XX.
He and Draco were involved in something that was as yet undefined and kind of new, though they saw each other on two occasions after the first time they slept together—once after Harry was bombarded with questions in Diagon Alley, forced to apparate anywhere else. Harry ended up at his house with no excuses at hand but was treated with tea and polite conversation.
Red letters swirled around him, hot, shouting obscenities, coming at him with sharp edges and piercing shrieks.
Words spilled from the envelopes, coming in around him, twisting and jabbing forwards until the landscape before him was red, alive, bleeding.
Harry jerked from the nightmare, breathing heavily, and felt around on his empty bed. His glasses were on the nightstand, but his fear came not from the things he could see with them, but from things he couldn't. Ignorance and bliss were firmly connected in his head, on purpose, too, because he did not need extra worry in his life.
Things were murky, up in the air, and Harry had not said anything to anyone else. He continued to refuse to be interviewed by the Prophet, but as he sat there in the silence of the night, Harry started thinking. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to end all of the drama.
He did not have to suffer. Draco had faced his fears and was surpassing them, he'd grown, so why should Harry sit back and take the public thrashing he was getting—and the public harassment, especially if there was something to be done.
He got out of the bed, running a hand through his hair. The sounds of his soft footsteps through the flat were quiet, though the argument in his mind was raging on. What should he say?
The surface of the table was cool, sturdy, and when Harry smoothed out a roll of parchment, he was thrown back to Hogwarts all over again. Once or twice, Hermione had forced him to stay up and finish his class work, and those experiences had also taken place in a half-dazed sort of reality. The dimly lit kitchen was hazy around the edges as Harry focused on the paper, but he had one driving thought that pushed him to finally pick up the quill.
He didn't need Hermione to always tell him what was the right thing to do. He could make his own decisions and lead his own life. He could be, just as Draco was, and rise above the things that tied him to the past.
Everything was all right until Harry finally remembered that he was going to write something that the general public was going to see. Gulping, he gripped his quill a little harder and wished that it wasn't a self-inking pen, or else he would have something to do before looking at the intimidatingly blank parchment before him.
He didn't need anyone else, though, and that stubbornness pushed him to write the first few words down. After those first few, the floodgates opened and it seemed that everything Harry had never ever considered came out on the pages.
I would like to preface this piece with an opinion. I believe that the Prophet is an outstanding source of news that benefits those who live in remote areas, those who want to maintain their role in society, and those who keep up with people who are in the spotlight. Unfortunately, I have noticed in my public career that, sometimes, those desires to stay entertained seem to outweigh any thought of privacy.
The word does not cease to exist for those who have done something for the wizarding world, even for someone like me.
I'd like to introduce myself as Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived, not a Saviour, but as a Mind Healer. I would like to tell everyone that my favourite colour, in spite of all the assessments and probing questions I've received, is not red.
There is another aspect of my personality that people have not had a chance to see, though it has recently been speculated. I would like to confirm that I am gay. This word holds little meaning to me because it is not a category in which I necessarily have to place myself forever, nor is it a definitive definition of my character.
I say that simply to confirm that I am interested in men and that it is normal.
Beyond that, questions seem intrusive. I would not like those I love to be thrust into this burning spotlight as I have been. I would not like to be picked apart. I would not like to live as an animal in a zoo might, caught behind glass and unable to speak a word. I would like for there to be understanding and support for anyone who feels the same way I do. I believe homosexuality is something the wizarding world should come to speak about.
I spent a lot of my life without any privacy, so I plead that this be the last time I need to ask to receive some.
My experiences are mine alone, not public for everybody to judge, but for my growth.
I would like to announce, however, that I am going to be holding private consultations for free at my office for any witches and wizards under 17 who would like to talk about anything pertaining to this issue. I can offer ten minute sessions every Sunday.
My office can be contacted at St. Mungo's, entrance 217, Healer Potter's Secretary.
I would love to hear from youth and discuss various issues, but I will not tolerate being questioned at every turn. This is something about me that is public but does not belong to the public.
Thank you,
Harry
Heart pounding as he stepped through his fireplace into a post office and picked an owl, Harry sent it without reading it over.
Harry returned to his flat, coughing at the smoke that he managed to inhale, and then noticed that the sun was just beginning to rise.
It was beautiful, the way the rays peeked between the other buildings that were higher than his on the inclined road.
He found himself staring at the sky, which was beginning to lighten in streaks across the horizon. As he breathed more and more slowly, he found that he was close to tears. The story, if not in the Prophet that same day, would be in the next. He would stay at home, work only that evening, and that would be that.
Perhaps, he thought, he might sleep for the rest of the day until work.
Right after the sun rose all the way above the horizon, heavy and drooping but so cheerful, colouring the sky with pink and purple as it stretched and twisted the darkness until it was banished by golden sunlight. It would be a hot day, Harry knew, but it would probably be beautiful.
Still, it would be best to stay inside, to think and meditate, to try and bring himself into the present by using some of the techniques he used with his patients. It was a stress that he hadn't known he was carrying, because when he stepped into the shower, moments later, Harry found himself laughing at his reflection in the mirror, managing to get the water to just the right temperature on the first try, and realized that he was hard.
Merlin, it wasn't good enough when it was his own hand and not Draco's, but Harry's mood was soaring, his hand was slightly cooler than the water, and he felt his hair stick to the side of his face as he leaned forward against his other arm, propped against the wall.
His hips lurched forward with every squeeze and pull, his cock appearing and disappearing into his fist as he pumped. He bit down on his bottom lip, recalling the way Draco had done the same to him, and then gasped when the thought of Draco brought another spark of pleasure through him.
The world was going to know exactly what he was, but Harry didn't care. He had everything he needed. Finally, he was being honest. He didn't know what had even come over him, but the moment had seemed just right. Merlin, he was going to explode just thinking about it all.
Ginny would surely smile at the story, Hermione would nod knowingly.
Draco would probably say that he predicted Harry was just being his usual martyr/philanthropic self. He'd say it in his smooth voice, lips parting and coming together, tongue moving, voice rumbling and shaking Harry completely.
Harry twisted his wrist as he moved along his cock, squeezing his eyes shut as the water beat down against his back.
Draco would probably get down on his knees, looking up at Harry with eyes that Harry would notice are exactly his favourite shade of grey, licking his lips as he always did. And then he'd close them around the head of Harry's cock, fingers exploring and squeezing until Harry could no longer remember that he was gay and not straight and famous instead of nobody because in that moment nothing would be clear except that Draco was simply too talented. It would feel so good, and nothing else would matter.
The world would stop.
Harry gasped.
Sticky heat covered his fingers as he continued pumping his wrist, the wall painted with strings of his come. He was breathing hard, skin all down his back over-sensitized, lip throbbing, but he didn't recall ever having been quite so relaxed.
Harry spent the rest of the day intermittently wanking and eating sweets, full of freedom and a giddy sense of accomplishment. Something good would come of him, and it would be even better if it involved Draco Malfoy.
The next day came before the article was published, but Harry arrived at work with boundless confidence. Even he could feel the strength in the way he held himself, even as everybody turned to look at him as he walked the halls of the hospital. He waved cheerfully at everybody, addressing some by name, and walked right past Hermione's office without a second glance into the door, not even when she shouted his name.
He was, admittedly, a little late for his first appointment—an assessment he had to do, but it had been extremely difficult to decide what clothing to wear—even though he always wore his Healer robes on top.
The first patient was there, looking at him with large, round eyes as he let her in and then proceeded to bustle around for a few moments.
"We'll do a whole hour," he promised. "I'll start timing it when we start talking. Then you can rest. I know it's late."
The hour went by surprisingly quickly, and so did the next two, and suddenly Harry found himself hungry for some food. It was, luckily, his lunch break, but Harry thought that he had a priority to take care of first.
The red letters.
Harry had been considering them at the back of his mind the entire day, trying to work out exactly how he could finally figure it all out.
He had just spread out all the envelopes that had accumulated over his office and in his pockets in the preceding few weeks on the floor when he had a moment of pause. Folding his fingers into fists, Harry steeled himself to read a few letters. He left his wand beside him and reached for the first envelope.
It was only a few letters in that Harry started feeling nauseated, fear like a disease inside of him. His stomach twisted when a knock came at the door although, for a moment, he wondered if it might be someone bringing him food. He wasn't composed. He felt his nerves were frayed at the ends. Surely, it couldn't be time for his next patient.
"Hermione?" he asked, opening the door with an excuse on his lips that might get him out of whatever talking she wanted to do. That dried on his lips when he found himself facing a red-faced Draco.
"She's not here right now, but she seemed to want to talk to me. I ignored her, so maybe you should let me in before she comes to hex both of us. Do you have this session free?" Draco asked, when Harry seemed not to be able to communicate at all.
Harry nodded, stepping aside so that Draco could enter, and that was when Harry noticed a small bag at Draco's side.
"What do you have in there?" Harry asked, pointing, and then regretted it when Draco shot him a glare.
"You'll see. Be patient."
Harry remembered all of the letters and tried to cross away from Draco in order to collect them, pushing them under the desk with his feet, ignoring the curious observation by Draco.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why are you here?"
Draco glared again, pouting as well. His lip protruded in such a delicious way that Harry was tempted to break character and grin in return.
"I wanted to congratulate you," Draco said. "And I wanted to ask if you'd like to visit my mother with me. In Azkaban." A worried look crossed his face. "I mean, it's up to you."
Harry opened and closed his mouth twice. "Why?"
"You've inspired me," Draco deadpanned, looking up at Harry. He offered a small smile. "I'd like to say that's a joke, but it might not be. I've thought about it and… perhaps…"
He faltered and Harry tried to fill in the gap. "Perhaps it will be good to be honest. You've never told them anything about—"
Draco raised his eyebrows. "There was not a chance that they would hear me out, even if I had wanted to tell them. Now, though… my mother might listen."
"Her jail time is also going to be up far sooner than your father's," Harry noted, trying to keep his tone neutral with regards to that distant future. He wasn't entirely successful, apparently, because Draco flushed and avoided Harry's gaze.
Harry's heart skipped a beat as he approached, putting one hand on Draco's shoulder just lightly enough and slowly enough that Draco could have time to shrug off the contact if he desired. Draco sat there, looking up at Harry suddenly, eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheeks, jagged but running along the curve of his jaw. His eyes were full of vulnerability, questions in their depths that Harry wanted to answer.
"Do you think we stand a chance, Harry?"
It could have been about Narcissa. It could have been about their little relationship. It could have been a reference to the press. Harry didn't have a chance to answer that wavering question because an enormous boom rushed through the room.
Harry stumbled to the side, caught off guard and hearing a ringing in his ears from the noise. Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he suddenly looked over to the green flames of the floo.
He was supposed to be on break. Would someone appear, calling him? It was possible, but Harry had Draco in mind. As he cast a cursory look over his room and then at Draco, Harry felt a rush of air that came from travelling by floo, and then there was noise and chaos.
A hand closed over his mouth, something was whispered, and Harry, not expecting anything, was powerless to stop it. He'd left his wand on the table. He couldn't even move. Something had to be done. Draco? Where was he?
He heard a familiar voice—maybe one of the nurses he worked with? The hope for salvation was gone when he heard two other men speaking and then a spell that made him heavy with fatigue hit him.
Harry tried to shout, tried to do something, and the cursed himself when he knew that there was nothing to be done.
He had felt so free, earlier, but something very bad was happening. Harry could feel it. Never before had he felt so out of control. Nobody knew where he was, least of all him, but he knew that he was being pushed through a floo, green bursting around him until his stiff body fell to the floor on the other side.
"We read your letter to the paper and aren't really fans."
Someone came around him, kneeling. It took Harry a moment, but he recognized him and felt nausea swirl inside him. The man from the restaurant! His face appeared in Harry's line of sight for a moment, then he ducked away.
"Harry Potter, it's a pleasure to—"
Another body came flying through the floo, cursing. Harry's heart jumped into his throat. Was it possible? Merlin, he hadn't expected—
He heard a camouflage spell being spoken—shouted—and Harry knew it was who he thought it was. It was a spell he and Draco had practiced, but Harry had no time to bask in the knowledge that Draco was there because pain blossomed all across his chest. He couldn't look down, but the chill that he felt told him that his clothing, at least, had been torn.
He could feel a sticky warmth on him, spreading, and every beat of his heart seemed to pull the muscle farther out of his chest.
Blinding pain, then, washed over him, squealing and shuddering through his bones. Harry wanted to twist on the floor, but there was something stopping him. Magic. He couldn't focus enough to do anything wandless.
He wanted to shout for Draco.
Something was happening around him. Confusion, shouting. A lot of people, probably. He could dimly hear their arguing.
Fuck. The Occluded. It had to be.
Harry could do nothing but think about the spikes of pain that seemed to be piercing through him. His stomach was in knots, threatening to upturn itself. Harry could barely breathe, lungs on fire.
"Incendio!" someone shouted.
Harry could not feel anything but pain and heat, a wave of it rushing over him. Harry was frantic, wishing he could look around at everything and trying to catch his breath. Too many things were happening all too quickly. Explosions, screams, and spells going off every which way.
All he could discern of the dark room was that spells bounced off of the walls and that many of the flashes of light were green-tinged. He didn't know how to stop them.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Protego!"
There was shuffling, running, and Harry wished for something more from Draco. He needed to know everything was all right. Where was he? Was he still hidden in the shadows with his spell? Harry wanted to scream.
"Avada Kedav—" Harry wished he could jump out of his skin between that spell and its target, because the voice was definitely not Draco's and there was a hysteria to it that Harry wished could stay buried in the past.
The moment dragged on, the result seemingly inevitable.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Draco shouted, and then Harry heard a wand clatter to the floor, followed by a heavy thud.
There was some more chaos around Harry, who felt as though his eyes were being pushed closed.
More voices—Aurors? But how?
Harry felt an enormous pressure being siphoned off at one moment, then the soft tingling of some healing spells, and then he was back in a room that smelled like Draco with soft blankets around him and a warm body beside him so he drifted off to sleep.