Notes: This is a rather old work that I've finally decided to revamp and archive here. Originally written for hp_yule_balls. This fiction contains: discussion of institutionalized homophobia and queer bashing; mild Harry/Ginny; infidelity of a sort; father!Draco; and seriously-in-denial!Harry.
Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.
Homer
I.
I wake to an empty bed.
It's not unexpected, of course, nor is it unwarranted. Perhaps I should have been a tad bit more compassionate last night when she came in. Instead of mumbling complaints about my long day—of how the latest essay/biography/novel/project refused to be written—of how I was not in the mood—I could have just slept with her like a good boyfriend would; as any other man would do if she approached with her hair all loose and tousled. I could have: I should have: but I did not.
I sigh, pushing the blankets off my still exhausted body to stand. I wonder where she slept last night. 12 Grimmauld Place is certainly large enough to separate her from me without any trouble, but Weasley fury had stained her cheeks magenta (clashing horribly with her freckles) when she stormed out. She hates being anywhere near me in such a state. Chances are she fled to Hannah's, or one of her fellow teammates'. Maybe even the Burrow—but with that option came the possibility that her family sided with me. More than anything, she wants people to agree with her and blast me for my inconsideration (which, may I add, is why she never went to the Granger-Weasley household; she knows better than to expect that kind of treatment from Hermione, or even Ron).
Yes, she must have gone to one of her friends.
II.
Harry,
Needed for work. Might be late, and Hermione's working tonight. Mind watching Hugo and Rose?
—Ron
III.
Not doing much anyway. Be there shortly.
—HJP
IV.
Hugo is a tremendous pain in the neck. He is often fitful and messy. He squirms so much in my arms that I fear dropping him (although, with the thick head the Weasleys are infamous for, I wonder if it will have much of an effect). He cries too loud and for too long, and the only thing that will break him from his rut is if I allow him to yank—and yank—and yank—on my hair.
But more than anything, Hugo is adorable.
How I love that brat.
V.
"You're sure your partner didn't mind?" I ask, readjusting the bottle as Hugo squirmed in my hold. "It's still rather early, and I don't mind watching the children."
"Yeah. I've been working since 5:00 AM."
"So early?"
"That's when they found the body."
"Who found it?"
"A Muggle, of course. The whole area is Muggle. Ten—maybe eleven—of us live in all of Wandsworth."
("Ironic."
"Funny, Harry."
"Sorry.) Who told the Ministry?"
"We've been on—watch it! He's getting into the horrible habit of spitting out his milk. Just use his bib—what was I saying?"
"How you were informed of the death."
"Oh. We've been paying more attention to the Muggle police communications ever since Hawks from International Cooperation was attacked."
"And there's still no clue as to who's up to it?"
"No. What makes it worse is just how little the victims and their families had in common. Well... other than Malfoy."
"Wait... what?"
"Harry, not so loud! Give me him."
"Sorry. But what about Malfoy?"
"They all want him as their Law Guardian. It's strange, especially since he hasn't been working a lot lately. I mean, remember the days when 'Mione went on and on about prosecuting any one of his clients?"
"Yeah."
"It could be a coincidence. We've checked him out already, and he has alibis for nearly every attack. He's busy all the time with taking care of that kid of his, running his estate and whatever else prats like him do."
"It's still odd for him to handle all those cases."
"Agreed. I may not trust him, but I trust 'Mione. She keeps in contact with him, when she wants an opinion on a case or something. She claims someone as clever as him would not do something so stupid... now."
"Meh."
"...Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"This may be a weird question, but is everything alright between you and Ginny?"
"Of course. We have our problems, but what couple doesn't? ...Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. Forget I brought it up."
VI.
Clock chiming eight, I shrug a light coat on. I somehow managed to get Hugo to finally fall asleep—after much cooing and cradling and tummy rubs—a feat which Ron was certainly thankful for. Not that I minded, of course. Watching over the two children (and Teddy when his grandmother needed a break) made me happy. Bloody Bogles, how I wanted one for myself...
"I'm sure she's fine. My sis has her moments."
I roll my eyes—spelled brown as part of my usual facial glamours—checking to see if I have everything: pen, yes; satchel, yes; wand, always; glasses, on my face; book... book... I accio-ed my journal. "I know Gin. She'll want an apology within a week of the 'offense' or I'll never hear the end of it, and it's already been three days."
"But Cambridge is such a long jump. I don't want my best friend being Splinched."
"I'll do two—maybe three—jumps. Don't worry about me. Worry about that girl of yours. No normal four-year-old should spend so much time reading."
"Like her mother," Ron laughs, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
"Well, I got to go. If Gin doesn't kill me, see you tomorrow." I hardly wait for his goodnight until the uncomfortable clutch of Disapparition pinches my entire body. I am pulled—quickly, nauseatingly—away. Away from the Granger-Weasley household and from linear thought. The travel warps my vision for the split second I am in limbo: existing in either/both one and two places. I sometimes wonder if it's possible to Disapparate without Apparating: where would you exist? and would the overwhelming sucking ever end? I imagine it never would—
I drop. Dizzy and not too sure where I am. Not Bedford or Northampton. Definitely not Cambridge, but that I expected as much. Their atmospheres feel different. Maybe... Luton? Yes, yes... Luton makes sense.
Faced with the decision to Disapparate once more or not, I frown, feeling... distracted. It, of course, has nothing to do with Gin. I mean, I am not too thrilled to apologize, but what more can be done? I miss my girlfriend sleeping beside me.
VI.
As I sit in a small bakery, eating a small pastry (also known as stalling), something catches me off guard. Wizardkind. I sensed them the moment I set foot in Luton, and even headed toward where they are; but now it grows more and more pronounced. The source centers in one spot: too far for me to walk, yet not so far for me to sense the energy of the group. As it often does, Auror training floods back to me—the tracking exercises; the anxiety of over fifteen wizards meeting in Muggle territory. I usually ignore my instincts; the War, after all, is over: there is peace. But, the horror stories Ron tells me—of random attacks throughout the country, of anti-Muggle uprisings to this day—has made me worried.
I clink some change on the table.
VIII.
"Has everyone a hold on the rope?" the leader of the bunch (a witch with curt, pinched lips) calls. There is no objection; only a few nods and a shy "yes, Catherine, ma'am." I glance at my neighbors—a teenaged blond witch to my left, a handsome, tall man about my age in front of me, and a little old gnomish... person on my right—who nod at me in support. A part of me still cannot believe how I got myself into holding a clearly illegal Portkey with no indication as to where it will take us; nor can I believe that they really think I am Gabriel Post, a newcomer who was sent by a "friend" to their location.
But they do, and I will soon be carted away to some unnamed place. It's like being at Hogwarts again, but without the watchful eye of Professors and the ever-present loyalty of my friends.
I'm fucked.
"We have two minutes until the activation," Catherine informs the sixteen of us. A long moment passes before she speaks again. "Because there is extra weight tonight"—she looks directly at me (how subtle)—"the squeezing sensation might feel a bit stronger than usual, but if you have the urge to complain, know that I will personally curse your mouth shut for a month. We must not make the new member uncomfortable. Oh, ten seconds. Well, I do hope that you have a good time, Mister Post."
I almost consider letting go, but the encouraging look on my neighbor's boyish face keeps my hand clasped on the rope as it sucks on my navel and takes us away.
IX.
We land in what I take to be a waiting room. Exquisite cushioned chairs line the room with enough side and coffee tables to furnish an entire House's dorm back in Hogwarts. Bowls of treats all around. Homely, patterned wallpaper of flowers that sway as people walk about. And the people... So many races and heights; men, women, and those who clearly took time to blur the line between the two. Young and old alike, and some rival the late Tonks in their peculiarity—Tonks...
Strings of conversation clog my sensations: just standing here, I hear about the price increase of Baba Yaga saliva; whom is sleeping with whom in the Official Gobstones Club; and what color Missus Roger on Gull Lane Transfigured her rose bushes into.
I am at odds. People try to speak with me, invite me into their group of companions, but I politely refuse. I consider leaving, but I have a purpose: so many wizards and witches... illegal Portkeys with the probability of more illegal activity... and a sense of community and obligation: everyone knows each other here, or at least they are comfortable enough to be so... together.
It reminds me almost of the lofty time just before a Dumbledore's Army meeting, which does not help to lessen my anxiety.
X.
"Everyone, it's time," Catherine calls, bored, from the head of the room. People herd toward her and the wide door she stands in front of. "As you are lead to the assembly room,"—I follow the crowd—"note that you will be searched, and anything we deem dangerous will be confiscated. Please alert the guard if this is your first time here, or if you are under a Disillusionment."—Damn...—"Thank you, welcome to Q&A,"—Finally, a name for this organization—"and hope you enjoy tonight's meeting."
It takes ten minutes for me to reach the front tables. There are various trinkets lined up—and I know better than to lie.
It takes thirty seconds for a greeter to say hello and ask me about myself, and then another twenty seconds for me to say that I am both new and under a Disillusionment.
It takes four minutes for the greeter to ask me politely if I could please move to a private room and reveal my true identity, then for me to refuse, then for him to lead me into a side room, then for him to call over his "superior."
Catherine then explains that my identity is confidential; that no one aside from her will ever know. I refuse again.
It then takes Catherine ten minutes to call over her superior. I am committed to discovering what in Godric's name was going on, so I wait, and wait. Only to have Catherine appear with a man at her side; a man who I have seen before...
Draco fucking Malfoy.
XI.
"Mister Post, I understand your hesitation to reveal your identity," Malfoy offers smoothly, "but it is vital to this organization to make sure you are not a reporter, spy, or some sort of saboteur sent to ruin Q&A."
I nod patiently, remembering the tactics for discretion I used so many years ago... Even tone, vague wording, politeness... but how can I do that when here I have Malfoy. The Draco Malfoy, running a covert operation with illegal Portkeys. So even if this is some grand convention for knitting fanatics, I got him on that, at least. Wait... back on track, Harry. "And as I've been saying for the last ten minutes, I cannot allow anyone to know I came here. I am a very influential wizard, Malfoy."
Malfoy tilts his head in a "sympathetic" expression—one I may have understood as sincere if not for his calculative eyes. Their gray stare is so cold, so obviously manipulative... yet why do I have the urge to yield? "As am I. As are a lot of people here. Please understand that you are no more special than any of them; and we are just trying to protect the community."
"I must refuse."
"Post, I implore you to reveal yourself."
"No."
A sharp movement and his wand—his precious hawthorn 10-inch—points to the middle of my chest. I cannot react before his charm washes over me—slipping through the fabric of my clothes to my skin, kind of like an egg was thrown my way, its yolk splattering. I try to fight it, but it works rapidly—a skilled trick, a rare trick... one that only a handful of wizards and witches can only dream of performing. It's already climbing up my neck by the time I finally whip out my wand, crying Expelliarmus.
His hawthorn clinks against the floor across the suddenly claustrophobic room. My illusion is still in place, but the way his eyes fix to the wood in my hand... he knows.
Damn.
"I think you should be leaving, Mister Post."
"You do not expect me in good conscience leave when I have no clue what's going on here."
"Your brand of... curiosity is not needed here." Malfoy locks eyes with me as his wand whizzes back to his hand. He speaks, with an alarming precision, "I promise you that this is not an organization of the likes of... of Death Eaters. I would never do anything that might endanger the wellbeing of my mother and my son. I swear to you."
"But..."
"Potter. Please leave."
XII.
I never get to Hannah's.
XIII.
Ginny appears two days later for some of her things. I think she expects an apology, but I am too busy searching through tomes to discover whatever "Q&A" may mean. We fight some more before she leaves, but I am at peace as I methodically peer into the history of printed text in front of me.
XIV.
I ask Hermione if she knows what Q&A is. She takes a moment before replying that perhaps she's heard of it. Perhaps—but not enough to say much of it.
XV.
It is by sheer chance that I come across him.
For years, I used Battersea Park as my retreat from the oftentimes suffocating wizarding world. Very, very few wizards know how lovely the park is and how comforting it is to escape the... heaviness of magic.
But, I consider, maybe it is the scenery that retarded my writing ability, and a change in scenery may do me good. Merlin knows I've tried in the past, but maybe this time it'll stick. Maybe...
Book in hand, I meander. I walk blindly through the park—from the Old English Garden to the Peace Pagoda, to the Mermaid past the Millennium Arena. I leave Battersea. Walk the streets—lanes—roads: absently, yet deliberately—toward something. Then I feel it: a blush of magic pulsing with a strength that signals several high-level wizards collected in one spot; I taste their power on my tongue, and little facets of the sensation are oddly familiar.
Curiosity (and the brief hope that a congregation this size will lead me to Q&A as it did the last time) wins, of course.
As I curve around the loop of Etheburga Street, the warmth of a Muggle-repelling charm trickles through me. Three magenta robes huddle importantly around a ZONE ENDS sign, a gloom of seriousness settled over them. It unnerves me to see their heads pressed together as they whisper whatever their intuition tells them. Not too far off, a civilian sits on the short curb, face hidden within the clutches of his fists. An Auror—redheaded—Ron's the only one in his department—waffles as he pats the man's shoulder.
Dispelling my omnipresent glamours, I walk up to my friend. The other Aurors jump as I approach, but upon seeing who I am, their agitation gives way to awe. Fans, no doubt.
And it's a wonder why I left the program.
"—have to understand. Mister Amory, any information will help. Do you have any idea why anyone would attack Franklin, or even why he would want to come to your apartment so late in the night?" Something seems... off with Ron's voice. Like he thinks something he shouldn't. Like he hates having to ask. The man—Amory—shakes his head. "Are you sure there is nothing?"
"Auror Weasley—"
"Granger-Weasley."
Amory chortles, looking up at Ron with stubborn red-ringed eyes. "Forgive me. Auror Granger-Weasley, there is nothing I can tell you that you do not know or suspect of Franklin... or me, for that matter. Please, just leave me alone to grieve the loss of my dear friend."
Although reluctant, Ron mumbles something about leaving contact information with one of his co-workers and comes to my side.
He is in the middle of inviting me to have a bit to eat when a blur of platinum hair flashes in my peripheral vision, moving toward Amory. That obnoxiously pale hair clues me in to his identity right away—Malfoy again... and I barely catch myself from storming up to the blond. Saying who-knows-what, he lays a hand on the mourning man's shoulder in much the same way Ron had, but with far more success. The scene entrances me: even from my distance, I note the paradoxical softness of his (still) jagged face juxtaposed with the stern frown marring his otherwise calm countenance.
Our eyes meet as Amory finally stands, and I actually take a step in his direction. I just want to know what is going on—what is it that so upset Amory—how Malfoy can placate the man with a few choice words—whether Malfoy can do it with anyone—with me (why would I need someone to comfort me? What a strange slip of the proverbial tongue).
"Harry, ready to go?"
No. "Yeah. Know a good bar around here?"
XVI.
Draco Malfoy
Malfoy
Mister D. A. Malfoy,
You crude prat of a ferret,
Malfoy,
We need to talk.
—HJP
XVII.
No.
XVIII.
HJP,
There is nothing I can say to you.
—DAM
XIX.
Potter,
Stop owling me. It's getting old rather quickly, especially since I send back half of your messages unopened.
XX.
I love Ginny; she is my girlfriend; I have not seen her outside the Burrow setting for a month. I love her, truly.
XXI.
Dear Harry J. Potter,
There is no other way of saying this that is less uncouth, so excuse my lack of elegance when I say please leave my mother out of this. Simply because you wrote your first book about her, dedicated an award to her, and spend tea time at the Tonks' with her once a month does not give you the right to use her as a means to contact me.
Not so sincerely,
Draco A. Malfoy
XXII.
After a few words from my mother shortly after sending my last letter, I have decided to meet with you, if only to put an end to this nonsense. I shall alter the wards to allow you into the Manor this evening at 8:00. After exactly seven minutes, I will close the wards. If you do not show up but continue to send me owls, I swear on Gunhilda's hump that I shall report you to the Ministry for harassment.
XXIII.
"You came."
I shrug off my coat and hand it to the elf who greeted me. "Do you greet all your guests with such distaste?"
The parlor Malfoy selected for our meeting is fanciful and overdecorated with priceless antique furniture and moving artwork. Binn's voice rattles in my mind as I deftly identify at least four different wizarding eras represented in the space; I can only imagine what other treasures the Malfoy Manor has stored within its winding halls. Understandably, I have the urge to lower my voice as I tell Teddy and Rose to do in a museum.
"Honestly," Malfoy sighs from his chair, gesturing for me to sit across from him, "My guests largely consist of Scorpius' playmates, and I usually pick them up and drop them off. Sometimes I have some of the Slytherins I am still in contact with over, but I prefer to get out of the house."
On an end table just within reach, a tea pot, cups, plates, and various treats are conjured through what I guess is elfin magic. "And what of your son's mother?"
"Astoria is here so often I sometimes forget she no longer lives at the Manor," Malfoy comments as he pours tea for me and him. "But in general, I do not entertain much. I hardly have the time my mother does to throw lavish balls and dinner parties."
I sit, already wary of Malfoy's intentions. He speaks as though we are friends. We are not. He acts as though he is comfortable with me being here. He should not. "But you have enough time to run Q&A?"
With my snipe comes a minute fracture to Malfoy's pleasant facade. I almost laugh. His peeved pinch of his lips brings a queer sense of satisfaction to my heart: just like at Hogwarts... well, just as how I like to remember my time in Hogwarts. We were two charming schoolboys who prodded each other just for the fun of it: the rivalry was not dark, or deathly, or tainted by Voldemort's influence; no, there was only the frustration of two stubborn boys who enjoyed picking on each other more than the effort of ever kindling a friendship.
To the good old days!
"Potter." His thumb rings the rim of his cup. "As I told you already, I am unable to sate your curiosity in regards to my organization—yes, it is mine. I did not start it, but I run it now."
I drown my annoyed cry into the tea. Mmm. A rare blend: Korrigan berry with a hint of sun dried Sudice tree leaves. "So why did you bother inviting me over if you knew you couldn't give me what I want? What's keeping me from leaving right now?"
Malfoy's thumb stills. "I want to prove to you that I am now a decent man with a wonderful life."
"And what would that do?"
He cannot suppress a smirk. "It is all part of my wicked plan to make you see that I am innocent." Oh, so Malfoy jokes!
But underneath his jesting, there is the serious connotation of a need for acceptance—my acceptance. I did save him and his mother from Azkaban, as well as helping his father receive a reduced sentence, so many years ago. Why, I started writing to combat the negativity toward the family! Back when I was but a teenaged mess of hormones and survivor's guilt, I gave the Malfoys a second chance... Should I be so biased against this Malfoy who has proved himself time and time again as a valuable member of wizarding society?
"I... guess I can stay a bit longer. I hope you know that I will not stop my investigation as to what in the world you're doing."
"Of course. Now, try the tart. It is absolutely delicious."
XXIX.
Upon his appearance, the entire room broke out in a yell of triumph. It was their victory more than his, but Harry would have it no other way. For too long, he experienced all—losses, sadness, surprises, and even a few victories—alone. Alone—utterly, hauntingly alone. Now, in a realm separate from his life with the Dursley's, he had enough capital to buy just about anything he wanted and enough fame to support any venture he so wished; but Harry needed to share. He needed others to absorb the world with him; wanted someone else to understand him: to want to feel something with him. He had Ron already, and the other boys in his dorm, but he wanted more. More sharing, more empathy, more union—more—more—more—moremoremoremore. But what would that entail, he asked himself as his (what he hazarded to call) friends slapped his back and cheered "Harry! Harry!" When would it be enough? When would he finally feel... fulfilled? Loved? Did he even deserve to
"Fuck."
Throwing my quill aside, I glare at the new entry, just one of a multitude of never finished projects. They each mock me with their crossed out sections and poorly drawn doodles lining the scrawled text. They must know I will never find it in myself to get rid of them: they are free to torment me with every nanosecond of their cursed existence. And like a masochist, I willingly contribute a new paragraph, line, or even a thick wad of pages to their collection in hopes of something coming out right. It never does. Even in describing the most glorious moments of my own life, questions—bothersome, endless questions and insecurities—flood the page, lacing every worded image. I hadn't had this much trouble with a piece for years—not since I began writing.
But what is a professional to do when writer's block sucks up any sense of organization and direction?
Ginny will kill me once she finds out how far behind I am with my writing. The public expects at the very least one published article (scholarly or otherwise) every few months, and it has been exactly five months, six days, four hours and twenty-six minutes since Erean's Wizarding Academics printed my piece, "Got Your Conk: Peeves the Poltergeist and his Dastardly Influence on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." How much longer will it be until the next Potter paper?
Another question.
And on top of this slump, there is issue with Malfoy. I've not forgotten about him, but I've also not learned anything more about him and Q&A. No one has heard of this organization, and think I am trying to make a fool out of them with such an odd line of questioning. ("Malfoy? I haven't heard anything from him since the Trials," or, "Didn't he divorce that Greengrass girl a few years ago? Right after his demon spawn was born?" or, "Q&A? It sounds like a drink.")
He sounded so sincere when he spoke to me... I guess that is why I have not been pressing harder. Maybe I should just let him out of my mind. Maybe.
But I said I would have dinner with him again this evening. And I am actually... looking forward to it.
XXX.
Ginny and I are finally alone at long last. Molly must have left to give us this opportunity. I ask her what she has been up to; Holyhead Harpies training and such. She asks what I've been up to; writing—I do not tell her about Malfoy—no one knows about Malfoy.
"Are you moving back in?"
"Well, there's a string of matches in Eastern Europe coming up. Training ends late, and Valmai's is so close to the pitch that it's more convenient for me to stay there."
"Okay." We discuss the possibility of the Harpies winning various matches, and I kiss her on the cheek as she goes off to her friend's.
XXXI.
Lunch today with Malfoy went well, as it always does. I forgot to nag him about Q&A. Must do that later. What's important is that, in my happy spirits after our outing, I managed to complete an entire draft of an article. I haven't written so freely in months; it feels... wonderful.
XXXII.
Stepping out of my room in nothing more than my pajama pants and a wispy sleeping gown, I am greeted with a low snarl. "Potter, there something you be needing from Kreacher this mornin'?"
"Have you prepared breakfast?"
"Aye."
"Then there is nothing."
Not bothering to walk, I Apparate to the kitchen and immediately began to fix a plate. The food looks decent today: sausage, scrambled eggs, toast and jam, tea—the simple yet delicious smell indicates a Muggle brand—and oddly enough, a small cube of chocolate. There is only enough for Kreacher and me.
As always, a pop from the next room accompanies my second bite. My lone elf coughs, "The missus not here today," (a statement, not a question) as he gathers the food I left.
"That is none of your business."
"Some fortnights without her," he says passively, or at least, it would have been passive if not for the quick glance he throws me. It is that glance which pauses the reprimand already forming on my tongue. The old elf had finally accepted me after years of whispered snides and outright rebellion, but he often overstepped his boundaries... "Seen more of Master Malfoy than the missus lately..."
"Just eat, elf." I point my fork toward the seat across from me to emphasize my command. "Hermione will have my hide if she suspects you're malnourished, even if it is by your own doing."
"Aye, Potter."
XXXIII.
"Hey."
I raise my eyes from my writing. "Yes?"
"I—I'm... I..."
"Speak up, Malfoy. With that amount of stuttering, you might prove that you are a ferret after all."
He pinches his lips and looks the other way. "Never mind."
XXXIV.
It is five months since I first became (tentative) friends with Malfoy when I finally meet Scorpius.
At first glance, Scorpius looks like how I imagine his father in his youth. Pale skin, pale hair, gray eyes (although speckles of blue touch the boy's), skinny and with features which will surely sharpen later on in life. His diction rivals that of children three times his age, and he walks with prefect posture.
At second glance, he is much more jolly than I can ever imagine Malfoy being. He hugs anyone willing to hug him, and he smiles more than he whines (which is much more than I can say about Rose, that's for sure), and he hangs onto my every word.
At third glance, Scorpius' exuberant personality overwhelm his various faults.
At fourth glance, I notice Malfoy: he stands close to the boy, a protective hand tussling the child's hair; his face softens critically the second he looks upon his son; he answers Scorpius glances with an encouraging smile. It is a bit of a shock: to see Malfoy so forthright with his feelings; to see him as more than Malfoy... Malfoy the leader of Q&A... Malfoy the jerk from school... but as Draco the father. Draco, the man who can be compassionate without being manipulative.
It scares me how—during the time that Scorpius, Malfoy and I had a picnic in Battersea—I felt more happy than I have in years.
XXXV.
Time moves so quickly; how I get lost in the tendrils of its serendipity.
XXXVI.
Once, just once, I danced with Malfoy.
I know how it sounds. We went out with Astoria and Blaise, got a bit tipsy, and wanted to have some fun. Astoria had Blaise to dance with, and Malfoy and I did not feel like waiting until Blaise gave her up. So we danced together. Even in my Firewhiskey stupor, having a man so close... made me uncomfortable. But Malfoy stood a respectful distance away from me, and even allowed me to have the lead as we twirled (more like tumbled) around. He laughed so wholeheartedly.
A blush—a drunken flush?—stained his cheeks, and I stepped on his toes thrice.
And... And maybe we were dancing really close. And our mouths touched—for a minute or three—in a completely platonic way.
It was an accident.
XXXVII.
Ron, pushing a hand through his hair as Hermione rubbed his back, reports that there was yet another random attack. It's the second this month, but this victim's still alive, at least. Malfoy's with her now.
XXXVIII.
"This is too weird."
"Yes?"
"I still do not understand Muggles. Their art does not move as it should."
"It's a different experience. And stop with the M-word, Drake."
"I'll stop once you call me by my proper name."
"Can you stop being annoying and just appreciate the paintings?"
"Oh, I do appreciate them. They are exquisite."
"Wait. Are you just being—"
"Yes, Gabriel, I am just being a bag of Nuzzlesprouts."
"I hate you."
"I hate you too."
XXXIX.
Ron doesn't think of it as random anymore. Neither do I, and neither does the rest of the Aurors but what puzzles us is how. The victims—so many, too many—come from all over, represent many age groups, inhabit extremely segregated social circles. All walks of life are here, but there has to be something there. Something that unites them.
Ron knows something, though. Or at least, suspects. Ron knows and he won't surrender his thoughts even when pressed. The silence and the strain of not knowing are driving me mad, and it's slowing draining Ron of all his vitality and energy. I can see it in his eyes: the way Ron shuts down when he remembers the attacks and how no one in his department has figured out how the victims relate (other than Draco—Draco's their one lead and it's not a real lead at all. I want to bring up Q&A in this context, but... I never do).
But Ron suspects something, and it haunts him.
XL.
Sitting across from Malfoy at a restaurant in wizarding London, I cannot help but feel somewhat diminished. The man looks absolutely striking in his vest-shirt-pant combo, and my just barely business-casual outfit—albeit nice—is nothing much in any comparison. Now, I am not self-conscious. No, no, no—I am far from it. I love how I fit in clothes; I love how I look in clothes; I love how I look without clothes; but that does not mean that I cannot look at Malfoy with a sort of curious fascination that perpetually haunts my mind. I refuse to believe that he just happened upon that outfit; there is something too perfect about it: in this ensemble, he can just as easily make a dramatic entrance as he can wisp his way in and out of a sticky situation; he can be the flamboyant personality or the quiet mystery. Then again, Malfoy is equally likely to be one thing one moment, and the opposite the moment after if the situation called for it.
For a reason unbeknownst to me, this thought is a bit unnerving.
"Do you want something?" Malfoy asks politely as he catches my eyes on him for the second time.
"I still do not know anything about Q&A," I cough lamely. "I've searched and searched and searched, but no one has heard of it. No one. Hermione is the only one who recognized it, but she couldn't place where she's heard it. I don't want to give up, but there doesn't seem to be a point!"
"That's it?" Malfoy laughed, raising a napkin to his lips.
I throw him an indignant glare. "I'll have you know that you just witnessed a miracle."
"Oh, of course! The Boy Who Survived Far Too Many Times giving up? Blasphemy."
"So you understand my predicament?
"Whatever. Just pass the salt."
XLI.
Hermione does her best to comfort Ron, but there's only so much she (and I, and the children) can do. She's also so much busier than usual. Her work as a Law Guardian has always pulled her away from her home and family more than she wanted it to, but lately, she's pulled away more often than usual. She spends odd hours, later nights, and she shares information about only a few of the projects she has at the moment. It is bad timing that her and Ron are going through rough patches at work simultaneously, but at least I am here to watch the children when either are called away.
At least there's that.
XLII.
As a final feeble, desperate, utterly hackneyed attempt, I ask Hermione about Q&A. "A hint," I say. "Just a hint. Anything will do."
She turns to me, and... I'm less surprised by the fact that she answers than by her expression. It's been years since I had seen her look so... sad. "I can't say much about it, Harry. But I know that it's doing good. Especially if Draco is behind it. Just... just let it be. Can you promise me that? Can you let this one thing go?"
"...So you do know something."
"Yes, Harry. Yes, I do. And I also know that about you're friends with Draco—oh, don't look so bloody surprised, we worked together; we fought together; he supports my causes, and I will support his. I have just as much a right to speak with him as you do. But that doesn't matter. If you respect your friendship with him even half as much as he values it, then give it up. He may tell you eventually, he may not. It's time to stop thinking about him as something to dissect, a riddle to be solved. We're not schoolchildren anymore."
"But..."
"What is it, Harry?"
"I don't know what else is there. With him."
"I can't tell you that. But I know that he cares about you. I know that Scorpius cares about you. Isn't that enough?"
XLIII.
I do not answer her question.
I don't have to.
XLIV.
"'—and nothing for little miss Chrissy Clombers,' said the wizard. 'The only thing I hate more than a liar is an ignorant liar.'"
The door swings open without a sound. Charms must line the threshold, to prevent obnoxious creaks from disturbing Malfoy when he's in his study. I peer in: the endless amounts of (mostly) leather-bond books; the smell of old parchment and time-weathered tomes; the rug with woodland beasts frolicking amongst willows—all facets of the study that I have spent hours on end exploring and experiencing and desiring to know just a little more.
"'But, dear wise hermit!" she cried with tears blurring her vision. 'How was I supposed to know about the spell? I've been alone in the tower for so long; I had no way of knowing!'"
Son and father sit together on a love seat, but not next to one another. Scorpius sits cross legged between his father's stretched out limbs, his tiny fingers holding the book up for Malfoy to read, and Malfoy—no, Draco's chin settled quite nicely within Scorpius' hair. His reading glasses make an attempt to slide off his nose, but Draco seamlessly pushes it back up as he turned the page.
"'There lies the conflict.'"
I never get to see this side of him: Draco, the tender father, rather than Malfoy, the snarky friend. Voyeuristic urges tell me to stay at the threshold and observe the homely sight. I do not belong, but I want to. I want to be part of that. I want...
"'What can I do?'
XLV.
I see more and more of Malfoy. More and more and more.
XLVI.
"More tea?"
"Ron, why exactly did you call me over? You made it sound urgent."
"...We're worried about you."
"Who?"
"Hermione and me."
"Why?"
"Harry—"
"There's nothing to be worried about."
"Harry, how long has it been since you have seen Ginny?"
"We are not talking about this."
"Yes we are. When?"
"Oh, come off it. Gin and I are busy people. She's on tour. It makes things hard for us... but we are happy."
"When, Harry. When?"
"Two months. But we are happy, and nothing you can say can take that away from me."
"But you aren't happy."
"I am. I am happier than I've ever—What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm going to ask you once, and once only, Harry: are you cheating on my sister?"
"W—what? Of course not!"
"Don't be afraid to tell me. I'm your best friend—no, you are like a brother to me. Do not lie. You deserve happiness, Harry; you deserve it more than any of us."
"Ron, I am not cheating on Ginny."
"But what about..."
"About?"
"Nothing, Harry.
"No, no. 'What about' what?"
"Nothing."
"Fine. I'm leaving. Goodnight."
XLVII.
The fireplace snarls as I plunge through the flames. It's late; I know it's so terribly late—but I'm so fucking angry; I can barely contain myself.
An elf comes to my side—I'm too frustrated to bother identifying her—and I spit, "Where's Malfoy?"
She shrinks from my harsh tone. "Master is in his chambers, sir." I turn towards his quarters, but the elf's voice interrupts my storming off. "But—but sir cannot bother Master right now. Master is with a special friend."
I glare at her—the poor girl, victim to my misdirected anger. "'Special friend?'"
"Yes, sir. He's with the Master now. Please, Master'll sock Izzy if sir bothers him now."
She goes on, but in that moment, I only hear white noise.
He.
Malfoy is... is with a man.
Malfoy is...
I flee.
XLIIX.
Potter,
You did not show up. How very rude of you not to owl me saying you were not coming. May I dare ask what came up that was more important than spending time with little old me?
—DAM
XLIX.
Gin,
Are you busy tomorrow night? Maybe we can get a bite to eat?
Love,
HPJ
L.
Potter,
Haven't heard much from you. Is something wrong?
—DAM
LI.
Harry, can't make tomorrow night. Playoffs and all. The twelfth good for you?
—Ginny
LII.
I... had a dream about him. Once. Just once.
It was full of wandering touches and wanton moans. Of kisses and thrusts. It was too perfect—not like real sex at all, but it was beautiful and hot and wrong. Wrong. Horribly wrong and self-indulgent. And to have this dream twice (I mean, once) is unforgivable. He's my friend. My tentative friend who is sweet with his child, serious to his clients, snarky to me, and utterly human... and I have found myself so grounded in his pragmatic world that I fear I will never be able to escape.
LIII.
Potter,
Scorpius asked why you've not been around lately, and I have no answer for him. Care to tell me what brought on this completely unnecessary coldness from you? Is something the matter with Ginevra?
—DAM
LIV.
Gin,
The twelfth? As in, two weeks from now? Sure, I guess.
—HJP
LV.
I feel... empty.
LVI.
Potter,
What in all that is good with the world has you so upset that you refuse to speak with me?
—DAM
LVII.
See you then, Harry.
LIIX.
Potter, Izzy told me what happened. I did not want you to find out this way—I swear, I was going to tell you. Can't we talk about this?
LIX.
With all my strength, I manage to absorb Hermione's impassioned speech on the welfare of werewolves in the Wizarding world. The ordinance has some clever acronym—but with so many of those floating around, I cannot keep track. Whatever it is for, the result will be progress and massive reform, as every one of Hermione's "side projects" were and still are. She's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I wish I could be as influential in the world of the future; I write history—the past—memories brought back to life with a few thousand words.
She goes on and on, and I nod at the right spots and jot down notes where her speech can be improved. She appreciates all the work I do for her behind the scenes, but sometimes...
Upon hearing an inappropriate pause, I still my quill. I open my mouth to say something when she blurts, "Don't go."
"Go where?"
Hermione licks her lips once over. "Dinner with Ginny."
Frowning, I tap the quill impatiently against the paper. It'll probably leave a blot. "And why not?"
Without answering, Hermione digs into her pocket and procures a small parcel, handing it to me. In the same movement, she tears off the top sheet of my writing pad. "Just read it. Think about it. Think about what you really want."
"Who's it from?" I ask, already ripping the paper.
"Just read. I'm going to give you some"—My eyes fall to the name on the first parchment: Malfoy—"privacy. Hope to—"
"Hermione," I whisper, sharp. "Stay."
LX.
Dear [Gabriel Post],
You have been invited to this month's "Queer & Allied Wizarding Confederation" meeting by [Hermione Granger-Weasley].
The topic of Conference 253 shall center around the recent attacks on our community and how to keep ourselves safe. (Q&A is aware that this will be the third workshop of this kind in the past year, but we feel that learning how to avoid being a target, and what to do if we become one, is of utmost importance.) Mister Richard Amory, Father Fredrick Finkle and Law Guardian Hermione Granger-Weasley are just three of many lined up to speak.
There will be time to remember those who were attacked, killed, or otherwise affected by the crimes.
Times, locations and other key information are included on the separate parchment you received in the parcel.
Sincerely,
Draco Altais Malfoy
President of Q&A
Amendment, to whomever checks Mister Post in: I, Hermione G-W, have given especial permission to him to use his Disillusionment. Thank you.
LXI.
"So this is it? Q&A... Q&A is..."
"Yes."
"And you..."
"I love my husband, Harry, and I am thankful for every day I can wake up next to him and know it's safe to love him. Not everyone is so lucky. Equality... I want equality."
"Does he know?"
"...No. Not really. He has known for years that I have worked with Draco on a project that I cannot talk about. I think he is catching on though, what with all the attacks and Draco."
"You need to tell him."
"And I will. Tonight, maybe. Soon. He needs to know, and he's clever enough to have figured it out mostly even without my help, and it has been exhausting keeping this from him. I will tell him, but I had to tell you first."
"Why?"
"For the same reason you barely talk to Ginny anymore. For the same reason you see Draco at least once every few days, and Scorpius at least once every other week. For the same reason I can tell you've just seen Draco by the way you smile, or how I can tell you miss him even though it has only been a day since you have last seen him and—"
"Hermione, please. Please."
"I'm sorry. I'll stop but..."
"...How does Malfoy fit into this?"
"He didn't start the Confederation, and sometimes I wonder if he even wants to be president of it; but that's the way of the world. Even if he sees it as bothersome, Draco's done an amazing job with it for the past three years. It's so hard for him: there's still such a stigma against him for what he did in the War, and he's so busy that he forgets about everything except his family and Q&A."
"Does he..."
"Does he what?"
"You know."
"...I cannot say."
"Please, Hermione. I need to know."
LXII.
Decisions, decisions.
LXIII.
I have another dream of him. In this one, we lie in bed next to one another, him sleeping and me barely awake. The door bursts open. Scorpius runs in and jumps onto the bed, waking his father. Malfoy is annoyed, of course, but he gets over his frustration quickly after scolding Scorpius for his impish behavior. The boy blushes and is about to apologize when I wink and embrace him.
Manners can be forgotten today: it's Christmas, after all.
LXIV.
I go to the dinner with Ginny. I miss being with her, and she misses me.
I do not ask her about when she's moving back in, or when we will see each other again. I do not ask for a kiss, nor do I say "I love you." She knows I love her, but thing have changed. The ground, shifted.
We hugged goodbye, quick and friendly, and I breathe freely for the first time in what feels like forever.
LXV.
Why do we love?
Ah, what a simple question to ask! It is like asking why do we eat or sleep. The hardest part is answering. We eat to fulfill our hunger; without eating, we would starve and wither away. As humans, a desire that we all unconsciously have is to live. Why else would our organs work without our minds telling them to? We sleep to give the body's systems a rest; without sleeping, our bodies would overwork themselves to the point where they couldn't function. Yet again, humans (in a mechanical sense) work to survive and survive to live.
But love… That is another thing entirely. There are so many complications and loopholes; just too many exceptions and too many viewpoints. Is it to keep us company when the black night's hollowness falls over the Earth? Is it something that just happens after being with another for a certain period of time (whether this period is minutes, hours or years)? Do we unintentionally choose who and what we love? Does liking something petal off into love?
Do we just… love?
Love. Love kept me alive. Love is free. Love. Love. Love. Love.
That's why I'm here, is it not? Why I, as Gabriel Post (a clerk at a little known potions shop just outside Cricklewood), am here.
What makes it all the better is that I am welcomed, not for being The Harry Potter, but for something even less tangible. Something utterly and completely and hauntingly flexible.
Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.
And now, there is a woman's proud voice, a darkened auditorium; an audience of attentive wizards, witches, Squibs, a few Muggles, and probably some half-breeds as well. I'm surrounded by variety—by uniqueness, strength and support. I now understand why it's so hard to join the Confederation: it is not to keep people away from an elitist group; no, quite the opposite. It's for a kind of unity that hatred had no place in.
Malfoy sits on stage. He has seen me. He stares directly at me. He looks so happy—a little confused, but so very, very happy.
LXVI.
"You—you came."
"Malfoy, have we not had this conversation before?"
"No... no... this—this is just..."
"I wish to speak with you in private. When can you leave?"
"I just need to tell Catherine I'm leaving. Meet me at the Manor. I'll be there in a few."
LXVII.
The candles flicker as if wanting nothing more than to expand their fire's light, but I refuse to order them to brighten. I cannot bring myself to; there's far too many other things on my mind. Like what am I doing? What do I want? Why can I think of nothing but those cursed dreams! I should know better than to follow such fancy. I should know. Dreams have led me astray before.
But here I am in Malfoy's foyer, slumped on Malfoy's antique couch next to Malfoy himself.
"Potter, you drag me away from Q&A, and you have nothing to say," he comments in an attempt to replicate his usual snarky demeanor, but something akin to relief softened his tone.
"Shut up, Malfoy. I'm trying to think."
"First time for everything."
"There's no point in beating around the Mandrake."
"Hilarious."
Lazily, I twist my body to face him—really see him as I so passionately avoided before. Pale, pale hair. Pale, smooth skin. Finicky hands even though he's relaxed: his arms crossed haphazardly across his lap; his head rested on the couch's cushion.
LXIIX.
"I know."
LXIX.
"I'm sorry."
LXX.
"Don't be."
LXVII.
"I promise you that my... attraction will not in any way led me to do something you will be uncomfortable with. We can continue—"
LXVIII.
That night we were drunk left me with a crude memory of what a kiss with Malfoy might be like; but now, I can taste more than whiskey on his breath as I press my mouth against his. I taste Malfoy—Draco Malfoy—Draco fucking Altais Malfoy—the man who has infiltrated every last space of my mind; the man who has brought me glimmers of what it feels like to be truly content. My lips move cumbersomely—uncertainly—but not at all passively. I ignore my own shock at how different he feels like than Gin (I know, I should not compare... but the comparison will be made), focusing instead on making this count.
With a hand in the center of my chest, Malfoy pushes me away. "Potter..." he starts.
Bracing myself for more a rejection, I lean toward him again, pressing my forehead against his as I whisper, "It's okay," against his lips. "I think I've wanted this for a long, long time."
He chuckles, "You think?"
"Maybe a little more than think."
He tries to say something else, but I have grown weary of this conversation. I kiss him with more force than last time, my hands wandering down his chest (his flat chest, mind you...). Our mouths press and retract again and again, daring the other to take the little kisses further. I sigh impatiently after what seems like the twentieth one, and he finally decides that enough is enough.
His tongue flicks out and teases my lower lip, tempting me to I tilt my head slightly to the right to encourage the exploration. I open my mouth slightly, and it isn't long until his tongue flashes out to graze against my teeth, returning to its rightful place before his taste can register in my mind. Sharp expectation jolts throughout my limbs, but disappointment soon pervades because not having more of him—more of his warm, clever tongue—to enjoy is a damn shame.
Although I am sure he knows how impatient I'm getting, he continues to tease (with his just-barely-there tongue; with his fingers occasionally tapping against my wrist; with his general sense of being), until I can no longer contain my desperation for something more, something real... So, with face burning from a growing blush, I raise my hands to grip him. One ends up on his shoulder, and the other loses itself in the depths of his hair—drawing him closer—tempting him to kiss me as I want him to; as I need him to.
And he responds. Not only does the kiss deepen, but our bodies move closer and closer until one of his legs is literally sprawled across my lap. I find myself clutching onto him, rocking unconsciously into him until my cock hardens (and by the bulge in his pants, I guess Malfoy is as well).
Sensing a change, Malfoy pauses his assault on my lips. "We—we can stop."
I close my eyes and breathe. Here I am. I am kissing Draco Malfoy. He is on my lap and I want more of him.
It may be from lust—it's been, what, a year since I've had sex with Ginny?—or it may be from some twisted way to prove that made the right choice by coming here. Merlin, it could be that I simply had an understandably hot male half-sitting on my lap, ready to... do something if I give the word.
Eyes still closed, I unbutton my shirt—then pull off my undershirt—then kick off my shoes—then... then I unzip my pants. I cannot keep my hands from shaking, but I continue because I know he's watching me—enjoying himself as I strip for him. (Did he dream about this?) He moves away from me when I am finally in nothing but my boxers, probably to take off his own clothes. And I know that, in the long run, the removal of clothes is a very helpful thing, but as of right now, I curse Malfoy for giving me this time to think. What am I supposed to do? I know the basics of what... what I think is going to happen.
"Calm down, Potter," Malfoy laughs. "You look like you've been hit with a rogue Quaffle. Look at me." I peek. Oh, my fucking... he took off his briefs. "If you want to stop, we'll stop. For now, lie down"—he's already pushing me down—"relax"—he kisses me—"and"—he licks my neck—"enjoy."
LXIX.
He thrusts against me.
I moan.
I thrust against him.
He laughs.
LXX.
My face buried into the armrest, I pant as his mouth sucks—licks—kisses along my spine. He rewards my reaction with one of his own: his hand massages the curve of my thigh, his wrist breezing against my heavy sac. I focus on the sensation of it: how hot it makes me to feel heated flesh—to want something from someone and know that it's okay to ask. Because he sees me as an equal... not The Harry Potter... but an equal... and equal to enjoy.
"Malfoy," I moan, rutted against his forearm in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to find some friction. I understand foreplay and wanting to make me feel comfortable, but a man has his limits. "Do something."
"Okay." He nips my flesh as he slides a hand to my hip, holding them in steady, thumbs digging into me. His patient breathing spreads itself thin as he lowers—lowers—lowers to the cleft of my ass. I shiver. His tongue flicks out and licks me. "Potter, please."
He licks again, whispering his request again. Two fingers appear between my cheeks and spread them apart.
My heartbeat drums in my ear as my mind struggles to understand why on earth he would want such a thing. How can he get any enjoyment out of doing... that, can he?
"Yes."
He dips in—moistening me and tasting me and—fuck it—tonguing me. There's no way to describe the sensation. It's wet, but not uncomfortably so. It's a shallow sort of penetration, but deep enough to send a spasm throughout my body. It's new and obscure and awkward, but... I thrash and—and quietly beg for more.
"'foy..."
Pleasure getting the better of me, I clench, forcing his tongue away. He tries to return, but I cannot relax. It's too different. I cannot contain my reaction. I cannot repress my sheer selfishness—it's wrong for me to want something this much.
He blows against my hole, his warm breath both cooling and heating my hot ring.
"Fuck!" I grab my cock at the base, jerking slowly as Malfoy forces his tongue between me. As he rings the area again, I sit back a little more in a faux-backward thrust. He sighs appreciatively as he works more—and more. My eyes haze over with the subtle... pleasure I receive, and I pant heavily—wantonly—recklessly. I barely notice as his finger joins his tongue until I feel it enter me. I hiss and fight against the intrusion, but Malfoy persists until he is knuckle-deep within me. He rotates the digit languidly and with so much deliberation that I am convinced he means to torture me. But the penetration in itself is torture itself: both bothersome and intriguing; I want it out, but I want to see what he can do.
He strokes the walls, applying an off-beat pressure until finally—I see white. I jerk away (from his finger and tongue) but he devotedly follows me. I bite my cheek—don't scream—don't scream... He rubs against that singular area once again, and I find myself unable to grip my erection. I'm lost in his fucking me... I arch and shake and groan Malfoy's name.
Another finger traces the cleft, and a trill of nervousness floods me. I... I... I'm not ready for this. I—I... "Malfoy, I don't think..."
Everything—his tongue—his fingers—his breath against my heated ass—disappear in an instant. "Shall I stop?"
I'm so hard... "I don't know! I do not know."
He sighs. "On your back, Potter."
I turn, stiffly and somewhat missing Malfoy within me, with one leg off the couch and the other squeezed against his body and the cushions. Ignoring how my cock hangs heavy between my thighs, I stare at him. He's all smiles and pink cheeks. I blush as I steal a kiss—tasting me on his lips—loving how he thrust his erection against mine (the thought blows my mind; a dick against my dick is really just friction, right?).
LXXI.
Vibrations of magic tickles my skin. A charm has been placed by Malfoy... on himself?
"What are you—Malfoy!"
LXXII.
He lifts himself off my cock.
He falls back down.
He lifts himself off my cock.
He falls back down.
He lifts himself off my cock.
He falls back down.
LXXIII.
The tightness... oh, the fucking white hot heat and the tightness. I am about to fall off the couch—Merlin I don't know what to do. Fuck. Fuck. "Malfoy!"
I buck up against him. Faster. The position we're in makes my lower back feel leaden—I'll probably be sore in the morning—but I really just don't care.
Our voices are not in sync, and neither are our frantic lunges—but the sheering pleasure is so damn spectacular.
His body stretches, elongating and swaying in a serpentine dance. Raw bestial strength. I'm speaking in tongues—Parsel, or just the gibberish of a man too long without feeling this good?
I want to touch him; I want to reach out and touch his stomach, his chest, his neck—hair—face—lips; I want to hold his cock in my hand and make it cum: but I am selfish; I grip onto the couch and absorb as much of the visage of Draco fucking Altais Malfoy stuttering my name as I can.
I do not last nearly as long as I would like, and he gasps as I shoot my seed into him. The orgasm jolts pleasure throughout my entire body: I can feel the blood in my teeth pulsing just as much as the beats of my heart. I sink into the couch, panting and shaking as he continues to ride my still-hard cock (I know that I'm not orgasming again, though; a real shame), only now he jerks himself off as well.
He doesn't last much longer.
LXXIV.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"That was..."
"Was what, Potter?"
"Sex with a guy."
"No. That was sex with me. Sex with just any guy will not be the same."
"Will it be better? Because I met some—Ow!"
"Don't say such trash. You sound like a rake."
"I was kidding."
"Oh, I know. Doesn't mean I still cannot hit you."
LXXV.
"...I haven't broken up with Ginny."
"...Oh."
"Yeah. ...Hey, where're you going?"
"Potter, I hope you understand that I will not be some secret fuck you indulge in whenever your girlfriend bores you. I have far too much self-worth to bring myself down to that level, no matter how much I may or may not like you."
"I didn't mean it like that!"
"And whatever did you mean?"
"We haven't said anything, really, but I doubt she even considers us still together. We had dinner as friends the other day. I just need to make it official. I swear, I'm not still with here like that. I wouldn't do that to you or her."
"And what then?"
"I date you? I was kind of hoping for more than a single toss-off. A lot more. Like, 'I want to be in a committed relationship with you' more."
"Potter, do you think it's that simple? If it was, there wouldn't be a need for Q&A. What do you expect to happen if we continue with this tryst? You are the one they all herald as their savior. Prefect Potter, who killed the darkest wizard of all time and who went on to write the most heartfelt, honest biographies we have of the Wars. You cannot..."
"I cannot what, Malfoy?"
"It's hard. Potter—Harry, it's so hard. In the world we live in now, we are targets that no one except ourselves consider victims. But we are harassed and attacked and killed—Potter, we have been killed for what? For love? For ignorance? It's been over half a year since Richard's partner was killed—a decade since Catherine's sister was killed for simply because she was mistaken for queer—and we may never find out who did it. Never. The second we go out there, we will have to be Drake-and-Gabriel. Keeping a disguise like that is exhausting, and it's not like you can just come out and make it all better: it just doesn't work that way. Or do you not remember the backlash when they found out about Dumbledore? Even he was not too noble a man for the public to force their misconceptions upon. They—"
"Malfoy. Listen to yourself. You speak of disguises, but don't you think it's worse for me to lie to myself?"
"It's not that simple."
"Yes it is. I want to be with you. I want to be part of your life; I want to be part of Scorpius' life. That's all I need to know. Everything else doesn't matter."
"You're insane."
"And you're daft if you think I'll give you up that easily after sex like that."
"Potter..."
"It'll be alright. I promise that it'll be alright."
"That's a big promise for one man."
"Might take a lifetime to uphold."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Potter. One step at a time."
I laugh. "One step at a time."
LXXVI.
I know what I will have to face.
I know that it will not be easy.
I know that there is much that needs to be done.
I also know that I will have Hermione and Ron and the rest by my side.
LXXVII.
As I write the first lines of it, I already know that the book in my mind may not be published right away. I will need the permission and authorization of many—Draco, Hermione, the families of victims, survivors, and a thousand other people who live their lives everyday in the matter they need and want to, despite the tragic risk involved. I will need the strength when criticism and hate and outrage set in with a vocal part (hopefully not the majority) of the wizarding world; I will need to be prepared to have these people—strangers and not strangers alike—question my role as chronicler, hero, friend when they learn about Draco. I will need Draco and Scorpius' support and love most of all, but I have that anyway.
Q&A is not a brand of ale, nor a citation in a scruffy academic text, nor is it shorthand used on the label of some treat you buy with the spare change in the bottom of your pocket, I write, breathing hard and long. It is a name and a community at once; it is a living, breathing thing, a secret thing that is also plastered on the minds of every wizard's consciousness. People live by Q&A and they have died even under its protection. To them, Q&A is everything and not enough. But it's a start. A start to something—a world, a time—bigger, brighter and clearer... With the permission of those involved, I will share this history, to bring attention to a voice that has for too long gone quite whispered. And so, here lies the story of Q&A—or, as it is fully known, the Queer And Allied Wizarding Confederation: the home to some of the bravest of them all, for they have been themselves through it all.
It will take time to publish, yes, but I will wait.
I will wait.