"I wish you would rethink this, mate. I really do," Ron says, and the imploring look on his face makes Harry almost want to reconsider.
Almost.
Harry shakes his head with resignation. "No. I'm finished with the Aurors. They've made it clear where they stand, and I won't budge over a personal issue that has no bearing on how I do my job." He smears a finger across the condensation on his pint glass and sighs. "And even if they came back around, I don't think I can go back. It's about principle now."
"He's right, Ron," Hermione says, although her tone implies an unspoken 'you should have known' somewhere beneath the words. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, always indicative of displeasure. She's crinkly at him more often than not these days, and frankly, Harry's stopped trying to figure out what he's done wrong. He thinks wrestling a greased Kneazle into a post box would give him less trouble.
Ron huffs into his Firewhiskey. "And what about Owen, eh? It's his bloody fault you're in this mess to begin with."
Right. And here it comes. Owen.
"This isn't about Owen," Hermione snaps before Harry has a chance to. She glares at him, and Harry knows full well she doesn't believe it. This is all about Owen and their failed relationship, and how it looks for the Ministry to have an Auror who engages in less than respectable sexual practices and isn't the least bit bothered by it on their payroll. He's heard the whispers. He knows what people think even if they won't say it to his face.
It's not the first time his sexuality has been on trial, Merlin knows. When he first came out as gay, the resulting backlash took almost a year to die down. And then when Owen came forward to the Prophet with his tell-all article on quote, "the Dark Side of Our Saviour", all hell broke loose. No one cared that Owen Redfield was a consenting partner to their bedroom activities, merely that the Great Harry Potter was a dominating top with a demanding streak. Of course the Prophet and the scheming Rita Skeeter would pounce on the opportunity to make Owen out to be an abused lover rather than the self-serving, Galleon-grubbing jackass that he is.
What doesn't help matters is the softly patronizing shake of Hermione's head and Ron's pinched glare of disappointment.
Hypocrites.
Harry full well knows they like their handcuffs fuzzy and pink with a quick release; Harry likes his with a bite and a beg. As for Owen—Harry should have spotted his game a mile off. The kind of sub that likes the game only when it suits them. And the only things about their game that suited Owen were Harry's fame and the contents of his vaults. But he hit every almost every one of Harry's weak points. Tall, aristocratic, with a gorgeous body that pinked up beautifully under the sting of a riding crop, and an eager willingness to submit.
Too eager. That should have been his first clue. A true sub would have made Harry work for his submission, to prove himself worthy of such a gift. He snapped his fingers and Owen jumped. Too easy.
Harry sighs again. It's probably just as well. A lasting relationship seems to be permanently out of his reach.
"It doesn't really matter if it's about Owen or not," Harry says. "I've made my decision." He takes a long gulp from the glass, draining it and slamming it onto the table. "And apparently, the Ministry has made theirs. It's done. I'm not going back."
Ron looks flummoxed across the table, spluttering an incoherent protest. After a moment of Harry and his wife both glaring at him, he manages to find his words. "So what will you do now?"
Harry shrugs. He hasn't thought that far ahead, but thinking about it now, an idea springs to mind. "You remember last summer when I went to Spain?" Ron nods. "Well, I spent quite a bit of time there at some of the local galleries. I've painted a fair bit in my off time, and I really enjoyed it. Maybe that's what I'll do."
Ron's eyes go wider than he's ever seen. "Paint?" The question is fraught with incredulity. "You're going to chuck it all and paint?"
Harry slumps back in the booth. "Yeah, why not? I've got nothing else to do with my time. And I'm pretty good. Maybe I'll open a gallery, feature my own work as well as some local artists. You know Luna's got her hands in with her sculptures. They're not bad," he says, nodding to himself. "I think they'd sell."
"But Harry," Hermione cuts in, "you don't really need the money." He hears the unspoken 'so why would you waste your time?'.
"True," he concedes. "But by your logic, then I don't really need the paycheck from the Auror department either."
Her lips pinch together. She doesn't like to be called out. Never has.
Their silence and disapproval is palpable, and to be honest, he is far more than a little tired of it.
He grabs his coat. "I appreciate your concern, but honestly, it isn't necessary. I'll figure out something. I just need some space to do that."
"Harry," Ron says, and the deep undercurrent of warning rubs Harry the wrong way. "You're making a mistake."
Harry can feel the muscles in his face tense, and the unconscious clench of his teeth tell him he's close to saying something he'll regret. He takes a deep breath and slides out of the booth to stare them both down.
"Maybe it is a mistake. But it's mine to make, not yours."
"We just want what's best for you," Hermione pipes in.
"No," Harry replies, shaking his head. "You want me to do what you think is best for me. You've never trusted me to make the right decision." He opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut at the last moment. "I'll owl you in a week or so."
With that, he leaves the pub and heads out onto the street, and slips into his coat. He's only got one arm in before the sound of reporters barrels down on him. A crowd of them are at the end of block, running toward him, shouting.
"Mr. Potter? Are the rumors true? Have you left the Aurors?"
"Does it have anything to do with Owen Redfield's tell-all to the Prophet?"
"Is there any truth to the allegations of you being an abusive lover?"
"Will you be taking legal action?"
"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"
Harry turns, ready to stand his ground, but something unclenches in his chest, and he knows he's not ready to face them. Not now, possibly not ever.
Maybe Hermione was right, and he should have known, but it doesn't seem to make any sort of difference now. He wants some space to think. He wants to be left alone. He wants peace and quiet. He wants a haven to be himself. He wants—
"SANCTUARY!"
The cry rips out of him before he can stop it, and between one breath and the next, the pull of Apparition whisks him away.
00000
Harry hates Apparition as much as he hates Floo travel. A fact made plain as he crumples to the floor on what appears to be a very expensive rug. A rug he's never seen before. Certainly not one at Grimmauld.
Two audible gasps catch his attention, and Harry forces his gaze to focus on his surroundings.
Dead ahead, he sees a pair of lovely bare feet sticking out from beneath black trousers with a fraying hem. He's never used 'lovely' to describe feet before, but these warrant it. Long, slim, with perfectly formed toes, graceful, high arches, and the hint of shapely ankles. His eyes travel further upward to take in the point of a wand, pointed directly at his face. From the wand his gaze settles firmly on the flushed and startled face of Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy.
It feels as though the air is sucked from his lungs. Malfoy's mouth is open in a slight pant, and the collar of his white shirt is gaping at his collarbone, and Harry can see the flush from his cheeks has spread lower, pinking him up all over. The sight goes straight to Harry's groin.
Malfoy's got that wand trained on him, but it's not Malfoy's wand, Harry knows, because Harry's still got it in a box under his bed at Grimmauld. This is one of those throwaway Ministry affairs given to parolees, a weak stick that doesn't do shit except for basic household spells. But Malfoy's face is set, holding that useless piece of wood like he would AK someone with it if he could, his body set into a defensive stance, with one hand reaching back behind him as if to shield another body. His mother's.
Narcissa Malfoy is just as shocked as her son, eyes wide and surprised, body pressed close to Malfoy's.
It touches him, deep down, to see Malfoy standing there, all front and bravado, ready to defend his mother from wayward ex-Aurors who have suddenly lost the ability to not spontaneously Apparate. Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater, with his perfect feet, worn trousers, and no-good wand. Malfoy, looking delectably pink and flustered. Malfoy, who, in this moment, is the most gorgeous thing Harry thinks he's ever seen. It's absolutely ludicrous. And of course, because Malfoy is the git that he is, he has to ruin it by opening his spiteful mouth to snarl, "What the bloody fuck, Potter?'
He can't help it. Harry laughs. Braces his hand on the ridiculously expensive wool rug and laughs. He rises to his feet, shaking his head. He grins despite himself, and is quite satisfied by the glare he receives from Malfoy in turn.
"Malfoy," he says, drawing in a deep breath to stifle the laughter, "I honestly have no idea."