THE BOY WHO LIVED TO LOVE A MAN
Harry Potter Locked in Sordid, Secret Love Affair with Author J. William Cross
By Rita Skeeter

It was under the glittering fairy lights, between the notes of a decadent waltz, that it first began: a perfect catalyst for romance, but a shock for those it would catalyze, and for the world.

Harry Potter, now 32, the champion of the Light and defeater of the Dark Lord, has never been the sort to attend something like a masque ball at a governor's mansion. Sources confirmed that he attended at the behest of his friend, Hermione Granger-Weasley, as her plus-one, doubtlessly an effort to encourage the Boy Who Lived to relax. In the years since the War, it's been well-established that Potter has a workaholic streak, one that rose him quickly through the ranks as an auror, though at the cost of everything else in his life.

J. William Cross, the illustrious and award-winning author of Tragedy of the Narcissist and Twice Since Midnight, among many other titles, has never been the type to attend anything. In past press announcements, the author's agent, Eric Weston of Weston & Co., has described him as "shy" and "withdrawn", but any reporter who's tried to arrange an interview with him knows it goes far beyond that. Cross is best described as a shut-in, a hermit with a pathological fear of social interaction of any stripe.

An improbable pair in an improbable setting, and now, sources close to Mr. Weston have confirmed, in an improbable romantic correspondence.

Potter was seen earlier this month chasing Cross as the author fled the governor's ball, doubtlessly caught in a paroxysm of his social phobia. The veteran, dressed handsomely as a raven with a mask of black feathers, stared after him listlessly, like a man possessed with lust and longing.

It was only within a few days that the correspondence began. Using Cross's agent as a midpoint, Potter sent Cross a letter, apparently after reading Tragedy of the Narcissist and being further enchanted by the mysterious recluse of an author. It was out of that first letter that the gay love affair grew.

Potter's homosexuality would surely explain why he, the beloved savior of the wizarding world, remains a bachelor at 32, though he was unavailable to publicly comment on the accusation.


When Draco was a boy, his parents would take him shopping in Diagon Alley. He would wait until they were busy or distracted to run off into Crescent Gate and press his nose against the glass of the bakery window.

But that was over twenty years ago, and the bakery had since been replaced with a shoe shop. When he first saw it, Draco felt a strange twinge of regret. The bakery had some of the most incredible croissants that Draco had ever tasted, and he found himself wondering whether he would have been able to do something to keep the bakery from closing if he hadn't been locked away in his flat.

He'd arrived early and sat down on the bench on the side of the road. A dusting of snow had started falling, covering the cobblestone with a glittering sheen of white. Every now and then, a parent and child or a couple would pass by, but for the most part, Crescent Gate was empty. It was quiet and still, the tall rows of buildings insulating it from the wind that moaned overhead.

He would have expected to feel nervous, but he didn't. He knew what was coming, after all – he'd known since the Leaky Cauldron. There was nothing coming that Draco hadn't already braced himself for.

He drew up the hood of his cloak, fussed with his green scarf, and tried to take comfort in the fact that, if nothing else, it would be over tonight.


Harry saw him at once and thought for a moment that his heart had stopped beating.

The green scarf. The prince.

The hood of his black cloak was drawn up, and he was sitting on a bench some yards away from the mouth of the alley that let into Crescent Gate, set against a backdrop of glimmering snowfall.

His heart went from not beating at all to beating far too fast.

Harry approached, his boots crunching on the thin layer of snow. He could detect the subtle tensing of the prince's shoulders, the stooping of his head, the balling of his gloved hands into fists.

Harry stopped in front of him, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

"You're nervous," Harry said, more of an observation than a question.

"My apologies," the prince whispered. "I've braced myself, but old habits die hard."

"You don't have anything to fear from me," Harry assured him, and to his astonishment, the prince laughed a dry, bitter, sob-like laugh.

"Dear raven," he said, voice thick with emotion, "you are, as you have ever been, more certain than you are knowledgable."

The sound of the prince's voice on the brink of tears was almost too much for Harry to take. He reached out to touch his face, but the prince jerked back, stood, and turned away.

"Before I – before… I just want you to know that this wasn't deliberate."

"What wasn't?"

"I want you to know that I don't expect anything from you."

"What are you talking about?"

The prince took a breath. He straightened, set his shoulders.

He turned, and Harry was staring into the face of Draco Malfoy.

Wasn't he? This wasn't some strange dream, was it? For a moment, it felt like it might be.

It was without a doubt Draco Malfoy. Fifteen years older, and the only sign of it in his eyes. He seemed sad, broken – and perhaps more than anything else, so very weary, like he was carrying a tremendous burden, like at any moment he was expecting a killing blow and he no longer had the strength to be scared of death.

"You…" Harry began, but the sentence was lost halfway up his throat.

"J. William Cross is my pen-name," he answered, his voice wan and shaking. "I never could have used my given name, not after the War."

Harry's mouth was open. He wanted to speak, but he didn't know what to say.

Draco Malfoy? The irascible, cowardly, sarcastic, deplorable little Death Eater? He hadn't been falling in love with Draco Malfoy all this time, had he? Those beautiful, captivating words couldn't have been Draco Malfoy's. Could they?

But the more he thought about it—

"God, that makes a lot of sense," Harry said.

Draco sob-laughed again and lowered his head. Cornsilk hair fell in front of his eyes.

"So when you saw me at the Leaky Cauldron—?"

"Overwhelmed by fear and old memories," he finished, with great difficulty. "I fled the tavern like a bat out of Hell. I might have managed meeting a stranger, but not you. Never you. I still can't quite believe I can bear to look you in the eye, after…"

Harry nodded dumbly. He felt like the rug had been ripped out from under him.

"Merlin, I – I thought I could do this, but – I'm sorry, this is worse than I thought it would be." His voice was tight, frantic; his eyes averted. "Thank you for your decency, Harry."

And then he pushed past him. It took Harry a few moments to realize that he'd even left, and moments longer to turn and call—

"Wait…!"

He took off across the snow, following him around the corner that opened into Diagon Alley.

"Wait, I was just—"

Harry stopped quite abruptly when he saw what was waiting for them.

Malfoy had stopped dead in his tracks. Rushing towards them, flashpots bursting, was a swarm of reporters.

Malfoy stumbled backwards, nearly losing his footing. Harry was used to swarms of reporters, but they usually didn't appear without some kind of reason.

"Oh—" Malfoy stammered, "—oh, Merlin."

He looked at Malfoy. All blood had rushed from his face, and he was gripping his chest like he was frightened he might drop dead of a heart attack.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"

"I…"

Malfoy seemed paralyzed, so scared that he couldn't even move, and before Harry could urge him to run, before he even remembered his condition and what a swarm of paparazzi would do to him, the journalists were already shouting questions.

"Mr. Potter, how do you respond to accusations that you're involved in a gay love affair?"

"Mr. Potter, who's that with you?"

"That's Draco Malfoy!"

Malfoy was shaking violently, and even through all the pandemonium, Harry could hear him wheezing.

Harry's mind finally kicked into gear. "Stop," he said. "Stop! Leave him alone!"

"Mr. Malfoy, were you meeting Mr. Potter just now?"

"Are you J. William Cross?"

"Mr. Potter, are you involved romantically with Mr. Malfoy?"

"Does his status as a former Death Eater and marked blood purist at all bother you, Mr. Potter?"

"Leave him alone!" Harry cried.

Wheezing and shaking and barely standing upright, Malfoy pushed his way through the crowd, desperate and terrified like a cornered animal. Harry tried to follow him, but the cloud of reporters had grown too thick.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you at all worried that your former allegiances will in any way stain Mr. Potter's good name?"

"Malfoy!" Harry called, but the moment he was out of the crowd he Disapparated with a crack.


He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything was falling apart. He was dying.

He heard Dolly's voice, but she sounded very far away.

He had to – he was going to – everyone knew

Draco fell to his feet in front of the fireplace. He could barely grab his wand, let alone cast the spell for a fire-call.

"Abigail," he stammered. "Abigail Twine. Abigail Twine!"

He was not so much breathing as choking, not so much speaking as sobbing. He was dizzy, nauseous, dying, falling apart, burning up, he couldn't take this, everyone knew, everyone knew who he was, they knew about everything, his entire word was crumbling around him and he was dying

"This is Dr. Twine," came a voice through the flames.

"Doctor—" he gasped, though he could barely get the word out. "Doctor, I – I… I can't…"

As Draco tried desperately to just get the damn sentence out, just tell her, just stay conscious, stay alive, he heard her voice come again:

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes," he half-wheezed, half-sobbed, gripping the sides of the hearth to keep himself from falling forward. "Yes, I – Doctor, I can't – my chest – I feel like I'm dying – I can't—!"

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, sternly and slowly, "stop talking. Stop now. Stop and breathe deeply."

His head fell forward. He dragged in scrap after scrap of air, though his throat felt so tight that it didn't help at all; he still felt like he was going to collapse.

"I'm not in the room with you, Mr. Malfoy, but at an educated guess, I'd say that you're having a panic attack," Dr. Twine said. "They're not life-threatening. Do you understand? They're awful, but you aren't in danger of dying. Keep breathing."

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

"I'm going to do an exercise with you," she said. "It's used to help reduce anxiety levels in a crisis. Whenever I say 'number', I want you to give me a number, from one to ten, describing your level of anxiety. One is not anxious, ten is the most anxious you've ever been. Do you understand?"

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

"Mr. Malfoy, do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Okay. Number."

"Ten."

There was no sense in lying. Draco had never been this terrified. He felt like everything in his world was breaking down and there was nothing he could do. And even though Dr. Twine had assured him he wasn't going to die, it certainly didn't feel like it.

"All right," Dr. Twine said. "Question. Are you in any immediate physical danger? That is to say, are you at any immediate risk of being killed or hurt?"

Draco swallowed. "No." He wasn't in danger. No one could physically hurt him here. His flat was warded.

"Number."

"Nine."

"The trigger that brought on this attack, is it something that's going to affect you immediately, or in the future?"

Nothing was affecting him immediately. He was home. He was physically safe. There might be something in the papers tomorrow, but that was tomorrow.

"F-future," he stammered.

"So you have some time to deal with it. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Number."

"Seven."

"Keep breathing, Mr. Malfoy. Nice and deep."

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

"Think carefully about the stressor that triggered this attack," she said. "What is the worst possible outcome? How likely is it? Is it completely insurmountable, or is there a way to cope?"

People were doubtlessly already connecting him to his pen-name, and Draco was sure that eventually he would be exposed. It was bad – but insurmountable? He had an agent, didn't he, and weren't things like this part of his job? Even in the worst of all outcomes, he could move, pick a new pen-name, start over.

"Number," Dr. Twine said when he didn't answer.

"Five."

"Are you feeling better?"

Well, this throat wasn't tight anymore, and his heart rate had slowed to reasonable levels. He still felt weak and jittery, but not like he was actively dying.

"Yes. Th-thank you, Doctor."

"I want you to come into my office first thing in the morning," she said. "I'm going to open up a slot for you. I'd like to start seeing you regularly."

Draco leaned his forehead against the side of the hearth, the cool brick soothing his feverish skin.

"How's nine?"

"Fine."

"Tomorrow at nine. I'll see you then, Mr. Malfoy."

The flames returned to normal and the flat went quiet. Draco closed his eyes, left with only his thoughts.

Bad. Not insurmountable, not world-rending, just bad.

Even with his thick cloak and scarf, Draco felt cold. He folded his arms and doubled over in front of the fireplace.

Just bad, he thought. Just vulnerable, just exposed, just weakened.

Just alone. No more raven on his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Harry's face swam into his mind, shocked and appalled at the sight of Draco.

He'd known it had been coming, but he hadn't expected it to hurt like it did.

"Master Draco?"

He didn't rise; he didn't have the strength.

"Yes, Dolly?"

"Is – is Master Draco all right?"

He wasn't dying. He wasn't in danger. His obstacles were not insurmountable.

And he wasn't all right. The panic was gone, but the sadness remained, the loss. The hollow void of a could-have-been was carved from his chest, raw and bleeding. His raven was gone.

Harry was gone.

There was no wracking, terrified sobbing, no pained wheezing – just steady, silent tears. He cried not because he was scared, but because he simply could not stop.

Harry was gone, and the only good thing he'd had in fifteen years had gone with him.