It was odd to sit across from Malfoy at the breakfast table the next morning, and not only because it was Christmas Eve. For all the times they'd spent the night together, they'd never shared breakfast or even a pot of tea. It was decidedly unnerving, especially since Malfoy seemed to have decided to pretend that nothing was amiss at all.
"Pass the marmalade, Potter," he said calmly, smirking as Harry proceeded to tip over his cup of tea in the process. Hermione gave Harry a rather pitying look as she cleaned up his second Malfoy-related spill in less than 24 hours.
"Better get it together before Quidditch, Harry," Ginny said, pointing her fork at him. "I don't want any klutzes on my team. Bill, you're still in, right?
Bill shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Draco can have my spot." Harry and Ron exchanged a glance as Bill calmly grabbed another slice of toast. "I told Victoire I'd take her sledding. Besides, I'm no Quidditch player. You'll have more fun with Draco."
Harry highly doubted that, but he didn't argue. He busied himself by buttering his toast and pouring another cup of tea while Malfoy looked uneasily around the table.
"All right," Malfoy said. Perhaps he'd been waiting to see if anyone was about to protest. "I'll play. What are the teams?"
"Me, Harry, and Charlie against you, George and Ron," Ginny said promptly.
"Absolutely not." George entered the room and glared at them all. He grabbed a piece of toast off Ron's plate. "I'm not playing with—"
"How about this," Charlie interrupted quickly as Malfoy's eyes darted to George. "Seekers against non-Seekers? Me, Harry, and Malfoy—er, Draco, sorry—against George, Ron, and Ginny?"
Ron snorted. "Sure you want to do that? Not a Chaser or Keeper amongst the lot of you? Your loss, Charlie." He reached across the table and high-fived Ginny. George merely nodded, tight-lipped.
Harry looked at Malfoy and Charlie—his two biggest secrets, on one team—and didn't know whether to laugh or protest. He stifled a sigh. "Works for me."
After breakfast, the six of them wandered down to the Weasleys' Quidditch pitch, brooms in hand.
"A Nimbus 3500?" Malfoy said in surprise, looking down at the broom Ginny had handed him from the shed. "These are really nice brooms."
George scowled at him. "Why? Surprised we impoverished Weasleys have brooms at all?"
Malfoy's pale face flushed. "I didn't mean—it's just, these are really nice brooms, and you've got so many—"
"George is just teasing," Ginny interrupted. George's scowl deepened. "Nimbus gave the Harpies a full set of the new models this year, so we decided to scrap the old ones. I took a few home. Beats the old Cleansweeps we used to have, eh, Charlie?"
Charlie laughed and turned the Nimbus over so it gleamed in the crisp morning sunlight. "I miss my old Cleansweep," he said fondly. "Helped us win a few matches against Slytherin in my day."
As they walked, Teddy zipped along next to them on his toy broom, chattering to Harry and Malfoy, completely oblivious to the fact that the two men hadn't exchanged a single word with one another. Harry thought wistfully of how nice Christmas might have been if it were the usual sort of affair; they'd have a morning game of Quidditch without worrying that George might kill Malfoy, then he'd have a nap with Charlie in the bedroom, and a game of Wizard's chess with Ron in the afternoon. Now he wasn't going to get any of it.
Once they were up in the air, Malfoy leaned forward on his broom and took off down the field, testing the limits of the Nimbus. Harry had to admit that he was still a good flyer. He watched Malfoy as much for his form and speed as for the way the bottom edge of his shirt rode up and exposed his lean, pale back to the cold winter air. Malfoy's blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as he raced himself across the field, as fast as he'd ever been back at Hogwarts.
Teddy cheered him on from down below, shouting and laughing words that they couldn't hear, until Malfoy turned at the other end of the field and came racing back toward them, an exhilarated look on his face.
Harry sucked in a breath, suddenly remembering all the times he'd watched Malfoy fly when they were back at school, how familiar he was with that sliver of lower back and the way Malfoy's body settled onto a broomstick, gripping the sleek handle between his thighs. Sometimes, when he'd reach for the Snitch, his body seemed to elongate as though he was an extension of the broom itself...Harry shook his head to keep his mind clear. The last thing he wanted to be thinking about today was Malfoy gripping anything else between his thighs.
At least he hadn't thought about that at Hogwarts—or had he? Merlin, Harry wondered with a start. Was I attracted to Malfoy even back at Hogwarts? It was an unsettling thought.
"Not bad, eh?" Ginny said, pulling up beside him.
Harry's face grew warm. "What's, er, what's not bad?" he asked, his heart rate quickening.
"The Nimbus, of course" she said, gesturing toward Malfoy, who was already pulling up beside them. "I almost like the 3500 better than the new model. A bit less finicky on a dive."
"Oh," said Harry, his heart rate slowing. "Right." He shook his head and looked away from them both, waving to Teddy below. Keep it together, he scolded himself. And stop thinking about Malfoy's thighs.
Once they started to play, however, all of Harry's anxiety and frustration about Malfoy, Charlie, Auror training, and everything else almost immediately dissipated. Flying always did that for him. If he hadn't been so busy fighting the war, he thought he might have gone on to play professional Quidditch like Ginny, or teach flying, or anything other than becoming some sort of accidental lifelong crusader against the Dark Arts. He tried not to think about it. If it hadn't been for the war, everything about his life might have been different.
In the air, at least, he could shake it off. Up here, everything was just fine.
For a team of all Seekers playing against a professional Chaser, a Keeper, and a Beater, Harry, Charlie, and Malfoy made a decent showing. Harry had been somewhat concerned about George playing opposite Malfoy, but Ginny covered him, and Malfoy was a faster flyer than George if it did come to that. At least they weren't playing with Bludgers, Harry thought as he watched Charlie block one of George's throws. Three-on-three eliminated the Snitch and the Bludgers, making for a game that was more like Muggle basketball than anything else.
With Charlie as Keeper, Malfoy and Harry played off one another as Chasers. Harry was surprised to find that he remembered Malfoy's flying style from Hogwarts, and was able to predict exactly what he was going to do when he had the Quaffle in hand. He knew that Malfoy was a fast flyer, but weak on a dive, and Malfoy knew that Harry was willing to take a risk to make a save. Without exchanging a word, they made several seamless plays.
"Not bad, Potter," Malfoy shouted after their first goal, his face breaking into a real, genuine smile. "You make a better Chaser than a Seeker!"
"Yeah right, Malfoy!" Harry yelled back, unable to suppress a grin. He'd never seen Malfoy smile like that in his life. "Did you ever even see the Snitch at Hogwarts?"
For as well as they played, the other three were unsurprisingly better; Ginny's two years of professional experience and a lifetime of playing family games together gave them an edge that Harry, Charlie, and Malfoy just didn't have, despite Harry's rather intimate personal experience with them both. And Ron was still a surprisingly decent Keeper.
"Fuck yeah! Take that, Malfoy!" he crowed, making a save against one of Malfoy's lobs of the Quaffle. "Who's your King now? Say it!"
Harry barked out a surprised laugh, and even Malfoy grinned. "Never, Weasley!" he shouted. He and Harry flew down the field, away from Ron and Ginny's rousing new rendition of Weasley is our King.
By the time they were finished playing, it was past noon and Teddy had gone inside. They traipsed back to the Burrow, George in the lead, with Ginny and Ron still making up verses to Weasley is our King. Harry walked in silence next to Malfoy and Charlie, feeling keenly aware that the game was over and he didn't know what would happen next.
Charlie slapped them both on the back, letting his hand linger for just a moment on Harry's shoulder. "Not bad for a team of Seekers, eh?" he said. "Malfoy, that last pass you made to Harry was excellent, went right over George's head."
"Thanks," Malfoy said in surprise. His lips quirked up in an uncertain smile that made Harry feel even more unsettled. "You ah, you both played well, too."
Without warning, George stopped in his tracks ahead, causing them all to let out a shriek of laughter that cut off the instant George turned around and she saw his face.
"Enough," he snarled. "It's well and good to make nice in front of Mum, or to play a game of Quidditch—we did that at Hogwarts at least—but I can't stand here while you all pal around with him—with Malfoy . And you two!" George pointed at Ron and Ginny. "Don't you remember where that song came from? Have you forgotten everything ?"
His face was as red and angry as it had been the night before. "Harry, I would've thought that you, at least…" George's voice trailed off as he glared at each of them in turn.
Harry flushed red. "I haven't forgotten," he muttered, aware of Malfoy's eyes on him. The shame he'd felt the night before came flooding back all at once.
Ginny frowned at George. "None of us have forgotten, George. I expect Malfoy hasn't forgotten, either, seeing as he's got a Dark Mark on his arm." Harry sucked in a breath at the mention of the Dark Mark, but Ginny was unperturbed. She turned to Malfoy, her hand on her hip. "Malfoy, have you forgotten what you've done?"
Malfoy stared at her in surprise. He was as red-faced as George, fists clenched, his expression a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Harry wondered if the polite facade he'd maintained so far would finally break.
"No," he said last. "I haven't forgotten."
"Good," said Ginny, turning back to George. "George, it's Christmas. Let it go for now."
Back at the house, Harry took his turn in the shower. He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot steam, trying not to think about Malfoy—his Dark Mark or what he'd done in school, or the war, or how fucking sexy he was on a broom, which was almost the worst of all. He couldn't even be mad at Malfoy without those other thoughts creeping in. He glanced down at his half-hard cock and reached for it—but, no. He'd almost certainly think of Malfoy if he did that, and he almost certainly had to stop thinking of Malfoy.
He admired Ginny for standing up for the prat, but in the end, George was right, he decided. Malfoy had done a lot of terrible things and he, Harry, had looked the other way for too long.
As he got out of the shower, he made up his mind to behave with polite, chaste tolerance toward Malfoy for the remainder of the holiday, or however long Malfoy intended to stay. It was already Christmas Eve, so with any luck, he wouldn't be around much longer. As tense and frustrated as he was, Harry was sure he could make it through the next couple days.
But what he didn't account for was the robe. When Harry returned to the little bedroom, shirtless and dripping wet from his shower, Malfoy was sitting on his bed wearing that damned plush white robe he always wore in the morning at his house. The one Harry never got to touch.
"Fuck," he muttered. Wasn't it bad enough that he'd had to endure watching Malfoy play Quidditch, bending forward on his broomstick, smirking at Harry from across the field? He had to bring the damn robe, too?
"Language, Potter," Malfoy said, glancing up at him. He paused, his eyes running the length of Harry's body. "You should use a drying charm," he added, his voice catching slightly. "You're dripping all over."
"Malfoy, shut up." Harry stared back at him. "We're—we're not friends, you know," Harry added, frowning.
Malfoy just looked at him. "I didn't say we were."
"Good," said Harry. The robe wasn't cinched quite tight enough, and he could see Malfoy's collarbone, his smooth, pale neck. His face was slightly flushed, and his lips looked pinker than usual next to the pale white of the robe. Before Malfoy, he'd never thought of a bathrobe as being particularly sexy, but this one fit him perfectly, accentuated all the lean parts of his body that Harry liked best.
They looked at each other for another long moment. Harry let out a long, slow, frustrated breath. And then, chaste tolerance be damned, he was striding across the room toward Malfoy, grabbing his hips, feeling how damn soft that robe was, running his hands over Malfoy's arse until Malfoy moaned against him. He sucked in a breath as he pulled him close; He could feel Malfoy's body against him, as hard and needy as Harry was.
Malfoy breath was hot and heavy on Harry's neck. He slid his hands around Harry's waist and let Harry crush his mouth in a kiss. Harry's knees felt weak, and he knew it was partially from playing Quidditch for the first time in too long, but partially from the heat of Malfoy's body, the pine scent of his cologne, and his hands, sliding up and down Harry's bare, damp back.
"This fucking robe," Harry muttered. "I cannot believe you brought this here."
"You like it?" Malfoy asked, amused.
"Fuck, Malfoy," muttered Harry. "It's—it's ridiculous." And yet, he couldn't get enough of Malfoy in it. He slipped his hands inside and slid them across Malfoy's smooth chest the way he'd always wanted to do, until the robe parted and he could see all of Malfoy's nakedness. He didn't know why, but this felt almost more obscene than anything they'd ever done before. "Fuck," he muttered again. He ran a hand down Malfoy's chest, making him shiver.
A voice in his mind told him to stop, that he'd only just decided that he wasn't going to do this anymore—that this was never happening again—but he ignored it. He let Malfoy unzip his pants and he kicked them off until he was naked and Malfoy was wearing nothing but the open robe. Harry wanted to feel the whole of Malfoy's body against him, every inch of the lean, taut body he'd watched fly across the Quidditch pitch only an hour before. He pulled Malfoy toward him again, pressing their bodies together, moaning and gasping and touching one another until they were both completely undone.
When it was finally over, they looked at each other, cheeks pink, lips swollen, bodies damp. Malfoy's robe was askew, slipping off both shoulders, and he took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of his bed.
Harry sat beside him, flushed and spent. The Quidditch match and George's tirade felt like days ago. Wednesday night at Grimmauld Place felt like years . His arm brushed against Malfoy's, and for a moment, they leaned against one another, saying nothing at all.
He'd go over to his side of the room in a minute. But first, he needed a minute to catch his breath.