When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to heavy grey skies and the faint stirrings of a storm breeze. By the time he made it down to breakfast, the enchanted ceiling was beginning to drip rain in desultory silence above their heads. Mumbling a heartfelt thank you to Hermione as she slid a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, he yawned. What would he do without his friends?
Feeling a familiar grey gaze on him, he looked up and caught Draco's eye across the Hall, trading smirks. Zabini smiled and waved from beside him and Harry returned the gesture sleepily before turning to look at Draco again, who was now staring murderously at the other Slytherin.
"What's with the Hufflepuffs?" Ron asked curiously, jerking Harry out of his Draco-induced stupor and drawing his notice to the Hufflepuff table, only to find every single fourth year sitting together and whispering excitedly, many of them staring and pointing openly at Harry. Finlay Wood sat in the middle, making small gestures with his hands and flushing when Harry caught him staring.
Harry shrugged. "The one in the middle with the dark hair is Oliver Wood's little brother. He's here helping him get ready for his first game on Saturday. I flew with them for a bit yesterday."
At the mention of Quidditch, Ron launched into a detailed speculation on the conditions surrounding the upcoming game, listing the teams' weaknesses and who he thought would be victorious. Harry tuned Ron out as he stared up at the ceiling, the sky grey and angry-looking. Maybe they wouldn't be able to train today. Should he wait and see what the weather would be like and not risk mentioning to Draco that he wanted to spend more time with Oliver Wood? They were only going to be practicing Quidditch. Harry missed coaching the sport; he missed instructing other players and looking on with satisfaction at their grim determination to perfect every move, missed seeing them execute maneuvers he had taught them, performed word-for-word Harry's instruction. He could tell Oliver missed captaincy as well—he was far too passionate about the sport to sit idly by and not offer his help. They had gotten to relive some of that yesterday helping Finlay.
But with the fawning way the Hufflepuff in question was still staring at him, maybe Harry would be glad if they had to cancel due to weather.
The day passed and Harry still did not mention Quidditch or Oliver Wood to Draco, not wanting to upset him or bring back the tightness around his mouth that he had worn the previous day when discussing Harry's ex-captain. But Harry hadn't seen him in years and it was so nice to see a friendly face from the past. He tended to look back on the past in varying degrees of pain and horror; there were pleasant moments, but they had always been overshadowed by the danger that had constantly stalked his every move. Oliver had been something solid in his life that he had learned to almost count on—certainly to look for. Harry hadn't always been on the best of terms with his old team, but they had all looked out for one another and trusted each other to a certain extent. That was back before he had Draco to lean on, to cling to like a safety ring to buoy him up atop thrashing waves, waves that had already calmed greatly under the shining influence of Malfoy's presence. Fuck, Harry loved him. He loved Draco and Draco loved him and so of course he would understand about Harry wanting to help coach Finlay.
With a jolt, Harry suddenly realized that he wanted. He wanted to coach the younger boy and he wanted to play Quidditch occasionally and he wanted to be on a broomstick again. When was the last time that he had wanted anything besides Draco? After the war, his life had become so dreary and monotonous that he could not differentiate between the muted greys that made up his daily life enough to even have desires. And Harry knew that the blond was responsible for returning that feeling to him—the feeling of wanting. Fuck, the feeling of just feeling. Harry might have never gotten on a broomstick again if not for Malfoy; he certainly would never have agreed to play Quidditch with Ron yesterday. If not for the timing of the Slytherin, he probably would have continued to pull further and further away from his best friends.
Before Draco had entered Harry's life, Harry had been slowly folding in on himself, collapsing into himself and becoming more and more isolated and alone. The more time stretched the more content he had been to simply vanish and disappear, dissolve into an indifferent puff of smoke without a single word, content to allow himself to fade away without a fight.
Then Draco appeared in a streak of white, shooting across Harry's vision in a blinding flash of light like a comet that left him dazed and blinking. Once again, he marveled at the fact that it had taken him eighteen years to learn what true contentment was really like. Happiness had always felt like such a fleeting emotion for Harry, but for the first time in his life, he was truly and perfectly content. It had taken seven years for Harry to realize how he felt about the blond, but now that he was fully aware, he intended to bind himself to Draco forever and never let go.
Harry sat next to him in Potions, squeezing his hand underneath the table occasionally and talking with Zabini. Parkinson still didn't say much, but she would actively follow the conversation with her eyes, opening her mouth once or twice as if to join in but always catching herself in time. Harry shrugged internally and knew she would get there.
The thought of Quidditch and Oliver had been momentarily forgotten about in class, but soon became all he could think about at the sight of an owl swooping down on him after the students had been dismissed. Hardly paying attention, he was strolling from the dungeons casually with his friends, laughing at some story that Blaise was telling when the owl suddenly dropped right in front of Harry, blocking his path and startling Blaise into losing his train of thought.
"Fuck, Potter, even the owls are stalking you," Zabini commented dryly.
Harry removed the letter from the owl's leg curiously. It was from Oliver Wood.
Harry
I haven't heard from you yet on your answer. I really enjoyed yesterday and was hoping that you did as well. Please come? You know where I'll be.
Oliver
The parchment was dropped the moment he glanced over and noticed Draco reading over his shoulder. The blond had tensed and his eyes had narrowed to slits.
"What the fuck, Potter?" he breathed dangerously. Hermione and Ron instantly began talking loudly and shuffling the intrigued Slytherins along the corridor. "What the fuck does that all mean?" Harry raised a hand to Draco's neck, but the blond shoved his arm away roughly. Harry stumbled back half a step and stared at Draco with a hurt look.
Malfoy stalked forward and snatched the letter from Harry's grasp. "I really enjoyed yesterday and was hoping that you did as well?" he read sneeringly. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you complete and utter prat?" he spat the words in Harry's direction and it was like his sweet lovely Draco had once again morphed into the old Malfoy—all cold sneers and angry words.
"Nothing happened," Harry insisted, trying to snatch the parchment back.
"You know where I'll be?" Malfoy continued reading, stretching his arm back to keep the letter out of Harry's shorter reach. "Be for what, Potter? What exactly do the two of you have planned?"
"Nothing! Same as what happened yesterday!" Harry tried to reason but quickly hastened to explain when Malfoy snarled. "Quidditch! That's it! I swear! We were coaching his brother! Nothing happened, Draco!"
"And in what way exactly did the two of you enjoy yesterday?" Malfoy asked coldly, arms folded tightly across his body and grey eyes staring at Harry with disdain.
"Just flying together," Harry answered, but held his hands up palm out when Malfoy's eyes flashed. "I swear Draco; I promise that nothing happened between me and Oliver Wood!"
"I haven't heard from you yet on your answer?" Draco quoted mockingly. "What answer and what, dear Harry, was the question?"
"Just on whether or not I would be helping Finlay again today," he mumbled. Why hadn't he taken the chance earlier to mention it to Draco? This whole situation was spiraling into a disaster and he hadn't intended for any of this to happen, least of all for Draco to be hurt. And he was clearly hurt. Harry had been learning to read his body language over the past couple of months and could see the hurt in the stiff way he held his spine perfectly straight or the way his eyes would sometimes flicker away from Harry's to avoid meeting his gaze. "Draco, I was going to ask you if that would be all right, I swear it." He cursed himself again for missing his chance to have headed off this confrontation.
"I'm not your jailer, Potter," Malfoy scoffed. "Come and go as you please, what difference is it to me?" His voice was icy and Harry felt chilled by it.
"I hardly feel imprisoned by you, Draco," Harry countered softly. Maybe speaking at the right pitch would help soothe the Slytherin, like he had seen Hagrid do with wild animals.
That theory was shattered as the cold apathy of the blond vanished to be replaced with anger. "Well, then there's nothing stopping you from saying yes to Wood, is there?" Draco's eyes flashed and his face reddened and Harry felt a spark of panic in his chest.
Damn it, he needed to explain what happened and he needed to explain it correctly. Harry's mouth needed to open and spill the right words, truthful words that Draco would believe. He needed Draco to believe him.
Maybe he should just push the blond up against the wall and kiss any doubts he had away. That was definitely an appealing solution. An angry Draco was beautiful.
Harry knew it was an inappropriate time to be thinking about Malfoy like that, but he couldn't help it. The Slytherin was standing tall and straight; his eyes were dark and flashing and his face was a delicate pink. He was panting and clenching his fists tightly as though trying to regain control over himself; his hair had fallen into his eyes and Harry longed to run his fingers through it and muss it even further.
He had been staring, silent, for too long. Draco seemed to shrink in on himself with hurt for a moment before straightening like a lash. "Whatever, then," he snapped and spun on his heel to leave, but Harry couldn't allow him to. Not like that. Not ever. He acted without thought, quickly grabbing the blond's upper arm and spinning him back around, all while moving them a step backward to slam Draco up against the stone wall of the narrow corridor.
Malfoy stared at him in surprise for a moment before beginning to struggle. "Get the fuck off me, Potter!" he shouted. Harry tightened his hold and pressed his body tightly against the one thrashing in his grip, using his weight to hold the flailing boy secure, refusing to allow Malfoy's propensity for dramatics to spoil things between them. Harry already knew that the Slytherin had a tendency to run from the things that upset him, and Harry would not allow the blond's need for theatrics and avoidance to prevent Harry from explaining.
"Listen to me, Draco!" he requested, holding tightly to the other boy until he stilled. It took a bit longer than Harry thought it would and he was even more grateful for the massage the night before; his shoulder no longer hurt at all and he was able to hold Draco much more securely.
Eventually, Malfoy slowed his struggles, panting slightly and glaring at Harry. "Fuck you," he said quietly, his voice angry and tight.
Harry didn't want to think about those hurtful words directed at him from those perfect lips, so he did the only thing he could think of and leaned forward to capture that angry mouth in a kiss. For a few seconds, Draco struggled even harder, twisting and squirming in a desperate attempt to get free. Once Harry made it clear that escape was not an option, however, the Slytherin changed tack. He began to kiss Harry roughly, punishingly, attacking Harry's mouth with a ferocity that left the Gryffindor breathless. Draco's hands twisted painfully in Harry's hair and he dug his fingernails into Harry's scalp.
"Fuck you," the blond broke off just long enough to bite out before continuing the kissing onslaught. He bit Harry's bottom lip harshly, sucking on it and shoving his tongue roughly into Harry's mouth again and again. Harry responded less aggressively, attempting to calm him through tender patience, lifting his hands to gently cup Draco's face, a marked contrast to the violent frenzy of the kiss. He stroked Draco's jaw with loving fingers and softened his lips, gentling the fury of the kiss until he felt Draco shudder as his body relaxed. Harry pressed him into the wall and kissed him until they were both breathless and lightheaded. He pulled back to stare at Draco, who looked almost dazed but was quickly regaining the hard glint in his eye.
"Draco, I promise you, nothing happened." He looked him right in the eye, knowing how well Malfoy could read him and willing him to do so yet again. "I am NOT interested in Oliver Wood!" Harry decided it would be better to never reveal to the blond that he had, in fact, once been very interested in Oliver Wood, but those days were long past and it would do no one any good for Draco to know about it.
"You promise?" Draco asked doubtfully, and it made Harry's heart clench to hear how tiny and fragile Malfoy's voice sounded. He would do anything to banish every insecurity from the blond's mind.
"I promise, love. I completely absolutely promise. I would never do that, never to you. I love you." Harry pleaded with his eyes for Malfoy to believe him.
"I—I love you, too," Draco confessed cautiously, hesitating heart-stoppingly before the word love, but he said it. Harry leaned in for a kiss but Draco turned his head. "I love you, and I trust you," he started but waited until Harry had stopped kissing his chin and paid attention. "I do NOT, however, trust him and I do NOT want you around him."
The kisses immediately stilled as Harry pulled back to look at the other boy in surprise. "But…but I can't just tell him I can never see him again. He's my friend. We've been friends for years."
Draco shrugged. "I would have been perfectly content to allow the friendship to continue, but he clearly has more than friendship on his mind in regards to you, Harry, and I do not feel comfortable with the thought of you being near him."
Harry could only gape. "What do you mean clearly has more than friendship on his mind? What is that supposed to mean? It's Oliver, Draco."
Malfoy's mouth thinned. "I do have fucking eyes, you know. I saw the two of you yesterday, the way he hugged you and the way the two of you were whispering and laughing together and I saw you blush, even, so don't give me any of this what does it mean shit, Potter." He glared at Harry as though daring him to argue with any of the untrue accusations.
They were untrue, weren't they? Harry remembered Oliver's hug, which maybe had lasted an unusual length of time; he remembered talking and laughing together as friends do, but had he blushed? He supposed Oliver had said more than one thing that had brought heat to Harry's face yesterday, but those had all been friendly jokes, surely. There was no way that Oliver had any sort of feelings for Harry; surely Malfoy was simply imagining things out of jealousy. Wood was a professional Quidditch player now—he was handsome and famous and had money and could date anyone he wanted. And why would someone like that want Harry? Harry was far too thin and uninteresting, and he was also still in school. Surely Oliver would want to date someone his own age?
But the four-year gap between them didn't seem nearly so wide anymore, not like it had when an eleven-year-old Harry had met a fifteen-year-old Oliver for the first time.
Harry shook himself back into the moment; he had to get Draco to believe him. "Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen," he vowed in a low voice. "Even if Oliver does want more than friendship, I don't. I don't want anyone but you, Draco. Ever. I love you and we're going to be together so I'm sorry because I'm never leaving. I'll never feel even close to what I feel for you for anyone else. Nobody else matters but you. You're the only person I notice."
Draco's breath hitched and Harry wondered if he might cry, but his eyes were dry and his limbs steady as he hugged Harry tightly. "I never thought I would hear you say something like that." He sounded awed, almost as if he was only a second away from pinching himself to make sure he was really awake. "I never imagined you to be such a hopeless romantic," he teased, causing Harry to huff, "Only with you" sheepishly.
Draco pulled back and took Harry's face between both palms, looking him in the eye with a very serious expression. "I do love you and I do trust you and I don't want us to be in one of those suffocating relationships where I'm always asking you where you've been and what you've been doing and you feel so smothered by me that you avoid my presence and the questions and come home late at night smelling of alcohol and other men." Harry's eyes widened. If he hadn't known Draco so well he would have accused the pureblood of watching Muggle soap operas. "I really don't mean to act crazy or irrational," he ducked his head and refused to meet Harry's eye, "but sometimes I have trouble believing that this isn't just all one big colossal joke and you'll inform me one day that you never meant any of it and leave me broken and pining."
Broken and pining? Harry almost couldn't believe his ears. Had Draco Malfoy really just admitted to how much power Harry had over him? Had he really just admitted that Harry was capable of shattering him? Without a doubt, he knew that Draco had never confessed anything as vulnerable as that to anybody else before and felt a possessive twinge of pleasure at the fact.
"So if you want," the Slytherin continued, "to recapture whatever short-lived pleasantries from your childhood you can, I suppose you have my okay to coach the younger Wood." His eyes narrowed. "But know that if Oliver," he sneered the name "does end up making any sort of move on you, I will not be held responsible for whatever Dark magic my rage-addled mind chooses to unleash on the bastard, and it will be on your head if I end up in Azkaban because of it."
Harry nodded with a small smile. "I understand."
Draco made a move to untangle his limbs from Harry's, but Harry tightened his hold and whispered, "Thanks for trusting me," into his ear before stepping back and offering Draco his hand to lead them both from the dungeons.
They had just reached the ground floor when they were approached by a flustered-looking Finlay.
"Harry?" he squeaked and coughed. "Erm, will we be seeing you later? My brother hasn't said anything about whether or not you'll be there..." Harry didn't respond, attempting to come to a quick decision. Should he agree to join them? Draco said that he trusted him and had even given Harry permission to go. But was it real permission or was this some sort of Slytherin test? When it came to Slytherin, nobody seemed to embody the House traits more than Draco Malfoy. Harry fully expected the blond to test him in various ways, but was this one of those times?
"Please, Harry?" Finlay pleaded. "The other team has already heard that I've been training with Harry Potter and I know that makes them nervous and my teammates have been asking me all these questions and wanting me to show them moves and the game is tomorrow and my brother and I really like hanging out with you and you're absolutely brilliant on a broomstick," he finished in a rush. Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry.
"Er, when are you two heading out?" Harry asked, stalling for time. A very loud part of himself really did want to go; Finlay clearly appreciated the help and was obviously nervous for his first game. But he didn't want Malfoy to think this was solely about Oliver Wood and that Harry was ditching him to spend time with another man.
"Oh, whenever Ollie gets here," Finlay answered hopefully. "He should be on his way. I was just headed down to the Entrance Hall to wait for him."
"Well, erm, why don't you go wait for him?" Harry suggested. "And I'll most likely be down later, yeah?"
Finlay beamed brightly at him and nodded, tripping and stumbling over his own feet as he bounced away.
"Merlin's fucking beard, Potter, is there anybody who isn't dying to shag you?" Malfoy asked grumpily, making Harry blush. With Oliver, he secretly thought Draco was over-imagining things, but with Finlay, it was clear that Oliver had not been joking about the crush the younger Wood had on Harry.
"You can't honestly be jealous of a fourteen-year-old, can you?" Could he? He didn't seriously think that Harry wanted the Hufflepuff boy, did he?
"If I recall correctly, he is the exact same age as Hermione was when she was courted by an eighteen-year-old Viktor Krum," the blond sniffed patronizingly.
"Yes," Harry agreed, "only she wasn't mad for you at the time, was she?"
Draco's lips twitched. "No, I imagine her feelings towards me at the time were quite different."
"Oh, they definitely were," Harry laughed then quickly sobered. "I promise I won't go if you don't want me to, Draco." Malfoy looked torn and opened his mouth to respond, but Harry continued before he could. "I also promise that nothing is going to happen. Not with Oliver, not with Finlay, not with Ginny. I love you and I would never hurt you like that."
Draco closed his mouth and looked away. "Very well, then, Harry," he sighed. "I trust you and I know that you want to go, so go ahead."
Harry glanced around quickly before enfolding the blond in a hug then pulling back to look at him warily. "This isn't a test, is it? Some sort of Slytherin-mind-test that you'll make me suffer later for failing, right?"
"No, it's not a test, you prat," Draco snorted softly.
Harry nodded and kissed Draco cheerfully for a few seconds before striding away, calling, "I'll come find you after we're done, then, yeah?" back over his shoulder at the blond.
By the time he got down to the pitch, Harry was in a much better mood. Oliver and Finlay were swooping above his head tossing a Quaffle to each other.
"Harry!" Oliver called, plummeting sharply to hover at Harry's eye line. "I brought something for you," he grinned and pointed to a lone broomstick lying a short distance away, hovering horizontally a foot off the ground.
Frowning, Harry walked over to peer at it curiously and could immediately tell with just one glance that it was expensive. The handle was dark violet, nearly black, and seemed to shimmer in the light of the pink-and-orange streaked sunset. It was smooth and flawless, the design sleek and pretty and fast-looking. The word Flash was inlaid into the wood in silver and Harry could tell that this broom was wicked. The twigs were a deep onyx and each one clipped to perfection. He reached out a slightly trembling hand and ran it over the air inches from the wood. "Oliver, what is this?" he asked in an awed voice. His Firebolt had been beautiful, but this…His mouth went dry and he was embarrassed to find himself almost aroused.
Oliver grinned knowingly. "It's gorgeous, isn't it? It's a Flash, brand spanking new broom, haven't even got 'em in shops yet."
Harry just stared at him. "But then how did you get one?"
"Professional Quidditch does have its perks, Harry," he chuckled. "It was more or less a present. The only problem is, I prefer my older, inferior broomstick to it." He glanced down at the broom he was currently riding. "It's a luck thing."
Harry nodded. He had a lucky pair of Quidditch socks he saved for matches and knew that Ron always played the match following a win with the same pair of Keeper's gloves.
"And you're letting me ride it?" Harry asked slowly. Wood shook his head and Harry's stomach dropped in disappointment.
"No, Harry. I'm letting you keep it."
If Harry had been riding the broomstick he would have fallen off in shock. It was almost all he could do to stare in disbelief, mouth hanging open. "What?" he finally choked. "What the fuck, Oliver, why?" He looked at him with sudden concern. "You do feel all right, don't you? You haven't taken any recent bludgers to the head, have you?"
Oliver laughed. "No, I promise I'm fine. I've had this broom for a few weeks now and I've only ridden it twice and I already know that I won't play any matches on it, no matter how fast it is." He raked a hand through his shaggy hair good-naturedly. "So I want you to have it instead. I heard that you don't have your Firebolt anymore and I felt bad about you not having a broom and me owning such an excellent one and never using it." He took a deep breath. "I figured at least with you, it gets flown. Besides," he pointed to the side of the handle opposite the shocked Gryffindor and Harry followed his finger all the way to the very top, "it's already yours." There on the handle, on the side opposite the word Flash and in the same neat silver lettering, was Harry's name.
"You fucking personalized it?" Harry mouthed incredulously. Why would Oliver do that?
Wood smiled and nodded. "I knew how stubborn you would be about it so I went ahead and made it impossible for you to refuse."
Harry could only stare. "I...Oliver…no, no, no," he began shaking his head furiously, "no, this is just too much, Oliver, it's too expensive, I can't…if you're not going to fly it, it should go to your brother or someone."
Oliver drifted closer. "Just try it out first, yeah? Before you decide," he persuaded. "Besides, Finlay is a good flyer, but," he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, "he can't handle a broomstick like this." Harry bit his lip. He knew that he couldn't accept this gift, not from Oliver. They were friends and Harry had once admired him, but they had never been close enough to warrant a present of this magnitude. He also felt rather uneasy about accepting it after the earlier fight with Draco. If the blond saw the broomstick and learned who had gifted it…Harry did not want to imagine his reaction.
"Okay, it's fine, Harry, I get it," Wood's voice cut into his thoughts. "You don't have to accept it. But at least fly it. I wasn't kidding when I told you that this thing has only ever been flown twice." Harry shook his head at the ground. That was just criminal with a broomstick that beautiful.
"All right," he gave in and swung a leg over the handle, which seemed to almost vibrate with excitement at the prospect of finally being flown again. Kicking off hard and grateful that the rain had stopped, Harry shot upwards in a dizzying rush like a cork popped from a bottle of champagne. The broomstick hummed and he grinned, leaning low over the handle and shooting across the castle grounds. There was a tingle in his gut and he could feel every finger of wind clawing at his hair and tearing fiercely at his clothing; it felt like he had left his stomach behind.
Smiling widely, he tipped the handle up and shot higher into the steadily darkening sky. Grasping the broom tighter, he pulled sharply upwards, hurdling straight up so quickly that it left him breathless. Adjusting his grip, he slowed his ascent to a lazy crawl and looked down to find he was barely able to make out any of the tiny smudges dotting the landscape. The largest of them was clearly the castle, but if he squinted he thought he could make out the brown smear of Hagrid's cabin and the dull gleam of the hoops. Noticing his extreme altitude for the first time, Harry was suddenly struck him with the urge to test the absolute limits of this broomstick. If he couldn't accept it, then he could at least properly try it out, right?
Flattening himself over the handle, he launched across the sky like a Muggle rocket. Once he had shot past the castle he forced the broom into a sharp veer and angled toward the forest to skim low and swift over the tops of the trees. His heart was hammering a dent into the inside of his chest; his mouth was dry and his eyes stung and his hands were freezing, but he felt wonderful. He felt free and light, like he could just keep flying forever and as long as he did, everything would be fine. It would always be exhilarating and he would always feel this alive and he could remind himself that he was actually good at something other than leading loved ones to their deaths or offering himself up as a sacrifice.
Adrenaline pounded through his body and urged him to fly faster, turn sharper, feel what it was like to be reckless again. God, he had missed this—taking dangerous, unnecessary risks, hurtling through the air at breakneck speeds, knowing that a sudden gust of wind could send him veering fatally off course. He missed making split-second decisions that he hadn't thought through at all, flipping through the air with his broom, spinning and rolling and trying in vain to catch his breath but never once slowing. His muscles ached and his lungs felt raw but he was feeling far too much to try and stop.
It wasn't until he had completed a particularly complicated and risky spin-dive that he glanced up and noticed that both Oliver and Finlay had landed and were talking to someone—someone whose platinum hair was visible even from that distance. Harry shot quickly to the ground, the speed of the broom making it almost seem as if he had Apparated at their side.
Draco had his arms folded and was coolly directing his words to Oliver, who stood in a similar posture with legs set in a wide stance, watching Draco quietly. "—time, yes?" the blond sneered, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He turned to face Harry as the Gryffindor swung his leg over the handle, leaving the broomstick hovering horizontally near his knee. "Harry, there you are," Malfoy greeted smoothly.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, feeling nervous.
The blond shrugged. "Blaise and Pansy were arguing and it was driving me mad. You mentioned you would be out here, so I came to watch." His chin rose fractionally, almost as though daring Harry to send him back to the castle. "Unless you've finished and you're ready to go?"
Harry shook his head. "We, uh, actually haven't started. I mean, they have, I haven't. I really haven't helped at all yet. I got a bit distracted flying," he explained awkwardly, berating himself. He had come out here for a reason, he was supposed to be helping Finlay.
"Yes, I saw," Malfoy's tone had softened and he was eyeing Harry fondly, almost protectively. Oliver was staring at the two of them and Harry knew that Malfoy's expression had not gone unnoticed. "What is it that you're flying, by the way?" Damn. Harry hadn't wanted to draw attention to the broomstick but was now left with no choice but to present it to the Slytherin, whose eyes widened. "A Flash? Harry, this is a fucking Flash." His tone was accusing, making it sound as if Harry had been trying to convince him that it was a different type of broomstick. "What are you doing with a goddamn fucking Flash?"
"Keeping it," Oliver answered simply.
Malfoy turned his gaze sharply to Wood. "What?" The single word was cold and flat.
"Er, Oliver offered to give it to me," Harry started uneasily, fidgeting under Malfoy's gaze. "It was a present to him and he never flies it, so he thought I might want it since I don't have my Firebolt anymore, but I told him I couldn't possibly accept it, so he'll be the one keeping it, really."
Malfoy said nothing, but Oliver's voice spoke up. "Bollocks, Harry, I told you—I don't use it. I don't even want it. I know its ruddy expensive, but I could afford a dozen Flashes with the discounts I get at Quidditch stores. I don't need the money and I don't want the broom."
Harry shook his head. "Really, it's fine, Oliver. I can afford my own broomstick, trust me."
Oliver laughed lightly. "I can't imagine the Chosen One having to pay for a broomstick. What about the Boy-Who-Saved-All-Of-Our-Arses-From-You-Know-Who discount? If I get discounts for Quidditch, it's only fair you get one for saving the world, right?"
"Well, even without the discount, I can afford a decent broomstick." Harry's lips twitched ruefully, admitting to himself that there some truth to what Oliver was saying. It had embarrassed him at first, but he had gotten used to being told not to worry about the bill when attempting to make purchases. At first he had stubbornly fought their refusals to take his money, but in the end, it was so much easier to just give in and it really did seem to make strangers happy, as though they thought they were required to perform whatever service they could for the Boy-Who-Lived, even if it was simple as covering his shopping expenses.
"Why bother looking for a decent broomstick when there's a top-of-the-line absolute beauty with your name on it right in front of you?" Oliver countered, gesturing toward the handle with his chin.
Harry wasn't sure what to do. He did not want to keep refusing, because judging by the determined gleam in Wood's eye and Harry's remembrance of the man's fierce resolve, Oliver was not about to just let this go. But he hated the thought of accepting the ostentatious gift right in front of Draco. He knew that not too long ago, Draco would have been able to afford this broomstick. He had probably had a whole shed full of racing brooms and would have been the first one in the school to own this particular model and would have then delighted in rubbing Harry's face in that fact. Now, though, he didn't own a single broomstick. Most of his belongings had been sold and Harry could only guess how hard that must have been to the boy who had grown up in such privileged extravagance.
"You should take it, Harry," Draco interrupted suddenly. "Since you no longer have one, you should take it. The Savior of the Wizarding World deserves only the best, correct? You couldn't possibly settle for a lesser broomstick."
Harry stared at him, wondering if this was the Slytherin test he knew he needed to look out for. Should he continue refusing? Or was Malfoy genuine about accepting the gift?
"See, Harry?" Oliver's tone was nudging. "Malfoy here agrees." His voice was odd, but Harry couldn't guess at the emotions behind it. "Besides, it already has your name on it."
"Does it?" Malfoy's words were icy and Harry felt hot guilt splash into his stomach as he wordlessly turned the handle to show Draco the silver lettering of his own name. The blond glared at the inscription for a moment before smoothing his face once again into an unreadable blank mask. Harry almost flinched at how quickly Malfoy was able to wipe every emotion from his face—from anger to nothing in less than a second. "Well, you have to accept it then. I mean, you can hardly refuse now that it has your name on it, can you, Potter?"
"Erm, I…I dunno…" Glancing up at the darkening sky above them, Harry tried to find some way out of the mess he seemed to have somehow landed himself in, unsure of how he had even gotten into such an awful position. How had he been forced into this situation? Why did he always feel backed into a corner? How did he always end up like this in the fucking corner? Why was everybody always insisting on trapping him there? How was any of this his fault? He never asked for his name to be engraved on the handle—he had never even asked for the fucking thing in the first place! Everyone wanted him to take the damn broomstick so much? Fine. He would accept the goddamn stupid fucking broomstick and if Draco was going to be upset about it, then Harry could at least point out that he had tried several times to refuse. And if Oliver wanted to moronically give such an expensive broomstick away for free, then who the fuck was Harry to try and argue with him? Apparently, nobody listened to what he had to say anyway, right?
Both Malfoy and Wood opened their mouths to speak and Harry was certain that it was to insist, yet again, that Harry accept the stupid broomstick, which he was frankly beginning to resent. "Fine," he said brusquely before either one of the prats could speak. "Thank you, Oliver."
The other three all looked rather startled at Harry's clipped, irate tone, but a small smile spread across Oliver's face as he nodded. "Sure, Harry. Anything."
"Well, if the three of you will excuse me, I'm going to take my brand-new broomstick and put it away." He turned sharply and stalked off, flustered and upset and not quite sure exactly why he was so furious. He wasn't even sure if he was angry at Oliver and Draco themselves or more at the situation in general.
Striding swiftly without looking back, he soon reached the castle, quickening his pace as he heard a single set of footsteps echoing along the stone behind him. Footsteps he recognized, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to talk to the owner at the moment. The past two days had just been so much—so much had happened and changed within Harry; things had been so tense and disquieted between him and Malfoy and he couldn't handle another argument right now, he really couldn't. He felt angry and confused and strained and worn out and he knew that what he was about to do was not polite; it was not courteous or the brave Gryffindor way of handling things, but right now his head pounded and he just wanted to lie down and stop thinking.
Straddling the broomstick, he kicked off hard against the stone floor of the corridor, flying through the hallways at breakneck speed and ignoring the echoed call of his own name that was quickly swallowed up by the distance. He threw himself through the portrait hole and into his bedroom before callously dropping the stupid broomstick on the floor, glaring at it angrily before turning and flopping onto his bed with a quiet groan. Ron was nowhere in sight, which was fine with Harry.
He just wanted to close his eyes and lie in the quiet forever.
Ron's voice filled his ears the next morning, gradually waking him with his loud excitement, and Harry discovered to his discomfort that he had fallen asleep in both jeans and sneakers, tracking mud and grass all over the sheets. His mouth tasted terrible and his eyes hurt and his muscles fucking screamed and he decided that he felt worse now than he had upon waking up in the forest after Voldemort had killed him.
"—sense, though, doesn't it? I mean, of course," Ron's voice only got louder as he spotted Harry attempting to sit up. "But where the fuck did you get it?" he asked eagerly. It took Harry several moments of intense blinking before he could see that Ron was holding the Flash to his chest almost reverently, his freckled visage longing as he cradled it against himself. "I've only ever seen pictures of this broom," he moaned. "I didn't even think it was in shops yet! It's fucking gorgeous, isn't it, Harry?"
Shooting the broomstick a dark glare, Harry nodded tersely.
"So where the fuck did you get it?" Ron repeated.
"Oliver Wood," Harry sighed.
"Wood?" Ron gasped. "Why would he give you this?" His tone implied how stupid he clearly thought Oliver. "I mean, could you fucking imagine giving a broom like this away?"
Harry shrugged. "It was free to him and he prefers his regular broomstick and he said he never used it, so he gave it to me." Harry paused as he felt heat spread across his cheeks, but felt that he needed to talk to someone about his confusion. "Draco thinks that it's because Oliver is into me." God, it sounded even more ridiculous saying it aloud than it had in Harry's head. Oliver wasn't interested in him. Right? He was just friendly and complimentary. And gave Harry insanely excellent presents. He was Harry Potter. People gifted him with odd personal things all the time. Over the past few months, all manner of presents had arrived for him through the post—some shocking, some disturbing, some amusing, some that he still had no idea what it was supposed to do or be, and others that were downright frightening. Among the frightening had been a life-size inflatable doll of himself with a note stating that the sender had already used the doll and was politely asking if they could please now have the real thing. Harry had quickly burnt both the note and the doll and immediately began screening his mail. The broomstick was just another one of those gifts that Harry would rather not have accepted but was, unfortunately, unable to refuse.
"Oliver Wood is into you?" Ron asked dubiously. "Why would Malfoy think that? I mean, the broomstick, obviously, but people give you free shit all the time, don't they? Sounds like he never used it and preferred his regular broom, right?"
Harry nodded. Ron was right. Ron made sense.
"So was it just 'cos of the broom, then?" the redhead prompted.
Harry shook his head and shrugged. "He…well, I mean he hugged me. It was kind of a long hug," he colored. "And, erm, I suppose he's made a couple of comments and sort of looked at me sort of often, but I mean, that's not a big deal, yeah?"
Ron nodded slowly, but he looked less convinced now. "What sort of comments?" he wondered, and Harry ducked his head, face positively on fire.
"Er, well, he started asking about me and Gin and who I was dating now, and then he made some joke about everybody lusting after me or something." That had probably just been an innocent comment, right? It seemed innocent enough; Oliver clearly wasn't lumping himself in with the 'everybody' that was supposedly lusting after Harry. Right?
Ron just stared at him. "I dunno, Harry, it sounds like Malfoy might have a point," he spoke carefully. Harry gave him a helpless shrug in return. Why was everything always so complicated? "What did he do when he found out about the broom?" Ron continued.
At the question, Harry cringed. "Erm, well, he was there when I accepted it."
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Mate, you accepted a crazy expensive gift like this from another bloke right in front of your boyfriend?" Ron shook his head. "Where's Hermione and her lectures on tact when you need 'em?"
"I didn't have a choice!" Harry snapped defensively. "I told Oliver no about a billion times and then Malfoy showed up and I told them both a billion more times that I would not accept that stupid broomstick, but then they both just kept insisting and it fucking has my name on it so I got angry and I took the broom and I left and Draco followed me and I fucking flew away from him and now it's morning and I'm here talking to you about my boyfriend troubles and all I know is that I can't stand one more fight with Draco over Oliver fucking Wood!" He paused, breathing hard. "I'm not sure where Draco and I stand right now, especially after the fight we had earlier and the way I left things yesterday, and I'm really not sure how upset with me he is and I'm sort of afraid to find out because I love him and I don't want him angry with me but he's just being so fucking stupid because he has nothing to fucking worry about because I'm not interested in Oliver fucking Wood anymore!" Harry was on his feet, panting and nearly shouting by the time he finished speaking.
Ron stared at him with his mouth hanging open. "All right," he said quickly. "It's all right, Harry." His tone was soothing and Harry calmed enough to sink back down onto the bed.
"I just," Harry covered his eyes with one hand and ran the other through his hair roughly, "I don't want anyone else, you know? Just him. And he says that he trusts me, but he keeps getting so angry and then he refuses to listen and last night he just showed up like that even after he told me that he trusted me and even gave me his sodding permission to go." He turned tortured eyes to Ron. "I don't know what to do. Draco says that Oliver's coming onto me but I just don't see it, and I know that Draco doesn't want me to be around him, but I've known him for years, Ron."
Ron nodded. "It's fucked, mate," he agreed. "You need to talk to Malfoy, though. Especially after the way you left him last night. You two have some shit to sort through." Harry huffed an agreement. "You also need to make it clear to Oliver that the two of you will only ever be friends, because he really may not be interested in you, Harry, but from what you've told me, it sounds like he is."
Harry groaned.
"But you did have a thing for Oliver, then?" Ron asked curiously and Harry groaned again.
"Yes, maybe? I mean, I don't really know, you know? It was before I knew I was into blokes as well, so maybe it was more that I just really admired him? Although, I do remember feeling a bit like I'd been punched in the stomach when he would touch me to show me a new Quidditch move, so maybe I really did have a thing for him." Harry dropped his head back into his hands. "Don't you dare tell Draco any of that," he said suddenly, lifting his head to fix Ron with a glare.
"Course not," Ron waved him off. "Well, are we going down to the match, then?"
Harry shrugged. He wasn't sure at all if he wanted to go to the game anymore, but he had promised both Oliver and Finlay that he would be there. At the time, however, he had been counting on Draco attending with him and felt a pang at the thought of the blond. How furious was Malfoy? First Harry had gotten angry and just left, and then he had flown off to escape the Slytherin without a word. Fuck, the blond was most likely livid. And Harry deserved it. He had kept things from Draco and hurt him as a result, even if Harry really had been intending the whole time to talk to his boyfriend about coaching the Hufflepuff. He hadn't lied, but he hadn't been completely honest, either. He knew that Draco struggled with the feeling that Harry was going to disappear one day, that he was only in Malfoy's life temporarily, just until he grew bored of the blond or looked down at his arm and remembered the tattoo staining it. But how could Harry convince him more that he was deadly serious about the other boy?
Time, only, I suppose, Harry mused ruefully, feeling disheartened at the thought. Neither of them would ever be described as patient.
Well, everything in order, he decided as he stood and headed for the bathroom. First, he would shower. Then, he would get dressed. Then, he and Ron would go down to the Great Hall for breakfast and hopefully find Draco there and hopefully, he would be willing to listen to Harry. Then hopefully, they would go down to the pitch together and watch the game and hopefully, Harry would still be able to hold Malfoy's hand in the back row of the stands.
The first three items on his list all passed smoothly and it wasn't until item number four that Harry encountered his first snag. Draco was nowhere in the Great Hall and Harry had not grabbed the Map as he had been rushed from the room by Ron, who now sat next to him shoveling toast and eggs into his mouth around sips of pumpkin juice and his predictions for the match.
Harry picked at his food, barely listening to what Ron was saying. Where was Draco? Was he planning on skipping both breakfast and the match? Harry knew that Malfoy cared almost nothing about the House Cup and that the war had robbed him, too, of his interest in the sport. The only thing he had shown any recent sign of interest in was Harry. Was that over now? Had Draco decided that maybe Harry wasn't worth the bother after all? Were his feelings for the Gryffindor now steeped more in anger than in love? Had Harry managed to destroy the only thing that had given him such peace and happiness? Was Draco even planning on telling Harry that it was over? Or was their relationship going to burn out as quickly as it had begun? Would it just dissolve away into nothing without a single word passed between them?
Harry felt panic rise within him at the thought. It couldn't just disappear into nothing. It had never been just nothing between them. There had always been something and if Harry lost that something, then he honestly was not sure what he would do. He needed to find Draco and talk to him now.
His mouth tightened and he pushed back from the table to stand. He would find his Slytherin and could only pray that the blond was willing to listen. Jaw clenched with determination, Harry strode quickly and had just reached the doors to the Great Hall when they were flung wide as Seamus poked his head inside.
"Oi! Ronald!" he bellowed loudly, making Harry wince. The Great Hall wasn't that big.
"What?" Ron shouted back, making the two sound as though they were yelling from opposite ends of the Quidditch pitch.
"Hurry the fuck up, would you?" Seamus demanded. "The game's about to start and everybody's already out there!" Harry glanced around the Great Hall and noticed for the first time how empty it was. "Even the fucking Slytherins have shown up!" That got Harry's attention.
"The Slytherins?" he tried to ask casually. "All of them?"
Seamus nodded and chuckled. "Parkinson got in a fight with some Slytherin third year right as I was heading back here, I thought she was going to hex the boy. But Malfoy and Zabini stopped her before she could."
At the words, Harry's heart started to pound. Malfoy? Malfoy was there? Had Zabini convinced him to go or was he there looking for Harry? And more importantly, if he was there, then what the fuck was Harry still doing here?
Without a word, he darted around Seamus, who bellowed at Ron to hurry one final time before jogging to catch up with the brunet. They walked together quickly but paused for a moment when they turned to see Ron sprinting toward them.
"Honestly, just give a bloke a minute to finish eating," he grumbled breathlessly.
By the time they made it down to the pitch the game had already started and Ravenclaw was in the lead with ten points, causing both Ron and Seamus to gripe and swear loudly about missing kick off. The other two Gryffindors rushed him up to a stand and Harry found himself seated between Neville and Luna before he had time to begin scanning the crowd.
Locating the Slytherins was easy enough; they were the smallest and quietest section of the stands. The entire House had been much more subdued this year, no longer strutting around acting superior, finding themselves instead to be the victims of slurs and cruel pranks much more often than in the past. Harry had seen it and had tried to put a stop to it, but the war had altered some people's minds to forever connect Death Eaters and Slytherins. With the war and grief still so fresh on many people's thoughts, there was a lot of hate still being directed toward the House of Salazar.
The one Slytherin he cared about, however, was nowhere to be seen.
The game was being played, Harry knew it was. He could hear the commentary and the gasps and screams of the crowd, as well as the crunch of Beaters bats and Madam Hooch's occasional shrill whistle. But he couldn't focus on anything other than scanning the Slytherin side of the stands again, despite how glaringly obvious it was that Draco's nearly white hair was not in attendance. Where was he? Seamus had said he was there, hadn't he?
"Seamus," Harry called, leaning forward and tapping the Irishman on the shoulder.
"What, Harry?" Seamus shouted without looking over his shoulder.
"I thought you said that Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson were here."
"Yeah, they are," Seamus swore and ducked sympathetically as a Ravenclaw Chaser took a bludger to the chest. His eyes flicked from the game to the stands and he frowned. "Well, they were." The frown suddenly vanished to be replaced with a bright smile as he turned to face Harry. "Maybe Parkinson really did hex that third year and they all got expelled."
Harry stared at Seamus with a cold look until the other boy's grin faded and he quickly turned back around.
With a sigh, Harry sat back. Malfoy was no longer there. Maybe, Harry hoped cautiously, he had come to the game to look for Harry and had soon left upon not finding him. The thought made him want to sprint back up to the castle and begin checking every classroom and broom cupboard for the blond, but he was wedged tightly between his friends in a sea of students at the top of one of the highest stands and knew that escape would not come easily and maybe he should just keep his promise to Finlay and cheer the boy on.
However, the longer the game continued the more frustrated he grew. It was impossible to focus on the match and instead decided to use the time planning what he would say to Malfoy when he found him, assuming he would ever be able to track him down. Many different scenarios played out in Harry's mind of what would happen when they were finally again face-to-face. In some of them they made up, others they parted shouting and hating each other; there were several in which Malfoy refused to listen and broke up with Harry the instant he saw him, and in one particularly horrible one Malfoy screamed that he had never loved Harry and he never wanted to see him again.
At the thought of never seeing Draco again, Harry's palms broke out in a sweat and he was just starting to panic when the whistle sounded and the game was over—Hufflepuff had won 160–40. Harry pretended to cheer as the yellow team took a victory lap and the Ravenclaws slunk off to their changing room.
Desperate to get back to the castle, Harry could only tap his foot against the wood of the stand impatiently as he waited for everybody around him to begin exiting the stands. The crowd began to gradually clear and Harry had almost made it to the stairs when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, startling him and forcing him to a halt. "Harry," Oliver Wood's voice drifted over him as his firm grip pulled Harry off to the side of the stands, away from the line of people still waiting to descend.
"Oliver," Harry ran a hand through his hair. He supposed that yes, he also needed to talk to Wood as well as Malfoy. "Look, about last night…" Was there a way he could apologize and still return the broomstick? "I'm really sorry for how I acted, I know I was a git…" He knew that he had behaved badly, but was also still annoyed at the way Oliver had practically forced him into accepting the gift.
"It's not your fault, Harry," Wood waved his apology away and steered the younger man back into a corner of the benches to sit side-by-side. "I know that I basically shoved the broomstick down your throat and made you take it."
Harry grinned and shrugged in agreement. "Maybe a bit," he allowed. He opened his mouth to suggest that Oliver rethink his insanity and take back the broom, but Wood spoke up before he could.
"No, Harry," he chuckled as he studied Harry's face closely, "I don't want it back." Damn. How had he known that's what Harry was going to say? "I'm really glad you came to the match," Oliver continued. Did he never blink? Harry felt as if the man had been staring at him for far too long without shifting his gaze.
"Erm, well, I promised," Harry reminded him uncomfortably.
"Yeah, you did," Oliver said softly, scooting closer until their knees were touching.
"Well, I should…" Harry gestured awkwardly toward the stairs. When had everybody else left? Oliver's fingers twitched as though he wanted to grab onto Harry and keep him from leaving.
"It's too bad the match is over, isn't it?" Oliver mused and Harry shrugged.
"Why? Your brother's team won."
"Yeah, but I won't be around anymore, that's the last game 'til February." He did sound rather upset about it.
"Well, I'm sure Finlay will miss you," Harry comforted.
"Will he be the only one, I wonder?" Oliver murmured and Harry forced a wry grin.
"I suppose I'll miss you as well, Captain, but I think I'll be ok. I mean, I've lived without your speeches for this long. And the past has taught me, if anything, that I'm a survivor."
Oliver laughed quietly and scooted even closer; Harry was trapped between the man and the wooden wall of the stand. "I can always come back to give you a private speech," he promised in a low voice and Harry felt his brow prick with nerves before Oliver's face turned pensive. "Would you miss me or my speeches more?" Harry felt a chill and a light sweat beginning to build on the back of his neck and he tried to avoid answering the question.
"Er, well, your speeches sort of are you, Oliver," he half-joked. When had Wood's hand found the top of his own slightly damp one? They both now rested on his thigh, Oliver's fingers draped over the back of Harry's hand to lightly brush Harry's jeans, and Harry was unsure what to do. How had he gotten into this situation? He felt a surge of apology toward Draco for not having believed him earlier.
Wood's face was suddenly much closer and Harry felt frozen where he sat, hardly even breathing. Oliver seemed to take his shock as shy nerves because the next thing Harry knew, the man had bent forward and his lips were pressed gently to Harry's own. Harry didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't kiss him back. His brain was screaming at him to pull back, run away, find Draco, but his back was pressed firmly against the wall behind him and Oliver's arms were on either side of his body, caging him in as the larger man leaned his weight more fully into him.
"Harry," Oliver pulled back just enough to murmur before kissing him again.
Harry felt a wild sort of hysteria beginning to build in the pit of his stomach. He wrenched his mouth away and struggled for a moment before Oliver realized that Harry was not finally responding to his affections but was instead attempting to stand. His arms dropped and Harry instantly shot to his feet and began backing away, his wide eyes never leaving Oliver's, the two men staring at each other for long seconds before Harry mumbled a quick, "I have to go," and, blaming his Slytherin half, turned and ran.
It wasn't until Harry reached the bottom of the wooden steps and began hurriedly striding back to the school that he noticed the figure ahead of him, legs pumping furiously in a dead run toward the castle, but even from this distance, it was a figure that Harry would recognize anywhere. Sudden dread seized his heart, stealing the air from his lungs and causing him to stumble and nearly trip. Gritting his teeth, he shook off the numb horror creeping through his limbs and threatening to freeze him in place, forcing his rubbery legs into action as he hurried to catch up to the boy already much too far ahead of him—a tall, thin boy with gleaming silvery-blond hair.
Draco Malfoy had just seen everything.