It's been two years since I posted a completely new or "also on AO3" fic on this site, did you know? Not making a habit of it, but I hope you enjoy this ship fic anyway.
subtext
The noise and the accompanying breeze nearly knocked the glasses off his face.
THUMP.
"...Yes?" he eventually asked, once the swirl of dust kicked up by the stack of books had cleared, and he could see his persecutor. "Is this meant to be a present?"
The boy looming over the books scowled, talking like Albus hadn't said a word. "What are you playing at, Dumbledore?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." This was only partly true, but it took little effort for him to conceal the smirk threatening to split his face; Occlumency two summers past was one of the most useful skills he'd ever come to acquire. "Care to enlighten me, Potter?"
"'I'm afraid I don't know what you'—look at this, you twit. Look. Look."
Harry Potter's lower-pitched mimicking tone sounded almost identical to his tormentor; each time he said look, he lifted and slammed back down upon the table a new textbook or book of leisure, with each new arrival noticeably thicker than the last. The titles faced Albus' way deliberately and gleamed at him in gold gilt: Wendell's Wand-Waxing, A Hundred Ways to Woo Your Wizard, Wendy and the Whimpering Wampus. And more besides, though not with as many alliterations. They were not the type of books Albus would normally associate with, but when needs must and the cause was just...
"What the hell are these," Potter demanded. The faintest tinge of scarlet could be seen dusting the tips of his ears under his messy black hair, undercutting the stern, uncompromising demeanor he was going for.
Albus found it delightful.
"From a glance I believe they are timeless advisory texts, interspersed with a few fictional tales to cleanse the palate and delight the senses."
"Don't, Dumbledore, you know damn well—"
"Language," the older boy tsked, even as he delighted too in the way the expletive rolled easily off Potter's tongue.
Potter breathed in very, very slowly. "Madam Pince," he eventually continued, so breathlessly that every word was more of a wheeze, "informed me that these texts had been set aside for me for the past two weeks, at your request."
"That's right."
"Why?" the younger man asked, in what was very close to a whimper the wampus in the bottom book would have been proud of.
"Well, my original intention was to keep my entreaties discreet, that we both might conduct ourselves in relative privacy... but alas, I underestimated how impervious you were to subtlety."
"Are you calling me thick?"
"I would never be so crass," Albus reassured him, and laid one of his hands over Potter's closest, trembling one. Carefully, mind you. Not to startle him or anything... though judging on how quickly Potter's expression morphed from indignant to flabbergasted, his intention backfired entirely. No, that plan had not quite survived exposure to the open air. Still, he dared to stroke over Potter's sleeve-covered wrist with one finger, back and forth. "Though I might perhaps say you are... ill-equipped to respond favorably to the type of courting I prefer to employ."
"Courting?" In contrast to Albus' rich, confident tone, Potter's voice was more of a rasp. (Harry's. If they were going to be involved in the way he wished, Albus decided he should really start calling Potter 'Harry'.)
"Yes, I thought that was clear. But perhaps I should be more direct."
Harry breathed in sharply, and his shoulders jerked and barely settled with the act. His long, dark eyelashes blinked rapidly and distractingly—clearly he was baffled and having trouble keeping up, but he hadn't flinched or moved away. Albus blinked too, considering.
Ah. Hmm.
Perhaps he had not been as clear as he'd hoped. This meant a course-correction was necessary.
He paused noticeably before lifting his hand from Harry's arm; then he rose smoothly, Vanishing his chair with his index finger, so that nothing obstructed his view of Harry—so that absolutely nothing was between them.
"I am courting you, Harry Potter. Or rather—it would please me greatly if you would permit me to court you."
Harry's mouth opened and shut a few times without him getting anything out. With how breathy his last few words had been, perhaps his poor House mate had finally run out of air with which to voice his objections.
The idea of Harry objecting at all made something sour and unpleasant stir in Albus' stomach.
"I..."
I have some skill with Memory Charms, Albus thought, as a faint pink flush climbed up his neck for the first time since Harry had come to hover over him. A moment of his inattention, and he will never remember my advances. Perhaps it would be best—
"I'll... consider it," Harry mumbled at last, after a small eternity.
Albus' mental backup plans skidded to a halt.
"You... will—"
"I'll consider it," Harry repeated more firmly. His own flush had escaped containment and decorated his face as well as his ears. But the green eyes Albus privately and fervently admired were fixed on him, decisive. Actually uncompromising, this time.
And consideration was not a 'no'.
"...Excellent," he managed to reply, making sure his voice remained steady—that it betrayed no hint of how uncertain he had been concerning Harry's choice. "I hope to be found worthy in your estimation, Potter."
The younger man shuffled backward, running a hand through his untidy hair. "Don't say things like that, Dumbledore."
"But I meant every word. What should I say instead that would please you?"
"Stop," Harry begged.
Albus decided magnanimously to leave off any additional teasing. On the inside, he was still very much occupied with celebrating his unexpected victory. He might even have begun imagining accompanying Potter—Harry—to Hogsmeade in a few weeks, should all go well...
Two fingers snapped in front of his eyes, and he startled.
"Yes?"
"Your eyes weren't focusing."
"My apologies. I was merely anticipating seeing you again."
"Dumbledore, honestly."
But in this Albus was undeterred. He wanted very much to see Harry Potter again, in a capacity outside of stolen glances during NEWT Transfiguration or NEWT Defense. He'd had quite enough of watching him from afar. It would be blissful beyond description to be watched in return.
"Shall I expect your answer in a week? A fortnight?"
Harry huffed. Still red in the face, he seemed to gather all his bravery, stand up as straight as possible and lean forward into Albus' space, close enough for Albus to count the number of fingerprint smudges on his glasses.
"You'll get your answer," he said, "once I've gone through all of these."
He plucked a book from the nearby shelves (apparently, whatever had actually brought him to the library) and stacked it on top of the other ten books Albus had 'reserved' on his behalf. That done, he hoisted the lot and strode out of the library without looking back. The parting smirk on his face said he probably suspected that Albus would watch him leave.
Which was good, because there was no way Albus wasn't going to watch Harry Potter leave a room if he could help it. Who else had an arse that looked that good in Quidditch shorts?
The helpless noise he couldn't stop making in his throat afterward earned him a detention from Madam Pince. He might have also lost a handful of House points in the bargain.
It was completely worth it.