”

“I know it because I know you.” He was teetering on the edge of a precipice, edging into territory so unfamiliar that he didn’t know what to do with it. Their whole ‘thing’ was wildly unplanned, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t right. “I don’t need you to say it – I already know it. I can see it. Fuck, I can feel it.” He grabbed Draco’s hand, pulling it towards his chest. He rested it there, over his rapidly beating heart. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Draco watched him, wide-eyed. His fingers tensed in the fabric of Harry’s shirt, thumb pressed against the head of the ridiculous screen-printed rooster. Music filtered down from the main street, thumping bass and flashing lights, laughter and shouting and general British tourist debauchery.

And still, Draco stared. His gaze searched Harry’s face, combing across it bit by bit. His pupils slid to the right as he traced along Harry’s brow line, down the bridge of his nose, over the bow of his lips. He followed the path with his fingertips, then his lips, and then he was pushing Harry back against the sand and kissing him like he might die if Harry said he couldn’t.

The ground was cold against Harry’s back, but Draco kept him warm, pressed all along his front. He wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist, palm against Harry’s spine, pulling their bodies together. The fingers of his other hand traced down the side of Harry’s neck, leaving searing hot trails that pulled involuntary sighs from between Harry’s lips.

Tilting his head back, Harry blinked up at the clear night sky, doing his best to steady his breaths. He settled a hand on the back of Draco’s head, carding through the short strands of hair and tugging gently.

“I don’t want to stop,” Draco said, opening his mouth against Harry’s throat. “Not yet. Just a little bit longer.”

A shiver wracked Harry’s body and he laughed, goosebumps rising up to meet the air. “I’m fucking freezing.”

Draco made a discontented sound against Harry’s neck. “So warm up.” He rolled his hips, pressing his half-hard cock against Harry’s thigh. He smiled when Harry kissed him, tongue darting out to slide against Harry’s.

“We have a hotel room,” Harry mumbled, the words muffled by Draco’s lips. “It has a bed and blankets and no icy sand.”

Draco’s pout was properly exaggerated, but he did shift back enough to allow Harry to stand up and brush the sand from his clothes. Grains went everywhere when Harry ran his hands roughly over the back of his head, combing through his curls with his fingers.

“You’ll need to make this up to me,” Draco demanded, arching an eyebrow. The cockiness melted from his expression when Harry linked their fingers together and kissed him softly, encouraging him back up the beach towards the street. The hustle and bustle seemed to fall away, pounding music and flashing lights and anonymous faces blending into the background as they made their way down Punta Ballena in the direction of their hotel.

Harry half expected Draco to tug his hand free and snap that he wasn’t someone to be led, that he wasn’t a small child or a pet at risk of being lost. Instead, Draco rubbed his thumb over Harry’s knuckles and squeezed gently. He didn’t let go when they needed to dart around a drunken tourist staggering across the pavement or wind their way through a crowd; he slid into step behind Harry, single file, their fingers still linked together. Each and every time he glanced back, Draco was already looking at him. Their eyes met time and time again on the busy street, both ignorant of the throngs of people moving around them.

Draco didn’t take his eyes off Harry.

The hotel room was just as unappealing in the dark as it had been in the late-evening sunshine. The duvet was still brown, the walls were still beige, and the carpet was still stained, but Harry didn’t notice any of it. He leaned back against the door to the room, closing it with his weight. His fingers were still linked with Draco’s, the digits almost blending together in the dimness.

“You’re still holding my hand,” he said, gently tugging Draco towards him.

“You know,” Draco said, rubbing their joined hands against the front of Harry’s shorts, “I haven’t yet taken your shirt’s advice to ask you about your cock.”

“Oh god,” Harry muttered, shaking his head in amusement. “You can, if you like. Check in with him, see how he’s going. He’d probably like that.”

“It’s appalling that you’re talking about your cock in the third person.”

“So is that a no, or…?”

Draco rolled his eyes and stepped back, pulling Harry towards the bed. “Go lay down, you git.”

The comforter was scratchy against Harry’s bare skin when he finally spread himself out, shirtless and pantsless and with Draco between his legs, sucking Harry’s cock, deep and slow. His mouth was warm and wet and so good that it had Harry squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists, willing his body to calm the fuck down.

Draco pulled off, resuming his movements with a slick fist. His lips rested against the head of Harry’s cock, sending sparks through Harry’s groin as he spoke. “Look at me.”

Laughing breathlessly, Harry shook his head. “I can’t.” He felt Draco purse his lips; the bottom one brushed over Harry’s slit, making him groan. “Fuck, please, I–”

“You are not,” Draco said, hand dropping from Harry’s cock as he adjusted his position to kneel over Harry’s lap, “going to come before I do. You’re going to make me feel good and you’re going to watch me as you do it.” The ends of his hair brushed against Harry’s brow as he leaned over him. “Eyes open.”

Harry did. There was an immediate feeling of oh fuck no I’m going to come already, as Draco sunk down onto his cock. He was wet and loose and opened easily around Harry’s length, as though he’d been waiting all night for that exact moment. Knowing him, he probably had been.

“When?” Harry gasped, clutching at Draco’s hips. He fought to keep his eyes open, staring up at Draco’s face, lax with pleasure. “How long ago did you…?”

“You don’t need to know that.” Draco let out a long breath, body slowly relaxing around Harry’s cock. He rocked his hips, biting down on his lip as he exhaled again. “But not long. I wouldn’t have lasted, would have dragged you into a grimy bathroom stall if I’d gone out like this.”

“I’d have let you.”

Draco rolled his eyes and purposefully squeezed around Harry’s cock. “How noble of you. What a hardship.”

Harry linked their fingers together. He rested them on his shoulder, letting Draco press down against it to give himself leverage as he rocked his hips. It felt so good, the pressure in his cock building with every tiny movement of Draco’s body, every clench of his muscles.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice low. “Eyes open. Keep them on me.”

Nodding, Harry bent his knees and moved up into Draco’s thrusts. The change in angle made Draco gasp, his stomach muscles tensing in response. Harry could feel it in his cock, that movement. Every gasp, every groan, every bite of Draco’s lip, made his balls draw up tighter and tighter. He wanted to look down, to see where he and Draco were joined, to stare at Draco’s thick cock and watch it bob in time with their thrusts, but instead he watched Draco’s face. Every drag of Harry’s cock, every thrust of his hips was reflected in Draco’s expression. He alternated between biting down on his bottom lip to quiet himself, and letting his mouth fall open on a moan or a silent gasp. His fingers dug into Harry’s chest, nails leaving tiny red half-moons. His thumb rubbed over Harry’s nipple; he flicked it and grinned when Harry moaned.

“You’re so hard,” Draco whispered. He tightened around Harry’s cock, feeling the length of him. “I can’t believe I…” He gasped, faltering on his next thrust down. He laughed breathlessly, dragging their joined hands down Harry’s torso. Draco’s cock brushed against Harry’s knuckles, bobbing and pressing into the empty air, visibly aching and seeking relief. “You feel so good, so fucking hard for me. I don’t want to come; I don’t want to stop feeling it.” His face flushed, pale cheeks darkening, lips parting on a moan.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry whispered, dragging their joined hands further between Draco’s legs. He rubbed the underside of Draco’s tight balls with his knuckles, his thumb. “You make me so hard; I could watch you do this all day.”

Whimpering, Draco tugged Harry’s hand away, pressing it to the mattress beside his head.

“All day,” Harry whispered. He leaned up to catch Draco’s lips with his own, slick and heated. “All night. Every day.”

“Yes,” Draco whispered. He broke the kiss, tipping his head back and moaning. He was gorgeous, a vision spread out for Harry to take his fill.

Tongue thick in his mouth, Harry watched Draco drive himself towards the edge, make himself feel good using Harry’s cock. He encouraged Draco’s movements with a hand on his waist, palm against the curve. “I couldn’t do another ten years of this by myself,” he said, words drowned out by Draco’s moans. “But I could do it with you. I want to do it with you.”

Draco’s movements faltered, the roll of his hips slowing. He pressed his forehead to Harry’s, breathing deeply. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, and his face was open, expression searching. He grasped at Harry’s shoulders as he stared, looking for something.

Abruptly, he shoved Harry back against the bed and flopped down next to him, pressing the sides of their thighs together. Harry’s hard, wet cock slapped against his stomach, making him shudder.

“Fuck me,” Draco said, bending his knees and spreading his legs. “Fuck, come on.”

Harry kissed him as he moved, crouching between Draco’s legs and running his hands up the insides of Draco’s thighs. “It’s not just fucking.” He fisted his cock, pressing it between Draco’s legs. “Not anymore. Not to me.”

“Shut up,” Draco whispered, dragging Harry down by the hair to kiss him deeply. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and his legs around Harry’s waist as though they could fuse together, melding into one singular being if they tried hard enough.

Harry, for his part, was already there; his heart having taken up residence outside his body, tucked behind Draco’s ribcage.

“Angle your cock down.” A gasp pulled itself from Draco’s throat as he clenched around Harry, hot and tight and perfect. “Drag it out like – yes.”

Every groan of pleasure, every utterance of Harry’s name, felt just as good as the pressure on his cock. He ached to make Draco feel good, to have him come on Harry’s cock as he said Harry’s name over and over until he was hoarse.

“You’re doing so well, you and your stupidly brilliant cock.” Draco shuddered, squeezing Harry’s hips with his thighs as he rocked back into his thrusts. “You make me feel so fucking good.” He dragged Harry’s head down, locking their gazes. “You’re going to come when I do. And you’re going to watch me.”

Nodding, Harry thrust harder, sharper. He angled his cock down, feeling the head of it drag against Draco’s silky muscles on every push in. He focused on the feeling of Draco’s fingernails against the skin of his back, grounding himself, holding back the wave of heat and tightness at the base of his cock, the feeling of oh, fuck, yes that built and built until he was shaking.

Draco’s throaty moans had turned into reedy gasps, his breaths catching. He stilled right as he began to come, his lips parting and his thighs tensing as he grabbed for his cock, frantically working himself through it.

Harry watched his face as it happened, focusing on every detail and committing it to memory. He let himself go only once Draco’s face slackened, his arse rhythmically squeezing around Harry’s cock.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Draco groaned, tilting his head back as Harry started to come.

It almost wasn’t enough, pushing his cock into Draco’s willing body. Harry reached down to roll his balls in his palm, gasping as the final waves of pleasure worked their way down his cock and down his thighs. He rubbed his balls against Draco’s, grinning when he received a gasp and a half-hearted frown in return.

Draco was always far more pliant after a good orgasm, somewhat less argumentative and far less irritable. He curled up into a ball, knees against Harry’s thighs. He tugged Harry’s pillow towards himself until their heads were resting on the same one, facing each other. He didn’t roll his eyes when Harry traced a fingertip along his jaw, didn’t call him a sap or make a joke. He laid there watching, lips parted just so.

A pang of longing hit Harry, strong enough to make him wince. “I wish we could wake up here,” he said, dragging the pad of his thumb over Draco’s top lip. He could see it so clearly, what it would be like to wake up next to Draco, how he would act, what he would say. Draco would be up first, would go and fetch a book from his bag and bring it back into bed. He’d let Harry curl up against him to sleep for a bit longer, only pretending to be put off by it. “We’d stay here for hours, having a lie-in. Breakfast in bed, maybe. A morning shag.”

“I’d make you shower first,” Draco lied.

Harry leaned over to kiss his collarbone, shuffling closer until their legs were twined together. He dropped another kiss in the hollow of Draco’s armpit, grinning when Draco squirmed at the sensation, laughing and pushing at Harry’s chest. “I like how you smell. You in the morning would be just like you after sex, I think.” He kissed Draco’s shoulder again, pressing his face against the skin there. “I’d like it. You’d get annoyed by how much.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. You’d whinge that my hard-on was distracting you from your book. Let me finish my chapter, Harry, Merlin’s beard.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“You would.”

“Shut up,” Draco hissed. He was smiling, Harry could hear it. “Fine. And maybe I would … like that. Too.”

Grinning, Harry shuffled closer, wrapping himself around Draco’s body. It left Draco no choice but to slide an arm around his shoulder, to let Harry rest his head on Draco’s flushed chest.

It was the best sleep he’d had in months.

Of course, everything was different when he woke up.

Or, rather, it was exactly the same.

There was no warm body beside his, no strong arms wrapped around him, no Draco. There was no scratchy brown comforter, no lingering smell of cigarette smoke, no warm breeze carried across the briny peaks of the Mediterranean.

Just Harry, alone in his bed in Grimmauld Place.

It was disorientating. But more than that, it was frustrating.

Harry wanted to experience Draco in the early hours of the morning, before he’d put on his armour and built up the walls that he showed to the rest of the world. He wanted to see if Draco moved around before he woke up, if he was the type to blink frantically as his eyes adjusted, if he sat up and stretched or opened the curtains right away. He’d been robbed of that; he’d have stayed up all night to get the chance to see it.

He wanted to wake up first, to make Draco a cup of watery tea using their shitty hotel room kettle. He wanted to blow Draco under the covers until they were both properly awake, to touch him with sleep-addled fingers and lax mouths.

He wanted what they’d talked about last night. He wanted to see if what they’d danced around was scarier in the daylight. If it made it any less true.

He wanted to see if Draco would say it properly.

If he’d let Harry.

Instead, there was an empty bed, and a day that never ended.

Harry let out a loud huff of frustration, dragging his hands down his face and sighing against his palms.

Magaluf seemed like a dream. A heady, colourful dream.

That’s what the loop will feel like when it’s over, Harry thought to himself. Not real. Faded. No evidence that it ever happened at all.

Chapter Text

On the last day of the time loop, Harry woke up at 7:30am. He, of course, had no idea that he was experiencing his last loop day. Had he known, he almost certainly would have done things differently. As such, pockets outside of space and time were fickle beasts, and Harry had never had the slightest fucking idea as to what was going on anyway, so there was no reason to assume he did now.

It was a day like countless others before it. Harry rolled out of bed, stretched his arms above his head, and Apparated straight into Draco’s living room. He made them both a cup of tea, depositing Draco’s on one of the dragon-shaped cork coasters on the coffee table. Draco smiled up at him, marked his page, and then smiled some more as he guided Harry to straddle him on the couch. He jerked Harry off with a hand inside his tartan pyjama bottoms, fondling his balls and rubbing his thumb over Harry’s hole. He laughed when Harry pressed back into the touch, grinning against the side of Harry’s neck as he cast a lubrication spell. It ended with Harry coming so hard he nearly fell onto the floor, then with him sliding to his knees and sucking Draco off with a lax mouth and clumsy fingers.

“I’m not kissing you,” Draco said, turning his head to the side. “And it’s not because of the come. Go brush your teeth and then we’ll talk.”

“You love it,” Harry muttered, biting down gently on Draco’s earlobe before quickly jumping out of swatting distance.

He scrubbed himself in Draco’s ridiculous sized shower, gazing at the pink bottle of strawberry body wash in a manner that Ron would call properly fucked, mate and Hermione would label as concerning behaviour, but rather wholesome.

Draco started breakfast but quickly abandoned it, instead demanding that Harry produce scrambled eggs with mushrooms, and sausages sliced into rounds. He hovered, as always, poking at Harry’s waist whenever he took a little too long shuffling things about in the pan.

The late morning was spent walking up the Thames; Draco had it in his head that if they built up a proper pace, they’d make it to Chertsey before nightfall. He gave up on that notion somewhere around Lambeth and dragged them both northwards to have a nose around some of the shops on Oxford Street – by ‘nose’ he meant ‘sprint through at full speed until they were shouted at by a shopkeeper’.

Harry did his darndest to climb Nelson’s Column, though it seemed rather impossible without either magical assistance or a grappling hook, neither of which he was game enough to whip out in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Draco went from standing at the base of the statue yelling at Harry about ‘putting his back into it’ – “Use your thighs, Potter, I know full well you’re familiar with them. Wrap around it and tug, go on” – to seemingly disappearing into thin air when Harry began to attract a large amount of unwanted attention, namely in the form of some lads with their phones out and two fast approaching police officers.

A hop-on-hop-off bus was as good a getaway vehicle as any, though Harry hadn’t expected it to actually work. He slid down low in his seat and – in a bid to remain undetected – pulled Draco’s jumper over his head – while Draco was still wearing it.

“What the fuck,” Draco muttered, shoving at Harry’s shoulder as he attempted to fit his arms and head through holes that were already occupied by Draco’s own limbs.

The woman in front of them turned around to glare disapprovingly in what felt like French – it was silent, but the vibe of it was definitely French.

“You’re an idiot and you’re also ruining the threads. Greg’ll cry if you mess up his handiwork and I might too.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, extracting himself from Draco’s clothing as the bus began to peel away from the curb. “They wouldn’t have checked for me under there though.”

“They might. You’re not a small man.”

“It’d be illegal for them to strip search you. And it might have made me look odd enough for them to just leave me alone instead.”

The bus came to a rapid stop, causing Draco to gasp and clutch at the metal railing. “Where does this thing go, anyway?”

“Everywhere. It sees the sights.”

Deadpan, Draco said, “I’ve been coming to London since infancy, Potter. I have no use for the sights.”

Harry decided not to quote him when he got properly excited upon seeing the London Eye in motion.

“You couldn’t climb that,” Harry mused, craning his neck as the wheel rotated in the air above them.

Draco huffed. “And I suppose you think that you can?”

“No, but I do have a challenge for you.”

“Fine.” Draco sighed dramatically. “I’ll suck you off in one of those little rotating rooms, alright.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Twist my arm, Potter, I’ll do it. You drive a hard bargain.”

Harry had to make use of a cheeky Confundus to secure them a private capsule, but it was worth trading in his good morality for Draco Malfoy on his knees in front of him a hundred metres up in the air. The London skyline looked rather majestic when he was coming his brains out.

“Do you accept?” Harry asked, running his hands through Draco’s hair to smooth it down. The attendant had given them a proper case of side-eye as they exited the capsule, clothes in a minor state of disarray.

Draco wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, making a quiet noise of appreciation. “No.”

“You have to. That’s the game.”

“Fine. But make it interesting.”

Scaling the statute in the centre of the Ministry Atrium was apparently not at all interesting, according to Draco, but he was still prepared to do it.

The monument was a ghastly thing, a big hunk of marble and bronze in the shape of something that looked suspiciously like an atom from one of Dudley’s old science textbooks. Right in the middle was an orb with a floating lightning bolt; it emitted a glow that was so brilliantly golden it hurt to look directly at it. The whole thing sat atop a large fountain with jets of multicoloured water that shot out from under the dresses of tiny anthropomorphic fairies.

Hermione had said that the art was an apt symbol of growth and unity in the modern wizarding age.

Luna said it was a representation of your brain on Nargles.

Ron said it was shit.

Draco, looking up at it from the side said, “I’m fucked for this, I’ll have you know.”

“Don’t be a baby about it.” Harry gave him a poke in the back, making him sway dangerously on his tiptoes. “You climbed me like a tree the other day and I’m far bigger.”

Draco’s expression twisted into a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Your ego, I swear.”

“I’m allowed.” Harry pointed over his shoulder at the lightning bolt, shining away. “That’s me, you know. Saviour and all.”

“I’ll go to jail today. I’ll deck you and go.”

Harry gave him a comforting shove in the direction of the fountain. “Maybe take off your shoes first?”

Draco looked down at his feet and then at the centre of Harry’s forehead, like he was weighing up his options. Evidently, he decided to go against his very nature and settled on peace, sitting on the edge of the fountain to pull off his shoes and socks.

They’d attracted a crowd; Ministry workers, wizarding tourists, and busybodies alike stopping to rubberneck at the pair of them, loitering in the Atrium and looking every bit like they were about to deface a very important piece of artwork. Which they still might – Harry wasn’t ruling anything out. It looked rather incomplete without a Potter wuz ere etched into the marble.

“Hold these,” Draco muttered, tucking his socks inside one of his shoes and shoving them against Harry’s chest. He was standing very close, head inclined towards Harry as he pitched his voice lower. “Feel free to stare at my arse on the way up. I know it’s a favourite feature of yours.”

Stepping gingerly into the fountain amidst whispers and gasps, Draco squared his shoulders and reached up, searching for a handhold. He didn’t get very far – maybe two feet up at a push – before an alarm sounded. It was annoyingly shrill, rising in intensity as each of the marble fairies opened their mouths and began to absolutely butcher a Celestina Warbeck tune. They also, evidently, had one other weapon in their arsenal.

Draco took a jet of bright purple water straight to the face, sending him stumbling backwards. He’d have fallen out of the fountain and gone sprawling on the floor if Harry hadn’t jumped forward to catch him. A hundred flashes seemed to go off as Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s chest, pulling him to stand. It had the unfortunate consequence of putting him in range of the jets as well; his managed to miss his nose, at least – his forehead was vastly preferable as a target.

“Potter,” Draco muttered, turning in Harry’s hold to glare at him, purple dripping from his sodden hair, “are those my limited edition 1992 Ashwinder leather brogues I see bobbing past my shins?”

“No,” said Harry.

“I will skin you alive,” said Draco.

I think I could fall in love with you, Harry wanted to say. Instead, he surged forward to kiss Draco, pressing him back against the marble wall of the fountain.

A crescendo of noise erupted around them, people yelling and running about and dropping whatever they were holding, if the sound of shattering glass was any indication. Cameras flashed all around, bulbs popping and fizzing like fireworks.

Draco slid his hands into Harry’s wet hair and kissed him back, pushing their bodies together and gasping loudly. He laughed against Harry’s lips as more water rained down on them from above – a vibrant neon blue this time.

Rubbing their noses together, Harry whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd of people was so thick that it would have been difficult to get through – if it hadn’t parted like the Red Sea as they made their way across the Atrium. Draco grimaced with every step he took in wet, bare feet, sodden shoes dangling from his fingers. A group of reporters followed them, shouting questions and accusations and fuck knows what else; the beating of Harry’s heart drowned them out as he tugged on Draco’s hand, encouraging him to jog, then to run.

“My place,” Harry shouted, a wide grin on his face, as they rounded the corner to dart down Carkitt Market. There were already a number of owls perched on the flower box above Draco’s shop window, cream envelopes in their beaks.

There would be no escaping the attention for the rest of the day, that was for certain. Disappearing under the guard of the Fidelius was the only option, but Harry could throw the reporters a few breadcrumbs first.

Harry pulled Draco to a stop at the Apparition Point, whirling around to press their lips together briefly. Draco rolled his eyes as he pulled away, his grin widening as Harry raised two middle fingers in the air.

“You’re playing with fire,” Draco warned, grabbing for his arm.

“Fuck them,” Harry said. He pulled out his wand and Apparated them both to Grimmauld Place, depositing them in the living room.

Going out to get dinner would have been impossible, so they didn’t try. Draco managed to scrounge up a few slices of stale bread and an odd tasting cheese from the back of the cooling cupboard. They ate what Draco dubbed ‘the world’s saddest toasties’ while they watched Corrie on the telly and tried to ignore the distant screeching of Harry’s charmed post box.

Draco fell asleep somewhere during the second episode, after nattering on for twenty minutes about how boring and unrealistic it was as his eyes were glued to the screen. His hand had worked itself under Harry’s shirt at some point, palm resting over the soft curve of Harry’s stomach. His fingers tensed every now and again in his sleep, as though checking that Harry was still there.

Harry was loath to wake him, but it was a necessary evil. The disorientation of waking up in a different location after the day had reset was awful; not to mention the nausea and the general out-of-sorts feeling that accompanied it.

Draco’s steps were unsteady, his whole body pliant under Harry’s touch as Harry guided him towards the Floo. He’d been having a dream, he said, about clouds shaped like Abraxans that let you ride them through the streets of Rome.

“You fell into the Trevi Fountain,” he said, pressing his face to Harry’s shoulder. “You looked properly silly.”

“Was I good at riding the horse, at least? Only thing I’ve ever been on like that was Buckbeak and I don’t think he counts.”

“No,” Draco yawned, “you were shite.” He stepped back, eyelids fluttering as he swayed on his feet. He was so soft, so lovely, that Harry had to bite his tongue, lest he begin letting words tumble out that he couldn’t take back.

As Harry lay in bed that night, mind going in circles, he wondered what it would be like to do that for real – to kiss Draco in public and say an enormous ‘Fuck Off’ to what everyone else thought about it.

He’d do it properly, he reasoned with himself, if he ever got the chance to.

*

The change would have been obvious if they’d been at Draco’s. His place, not under protection of a Fidelius, would have been filled with the sounds of screeching owls and talons scraping against the big sash windows. Chatter from the street would have filtered up, eager reporters lining the stoop.

As it was, Harry awoke to the soft brush of fingertips across his cheekbone. There was a hand in his hair, absentmindedly carding through the sleep-mussed curls. The movements paused when Harry blinked his eyes open, Draco’s touch moving to his shoulder. He gave Harry a gentle nudge, clearly pretending to have been shaking him awake and nothing more.

It took a moment for Harry to speak, completely at a loss for words at the sight of Draco in his bedroom at Grimmauld, silhouetted by the soft morning light. “You’re here.”

“Well spotted. And here I was thinking you were blind as a bat without your glasses.” He flicked the bottom of Harry’s chin in a way that was almost laddish. It made Harry grin; he saw right through what Draco was doing, the overcompensating for his gentle touches.

Holding up the edge of the duvet, Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you getting in?”

Draco blinked, hand making an aborted movement towards Harry’s bare chest. “I thought I’d surprise you. I picked up some croissants on the way here. They’re from Sainsbury’s but they looked alright when the girl was bagging them.”

Yawning, Harry sat up, letting the blankets pool around his waist. He stretched his arms above his head, watching with amusement as Draco’s gaze stayed glued to his torso. “Are you going to touch me, or did you just want to look? I’m fine with either, I reckon.”

Draco’s face went bright red, but he did move closer, pushing Harry to the side to make room for himself on the bed. He produced two croissants from a bag; both looked a little flat, like he’d somehow sat on them. He tore his croissant into separate bite-sized portions, angling his body towards Harry, like he wanted to curl in close but decided to stop himself.

“You know,” Harry said. “We could have been doing this the whole time.” He slid his arm around Draco’s back, leaving enough space that they were only just touching.

“What, me breaking into your house?”

“It’s not really breaking in if you’re allowed past the wards, is it?”

“Actually–” Draco sat up straighter, a line forming between his brows, “–when did you allow me access? I didn’t even think before I came here, but I should still be knocking on the front door, shouldn’t I?”

Harry shrugged. The movement brought his shoulder into contact with Draco’s. He took the opportunity to shift closer, bringing his arm tight around Draco’s lower back. “Yesterday. Our yesterday. I guess the Fidelius allowance is about memory, so you’d be allowed in since you know my address?” He shrugged again, taking another bite of his croissant. “Weird.”

“This is alright though?” Draco turned his head to hide his expression, though Harry could still see the slight apprehension there. “Me coming here?”

“You don’t need to ask permission.” Slowly, giving Draco enough time to pull away, Harry pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw. Then, when he moved into it, another below his ear. “I like it – waking up next to you.”

Breathless, Draco said, “I didn’t come here for a morning shag.”

Unable to help himself, Harry grinned. “Want one anyway?”

He did, if the sudden lapful of long limbs and an incredibly eager mouth was anything to go by.

Later, Draco rested his head on Harry’s chest, breathing deeply. His mouth was red, lips swollen and damp; it was a sight that Harry would be happy to see every morning for as long as he lived. Draco’s cheeks visibly darkened as he breathed, eyes flicking up to Harry’s face and away again. “As loath as I am to admit it, perhaps you’re right.”

“Yeah, that’s true for lots of things.” He winced when Draco pinched his nipple in retaliation. “Bloody hell, go easy.”

“I meant that you smell nice in the morning. You said I’d like it and … yes.” His entire head was red now, the flush reaching his chest.

Harry felt his sated cock twitch. Despite it all, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to gloat. “Knew it.”

“Kindly shut up and fuck off. I’ve brought you breakfast and made you come this morning, you’re obligated to be nice to me.”

Rubbing his face against the top of Draco’s head, Harry said, “I’m always nice.”

He got a pillow to the face in response.

A little later, Draco stood up and pulled his clothes back on, rotating his body this way and that to give Harry a proper look as he did it. He acted scandalised when he saw Harry staring, but he was fooling absolutely nobody.

Seeing the position of the shadows on his bedroom floor, Harry groaned and reached for his wand. “Fuck, what time is it? I need to send an owl to work before Gemma starts Flooing to ask where I am.”

“What’s the excuse today? Struck by lightning? Dark Lord returned? Trapped by a herd of rabid Pygmy Puffs?” Draco laughed heartily at his own joke, pushing open the curtains as Harry scrawled out a half-hearted apology on a spare bit of parchment.

Nodding to himself, Harry said, “Hand fell off.”

“Oh dear,” Draco replied. “That must have been quite a shock.”

Coffee was the next on the agenda; Draco had a right proper moan about Harry not having a full-service espresso machine in his kitchen. He was quelled only by Harry suggesting that they go out and grab some instead. His cheeks flushed when Harry paid for both their cups at the café; it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them – Harry bankrolling their endeavours. But for some reason it felt different now, more intimate, date-like. Waking up next to Draco, having a roll around in bed, grabbing a coffee together in the morning … it felt like doing it properly, this thing between them.

“I have a challenge for you,” Harry said as they walked down Essex Road, takeaway cups in hand.

“Oh, good.”

“You did fail at climbing the statue in the Atrium.”

“It was rather steep; you have to admit.” Their hands brushed as they walked; Harry could have sworn that Draco reached for him a few times but drew back at the last second.

“It’s an easy one this time.”

Snorting, Draco said, “You say that now.”

“Well I’ve done it.”

“Oh, well that really narrows down the playing field.”

“Bugger off. You’re eating a sandwich.”

Draco frowned, his pace slowing. “Right…”

“A prawn one. From the Ministry cart.”

Draco’s eye twitched. “And if I refuse?”

“You have to stand in the middle of Diagon and shout that I’m always right and … I dunno, that you’re forever in my debt?”

Another eye twitch. “Well I’m certainly not fucking doing that.”

Harry pointed at the turn off to Popham Street a block or so down the way. “Off we go then.”

They didn’t make it as far as intended.

It was apparent that something was off when they Apparated into Carkitt Market; namely, the crowd of reporters who seemed to be camped out in front of Draco’s shop.

“Uh,” Harry said, gesturing uselessly towards them. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm,” Draco mused, frowning slightly. “Have they attributed your lopped-off hand to me, do you think? Surely Ministry gossip doesn’t spread that quickly, and reasons for owling in sick would surely be kept confidential. Although, the unwashed masses do consider your health to be a matter of national security.”

A few heads turned in their direction, shoppers lifting their hands to point and whisper to their companions, shrewd gazes trained on Harry and Draco, still stood motionless by the Apparition Point. It wasn’t all that odd for them to get looks – nobody expected the two of them to be seen together, after all. What was weird was the intensity of the looks.

Eyeing a woman who was edging closer by the second, Harry asked, “Should we go?”

Draco nodded, gripping him by the arm and Apparating them both back to Grimmauld Place. A shrill ding repeatedly sounded when they arrived, advising that Harry’s post box was full. If the insistence of the charm was any indication, there were enough letters there that the employees at the post office were getting frantic. It had happened once before, after Harry had officially come out; the woman behind the counter had looked at him with pure exasperation when he’d collected a genuine crate full of letters. There had been actual unshed tears in her eyes.

“Bet my missing hand made the papers.” Harry strode down the hallway in search of the little red box that was responsible for the racket. He silenced it, giving the wooden lid of it a stroke with his thumb. He made his way into the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on. He dropped a quick kiss atop Draco’s head as he walked by, inhaling the sweet strawberry smell of his hair. Draco leaned into it, a soft smile playing on his lips as he reached for the morning paper; it materialised in a tray on Harry’s kitchen table every day. Saviour benefits, Ron liked to joke.

There was silence for a moment. The blissful peace was broken by a hysterical bark of laughter combined with a muttered, “Oh fuck.”

It was then that Harry saw it: the front cover of the Prophet, plain as day for all to see, showcased a full-size picture of Harry kissing Draco in the Ministry Atrium. Gone was the fluff piece about Puffskeins that had been the main story for the months they’d been stuck in the loop. There was no negative op-ed about the French Minister for Magic, no new Celestina album release date. Just Harry gripping Draco by the back of the neck and pulling him in for a kiss so filthy it really should not have made it to the standard issue. Someone’s nan was going to see it and have a heart attack. Harry saved old ladies – he didn’t kill them by having them watch him snog his … time loop buddy? Man friend? Fellow idiot?

Semantics aside, he was plastered across the front page of a national newspaper with his tongue buried in Draco Malfoy’s throat. It was certainly a shocking turn of events for everyone not seen in said picture. Scratch that – it was unexpected for them too, because they’d already lived that day. They had, but no one else should have. That was the most basic rule of the shitty hand that life had recently dealt them.

But, as it certainly now seemed, everyone else had lived it. Lived it and remembered it.

Draco turned his head to glance at Harry; his face was white, his mouth open. He shoved the paper in Harry’s direction, pointing to the date at the top – the glaring May 4^th that sat there in block letters, taunting him.

Fourth. Not third, as it had been for months, but fourth.

The wheels began to turn in Harry’s head, slowly but surely. Before he could get a thought in edgeways, put a hand on the back of Draco’s neck, kiss away the terrified look on his face, his Floo began to ring insistently.

“Harry,” a booming voice sounded. “Get over here. I know you’re in there.” Kingsley looked properly worn out when Harry rushed into the living room, nearly tripping over Draco’s discarded shoes in the process. There was a deep furrow in Kingsley’s brow, a visible tenseness to his shoulders. He looked properly relieved to see Harry, however; his gaze rested on Harry’s fully intact pair of hands for a moment before he pressed on. “My office. Half an hour. That’s a direct order, by the way. And bring Mr Malfoy with you; I assume that he’s still there.”

From behind Harry came a jaunty, “Hello.” It was far too chipper, given Draco’s green-around-the-gills appearance not two minutes prior.

Kingsley’s expression turned serious as he looked between the two of them. “Half an hour, Harry. I mean it.”

Draco made an odd noise when Kingsley ended the call – a strangled combination of a laugh and a sigh. His spine was ramrod straight; his shoulders set back. His eyes, however, rested squarely on the floor, downcast and almost unsure. He cleared his throat, hands clenching into fists that he quickly released. “I suppose that it’s over then. The loop’s done?”

“I…” Harry swallowed. Something settled in his gut, heavy and acidic, at the sight of Draco’s body language, the sudden shuttering of his expression. “I guess it must be. But – I don’t – what the fuck stopped it?”

“We didn’t do anything different.” Draco bit down on his lip, white against petal pink. “There was no … none of my hypotheses can be proven here.”

“Maybe Kingsley will know. We’ll ask him – he’ll believe us this time. We have proof.”

Draco laughed then, a cold bark of a thing. “What, because there’s photo evidence of you kissing me? You’re right, he’ll definitely think that something’s been turned on its head.”

“Not what I meant,” Harry mumbled but Draco was already gone, striding into the hallway to pull on his shoes. He rapped on the wall with his knuckles, calling out, “Aren’t you coming?”

The feeling in Harry’s gut didn’t lift; if anything, it settled deeper.

*

Kingsley’s office was more formal than Harry’s, all thick rugs and a proper couch and framed certificates detailing his many accomplishments. Harry had never felt uneasy there, had always known that Kingsley was on his side.

This time, when he walked through the door with Draco at his back, he wasn’t quite so sure.

Kingsley was standing next to his desk, arms behind his back as though presiding over a formal trial. He had a severe look on his face that he directed at Harry, gaze roaming over Harry’s body in a manner that felt more invasive than anything.

“Harry,” he nodded, gesturing at the two chairs in front of his desk. “Mr Malfoy. Please, have a seat.”

“I assure you,” Draco said, “that Potter’s spilt no Auror secrets to me during our regular bouts of pillow talk. He’s far too loyal for that.” His tone was jovial but there was something beneath it, a sense of unease that Harry noticed immediately.

Kingsley couldn’t hide his grimace. “That’s not why I’ve called the two of you here. My apologies that it’s taken me until late morning to get in contact with you, Harry, but I’ve been in meetings since I arrived. I was informed at seven o’clock this morning about an anomaly that concerned the two of you.”

“Ah,” Draco said loudly, “I think we’ve some idea about what you mean.”

Looking directly at Harry, Kingsley continued. “I’ve spoken with the Head of … a rather secretive Department, who informed me that the two of you–”

“Yes, yes, boring time loop.” Draco leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have you all only just figured it out? We’ve been trying to tell you for months.”

“The Department made note of the anomaly within the first week of your unintentional inclusion into the pocket of time being studied, but I’ve been told that it would have compromised the mission to have you retracted from it. There is obviously a limit to what I can share with you, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“The first week?” Draco’s voice was icy, razor sharp at the edges. “You’re telling me that the imbeciles downstairs knew immediately? That we could have avoided this entire fucking mess, but they didn’t want to cancel?” He leaned forward abruptly, making both Kingsley and Harry flinch. “I want to speak with the Department Head. I’m owed an explanation.”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. All employees of that Department are under strict confidentiality clauses–”

“Just say ‘Mysteries’, we’re all friends here.”

Kingsley’s eyes bugged out. “How do you–”

Draco threw his hands in the air. “Who gives a fuck about how I know? What you need to know is that I’m getting some proper answers or I’m suing the Ministry to Tahiti and back. You’re well familiar with my following through of such threats, Minister Shacklebolt, so I suggest that you begin making some calls.”

“Kingsley,” Harry said. “Please.”

“Look–” Kingsley clasped his hands together, thick brows furrowing. “–I can’t say much, legal threats or not. What I can tell you – and I’m saying this for your benefit, Harry – is that it was unintentional. You weren’t supposed to end up in what has happened to you. There were … magical samples of yours that were added in order to power … what needed energy for the mission.”

“Samples.” Draco’s voice was low, dangerous. “So you admit that the Ministry illegally extracted magical samples from both of us? To – what – use in experiments? You’re getting so incredibly sued. My lawyer is going to have a field day, it’ll be the easiest case of his career.”

“I believe you’ll find that everything was done above board.” Kingsley held up a hand to silence Draco, who looked ready to launch into another rant. “When you both signed your employment contracts with the Ministry, you agreed to a magical extraction.”

“To verify our identities, yes.”

“And you agreed that those samples could be stored for future use at the Ministry’s discretion. This, I believe you’ll find, is legal use of those samples.”

“The law,” Draco said, smugly, “will not be in your favour.”

“I’m happy to hear your grievances and I’m also willing to discuss alternative terms, provided that they’re reasonable.” Kingsley offered Harry an apologetic smile. “I can’t imagine what the two of you have been through over the past few months, but at least no real harm was done.”

“Harm,” Draco spat, exasperated. “I dyed my hair pink. Harm has clearly been caused. I lost my mind; any sane person would agree.”

“Does this … happen often then? People getting stuck in time loops?” Harry did his best to ignore the threats of legal action that Draco was still muttering under his breath.

Kingsley shot Harry a wry smile. It calmed him somewhat; Kingsley was a good man, and he wouldn’t purposefully do Harry wrong, of that he was certain. “No. I did have a theory that … do you still have the Curio Box in your possession? The one that Auror Robards and I gave you leave to take home to study after the Anderson case?”

To Harry’s right, there was an audible scraping sound as Draco’s nails dug into the wooden handles of his chair.

“I believe,” Kingsley continued, glancing momentarily at Draco with a look of mild concern, “that the Box could have had a hand in destabilising what is typically a routine process, given that it too would have been utilising your magic to power it. The Department wouldn’t have used your sample if they’d known.”

Harry rotated in his chair to face Draco, the smuggest look he could muster plastered across his face. “And to think that you said–”

Draco held up a hand, pointedly not looking Harry’s way. “Do not brag right now, Potter. I swear to Merlin–” He sighed, blowing air roughly through his nose. “Minister Shacklebolt, expect a visit from my lawyer shortly.”

“In the interest of preserving Department confidentiality, I’d like for us to resolve this matter quickly.” Nodding, Kingsley leaned back in his chair and gestured towards Draco. “State your terms, Mr Malfoy. What would you like?”

Harry was stumped by the sudden appearance of such a question.

Draco, on the other hand, was clearly prepared for that exact eventuality.

Bracing his hands on his knees, Draco plastered on his most serious expression. “I want the most lucrative potions consultancy deal that the Ministry has ever seen. I want it to be so highly paid, so respected and with so many perks, that there are immediate rumours of corruption. And I want it from next Monday onwards.” He held out his hands, leaning back in his chair. “I’m clearly a reasonable man – I’ve even given you a fair timeline.”

A muscle twitched in Kingsley’s jaw, but his pleasant expression held firm. “I’ll have a contract drawn up this afternoon; we can meet on Thursday to discuss it in more detail. How does two o’clock sound?”

“Uh … fine.” Draco nodded decisively; the corner of his mouth quirked up just so.

“And you, Harry?”

A number of scenarios ran through Harry’s mind, each more farfetched than the last: a private Quidditch pitch in the centre of St James’ Park; a new statute in the Atrium that wasn’t shit; a ban on seagrass and rye sandwiches; Zacharias Smith’s immediate exile from Britain.

He’d never been all that good at asking for what he wanted, preferring to just make do with what he had. Unlike Draco, Harry enjoyed his job, for the most part – when he didn’t have to talk to the Maltese Ministry, that was. He had money, a proper wizarding house, friends and family who loved him. For a moment, he debated asking Kingsley for a Crup or a pony, like a small child writing out a list of birthday present options.

There was one thing that he wanted, although it wasn’t an item or something that could be granted like Draco’s new consultancy position. What he wanted was more time; time with Ron and Hermione away from the pressures of work and family commitments; to see Teddy more without having to shove Andromeda to the wayside; more lazy mornings with Draco, not a care in the world. Some of those would be easier to get than others. But he could make a start.

“I want to go part time.” The words were hard to get out, just as they had been the morning that Harry quit over the Floo. Just as they had then, Kingsley’s eyes narrowed slightly. Harry continued on before he lost his nerve. “We can get someone to be Co-Deputy Head Auror. Rankin, maybe. She’s always had a level head and has a good handle on the paperwork. And Robards likes her.”

“That’s … we can talk about it,” Kingsley said.

“No.” Draco spoke loudly, not an ounce of flexibility in his tone. “That’s what he’s asking for, so that’s what he’ll get. Frankly, he deserves whatever he bloody wants after all the shit he’s put up with.”

Harry wanted so badly to reach over and squeeze Draco’s hand in thanks, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he decided to push his luck. “And I want one more thing: visits to Hogwarts during term time. Not just me – other parents and caregivers as well. It’s too long between term breaks. It could be like Hogsmeade weekends.”

“I’m not the Headmaster, Harry.” Kingsley’s tone was softer now, more like Harry remembered it. “I don’t have the authority to make those kinds of decisions.”

“You can introduce a Bill to mandate it. Or let me do it and you can support it.”

“Speak to Hermione when she’s back; we both know she’s well-versed in politics now.” Kingsley smiled at Harry; it was genuine, no trace of annoyance or anger there. “You have my word, Harry.”

There wasn’t much left to sort out after that. Draco muttered some more, Kingsley pretended not to hear him, Harry asked questions he wasn’t allowed to know the answers to. Draco pushed for and was granted a full physical and magical check-up for him and Harry; Kingsley readily agreed that it was in the best interest of everyone for them both to be cleared of any lingering issues from the loop.

It was as they were leaving Kingsley’s office, Draco standing in the doorway tapping his foot, that Harry asked his final question.

“How did you know that we were stuck in the loop?”

Kingsley glanced up at the ceiling – whether he was attempting to remember the details, or debating if he was allowed to tell Harry that particular detail, was unclear.

After a moment, he said, “One of the agents involved reported you as an anomaly. They noticed that you were acting differently without their immediate influence and suspected that something was awry. It was quite the coincidence that they were stationed in an area where they could see you regularly enough to make that judgement.”

“Who?” A list of people ran through Harry’s mind: the waitress at Gustoso, the witch manning the Ministry sandwich cart, Gemma.

“The agent was stationed at a church in Islington, under a glamour. I believe they were disguised as a gardener for the majority of their mission.”

It took everything Harry had not to laugh.

They walked back down to the Atrium together, keeping an appropriate distance between them. Still, whispers and assessing looks followed them, everyone itching to get a glimpse of what the Prophet had newly dubbed as ‘The Wizarding World’s Most Unlikely Power Couple’.

Draco grabbed for Harry’s arm as they exited the lifts, dragging him into an alcove by the door to the toilets. “We shouldn’t walk out together, we’ll get swarmed.”

“I agree.” Harry sighed, lifting up his glasses to rub a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t showered that morning, and the feeling was starting to irk him.

“I…” Draco swallowed, gaze dropping to the ground. “I need to go take care of some things at the shop. Get everything sorted now that … now that it matters. You should too, put things in order, get back to your normal life.”

There was a twisty feeling in Harry’s stomach, like descending too quickly on a broom. It settled there, taking up so much space that it became uncomfortable to breathe too deeply.

Then, with a nod and a rueful smile, Draco was gone, disappearing into the crowd of Ministry workers and out of Harry’s sight. Harry reached back to place his palms on the wall, willing himself not to run after Draco. He wanted to grab Draco by the shoulders and shake him, tell him that they could still spend the day doing what they wanted, that they could figure out how to get back to their normal lives together; they didn’t need to do it separately. Well, Harry didn’t. But maybe Draco did.

So, with the stark absence of a goodbye kiss, Harry trudged home.

Grimmauld Place felt light and airy, the curtains thrown open and the smell of Draco’s strawberry body wash still lingering. The post charm was thankfully silent, though the little red box was vibrating a worrying amount. In the kitchen, next to the abandoned copy of that morning’s Prophet, was a small blue card. Harry nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to grab it, throwing himself against the table and reaching out with both hands. There were only a few people who were able to bypass his post charms, and two of them were the very people he ached to speak with the most.

The postcard had a picture of a beach scene on one side; tall glass buildings towering over a white stretch of sand, colourful surfers dotted against the cerulean water. The other side was filled with writing; Ron’s letters were larger at the start, then gradually grew smaller and more cramped as he began to run out of room.

Harry, mate!

Hope you’re not missing us too much up in dreary old England (we’re missing you). It’s brilliant down here but the sun’s bloody mental, I’d be redder than our sheets at school if not for protection charms. Hermione’s parents are doing well. Lots of tears and the like but she’ll tell you about it when we get home. I held a koala the other day! We’ve got to get Seamus on the piss and bring him to see one, he’ll lose his mind.

We’ve been keeping an eye on the Prophet, but it takes a few days for it to get down here. Hermione said to say that if she finds out that you’ve been working late every day that you’ll be in strife.

Love, your one and only best mate (and your other best mate, she said I had to put x’s on here from her, so: xxxx)

P.S. Everyone here keeps calling me a ranga. Thinking of putting it on the back of my Quidditch jersey. Thoughts?

There, in the corner, next to a postal stamp with a kangaroo on it, was an address. An exact address in Tweed Heads, with a street name and a house number.

Harry did laugh then, sliding to the floor and pressing the postcard against his forehead. There would have been no guarantee that he could have gotten to Australia within the space of a day; even if he used every bit of political power he had available to him and completely cleared out his Gringotts vaults, he still might not have been able to see them. But he could have tried. He could have given it a proper shot, shown up on Hermione’s parents doorstep and asked for advice from the two people who knew him best in the world. He could have felt less alone at the beginning. It might have meant less Draco, but maybe not. Maybe he would have worked out how to balance that, just as he would have to now, in the real world.

The difference between having Ron and Hermione there to support him and them being inaccessible to him for the first time in his adult life was less than twenty-four hours. If the loop had started just one day later, he could have tried. It would have been an option.

Laughing hysterically, Harry tucked his knees against his chest, curling into himself on the kitchen floor. Draco’s strawberry scent was starting to fade, getting further and further away from Harry’s reach with every breath, as though he’d not been there that morning at all.

*

The next day was … weird.

It was business as usual – Harry was back in the office, doing paperwork and having meetings and wanting to tear his hair out whenever Mary Had a Little Lamb sounded from his office Floo. He ate stale sandwiches from the Ministry canteen and avoided Zacharias Smith in the hallways and daydreamed of walking along the Thames with Draco.

He’d sent an owl that morning, just a quick hello note to let Draco know that he hadn’t forgotten him entirely. The reply had taken a bit of time to get back to Harry – it dropped next to his elbow as he was having a cup of tea at Gemma’s desk. He’d finally gotten to hear about how her date went – swimmingly – and whether she’d be seeing her lass again – a resounding yes. She’d gotten a look on her face when Draco’s note appeared, flashing Harry a smirk that was rather frightening.

“Is that from him? Your Malfoy?”

“No.” Harry unfolded the parchment, taking great pains to hide its contents from Gemma, who looked liable to fall out of her chair she was leaning over so dramatically.

The note was … less descriptive than Harry might have hoped. Not that he’d requested an itemised list of everything Draco had done in the past day and a half, but it still might have been nice to be told.

Harry,

Good morning. All is well here, Shacklebolt looks to be keeping up his end of the deal. I hope that you are finding similar success.

I believe that I may have left my jumper at your house. Please let me know when would be a good time for me to come and collect it.

DM

“Yikes,” Gemma muttered, settling back in her chair. She yelped when Harry lobbed a biscuit at her.

“It’s fine,” Harry said, folding the parchment up and tucking it in his trouser pocket. “He’s just … like that. A bit odd. Everything’s fine.”

“Sure thing, darl. Another cuppa?”

In his office, the Floo chimed loudly.

“Please,” Harry groaned, holding out his mug.

*

Draco’s shop was quiet when Harry arrived later that evening. He’d popped home after work to grab Draco’s jumper, the soft purple one that Goyle had knitted for him. He’d left it balled up under Harry’s pillow the day before; Harry had slept with his hand fisted in the material that night, the scent of strawberries filling his nose.

The wards let him through, the front door opening readily under his touch. The only light on the shopfloor came from a lamp in the back corner, behind the desk. There were smatterings of colour on the darkened shelves, petals and slices of newt that glowed faintly in the dark. Lionel the zombie clock bird stuck his head out from his wooden clock house, sending a chirp Harry’s way.

“Nice to see you, old bean,” Harry whispered, patting the side of the clock gently. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’ll bring you some seeds next time.”

Lionel began to vibrate, ruffling his feathers and dancing on the spot, as though he understood.

The third stair up groaned under Harry’s weight. He leaned on it a bit longer than necessary to increase the volume of the creak, not wanting to surprise Draco if he could help it.

“Just me,” he called out when he reached the top of the staircase. He rapped his knuckles on the door to Draco’s flat, once, then twice. There was a muffled sound from within, a noise like a pot scraping on the stovetop. Without further ado, Harry let himself in.

Draco was standing at the stove, poking at something in the pan. He glanced at Harry over his shoulder, his eyes lingering for just a moment, his gaze searching. It gave Harry a burst of confidence, that visible flicker of longing that crossed Draco’s face. He closed the door behind himself, leaning back against it.

“Hello.”

“Good evening.” Draco glanced at him again before quickly turning away. He fussed over the pan, shoving it back and forth to disperse the heat. It was wholly unnecessary, as Harry discovered when he walked closer and saw eight small meatballs simmering in a red sauce.

“They need to brown,” Harry said, nudging Draco’s hand away from the pan handle. “Stop fussing with them.”

Draco swallowed, stepping back out of Harry’s space. “Right. Of course.” He’d been chewing on his lip, Harry noticed – there were tiny dark red spots all over it from where he’d repeatedly dug his teeth in. “I’m … a bit out of sorts, I suppose.”

Looking at him certainly made Harry feel out of sorts; the Draco standing in front of him wasn’t the one he’d come to know over the last few … weeks? Months? He had no idea exactly how long they’d been stuck together for. It had lasted so many days that they’d stopped bothering to count. This Draco was the same as his in the physical sense, yes, but still he looked different. Though the purple Goyle jumper had been out of action – it was now sitting on his kitchen table, folded by Harry’s hand – he hadn’t chosen to wear one of the other knitted jumpers in green or red or beige. Instead, he had on one of his tight Oxford shirts and a pair of tailored trousers. It was exactly what he used to wear, before.

Draco’s walls were rising again, right in front of Harry’s eyes. He wanted to shake him, to grab him and tell him that he didn’t need to put up those defences, not until he let Harry inside them again. Not until he shook whatever weirdness had settled over them now that they weren’t forcibly thrust together. It hurt, seeing how quickly he’d drawn back into himself; but that didn’t mean that Harry was going to back off without a fight. Draco could put up those walls as high as he liked after he let Harry through the gate.

On the table next to the hand-knitted jumper, there was a scroll of parchment and a quill, the tip of it dripping with ink.

“What are you writing?” Harry asked. He forced himself not to look, to instead focus on the sauce simmering on the stovetop.

Draco made an odd noise, somewhere between a cough and a hum. “A statement for my lawyer. Deal or not, I still might sue. You’ll likely be called to testify if I do so … be prepared, I suppose.” His hand extended towards Harry before drawing back again.

“You’re not going to bleed your vaults dry doing that, are you? Your lawyer’s good – must be pretty expensive.”

His answering scoff made Harry smile. “Delasio is Blaise’s partner; I get a steep discount when I make use of his services. Not that the state of my accounts is any of your concern.”

Harry poked at the meatballs, turning them over to check the colour. They were nicely browned, the meat crispy. He turned the hob off and reached for one of the plates that Draco had laid out for himself – one of the two that were there.

Harry faltered, fingers resting on the edge of the plate closest to him. “Do you have company?”

Draco turned, busying himself by poking through his cutlery drawer. “No.”

“There are two plates here. Last I checked, you’re one person.”

Draco’s shoulders drew upwards as Harry watched. “I … I’m not used to cooking for one anymore, alright? There’s enough food there for you too, but I understand if you’d rather not stay.”

Despite everything, Draco looked surprised when Harry dished himself a serving and carried both plates over to the table. He stared as Harry sat in his usual chair, the one that faced the big sash windows that looked out over Carkitt Market. His eyes kept flicking towards the door as though he expected Harry to bolt at any moment. It made that heavy feeling in Harry’s stomach increase tenfold, squeezing and twisting until he couldn’t help but speak.

“Do you not want me here?”

Draco’s eyes widened. His grip faltered and he nearly dropped his fork. “Of course, I … yes, I do want you here.”

“Good.” Harry nodded to himself. “Because I want to be here. Or at my place or in Magaluff or wherever the fuck you are.” Swallowing, Harry set his fork down and took a deep breath, drawing on every bit of confidence he felt when he’d seen the look in Draco’s eyes when he’d walked in the door; the yearning, the longing. “I want to be with you. I like having you around and cooking with you and waking up to you. I want that every day and, if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want it to stop.”

Draco set his fork down and folded his hands on the table. “You do realise that the optics of this are terrible? As far as anyone knows, we hate each other. It would be the biggest case of collective whiplash the wizarding world has ever seen if we were to take up with each other overnight – that’s how quick it would seem to everyone who isn’t us, Shacklebolt, and a group of nameless Unspeakables.”

“Well,” Harry said, “it’s a good thing that I’ve never cared what anyone else thinks.”

“There’ll be rumours.” Draco’s voice had taken on a shaky quality; his hands too, fingers twitching against the tabletop. “That I’ve bewitched you or blackmailed you or something of the like.”

“I’ll deny them. Loudly and publicly.”

“I should hope so, regardless of how this goes. But everyone is going to tell you no. All your friends are going to say you’ve made a mistake or that you’ve lost your mind. They’re probably right.”

“They won’t.” And Harry knew it to be true. Ron might legitimately pass out from laughter when he heard the news, but once he came to, he’d slap Harry on the back and tell him to go for it. Hermione would probably say she’d always known, even though she hadn’t.

What they had could continue, Harry was certain. It was strong enough.

“It …” Draco’s brow furrowed. He twined his fingers together, rubbing his thumb across his pale knuckles. “It’ll be different now. It won’t be like it was, when we could do whatever we liked. Are you sure you…”

“If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this.” An idea flashed through Harry’s mind then. “Do you need me to convince you?”

“Sorry?” Draco’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip; it pressed against a spot where his canines had left a mark and he flinched, minutely.

“I did one more task than you. You failed your last one.”

“What, climbing the fountain? That wasn’t my fault.”

Harry shrugged. “You still failed. So I get to set you another task.”

Draco’s expression was relaxing moment by moment, the tension starting to leak from his shoulders. “Fine. What is it?”

Swallowing, Harry said, “Kiss me. That’s what I want.”

There was a beat of silence before Draco stood up, rounding the table in only a few steps and kissing Harry soundly. He gripped Harry’s face in both hands, tilting it up as their lips met again and again. He let out a little sigh when Harry placed his hands on his hips, rising to stand in Draco’s hold. They stood there like that for Merlin knew how long, Draco’s hands on Harry’s face, Harry’s resting on the small of Draco’s back. The weight in Harry’s stomach melted away, his ears ringing as Draco kissed him, gripping him tight and not letting him go.

It was the taste of blood that made Harry pull back, sharp and metallic against his tongue. He let out a soft whine, pressing his thumb against the tiny drop welling up on Draco’s bottom lip. Draco grinned, flinching as the movement pulled at the tender spot.

“You know,” Harry said, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, right next to his thumb, “Hermione likes to give me advice. Some of it’s crap, some of it’s alright.”

Draco poked at Harry’s thumb with the point of his tongue, teasing. His eyes were soft, his expression tender. There was something in his gaze that made everything in Harry’s head go quiet, like climbing under a weighted blanket on a cold evening.

“She says…” He swallowed, letting his hand fall from Draco’s face to cup the side of his jaw. “She says that I fall in love too quickly.”

Draco’s eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise.

“I’m not saying that I … she just says that. Sometimes.”

Draco paused for a moment, his gaze searching. His voice was gravelly when he spoke, deep yet soft. “You do. Quickly.”

Steeling himself, Harry asked, “Do you mind?”

The corner of Draco’s mouth lifted further. “You falling in love with someone else? Yes.”

Harry flicked at his jaw. “Don’t be a git.”

“Then no, I don’t mind. Not in this case.”

“I know there’s still so much that we need to work out; we’ll need a plan for the press and for what we’ll tell our friends and how we’re going to do … all this. But I want it. This. You. For real this time.” The fog clouding Harry’s brain lifted further with every pass of Draco’s hands up his back, the way he’d been inching closer as Harry spoke until their chests were pressed together. “Not that it wasn’t real before, but it’s different now.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Draco said and then he was kissing Harry again, slow and deep, pressing him back against the kitchen table.

Harry groaned and pulled Draco closer. His hand brushed against the folded jumper when he reached back to brace himself on the tabletop, his fingers curling in the soft material. Harry tilted his head back, panting up at the ceiling as Draco kissed down the length of his throat. “Take off your shirt.”

A cocky smirk on his face, Draco started to unbutton his Oxford. He shot Harry a deadpan look when he was informed that after he took that off, he’d be putting something else on instead.

“Really?” Draco muttered, yanking the purple jumper over his head. “Are you that attached? Should I ask Goyle to make you one of your own?”

“It’s not my fault that you look … homely in them.”

The two raised eyebrows he received in response sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ll hex you if you ever say that again. ‘Homely’, Merlin alive.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, pulling Draco back in for a kiss. He smiled into it as he slipped his hands under the soft jumper that smelled of strawberries.

“Make me,” Draco whispered back, grabbing Harry by the hips and pulling their bodies flush together.

The jumper stayed on during sex.

Everything else was negotiable.

*

The Portkey office was a bustling hive of activity, people with suitcases rushing across the large, sectioned off room as they realised how close they were cutting it to their departure time. The arrivals area was far more relaxed, with long bench seats and a machine which spat out a handful of Every Flavour Beans for a Knut. Off to the side was a child holding a stuffed Mooncalf in one fist and a colouring book in the other.

Harry had in his hands a large orange banner that read Welcome home, Granger-Weasleys! Then, in smaller letters, surprise, I’m dating Malfoy (seriously) (I’m not joking).

Ron was the first to see him. True to Harry’s word, he keeled over from laughter. Punching the ground as he chortled was a bit much, but it certainly got the point across. Hermione stared at Ron as he curled up on the ground, right in the middle of the arrivals section, before finally looking up and catching sight of Harry. A wide smile took over her face as she raced over to him, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing.

Ron, winded from both his laughing fit and from Harry subsequently tackling him to the floor in a dramatic hug, needed to be helped to the bank of Floos.

“We did hear some rumours,” Hermione said, gripping Harry’s hand tightly. There were highlights in her hair from the sun, and new freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Can we meet him? Well, re-meet him. He’s less of a wanker now, I presume?”

“Sort of,” Harry replied, grinning. “In his own way.”

“Take us to his on the way home.” Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder, smiling from ear to ear. “We saw your cheeky Prophet cover – I need to ask him about that thing he did with his tongue in the picture, Hermione couldn’t stop looking at–”

“No,” Hermione cried, violently shoving Ron into the Floo. “Don’t tell him that – nobody but you needs to know that, Ronald, Jesus Christ.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione, pressing his face into her hair. “I missed you. Come back to mine, I want to hear everything about your trip. And there’s so much that I need to tell you about, you’ll be so narked that you missed it.”

Ron’s smile was cheeky as he stuck his head out of the unlit Floo. “He’s at yours already, isn’t he? Malfoy?”

Heat rose in Harry’s cheeks. “He might be.”

“Oh, fuck yes. Keep Hermione here for a minute while I go through.” He grabbed for the pot of Floo powder, laughing maniacally as Hermione rushed for the next one over, shouting about keeping private bedroom things between the two of them.

When Harry finally made it back to Grimmauld Place it was to see Ron and Draco bent over the stovetop, a pot of pasta happily simmering away, while Hermione looked at the pair of them with an expression that was both fond and exasperated. The tips of Draco’s ears were rather pink; no doubt Ron was asking him about whatever tongue thing he’d noticed.

“That’s a lovely jumper, Draco,” Hermione said, walking over and physically pushing Ron away from him.

Draco pressed his lips together to hide his grin. “Thank you. Harry certainly thinks so, he’ll barely let me wear anything else. Kicks up a right fuss if I try to dress nice.”

“I don’t,” Harry said, in response to the look that Hermione shot him. “He can wear what he likes, I promise. I just enjoy seeing Goyle’s handiwork.” He slid an arm around Draco’s waist, resting his temple on Draco’s shoulder.

Ron glanced between them, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “So how long has this been going on then, you secretive bastards.”

Draco let out a huff of laughter. He turned to smile at Harry, arching an eyebrow of his own. “Is now the time?”

“Well,” Harry said, turning back to Ron, “it’s funny you should ask.”

And it was funny. In hindsight, but also as it unfolded.

And it was all thanks to shoddy Ministry practices, a stray Curio Box, and a shower that refused to run hot.

(Hermione threatened to sue the Ministry on their behalf.)

(Draco said he might let her.)

(Ron laughed again until he was red in the face.)

(Harry pulled Draco’s hand into his lap and held on tight, not letting go.)

(He also asked Draco to move in not two months later.)

(Every year after that, on May 3^rd, they repeated something they’d done in the loop.)

(Except for the petty theft. Maybe.)