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Ministry parchment is expensive shit. It’s thick and smooth, luxurious to the touch, sort of like the vellum in Hermione’s antique spellbooks. There’s a shimmering Ministry of Magic watermark woven into the fibres and a wax seal to match. The owls that bear the letters are also majestic as fuck; they preen and demand treats at the window of Harry’s cabin.

Harry fucking hates Ministry parchment. Ministry letters make a good day go to shit, and a shit day go tits up.

Harry’s standing theory is that there’s someone in the Department of Magical Education hired specifically to make his life a living hell with fancy parchment, expensive ink, and conceited owls.

McGonagall told him about the letters five years ago, right before Harry founded Camp Wandwood Wilds. Working with the Ministry was unavoidable; he needed building permits, licences for minors to perform magic, healing courses for counsellors, and a bevy of other bullshit the Magical Education Department seemed to pull out of thin air.

“You never know what’s coming in those horrid missives,” she said. “Once you sign a deal with the Ministry, they’ll badger you with inventive torments on a regular schedule.”

Harry will Owl her about the latest letter when he recovers from this afternoon’s panic attack. She’ll probably laugh because Harry’s life is that fucking ridiculous.

The letter bunched in Harry’s fist contains two pieces of information: Harry’s request to eliminate the volunteer counsellor initiative has been denied—volunteer counsellors are a massive pain in the arse—and this year’s counsellor is—

“Draco Malfoy,” he spits.

Hermione has been listening to him rant for half an hour now, watching him from the fire as he paces the creaking floor of his cabin.

“Draco fucking Malfoy. Why do they think this is a good idea? Malfoy, in charge of twelve, whole human beings? Twelve Muggleborn children.”

“I think you’re stuck on the concept of Malfoy and ignoring the person of Malfoy.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He stubs his toe on one of the many cracked floorboards, as if to emphasise his misery. “Fuck!”

Harry should have never taken a single Knut from the Ministry. He should have gone rogue. Enacted vigilante education with his vast fortune.

“It’s only two months,” Hermione assures him. Her face crackles in the fire, warm shadows dancing on the walls. “Malfoy’s probation is long over, but he volunteers for Post-War Unity every summer. He has a remarkable talent for pulling children out of their shells. You know he worked at a wixen primary school—”

“Does he have to do it at my camp?” Harry sticks his fingers in his curls and pulls hard. He couldn’t give a single shit where Malfoy works; he’s still a cunt. “Can’t he do it somewhere far, far away from me? Preferably in a different part of the country, or like—not in this country at all? Maybe on a different plane of existence? Can’t you send him to a time loop filled with Muggles? That’ll really rehabilitate him.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “He’s changed a lot, Harry. You’ve barely seen him in three years, so you might want to reserve your judgement. You’d be surprised. You might even like—”

“I’ll eat my hat if that posh prat does anything surprising, ever. He’s just got you fooled.”

A complicated feeling turns over in Harry’s stomach. He hasn’t seen Malfoy but a handful of times since the war. He’d been an arse every one of those times; prim and posh and full of shitty, biting snark, all aimed at Harry.

“I’m not easy to fool,” Hermione says in the long-suffering tone she often takes with Harry. “You might enjoy him if you give him a chance. It’s been three years since—”

“There’s never been anything to enjoy about Malfoy. There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now. He’s still a prick. To me, specifically, these days.”

Hermione’s smile flickers in the coals of the fire. “He’s still a prick on occasion. Or—prickly, I’d say. But he’s… he’s grown. I like him. He’s thoughtful… and funny. Attractive, too.”

“Why would I care if he’s attractive? He’s never been attractive. He’s just tall. That’s not the same thing.”

Hermione snorts. “Are you doubting my judgement?”

“No. I—for fuck’s sake, ‘Mione. He was a right arsehole the last time I saw him. I can guarantee you he still is.”

Hermione makes a frustrated noise. Harry thumps heavily into his tattered armchair and picks at the fraying arm. Why would anyone say Malfoy is attractive? That’s the last fucking word Harry would use to describe him. Malfoy has a certain fine-boned, willowy quality that pairs well with his colouring, but that’s as much as Harry will concede.

Besides, Harry doesn’t think men are attractive. Usually, he thinks of no one at all. Life’s easier that way.

The last time Harry saw Malfoy, the fucker was newly done with probation, living in an extravagant flat in Chlesea with Theo Nott. Malfoy had poked and prodded Harry the entire night, calling him a bridge troll and a hermit, telling him he did in fact smell like he didn’t have running water (but I like that, Potter, you smell like a man). Then he’d said he was only kidding, the wanker.

Actually, you clean up quite well. If you lived in London, well, I’d marry Theo, Obliviate him and fake his death, then take all of his money and—I’d come calling on you, wouldn’t I?

Harry’s been the object of cruelty far too many times to tolerate such nastiness in his adulthood. It was the lowest of all low blows to make fun of Harry’s appearance and hygiene, followed by a fake proposition to really drive the point home. Harry stormed off, and Malfoy grabbed him later to dole out a half-arsed, ‘I’m sorry you took it the wrong way’ apology that wasn’t really an apology at all.

Hermione, apparently, is still talking, despite Harry’s unannounced fit of brooding and picking. She carries on about Malfoy’s work with her at the Ministry and how—really, Harry—Malfoy is so charming and sensitive and a dozen other adjectives that don’t match the shitty ferret man Harry knows at all.

Harry zones out through Hermione’s Malfoy-themed elevator pitch, thinking of all the many reasons Malfoy will never surprise him. Or rankle him. Or get one over on him in any way.

And Harry will never fucking like him. Ever. Not a bloody day in his life.

Hermione can like him all she wants—tolerate him, more like. What, is he coming over for tea and a game of chess with Ron? He’d better not be. That would be a massive betrayal on Ron’s part.

“Do you want me to come through?”

“Er.” Harry glances at the dripping sink in the kitchen, the Bundimun growing along the windowsill. They’re looking particularly mushroomy this evening. It’s a shitpile of a place that’s become shittier since the last time Hermione saw it. “Not tonight. But I’ll be at the Burrow for dinner before camp starts up. It’s on the calendar.”

“Of course. No skipping this time. Camp isn’t an excuse.”

Harry smiles tightly and says his goodbyes. After a wilted salad and a pot noodle, he has another good pace, this time with his shoes on so he doesn’t stub any more toes. He goes to bed with a churning stomach and the Gryffindor resolve to figure out his Malfoy problem.

Harry stews about Malfoy’s volunteer counsellor placement for the rest of May and into June. He complains to the Ministry. When they stop accepting Harry’s fire-calls, Harry sends Owls. In his final letter, Harry proposes, in a last-ditch effort, that Malfoy work part-time as a lecturer in Camp Wandwood Wilds’ Pureblood Customs course. This request is also refused on fine parchment.

No, Mr Malfoy has not had any nefarious dealings since his probation. Yes, he volunteered for this position specifically. Yes, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy is qualified in first aid and basic healing spells. No, Mr Potter, you cannot refuse the volunteer position on the basis of Mr Malfoy being a ‘tosser.’

After the fourteenth Owl, Harry receives the horrid missive to end them all: a formal ‘request denied’ from Kingsley himself.

In the last week of June, Harry finally accepts his fate: Malfoy will be a camp counsellor at Wandwood Wilds, and Harry will be his boss.

Merlin save them all.

~~***~~

The week before counsellor orientation, Harry works his arse off. He deep-cleans every cabin and outbuilding, Scourgifying all the linens and rugs, clearing out Bundimun from the cabin baseboards and several infestations of Pixies from the rafters of the gathering hall. There’s a particularly determined Boggart in the bathhouse, but Harry manages that as well, even after it spooks the shit out of him with an image of a young camper falling dead, surrounded by a haze of Dark magic.

He dreams about the faceless camper that night, but that’s not uncommon, even seven years after the war.

It’s no bother.

The next morning, Harry takes a rigorous, cold swim and eats a perfectly crafted omelette—cheddar, mushrooms, onion—and sets himself to rights.

Harry continues his single-minded goal of Malfoy-proofing his surroundings, his schedule, his body, and his mind.

He organises seating charts, mealtime plans, room assignments. He memorises lists of students' names and composes instructions for interacting with their resident unicorn. He draws up maps of the lake and the winding paths of the forest. Orientation is scheduled down to the minute.

With everything under tight control, neither the Ministry nor his hateful ex-nemesis can fuck with him.

~~***~~

The morning before orientation begins, Harry swims the length of the lake and runs its perimeter. Another omelette follows. Red peppers, no cheese this time.

Strong body, stronger mind.

Of course, it’s not as simple as that. It never is when Malfoy’s involved.

Malfoy swans into the gathering hall for the first counsellor orientation session fifteen minutes late in a violently foppish pink linen suit with silver sandals. Harry keeps his eyes on the other counsellors, making a hearty attempt to ignore the flashes of pink in his periphery. When the counsellors circle up to introduce themselves, Harry asks everyone to share their name and an interesting fact.

A sharp-eyed young woman named Dorothy talks about her love for Venomous Tentacula. Craig, a blandly good looking former Hufflepuff, overshares about his penchant for nudism. Harry nods along and guides the conversation back to less titillating pastures.

“It says on your application you like rock climbing, Craig.”

“That’s right. Free climbing is far less dangerous when you can cast—”

“I wanted to hear about the nudism,” Malfoy says. It’s the first thing he says; of course it is. “Far more interesting than free climbing. Craig, do you free climb in the nude?”

Craig blushes, his cheeks splotching cherry-red.

Harry breathes through his immediate burst of irritation. Several of the counsellors laugh. Malfoy preens. The wanker has always loved an audience.

Harry soldiers on with the get-to-know you activity, noting everyone’s interests and repeating their names. Thankfully, there’s no more talk of nudism.

Harry’s eyes land on Malfoy. He’s the last counsellor in the circle. One blond eyebrow is arched, his smirky mouth turned up at the corners. That can’t be good.

Harry clutches his clipboard; lets the edge of it dig into his skin. When did Malfoy’s hair get so long? It had only reached his chin the last time Harry saw him.

“Counsellor Malfoy.”

“Potter. Fancy seeing you here.” Malfoy has the same drawl, but it’s deeper. Richer. Like he has in fact grown in the intervening years.

Harry taps his pencil against his clipboard. “Care to share your name and an interesting tidbit?”

“So many of my tidbits are interesting.” Malfoy’s hair falls in loose, golden waves over his shoulders.

Harry regrets the use of the word ‘tidbit’ with every fibre of his being, but he nods gamely at Malfoy. Whatever he says can’t be that bad.

“I’m Draco Malfoy, and I was a teenage Death Eater.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. Before words return to his brain, the other counsellors flutter to life with shocked gasps. Most are Muggleborn, and were thus pulled from Hogwarts during Voldemort’s reign of terror. To many of them, the war is imaginary; a past that happened to someone else.

“Did taking the Dark Mark hurt?”

“Yes, quite a bit, actually,” Malfoy says. “My father said I’d never live up to the family name if I didn’t.”

Harry’s ears ring. “Malfoy,” he says quietly. “Stop.”

“Yes, that’s right, Craig. You’re so clever.” Malfoy is beaming at Craig, who didn’t say anything clever at all. “I work for several Muggleborn charities now, and I consult at the Ministry. Volunteer at a wixen school. And now I’m here at this splendid camp for Muggleborn children. It doesn’t make up for the past so much as it makes me who I am today—”

“Malfoy!”

Malfoy meets Harry’s gaze. His eyes are still ice-grey. That’s the first thing Harry notices. Then: his chest is broader, his body lean and muscular. His presence would be imposing if he weren’t reclining halfway out of his chair, his ankles primly crossed.

“Yes?”

“We have a schedule. We’re touring the stables next.”

“You have Thestrals, don’t you? A family of them.” Malfoy holds Harry’s gaze. Everyone else is quiet, waiting. “Well?”

Harry nods. He’s so utterly baffled by the question that he thinks he might have imagined it.

Malfoy is still watching him, so Harry breaks eye contact and claps his hands, herding the counsellors towards the door. “Move along, everyone. Gerald is a rescue unicorn. He gets hand fed twice daily, and he has his own stall with ever-replenishing hay…”

Harry regains some of his composure when they arrive at the stables. Most of the counsellors receive instructions on how to interact with the Abraxans and Gerald, an ungraceful fellow with a tendency to bite when surrounded by too much noise. Harry deeply sympathises with Gerald at the moment since Malfoy is the definition of ‘too much noise,’ even when his mouth is shut. Harry is likely to bite him before the summer is out.

Remain calm. Cultivate peace.

Harry doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself observing Malfoy. He’s standing off to one side with that sharp-tongued counsellor, Dorothy. There’s a young Thestral, one Harry doesn’t recognise, regarding them with interest. After a spell, it approaches Malfoy and noses his arm, and Malfoy laughs. The family matriarch, Lilith, follows, pressing her muzzle to Dorothy’s shoulder nibbling the sleeve of her dress.

Dorothy’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning.

She can see them, too. Malfoy knew she would.

Malfoy guides Dorothy’s hand to Lilith’s nose and talks to her in low tones. The scene is so wholly out of place; it runs counter to everything Harry knows about Malfoy.

This is Harry’s home, and Malfoy is an interloper. Harry saw it coming: Malfoy waltzing in to dig around in his life and cause all manner of problems. Bonding with Thestrals and counsellors, inciting mayhem; a vast trail of it in his wake.

A heavy, bitter knot settles in Harry’s throat.

Dorothy belongs to Malfoy after that. Harry sees it happen in real time. She falls in love with the Thestral foal. She sticks close to Draco; the two of them stroll off and lie under a tree during Harry’s plant identification session. Harry overhears Dorothy talking about her family, Malfoy nodding as he picks clovers and buttercups to weave into his hair.

Harry can’t keep his eyes off Malfoy's hair all through dinner and fireside. It’s unnaturally shiny; there might be dark magic involved. It must be part of whatever plan he’s got to win over the counsellors and disrupt Harry’s life. No. No. Malfoy probably grew it out because he likes it that way. Harry’s an adult who can believe that.

Even still, Malfoy’s hair is troubling. Black market potions, Harry decides.

Harry feels a touch like a snow globe that’s been shaken too hard, his mind scattered about, falling around him like styrofoam snow.

After Harry closes the door to his cabin that night, he sinks to the floor and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He should be thinking of how to correct the supreme disruption Malfoy has caused. A few of the other counsellors joined Dorothy and Malfoy beneath the tree. By the end of the day, all of them were talking out of turn, crowding around Malfoy at dinner, peppering him with questions. Harry can’t have that tomorrow when they go over the curriculum.

He tries to focus. Instead, his mind returns to the Thestrals. He hasn’t seen them on his own in quite some time; years, he thinks. He usually doesn’t think about them as more than the background of his day-to-day. They get their daily meal, same as the Abraxans and Gerald. Sometimes there’s a pang of sadness when a counsellor meets one, but that sort of sadness is easy to tuck away. Harry doesn’t linger around them, lest he sink into grey, hazy memories he’d rather leave behind.

Malfoy was different with the thestrals.

He wasn’t sad. There was no melancholy. He laughed, easy and carefree, like the darkness never happened to him, like it doesn’t linger at the edges of his thoughts. Like the reason Malfoy can see them no longer matters. Like Malfoy is the kind of person he’s definitely not.

After a while, Harry gets up and tucks himself into bed. When he sleeps, dark dreams plague him. It’s Sirius this time, his mouth open in a perpetual scream, swallowed by the gaping maw of an endless void and pulled down, down, down.

There are no dead children in this one; that’s a small blessing, but Harry will take it.

~~***~~

Before setting out on his usual morning trail run, Harry stretches methodically, clearing his mind of anything apart from the rustle of leaves and the morning dampness in the air.

There is only this, he tells himself. There is only this place, this land. It's safe, and it’s his. His burden to bear, his purpose to carry on; the only true home he’s ever known.

The sky is dark when he gets to the head of the trail. The stars are still out. Mars is barely visible above the eastern horizon; the glow of dawn will soon overtake its light. Normally, the sun rises behind him as he runs, but today, he turns toward it.

His legs carry him towards the stables, past the gathering pavilion and the tree where Malfoy lazed with Dorothy yesterday.

Harry stops when he’s in sight of the stables. Old Gerald dodders around, munching on grass, likely eating pebbles again. For a unicorn, he’s not bright—or perhaps unicorns thrive on pebbles. Harry hasn’t any idea. Gerald just showed up one day, ancient and ill-tempered. He’d been in need of a home; a warm, dry place to sleep on cold nights. Harry knew that feeling all too well and let him stay.

Hermione told Harry it was because of the magic. Once Harry had started weaving wards around the forest and infusing the cabins and pavilions with spellwork, magical creatures began to arrive. Gerald, first. Then the Pixies and the impossible-to-remove Bundimun. Nifflers were the next invasive pest. Adorable though they were, there wasn’t a button in sight by the end of that first summer. Months later, Harry came upon a hollow tree stump on one of his runs. It was filled to the brim with buttons of all shapes and sizes; a riot of colour in the grey expanse of winter.

Two Thestrals arrived the following spring; Harry called them Lilith and Shadow. That autumn, Lilith birthed a gangly baby Harry named Merlin. She’s had two foals since, and three more adults have joined the herd.

Harry hasn’t given any of them names. His habit of visiting slowed and then stopped altogether after his dreams became too much, after he woke crying too often.

Now, Harry delivers offal to their troughs every afternoon, leaving well before they arrive at sundown.

This morning, the Thestrals are gathered beneath a willow tree. Harry approaches cautiously, a trickle of emotion behind his sternum.

Harry ventures through the tall grass towards the willow, morning dew wetting his trainers. Lilith looks up, sniffing the air curiously, like she’s not entirely sure about this change in routine. Harry isn’t so sure, either; he hasn’t the foggiest why he’s here. After a moment, Lilith approaches him cautiously, a young foal stumbling behind her.

“It’s been a little while,” Harry says. “You’ve had another baby. Is that good enough reason to visit?”

She presses her nose to Harry’s shoulder and nuzzles and nibbles at the sleeve of his shirt. A sharp tooth catches and pulls a hole in the threadbare fabric.

“I don’t have anything to eat.” Harry’s throat burns. He closes his eyes. Blindly, he pets the velvety warmth of her nose, swallowing hard as he stems the tide rising within him. Lilith whickers and leans into his touch.

Lilith was a constant comfort in the first year after Harry founded Wandwood Wilds, but there was something in her that had made him think specifically of—

Harry takes a shuddering sigh. “It’s been too long, I know it has—”

—the burned, blackened images that haunted Harry most the first year after the war. A flash of green; his mother hitting the floor with a sickening thud. His father’s shouts and the silence that followed. He’s not sure if these are real memories or if his brain created them from stories. But he knows this—

Harry saw so many people die. He’s never decided which death was the worst. If it was Cedric going limp and cold in his arms, or Sirius falling into darkness—or if it was, selfishly, Harry’s own death and his return. Often, the Thestrals put him in mind of Hedwig and her soft, warm wings. That memory felt especially cruel since there were so many people he should have been grieving, and he couldn’t even focus on them without memories of her.

Harry jerks his hand away from Lilith’s snout.

If he gives in, Harry will have to wade through it; face all of it, all at once. The trickle will become an insistent, rolling wave. It will carry him away, drag him under until he can no longer breathe.

Intellectually, Harry knows he won’t be the husk he was after the war, leaving the bed only to drink until he blacked out and could no longer sort through his personal horrors. Harry wasn’t even sad back then—instead, there was only a crippling, nameless rage. The rage is gone now, for the most part, but Harry knows his own worst impulses still exist, buried though they are.

“I have to go.”

Harry sticks his fingers in his curls and pulls, enough of a tug that the pain brings him back to his body. He backs away from Lilith and turns, running for his usual route. The gruelling motion of running the trail pulls him together, piece by piece; a brutal reminder he’s home, inhabiting a life he built.

He skips breakfast, assuring himself he’ll eat an extra slice of toast at lunch. He never feels much like eating after nights like these, after disruptions.

After blond, git-shaped distractions hurtle him into the worst of his dreams.

~~***~~

Harry’s frown must be evident when he starts the orientation session on the wixen puberty course. Before their small group discussions on the lunar cycle and magical pregnancy, Malfoy catches Harry in the gathering hall and has the gall to ask if he needs anything. Then Malfoy hands him a packet of crisps he’s certain Malfoy stole.

Harry looks at the crisps as if Malfoy just gave him a handful of Niffler buttons. They’re cheese and onion.

“You should eat,” Malfoy says. “Give yourself more energy to be an uptight wanker.” There’s no edge to his words.

“What?” Harry regards the crisps, then looks at Malfoy again. Malfoy is close. He smells like the outdoors, like the humid greenness of summer and sun on bare skin. His hair is done up in a bun, tendrils falling around his face. “Why?”

“You skipped breakfast.”

Presumptuous wanker.

“What? Are you watching me?” Harry’s stomach growls. His frown deepens. “That’s called stalking.”

Malfoy snorts like Harry’s told him a joke. “You’re one to talk.”

He strolls back to the group and casts a spell to turn his folding chair into a floor cushion. The other counsellors follow Malfoy’s lead, and everyone ends up talking about their personal experience with magical puberty on the sodding floor.

Eventually, Harry joins them. He makes no effort to hide his annoyance.

Malfoy grouses when Harry makes him help clean up afterwards. The grousing changes to outright bitching, Malfoy nattering on about the spiritual importance of sitting on the floor. Malfoy’s hair ripples ostentatiously the whole time he’s Transfiguring cushions. Harry can’t pull his eyes away from it.

Malfoy catches Harry watching him and raises a golden eyebrow, hands on his hips. “Like what you see, Potter?”

“No.” Harry says it a little too forcefully, which makes Malfoy smirk and ripple even more, right where Harry can see him.

Harry plans to Owl Hermione with a brief, told-you-so message: Malfoy is still a git of the highest order. And his hair is probably fake. If it’s not fake, it’s full of dodgy potions.

There are no more Thestral incidents, but Malfoy coddles and spoils the other counsellors. He brings them food unprompted, fills bottles with an Aguamenti that creates fizzy lemon water, chats to Dorothy about her Pureblood background, assuring her that she’s going to be a tremendous asset with her refined spellwork and her obvious passion for working with children.

Harry doesn’t know what Malfoy is playing at, but decides not to care.

Slowly, Harry finds his footing again. Nothing will knock his summer off course.

The last night of orientation week, Harry builds a bonfire for the counsellors and invites them to discuss their magical education. They have a rousing debate about the antiquated practice of sorting students into Houses. It’s a smashing success.

Not ten minutes after their fireside chat is done, Harry sees Malfoy walking towards the lake, hand in hand with not one but two senior counsellors. There’s a bright surge of anger in Harry’s gut, but he shoves it aside. They’re all consenting adults, and Camp Wandwood Wilds strives to be a sex positive environment. That’s what the website says, anyway.

Harry doesn’t know how someone with Malfoy’s background can be so—so cavalier, so recklessly uninhibited. Petting Thestrals and lying about on the grass and brazenly seducing men.

But that’s neither here nor there.

The next morning, there are leaves in Malfoy’s hair and a bite mark on his neck.

Harry doesn’t think about it at all.

~~***~~

Harry tells himself the students will dislike Malfoy. Or, at the very least, distrust him.

Instead, they glom onto Malfoy before the opening ceremony even begins, obsessed with his obnoxious hair and his shiny rings, his brightly coloured botanical tattoos, his wide-brimmed hat and enormous sunglasses.

“Look at all of you,” Malfoy says to his cadre of campers after the opening ceremony. “My stunning angels. Director Potter gave me the reins to guide you through this summer with my expertise in all things fantastical and arcane. We’re going to have a marvellous time. Do any of you know how to Hex someone? I’m just kidding, of course.” Malfoy meets Harry’s eye and fucking winks at him. “I’m excellent at Charms, though. Let’s see what I can do.”

The campers watch Malfoy, awestruck, as he pulls out his wand and conjures a transparent butterfly. It lands on a girl’s nose and vanishes into a cloud of sparkles in front of her eyes. The whole group breaks out in a cheer.

Harry can’t peel his eyes away, but he does, eventually, because if he keeps looking at Malfoy, he might combust before camp gets off to a proper start.

Later, he catches Malfoy lazing by the lake with his cohort. He holds a small white snake in one hand, and one of his campers is braiding a bit of ribbon into his hair while he prattles on about snakes and their natural environment, telling them all how he used to have a phobia he overcame while he was on house arrest. A dear friend had helped him grow to love all small creatures, even the crawly ones.

“Director Potter knows how to talk to snakes, actually,” Malfoy says a little too loudly, gesturing to Harry.

Suddenly, twelve sets of eyes are on Harry. Curious, imploring.

Malfoy grins. He has grass stains on both of his knees beneath the cherry blossom tattoos on his thighs. Merlin, his shorts are practically microscopic.

Heat floods Harry’s face. “Not a party trick, Malfoy. I don’t do it for show.”

Several of the children protest. One particularly mournful-looking camper frowns deeply, as if Harry’s disappointed him and all of his ancestors to boot.

“Ah, Director Potter says no fun for any of you.” The snake coils around Malfoy’s wrist and flicks its red tongue at Harry, as if to back up Malfoy’s point. “He’s much too serious to show you how cool it is that he speaks Parseltongue.”

“Wicked,” one of the campers says, eyes lighting up.

“It is wicked. All the girls at school thought it was very attractive. And at least half the boys.”

Harry’s stomach turns all the way over. He’d never noticed anyone thinking his freaky Dark Lord ability was attractive. Malfoy’s taking the piss, mocking Harry, which is a shit thing to do in front of all his campers.

Harry clears his throat.

“Maybe another time. Counsellor Malfoy shouldn’t be making promises for me.” Harry gives Malfoy a look, and he’s met with an unnerving grey gaze that makes his spine feel like it’s been replaced by warm liquid. “I’ll—I’ll be going then.”

“No, Reginald,” Malfoy says. Harry stalks up the hill toward his cabin. “I don’t know exactly what our dear director’s problem is, just that he’s terribly high strung. But he is ever so handsome, I’ll give him that. Let’s find some frogs, shall we?”

Handsome. Harry scowls. What an absolute bellend.

Harry knows he’s average looking. He’s accepted that. His looks don’t matter because he doesn’t date, anyway. Barely even thinks about women, to be honest. It’s not exactly fun to be once again reminded how pitiful he is when it comes to matters of the heart.

Malfoy’s teasing voice plays at the edges of his mind when he crawls into bed that night. He’s a pile of contradictions wrapped in bright floral packaging; an utter prick; a lover of Thestrals and snakes; a presenter of cheese and onion crisps; a disrupter of Harry’s carefully constructed routines; a bringer of unwanted attention.

A thorn in Harry’s side.

Harry’s going to ignore him even harder.

~~***~~

It would be easier if Malfoy were a quiet, unassuming, mediocre counsellor. Harry has plenty of those.

But Malfoy isn’t that sort of counsellor.

Malfoy is egregiously rule-breaking, pathologically lazy, scantily clad, inappropriately flirtatious, and overall, an atrocious role model for developing young minds.

Malfoy’s campers are consistently late for every activity. He lets them skip lessons when they grouse that they’re feeling poorly. Lets them leave their vegetables on their plates and scams the cook into giving them extra pudding. Malfoy staunchly refuses to enforce camp rules. He tells Harry he doesn’t believe in bedtimes, nor does he see the point in disciplining his students for talking out of turn.

The campers worship him.

Harry confronts Malfoy midway through the week when Malfoy misses evening fireside for the second time.

“Malfoy, a word?” Harry shouts at him after morning circle the next day. Malfoy’s hair is in a giant, ridiculous French braid, decorated with sprigs of lavender and rosemary. He looks like a fucking fairytale prince covered in tattoos. It’s ludicrous.

“What word are you speaking?” Malfoy saunters towards Harry. Christ, his legs are long. “You usually don’t have good words for me. Inspiring speeches for everyone else. You had the whole camp agog when you were talking about survival spells yesterday.”

Harry frowns and tries to recall his lesson. It was perfectly ordinary. Harry has the distinct feeling he’s being steered off course. “What? Your campers were running wild the entire time.”

Even standing, Mafloy looks like he’s reclining, like he should be draped over a chaise. “You’re a bore when it comes to the rule-related drudgery, but your practical presentations are inspiring. That’s where you shine.”

Harry scowls. Malfoy is mocking him again. Openly. “You’re full of shit.”

Malfoy’s expression shifts, confusion settling in his features. “I’m giving you a compliment. You should take note. I’m not one to dole out false encouragement. I’m telling you how well you did, you absolute—”

“Malfoy.” He steadies himself. In Harry’s one month of Auror training, he was taught not to let a criminal take control of a conversation, particularly when they start doling out false flattery. “This is about your students’ inability to pay attention. And your flagrant disregard for the rules.”

“The rules. Your favourite. I should have guessed.” Malfoy’s smile returns, a dimple appearing on his cheek. “Ask my campers if they’re happy. Go on. They’re right over there by the fire.”

“Happy? You let them get away with murder. They’re not learning anything.” Harry’s voice sharpens. “You keep missing fireside, and your group fucked off entirely during that presentation.”

Reprimanding counsellors requires delicacy and tact. Harry knows how to do this. He’s done it dozens of times. Malfoy isn’t behaving like a counsellor, though. He’s behaving like a know-it-all arsehole.

Harry’s irritation morphs from a small, pulsing coil to something wriggling and alive. He’s fifteen again, facing Malfoy and his interminable sneer on the Quidditch pitch. He’s sixteen, following Malfoy down a dim hallway, his pale hair like a beacon. Harry wants to push this lawless twit into a corner and demand an explanation.

“They were paying attention, Potter. Nathalie has trouble sitting still. And Bertrand doesn’t do well in large group settings.” Malfoy shrugs, a fluid little lift of his shoulder. “They’re made to sit still all year. It shouldn’t be that way in the summer.”

“Bertrand was lighting pinecones on fire with a spell he shouldn’t even know.” Harry has now reached top fucking volume. Other counsellors look in their direction. Fine, Harry thinks. Let them hear it. “In the woods. At least fifty feet from the circle.”

“So he was. I do admit that wasn’t the best use of his time or the most astute supervision on my part. But children learn best when they’re allowed to do as they please.” Malfoy’s arms are crossed. He pouts insouciantly, as if everything out of Harry’s mouth is a big fucking joke.

“Do you have any sources on that? A citation? Something that you can point to? Anything?”

Harry steps closer to Malfoy, close enough to catch his scent. A whiff of woody-citrus cologne today, mixed with the rosemary and lavender in his hair. He wants to push Malfoy, to grab his shoulders and back him up until he’s pressed against the cracked bark of an oak. All that wild hair of Malfoy’s, splayed out behind him, his rosy lips parted in shock.

“Apart from my fucking job at the Waldorf Wixen Junior School in Knightsbridge?” Malfoy’s raised eyebrows and indignant tone yank Harry back to reality. Harry’s heart is beating awfully fast.

“You’re a volunteer teaching assistant in the fucking art room.” The assertion brings a surge of satisfaction, another turn down the corridor, chasing Malfoy toward a dead end.

“Merlin, you’re still such an arse. I don’t know why I bother with you.” Malfoy sighs. “If you must know, my other source is Luna.”

“Luna?” Hers is the last name Harry expects to hear coming out of Malfoy’s mouth.

“Very blonde. Makes dangly earrings with strange objects.”

“I fucking know who Luna is, you—” Harry doesn’t say cunt, but it sits on the tip of his tongue.

Malfoy’s dimple deepens. “Luna’s wise. She’s madder than a bag of Doxies, but that’s part of her charm, don’t you think?”

“She’s an expert on childhood development?” Harry scoffs. He adores Luna, but for Christ’s sake, she believes her flat is overrun with Nargles. “Luna’s passed all of that knowledge onto you, and that’s why you know better than me? I’ve directed this camp for five fucking years, you knob.”

The pavilion goes silent.

At least Harry didn’t call him a cunt.

Harry’s stomach tightens, like he’s preparing for a blow. He expects Malfoy to bite back, to tell him that anyone should know more than Harry. A dig about his dead parents.

“Well, Potter,” Malfoy says. He flips his braid over one shoulder. The fucking wanker is wearing a Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it. The top three buttons are just—open. Undone. Harry’s eyes catch on the tattoos on Malfoy’s forearms: branches, vines, and tiny spring blooms in shades of yellow and orange and cyan. “I had to learn from someone, didn’t I? Never too late to teach an old Crup new Charms, as they say.”

“An old Crup? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My personal growth and development. Do keep up. Luna got me that volunteer job after I split up with Theo. Told me all about how she was brought up. I trust Luna more than anyone I know. I’d trust her with my life.” Malfoy’s expression is thoughtful. Genuine. “I trust Pansy, too, but not on the subject of children. Blaise I don’t trust at all. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re—you’re—Merlin, I don’t know!” Harry scrubs a hand over his face.

“Look at the state you’re in.” Malfoy places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Did you skip breakfast? What a boring way of punishing yourself. Honestly, you can do better.”

Harry jerks away. “You think you’re funny?”

“Oh, I know I’m funny. I’m also right. Two of my finest qualities.” Malfoy’s eyes skitter over the length of Harry’s body. “You need to take better care of yourself. You need to eat well to maintain that build.”

A tight, thick sensation crawls up Harry’s throat. He’d been prepared for a barrage of hatefulness. Not whatever this is.

The image of Malfoy against a tree flashes in his mind again, Harry’s hand pressed to the hot skin of Malfoy’s inappropriately bare chest.

Malfoy is actually checking him out, which makes Harry want to throw himself in the lake for reasons he doesn’t comprehend. Is it better or worse than Malfoy thinking Harry is pitifully unattractive? Fuck.

“I’m fine,” Harry spits. “I’m completely fucking fine.”

His hands itch to push or shove or slap Malfoy’s pretty face, but if Harry lets himself raise a hand to Malfoy in front of the entire camp, he risks everything he’s worked to build. Malfoy needs a reprimand or a write-up, not a fistfight.

Gods, what is wrong with him?

With a growl, Harry stalks off, leaving Malfoy by the pavilion.

“I’ll tell Bertrand not to light things on fire,” Malfoy calls after him. “I can’t make any strong promises about that. He’s a bit of a pyro, to be honest. But we all have our flaws. Potter! Where are you going?”

By the time Harry slams his cabin door behind him, his nails have made red crescents in his palms. He shakes his hands out and flops onto his exercise mat, pressing his forehead to the spongy surface.

He sinks into the breathing exercises his Mind Healer taught him. When he clears out all the stray thoughts, he imagines sweeping out a shed, clearing its cobwebs. Malfoy keeps popping up, standing in the centre of the now-clean shed, bedecked in a pineapple shirt, his golden hair in a long braid.

Uptight. You’re so uptight, Potter. I’m friends with Luna. I should know.

Harry opens his eyes. He somehow missed Luna befriending Malfoy. Why didn’t Luna tell him? Why didn’t anyone tell him? Yes, he vaguely knew Malfoy was around sometimes. Luna dated Pansy, who’d dated Neville. Neville had also dated Pansy, and Pansy had fucked around with Ginny at one point or another. Now Ginny is shagging Blaise regularly, neither of them willing to admit it’s an actual relationship.

Harry mostly tunes out Ron’s gossip updates, but he knows Malfoy has been around. Utterly out of nowhere, Harry wonders who Malfoy has shagged. He really hopes Malfoy hasn’t fucked Ron. There’s a weird, prickly feeling at the base of Harry’s spine when he thinks of the two of them, tangled up together.

He pushes the thought firmly out of his mind, shoving it out of his shed and making it land right on its arse.

Centre your breath.

Harry has found his peace here. It’s where he healed after the war, where he found something more satisfying than drowning himself in Firewhisky in shitty pubs until Ron had to come drag him home.

This is where Harry turned into an adult, where he learned to teach and plan and build. A safe place, where he can’t hurt anyone, and where no one stays long enough to hurt him.

But there’s so much life happening outside of Wandwood Wilds. Malfoy has been part of that, growing out his Rapunzel hair. Getting bird tattoos and communing with Thestrals. Growing attached to misfit children. Having deep conversations with Luna.

A tender feeling sits in Harry’s chest for the rest of the day, like something has been cracked open and rubbed raw.

His sleep that night is lonely and fitful.

~~***~~

Luna arrives two days later, Neville in tow, both of them laden with foraging bags and baskets and a magically expandable canvas pack filled with an apothecary’s worth of dried fungi and herbs and at least a dozen plant-harvesting contraptions that look like something from a mad scientist’s lab. Not that either of them have a cultural reference for what a mad scientist is, but that’s their aesthetic—somewhere between questionable forest witch and Dr. Frankenstein.

Malfoy is, of course, the first to greet them, hugging them in a manner unbefitting an icy Pureblood. Malfoy has his campers help Luna set up her yurt, and Luna has them all singing a song Harry vaguely recognises, something folky he heard once before, a long time ago.

To everything; turn turn turn,

There is a season; turn, turn, turn.

Malfoy joins in because of course he does. It figures that Luna would know Muggle flower child songs, but Malfoy? Despite the oddity of such a sight, he sings in a rich tenor, even if he doesn’t hit all the notes.

Harry will never know peace again.

Harry has a good scowl about their easy camaraderie, but he pulls himself together and hauls wood to the pavilion for their nightly fireside.

After Malfoy has exited the scene for another one of his nonsensical nature walks, Harry ambles towards the yurt to update Luna on this year’s rules. He lifts the flap and peers inside.

“Oh, hello, Harry!” Luna doesn’t look up from her work. She’s wearing enormous magnifying goggles with a shimmering Lumos hanging above her head. The entire get-up gives her the look of a large angler fish.

“Luna. I’ve, er, I’ve got a packet of the new rules and regulations and a waiver—”

“I’ve just made tea. Black tea with jasmine and clove. I’ve got a pitcher of fresh Gornut Milk and several jammy cakes Nev made. They’re mostly crushed from the trip, but I like them best that way.”

Harry huffs. After five years of Luna ignoring his packets, he doesn’t know what he expected. There’s a purple velvet sofa by the entrance and a tiny, round wooden table, its entire surface covered with carved runes. On top sits three teacups, a carafe of questionable milk, and three slices of mashed cake. There are several lumpy purple candles burning—Harry suspects they’re homemade—and a egg-sized cone of incense that makes everything smell of copal and patchouli.

“Is Nev joining us?” Harry places the packet on Neville’s work table on top of his mortar and pestle. Harry estimates there’s a thirty percent chance of getting a signed waiver out of either of them. Last year, he had to make them do it when they were clearly on some sort of psychedelic drug, rolling about in a forest clearing, recounting the stories ‘that live in the trees,’ whatever that means.

He simply doesn’t have the energy this year.

“No. I thought Draco would have a bit of cake. But he said you’d evaporate into a cloud of irritation and rain all over the yurt. So he took Nev to look for Snorkacks by the lake.”

“Is that what he said? Anything else? Continuous complaints about my stodgy, terrible camp?” Harry’s heart does something weird and fluttery. He ignores it in favour of reading Neville’s obsessively organised labels. They’re a charming counter to Luna’s deeply chaotic mess of bags and jars and scraps of parchment. It’s good they have each other, settled into one another’s strangeness like a wheel in a road-worn groove.

“He loves it here,” Luna says absently. “It’s good for him. He hasn’t left London much since Theo. Theo didn’t like to go anywhere, so they didn’t, for a long time. I don’t dislike many people, but Theo’s a real….”

She gazes at the fairy lights on her ceiling as if she’s forgotten she was speaking. Harry waits; this is part of her process.

“Cunt. He’s a real cunt.”

She lets that hang in the air between them, her eyes never leaving the lights.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with this information. The vision of Malfoy with Theo was bad enough; he doesn’t need to know exactly why it ended, or the ways in which it was unhealthy. And he certainly wasn’t prepared for Luna’s particular brand of vitriol.

“Draco’s better when he’s out in the woods, you know. I think he’s truly himself among the trees. Your trees quite like him as well. They think he’s very pretty and clever, which he is.” Luna swivels on her stool and turns to Harry. Beneath the magnifying lenses, her crystal-blue eyes are huge. “The wilderness balances him, like Knuts on a scale. Needs a bit of it to counteract all the glamour and hair potions. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“He’s—er.” Harry turns his eyes to the domed ceiling of the yurt. Several Pixies doze in little silk hammocks Luna has strung between them. “We don’t get on.”

“That’s too bad. He’s perfectly lovely. I think you’d be good for one another.” Luna lifts her lenses. “There you are. You looked like a largely distended version of yourself. You’re more alive than you were last summer. Like a Mortle emerging from the ice after a thaw. They go into a near-death sleep for years at a time, you know.”

Harry has no more idea what to do with this information than he did with the dissolution of Malfoy’s relationship. The implications of ‘good for one another’ lodge in his throat like a fishbone. He also doesn’t know what the fuck a Mortle is or if they actually exist. He also gives that a thirty percent chance. “Thanks, I think. I’ve got to be going. Are you set to start your course tomorrow?”

“Stay.” Luna’s goggles shift a little when she smiles, the Lumos still jiggling above her head. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Harry needs to sort through permission slips for the puberty course, but the cake smells heavenly, mixing with the incense into a creamy, smoky vanilla and jam scent that makes his stomach growl. It’s been ages since he’s shared a meal with someone he loves.

“I’ll stay on for a bit.”

The cake, like all Neville’s cakes, is buttery and rich, balanced by the sharpness of cranberry and something spicy Harry can’t identify. The tea is strange but decent; Harry avoids the Gornut milk entirely.

Listening to Luna is good. She’s completely mad, but in a kind, easy way. It must be more than an hour of chatting because the yurt flap opens again, and Harry sees Neville’s face. “Hullo, Harry. There’s a fine crop of Gillyweed by your lake. Hope you don’t mind that I harvested a bit.”

Harry stands, brushing imaginary crumbs from his knees. His pulse picks up when he hears Malfoy’s campers shouting behind Neville. “Don’t mind at all. Just use it responsibly.”

“Did Luna tell you the news?” Neville grins, his cheeks lifting, eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Oh! Yes!” Luna beams. “I forgot. Besides, I didn’t know the date. I keep forgetting. Nev has to remind me.”

“The date for what?”

“Getting married. Ceremony will be in this massive treehouse in Portugal. I’ll make sure to get you an invitation when we find them. They’re… um. I don’t know exactly where they are. Luna hid them from herself so she’d be surprised.”

“So she’d be surprised?”

Neville shrugs. “Draco probably knows where they are. He started keeping track of things she’s hidden so we’ll all know where they are.”

Harry winces inwardly. An awful burst of chilly envy slides down his throat. He should be the one keeping track for them. Or—well—that task would be incredibly irritating. But he wasn't even around to be asked.

“Isn’t it splendid?” Luna is gazing at Neville like he invented magic. “We’re finally making this lovely commitment in front of our friends and family.”

Harry doesn’t think there’s a ‘finally’ about Luna and Nev since they’ve been ceaselessly attached to one another since the battle, no matter who they were dating. That fishbone-y feeling persists in Harry’s throat. It morphs into something jagged and barbed when Malfoy pushes inside the tent, filling it with his unfairly long, elegant limbs.

“What did I miss? Did Neville tell you about the Gillyweed?” Malfoy’s eyes fall on Harry. His eyebrows raise. “Potter, are you on a social call? Or did you stumble in here by accident when you were filling out a form?”

Harry frowns. “You didn’t tell the students about the Gillyweed, did you?”

“No.” Malfoy heaves a dramatic sigh, one hand on his hip. “What do you take me for? Why would I do that?” Malfoy’s ‘why’ is heavy on the h, like there’s a whole extra one at the beginning.

“Will you come to the wedding, Harry? We’ll all be there. Well, I will be if Nev makes sure I get there.” Luna ignores the thick tension in the yurt, or perhaps she simply doesn’t feel it. It’s a toss up, either way. “He said he’ll make sure of it even if he has to carry me to the top of the treehouse.”

Neville regards Harry with a tired-eyed expression and a small smile, like he’s already accepted Harry’s apology for bowing out.

Malfoy’s eyes narrow in Harry’s direction, a ghost of that old sneer on his fine features. Judgement practically oozes from his invisible pores.

“I don’t—I don’t leave much these days. And that’ll be—it’s a long trip. I get ill with Portkeys, you know.” Harry glances at Malfoy, whose frown has deepened. “But, yeah, of course. I’ll—I’ll be there.”

“We’d like that, Harry.” Neville’s smile grows wider, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “We’d like it so much if you were there.”

The broken, angry mess inside of Harry grows, pushing against the confines of his rib cage. Going to a destination wedding alone; there’s nothing fucking horrible about that. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Malfoy snorts inelegantly and grabs a piece of cake from the table. “This is mine, isn’t it? I do so love your jam, Neville. Yours is the very best jam in all the land.”

The way Malfoy says ‘jam’ to Neville makes Harry’s blood pressure rise. So, he shuffles towards the door, such as it is, and says his goodbyes.

Well. Harry has three months to figure out how to get out of Luna and Nev’s wedding. He can’t go to a sodding treehouse in Portugal, for fuck’s sake.

He’ll send Malfoy his Mind Healer bill when Harry has a nervous breakdown.

~~***~~

After that, Harry tries to avoid Malfoy and his campers entirely.

But Malfoy is everywhere. He’s stretched out on the benches by the showers, long hair falling to the ground and brushing the dirt, his tattoos a stark contrast on the pale skin of his arms and thighs. Or he suns himself by the lake with Luna, clad in a floppy white hat, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a tiny pair of electric blue swim shorts that don’t leave much to the imagination. Harry also catches him in indecently short silk pyjamas pilfering extra biscuits from the kitchens for the sake of ‘Reginald’s blood sugar.’

Midway through Luna and Nev’s visit, Harry encounters the three of them—Luna, Nev, and Malfoy—making green smoothies in the staff lounge. It’s just after midnight; a wholly unacceptable time to use a Muggle blender. The three of them giggle so hard when Harry clears his throat that Malfoy falls to the floor and stays there. He doesn’t even fall like a normal person; his limbs are arranged so neatly on the pockmarked wooden floor that his movements might have been choreographed for a fashion shoot.

“Harry!” Luna calls excitedly. “Come have a smoothie! There’s plenty to go around. I made so many smoothies.”

“Fair warning. There’s drugs in it,” Neville says with a grin. His teeth are stained green.

Malfoy’s nose is bright pink at its pointy tip. His hair is spread beneath him like a halo; another feature for the photoshoot. “The drugs will do you some good,” Malfoy says with a snort. “And the smoothies are to die for. Luna really makes the very best of smoothies. She’s the very best smoothie maker, Harry. You have to come play with us. Please. I promise I’ll be so nice.”

Harry.

Harry has been staring at Malfoy’s legs for the better part of a minute.

Luna gives Harry an obnoxiously soft look. “Come on, Harry. I haven’t gotten stoned with you in ages. We’ll have so much fun.”

“Can’t. Courses in the morning,” Harry says. “And it’s my swim day tomorrow. You all shouldn’t stay up that late, either. Dorothy can’t do all your work for you.”

Malfoy stretches, his bare toes pointing like a dancer’s. “Dorothy gets to have stoned—be fun—be stoned and have fun—erm—tomorrow night.”

“That’s one way to plan your week, isn’t it?” He pulls his eyes away from Malfoy’s appendages. “I’ll be—I’ll be going.”

“Merlin forbid you have a spot of fun with people who want you around.” Malfoy’s eyes drift shut with seeming pleasure. He’s wearing neon blue eyelashes, which match his microscopic shorts. “Harry Potter must do very serious cold water morning swimming. He’s very serious, you see.”

Neville huffs and tries to put on a straight face. “Don’t tease him. He doesn’t get that it’s teasing.”

Malfoy’s pupils are dark and wide when he opens his eyes; the turn of his mouth is entreating. His halo of blond waves lends him the air of one of those old classical fairy paintings Hermione likes; Narcissus perched above a lake or Ophelia lying in a bed of flowers.

“I’m very serious as well. I think you ought to be stoned. You don’t have to join the pile if you’d rather brood and stare at the lake.”

“The pile?” Harry’s brow furrows, but then he gets a clear image of Luna, Neville, and Malfoy in an actual pile. “Oh.”

“It’s quite platonic on my part. It can be entirely, if you join us,” Luna says. “Draco just loves attention. Doesn’t matter what kind.”

“Ever so much.” Malfoy twirls his fingers in his hair and closes his eyes. “Harry should do it, too. Neville is such a generous lover.”

“Not the worst reputation, I s’pose.” Neville pours an icy green smoothie into a tall glass. “We’ll make it whatever kind of pile you want, won’t we?”

“Next time.” Harry’s cheeks are on fire. He makes his apologies and a quick exit, Malfoy’s words ringing in his ears.

~~***~~

By week three, Malfoy’s campers have taken to brushing his hair. He lets them do it constantly. They plait it after the camp’s nightly fireside meetings. They weave flowers into the braids; they put sticks through Malfoy’s bun. It’s driving Harry spare.

Harry works to keep himself regulated. He does breathing exercises and yoga to keep his irritation at bay. He meditates. All the shit Harry’s Mind Healer has told him to do so he can work through his emotions, sleep through the night, and keep his magic under control.

It works. A little. The problem is that Harry can’t put a name to these emotions; there are too many of them knocking about in his brain and body, and he needs to smooth them out if he’s going to survive the summer.

He runs the path around the lake each morning. He walks every night, checking in on all of the counsellors. He visits Malfoy’s cabin when he knows Malfoy isn’t there; he speaks instead to Dorothy, now Malfoy’s co-counsellor. At one check-in, she tells Harry she wants to be like Draco when she grows up. For Christ’s sake.

Harry gives exactly none of his attention to Malfoy for a solid week. Instead of staring at Malfoy’s braids during morning circle, Harry fixes his gaze on the fire or tunes himself into the sound of frogs in the forest.

No good will come of fixating on Malfoy.

He reminds himself of it when he catches sight of Malfoy’s gleaming skin after a dip in the lake. He reminds himself of it when Malfoy is twenty minutes late to morning circle and Counsellor Dorothy is nowhere to be seen. He reminds himself of it especially when he sees Malfoy prance off with that fucking nudist, Craig, after lights-out.

Harry’s patience is short-lived.

He hits a wall when he takes a calming nighttime walk to the lake, unable to stop thinking about his most recent encounter with Malfoy and his electric-blue swim trunks. That fucker looked right at Harry as he traced a finger over a silvery line of a Sectumsempra scar, a bead of water above his navel.

Harry walks the path, trying to jostle the lakewater-navel situation from his mind. As he nears the lake, Harry hears the low murmur of laughter. Illicit gatherings are an issue every summer, but Harry meets these situations with fairness. He steels himself as he rounds the bend, expecting a group of counsellors drinking cheap Firewhisky straight from the bottle. Instead, there’s an enormous, unauthorised tent, a prohibited bonfire, and Draco fucking Malfoy, surrounded by his coven of tweens.

The campers lean in as Malfoy recounts some batshit ghost story about a Pureblood countess who turns her illicit Muggle lover into a vampire.

“They say she sold her soul to a dark god in exchange for his everlasting life. But she never considered her lover’s curse would be… eternal hunger.” There are gasps from Malfoy’s rapt campers, all of whom are up long past their bedtimes. “He must drink the blood of innocents to survive!”

Yet again, Malfoy has ignored every one of Harry’s carefully mapped procedures. Indignation flares to life alongside the confusing vision of Malfoy’s navel.

Christ. Harry has to be neutral. For the children.

“Counsellor Malfoy,” he calls briskly. “It’s time to get your campers back up to the cabin for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is morning gardening, followed by herb gathering and identification.”

Malfoy’s face is mostly cast in shadow. He can only see Malfoy’s mile-long legs from this angle. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, Potter. Plus, you told me I could bring the children out here to teach them about moon bathing.”

“Moon bathing?”

“You were very enthusiastic,” Malfoy responds, stomping all over Harry’s control of the situation. “You said it was important for their developing minds to gain exposure to natural magic. Moon bathing, as I told you, is restorative for the magical core. We’re just settling in, and the campers would be ever so disappointed if we had to relocate. You agreed to it. Can’t go back on your word, can you? Not in front of the children.”

Harry is suddenly aware that twelve sets of eyes are on him. Again. Poor Reginald looks close to tears. He’s completely covered in biscuit crumbs.

Malfoy’s such a fucking wankstain.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Of course,” Harry says. His jaw clenches and unclenches. “Come by my office in the morning so we can discuss appropriate tent usage.”

“Am I in trouble?” Malfoy’s voice is smooth as silk. It plucks at something in Harry, like an untuned string of a discarded guitar coming to life beneath the attention of a skilled hand. “What are you going to do to me?”

“We’re going to have a chat, Counsellor Malfoy.” Harry’s mouth is dry. His temple throbs insistently.

Several of the campers snicker. A knot of girls near the tent whisper to one another. Malfoy leans forward, his mouth curled into something like the sneer he wore so often as a child. But his eyes are playful, and there’s something suggestive in the tilt of his chin. “Oh? Just a chat?”

Harry stays silent. Staring. He can really see Malfoy now that he’s out of the shadows. It’s worse than seeing him sprawled on the kitchen floor. Worse, even, than his gleaming scars or his tattoos or the wink of his navel.

Malfoy’s campers have clearly outdone themselves tonight. His pale hair is done up in at least a dozen plaits, some of them looped on top of each other in flower-like arrangements, others falling free over his shoulders. A crown of buttercups and bluebells sits atop of it all. There are gold stars painted on his cheeks, a dusting of glitter on his face and chest. He’s no longer a fairytale prince; he’s something else entirely.

Malfoy is a punch to Harry’s gut, a Diffindo slicing through layers of skin and muscle. But he’s also the first surge of casting his Patronus. A pull on Harry’s magic, a scattering of his memories, a burst of something joyous. A rip in the rubbed-raw fabric of his heart.

Something familiar. Something entirely new.

In the low flicker of firelight, Malfoy looks like a wild fey king. The sort of creature, Harry recalls Molly Weasley saying, that one shouldn’t try to bargain with, lest you end up spread open in a fairy circle with your balls out. George added that last bit. It stuck with Harry, though.

No bargains with the fey.

And here Malfoy is, damn near ready to lure Harry through a portal. Harry might well follow him if he could touch that shimmering skin for a moment, if he could trace his fingers over one of Malfoy’s long, tattooed legs. If Harry could sink into Malfoy and never come up for air.

Christ. What’s wrong with him? Harry’s straight. He’s always been straight.

Well, mostly.

Is he straight? Mostly straight?

“Well?” Malfoy prompts. “Do I need a thorough dressing down for not following the rules?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Harry grits out. His blood thrums beneath his skin, a wicked pulse of longing falling in step beside his irritation. “We need to speak away from the campers.”

“Oh, fine. No creative punishments. You’re so dreary. I’ll have Dorothy attend their arts and crafts course tomorrow. Do eat something after your run, Potter. Neville has loads of scones, good ones.” Malfoy waves his hand as if he’s dismissing Harry from court. “Luna’s meeting us later to talk about the moon and our magical cores. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turns back to finish the story without another glance in Harry’s direction.

Malfoy’s voice follows Harry into the night. “She gathered victims for him to feast on every night and vanished the bodies with her unholy powers. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. Yes, Reginald, you can have more biscuits. Does anyone else want some?”

Harry’s climb to his cabin is stumbly and out-of-sorts. It appears his sexual identity crisis is, inconveniently, in full swing. Many of his recent Malfoy-related emotions are starting to make a terrifying sort of sense. Harry winces.

He considers fire-calling Hermione, but she probably already knows Harry’s gay. In fact, it’s likely she predicted his homosexual breakdown over Draco Malfoy. In hindsight, many of their fire-call conversations about Harry’s non-existent dating life and his apparent lack of attraction to anyone are starting to make sense. Her hints about late-onset self-awareness and her impromptu course on the asexual to allosexual spectrum, which Harry refused to commit to, just on principle. It’s all sinking in quite well now.

He can’t take Hermione’s smugness or her pity. He’s already resentful of the stack of books she probably—definitely—has waiting for him.

Harry fights with sleep, fuming and restless. He dreams of pale skin and a curtain of silky hair.

~~***~~

Harry rises early the next morning and tries to push the fey king from his mind. Merlin, Malfoy is fucking lovely. For a bloke.

No. For anybody.

Even if Harry is gay—and he’s starting to think he might be—Malfoy isn’t a suitable choice, even for a shag. He’d fuck Harry and discard him. Like he fucked Craig. And Anthony, and Stewart. Harry doesn’t have a full grip on his sexuality, but he knows he’s not the casual sort. He wonders if he should be; if that’s what people want. Or if it’s alright to only like only one person better than everyone else.

And why—why does that person have to be sodding Malfoy?

Harry shrinks his tattered armchair and rolls out his yoga mat. Sun salutations are first. His heart rate slows, and he pushes himself into several deep floor stretches. There’s an uneasy throb in his groin when he folds one leg beneath his hips and lowers himself into Pigeon pose.

Malfoy floats, unbidden, into his mind. His hair probably smells like woodsmoke and rosemary, probably falls loose when he’s in bed with one of the other counsellors. Or two of them. When Harry starts pondering how men might divvy up the sex duties during a threesome, he knocks the thought out of his head and changes position. He’s half hard, but he ignores it.

He pushes through the rest of his stretches with a blank mind and moves onto pushups and tricep dips, ending with a run around the lake. There’s a blanket laid out on a far hill by a copse of ash trees, but there’s no one nearby. Harry doesn’t pause to consider who was there last night.

When Harry gets back to camp, he’s covered in a sheen of sweat. Blood pumps blissfully in his legs.

Malfoy is waiting for Harry on his cabin steps. His braids are gone, hair in sumptuous waves. “You live here? Potter, this is depressing.”

“I like it here. It’s cosy.” Harry keeps his eyes on Malfoy’s hair. It’s easier than looking at his face.

“It’s a shithole. Gods, how do you survive here during the winter? Isn’t it fucking cold? That window is jammed. Doesn’t the rain come in?”

“Are you here to insult my cabin?” Harry crosses his arms. “Or drive me to the brink of insanity with endless questions?”

“You’re late for our meeting.” Malfoy draws the word ‘late’ out, long in his mouth. “I was just standing here thinking. Wondering what you might be up to so early in the morning.”

“I’m not late. You’re early. For fucking once.” Harry’s gaze moves to Malfoy’s bare shoulder. There’s still glitter on his skin. It’s pink and neon blue; it sparkles in the morning light. No part of Malfoy is safe to look at.

Malfoy pulls his lip between his teeth and looks Harry up and down. “You work out a lot. Helps cope with the stress of daily life, does it?”

“I. What? No.” Harry swallows. His tongue is thick and dry. He does the thing he meant not to do and looks Malfoy right in his eyes. “I mean. A little. I lift weights. I went for a run this morning. Pushups. Yoga.”

At this moment, Harry wishes he’d stayed in the woods with Voldemort so he doesn’t have to see Malfoy look at him like that. Like he wants to drag Harry into a circle of woodland mushrooms and shag him senseless. Merlin. Is this the way he’s always looked at Harry?

The thought of what three men might do in a threesome clobbers its way back into Harry’s mind. He wonders what Malfoy might have been doing with his long legs and lush lips.

“Yoga?” Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “How modern of you. You smell like sweat. Does it make you sweaty? The yoga?”

“Yes. Er. That happens when people exercise.” Harry is calm. He’ll remain calm. He won’t be angry or aroused. He’ll deal with being homosexual later.

“Are you quite flexible?” Apparently, Malfoy intends for Harry to deal with it now.

“Am I what?”

“Flexible? From the yoga? I, myself, love yoga. I find it makes the body flexible.”

“A—a little.” Harry cracks his knuckles, rocks on his feet. Every solid thought has fallen out of his head, replaced with the vision of Malfoy’s lips saying ‘flexible.’

Malfoy looks pleased. “Does it counteract your extreme rigidity?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Harry makes a frustrated noise. Focus. He has to focus. Malfoy stole a tent. “That’s not what this meeting is about. I called you here to discuss the impropriety of—”

“You sound like Professor McGonagall. Go on, then. Try it with a bit of an accent.”

“Malfoy.”

“What? You won’t respond to my earnest questions or attempts at conversation, so I thought I’d lighten the mood.” Malfoy aims his dimple at Harry. “You seem so stressed all the time.”

“I am stressed. You’re stressing me out.” He thinks again of pinning Malfoy to a tree, but this time, he wonders what it would feel like to push his thigh between Malfoy’s legs and put his mouth on that golden hair.

“I stress you out because I’m fun, Potter,” Malfoy says without a trace of ire. “And you’re a boring bear of a man who wants everyone to talk about their mystical wixen ejaculation all day. You’re uptight. It radiates off of you in huge, galumphing waves. It’s not healthy.”

Harry’s ears are suddenly hot. “That’s not what the puberty course is about. We talk about contraception Charms and magical pregnancy. It’s very important—”

“You need to loosen up. Sleep more. Keep doing your workouts, certainly. But eat better. When’s the last time you had a good shag? Does anyone ever touch you?” Malfoy steps closer. His breath smells of lime and mint. His eyes are stormcloud-grey with blue flecks at the centre of his irises. “I bet it’s been ages. And what a shame that is, with you being so strong. So flexible. Sex is a magnificent source of relaxation. Restorative to the magical core.”

“Do you say everything that comes into your head? Really, Malfoy. Tell me.” There’s a heated twinge at the base of Harry’s cock, another pluck of the string.

“Not everything. Believe me.” His gaze lingers on Harry’s chest. “I have many things in my head.”

“See—even that—” Harry tries to remember what words are and how to use them. “Even that. You said that suggestively.”

“What am I suggesting? Do enlighten me.”

Harry swallows. Merlin’s tits, he’s going to get hard right here. “You told me I needed a good fuck.”

“I would never be so vulgar.” Malfoy brings a hand up in mock indignation. “I am sex positive. Camp Wandwood Wilds is also sex positive, if the website is to be believed. Touch is healing. I’m simply saying it looks like you’d benefit from a good shag.” A line appears between Malfoy’s brows. “Perhaps it’s forward to assume you have a less than satisfactory sex life. But Luna taught me to read energies.”

Harry's throat tightens. Malfoy is right. Harry’s been locked in the same routine for half a decade; no one has bothered to point out that he’s a miserable, boring, gay hermit. “I swear. If I could sack you, I would. For impertinence. And vulgarity.”

“Can’t kick me out, though, can you? Wizengamot ordered. Guess we’ll have to be chums.”

The muscles in Harry’s abdomen draw tight and a wash of erotic discomfort rolls through his body. Fucking Malfoy. Mentioning sex. Assuming so much. Looking like that while he does it. Like he’s about to parlay with a half dozen elven royals at a round table in the forest.

“You’ve no response to that, I see. It’s not good for you, being so alone. That sort of thing fucks with a person.” Malfoy hums, as if considering something. “If you’re not interested in sex, moon bathing is a sound alternative. It’s especially beneficial in the nude. For your essential energies. You can join me sometime.”

“This isn’t about moon bathing or restoring my energies,” Harry attempts to dispel the image of a nude, moonlit Malfoy from his mind, and he tries to inject authority into his voice again, but it’s all exasperation. “This is about you intentionally breaking curfew and going on an illegal camping trip. With an unauthorised tent.”

“Oh, an unauthorised tent. Illegal, is it? There was a time when you didn’t give a fig about such things. Has the weight of adulthood made you into a rule follower? That was always one of the lovely things we had in common. A healthy disregard for following instructions.”

Harry groans. “Yes. I was like that. But then I grew up. This camp is important. These children’s lives are at stake. Everyone let us down, didn’t they?”

“They did,” Malfoy says plainly. “You’re right.”

The raw thing in Harry’s chest cracks a little further. He’s openly staring now. Gods, he can’t look away. “I’m right?”

“You are. This camp is important.” Malfoy’s almost looks tender. “But there’s not a war on, Harry. Not anymore. It’s a summer camp. Don’t you remember when magic was fun?”

No.

No, he barely remembers that at all.

“Let magic be fun. Let something be fun. Even if it’s just every once in a while. You don’t need to be an ascetic to be an effective teacher.” Malfoy searches Harry’s eyes before casting Tempus. “I must be off. We’ve a nature walk to attend to, and Reginald wants to catch a frog.”

Malfoy’s arse bounces as he walks away. He sits down with his back to one of the oak trees, his heartbeat swishing in his ears.

He closes his eyes and lets his head thunk against the tree. He recalls first Lumos, the surge of warm, brilliant magic beneath his skin, light bursting to life within him before it moved through his wand.

He sits for a while before he moves on, brushing leaves from his shorts and wandering to the dining hall to look for a packet of crisps.

~~***~~

Malfoy is fit. Mindblowingly fit.

This knowledge agonises Harry. It flies in the face of everything he’s ever believed about Malfoy; all the hatred and bile they’d both cultivated in their youth, every opinion Harry’s held about him since then. Malfoy’s confirmed attractiveness also means Hermione was right, which is certainly the worst part of the entire debacle.

Harry never even noticed blokes before this summer, unless you count Bill Weasley. Which Harry doesn’t, of course. Literally everyone notices Bill. And Charlie, fairly frequently. And Ron, sometimes. Ron’s quite tall. Honestly, they’re all good-looking. But those were all stray thoughts. He’s never indulged. It’s never been what Harry would call attraction. Not like this.

Now, Harry notices Malfoy.

Malfoy is drapey. Elegant. Frequently reclining. Displaying his long, tattooed legs. Wearing bright pink florals and a single sparkly earring. He’s also distinctly masculine: gloriously lean and muscular, with a firm, round arse that he proudly displays at every opportunity. Recently, Malfoy has taken to wearing a Camp Wandwood Wilds t-shirt hacked apart and re-sewn with tailoring Charms. It falls off one shoulder, revealing the top of Malfoy’s Sectumsempra scars and a thatch of pale, fine chest hair.

Malfoy’s hair is so long now, shiny and aggressively healthy. If someone asked Harry what Malfoy would look like with long hair, he would have guessed cold and severe, like Lucius. But it’s not like that at all. It’s warm and fluid; wild and free.

Harry wants to wrap Malfoy’s hair around his palm and press the strands to his cheek. He wants it falling over his face, brushing his shoulders. Hermione is never going to let him live this down, whenever he has his next needy Fire-call meltdown and inevitably confesses his obsession with Malfoy’s luscious hair.

It’s an obsession Malfoy’s campers share, at least. Harry isn't alone.

In the first weeks of camp, Malfoy’s campers only braided his hair after hours. Now, it’s an everyday thing. When all the campers are supposed to be in morning circle talking about their goals for the day, Malfoy is off to the far side of the gathering pavilion with his cronies, with at least two tweens braiding and a third weaving crowns out of vines and flowers.

Today, Malfoy’s camper, Nathalie, attaches bits of sparkling tinsel to the roots of Malfoy’s hair during morning circle. Malfoy laughs and talks to her softly, putting a hand to her shoulder when she leans to whisper in his ear. There’s an easy gentleness there that Harry had never seen in all their years at Hogwarts.

He sees it now. Notes it. Files it away.

Harry watches Malfoy during morning circle. He chats the entire time, lets the campers laze all over the place. Harry doesn’t relish the thought of reprimanding someone who makes him feel so much—so much everything. He should be avoiding this menace at all costs. But it’s Harry’s job to keep his counsellors in line, isn’t it?

By the time Harry makes his way to Malfoy’s group, the children have all dissolved into mayhem. One of Malfoy’s campers is howling in the direction of the woods, Dorothy apparently encouraging her, inviting friends to join in. It’s apparently so amusing that Malfoy can’t keep a straight face.

“Good morning, Director Potter. How may I be of service?”

Harry’s gaze locks on Malfoy’s ridiculous braids, bypassing the wolf children. There’s certainly magic in there this time.

“Your braids are—are they sparkling?”

“It’s fairy hair,” Malfoy says, twisting one small braid around his finger. “Don’t you like it? Mother never would have let me wear such a thing when I was young.”

“It’s what? Is it some kind of spell?”

“It’s tinsel or some such Muggle material. Isn’t it marvellous?”

Malfoy shakes his head, demonstrating how his hair catches in the sunlight. It’s woven into no less than fifteen braids that fall over Malfoy’s shoulders. Silver-blue and violet and deep magenta strands of fairy hair, all lit up by the sun. Malfoy is also wearing a crown of elderflower and lavender and bits of grass woven into the bottom of each braid. His eyes are filled with mischief, a spray of gold freckles across his nose and cheeks.

Malfoy didn’t have bloody freckles at Hogwarts. Why is Harry just noticing the freckles? For fuck’s sake.

“Your campers need to engage in morning circle. Every morning. We’re supposed to share our goals for the day. They’re not participating. They’re playing with your hair.”

Harry taps his pencil against his clipboard to emphasise his point. He wonders how many times this summer he’s tapped his pencil at Malfoy.

Malfoy takes a piece of paper out of his tiny pocket. Muggle notebook paper. “I had all of them write down their goals. I’ll give it to you if you want. Nathalie is shy. She doesn’t like to talk in big groups. Her friends wanted to support her.” He holds the paper out to Harry. “Go on. Take it. It’s not going to hurt you.”

“That’s not how we do things. There’s a system.” Harry’s irritation rises to the surface. It feels good. It feels familiar. It’s far easier to process than his very real desire to press all of his body to all of Malfoy’s and beg and beg and beg to be touched.

“Oh? Who died and made you Dolores Umbridge?”

Harry grabs the paper and opens it. All of the campers have, in fact, written something down. Granted, none of them are lofty goals—make a new friend, cast a cleaning spell by myself, catch a second frog and name him Dribbles, identify two constellations from our star walk—but he doesn’t expect complexity from first years. These answers are fine. They’re fun answers, because Malfoy is fucking fun, and Harry is—whatever the opposite of that is.

Harry stares at the paper and hands it back to Malfoy. “Don’t compare me to that old bat. I’m simply saying there’s a procedure.”

“I’m simply saying it’s stupid to expect every camper to respond the same way to every rule.” Malfoy steps towards Harry cautiously, just as he does with campers recovering from a particularly violent outburst of accidental magic. There’s still a bit of that characteristic pompousness, but his face is open and calm. “Hermione happens to agree with me.”

Harry blinks. “Hermione?”

“Yes. Hermione. She was here yesterday, teaching the teens about contraception Charms? Big hair. Very clever. About five and half feet tall. I do think you know her. Saved you from yourself for seven odd years and perhaps even still? Who am I to judge? No one saved me from me. If we’d been friends in school—”

“You’re friends now?”

Harry knew they were friendly. Not friends. Who the fuck else is Malfoy friends with? Ron? They probably have been playing chess. Harry makes a mental note to tell Ron he’s a traitor.

“Don’t interrupt me. Of course we’re friends. I volunteered with her the better part of last year, and I’m incredibly charming. If I’d been friends with Hermione in school instead of being an atrocious bully, I surely wouldn’t have taken the Mark. I told her that.” Malfoy holds out his left arm and points to the long, clean line of a scar where the Dark Mark once marred his skin. The line is covered now with tattoos of tree branches; above them, a bluebird in flight.

“You’ve changed that much? I get that you’re—you’re” —Harry gestures to everything that Malfoy is: lavish and frivolous, loose-limbed, wild and ethereal— “friends with Hermione. But really? You’re that different? All of this is real?”

“It’s all real, darling.” Malfoy laughs, bright and golden. “But, no. I haven’t changed, not fully. Outwardly, a touch. I’m much more comfortable in my own skin. But I’m still doing everything in my own best interest. Like always. It’s just that I figured out different best interests after years sitting in a tomb of a house with only Pansy and Luna visiting me—well, Theo visited, too, but only when I would fuck him.”

Harry’s cheeks blaze. There’s a spiky pang in his stomach at the mention of Theo and Draco fucking. Harry intends to sound stern, but his words come out thin.

“Do you take any of this seriously?”

Draco frowns. “Of course I do. I told you I do. I love it here. I love these utterly helpless Muggleborn children. Honestly, Lucius would shit the bed if he could see me now. I think that’s my new favourite best interest, actually. Everything I do is fueled by what Father would find most abhorrent.”

Harry’s pulse is rapid, his hands horribly sweaty. He should be able to get through a conversation without wanting to fling himself into the sky or crawl into Malfoy’s arms. There are breathing exercises for this; Harry tries to remember them.

Looking into the cloud-grey of Draco’s eyes, Harry can’t draw up a single thing his Mind Healer has told him over the past seven years.

“Your anger at your father has nothing” —Harry spits out the words— “to do with the mission of this camp.”

Malfoy’s smile is soft around the edges. “Of course it does. It has everything to do with the mission of this camp. These children actually get to be children. Not pawns or tools. It has to do with me. And you. And everyone we know who lost years of their childhood because of a madman. Try being fueled by joyous spite instead of righteous indignation sometime. Might do you some good.”

Harry stands still, dumbstruck. His eyes are prickle with heat.

It’s not anger. Not irritation or annoyance.

No, this sensation is older and deeper, long tucked away in a cupboard under the stairs. Malfoy’s been rattling the door all summer, knocking loose Harry’s hidden pieces.

Malfoy casts a Tempus. “Well, look at the time. We mustn't miss our activities. Gods know the whole place will fall apart if we’re late.” He snaps his fingers at his tween followers. Harry stares at him and his stupid braids and his stupid sexy camp t-shirt. “Children, come along. It’s time for arts and crafts. Today I’m going to teach you to roll a joint.”

Harry makes a pained sound, apparently nonverbal now, and watches the first years line up behind Malfoy. “He’s only joking,” Maggie says as she passes by. “We’re going to be making Slytherin banners instead.”

Nathalie starts giggling and can’t stop. She presses her head to Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll blow his lid.”

“Draco’s right,” Reginald says. “That man needs to dislodge the enormous stick up his arse.”

Harry’s eyes follow Malfoy as he struts into the woods. He’s shockingly beautiful. And clever, and still a bit mean in a way that makes Harry’s head spin.

It occurs to Harry that Malfoy is wrong about one thing: he has changed. Harry’s the one who’s been hidden away, stunted and wilted and still.

~~***~~

Harry’s never wanked over a man before. Not unless he counts that one sex dream about Percy Weasley, which he doesn’t. It was a dream. Not wanking.

It starts with a furtive midnight tug, which doesn’t count as anything at all, actually. It’s just a bit of imagination involving Malfoy’s lush lips and Harry’s hand twisted up in his hair, like sunlight falling through Harry’s fingers.

Then there’s a follow up morning wank, which doesn’t count either. That’s leftover horniness from the night before, a continuation of the same fantasy. Lips. Hair. Creamy, sunkissed skin. A sharp comment. A plummy, lilting voice.

Harry frowns at Malfoy during morning circle. As usual, Malfoy’s army of miscreants are plaiting his hair, weaving leaves into it today. Several of them are lying down. Malfoy lets them do it: on the ground, in the dirt. There’s another one who’s wandered off and has started pacing, flinging defensive spells he shouldn’t know into the trees.

None of Malfoy’s campers pay attention to the daily schedule when Craig announces it. If they miss that, they’ll miss activity sign-ups. If they miss activity sign-ups, the whole day gets thrown off.

“Malfoy, wrangle your charges,” Harry bellows in the middle of morning circle, interrupting Craig the sodding nudist, the one who’s fucked Malfoy who knows how many times. Or maybe Malfoy has fucked him. How does anyone decide such a thing?

Everyone’s eyes are now on Harry, like he’s… he doesn’t know what. A cowboy? Who says ‘wrangle your charges?’ Harry imagines sinking into the earth and letting it reclaim him.

“Er. Sorry, Craig. Go on, then.”

Craig the fucking nudist goes on, and morning circle continues as usual. Malfoy’s campers are slightly less feral—but only slightly.

Harry stares at the long line of Malfoy’s neck, the defined muscles in his arms. Malfoy is wearing his sex kitten camp shirt, which reveals the curve of his bare shoulder, the black lines of a feather tattoo peeking out above the tie-dyed fabric. Harry wonders what Malfoy’s skin would taste like and—a related thought—how hard he’d have to bite to leave a mark.

Harry is subjected to a full view of Malfoy’s arse when he stands to lazily rally his campers. Malfoy’s shorts are riding high, glued to his arsecheeks. Several oak leaves are stuck to the shorts. Harry briefly imagines brushing them away. He cuts his mind off there because he doesn’t need to get hard in front of the entire camp.

When Malfoy’s cohort disappears down the trail towards arts and crafts, Harry observes the back of Malfoy’s thighs. They’re mesmerising, smooth and creamy and strong. Harry imagines what they might feel like on either side of his head.

Harry excuses himself to his cabin and has a long, methodical wank about exactly that and comes hard, splattering all over his Camp Wandwood Wilds t-shirt.

This one counts. But Harry can stop now he’s had one satisfying orgasm. The whole idea is bound to leave his system.

It doesn’t. As the week wears on, Harry watches Malfoy unabashedly, under the guise of keeping an eye on his interactions with campers. Sometimes, he sees a pale stripe of Malfoy’s stomach or his back when he stands. The front of his thighs, Harry finds, are just as alluring as the back. His calves are muscular as well, his feet beautifully arched when he slides into his leather sandals. Malfoy’s shoulders and his back muscles move in fascinating ways when he teaches his campers spells. The freckles are still there, the kiss of sun on his brow. There’s a beauty mark on the nape of his neck; Harry can see it best when Malfoy has his fountain of hair in a bun.

It’s too much for Harry to bear. He jerks off after every morning circle, after every nighttime fireside. Sometimes he’ll have another tug around midnight, right before he falls asleep. He’s dazed with it, Malfoy always hovering in his mind as he moves through his day.

Maybe that’s what happens when someone barges into your once-functional brain and starts kicking doors and rattling shelves.

It doesn’t help that Malfoy flirts like he’s trying for the gold medal in an Olympic sport.

He smirks and smiles and makes suggestive remarks at all the male counsellors he hasn’t yet shagged. Harry overhears one of them saying that he’s straight, but Malfoy would be his one off. Several of the other counsellors agree, and Harry snaps the pencil he’s holding clean in half.

That same night, Harry catches Malfoy whispering to Craig after fireside. Craig’s eyes are hot and hopeful. Later, Craig heads down to the lake alone. Malfoy likes the lake at night. It’s likely he’s already there waiting.

Harry stomps off to his cabin well before the fire dies down and jerks off furiously. He tries desperately to imagine anyone but Malfoy and fails miserably. He comes like a rocket, picturing clear grey eyes, pink lips, strong arms holding him down, long hair tickling his shoulders.

The next day, Harry makes a beeline for Malfoy after morning circle. Malfoy checks Harry out as he approaches; the tosser doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Well, Potter? What is the reason for this blessed visit? I see you’ve worn your finest denim for me.”

“Are you seeing Craig?” The words fall out of Harry’s mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s—that’s none of my business. And professionally inappropriate. And I—I need to know for our employee retention—er. The handbook says—”

Malfoy’s dimple is an apostrophe next to his know-it-all smirk. “Don’t have a conniption, Potter. It’s human to have a little flash of jealousy every now and again.”

“It’s not—”

“Oh, is it not? My mistake.” Malfoy’s faux-innocent tone sends a twitch to Harry’s cock, for reasons he can’t begin to comprehend. “But, no. I’m not seeing anyone, though I do keep myself entertained. I prefer a relationship with more complexity than Craig is able to offer. No offence to Craig, of course. He’s simply not that compelling. A decent shag, and that’s about it.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “I’m. That’s more information than I needed.”

“Do forgive me. I was interested in being thorough. I know you enjoy making detailed notes.” Malfoy flounces off to join his group. He flashes Harry a devastating grin midway through the daily counterspell demonstration. Harry’s mind turns to static for the next half hour.

Something shifts after that. Maybe Harry’s lost the remaining pieces of his mind, or maybe Malfoy can read Harry’s extremely obvious energy. Maybe Harry can’t stop staring at him for even one bloody second, wishing he were Craig or anyone else, someone who could have Malfoy for a night.

No, he doesn’t want that. Harry wants to keep him, which is so much worse. And the Malfoy of it all—Harry gets it now. Malfoy likes him.

Even with the bevy of fresh-faced young men throwing themselves at Malfoy’s feet—all of them shinier and prettier than Harry—Malfoy gravitates to Harry over all of them. He teases Harry about how terribly rigid he is; finally bribes Harry into speaking Parseltongue to his campers; hands Harry snacks he’s obviously stolen from the dining hall.

“Why?” Harry asks him on a hot day in early August. Malfoy’s just shoved two lemon biscuits into his hand and appears to be waiting for Harry to eat them.

“Why what?”

“Why do you keep bothering me? Coming back and talking to me? I’ve been nothing but an arsehole to you. And you—you keep coming back.”

Harry doesn’t mention that Malfoy is eye-fucking him on a regular basis because he doesn’t need to open that Pandora’s box. Not right now.

“Oh, you are an arsehole. But I’m mercilessly fucked up, and I find it so endearing.” Malfoy bites his lower lip. “As for the other bit, you look like you need someone to poke you and feed you biscuits. It’s a lonely sort of life you lead, isn’t it?”

“No.” Harry scowls. The notion bangs about in his brain like a tin can falling down a long flight of stairs. “There are people everywhere.”

Malfoy steps close and pushes a curl behind Harry’s ear with a tenderness that makes Harry’s chest ache. The rattling is so loud now that he can barely think.

Yes, he wants to say. Yes, it’s lonely. It’s cold and bare when the campers are gone. Please. Please make me feel something different. Something more than this.

“That’s not what I meant,” Malfoy says. “And you know it.”

The bell rings for lunch, and Malfoy is suddenly crowded by twelve adoring campers who start talking all at once. They herd him towards the dining hall before Harry can stop the jangling in his head.

Malfoy turns to look at Harry before his campers shove him through the door. He’s wild and lovely, a fey king with his court. Harry is helplessly caught in his thrall.

It’s fine. Harry’s fine. His thoughts of Malfoy are fantasies. Everyone deals with them. He’d be loath to admit it to Malfoy, but Harry hasn’t had a shag—not a real one—in a solid seven years. The one time he did it, it wasn’t exactly good. Neither he nor Ginny had come, and they broke up a week later.

Harry comes to the conclusion that he’s gay. A bit. Malfoy knocked it loose along with everything else in his cupboard, and now Harry’s fully homosexual.

There are memories alongside Harry’s belated gay crisis. Malfoy in flight, diving and twirling in a grey, winter sky. The sharp twist of excitement at seeing Malfoy’s name on the Marauders Map. The thrumming in Harry’s thighs when Malfoy rattled off the names of potion ingredients in class. Malfoy at his trial in formal dress robes, dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes, looking fragile and so young.

Merlin, they’d all been so young.

He didn’t like Malfoy back then. There wasn’t much to like. But he wanted Malfoy, even as a teenager, back before all the wanting in Harry had been wrapped up and locked away.

Harry simply hadn’t known what it meant.

Of course, Harry’s mid-twenties gay crisis would involve Malfoy rolling around in the dirt stealing tents. Strange shit always coalesces around Harry; he shouldn’t be surprised in the least. This is simply another oddity.

Harry will get through to the other side. He always does.

And at the end of the summer, Malfoy will go home. There will be no more wanting, on either end.

Harry will, in all likelihood, continue to be gay. That won’t be a huge disruption since Harry’s been celibate for so long. He can now be celibate while pondering the question of men and what three of them might do together. He’ll ask himself what it means to be attracted to someone, and why exactly that someone is Malfoy.

Life will return to its usual pace, with a side of gay.

Harry will pack the summer away after the campers and counsellors leave. He’ll prepare the cabin for winter. He’ll chop firewood and stack it until it reaches the eaves of the cabin. He’ll plug the leaks in the roof and drag out his heavy quilts. He’ll find a way to avoid Malfoy at the upcoming nuptials, or, more likely, Harry will skip the event entirely, cuddle pile and all. There will be a few corporate retreats after that, Christmas with the Weasleys, a few visits from friends that Harry always has on his calendar.

Yes, it’s lonely up here after the campers leave. Harry’s stove doesn’t work all the time, and the plumbing in his cabin is dodgy. He rarely showers in winter because the bathhouses are a long hike in the dark, wet woods. He’s gotten skilled at cleaning spells, and there aren’t any Malfoys around to notice if he smells a bit ripe.

There will be no lure to a fey portal, no king to pull him through. There will only be the quiet of the landscape and the warm hues of autumn overtaking the hills.

~~***~~

The stars are out when Harry leaves for his run, points of light in a sea of indigo ink. Mars, with its unblinking roseate glow, is visible on the horizon.

Today, Harry follows Mars and heads east.

It’s no surprise when he crests the hill behind the stables. The wet grass squelches beneath his trainers. The sun will rise soon, and Harry means to see the sky.

Harry didn’t grow up with a favourite colour. No one ever asked him what it was when he was small. For most of Harry’s life, his default favourite was Gryffindor red. Gold and maroon meant home. Harry’s enthusiasm for house colours faded after the war.

It was only upon founding Camp Wandwood Wilds that Harry settled on a favourite colour. A choice, made entirely of his own accord, on the crest of a hill in a place that he calls home.

It’s been so long since he’s stood here just to see it. He ignored it entirely last time he came.

The first signs of dawn are on the horizon: a lightening of the sky, the fading of the final stars. The clouds glow in shades of magenta and violet as daylight unfolds beneath them. As the sun peeks over the trees, the colour of the sky deepens to a shade of coral.

This is Harry’s favourite colour: the red-hued orange of the sky at dawn. This colour is fleeting; there and gone in the space of several hundred heartbeats, only visible on clear summer mornings.

He woke up and knew he needed to see it. It’s a paltry thing, this small, secret kernel of understanding. But he’s glad to know it’s there; evidence that he can still want something simple and good. Uncomplicated.

The sky has morphed to summer-blue when Harry casts a Tempus. Breakfast is in thirty minutes.

Before he turns to leave, a shadow catches his eye. The image comes into focus: Lilith and her spindle-legged foal, resting in the shade.

As Harry approaches, Lilith’s muzzle twitches. He breathes through the wash of emotion that hits him, stepping into the shade. He offers his hand to Lilith. She presses her nose to his palm, her warmth settling into Harry’s skin.

“I still don’t have any treats. Maybe tomorrow.”

Lilith sniffs Harry’s shoulder. The short, soft hair on her nose tickles his neck as she nibbles the fabric of his top. She used to do this, years ago, when Harry first met her. Harry always thought it was a greeting, peculiar only to Lilith. None of the other Thestrals share her idiosyncrasy.

Harry nearly shit himself in terror when he first encountered her. The winter dawn was crisp and cold, the forest cast in silvery shadow during Harry’s morning run. A bat-like outline appeared in the mist, set atop ghostly, branch-like legs.

He was sweating when Lilith approached him, cautious and slow. She sniffed him all over—more canine than equine—and nibbled on Harry’s top until she wore a hole in his sleeve.

Harry cried that first day. She was the first living creature he’d encountered in months. Her presence was a boon, a sign of life in the dreadful blankness of winter.

Tears often came when Harry visited Lilith. He tried, as his Mind Healer had instructed, to think of one of the many important people he needed to grieve, but he could never get it quite right, could never manage to be as sad as he should be. So often, he was angry when he drew up the faded half-memory of his parents. Ashamed when he thought of Sirius and Remus. Empty and lifeless when he thought of Hedwig.

This morning, Harry feels more like a wrung out towel than a person, so he doesn’t think of anything at all. He lets Lilith inspect him in her silent, regal manner. After a while, she lets her foal come near, and Harry strokes the fine bones of his wings.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his breath hitching. “So many summers have passed, haven’t they? Malfoy came to visit you. He’s alright. I think he’s alright.”

After a while, Lilith rests her head on Harry’s shoulder. A warm, solid weight.

~~***~~

This thing about Malfoy—whatever it is—is getting worse.

It’s like an itch. Like new nerves prickling to life beneath his skin.

It ebbs on weekends when Malfoy visits his mother and flows back when he returns. It can’t be helped, not with the way Malfoy swans into camp after being at the Manor, wearing button-ups with bright floral designs and wide-legged linen trousers. And his hair. His hair is clean and glossy, golden in the sunlight. He smells woody and expensive, and he looks like he ought to be lounging outside a villa in Italy, eating fresh olives.

By Monday morning, Malfoy is braided and wild again. He has silver hearts on his cheeks. A necklace of acorn caps and raven feathers hangs around his neck; it’s the newest addition to his fey king ensemble. His hair is once again filled with flowers. He has dirt on his knees and bits of leaves stuck to the seat of his shorts. At this point in the summer, Malfoy has a galaxy of freckles and a faint golden tan on the skin he continues to expose so much of.

Harry’s wistful about it, now, the way he wants Malfoy.

The way he wants to touch him, to hold him. The way they bicker with each other; the bright, kinetic momentum of their conversations. The ever-so-soft way Malfoy looks at him in quiet moments.

Harry is also inconveniently tender about how Malfoy treats his campers. How Malfoy allows them to hang on him, fiddle with his hair. Malfoy is still an obnoxious anarchist when it comes to rules, but he’s unfailingly generous with these Muggleborn children who act like he hung the moon.

It occurs to Harry more than once that Malfoy likely never had these freedoms as a child. The comfort of touch, the kindness of an adult seeking to understand him, asking him what he wants instead of making demands. There are no strings attached to how Malfoy cares for these children, no single parameter they must meet to gain his approval. He devotes himself to them simply because they exist.

Malfoy was certainly held and loved far more than Harry ever was, there’s no doubt about that. But Harry suspects affection in the Malfoy household wasn’t easy or plentiful. Harry can only assume it was attached to so many strings.

Malfoy told Harry he’s the same person he always was, but Harry’s come to the conclusion that Malfoy is dead wrong. Malfoy might still be a prat, but he chooses this easiness. He’s still prickly and snarky and often grossly inconsiderate, but he wakes up each morning and steps into this new version of himself entirely on purpose.

Malfoy still annoys Harry but Harry sees it differently than he did at the beginning of the summer. Malfoy isn’t trying to hurt him or even tease him. It’s more like Malfoy’s trying to entertain him, to force him into the light.

In the last week of camp, Harry catches Malfoy teaching his students Hexes. Malfoy is doing it right where Harry can hear him.

“Maggie, this is called a Bat Bogey Hex. Neil was a total shit to you at fireside last night. Let’s get him good, shall we?”

“Malfoy.” Harry is steadier than it was six weeks ago. When Harry’s gaze catches on Malfoy’s pink lips or the wide set of his shoulders or the narrow cut of his waist, he reminds himself Malfoy will be London-bound soon. Malfoy has a flat there and another teaching job lined up, a bevy of charity galas to attend so he can wheedle money out of old men who find him pretty.

“Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You know you can’t do that, yeah?”

“Do what?” Malfoy blinks innocently. His eyes give him away, though. They’re wrinkled at the edges and there’s a hint of that dimple next to his mouth.

“Teach Hexes to first years. They shouldn’t go into Hogwarts knowing how to Hex one another.”

“Too late.” Malfoy’s elaborate braids are all on top of his head today. One of the campers has drawn blue stars on the ridges of his cheekbones. He’s heartbreakingly lovely like this.

Harry’s not sure when he crossed the line into feeling this way: irritation slamming to a halt and toppling into longing. But he’s here now, and he can’t stop it.

“You might be right.” Harry smiles. Malfoy smiles back. “Can’t unring that bell. Not like anyone could prevent us from using them.”

“Are you agreeing with me? You didn’t even threaten to bend me over your knee and discipline me. What’s gotten into you?” Malfoy is near, his breath minty. He smells like the fresh, cold water of the lake and the open blue of the sky. Like pilfered biscuits and late-night bonfires. It’s silly that a single person can remind Harry of all that. And yet, impossibly, Malfoy does.

Harry shrugs and tries not to imagine Malfoy in a compromising position. It’s a losing battle. This whole summer has been a losing battle. Fighting his rigidity and his fear and the memories of a war that never left him. Trying to close the door on his repressed sexuality, his wishes and hopes, and his secret, soul-breaking need to be held and touched and loved.

All he’s got left is this yearning. This ache.

This year, Harry will have more wounds to lick when autumn comes. More pain to process, more loneliness to bear. That’s doable. In time, he’ll forget how the timbre of Malfoy’s voice brings him to his knees. He’ll have the winter to mourn. Harry’s no stranger to loss; he’s done this before, hasn’t he?

Next summer, there won’t be anyone challenging his methods. There won’t be an entire group of feral first-years worshipping his ex-rival and howling at the moon. There won’t be Malfoy, either: strong and wild and delicate and bold. A pile of contradictions. A distraction. A sticking point.

“Last week of camp,” Harry says after what might be too long looking at Malfoy. “Might as well save my energy.”

“And you’ll go back to being incredibly uptight next summer?”

“Likely. I never stopped being uptight. I went lax on the rules for you.”

Harry means to add: because I’ve always thought you were a posh, obnoxious prat. Because I got sick of dealing with you.

“Pity. We all need a bit of chaos.” Malfoy searches Harry’s face. “And you’ll… what? Be here all alone? Hermione told me that’s what you do. Every autumn, you go into hibernation. Emerging in the spring to make seating charts and lists of rules.”

“Something like that. I run a couple of retreats during the school year. Team building bullshit and the like.” Harry doesn’t attempt to look away from Malfoy. He lets his eyes linger on Malfoy’s neck, his shoulder, the rosy pout of his lower lip. It’s the only gift Harry can give himself as this grief takes root inside of him. “It’s quiet. But nice. I don’t mind it. It keeps the place running. It’s serious work we do here.”

Draco hums. “Extremely serious. The very most serious. With utmost seriousness. Harry Potter is very, very serious about the work.”

Harry chokes back a laugh. Maybe it is sort of ridiculous, fitting his whole life into boxes to garner some sense of control.

“Something wrong?” Malfoy’s eyes rake over Harry’s body with relish. It sends a delirious tingle up the length of Harry’s spine.

“No. Just thinking.” Harry pauses. “Your braids make you look like Princess Leia today.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Malfoy flushes a deep, gorgeous pink, clearly flustered. “I do live in Muggle London most of the year, not under a rock. I know you’re comparing me to an icon.”

“So, you watch Muggle films?”

“You didn’t answer the question, Potter. That first one. Very important.”

“Never. I’m much too serious to flirt with anyone.” Harry knows he’s flushed as well. His body is tingly all over. “I’ll be off. Have to prepare for the closing ceremony.”

“Never a restful moment for you, is there?”

Harry shrugs and gives Malfoy a little wave as his campers storm him and he gets pulled away in their tide.

The campers are laughing about something, which makes Malfoy laugh, too. After a spell of sharing stories and gossip, Malfoy organises an impromptu game, replete with morally questionable hexes, no doubt.

Harry stays for a little bit, then heads on.

~~***~~

The last day of camp is a blur of activity. Each group has to give presentations on something they learned at the final fireside. When it’s time for Malfoy’s group, Harry cringes inwardly, expecting the worst, but it’s actually quite nice. They’ve put together a play with handmade puppets on the benefits of moon magic, which is, of course, an unapproved topic, absent from the worksheets Harry gave each counsellor. Malfoy probably ritually burned them. Cast a spell to set them free.

Harry is still unsure about the merits of moon bathing, but he certainly knows an awful lot about it now. Unorthodox, yes—but acceptable. Full marks.

Malfoy beams at his campers the whole time, and Harry doesn’t find him the least bit insufferable.

The fireside festivities continue after all the children go to bed. The atmosphere is exuberant, celebratory. Harry hasn’t been to many parties, but he assumes this is what they should be like: easy camaraderie, knots of people drinking and talking. Luna and Neville are both deeply stoned. Harry loses track of Malfoy. He’s drifted off into the night, as he is wont to do.

Perhaps he’s meeting someone, or giving Craig another thrill. Harry’s gut twists at the thought.

Just before midnight, Harry departs. When he catches sight of his cabin, a note appears in his hand. Hermione has used this spell a few times, so he figures it’s from her at first. But when he unrolls the note, the handwriting is different to hers. Elegant script. Refined and precise. His eyes go wide.

Moon bathing at lake. Do join me. Last night and all. —DLM

“Bloody hell.”

Harry’s heart catches in his throat. His palms prickle. The small core of want he’s kept inside himself since mid-June cracks and sends a dizzying rush through his body, the sensation like a hook, catching and pulling.

Harry stares at the parchment for longer than he should.

This won’t end well. It rarely ends well when Harry gives his heart away. They die or they leave or simply move on without him.

Living at Camp Wandwood Wilds keeps Harry cocooned. Ron and Hermione’s visits are scheduled. Holidays with the Weasleys go his calendar far in advance. He controls his contact with the world and, in turn, his pain and grief do not control him.

Harry walks the meandering path to his cabin, leaves and pine straw crunching beneath his trainers. The well of anticipation refuses to leave, growing within him like a living thing. His mind won’t let him tamp it down, won’t let him shove it away. When he steps up to his rusted, rickety door, he slips his wand into his hand. Instead of unlocking it, he casts a Lumos and opens the note again.

Last night and all.

“Fuck it.”

Harry turns on his heel and heads for the trail that leads to the lake. He snuffs out his Lumos, letting the light of the moon guide him along the wide path that cuts through the ash trees and leads to the lakeshore. It’s not sandy or terribly scenic. There are reeds, and it’s swampy in some areas. But it belongs to Harry, fully and completely, and he loves it because it’s his. He thinks Malfoy loves it, too.

Malfoy. Gods. Harry rubs the back of his neck as he approaches the shore. What if he misinterpreted it? What if all the suggestive comments and the staring and the poking all amount to nothing? What if it’s a joke of some kind? Or what if Malfoy is already down here with someone?

There’s no sign of Malfoy near the docks, but that makes sense. That’s not Malfoy’s spot. Malfoy moon bathes on the hill on the far side of the lake, where Harry spotted the blanket before.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, fists balled up.

The hill is something of a hike. Harry plods along the grassy path, trying to put everything out of his mind, save for the summer night sounds that bloom around him. The hoot of an owl, the trilling of nightjars up past their bedtime, the rustle of the wind, and the endless lap of water as it meets the shore.

Harry senses Malfoy’s magic right before he reaches the foot of the hill. It’s the thin veil of an obscuring spell, a barely detectable warp in the air. But it’s distinctly Malfoy. Harry has never noticed it before, but he senses it in his bones. It’s refined and shimmering and strong, and there’s something about it that pulls Harry forward. He climbs the hill and steps through the ward.

He’s not prepared for what he sees.

There’s a fluffy grey blanket laid out on the ground, pushing down the tall grass. Malfoy lounges on it, propped up on his elbows, pointy face turned towards the light of the moon. He is, of course, stark-naked. His warm, messy summer beauty isn’t gone, but it’s shifted and transformed into something glimmering and pale. A fey king in repose.

He’s calm and still, his limbs relaxed, eyes closed. His Sectumsempra scars are lit up bright white, and there’s the small fold of a line on his belly from how he’s sitting—a bit of softness amongst all of his angles. Otherwise, he’s all limbs: long legs and milky thighs covered in black ink, thin, elegant wrists and lean, muscled arms. His cock is thick and pink and plumped up. Not fully hard, but not soft. There are no braids tonight. His hair falls in thick, loose waves, all the leaves and tangles worked out of it so it gleams.

Harry’s heard the word ‘breathtaking’ many times. It’s a background word in his life, not one he pulls on for daily use. He’s not even sure he’s ever used it. It’s not something he’s ever thought of as literal. But standing here, looking at Malfoy laid out like a feast beneath the moon, he actually forgets to breathe.

“Hello, Harry,” Malfoy says mildly. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Good of you to join me. Can I interest you in moon bathing?”

“Malfoy.” Harry’s breath comes back to him slowly. “You’re naked.”

“Astute observation. How else am I supposed to moon bathe? Should I have a ceremonial thong?” Something glints on Malfoy’s chest: two tiny silver hoops, one in each nipple.

“What the fuck is a ceremonial thong?”

“A bedazzled g-string. I made mine in arts and crafts.”

“I—what? You did what?” Harry’s mind immediately supplies the image for him: Malfoy, spread out in a bejewelled thong crafted of unicorn hair and Swarovski crystals.

“It’s so easy to fuck with you. You’re perfectly edible when you’re irritated.”

Harry rakes his fingers through his hair and realises he hasn’t brushed it in at least two days. “Christ, Malfoy.”

“What? You don’t like my figure?”

“No. I—I didn’t mean. It’s not bad.” Harry’s eyes return to the hoops. They’re so dainty. Malfoy’s nipples are pink, and there’s a light dusting of fine, blond hair between them. Beneath the dip of his navel is another blond trail that leads, like an arrow, to his cock.

Malfoy tips his head toward the sky. There’s a small bump at the top of his nose. His hair reaches the blanket when he leans back. “‘Not bad.’ I’d be insulted, but I know you’re loath to dole out compliments on the best of days.” Malfoy huffs. “I’d have doubts about your sanity if you told me I’m a space princess again.”

Silence hangs between them in the open night air.

“You have nipple rings,” Harry says stupidly. He’s standing right where he was when he stepped through Malfoy’s wards, staring at the gleam of his skin.

Harry shouldn’t have permission to look at Malfoy like this; he should have to pay a price. A piece of his soul, the promise of his firstborn child, his undying allegiance to the fey crown.

“I do.” Malfoy’s voice is silky. “Do you like them? Just put them back in after the summer. They feel divine. A resplendent heaviness.”

“I—yeah. Fuck.” Harry’s nervous system is vibrating at a newly discovered frequency. If he closed his eyes, he imagines he could hear the shape of the night, discern his surroundings like a bat.

Malfoy opens his eyes. He looks pleased with himself. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if you would.”

“I didn’t know if I would when I got your note.”

“If I’d asked you a week ago, you wouldn’t have.”

“Maybe not.” Harry still might bolt, run off along the lakeside path and return tomorrow evening when everyone is gone. Surely, Craig can handle the final morning on his own.

Craig the nudist is the one who needs to be here now. He wouldn’t be staring at Malfoy sporting a stiffy and a stupid look on his face.

Malfoy lifts a hand and extends it to Harry, beckoning him. Just as Harry had seen him do with the Thestrals, with homesick campers, with sharp, shy Dorothy. “I won’t bite. Sit with me.”

Harry steps forward and lets Draco take his hand. Harry thumps down so he’s facing Draco, their thighs touching. He’s woefully inelegant next to the long, clean lines of Malfoy’s body. “Why?”

“You know why.” Malfoy runs his thumb over the bumps of Harry’s knuckles, the inside of his wrist, the centre of his palm.

Harry’s skin buzzes where their legs bump against each other. “You could have anyone.”

“I know I could.” The backs of Draco’s knuckles brush Harry’s forearm, leaving hair standing on end in their wake. “But I’m a spoiled child, and I’ve always wanted your attention. I like getting what I want.”

“But—Draco—I’m not—” Harry’s not so many things. He’s not pretty or shiny or experienced. He’s only been gay for a few weeks. “I’m not what you—”

“You’re not what?” Draco’s fingers drift higher, tucking into the sleeve of Harry’s shirt.

“I’ve only had sex once. And never with a man.”

Draco’s brow creases. His hand rests on Harry’s shoulder, beneath his sleeve. “I thought you’d have women up here. You haven’t? Not at all?”

“I don’t think I fancy women. I haven’t thought about… anything else all that much. Not until this summer.” Harry’s chest heaves like he’s sprinted around the lake. “I’m, yeah. Er. A bit gay.”

He half-expects Draco to make some joke about turning Harry or putting a stop to his heterosexuality, the sort of wry humour Malfoy shares with the counsellors. Instead, Malfoy leans forward and brushes his lips against Harry’s cheek. His hair tickles Harry’s arm, the rasp of his voice a comfort. “Teenage me would have ascended if I’d known you were even a little bit gay.”

Harry laughs, giddy. Lightheaded. The way he gets around Draco. “I didn’t even know.”

“You’re a late bloomer. You can still bloom.” Draco takes Harry’s hand again, strong thumb making circles on Harry’s palm. “Do you want to be here?”

Harry considers this. “Yeah—I. I don’t know what I’m doing. I won’t be—what you want.”

“That’s for me to decide.” Draco’s hand slides to the back of Harry’s neck, fingertips tracing the whorls of hair at his nape. “Is my state of undress acceptable? I wouldn’t clothe myself at night for many people. But I’ll offer it to you.”

“You’re—it’s fine. I like it.” Harry grips his knees. “Do I need to be… too?”

“You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. Just stay here, however long you choose.” The words are gentle, delivered like a promise. “I’d like to touch you. But there’s plenty we can do that doesn’t involve getting undressed.”

“I’d like that. You, touching me. I’ve thought about it.” Images flash through Harry’s mind. Draco, lowering his mouth to Harry’s nipple. His agile fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock. His hands on Harry’s thighs, nudging them apart. It’s all filthy and it’s gotten filthier, even though Harry’s never seen a cock other than his own up close until—right now, really.

“Is that so? I intuited that you’d been having impure thoughts.”

Harry vibrates. He might actually lift off into the night if Draco keeps using that honeyed tongue. It’s like his words have been laced with sex.

“I, yeah.” Harry laughs weakly. “But, like I said. I don’t know what I’m doing, so it’s fine if you want me to go—”

“Stop. I don’t want you to go. When was the last time you kissed anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says quietly. Shame unfurls in his chest. There was a counsellor the second year, a former Ravenclaw. Harry can’t bring up her name or her face, but he remembers the fumbling kiss. How it was exhilarating at first, then awkward and wet. “Years. Three, maybe.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Draco tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for aeons. Millennia. Oceans of time.”

“Yes,” Harry manages. His throat is raw, a coppery tang on the back of his tongue. “Yeah. I think I’ve wanted that for a long time, too.”

“I’ll go so slow. Kissing feels marvellous, Harry.” Draco’s palm slides to the back of Harry’s neck, a bracket holding him in place. “And I’m a master of the art.”

The first brush of Draco’s lips is light, barely a touch at all.

There’s a sense of rightness, of pieces falling into place after rattling around in his mind all summer. Yes, it’s right and good that Harry should be here on this night on a hill by this lake, kissing Malfoy—kissing Draco. It makes sense that Draco should be the one to hold him, to breathe against his lips and ask Harry if he’s ready, if now is the right time. When Harry nods, Draco kisses him. Really kisses him.

Kissing has never had a starring role in the few fantasies Harry’s had over the years. He never got the appeal. It’s awkward to put your mouth against someone else’s.

But this.

It’s not unlike how Harry felt when he cast his first Lumos; magic rolling beneath his skin, bright and buzzing. The clear burst of sensation right after: oh, this is who I am, this is what my body was meant to do. When magic was simple and beautiful and warm. When it was fun.

Draco kisses Harry like he’s savouring a delicacy. He catches Harry’s lower lip between his teeth and crushes his fingers in Harry’s curls, enough to make Harry gasp and open his mouth, leaving room for Draco’s sweet tongue to slip inside and trace the curve of his upper lip. There’s no frantic rush to the finish line, no fumbling, no lack of surety. Like everything about this fey Draco, the kiss is languid and unhurried. Sensual, thorough, and beautifully reckless.

Draco tastes of spearmint and sweetgrass. He smells like clean sweat and lake water. His hair tickles Harry’s arms and shoulders. Draco’s magic feels like summer itself; like warm breezes and morning dew and shady forest paths. Harry can taste that, too, as Draco presses close, warm and bare in Harry’s arms.

Maybe it’s the moon bathing feeding his magical core, or perhaps it’s Draco himself messing about in Harry’s ordinarily shuttered mind, but there’s something happening. There’s a glow Harry sees when he closes his eyes. A door opening, showering a dark room in pale light.

When Draco tilts Harry’s head back to scrape his teeth against Harry’s chin, Harry lifts his hand to Draco’s hair, touching it tentatively. Draco gasps and clutches Harry’s arm, nails sinking into his skin.

“Yes, darling.” Draco pushes into Harry’s hand. “You can touch me. I want you to.”

In the pale light of the moon, Draco’s hair shines pearl-white, its daytime gold vanished. Harry expects it to feel cool to the touch, like water from a forest stream. But it’s not, it’s—

“Warm. Your hair is warm. Like you’ve been lying in the sun.”

Draco’s lips drag across Harry’s scruff and land next to his ear. “You like it.”

Harry nods, helpless, transfixed by the pale hair falling through his fingers.

“You’ve been a bit obsessed, haven’t you? I can tell.” It’s equal parts embarrassing and arousing that Draco has noticed how Harry watches him. That he’s noticed how much Harry likes his hair. He wonders how long Draco has known Harry wants him, if Draco knew before Harry figured it out himself.

“Yes.” Harry buries both hands in Draco’s hair. “It’s so fucking beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful. How do you walk around every day looking like this?”

“It’s a burden I bear willingly if this is my reward.” Draco’s breath quickens and he stretches, cat-like, shivering. “You can touch me wherever you like, you know. I live for it. I think of your hands—oh—”

“Anywhere?” Harry twists a lock between his fingers and presses it to his mouth, fine hairs catching on his lower lip.

“—everywhere. Use your hands. And your mouth.” Draco kisses the shell of Harry’s ear. “After that, Harry—”

Harry gasps when Draco says his name. “After that?”

“I’m going to make you feel incredible.” Draco’s tongue darts out to trace the shell of Harry’s ear. “Even if all you want is another kiss, darling, I’ll shatter you with it.”

“Yes. I need—” Harry kisses him again because he already misses the plush heat of Draco’s tongue. He cradles Draco’s head, letting Draco’s hair fall over through fingers, a pale cascade.

“Pull it.” Draco takes Harry’s hand and presses it to his head, just above the nape of his neck. “Right here. Make a fist—oh, fuck. I can feel that in my cock.”

Harry tilts Draco’s head toward the sky, pulling hard. His mouth finds Draco’s neck, tongue catching the salt of his skin. He drags his teeth over the ridge of Draco’s collarbone, presses his lips to Draco’s pulse point to feel the beat of his heart, to hear the hot, hungry noises in Draco’s throat.

A metallic glint catches Harry’s eye as his lips move along the line of Draco’s neck. He lets go of Draco’s hair, moving a hand over Draco’s chest, scratching through the sparse, fine hair, fingers tracing scars. Gods, Harry forgot about the nipple rings.

Harry’s not sure if he’s going to survive this.

“You stopped. You should keep pulling my—” Draco’s protest is cut off by a sharp gasp when Harry’s knuckles brush his nipple.

Harry tugs experimentally on the hoop. A tremor rolls through Draco’s body and his mouth falls open. This isn’t a fantasy Harry has ever had. It isn’t one he knew he could have, but he’s wholly entranced, pulling one, then the other, watching Draco’s legs spread and his cock thicken. Draco’s nipples pebble, which makes the hoops look even prettier, more prominent.

“It doesn’t hurt? It feels good?” Harry runs his fingers over the loop, up and down, hypnotised by the cold metal on his skin.

“Yes, you should be able to—ah—tell. It aches but it’s—more, do more.” Draco pushes into Harry’s hand. “You can be mean to my tits. Give them a good tug.”

Harry surges forward and kisses him again. He pulls on one ring and twists. He runs his free hand along Draco’s waist; his muscles jump beneath Harry’s fingers.

Harry keeps on, tongue sinking into Draco’s sighing mouth, rolling warm flesh and metal between his fingers. Every so often, he traces one of Draco’s Sectumsempra scars, marvelling at the smooth lines that mar Draco’s otherwise flawless skin.

Harry’s lips wander along Draco’s jawline. He darts his tongue out when he reaches Draco’s neck; his skin is salty-sweet. Harry is struck with the dizzying notion that Draco tastes like something everywhere on his body. Harry wants it all.

Draco’s torso tenses when Harry takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks. He experiments, opening his mouth wider, pressing the width of his tongue to Draco’s nipple and licking greedily. Spit drips from his lower lip.

“Ah, fuck. Just like that. Get it wet.” Draco brushes his thumb along Harry’s jaw as Harry tugs one hoop with his teeth. “You’re so good, Harry. You can be so good, can’t you?”

He’s good. Yeah, he can be—he can be so good.

Harry throws off his fogged up glasses before taking Draco’s other nipple into his mouth and nipping the taut flesh, lavishing it with his tongue.

Draco whimpers and lets his knee fall to the side, resting against Harry’s clothed leg. It’s not like Harry’s forgotten about Draco’s cock; he’s been focused on other concerns. But there it is, Draco’s long, gorgeous fingers resting on his thigh, right next to it.

Christ, it’s big. It looks perfect for touching: long and thick, flushed along the shaft, wet tip peeking out from the foreskin.

“Keep using your mouth.” Draco pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair and holds Harry in place as he flicks the ring with his tongue. “That’s it. You’re so sweet, aren’t you? When you’re not—running your mouth.”

Draco pulls Harry’s hair hard—Christ, he can feel that in his cock—and Harry sucks and licks in return, wet and messy and beautifully dirty. Dirty isn’t something Harry’s ever wanted, not until Draco fell into his summer, capturing Harry and telling him—

“I need to come, sweetheart. Is it okay if I touch my cock?” Draco pulls Harry back by the hair until Harry is looking in his eyes. “Tell me. I need it so badly. You made me so hard.”

Harry glances at Draco’s fat, pink cock. Harry’s own cock strains against his jeans, and, gods, he wants—

He wants so much. Wants to tease and touch and taste, to rut against Draco’s cock until he comes in his jeans. Wants Draco to stretch him and fuck him open. But first—

“Can I touch you?” Harry sounds small and cautious.

“Can you touch me?” Draco laughs. His chest is flushed in splotchy patches, his hair mussed and tangled around his face. “Are you daft? Of course you can fucking touch me. Look what you’ve done to me.”

“What I’ve done to you?” Harry runs his fingertips along the underside of Draco’s shaft. There’s a small twist of anxiety in Harry’s chest, the thought that he’s going to fuck this up. But there’s gooseflesh on Draco’s thighs, and his breath keeps catching.

“I broke all my rules for you, Harry.” Draco laughs, but it becomes a grunt when Harry presses his thumb against the head of Draco’s cock, tugging the foreskin back and smearing wetness over the rosy head.

“You have rules?” Harry makes a loose fist around Draco’s cock and strokes it once. The skin is stretched tight and full. And it’s hot, gods, it’s so hot in Harry’s—

“Your hands. I had one rule—oh fuck—” Draco pants and rolls his hips, thrusting into Harry’s fist. “I was going to—Merlin—leave you alone.”

Harry snorts in a terribly undignified way, but Draco laughs, too. Harry strokes him, and Draco moans like Harry hasn’t been hidden away in a cabin for five years, touching no cocks at all. Drops of precome slip over Harry’s fingers, wet and splendidly messy, not enough to make Draco’s cock slick, but enough that Harry can smell it. The musky, alkaline scent of sex and wanting. Of Draco wanting him.

“Your rule didn’t work.”

“No. Never could. Stay away.” Draco shudders, rolling his hips so his cock slips in Harry’s fist. “Let me—ah—I want your mouth. Here.”

Draco bats Harry’s hand away from his cock and guides Harry’s mouth to his nipple. Harry sucks and licks, biting occasionally. Here, Harry can hear all of Draco’s sounds: the rapid beat of his heart, the rasp of his breath. A whispered lubrication spell and the filthy slide of Draco’s hand on his cock. Draco’s words fall into the mix; Harry is darling and adorable; his mouth is sinful and made of sex. Draco babbles on as he mercilessly strokes his cock, and Harry is so focused on Draco’s fucking nipple rings that he almost misses—

“—want you to see me come. See what you’ve been” —Draco lifts his hips and fucks into his fist— “doing to me all summer. Watch me. I’m going to—gods, Harry—I’m—”

The words fall into place in Harry’s brain. “Fuck. Should I—”

“Don’t fucking stop—keep touching me. And I’ll show you, oh—” Draco’s hand works smoothly, twisting at the tip, gliding down to its thick base.

“Like this?” Harry plucks Draco’s nipples again, tugging the hoops. Draco’s chest is wet with spit, his nipples so hard they look painful.

Draco nods wildly. “Yes—Harry. Watch me—”

Draco makes a wild, guttural noise. An arc of come splatters on his chest, across the pale lines of his scars, a thick drop on one nipple ring. Harry dives forward to lick it off, salty-bitter against his tongue. Draco’s cock jerks, and his back curves when the next spurt hits his belly.

“You taste so good,” Harry says. “Fuck, you look—you look so good. That was—”

“Good, so good,” Draco murmurs.

There’s an awed look on Draco’s face as the aftershocks of his climax roll through him. He’s shockingly vulnerable in the moonlight, naked and covered in come. Harry places a light kiss on his lips and lets it deepen when Draco opens for him.

This kiss is an offering, a promise of allegiance to this wild king, if only for a night. Draco’s lips are plump and shiny, his body pliant when Harry grips his waist and slides his fingers into his curtain of hair. Draco accepts these touches as his due. He lets himself be kissed and caressed, sighing as Harry swears fealty with his lips and hands.

Harry has been so focused on Draco that he’s ignored his own body, but it slips back into place as Draco murmurs and laughs against his lips. When Draco’s lips brush his ear and he says—

“Can I touch you now, Harry?”

—Harry’s cock pulsates heavily, trapped beneath worn denim. His thighs and back are tight with the urge to drive forward and fuck into a fist or a mouth, to sink into something slippery and tight and hot. Or—Harry could take something inside—

Harry shivers. “Yeah. I’d like—maybe if you—”

Fuck me, Harry thinks, dizzy with it. Maybe if you fuck me. Maybe if you split me open and fuck me. Fill me.

“—take off my shirt. Will you—”

“Brilliant. Let’s see what you’ve been hiding under there.”

Draco murmurs a cleaning spell and kisses Harry again, lifting the hem of his shirt and tugging Harry free. Draco looks his fill, grey eyes nearly black in cool, lunar light.

“Have you seen yourself, Harry?” Draco touches Harry’s shoulder, light and reverent. “I don’t think you have.”

Harry’s pulse is a pattering flicker at the base of his neck. “I—no. I don’t think so.”

“You’d know.” Draco’s eyes rake over him, appreciative. “You’d be insufferable. Arrogant. Slutty, but—”

Draco drags his fingers through Harry’s chest hair, to his navel and the fuzzy hair beneath it. A soft swish of magic hits Harry’s skin, and the button and zipper on his jeans fall open.

“—I like you like this.”

“What’s—that? Like what?”

“So uptight you can barely function—”

“Hey!” Harry’s next protest is lost because Draco is peeling off his jeans. Harry’s cock is so stiff, it’s peeking out of the sodding waistband of his pants.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Draco’s moves, slow and sinuous, pulling them both down to the blanket. “Better for touching when you show me all the things I want.”

“Yeah—I.” Harry’s hand shakes when he moves it to Draco’s waist. “It’s better.”

“Are you nervous? I can read your energy, you know.” Draco lifts one of Harry’s curls and tucks it behind his ear. “You seem so gruff, but you’re precious and tender. Everyone thinks you’re an old tree stump in your dark forest. But you’re actually a fussy orchid that needs to be coaxed out of hiding.”

“You’re so full of shit.” The words come out shaky.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I? It’s alright, darling. I’ll find out what you need.”

“No, I’m—I don’t know. I’m not an orchid—”

Draco hums, letting a finger travel down the centre of Harry’s chest.

Harry’s is his own mess of contradictions—he wants to be taken and fucked and used; wants Draco to rough him up and make him so sore he’ll feel it for the next week. But these wants are entirely new, stirred up only in the past few weeks. Harry’s other parts are older and louder, vying for attention. Anxiety—yes, and an awful, aching need to come beneath Draco’s hand. The long-hidden want to be held and the fear of being touched and the bone-deep certainty that Harry won’t be the same after tonight; that a season of loneliness and reflection won’t fix this.

Maybe he’s an orchid, or whatever. He’ll never admit he’s a sodding hothouse flower. But—

“Yeah, a little. I’m a little nervous.”

Draco kisses him like he’s giving Harry a reward; a pleased king caring for his pet. Draco’s kisses are hungry, his hands exploring the definition of Harry’s muscles, the tight plane of his upper abdomen, the slight curve below it. Harry is terribly sensitive about that particular imperfection, but Draco’s caresses are worshipful. When Draco finally breaks the kiss, Harry’s head is fuzzy and his scalp tingles. The edges of his fear are a touch less jagged.

“I’ll only touch you how you want to be touched. And if you don’t want to come—”

“I do want to come. I need to. I want you to see me, and I want—I want you. But I don’t know what I’m doing or how” —Harry takes a deep breath and pushes it out— “to do it.”

Draco’s warm hand slips to the dip of Harry’s waist. “Fortunately for you, I’m a longtime slut, and I know precisely what I’m doing. I can use the tip of my tongue and I’ll make you come so hard you forget how to make a list of rules.”

Harry makes an abject sound. His hips ache with unspent need, his thoughts moving slower than honey. Draco murmurs assurances against Harry’s lips, kissing Harry’s forehead and his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His hands explore the pink lines of Harry’s scars and the cords of his muscles like he’s mapping Harry’s body.

Draco tucks his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s pants and tugs enough to make it snap. “On or off?”

“Off.” A flicker of embarrassment hits his belly, but a deeper part of him wants to be exposed, to show Draco his fervent wanting. “Yeah, off. Fuck.”

Draco vanishes Harry’s pants with a flick of his finger. Christ, knows wandless magic specifically for sex reasons. Harry can’t wrap his mind around it is before—

“Oh my. Would you look at that?” Draco drags his fingers over Harry’s furred belly again. Every movement goes straight to Harry’s aching cock. A sticky strand of precome drools from the tip when Draco’s fingers flutter close. “What a gorgeous cock. I’d always thought it would be. Long and thick. That ripe cock head, all shiny and wet. It’s almost purple, you're so hard. Does it hurt? It looks like it does.”

“A little.” Harry whimpers, parting his legs sluttily. Draco runs a finger down the line of Harry’s cock, looking at it fondly. “You—you thought about this?”

“Mm.” Draco hums and conjures oil with a wordless spell, kneeling next to Harry. “You know I have. Hundreds of times. It’s nice to finally meet you, Harry’s cock.”

Harry chokes out a laugh. Christ, Draco is bizarre.

The conjured oil drips on Harry’s chest, his belly. Another thick drop falls on his cock. Draco performs the spell again and drizzles more on Harry’s thighs. Harry squirms. “This is weird. What the fuck—”

Draco’s laugh is melodic. His features fade in and out of shadow as he moves, the very image of a fey king moving among the trees. But he smiles; his expression is mischievous and warm and reflective of the stunningly improbable person Harry has come to know. “Don’t fret. I’m oiling you. You’re going to love it.”

“You realize this is completely fucking—oh—” Harry’s chest floods with heat where Draco’s palms slide over him, tender but firm. “Mental. It’s mental. I’ve never—oh, fuck.”

“You’ve never what?” Draco drags his fingers through the oil on Harry’s torso and smooths it again, circling each nipple before tugging them into stiff peaks.

“I’ve never,” Harry mumbles. He can’t think, and he’s done so little that none of it is worth saying, anyway. “I’ve never been touched—”

This isn’t true in a literal sense. Of course Harry’s been touched. Hermione gloms onto him at every Weasley gathering. Luna lies across his lap when she visits Wandwood Wilds. Ron is a hugger when he drinks, liberal with his, I love you, mates. He sometimes gets teary-eyed in between hugs and holds Harry’s face in his hands, depositing a kiss on his forehead.

But Draco hums as if he understands exactly what Harry means.

“—never like this.” Harry’s back curves and his cock thrusts up, but there’s nothing to thrust into. “Please.”

Draco’s hand slips close to Harry’s cock, and Harry keens. Draco’s hair falls over one shoulder, long enough that it tickles Harry’s chest.

“This is how people used to do healing magic. Did you know that?” Draco tweaks Harry’s nipples again, conjuring more oil, smoothing it over hair and skin and striations of muscle.

“Full of shit,” Harry murmurs, listening to the shck-shck-schk of the oil gliding beneath Draco’s strong, warm palms. It’s a gentle, lulling sound, like the small waves of the lake kissing its marshy shore.

“I’m not.” Draco’s hair swishes against Harry’s abdomen and pools above his cock. “It’s healing. I’m good at it.”

“You so are. Full of shit, I mean. So full of—You’re gonna tell me—” Harry’s words slide together. Yousoare. Gonnatellme. His plan is to say something about reading energies, but Draco’s hair falls onto his cock, silk-soft and warm, as if Draco soaked up part of the sun and carried it into the night.

Harry’s cock jerks when Draco moves lower, dragging his hair down its length. Precome beads at his tip. He knows some of it is sticking to Draco’s hair, which is objectively a little nasty, but it’s also fucking thrilling. Harry catches Draco’s hair between his fingers, letting the strands fall like water. He has half a mind to wrap it around his cock and—fuck—come all over it, but that requires consent and access to a shower.

“I’m going to tell you what?” Draco massages the tense muscles of Harry’s hip flexors, kneading all the places where Harry is locked up tightest. Harry sinks into thinking of Draco—imagining those long fingers sliding inside, the fat head of Draco’s cock in his throat, his pale hair wrapped around Harry’s fist as he pushes his aching prick inside Draco’s smooth, pink hole—

“Dunno,” Harry says. “Forgot.” He can feel Draco’s smile, like he sensed Draco’s magic on the hill.

“Would it be alright if I get between your legs, Harry?” Draco’s voice is gentle. His thumbs caress Harry’s lower abdomen.

“Yes. Yes, please.” Harry spreads his thighs when Draco taps his knee. Draco slides in between as if he’s always belonged right here, as if they were born to fit just like this.

“You’ve shown me your cock.” Draco runs a finger from base to tip, making Harry’s cock jerk painfully. “Will you show me what else you’ve got for me, or are you still shy?”

Harry is loose and floaty, and his body is hungry and ready. He hikes a knee up with barely a thought. “Not shy.”

“No? That’s very good. You’re doing so well.”

Draco’s fingers dig into the muscles of his thighs, releasing knots that must be a decade old. When Draco reaches his inner thighs, Harry gasps. It never occurred to him he’d be so sensitive there, that strong hands working his muscles would make him flushed and needy. Draco’s hands make Harry want to—

“Spread for me.” Draco pushes Harry’s thighs apart. “Look at that. Laid out like a banquet.”

“Are you going to fuck me?” Harry’s words are distant, separate from his awareness. Areyougonnafuckme.

“No. Not tonight.” Draco’s fingers drift inward, his touch light and sweet. There’s a tingle of magic in his movements—a prep spell, Harry’s pretty sure. The thought makes his hips twitch with need. “You’ve never even been touched here. You’re not ready to be fucked.”

“Yes. Yes, I—” Harry shudders as Draco pushes his other leg up, dripping more oil between his arsecheeks.

“I’m going to make you come like this. With my fingers and my tongue. Tell me that’s what you want, Harry.”

Harry nods. “Please. Yes. I—”

Want this. Want you. I’ve wanted you for so long that I—

Harry makes a deeply needy, humiliating noise when Draco presses a finger into the cleft of his arse, smearing oil over his hole.

—I’m going mad.

“This is what you want. What you need.” Draco slides another finger between Harry’s arsecheeks and presses on the puckered furl of his hole with two fingers, stroking it, slow and sweet. “Not that I wouldn’t have you fuck me. But you’re perfect like this. Finally still.”

Nothing is rushed. Every touch is languorous, delivered to make Harry’s back bow and his toes curl. Harry has lived most of his life with a heart-pounding urgency that never left him. Draco is the opposite of that, naked beneath the moon, drawing pleasure from Harry as if the night is limitless.

Harry is undone at the tips of Draco’s fingers.

“Deep breath, darling.”

Harry breathes in and releases, letting it turn into a long moan as Draco’s finger sinks inside. It’s too much—a fierce burn, but, Merlin, it feels brilliant, too.

“It’s obscene how tight you are,” Draco says conversationally. “How smooth you are inside. And I’m only halfway in.”

Draco moves his finger in gentle strokes, toying with Harry’s rim. It shouldn’t be this good. Nothing has the right to be this good., not when Draco is only teasing him, stretching, making space for—

“More. More.” The word is salty-sweet in Harry’s mouth, like Draco’s skin. He wants to pull all of Draco into all of him until they’re one whole, living being. But all Harry can ask for is—

“All the way,” Draco whispers and sinks his finger, as promised—

Harry’s hips roll. “Y-es—that’s good.”

—all the way inside.

Draco huffs, a pleased little sound. “My, my. I wouldn’t last if I got my cock inside you. I’d barely be able to move.”

“Fuck, that feels—”

“Tell me.” Draco twists his finger, sinking it in again. Twists and sinks, twists and sinks.

The burn fades to a lovely, thrummy ache. Harry’s cheeks burn and throb, a flush spreading across his neck and chest. Mostly, though, it’s exquisitely—

“Full. So full.”

“I’ve barely even filled you. Will you let me give you another?” The sound of Draco’s finger plunging in and out is filthy, slippery and squelching. He pulls his finger all the way out and lets two fingers rest at Harry’s entrance.

“Y-eah, please—”

Draco pushes the pads of his fingers against Harry’s hole until it flutters and gives way to the pressure.

Harry breathes out again as a second finger sinks in, enough pressure there’s another rush of that sinful burn. Two knuckles sit against Harry’s rim and push until there’s another bit of give.

Draco’s cock is plump against Harry’s thigh. “Can I?”

“Yes.” Harry swallows audibly. “More.”

Draco rotates his fingers as he pulls out and pushes back inside, slow and even until his knuckles—

“Breathe,” Draco says. “Just breathe. I promise it’s going to feel—oh—there you are.”

—plunge inside, down to the base of Draco’s fingers.

Harry should tell Draco how good it is, how exquisitely full he is. But instead, Harry mewls, and his feet flex as the burn dissipates into something carefully sensual. A slow, tender unravelling.

“That’s it right there, isn’t it?” Draco’s fingers crook at a wicked angle, hitting a spot that makes Harry cry out. His mind is blank-white as Draco strokes inside and murmurs, “How brilliant you are, Harry. Look how well you’re doing, letting me take care of you.”

Pleasure crests and recedes, a slow tide that Draco controls with the slightest movements of his hand. A single slide, a touch more oil, a crooked finger hitting the right place. He’s never been so full, so open—he wants to be split open wide, impaled on Draco’s cock, a vessel for him to fill and fill and fill. There’s a sticky pool of precome beneath Harry’s navel, a bead forming at the tip of his cock with every other thrust.

“Good, you’re so good. I’m going to kiss you again, darling. I miss your lips on mine.”

With his fingers working inside Harry steadily, Draco moves his lips over Harry’s oiled skin, flicking out his tongue and tasting Harry from his belly to his chest to the corner of his mouth. Harry’s lips part for the slide of Draco’s clever tongue, swallowing the helplessly pleased sounds Draco makes when their cocks slide together.

It heats Harry up fast, too fast. He whines as the friction builds and Draco’s fingers crook inside “I’m going to come if you keep—nng—if you keep doing that.”

“Can’t have that.” Draco’s hand stills. “Unless you’d like to. In which case—”

“I like it. But if—if you want—”

“No. Tell me what you want. Don’t—don’t ever—do something just because someone tells you to.” Draco’s teeth scrape his jaw. “We can do it like this. You can make me all messy. Or I can put my tongue inside you while you stroke your cock for me.”

Harry’s mind fuzzes out again. He doesn’t think he can speak, not with Draco’s words rolling around in his brain and his fingers firmly planted in Harry’s arse.

“Tell me.” Draco curls his fingers and presses.

Harry tries to buck up, to slide against some part of Draco’s body, but Draco hovers over him, his fingers unmoving. Harry’s thoroughly immobilised—he could throw Draco off him with force, but where’s the fun in that?

“I want to—” Harry squirms, trying to get Draco’s hand to start working again. He can’t fuck himself on Draco’s fingers, pinned down as he is, but the slight rocking is enough to make him whine. “Please.”

“Tell me how you want it, you stubborn git. You can’t come like this, can you? So you’ll have to make a decision.” There’s a touch of haughtiness in Draco’s voice that makes Harry’s cock throb. This is another, more embarrassing truth that Harry is coming to understand; he’s always wanted Draco’s—

“Your tongue.”

“Very good.” Draco sounds pleased, impressed in a way that Harry probably shouldn’t think about too much if he doesn’t want to come immediately. “I want to know how you taste.”

Before Harry can respond, Draco flicks a spell at his hair with his free hand, and the whole diaphanous mess of it tightens into a bun. He peppers Harry’s chest with kisses, each one filthier and more lingering than the last. Draco’s noises are obscene as he nears Harry’s cock, and he sighs, satisfied, taking the head between his lips, suckling and flicking his tongue until Harry is thrusting into his mouth.

Draco pulls away from Harry’s cock, leaving him desperate and shaking. “You can’t come yet. I have plans. Pull your legs up for me—”

Draco pushes Harry’s thighs to his chest, higher than they were before. Impressively, his other hand hasn’t moved, long fingers still pressed tight against his prostate, curling every now and then.

The first lick comes with Draco’s fingers still buried inside him. There’s a hot swipe on the stretched muscle, and then another; firmer this time. Draco makes satisfied unh-unh-unh noises, finger fucking Harry slowly and precisely, his tongue flicking out and teasing Harry’s rim. Draco’s fingers drip with spit, so slippery that they dip in and out with increasing ease. The sound of it is filthy—Harry is so wet, spit dripping out of his arse.

When Draco slips his fingers out, Harry is so empty. But Draco’s tongue drags over his rim—

“Oh, my god—fuck. Fuck.” Harry’s fingers curl in the blanket.

Draco is actually kissing him there—on his arse. His tongue traces the puckered skin, slowly wiggling inside before drawing back again. Compared to Draco’s fingers, Draco’s tongue is diminutive, but it’s decadent. Like dessert at midnight or a scalding bath at the end of a long day. It’s more than that though because it’s sinful and depraved and—

“Heaven, darling. You taste like heaven.” Draco parts Harry with his thumbs and kisses him again, taking a deep inhale and groaning as he presses the flat of his tongue to Harry’s hole and licks. “M’going to put it inside you.”

Harry practically sobs when Draco pushes the tip of his tongue inside. Harry’s world narrows to the undulation of muscle, the quivering of his hole, and the heat of Draco’s breath. It’s unconscionable behaviour for a camp director and goes against the core values of Wandwood Wilds’ employer-employee relationships, but it’s hot and dirty, and the wrongness makes it hotter. Filthier.

“Can I—fuck—can I come? Fuck, please.”

Draco hums and Harry takes it as approval. He spits in one hand and wraps it around his cock as Draco pushes his tongue inside, wriggling until Harry’s hole flutters and gives, letting him in deep. Harry’s hand flies over his cock while Draco makes obscene grunting and sucking noises like he’s feasting, like he’s gorging himself.

This has been building all night—all summer, really. The night sounds fade away. There is only the searing heat of Draco’s tongue, the pressure of his thumbs and the press of his nose against Harry’s bollocks, the sinful tightness of Harry’s fist as he pumps his cock.

“Christ, Draco. Fuck.”

It hits Harry like a wave, rising and swelling. His arse clenches around Draco’s tongue and his cock swells in his fist, spurting come over his chest and stomach, where it gathers in his navel. Draco grunts and licks Harry through his orgasm.

Just as Draco promised, Harry is shattered, spread out in pieces beneath the boundless August sky.

Afterwards, Draco rests his head against Harry’s thigh. It takes Harry minutes to come back to himself, lost in the splayed-out afterglow of his orgasm. Draco stretches and sprawls next to him and asks—so sweetly—if he can kiss him. Then he does, sharp and sweet. This time, Harry’s hands know where to go. He trails his fingers along Draco’s waist, over the long line of his thigh, and over Draco’s cock, which is soft and slick.

“Did you come again? It feels like you did,” Harry murmurs, barely giving Draco room to reply. He wants to live in Draco’s mouth as much as he wants the answer.

“You tasted divine. I came while my tongue was buried in your arse.”

Harry’s cock gives a valiant twitch, but his limbs are heavy and his eyes flutter shut. “Fuck, that’s filthy. I’d—go again. I think I can. If you—”

“Let’s sleep, darling.”

“Here? Like, in the wilderness?”

“You run a summer camp, and you don’t want to sleep beneath the stars?”

“I’m fond of tents.” Harry brushes a thumb across Draco’s cheekbone. “And not having my cock out.”

“I have a blanket. And excellent wards.” Draco hits Harry with a cleaning Charm. His magic is warm and fizzy. “I’ll use my best cushioning Charm for you.”

How can Harry say no to that?

Harry shivers with bliss when Draco pulls a gauzy blanket out of his pack and spreads it over them. When he drifts off, Draco is holding him. Harry’s mind, for once, is clear.

~~***~~

Harry wakes with Draco’s face mashed against his chest, his hair fanned out across his back. There’s a bit tickling Harry’s nose, a stray hair stuck to his lip. Draco is warm and solid and marvellously real.

In the pre-dawn light, Draco is no longer a moonlit fey king. He’s bright and vivid. His hair is burnished gold and the freckles on his upper arms and shoulders are a shade darker. The sunburn on his shoulders is peeling, revealing patches of shiny, pink skin. A scrape on one calf is still healing, and there’s a silver-white scar on his foot that looks like it never healed properly. Harry wonders if it happened when Draco was under house arrest.

When Harry reaches for his wand, Draco makes a grumpy sound and rubs his nose between Harry’s pecs. A Tempus tells Harry it’s just gone six. The first bell for breakfast will ring in an hour and a half. If he tips his head just so, Harry can see Mars on the eastern horizon, yellow-hued light bleeding into the sky.

“I don’t want to get up,” Draco mumbles, rubbing his face against Harry’s chest, cat-like. “Don’t make me.”

“Have to,” Harry says. He knows he should disengage from Draco. He should get dressed and head back to his cabin so he can prepare for the campers to go home, and so he can accept the reality that Draco is leaving, too. Instead, he threads his fingers through Draco’s fine, pale hair and places a kiss on his forehead.

“It’s only six. No one should be awake unless they’re fucking.” Draco kisses Harry’s shoulder and buries his face against Harry’s neck. “You smell so good. Like clean air and smoke. And something musky and rich. Like sex. It’s probably the sex.”

They should get going. They should shower and Draco should pack—fuck, he’s leaving—but Harry’s legs are heavy and languid. Draco is telling him how good he smells. No, he’s never moving from this spot—Craig can, in fact, handle the last day.

It doesn’t help matters that Harry’s body hums with desire when Draco throws a leg over his thigh or that his heart catches in his throat when Draco lifts his head and there are creases on his marmoreal skin from where he used Harry as a pillow.

“I like how you smell, too,” Harry murmurs.

“I’ve been told I have a very masculine bouquet. Combined with campfire and smashed biscuits.”

“No. You smell like the lake. Suncream and clean sweat. Fancy cologne when you’re dressed up.” Harry’s ears burn. Couples do this. It feels like an illicit exchange, something shared under the cover of darkness, not in the rising light of morning.

“It’s extremely fancy and precious. Mother had it made for me in Paris. It’s vetiver, lime, jasmine tea, and ambergris. Touch of spice. Makes me irresistible.”

“You wish.” Harry pulls Draco down so he covers Harry’s body. Draco struggles. He’s strong, but not as strong as Harry.

All Harry has to do is cup the back of Draco’s neck and grab his waist, and Draco couldn’t get away from him. Harry hasn’t leveraged his strength with Draco. He spent the summer trying not to push him against a wall or a tree or the floor of the gathering pavilion.

“Oh, you are strong.” Draco wriggles and laughs, and Harry holds him tighter. He rubs his cheek against Harry’s stubble until he has beard burn, then kisses the sensitive spot behind Harry’s ear. Warmth blooms from the places where Draco’s body touches his, his abdomen pleasantly sore. Draco licks Harry’s ear before whispering. “You could hold me down and have me any time. I could never outrun you.”

“Is that what you want?” Harry’s toes curl against the blanket. He imagines chasing Draco along one of the trails, throwing him to the ground and pinning him by the wrists.

“It would take much less time to list the things I don’t want from you.”

It’s meant to be a flirtation, shared between lovers, but Draco doesn’t say it in his usual teasing tone. Draco is offering something much more pointed; a stripped-bare truth.

Before Harry can respond, Draco kisses him, pushing his tongue inside Harry’s mouth. Harry’s hand automatically slips into Draco’s hair, and fuck if his cock doesn’t get half-hard from feeling the warm, sleek weight of it in his fingers. Merlin. He wants to wrap it around his cock, but he’s not sure if that’s a thing he should want.

“There you are.” Draco cups Harry’s cock, rubs his thumb below the tip, and pulls back the soft fold of Harry’s foreskin. “I was waiting for you.”

Harry pushes into Draco’s hand. The sore, hot sensation in his belly grows tight. “Draco.”

“I want to suck you until you’re a twitching, stammering mess.” Draco brings his lips close to Harry’s check and licks along the line of his stubble. “How would you like that? Would you like to come in my mouth?”

Harry nods wildly and spreads his legs.

It’s not slow this time, nor is it methodical in the way Draco was last night. This morning, their lovemaking is pointed. Like Draco is crafting an argument and driving it home with his hands and lips and cock. Harry very nearly comes when Draco’s mouth gets on him. Harry’s whole body shakes when Draco pulls off with a theatrically slick pop.

“Pull my hair and fuck my throat,” Draco says hoarsely. “Fill it up.”

“Yeah, yeah—fuck—your mouth.” Harry lets out a string of obscenities when his cock hits the back of Draco’s throat.

It’s a distraction—a brilliant distraction, one that empties Harry’s brain of everything but the feel of Draco’s hair and the hot slide of his mouth. Harry closes his eyes and thrusts up, the aching head of his cock bumping the back of Draco’s throat. Harry briefly imagines Draco doing this to him while he’s gagging and helpless—Merlin, it would be good, lying still and taking it.

Before Harry can process the concept of Draco fucking his throat, before Harry can wrap his mind around the idea that he wants all of this—wants it in the morning when he wakes and at night after the stars rise, warm and living beneath his hands—his back arches. He’s dimly aware of Draco swallowing around his swollen tip. Harry is lost for long moments in the gripping heat of Draco’s throat, the glittering sweetness of release. And, belatedly, the knowledge that Draco is steadily swallowing his come.

“My turn,” he says when he climbs up Harry’s body.

Draco manhandles him to his side, slipping his oiled cock between Harry’s thighs—you’ll love this, sweetheart—and fucks sloppily between them, hips slapping against Harry’s arse. It’s only a handful of heartbeats before Draco seizes and spurts in the slick warmth of Harry’s groin.

“You defiled me,” Harry says. When he moves his legs, he drips on the blanket. “You absolutely ruined me.”

“Mm, that was the point. I want you to fancy me. And only me.”

“Have done for a while.” Harry didn’t intend to say anything of the sort. It’s increasingly difficult to remember that this is no time for pronouncements. But Harry lets the confession sit between them because it’s the truth, and Harry’s tired of running from true things. “Turns out I get terribly horny when you’re being a nuisance. Which is constant.”

Draco laughs, buries his nose in Harry’s curls, and wraps his arms tight around him. They lie like that for a while, laced together like interwoven threads. Like a braid. Draco murmurs a cleaning spell and runs his hands over Harry’s back, down to his arse to cup an arsecheek.

“Is this all from running?” Draco’s hand slips further down, warm against the back of Harry’s thigh. “You’re so stunning, it should be a crime. And no man has touched the pièce de resistance save for me. How lucky I am.”

“Mm,” Harry replies. Tingles run down the length of Harry’s legs, across his toes, up to the crown of his head. Having his thighs mercilessly fucked has knocked loose a few more parts and pieces, and now he’s a useless puddle, beholden to the joy of being held.

It’s irresponsible, giving way to dopey sentimentality when Harry should be orchestrating the last day of summer.

But Harry stays. He can rest here before the sun is high.

Draco blatantly feels him up, squeezing Harry’s pecs and waist and the curve of his arse. He hums happily when Harry gasps or wiggles his toes. His lips stay on Harry’s neck, murmuring nonsense about Harry’s gorgeous thighs and all the things Draco wants to do with him. Above them, the sky is awash with morning colour, coral-orange light catching the fine blond hair on Draco’s skin, lighting him up gold.

Draco props himself up and squeezes a bicep. “Your arms. Circe and Morganna both. You could toss me around any time you like. Pin me to the nearest mattress.”

There’s an answering twitch at the base of Harry’s cock. He can’t get hard again this soon—at least, he thinks that’s the case—but there’s interest, all the same. Harry feels high, his body buzzy, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’d like that?”

Draco is quiet. His hands still for a moment before he resumes his exploration of Harry’s muscles. Harry can almost hear him gathering his words.

“Like I said, the list of what I want is far more detailed than the few I don’t.” He threads his fingers through Harry’s.

“But you’re leaving today.”

“But I’m leaving today. Yes. And I live in London.”

Harry’s swallows around the tight thing in his throat. It’s more than stupid to ask, to try for anything more. Not when Draco is—Draco. Free and wild and lovely, ephemeral as the colour of the sky at dawn. “You could stay here. Stay for—for a night. Just one more night.”

Draco squeezes his hand, puffs air against Harry’s neck. “I’ve promised Mother I’ll spend the week with her in Paris. Portkey leaves tonight. We’re still on a strict travel watch, so I can’t get around the timing, I’m afraid, but—”

Draco does figure eights around Harry’s knuckles. Harry wants to melt into this moment, sink into the heat of Draco’s skin and the decadence of his touch. But—

“But?”

“But I’d like to see you.” Draco’s voice is hushed. “Soon after. Not so long that I start to miss our rows.”

Harry’s heart patters. Draco wants to see him, which means—well, it means something more than gazing at one another across an evening fire. Harry doesn’t know how much more. He’s never had anything more.

“I want you to come see me in London.”

“I don’t do well in the city. I don’t—it’s just. Loud.” Harry winces. It’s a lame excuse. “I haven’t been to London, like actual London, since I moved here.”

Draco rubs his lips against the nape of Harry’s neck. His breath is humid and close. He rests a hand on the centre of Harry’s chest. “My flat isn’t loud. It’s the only place you’d see. I wouldn’t even let you get out of bed.”

Harry closes his eyes. Wood pigeons rustle in the underbrush, cooing to one another. The thrushes sing their morning songs, answered by the frogs and toads that hide in the marshy grass by the lake. Water laps against the shore, an endless advance and retreat.

He’s quiet for so long that it’s probably weird. But Draco is still holding him.

“Would you want to see me again? Like, after one time. Or two.” Harry buries his face against his arm.

“Yes. I want more than just a night. More than a weekend. More than a season.” Draco pets him gently. “There’s a very quiet Thai restaurant near my flat. I like the cinema and I can skive off work to go with you. Have you ever been to a play?”

“No, I—I wasn’t allowed to go many places when I was small.”

“I’d take you. Make you dinner before, breakfast the morning after.”

Harry breathes in, breathes out. The sun is above the trees now, the air bright and clear. Tomorrow will bring storms, the forecast says. It will just be Harry, listening to the damp fall of late summer rain. The nights will be cooler soon; autumn will spread across the Cotswolds like fire. And Harry will be alone.

The bell chimes for breakfast. It’s been ages since Harry’s missed the breakfast bell. He can’t even remember the last time.

“I can try,” Harry whispers. “You can come here, too, you know.”

“I need an ensuite and running water if I’m to come here. Preferably a soaking tub.”

“Ah. That’s—well. I thought you were like a wild fey king, rolling around in the dirt and luring men through portals. Is that not the case?” Heat rises in Harry’s cheeks, and he feels suddenly very sheepish.

Draco grins at him. “That’s precious. I’ll give you credit on nailing the aesthetic. That’s exactly who I am when I wish to be. Though it didn’t take much to lure you here, did it?”

Harry shakes his head. “I needed it. So badly. I needed you.”

“I know you did. I’ll keep making you feel so, so good, if only you’ll let me.” When Draco pulls Harry into his arms, Harry goes easily.

They kiss, sweet and deep. They gather their things, chatting about the coming rain and the restaurants near Draco’s flat. They kiss again, lazily, between searching for Harry’s pants and Draco’s wand.

When Draco produces his pack, he reaches inside up to his elbow and pulls out a pair of tiny shorts and a ludicrous shirt covered in flamingos. It’s tawdry in his hands, but when he slips it on, it’s elevated. High art. Like a painting of Apollo stepping down from the heavens, unabashedly gay and bound for a Muggle holiday in Majorca.

When they set off down the hill to camp, they’re quiet, Draco uncharacteristically so. Maybe Draco feels it, like Harry does: this path is the final space between last night and whatever the future holds for them. A liminal space—he thinks that’s what it’s called. It’s uniquely human, this awareness of walking from one place in time to whatever follows.

Soon enough, the gathering pavilion is in sight. Blood swishes in Harry’s ears, and he steps in front of Draco before they walk the rest of the way down. Draco careens to a halt and curses, his bottom lip poking out in a pout.

“Hi,” Harry says, catching Draco’s hand and pulling it to his chest. “I have something to ask.”

“Hi, Harry.” Draco raises an eyebrow. “What is it that you’re asking?”

Harry’s heart thumps so madly, he’s lightheaded. He stares at Draco for a moment before he blurts it out. “What if I can’t?”

A line appears between Draco’s brows. “What if you can’t what?”

“Make it to London.”

Draco nods like he was expecting this. All the same, there’s a crease between his brows, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Then I won’t chase you.” Draco cups Harry’s cheek and drags his thumb across his scruff. “I’m not here to save you. I’m no fever dream fey king. Last night happened because I wanted you, and you wanted me, too.”

“And you still will? Like you’ll keep on wanting me.”

“I still will. I think it’s more than a seasonal affliction. But I’m tired of chasing scared men, trying to make them love me. I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime.”

The bell sounds again. The campers are all huddled in knots outside the dining hall, exchanging friendship bracelets and phone numbers. A few tweens glance in their direction, whispering to one another. It occurs to Harry that he and Draco very obviously look like they’ve shagged each other senseless in the forest.

Harry’s courage feels a fleeting, flickering thing in the face of this uncertainty. Perhaps if he didn’t have the palm-sweating feeling that the earth is about to give way beneath him.

“I’m leaving after morning circle. So I can wash the leaves out of my hair and the glitter out of my pores. Muggle glitter is far too powerful.”

“Yeah, it is. Stuck in the floorboards in the art room forever.” Harry sighs. “I’ve got loads of last day shit to do, so I’ll—yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Go check off all the little boxes on your list. And say goodbye to me here, where it’s quiet.”

Harry tucks an errant lock of hair behind Draco’s ear and kisses him, pouring his hope and trepidation and longing into the heated touch of their lips. Draco tastes and smells, as he always does, like summer. Harry hopes he gets to taste this again, to share more than just a night. He wants to know what lies beyond this wild, fey summer. Now that depends on him, terrifying though it is.

He hears one of the campers by the dining hall squealing. It seems they’ve caused a stir. Harry decides—strangely—it doesn’t bother him. His history with Draco is far older than Camp Wandwood Wilds. There’s no need to hide it.

“I’ll Owl when I’m back from France,” Draco says. He toys with one of Harry’s curls, twirling it around a finger. “See that you respond promptly.”

Harry’s stomach gives a seasick kick. “I will.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Harry.” Draco presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek, then gently disengages and swans off to part ways with his adoring campers.

~~***~~

Harry throws himself into the final morning of camp, tying up all the loose ends into neat little bows.

When morning circle starts, Harry finds Draco among the crowd. It’s a habit, one Harry will miss. Maybe there are new habits to be made as the seasons wear on. He has a sense of floating, like the moment before taking flight, when he lets his eyes rest on Draco. There’s a radiant moment when Draco catches his gaze and flashes Harry a shy smile.

This must be what it feels like to look forward to something. He hasn’t felt that, not in an uncomplicated way, for such a long time.

Draco’s hair is drawn into an elaborate French braid, decorated with wild grasses and herbs. There are sparkly pink hearts painted on each of his cheeks, and a bright blue earring in the shape of a feather in his earlobe—the children must have outfitted him during breakfast. There’s something sad about imagining Draco washing it all off before he meets his mother at the Portkey Authority.

His campers hang on him and hug him, and he lets them, beaming at each one of them and whispering in their ears.

After the bell rings and the senior campers extinguish the fire at the centre of the circle, parents begin to arrive.

Draco turns on his charm, falling easily into shaking hands and telling stories and instructing startled Muggle parents on where to buy the best owl treats. “Why, yes,” Harry overhears him say, “Reginald does need to take the frog home with him. He’s grown very attached. I assure you, magical pets are really no trouble at all.”

Soon enough, Wandwood Wilds is quiet. There are a few counsellors still around, saying their goodbyes to one another and shrinking their belongings. One by one, they disappear. A chorus of songbirds strikes up with each crack of Apparition. By the afternoon, their protests are long forgotten, and Harry is left with nothing but the growing heat of the sun, the breeze rolling in from the lake, and the steady, gentle sounds of the forest that has come to be his home.

Harry hasn’t seen Draco since the last campers rolled away in a beat-up van. Harry must have missed him, as Draco said he would.

It’s just as well, really. Harry’s always hated goodbyes.

He steps into his cabin and closes the door. The rain comes that evening and, with it, the first true chill of autumn.

~~***~~

Luna’s yurt still smells of copal, even though Harry’s been using it for two months. He’s come to quite like it. Next time he sees her, he’ll ask her about her giant incense cones. Maybe he can keep a few to burn on the darkest days of winter. She’ll be back from her honeymoon by the end of the month and hopefully up to visit before Christmas descends upon them all.

He’ll miss it once the new cabin is done. The yurt is homely in a way that his old cabin never was, especially as the winter-wet seep of November takes over the nooks and crannies of Wandwood Wilds. The wide bed is heavy with blankets, its pillows always freshly fluffed and arranged for maximum comfort. It’s a clever bit of magic, something that Harry would have considered frivolous before.

It’s warm, too; always just the right temperature for the chill of the day. There are all sorts of warming Charms woven into the thick canvas walls. Harry never bothered with such homemaking Charms for his old cabin, despite his affinity for house magic. The threads of Harry’s magic are everywhere at Wandwood Wilds: weatherproofing and sound dampening spells in the stables, temperature-regulating charms on the gathering pavilion, all manner of protective magic built into the frames of the campers’ bunkhouses. It seemed a waste to spend that time and energy on himself. His cabin was only four walls and a roof, a place to sleep when he wasn’t working.

Harry has to admit that it’s gorgeous, staying late in bed in the yurt, waking up slow and stretching his toes, pulling a pillow over his face, sinking into the steady heat of the covers. It soothes his muscles on mornings like this, when he wakes with work-worn muscles. Building his own house is gratifying, but it’s an ache all the same. Today, he lets himself lie in bed for an extra fifteen minutes, but he rises in time to see the coral sky at dawn before he heads out for his morning run.

The sun is high by the time he returns, which means the Thestrals are grazing in the shade beneath their favourite circle of ash trees. That’s the other thing he likes about the yurt; Neville helped him set it up close to the stables so he could see the newest foal, Phoenix, grow into her gangly limbs.

This morning, she spots Harry and picks her way toward him, keeping to the dappled shadows beneath the ash and oak. She approaches and nuzzles his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Yuck,” he says, scratching the foal on her velvet-haired muzzle. “You’re a freak for smelly things.”

Harry casts quick drying and freshening Charms on his shirt before he sets up the hammock. He does it the Muggle way, tying nylon cords between two ash trees, adding a sticking Charm for good measure.

“Do you want to lie under the hammock for a spell?” He scratches Phoenix’s between her ears. “I was going to read before I start on the floor today.”

When he plops into the hammock and Accios his book, Phoenix settles down beneath him. The weather is warmer than usual for November, but Harry casts warming and wind-blocking Charms, regardless. The magic wraps him in warmth and comfort. He reads a chapter and dozes for a while. It’s Saturday, after all.

Some days, he’s good at this. Caring for himself, taking time between his habits and flares of anxiety and obsessive work. It helps that he’s building something of his own; a reminder that the time and grace he gives himself is its own kind of work, equal in worth to the community he serves. It’s more cottage than cabin at this point: two bedrooms and an open loft on the second level, a spacious bathroom with a functioning shower, and a kitchen with more than a single working burner. He’ll have space for people and food and maybe an owl or a cat.

It’s time to have a pet again, even if having another thing to love is a risk to his heart. Nothing is truly permanent; there’s no way for Harry to stand fully still as the world turns on its axis, safe from loss. But he’s ready to love something wholly, to weave that goodness into the foreground of his day-to-day.

Harry wakes to a shadow hovering above him, an arrogant flap of wings and a pointed hoot. He blinks and adjusts his glasses as the enormous barn owl scrambles to land on the side of his hammock. Before Harry can think, there’s an angry-looking claw above his face, a piece of very fine parchment attached to the leg.

Ah, fuck. Harry should have clocked the Ministry letter right away.

Harry plucks the letter off and fishes a piece of jerky from his pocket, absently feeding it to the owl. He unrolls his latest missive from the Ministry.

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that your application for the Floo Network at your new place of residence has been approved. The Floo Network Authority has thoroughly reviewed your request and ensured that all necessary security and safety measures are in place. Your new connection will be activated within the next 24 hours. Upon activation, you will be connected to the following residences and locations…

Harry skims the list. St. Mungo’s, The Burrow, Hogsmeade, Shell Cottage, Ron and Hermione’s flat, and Luna and Neville’s townhome that Luna wishes to name “Lovebottom.” Fortunately, she hasn’t registered the name, though that’s likely because she lost the form.

There are two notable additions: Malfoy Manor—which is not for Harry, thank fuck—and Denman Place in London: a flat filled with bookshelves and magic artefacts, journals full of intricate musings on education (many of which are dodgy, at best, in Harry’s opinion), antique astronomy tools and aged maps, and a vast collection of linen trousers and embroidered wool cloaks, gauzy silk robes and lacy underthings that drive Harry insane. There’s an entire wardrobe of kaftans and tiny swim trunks and hand-dyed shirts covered in brilliant patterns. In the bottom drawer is a collection of camp t-shirts, torn apart and resewn into tops meant to show off tantalising glimpses of pale skin.

Harry smiles. It’s the best Ministry letter he’s ever gotten.

“Go on, then,” he says to the owl. He tears off another bit of jerky and hands it to the owl before bending to give the rest to Phoenix. A muzzle pokes out from beneath the hammock, and she takes it with her sharp teeth, very demure. The owl soars up and out of sight into the white-grey autumn sky, bound for home.