Disclaimer: Not mine, Rowling's. You knew that.
Featuring: HD, fluff, slash, Oblivious!Harry, and appalling French.
Part one of three
Parce que bad salad
Harry blames the salad. Something manky in the dressing, yeah? Must have been, because he, Harry James Potter, is taking absolutely ages to say, "Sod off, git, I'm not doing it," even though he knows full well he won't. Because, well, he doesn't, does he? Hasn't since, erm, he thinks maybe ever, really, yeah?
Yeah. Might be a git—is if it's Malfoy talking, at least—but he's no dancing git, a delineation clear even if the rest of the room's not quite.
"Haven't since Yule Ball," Ron supplies, far too helpful under the circumstance. Harry slants him a glare. Hopes it contains the depth and breadth of his frustration. Ron shrugs. Says, "Wouldn't kill you, would it?" like that's all there is to it, just dying or not.
Then Harry shakes his head and Ron turns into Malfoy, who says, "Never mind, Potty, I rescind my offer. Longbottom, shall we?"
Neville bites his lip and Harry thinks he's smiling, and Malfoy won't hold still, won't stop fucking glowing in the shitty club light, and when Harry blinks, he stumbles and Malfoy catches his arm.
Only it's not Malfoy. S'freckly. Ginger. Harry blinks again, holds his hands out for balance in this crazy, twisting world. Damn it, what was in that salad? Harry thinks it's mixing absolute pants with the wine.
"Ease up there, Slugger," Ron says, and Harry checks freckles to be sure. Ron quirks a brow. "What? Practicing my American, aren't I? Going across the pond for a visit, yeah?" Ron's face sours. Harry wonders if he's had the salad, too. He'd ask—no point in suffering twisting gut and wobbly world alone if he's a mate to share it with, yeah?—but Ron's off, on about 'Mione and Percy and something Ron's calling the Wheeze Chair of Mayhem, which is somehow connected with Salem this year and couldn't you knock Ron with a feather them if Yanks had it in 'em?
Harry leans back in his chair. Topples. Ron catches him before he falls, and this time, Ron looks like Malfoy.
"S'it that you can't dance, Potty, or that you won't?"
Harry lifts his head from that pleasant face-burrow in his nesting arms. Finds shiny glowy git tapping the table across from him. Impatience? Maybe. Harry's head weighs loads. He burrows again.
This doesn't stop the conversation.
"Right plastered, that one," Malfoy says and yes, yes, that's Malfoy, even if he's not hexing Harry hairless or what have you.
"Sure you want to do this, Draco?" Neville asks. "He's not easy when he's like this."
Ron, the traitor, agrees. Harry has no clue why that's traitorous, but he thinks it must be. Gits. No loyalty at all, the lot of them, talking t' Malfoy and whatnot, feeding Harry bad salad.
"Should've been in Hufflepuff," he says.
"Yes, Potty, because you're so very lowered expectations," someone says, and Harry laughs until he realizes it's Malfoy.
He picks his head up again and scowls. "S'the salad." Message delivered, Harry slumps back. Someone catches him, warm hand on his back. Nice. He doesn't want to think about whose.
"Leave the Hufflepuffs alone," Neville says, and Ron adds, "Yeah, they've enough just being Hufflepuffs."
Harry snorts. The hand rubs in comforting little pats. Harry relaxes.
Then Malfoy murmurs, "If you're serious, Potty, all you've to do is say no. Know you can do that, don't I? Don't even need the whole sentence, just two little letters and I'll shove off. Say no, Harry. C'mon, say no."
Harry sighs. Feels the salad settle, no world wobbling, nothing twisting in his gut, just Malfoy murmuring sweet no things in his ear and someone rubbing his back. Harry's head slumps to one side, leaving him room to peer at Malfoy.
"No," he says, and he's smiling.
The hand stops. Malfoy leans back. Looks solemn and serious and Harry doesn't like it. Neither, it seems, does the salad, because Harry's gut twists again. Damn it.
"All right," Malfoy says, and it sounds so…final. "Been nice knowing you, Potty. Do stay out of trouble, yeah? No more Dark Lord collecting. Weasley, Longbottom. See you blokes around."
And Malfoy stands. To leave. And Ron and Neville stop talking to stare at Harry, who feels remarkably like even the salad's pissed with him and wanting to depart in revolt. This is Not Good.
"Wait," Harry says, mostly to the salad, because he'll die if he hurls on Malfoy's shoes. Which are very pretty. Erm.
Malfoy does. They all do, still and staring, waiting for Harry to…something. Yes, yes, he's meant to do something now. Something more than not hurl, he gathers. Say something, he supposes, and allows, "You've very pretty shoes."
Well, that was brilliant, even for him. He slumps back down, thumps his forehead off his arms, and tries to remember how Apparation starts because Merlin Almighty, he wants to be somewhere else.
"Sweet Merlin, Nev, I thought you said you had this sorted," someone snaps. Harry peeks. Sees Zabini, all hand-waving emphasis, toe-to-toe with Neville, who looks apologetic.
"Thought we did, mate," Ron says, saving Neville like he didn't save Harry. "Just, someone found the Firewhisky and didn't bother to say until he'd already hit the wine."
"He's a bit impossible when he's been drinking," Neville apologizes, and Harry frowns.
"The salad," he says, because someone has to. Blaise looks at him like he's something out of Hagrid's class after a unit test, small and pathetic and liable to be put down for his own good.
This, Harry thinks, is not progress.
"Well whatever's happened, he's leaving in a minute, and he won't be back," Blaise snaps.
"Good," Harry says, because for some reason, Ron's not. "Lowering the tone of the place, wrecking a bloke's pint, making loose with the salad." Harry wavers a hand to mime making loose.
Ron sighs. Blaise scowls. Neville says, "Well, you've no need to worry about it anymore, then, Harry, as he'll be lowering the tone and wrecking pints in Canada come morning."
And that's when Harry gets it. Looks to Neville, who's never lied to him, who's never let him down, and says, "We're not talking about Malfoy," because he needs to hear that they aren't.
They are.
Harry's salad lodges in his throat. He quite nearly makes it the loo in time for the exodus.
"I knew?" Harry asks, weakly.
Neville nods. "S'why we're here, yeah?" Ron says. "See him off proper, like."
"Only we thought…" Neville trails off. Looks away. How Harry knows he's blown it.
He nods. Knows what they thought, and why, and he leans back over the toilet again because he needs to. Can't remember eating this much, let alone this much salad, and wonders mildly if it's turned the rest of his stomach against him.
Stupid rebelling salad. Stupid leaving Malfoy.
Stupid stupid Harry.
Ron hands him damp paper for his face. Neville flushes again. And Harry, Harry steels himself for a rough go of it and says, "Back later, yeah? Got a Malfoy to see."
Malfoy's leaving. Leaving, the git, and he hasn't said all night. Just…No, Harry can't think that, has to settle on what he knows.
And what he knows is this: Malfoy's faffing off to Canada come morning, and Harry's blown every chance he's ever had, and there's a pointy-pale-pretty bloke snapping at Blaise, and Harry thinks there's a God.
Harry doesn't know what's on his face, but whatever it is stops Blaise's argument cold. He waves uselessly in Harry's direction to tip Malfoy off, but it's too late, Harry's too fast, he's got Draco's shirt in his fists and he's pulling in tight and Draco, Draco just stares.
"Thought you said no, Potter," Draco says, and he sounds tired. Looks worse than.
"You're not leaving."
Draco blinks. Harry's not sure why he's Draco now, but he is, and he's not leaving, Harry won't let him. Can't, really, Harry's not prepared to cope with life Malfoyless, hasn't he coped with enough, can't he just have this one consistency in his days? S'not so much to ask.
"We've been through this," Draco says slowly, like Harry's hard of hearing. "I'm unemployable, living on Pansy's couch and Blaise's mercy. There's nothing for me here, Potter. Nothing." He says this staring straight into Harry's eyes. Harry thinks they burn. "I know you don't like me, but I'm not…I'm allowed to have something, yeah? And I can't here, so…Je suis Canadien."
Harry thinks. It's hard, what with the wobbly world and rebelling gut—did he not leave that salad in the loo? Really, he's sure he did—but he's got Malfoy there to steady him, Draco there to keep him up. "Say that again."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
"Potter," Draco says, and looks away, and Harry doesn't like that, not having steely eyes in his, so he uses his free hand to draw Draco's jaw back.
Draco's jaw feels nice.
"Again," Harry says, this time pleading. Draco shuts his eyes. Says, "There's noth—" and Harry swallows Draco's words because he doesn't want to hear them.
Draco's stiff against him, body rigid, cock erect, slim little Malfoy with his pretty pointy face and his shiny black clothes and his wee narrow hips and his sturdy broad shoulders. Harry wants him closer. Cups Draco's neck, palm over spine, fingers curled in soft blond hair, and falls into the feeling.
Draco doesn't move. Harry thinks that's a shame, this feels brilliant, but he pulls away a little to catch his breath. Rests his forehead on Draco's and searches out silver.
Draco's not smiling, which makes Harry very aware that he is.
"You taste like sick-up," Draco says with curious detachment.
"Drank a bit," Harry says. "A rather lot, actually. Didn't…you're leaving."
"Yes."
"No. You're not. But you were. And I…" Harry trails off. Waves a hand and scrunches his face because he can't go further, has to trust Draco to provide as he's trusted Ron and Hermione and Neville.
Draco frowns. "Oh, no, Potty." His fist feels good clutching Harry's shoulder. Like that hand on his back who-knows-how-long-ago. "That one you finish. You can't let that sentence hang, damn it, it's not bloody fair."
"Don't go," Harry says. "I don't want you to go."
"That's not your choice to make."
"Isn't it?" And Harry's kissing him again, tongue at Draco's crease, lips working against his, pleading and prying and searching entry.
And Draco gives.
"Say it again," Harry says six months later.
Draco raises his brows. "Je suis Canadien."
Harry scrunches his face. Says, "Je suis Cand-yen," just to see Draco snort-smile.
"Cor, Potty, you're worse than Neville in Potions. Git."
"Parce-que je ne suis Cand-yen pas, only just married there," Harry mutters, and Draco laughs as he pulls them back to bed.
Montreal can wait. They've their wedding night ahead and Harry's feeling just fine, he's skipped the salad and all…