The subterranean windows of the Ministry confirmed Harry's superstition about weekly weather patterns.
Tuesday, and it was raining.
The shower had gone well, he thought. Hermione, very pregnant, cooed in delight over the miniature robes and broom. Ron, very proud, proclaimed his son's predicted abilities: he would be the smartest and most studious Keeper in the history of Hogwarts. The joyful grandparents joked that little Gregor would start off the long chain of male Weasley-Granger progeny, and each Weasley sibling murmured plans in his other's ear about their future children. Ginny, alone, gazed at Harry and Draco from across the table. Harry and Draco gazed at each other – short distance – and smiled.
Percy, of course, had to work that day.
Percy, of course, had to work for every family occasion.
Harry passed him in the corridor that Tuesday, and said Hello. Percy passed by and said Hello. They continued in their opposite direction.
Harry had to wonder about Percy. What made him tick? Why was he never with his family? Why couldn't he see that they still loved him, after all, that he was his mother's child and his father's son? Was he that… depressed? Isolated? Self-conscious? Workaholic? Did he know that they wanted him back, little Percy, as he had been in childhood and hadn't been in early adulthood?
Draco had sat in Percy's spot that Saturday. He had… decided he would come, after all, at the last minute, so Harry told the Weasleys. Harry felt guilty about not telling them earlier. The gnaw persisted past the Saturday into that Tuesday. Ah, procrastination. He was just as bad now as he had been about the Second Task, although RSVPs for baby showers were nothing nearly as grave as facing an unknown and undoubtedly life-threatening task.
He heaved a sigh. The postits on his cubicle fluttered a little, magenta and lime and yellow balls with silver wings that fluttered regardless of his sighs. The gray windows grayed more and Harry could feel the moisture from the outside permeating the interior of his subterranean Ministry workspace.
Three more hours of this.
Never before had Harry felt such strong sympathy for Mr. Weasley. Being Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department was, despite all the fun and tinkering involved, a very raw deal. His Memory Charm was finely honed, his bookcase jammed with ledgers full of accounts of overheating heated toilet seats, green-flamed propane torches that froze things rather than combusting them, self-spiking punch bowls, reversed car horns that blasted right in the driver's ear. He, luckily, had been able to stop Fred and George from publishing their Field Guide to Muggle Baiting with the lovely piece of blackmail that he was, after all, the original financial backer of their shop. They said he rained on their parade.
He muddled through five more reports from his ever-growing stack: two hours until he would go home. Three and a half until he would see his beloved.
He researched the normal malfunctions of iPods, and how to go about ordering one for an early birthday present to himself – three more hours until he would see that lovely golden head.
Footsteps up the corridor, and the rub of trouser leg on trouser leg on robe. A balding, red-gray head above his cubicle wall.
"Harry, how's the report on dissolving spoons going?"
"Spoons?"
"I need it for tomorrow. The hearing's set for eleven."
"It'll be done by six."
"Right-o."
A shrinking back and dark blue robes.
One and a half hours.
Folders flew across the desk opening and closing. The right one, of course the very last he found, lay at the bottom of the pile.
One hour.
The clock struck five.
Scribbling of quill on parchment.
The clock struck five-forty-five.
Still scribbling.
Five fifty. One hour and forty minutes before Draco.
Signature. Arthur Weasley's distinctive gait. Five fifty five.
"Here you are, Arthur. Signed, sealed, and delivered."
Harry knew he'd done better Divination homework, but all that mattered was getting home to see his Draco. He gathered his things – robes, hat, briefcase, umbrella. Hat? Not his. Must belong to old Perkins. Oh, the smell. Like old… mothballs. Not his.
Into the golden grilled lift, into the blue main hall, into the fireplace facing the fixed Fountain, and into the comfort of his own home.
Why was Draco already on the couch?
"Short day at work, love?"
"… You could say that."
"What happened?"
Painful grimace. "I've been dismissed."
Quizzical glance.
"I got into a fight with a customer."
Harry's voice rose. "And what did he do to provoke you? He better have provoked you."
It wasn't team rivalry, Harry knew. Draco had learned to banter, not bully, when his customers belittled his beloved teams.
"It was Wood."
"Oh."
Wood had notorious protection issues about Harry. Of course, this greatly hindered their relationship when they were together – Wood was greatly opposed to the idea of Harry working. Harry, of course, belonged in the home, where no ill could befall him. Wood would work and support them both while Harry fixed the house.
Harry didn't want to be kept. And much as he was a good housekeeper, he detested the constraint of permanent maidwork.
And since Harry and Draco's relationship had been all over the papers recently, it was no surprise to Harry that Wood went for the blood.
Belatedly, he saw the purple-black spot hidden behind the flaxen fringe. He strolled over to the couch – it absorbed him on contact. He found his bearings after moments of cushiony disorientation, examining Draco's bruise. The flesh underneath had hardened a little, had swollen up, and turned aubergine.
"I'll kill that man, I swear I will."
"I suppose I'll have to find a new job. Not that my references'll be that fabulous."
"My ministry job will take care of us – "
"I can't stand the thought of lazing at home all day with nothing to do, cleaning and waiting for you to come home – "
Harry couldn't either. After all, that's why he hadn't wanted to live with Wood, wasn't it? He didn't like the constraints of perpetual domesticity – life at the Dursleys had left the wrong impression.
"I don't want you home all day either. What do you want to do? What do you really want to do? I want you to be happy. I don't care if my meals are cooked for me – the way it is now, they certainly aren't."
"I could be a hair model."
"Vanity: Draco Malfoy's greatest weakness or his strongest strength?"
"Shut it, you."
"Were you serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be? It's a viable option."
"Modeling work is sporadic. Although, come to think of it, you do have that specific primadonna attitude about you."
"I was made for modeling."
"Right."
At that moment, Draco found himself being sucked in by the squishy greenness that was the couch, aided by Harry's insistent and zealous pressure. He stretched out his neck, and let his lover take him away.
Draco would, Harry reflected as he raided the refrigerator for a late-night post-shag pickle, make a very good hair model. Even the bruise, ugly though it was, brought out the streaks of silver and gold. And he did have a natural pout.