Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

'Malfoy looks miserable.'

'He's looked miserable for years. Face like a slapped arse.'

'Ron,'  Harry doesn't want to find it funny. He'd rather not draw any attention at all at the moment, sitting as they are amongst the Wizengamot, surrounded by the most venerable witches and wizards that Britain still has to offer.

'What?' Ron gives him a funny look. 'Since when do you defend Malfoy?'

Harry sighs and gestures discreetly at their surroundings. 'Since now?'

'I guess,' Ron grumbles, preferring not to look around and instead focusing on his shoes. 'Why are you doing it, again?'

'Well,' Harry attempts to sound light, humourous. 'After Hermione punched him in third year, and I nearly eviscerated him in sixth, he's probably suffered enough. Plus his dad's a twat.'

Everything else has changed so much, Harry kind of likes the idea of Malfoy still stalking around being an insufferable tosser. One small, haughty shred of normalcy in his post-apocalyptic shitstorm of a life. Besides, he's realised recently that they'd both just been puppets of war, synchronously prodded into place by wizards far more powerful than they were. Enabling genocide, or preventing it, should never have been their responsibility. Zits and hormones and homework; that should have been all they'd had to deal with. Not dodging unforgivables, or impossible choices, or protecting your elders, or killing for them (or dying for them).

'You feel sorry for him?'

'How could you not?' Harry feels the corner of his mouth lift for the first time in days. 'Face like a slapped arse.'

Ron smirks behind his hand but his eyes are furtive. 'He's always looked like that. Never seen you cut him any slack before.'

Ron should probably be going straight into Auror training. He’s eerily observant when he wants to be, even if he is still a bit shit with girls (well, Hermione). Not that Harry is in any position to judge, he feels like him and Ginny are falling apart, just like he and Cho had, but magnified by a thousand with time and family and death. And lately, sex. Ill-advised sex. Sex they should definitely not be having.

'His mum saved me,' Harry points out. 'I owe it to her that she has one of her family members not in jail. Otherwise she'll be sitting at home on house arrest all by herself.'

The thought of time alone actually sounds good. Could he incarcerate himself?

'She's only out on house arrest because of you,' Ron rolls his eyes. 'You could've let them both rot.'

'Then what would've been the point of saving him at all?'

'I've asked you that before,' Ron sounds vaguely amused.

'You saved him the second time that night, from that random Death Eater,' Harry feels the need to point out. Ron likes to pretend he didn't do that but Harry'll never forget his surprise at seeing Ron drop a grown man with one well-placed fist. 'Why did you do it?'

'Didn't want our previous effort to go to waste, I singed my best trainers rescuing his stupid friend,' he looks put-out still. 'Plus, I got to punch a Death Eater in the face. I'd do it again.'

He probably would. Ron the Saviour.

'He might not deserve it again,' Harry hazards a look at Ron, gauging his reaction. There's a raised eyebrow.

'You having doubts about speaking for him?'

'I guess,' Harry sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair. He keeps forgetting how short it is now. 'I dunno. I'm just worried none of it has made him a better person underneath all that poncy hand-tailored crap he still wears,' he explains, looking down at Malfoy as he's systematically frisked and chained to the chair, eyes fixed on the floor throughout. 'Though at least it's smacked the conniving spark out of his eye.'

'He does look bloody miserable,' Ron smiles.

'Maybe he has a soul after all?' Harry can't help sounding dubious, but he hopes it's true. The prospect of vouching for him here and being wrong has kept him up lately. That and the fact he can't go anywhere now without attracting more public attention than ever. And the resulting cabin fever. And too many well-meaning friends who kept asking him if he needs to 'talk'. And a girlfriend that actually probably does need to talk (preferably to a professional and not to him). Not being hunted by a madman for the first time in his magical life is turning out to be rather stressful. 

'Do ferrets have souls?' Ron muses as the court settles, quieting.

'I dunno,' Harry shrugs. 'But we've got a better chance of finding out if we can keep him out of prison.'

'He's really not going to like being rescued by you again,' his friend whispers, confirming Harry's other concern.

'Let's hope it's the last time we have to,' he replies as the court comes to order and Malfoy looks up to face the crimes he had no control over.

***

The trial is mercifully swift. Mr. Draco L. Malfoy is released on probation, one year minimum with close monitoring.

The negotiation of the conditions, however, takes another hour. Ron is hungry and increasingly upset about it. Harry is tired and wants to go home and take a nap and see Hermione - this is feeling like the longest they've been apart in many, many months. It makes him uncomfortable. He misses her. He doesn't miss Ginny, which is terrible.

Malfoy's tiny, white-haired advocate is arguing for his right to re-sit his N.E.W.T.s, since he'd spent two years 'under duress' and hadn't been able to give them his proper attention. Harry's inner Hermione wants to point out that he can't re-sit something he hasn't sat, and that none of them sat their exams in the end. She's going back in September to catch up on the year they missed and do them properly. Ron is going with her. Ginny isn't. Harry hasn't decided.

The advocate goes on, arguing that depriving a young wizard of the right to 'an education unhindered by evil' is deplorable. But it's the mention of Malfoy's already dismal chances of getting a decent job with that brand on his arm and the scornful prejudice of society toward a boy guilty only of hoping to save his mother, that softens the court slightly. Without decent exam results, the elderly wizard continues, he'll never get the chance to truly redeem himself and become a contributing member of society, and isn’t that what they want?

The Wizengamot does not look entirely convinced, though. One particularly nasty looking witch takes umbrage at the whole idea and asks how they can truly trust him around impressionable youths, and at the scene of his crimes, no less. Looking down on him now, Malfoy seems no more likely to incite rebellion in a bunch of eleven year olds than he is to sprout wings, a sentiment Ron must share if his muted scoffing is anything to go by.

'As if he could lead an uprising now,' his friend whispers. 'He looks half dead.'

'McGonagall should say something,' Harry says. 'That other woman is being ridiculous.'

As if she's heard him, the new Headmistress stands only moments later, two rows between them and a little to their left.

'If I may, Your Honour?'

'Certainly. The court hears Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, of Hogwarts School.'

'I am prepared to keep a careful eye on Mr Malfoy, should he be able to return to Hogwarts,' she started. 'And let it be said that I think he should. To address your concerns, Madame Eldritch, he will be taking classes only with students his own age, whom he already knows and that are unlikely to, as you say, 'be led astray'. Further, all eighth years will be housed separately from the general populace of the school. The only places he might find himself in the company of, as you call them, 'impressionable youths' is in the silence of the library and at meals, where the students are under the supervision of every one of the professors. More to the point,' she pauses. 'I personally believe him very unlikely to support any wayward causes. Considering he lost so much to the most recent regime he was forced to live under, your implication defies logic. He who has lived through oppression and fear is surely the least willing to promote it?'

Harry silently applauds her. Her sentiment reminds him strongly of his time with the Dursleys, and their hideous regime of cooking and cleaning and being yelled at. He's long since become a fan of mess and takeout and quiet.

The murmuring court are less enthusiastic.

'With all due respect, Professor, you are no doubt a busy woman and unlikely to be able to keep a proper eye on him. Children are notoriously sneaky when it comes to rule-breaking.'

Harry barely keeps from rolling his eyes. They aren't children. Innocence is a distant dream for all of them.

'I assure you I am quite competent.'

'But you aren't there all the time, are you?'

'I am,' Harry says, barely thinking. Mostly he just wants the horrid woman to shut up. Partly he’s pissed she's insulting McGonagall. A tiny bit of him, he admits, is tired and willing to do whatever it takes to go home in the next 10 minutes.

'Pardon me, Mr Potter?'

The entire Wizengamot is looking at him, Ron is gaping in horror, Malfoy's blank mask twitches in alarm. McGonagall merely seems to be smiling. Harry stands up. Again.

'I'm... I'll be there all the time. I can, you know,' he tries to phrase it in a non-patronising way. 'Support Malfoy in his return to Hogwarts.'

'You would be willing to give up your time, just so he can go back to school?' The nasty woman sounds like Petunia.

'I think we could all do with a proper go at finishing school, don't you?' Harry retorts. 'One without Voldemort breathing down our necks?' He inclines his head toward Malfoy, far below him in the dias, still and quiet and pale. 'In his case, literally.'

'Of course, Mr. Potter,' Chief Warlock Buchanan cuts in, just as the old bitch opens her mouth to share something else Harry doesn't care to hear. 'This is a very generous offer.'

'He did save my life, as I explained earlier. I feel I kind of owe him.'

'Very well.' Buchanan smiles a fraction. 'Let it be added to the document; Condition one, Mr Draco L. Malfoy is to attend Hogwarts, under the supervision of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and... Harry Potter.'

The rest of the negotiation goes fairly quickly thereon in. Apparently very few of the Wizengamot are inclined to challenge Harry's assessment of Malfoy's potential risk to civilians, and they’re indeed done in almost 10 minutes.

'Thank fuck that's over,' Ron says as they walk through the Atrium toward the Floos, Auror guards keeping them moving swiftly and diverting those who even consider approaching the Boy Who Saved Them All. Harry just wants to get home and pretend to be normal. 'Any longer and you might've felt the need to give him your house or something.'

'It's not a big deal, Ron.'

'No, course not,' he shrugs. 'You're just babysitting Malfoy for a year. What could go wrong?'

***

Potter,
I don't know what the fuck you're playing at.
Mother says thank you.
DLM

Harry stares at the tiny piece of heavy cream parchment in his hand. The Burrow is warm and the hum of people sorting out cups of tea and arguing over the remaining cake drift up the stairs to Ron's room. The posh-looking eagle owl sitting on the window sill is bathed in the warm glow of another summer sunset, her scowl fixed on Harry. Apparently he’s meant to reply. To that. Somehow. Why?

He re-reads the note. What a fucking tosser. Malfoy has escaped jail time and is allowed back at Hogwarts, with at least part of that owing to Harry and he’s basically accusing him of some sort of... foul play? Like there was some sinister ulterior motive to the whole thing. What the fuck would he want from Malfoy ?

Harry scrounges around on Ron's desk and finds a scrap of parchment that'll be good enough.

Malfoy, you ridiculous prick.
Tell your mother she's welcome. 

He mulls for a moment over how to sign it. He usually goes with 'HJP' because he likes the way the 'J' reminds him of his dad, but he doesn't want to look like he’s copying. Using a middle initial isn't that common. Maybe he shouldn't sign it at all. But that seems... too familiar. What else?

HJP, Order of Merlin, First Class
Harry J. Potter, esq.
Mr Harry J. Potter
The Boy Who Gives No Shits About You
Harry
HP
Your nemesis, Harry

He sighs, and scolds himself for spending any time at all thinking about it. He adds '-H'  to the end and rolls the parchment into the tiny tube on the owl's leg and closes the window as it sails off into the coming night. A creak comes from behind him and his gut drops a fraction.

'You alright?'

'Hermione?' he breathes a sigh of relief and feels immediately shit about it.

'Expecting someone else?' She gives him a wry smile, knowing.

'Dreading, more like.'

Hermione closes the door behind her.

'Ron mentioned you might be coming back to school with us this year.'

'He didn’t... That dick,'  Harry huffs in disbelief. Some friend.

'Not to everyone, just me. No one else knows.'

'Oh. Good.'

'You have to tell her, Harry,' Hermione says gently. 'Tonight, or it'll look like you’re hiding it. You know she's expecting you to be here with her this year.'

'I know.'

She steps closer, taking both his hands in hers, a gesture of support he wholly appreciates.

'It's really not working is it?' She asks.

'What do you think?'

'I think you've both gone through a massive traumatic event, and you've both lost people, and your relationship isn't going to be easy during all of that.'

'We don't have a relationship.'

'Harry. '

'We're both different people. I'm... not who I was. And she's... she's different too. She's unhappy with me. All the time.'

'She's not unhappy with you, she's just... unhappy.'

'I used to make her happy,' he says. 'I think.'

'Yes, and her favourite brother used to be alive,' Hermione points out, her lips pursed. 'She needs time, Harry.'

'Well, I have to go back to school now, so time won't be a problem.'

There was a tap on the door and Ron poked his head in. Testament to the closeness forged during their camping extravaganza, he doesn't even blink to find them hand in hand.

'Tea's ready,' he says. 'I hid some of the apple cake for you in the kitchen.'

'Sounds good,' Harry says decisively as he disengages from his best mate's girlfriend and snags his latest Weasley jumper off the floor, bundling Hermione and her worried smile out of the room and down the stairs. She uses her position, one step above Ron, to push her slender hand through his mop of red hair, fondly tousling it as they descend. Harry misses that. The comfort of another person touching him with affection and no errant sadness. He remembers sixth year and the bliss of falling stupidly in love. Voldemort has an awful lot to answer for.

***

The Weasleys are subdued in a way you'd only notice if you knew them before the war. There's noise, yes, and almost constant conversation, but the careless spark is gone from the laughter and the twin voices aren't there, tripping over one another and finishing each other’s sentences. George is small and sad and quiet, trying so hard to be strong for everyone, and it breaks Harry's already-broken heart into smaller pieces every time he looks.

Bill and Fleur visit a lot, almost every night in some combination or another. Fleur seems to have taken it on herself to be there as a Weasley in her own right and not only an extension of her husband, often stepping elegantly out of the Floo by herself and bothering Molly in a way that makes their matriarch feel useful. Bill seems to limit his lone appearance, perhaps worried his scars are another reminder of a war in which so much was lost. Hermione, however, seems very sure that they've only added to his appeal. Harry doesn't know how he feels about them, having met Greyback, and having observed the once flawless, ultra cool and, at fourteen years old, utterly enviable awesomeness that was Bill. He feels sorry for him, but knows how much worse it could have been.

Charlie is around more as well, though with the constant low level of injury one expects from a man of dragons, which bothers Molly in a different way. He wears long sleeves a lot. Harry thinks this is a shame because if he had arms that ripped he'd want to show them off all the time. Harry is still skinny after months of malnourishment and stress, and while his muscle is visible due to lack of body fat, his physique lacks the easy power of Charlie Weasley.

Percy surprised everyone and moved back to The Burrow immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts. He's dating a girl called Audrey and while he talks about her near constantly, no one has met her yet. Ron thinks she's imaginary.

Ron.

He and Hermione are a thing now, and Harry's kind of glad the whole thing has stopped being so bloody awkward. Sharing a tent with a pair like that, so obviously (even to him) on the cusp of either snogging or dueling each other to death, had, at times, made the threat of Voldemort's reign seem trifling. Why it took Ron so long to... well. It's Ron. Even in the end, it wasn't him. Harry thinks he knows why it took Hermione so long to address that, and that makes him feel guilty too. Though at least they have each other now, when it's needed, and at least they weren't having each other in the tent when it would've been hideously apparent. They all know each other well enough already, without any of that. The late-night room swapping, when Harry and Hermione pass each other in the hall and set their watches in silence, is more than enough detail. The fact they're probably all fucking simultaneously is weird enough, though there's been less of that lately for Harry.

The pressure of being with Gin has got to him in ways he can't really ignore. While he might've been able to bluff his way through a PG-13 version of a relationship, sometimes parts of him are less willing than they should be, and the grim truth that alcohol seems to help doesn't actually comfort either of them. Ginny's going to lose her shit when he goes back to Hogwarts. No. When he tells her he's going back. Or, to be more specific, when Ron butts in and tells her why he's going back. No matter that he'd been thinking about it already, just to get away from her. His initial aversion to ever seeing the place again has waned with time and the comparison of what remains at home. If this is even home anymore. Maybe Grimmauld Place is home now, but that's worse. Alone and empty and full of cobwebs and the screams of a long-dead Black.

Hogwarts will do. It's away from the grief and the pressure and the weirdness. And maybe the horror and the destruction and the nightmares won't be so bad.

***

Ginny doesn't take it well. There are tears and shouting, and they stand on the porch for what seems like hours going over and over the same stuff, and it changes nothing but Harry's resolve to leave.

'Malfoy?' she hisses for the umpteenth time. 'Of all the shit things he's done, and you're leaving me for him?'

This time, Harry doesn't point out how that sounds.

'I'm not only going back because of him,' he says, again. 'I'm not ready to be an Auror and there's no point sitting around for a year waiting for Ron to get his N.E.W.T.s so we can start training together, when I could also be getting my N.E.W.T.s and... you know,' he shrugs. 'Having some options.' Options that don't involve you shouting at me, or crying, or never seeing past the one person you lost to the whole heap that I did.

'I didn't think you wanted options. I thought you wanted me.'

'I did.'

'And what? Now you just don't anymore?'

'Now I just want to not know for a bit. To have nothing decided for me already.'

'Do you not care what I want? What I'd decided on for myself?'

'Can you see how stifling that is for me?' Harry sighs and sinks down onto the step. He’s tired. 'For you to have decided I'm the only future you can have?'

'I guess,' she admits with reluctance.

'I don't want us to be like we are now, forever. To never be better than this.'

'Harry, it's not going to be like this forever, you'll get better. It's really common when men are stressed out to be... you know.'

'Thanks.' His resolve strengthens another notch. 'That's not what I meant, but yeah, that too.'

'What else?' She sounds resigned, like she just needs to know so she can deal with it. 'What else isn't okay?'

Harry decides not to hold back. 'I feel like we're trying to be a couple amongst all this grief, and we don't really have that much experience being a couple, or grieving, and it's... harder than it should be to do either when we're trying so hard to do both.'

'You've talked to Hermione about this?' She raises an eyebrow at him.

'I am capable of having feelings without her having to tell me what they are.'

'Of course you are. I'm sure not loving me is all your own.'

'I never said that.'

'You don't have to.'

'You're family, Gin, I'll always love you.'

'You just... what? Need a break from it for a while?'

'Maybe.' A break sounds like a gift. Maybe when he comes back she’ll be normal again.

'Maybe?'

'Nothing decided, remember.'

'Fine. You have until Christmas.'

'That's deciding.'

'No it's not, it's a... checkpoint,' she gives him a wry grin.

'A checkpoint?'

'Yeah. We'll...' she takes a deep breath. 'Take time apart. Grieve by ourselves for a bit. And we'll talk when you come back for Christmas.'

'Okay.' Harry think this might be the best offer he’ll get.

'Maybe I'll meet a nice boy in Ottery St Catchpole and forget all about you.' Wait, no. That would be better.

'Maybe you'll meet a nice girl,' he jokes.

'Wouldn't you love that?'

'I might.'

The door creaks open then and a handsome, sunkissed face appears tentatively from behind it.

'The yelling stopped, are you okay?'

'Yeah,' Ginny says, giving Harry a painfully sad smile. 'We are.'

'Mum's worried she's lost another son to your wrath, tiny sister, go find her will you?'

'Too soon, Charlie,' she says as she stands up. He holds the door open and she ducks under it, disappearing into the house.

'Hi,' he says, muscular forearms making Harry feel casually inadequate. 'You really okay?'

'No,' Harry says. 'Not really.'

Charlie looks mercifully unsurprised and steps carefully out and pushes the door closed behind him. 'Relationships are hard.'

Harry reflects dismally on hardness being a thing their relationship definitely didn't have enough of. He contemplates telling Charlie that and swiftly decides not to.

'Yeah.'

'Especially if things aren't easy in the, er...' Charlie nods awkwardly and raises a suggestive eyebrow. 'Romance department?'

Harry dies. 'I'm sure that’s true,' he says, completely non-committal.

'My bedroom is directly under Gin's.'

'Oh.'

'It's fine. No one ever remembers to use silencing charms on the floor, I'm not judging. I just... One night I grabbed my wand to cast a Muffliato but I dropped it and it rolled under the bed and I noticed it kind of, didn't last...'

'Oh.'

'By the time I found my wand it was over already.'

'Yeah.'

'It happens a lot, when you're young, it's all new and exciting and, you know, a bit overwhelming.'

'It-' Harry wonders if he was actually having this conversation or if Ginny had hexed him and he was in an enchanted dreamscape where harmless but wickedly awkward things happened. 'It's not that.'

'You don't need to be ashamed Harry, you'll get better over time, last longer. Practice.'

'It's really not what you think.'

'Okay, sure.' Charlie smiled indulgently, sympathetically. 'But I'm here if you need to talk, yeah?' He stands up and turns as if to go.

'It's kind of the opposite problem, actually,' Harry blurts. Shit. This is going to be awful, but he’s sick of holding it in and maybe, just maybe, Charlie can help him feel less shit about it.

'The opposite?' He sits down again. 'Oh... like, it's over, but not because you've finished?'

'Yeah.'

'Um... is it...' Charlie drops his head into his hands. 'I'm very aware right now that we're talking about my sister so lets pretend we're talking about someone else called... Joanna.'

'Can we talk about Joanna and her boyfriend Dave?'

'Sure, why not. Joanna and Dave.'

'Sometimes Joanna cries during... when her and Dave are... playing chess.' There was a chance Harry was about to ruin a board game forever.

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'That could be because Joanna is sad.'

'The crying would indicate sadness, yes.'

'Is Dave sure Joanna isn't in any pain?'

'Dave isn't that well endowed.'

'Is Joanna, uh, well-lubricated. And relaxed and stuff?'

'Joanna is definitely well-lubricated.'

'So there's nothing physically wrong?'

'No. Physically, Joanna is fine. But it's like she can't bear to be happy. Any sort of... of pleasure makes her feel guilty. She won't even have hot showers anymore. She’s taking sugar in her tea, even though I know she hates it.' Harry sighs. 'Joanna is miserable and she still keeps trying to do normal couple things with Dave. And Dave is sick of trying to be normal when he wants to just be sad. And Dave wishes they could just be there for each other and not,' he pauses. 'Not try to be a normal couple all the time.'

'That makes sense. Dave is a sensible man.'

'Dave knows grief pretty well by now.'

'Why don't you tell her this?'

'I tried. She's stubborn. It's like she's trying to fight the grief. Like if she can just pretend it's not there it won't get her, when she just needs to let it be part of her for a time and then it'll, like, simmer down after a while.'

'Fuck, Harry, I'm so sorry,’ Charlie shakes his head slowly. ‘I can talk to her.'

‘Thanks,’ he says. But the catharsis is gorgeous, so he keeps going. 'It's not just that. I'm-' he sighs. 'I'm also feeling a lot of pressure to be something for her. She's... Joanna has fancied Dave for so long, and like, fantasised about getting married and having kids and stuff, and Dave never thought about having a future because,' Harry glances up at Charlie’s freckled face, soft with empathy. 'He kind of expected to die before then.'

'That I can relate to.'

'Really?'

'Not the dying part. I was a prefect, and Quidditch Captain and Mum and Dad had all these expectations of me, thinking I'd get some amazing apprenticeship like Bill did, or play professional Quidditch, or be a magizoologist or something, and I... didn't want to have anybody choose for me.'

'So, what did you do?'

'I ran off and joined a bunch of other dragon-mad guys in Romania and never came home. Now I frighten my mother on a daily basis, have regrown all my fingers at least once, and habitually have burns on at least 3% of my body at any one time. And she stills tells people I went and got an apprenticeship and studied dragons.'

'But... didn't you?'

'To her, yes. To me, I ran away and did what I wanted. They just happened to be the same thing.'

'I feel like you're just bragging now.'

'Maybe.'

There’s a silence that feels almost comfortable, but Harry’s feeling so much lighter from getting all this off his chest that he wants to vomit out everything that’s ever kept him from sleeping. Everything that might keep him from sleeping. Everything he can’t say to anyone else because they’ll sit there and be all sympathetic and kind and care too much.

'Do you think there's something wrong with me?'

'No,’ Charlie answers easily. ‘I think you're dealing with a lot of intense, mad woman-stuff and that's enough to wilt anyone's dandelion.'

'Was dealing with. I'm pretty sure we just broke up. Or we're on a break. She joked about meeting someone else in Ottery St Catchpole so I guess we broke up.'

'Permanently?'

'I don't know. She said we could review it at Christmas.'

'That's our Gin. Very, very focused and a giant pain in the arse when you don't give her exactly what she wants.'

'I've just never heard of a teenage guy not being able to keep it up. Not being able to keep it down seems like a more common problem.'

'Well, I suppose there's another possibility,’ Charlie smirks. ‘But you'd probably have noticed well before now.'

'Oh god, is it spattergroit? I still don't know what that is but it sounds horrible.' Harry’s stomach flutters with dread. 'What are the symptoms?'

'Uh, finding men attractive?'

'What? Oh. Charlie, are you asking if I'm gay?'

'It would explain a few things wouldn't it?'

'I suppose, but. No. I've liked girls, I think about girls.'

'Elton John probably thinks about girls.'

'I mean... Dave thinks about girls when he's playing Solitaire.'

'Oh. Has Dave tried thinking about men when he plays Solitaire?'

'No.'

'Dave could try that. No one would need to know.'

'I suppose.'

'You're cringing.'

'This is the most uncomfortable conversation I've ever had in my life,' Harry admits. 'And Hermione taught me forcibly about contraceptive charms.'

'Uncomfortable because it's unlocking hidden truths?'

'What? Is this how you found out? Someone suggested you have a wank over a guy and see if you liked it?'

'No,' Charlie grins to himself. 'There was a boy at Hogwarts, Allister, he was a Hufflepuff, and we had Care of Magical Creatures together in third year. Allister was the only other student in our whole class who was willing to touch a salamander without gloves. We became friends, and since we couldn't hang out in each other's common rooms, we'd find other places to go, and one day we were somewhere we probably shouldn't have been, and Filch turned up and we hid in an alcove and it was really only big enough for one person, so we were jammed in really close together, and... he kissed me. And it was... cool.'

'That's the tamest coming out story I've ever heard.'

'That isn't the coming out story, that happened a few weeks later in the Quidditch locker rooms with a bunch of Slytherins walking in on us and him freaking out and stopping even talking to me.'

'That's more like it. Evil Slytherins and heartbreak.'

'And Quidditch.'

'What a trifecta.'

'So are there any, um, Hufflepuffs who might interest you?'

'I don't think there are any openly gay Hufflepuff guys in our year.'

'Any hot ones?'

'I feel like that's a trick question.'

'Well are there?'

'I dunno. I've not really thought about it.'

'Well, what do you admire in other men. What makes you a little bit jealous?'

'Not being hunted by a noseless psychopath.'

'Would you put that above, say, nice hair?'

'I definitely envy nice hair.'

'Favourite eye colour?'

'Blue-ish.'

'Physique?'

'Muscular.'

'Buff or toned?'

'What's the difference?'

'Me or Bill.'

Harry freezes, the reality of what they’re talking about setting in. He can't keep his eyes from drifting to Charlie's sculpted forearms, the swell of his bicep where his sleeves were bunched up above his elbows.

'Buff then?' Charlie’s grinning when Harry looks up.

'You tricked me,' he groans, feeling the heat rise into his cheeks.

'I did, and I'm flattered.'

'Don't be, it's merely a reflection on my own pitiful lack of musculature.'

'And I merely enjoy getting one up on my big brother.'

'Sorry.'

'Kind of answered the question though, didn't it? Of whether it's a possibility.'

'I guess,' Harry can’t handle much more or this kind of upheaval tonight. 'I still like girls though.'

'Don't worry, Harry, no one's going to make you choose one or the other. You can do whatever you like.'

And that, really, was what he'd wanted all along.

'Okay then. I'll try it.'

***

Harry is lying on his back on his cot in Ron's mostly orange bedroom and staring at the ceiling. Ron’s snoring, which is fine, since it means he’s asleep and not aware of what Harry is about to do.

Hot men. Buff, with nice hair and blue eyes and no girlfriends. Right.

Harry hasn't spent any time thinking about liking guys, or about them being hot, so trying to think of someone who'd stood out is like trying to remember something he'd never known in the first place. Maybe there’s a better way. He slides a hand into his pyjamas. Perhaps if he just lies here holding his dick and goes through every guy he knows, he'll feel if there’s any... reaction. Maybe he should test that first. Hermione. Nothing. Good, that’s too weird. Luna. Luna? No. He just keeps picturing her in Malfoy's dungeon. Katie. Hmm. Some stirring. Cho in the Room of Requirement. No. Just embarrassment. Fleur in a bathing suit in fourth year... yeah, that works. Ok.

Bill? The earring is cool. He's tall, and strong, and... meh. Charlie is all tangled up in confusing thoughts right now, Percy... ugh. George, no. Ron, NO. Seamus, Lord no. Neville? No, though he did look badass with a sword. Dean, nah, too passive. Lee Jordan, no, too short. Oliver Wood... okay, maybe. But that might just be latent hero worship. Hufflepuffs? Ernie... Justin... Zacharias... Cedric? Nothing there but guilt, though he did have nice hair. And his eyes were... intense. He was a bit too tall though. Ravenclaws: Anthony Goldstein... Roger Davies... Terry Boot... Michael Corner... okay. Harry feels something in him move. Interesting. He has nice hair too. And nice lips. Full, pink, kind of like a girl’s lips.

Harry commits to his task. He gets Fantasy Michael down on his knees. The Room of Requirement blooms in the background, Michael is knelt on one of the big purple cushions, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, bottom lip glistening in the candle light. Harry steps closer to him, unfastening his own trousers, reaching into his pants, palming his cock. Fantasy Michael's eyes follow his hand. Harry gives himself a stroke in real life to match the one in his head and the other boy's eyes fix on the movement, and he licks his lips. Harry steps closer still, he could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. Does he? No one has to know. Fantasy Harry raises his left hand, skims his fingertips over Michael's soft black hair. Wide blue-grey eyes look up at him, long lashes dark against his cheeks.

Harry pushes his fingers into his hair, gripping hard, tilting Fantasy Michael's head back slightly. He doesn't even resist, doesn't complain it's hurting him, he simply gazes up at Harry and lets his knees spread a little wider. Both Harrys push their pants down and let their swelling cocks spring free. Michael lets his jaw drop slowly open, tongue out, pink and soft and wet, waiting. Harry knows what that tongue will feel like, remembers stolen moments in abandoned parts of the castle with Gin hovering over him, licking him. His cock twitches, curious. He tightens his fingers. Fantasy Harry drops the head of his cock on that soft, pink tongue and watches it disappear, sucked into the waiting mouth of Michael Corner.

Everything he's ever been too scared to fantasise about is released from its mental prison, the gates are lowered and there are no holds barred. He tugs hard on Michael's hair and fucks down his throat with impunity. Doesn't warn him when he's close, just pulls out and paints frantic stripes all over his pretty face. In reality, Harry comes harder than he has in a long time, biting his lip to stay quiet while Ron snores on in the periphery, ignorant to his best mate's sexual awakening happening right beside him.

***

The next night, after dinner, while the rest of the family settles themselves in the lounge with tea and biscuits and magazines and chess, Harry catches Charlie's eye and nods his head toward the front door. One red eyebrow raises slightly but he follows silently, both of them padding through the house in just their socks.

'What's up, Harry?'

'You may be right,' Harry says quietly.

'About?' Charlie looks like he's forgotten the entire life-changing conversation they had last night on this very fucking doorstep.

'Dave,' Harry says. 'Liking other guys.'

'Oh?' Charlie's face breaks into a grin. 'Did Dave do his homework, then?'

'Yes. Results were, not completely conclusive, but promising?'

'Not conclusive?' Charlie looks dubious.

'It's easy for Dave to think about things, to like things... theoretically. Practically, he might still find the whole thing kind of... weird.'

'Ah. And until you get trapped in an alcove with a Hufflepuff, you won't know if it's real?'

'Exactly.'

'Well,' Charlie turns as if to go back inside. 'Good luck with that, then. Let me know how it goes.' He pauses, thoughtful for a second and Harry prays he isn't just brushing it off like it seems. No such luck. 'Don't send an owl you're particularly fond of to Romania, though. Dragons will be dragons.'

'Actually,' Harry steels himself. 'I was rather hoping you could help me?'

'With what?'

'Being my Hufflepuff in the alcove.' Harry watches Charlie's jaw drop, thinks about kissing him. It feels like thinking about someone he's not explicitly attracted to but it doesn't feel gross.

'Jesus, Harry. You broke up with my sister yesterday.'

'This is kind of all happening because of you.'

'I...’ Charlie looks torn, and Harry considers feeling guilty for manipulating him, but really, it's at least partly his fault this is happening now, at the worst possible time. ‘Let me think about it, yeah?'

'Of course.'

'Harry?'

'Yeah.'

'I'm really happy for you. This is a good step. Don't... don't let my hesitation be a dampener on...' Charlie huffs an awkward laugh. 'On Dave's journey of discovery.'

'Thanks,' Harry gives him his most humbly charming smile, wry and lopsided, the one Ginny fell prey to all those times. 'I won't.'

***

Arthur and Molly turn in first that night. Percy isn't far behind, and George falls asleep on the couch around the same time Hermione and Ginny slip away upstairs. Bill and Fleur have been and gone hours ago, so by eleven o’clock, only Ron and Harry and Charlie are left awake. They’re sitting on the floor around the fire, two heads in identical shades of red bent over a backgammon board perched on a low stool, and one of atrociously messy black sprawling on the hearth rug.

Harry is staring up at the cobwebs that hug the brick chimney and wondering if anyone else can help him. He's pretty sure he doesn't know anyone who's gay. Hogwarts isn't a large school, and most of the students are far too young to consider anyway. Add to that the fact that pureblood wizarding society seemed to value traditional families and the production of heirs, and there's a general lack of diversity in the romance department. He supposes there could be a few sneaky bisexuals in the mix somewhere, but still can't think of a surefire way to flush them out of the closet anyway so the thought exercise is a bit pointless. Maybe if he just stood up at breakfast one morning and asked for volunteers... But no. Some degree of privacy with this would be nice.

He's 18 now, maybe he could go out in London and find a gay club or something. Kiss a boy, see if it was alright. He hadn't actually kissed Fantasy Michael, but he imagines it now without any problem. Good god, what if Michael Corner is coming back for eighth year as well? What will Harry say to him? Hi, thanks for the wank fantasy, any chance you want to suck me off in the Room of Requirement?

'You bastard.'

Harry's eyes fly wide, a sudden irrational fear he's said that aloud setting his heart pounding.

'Don't be a sore loser, little brother,' Charlie's voice comes in reply. 'Potter, your turn.'

'Give him hell, Harry, I'm going to bed.' Ron unfolds himself from the floor and slopes off in the direction of the stairs.

Leaving him and Charlie alone. Sort of. But George hasn't slept well in days though, there's little chance he'll wake up now.

He watches Charlie reset the board in silence.

'I'm sorry I made things weird between us,' Harry says finally. 'I just hate this...feeling of not knowing.'

'Limbo?' Charlie looks up at him with endless understanding, and it’s immediately obvious they’re going to be okay.

'Yeah.'

'I'll do it, Harry,' Charlie seems resigned and Harry only feels profound relief. 'Just, you have to understand what it means. You're already under enough emotional stress right now, I don't want to add any sort of misunderstanding to it. I don't fancy you. You're basically family, and far too young, and until yesterday, my baby sister's boyfriend. I will never want you.'

'Okay.'

'And whatever happens it's only about you needing to know if you can kiss a man and not mind it. It might be horrible, you might hate it, and I won't take offense at that. But it might also be good, and that isn't a sign, it's just, nothing. And if you tell me I kiss like my sister, I will never help you with anything ever again.'

'Agreed.'

'Come on, let's get this over with. Grab a jacket and we'll go for a walk.'

Harry's gut fizzes. They were leaving the house? That seems serious. He scampers after Charlie into the kitchen.

'A walk?'

'There are nine people in this very creaky house,' Charlie points out. 'The only empty rooms are George's, mine and the bathrooms, and I don't think we'd be able to justify us being in any of them together to anyone who felt a bit nosy.

'Oh.' That's true. Maybe a walk is safer. 'How do we justify a walk?'

'Apples,' Charlie says. 'I'm going back to Romania in the morning, I want to take some with me.'

'You're leaving tomorrow?' Harry is surprised, no one's mentioned this.

'Yes,' Charlie grabs a string bag from its home by the backdoor and steps out into the darkness. 'One of the reasons I'm agreeing to this. I expect it's going to be very, very awkward afterwards.'

'Probably. But I hope not,' Harry follows him outside. 'If it is, thanks in advance. I might forget later.'

They walk across the lawn in silence, the rhythmic whoosh of long grass and the occasional hoot of an owl the only sound in the moonlight. Under cover of the orchard, Charlie slows until he finds a decent crop of apples, then pulls out the string bag from his pocket.

'We should pick now, just in case you want to run off in a state after.'

'I'm not going to run off in a state. I'm not scared,' Harry smiles. 'You're somewhat less threatening than Voldemort.'

'Okay, okay. Just help me pick some bloody apples, you owe me.'

They fill the bag in silence, Harry's nerves edge closer to the surface with every passing minute. He keeps darting glances at Charlie in the semi-darkness, never once catching his eye.

When the bag is full, and Harry's heart is racing, and he's beginning to have some very persuasive second thoughts about the whole thing, Charlie turns to him, and steps very purposefully into his space. At about six inches, Harry can't help flinching.

'You sure about this?'

'Yeah, just nervous. I'm fine,' Harry insists.

'How do you want to do it?'

Harry blanches, he can feel it, all the blood draining from his face. The kiss! He tells himself. How do I want to do the kiss. That's what we agreed.

'Er, maybe if I just stay still and you do it?'

'Okay,' Charlie leans in, then pauses. 'Are you going to keep your eyes open?'

'No, sorry,' Harry shuts his eyes, feeling immediately more vulnerable. He hears Charlie sigh, feels warm breath against his skin. An apple-scented hand comes to rest on his cheek and he flinches again, his eyelids twitching open in time to see a blur of pale skin close in on him. Lips touch his, firm, encompassing his top lip for a second, two, three. As the pressure starts to soften, Harry pushes forward, following Charlie's bottom lip and closing around it. It's just like... a kiss. Nothing special, nothing odd. The faint hint of stubble is expected and not unpleasant. He pulls back.

'That wasn't weird.'

'Good,' Charlie looks relieved. 'Now you do it.'

'The same?'

'Whatever makes it clear for you, Harry.'

He nods. Takes a breath. Closes the gap between them so he can feel that muscled chest press against his own. He lays his finger tips on Charlie's jaw, running them over the rough prickle of his facial hair. Lets his hand card up through his thick hair, soft and smooth against his palm. Tightens his fingers and hears Charlie's intake of breath, sees his lips gasp open, and claims his mouth. Maybe he shouldn't be doing it like this, but he has to know, right? Charlie's stronger than him, he could always pull away. But he doesn't. Instead a flicker of tongue skims across his lip, testing. He could do that. And he really should, to see if it was different.

It was. Harry feels himself melting, his heart still pounding away. But now his chest's bound by strong, muscled arms, tight around his ribs. He has one hand still deep in that red hair, the other clutches at Charlie's hip, dragging them together, pressing close and hard and they should probably-

'Stop, Harry.'

'Yeah. Yes, we should definitely stop.' Harry lets go and backs up a step, panting in the dark.

'Sorry, I got a bit...'  Charlie runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to shake the feel of Harry out of it.

'No, my fault.'

'How about nobody's fault and we call it a draw?'

'Sure.'

'How do you feel?'

Harry reflects. His lips are swollen and suddenly lonely, his hands shaking, and he has a decent semi pushing against the zipper of his jeans.

'Really quite gay.'

***

Charlie leaves the next day right after breakfast, a backpack and a bag of apples held tight against his hard chest. Harry goes for a shower and a stealthy wank right after, thinking of Michael Corner again, this time splayed out in the orchard in the moonlight, gasping Harry's name as he ruts against him and comes in his trousers. Harry almost cries out as he spills himself over Molly's shower curtain, covering his groan with a coughing fit that makes his over-sensitive cock slip around in his wet fist and forces another shudder out of him.

The next day he thinks of Michael Corner laid out naked on a blanket in the Gryffindor common room, in front of the fire, light dancing on his pale skin. On Saturday he mixes it up a bit and takes Blaise Zabini up the Astronomy Tower and swallows his cock til he chokes. On Sunday, he takes a break, sits back and watches the two of them fuck over a desk in the Potions room. On Monday, he goes back to Hogwarts.