Harry leaned forward on his elbows, wand loose in his hand as he watched the replay of his latest match in the enchanted mirror from his couch. Too slow, he frowned as his eyes tracked his own movements across the pitch. Of course, he'd won the Cannons the game (again) but he couldn't help being overly-critical of himself.
It'd been five years since the war, and when Harry Potter hadn't immediately stepped into his assumed role as an auror, the backlash had been swift and outraged. To be honest, he'd had just about enough hunting down evil wizards in his life – had spent the better part of his teenage years doing it. And since he wasn't dedicating his efforts to the Ministry, he felt all the more compelled to convince the world he was suited for Quidditch.
They hadn't lost yet since taking him on as Seeker. And all the training had been a blessed respite from dealing with all those things he had yet to speak aloud. The way the war had changed him, the state it'd left him in… Even his closest friends could only guess at the depth of damage he was hiding behind the defined muscles his athletic career had earned him.
The Harpies's prize beater, Carys Shannon, nearly knocked him off his broom, but he made a smooth twist around the staff of his broom before swiveling back atop it, and Harry reached for his short glass of firewhiskey on the table before him. Any little flaw, any miss, and he'd be back out on the pitch, training to correct it. He threw back the rest of the burning liquor with a wince, his eyes glued to the mirror.
It was just then his Loquorum illuminated, hovering about a foot from its stand in the corner of his living room. Without a glance at it, he set his empty glass back down and tossed a little silent incantation to it with his wand to answer.
"What?" Of course, it'd be his agent.
"Good evening to you, too. How's it?"
"Fine, fine," Harry muttered as he stood carefully, walking sideways to his liquor cabinet without taking his eyes off the glass. "What's up?"
"You're not still rewatching the match, are you?"
He stubbed his toe against his side table with a muttered curse before finally pausing the replay with a flourish of his wand and leaned against the arm of his couch to rub at it bitterly.
"I see new things each time I watch it."
Ruby Thompson gave an agitated groan over his Loquorum as he hobbled the rest of the way to his cabinet to withdraw the firewhiskey again.
"You're going to drive yourself insane if you obsess over this one. Remember the match with the Magpies?"
Harry scoffed, a bit miffed at her for bringing that up as he pulled the glass head stopper out of the decanter and sauntered back over to the couch.
"You only remind me every match," he grumbled as he eased back onto the cushions, refilling his glass. "Something I can do for you, Ruby?" Her little huff emitted from the small, glowing orb and Harry smirked.
"I've booked you an interview with Seekers Weekly."
Harry set down the decanter and lifted his glass to his lips. "Another one?"
"Well… I say interview. They're really pushing for a photoshoot."
He winced as the burning liquid slid down his throat, warming his stomach.
"Again, they want another one?" He'd long since resigned himself to celebrity status, he figured he might as well own it, but all the interviews and the attention and the limelight never truly stopped chafing. He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, rubbing again at the toe he'd stubbed.
"Harry, it's been four years since your last one with them. A lot's changed, and as your publicist, it's my prerogative–"
"Fine! Fine, when is it?" He grudgingly agreed before Ruby could pull out all the stops of how he 'owed' her. It was a conversation that could go on for hours, and he was eager to redirect his attention back to the replay of the match.
"Tuesday at three. They'll have their own hair and wardrobe, so don't bother showing up posh."
Harry snorted, picturing himself Apparating in wearing his tattered pajama pants and Hogwarts t-shirt that barely fit him anymore. Truly, he should throw the damn thing away as many holes as there were in it now, but he just couldn't bring himself to.
"Yes, boss," he intoned as he subtly restarted the match on his mirror. That half-stop was sloppy. He frowned.
"Attaboy. And… As a personal request, Harry, you really must stop watching the replay on a loop." Harry froze, wondering with a brief moment of panic if Ruby could somehow see him. "It's not good for your mental health."
Grimacing, he paused the replay again with an annoyed flick of his wand.
"Whatever you say, Ruby."
The next flick of his wand was sent towards the Loquorum to end the call, and it went dim, gently drifting back down onto its stand. Huffing another sigh, he muttered the spell to deactivate his mirror, too, albeit unwillingly. It shattered into dozens of pieces that drifted into the open box beneath it, and the lid shut.
He desperately wanted to sneak out onto the pitch and work on that half-stop, but his entire body was aching from the match. It'd been nearly six hours, but he still hadn't slept and he was hurting. So instead of possibly injuring himself, (mostly to avoid an earful from Ruby), he stretched out across his couch long-ways and Accio'd his copy of the Quidditch Times. It drifted over to him, and he idly flipped through it, still nursing his firewhiskey and… Alright, he was sulking.
Why was he sulking when he'd just bought the Cannons another win? To be honest, it was starting to lose its charm. The World Cup was perilously close, and he hadn't been an official member to qualify to play last time it came around, but even the thought of winning the Cup wasn't enticing to him.
He loved Quidditch. He loved flying, loved exerting himself, loved the competition. Everything about it. The cheering fans in the stands, the ever-present fear that he would lose his streak, but… Harry took a long drag of his whiskey as he admitted to himself, he was lonely. His friends always made time to come to his matches, even went out for celebratory drinks after with him, but always, at the end of the night, he'd return home to an empty flat.
Not that he could really imagine himself in a relationship. Not with his celebrity status and all the baggage he wasn't quite ready to share with anyone just yet, let alone himself. After he and Ginny had fallen out, he'd resigned himself to focusing on his career and he hoped it'd be fine like this.
His internal whinging came to a stuttering halt as he nearly choked on his whiskey. Through his mindless leafing of Quidditch Times, he'd stopped really seeing the pages, but the page he'd just turned to… He sat up suddenly, a flush creeping into his cheeks and his eyes going wide.
Draco fucking Malfoy just had to remain on his radar. He'd have been glad to never think about the prick again, but there he was, modeling some new Quidditch gear and looking damn fine doing it. Why he'd decided to turn to modeling was only slightly a mystery – puberty had blessed him like no magic could.
Harry fought to stop choking on the burning liquor as he scowled down at the page. Malfoy was half-smirking up at him, turning this way and that, posing in his fresh new Quidditch kit like he'd ever step foot on a pitch again. Fucking twat, Harry thought reflexively. Just why'd you have to end up looking like THAT?
With a frustrated growl, Harry hurled the magazine across the room and swiveled his legs off the edge of the couch. Even though he'd just won another match, even though everything was going decently in his life, his already sour mood soured further and he decidedly seized the decanter off the short table again.
That's it, I'm getting sloshed. Ruby can bitch at me all she wants.
As Harry Apparated onto the front step of the Quidditch World Studios, he was suddenly reminded of his horrendous first-ever interview with Rita Skeeter. How young and diffident he'd been, how naive and easily led. A wry grimace quirked his lips as he stepped up to the doors and was greeted by the waiting staff.
It'd become a tedious thoroughfare at this point, all the tittering and the touching. He especially hated the touching, but he was hopeless at taming his own hair or picking his own clothes, so he grit his teeth and allowed himself to be dressed in a fine suit, his hair combed and styled, and a potion spread across his face. He could almost suppress his shudder at the contact by now – almost.
"There you are! Look at you, all dolled up," Ruby adulated as she stepped into the green room, her golden tresses swaying as much as her hips. Harry flinched a sarcastic smile at her in the reflection, wishing for all the world he could just get this over with. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired," he answered honestly. Though you'd never tell just by looking at him – the Studios staff really knew what they were doing.
"Were you up late training again?" Ruby clicked her tongue, conjuring a small pad of paper and a quill to make a note of something. "I swear, I'm this close to getting you prescribed a sleeping draught."
Harry fought back against the urge to roll his eyes with a deep inhale, but his sigh came out less measured than he'd hoped. "You know I won't take it."
Dreamless Sleep is hazardous enough without mixing in a sleeping draught. Not that Ruby ever needs to know I take it.
She huffed a sigh, vanishing her quill and paper and resting her hands on her hips. "You're lucky the agency pays me enough to also babysit you. You'd have been half-dead by now if not for me."
He heard the edge in her voice that was leading right back to the conversation about how deeply indebted he was to her, and he groaned internally.
"I'm fine, Ruby! I swear," he emphasized as the Studio staff finally stepped away from him. "All done?"
One of the women nodded, seeming slightly starstruck. "You can follow me to the set, if you please, Mr. Potter."
Finally. He vehemently resisted the urge to shake off the lingering feeling of so many hands touching him, instead offering the woman a tight smile as he stood.
"Thank you. Coming, Ruby?"
"Lead the way!"
She didn't necessarily have to be there for every one of his interviews, but Harry had a way of fumbling his words from time to time, so it was a little relief to have her there to translate when they didn't come out right.
They followed deeper into the enormous building, between offices and towards the back warehouse where they set up their backdrops and whatnots. Harry didn't really care for all the pomp of publicity, but was well-past the point of fighting it. Ruby had given him enough headaches and grief in their early years when he'd betray reluctance, citing his 'public image' and 'reputation.' As if any of that had anything to do with him. At the end of the day, people were going to think what they wanted about him, and he couldn't give a shit either way.
"Alright, here we are!" The woman beamed at him as she turned before a simple set. An older man stepped up to Harry, smiling widely as he extended a hand to him.
"Mr. Potter, a pleasure to have you back with us today!" He forced a smile onto his face for this man, reminding himself he's only doing his job. And I'm doing mine. "The girls have truly outdone themselves, don't you think?"
He turned back to his attending staff, mostly women, who all tittered nervously as they drank him in with wide eyes. Discomfort at their appreciation crawled up Harry's spine, but he glued his smile to his face.
"They're all very talented," he decided to say. The man turned back to him, an approving smile on his face.
"Indeed, indeed. But let's not waste time! We only have you for an hour."
He ushered Harry onto the set, beneath near-blinding lights at every angle, and he tugged at his blazer which was slightly too tight across his chest. Probably intentionally, he winced internally. It wasn't lost on him, either, that he was nearly spilling out of the button-up beneath it. Also intentional.
They just can't seem to stop painting me as some sex symbol, he whined silently. Please, let this hour go by quickly.
Thankfully, the lights weren't emitting any heat, so he wasn't sweating through his clothes, but the older man – the photographer – did ask Harry to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt at one point. To which he had sent Ruby a disparaging glance, which was returned with a stern jerk of her chin as if to say just do it. So, with his groan tightly contained behind his grit teeth, he'd obliged.
By the end of the hour, he was nearly exhausted. Him, a 23-year-old professional athlete, exhausted just by standing for an hour. He'd already been tired, because yes, he had in fact stayed up late training. Again. He just couldn't help it – between his incessant insomnia and the places his mind went to in solitude, the only peace he could still claw at was on the pitch. Running laps or practicing his barrel rolls.
Just when he thought it'd never end, the photographer clapped his hands once, announcing "Excellent work everyone! Thank you!" For some reason, this earned him scattered applause as he stepped back up to Harry to take his hand again. "You did wonderfully, Mr. Potter. These will turn out brilliantly, I'm sure of it."
"Thanks to you," he responded politely. "I appreciate your having me."
"Of course, of course! Any time, my boy!"
Ruby chose then to swoop in to save him, and he nearly buckled in relief. "Alright, time for the actual interview! You still up for it?"
Harry shrugged. "Why not? I'm here, aren't I?"
A corner of her eye twitched, and he realized he'd once again sounded reluctant, but couldn't be bothered to try to conceal it beneath pleasantries. So he just stepped around her, muttering some excuse about finding something to drink, but the second he was out from beneath those blinding lights, his eyes adjusted and landed on the last face he ever wanted to see.
Draco bloody Malfoy was seemingly just arriving for a shoot of his own, attended by a woman chattering endlessly and carrying far too many things. She was a peripheral detail Harry perceived, though, as the man he'd frozen to stare at also caught his eye.
Jesus fucking Christ, he's even fitter in person. How the hell did he go from that to THAT? He felt warmth crawling into his cheeks as he realized what he currently looked like. Fitted suit, hair styled, buttons undone down to his sternum. Malfoy halted.
An infinite moment of excruciating tension bore down on him as the woman speaking to Malfoy continued nattering on constantly, but Harry wasn't listening. Everything in the studio faded to black as he met the blond's intrigued eyes, which flashed down to his chest once before finding his face again.
That little glance was all it took to shatter whatever bizarre trance he'd just been trapped in, because his feet started moving again. Fighting the urge to actually run away, he paced towards the hallway Malfoy had emerged from and brushed past him, wracking his brain for the memory of how he got here. How to get back to the green room. And trying not to feel the eyes still boring into the back of his head as he disappeared from sight.