Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was one of the most fundamental truths of Harry’s life: as soon as things were going well, everything would turn to shit.

You’re a wizard, Harry — just be on guard for that murderer hunting you. You have a godfather, Harry — but be careful not to get too attached to him. From his relationship with Ginny (which never got back off the ground after the war) to his life after defeating Voldemort (which would never resemble anything approaching normal), there was always some sort of caveat. Privately, he called it “End of the School Year Syndrome.”

The fact that this time it had actually been scheduled for late June was simply ironic.

“That’s not even six weeks away,” Hermione said, frowning.

“Your confidence in me is inspirational,” Harry said. “And the maths isn't really what I’m having a problem with.” He took the invitation back from her and re-buried his face in one of the sofa pillows. It smelled a little like feet and Ron’s deodorant, as though Ron had Transfigured it into a footstool and then only had time to hastily return it to form and freshen it with a charm before Hermione saw and got on him again about just using one of their existing footstools. Harry tossed it to the floor, face smooshing against the sofa cushion as he blindly reached out in search of another pillow. He heard Hermione huff just as one hit him on the back of the head. Harry shoved it under his face. “Thanks,” he said, muffled.

There was a beat of silence, and then Hermione sighed and rested her hand against the back of his head. “How long do you need to sulk?” she asked, stroking her fingers through his hair.

Harry slumped a little deeper. “Five weeks.”

“I’ll give you until Ron gets back with dinner,” she said, more to herself than him. "And for goodness’ sake, Harry, at least take off your glasses.”

Harry managed to take them off without lifting his head or breaking them — proof, he supposed, that he wasn’t entirely incompetent. Hermione took them from his hand and rose with a final, fluttering pat on his shoulder blade. Harry exhaled and tried to consider his options, but was quickly lulled by the drum of the rain on the windowpanes and the pop of the fire. He listened to Hermione putter around her kitchen and relaxed; more than for the advice or commiseration, this was why he’d come, if he was honest. Ron and Hermione’s cottage was homey, calm, most of their furniture crafted from Ron’s magic, the air inside scented by the lavender Hermione had planted in the beds below their windows. Harry missed the company, and the lived-in quality of the tiny flat they’d shared before Ron and Hermione moved out, the distracted mess of three people training for unrelated careers, always someone either there or about to be.

He liked the flat he'd moved into on his own just fine, but working the hours he did left it with a silent, sterile quality he could never seem to get rid of, even when he left the wireless on or avoided laundry for a few days. He’d tried to spruce it up more than once, but Neville wouldn’t even let him buy plants anymore, not after the Solicitous Succulents he’d brought over on Boxing Day — When they bloom, they emit soothing pheromones! You can’t kill them, they barely need any attention! — had weaponised their thorns within an hour of Nev’s arrival; a defensive measure they took when they were in danger of drying out, Neville told him later, and one he’d thought was a myth.

The sound of Ron’s Apparition to their front door roused Harry from his reverie, but he didn’t get up. He heard the rustle of takeaway being opened and dished out, a low hum of murmurs, and his own name — and then Ron shouted, “What the bloody fuck?” and stomped, fuming, into the parlour. “They’re not going to give it to you?”

Harry pushed up from his prone position and shrugged as Ron glowered down at him. “They might,” he said. “Robards said they might still.”

“Give over,” Ron said, and Harry dutifully scooted to make space. Ron threw himself down onto the sofa. “It’s utter shit, Harry.”

“I know.”

“He’s been telling you that job’s yours for… for years!”

“I know.”

“You’ve worked longer hours and closed more cases than anyone in the entire department!” Ron said. His outrage was soothing, both to Harry’s temper and his self-esteem, and a grateful smile tugged at Harry’s lips.

“I know,” he said again.

"You should just run," Ron spat. "Hermione's been saying it, we'll organise a campaign--"

"We'd have no time to prepare for it now. Besides, even if I wanted to, it would look… wrong. Robards would step aside, but… He didn't even have to run in the last election five years ago, and and no one's ever won who wasn't backed by both the exiting Head Auror, the Minister, and at least half the Wizengamot," Harry said, shaking his head when Ron took another deep breath and opened his mouth. “And anyway, Robards said it's not as simple at that.”

“The age thing again?”

Harry scowled. “I wish.”

Twice before, Robards had put off retiring when certain members of the Wizengamot had made it plain that, no matter Harry’s accomplishments to date, they had no intention of promoting someone barely into their twenties to the position of Head Auror. Trying not to take issue with their reasoning — or the extra work Robards piled on him to make a point of his capabilities — Harry’d not made a single complaint as his twenty-third and twenty-fourth birthdays ticked by. But with every successfully closed case since, Robards had assured him that by his twenty-fifth he’d have his promotion.

And then he’d called Harry in for a meeting today, offering Harry a drink before he’d even sat down.

Ron made a disgruntled sound and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the problem this time?”

“As I was trying to tell you, husband-mine,” Hermione said dryly, walking in and levitating three plates behind her, “It's supposedly Harry.”

“What's Harry?” Ron asked, shooting her a sheepish look. He lifted two of the plates from midair, passing one over to Harry. The salty grease of Ron’s selection — fish and chips — teased at Harry’s senses and he tried to recall when he ate last. Breakfast, probably.

“The problem,” Hermione said, taking her own plate and sitting between them. “It’s Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to be the tactless one,” Ron stage-whispered to him.

“I’m not a problem,” Harry said, pulling a wounded face at Hermione.

She made a little sound of protest. “I didn’t—”

“Arguing with her never ends well,” Ron said. “You might as well just get on board with being a problem, capital P.”

“I don’t want to be a Problem,” Harry said. He turned beseeching eyes at Hermione. “Couldn’t I be something like Trouble instead?”

Ron nodded sagely. “You’ve got enough experi—”

“Oh my god, fine!” Hermione said, dropping her utensils on her plate. Cheered by the clear exasperation on her face, Harry laughed and looked at Ron, who popped three chips in his mouth and quirked her an unrepentant grin. Hermione rolled her eyes and elbowed Ron, but the look she shot him was fond and warm. “Hush, or you’ll end up with your own problem — with a capital P,” she said warningly. She turned back to Harry. “There is a point to be considered about your image, that's not wrong.”

“Hermione!” Ron said, but Hermione looked at Harry steadily, waiting. Expectant.

Harry frowned, effectively distracted from distracting himself. He squeezed a lemon wedge over his fish and opened a packet of vinegar, sprinkling it over his chips to buy some time.

“Well, it's not right,” he said at length.

“No, I know,” Hermione said, gaze softening.

“All right, can someone actually explain then?” Ron asked, waving his fork at each of them in turn and then stabbing, a little viciously, into his fish.

“It’s me. My conduct outside of work isn’t ‘befitting a senior Ministry position,’” he quoted, sounding sullen to his own ears. “The way I talk to the press, or the way I avoid them. Maybe both. The Head Auror is responsible for releasing public statements, and you know me.”

“So?” Ron said, brows drawing together. “You’re a little short-tempered with them, so what? S’not like they’re ever asking you about cases, are they? It’s always about who you’re seeing, or was that really your bum in those pictures. It’s been almost three years since you hexed one of them. Just write up the statements and release them that way.”

“There’s other things, too,” Harry said. He flushed. “The way I am with the public—”

“You’re great with the public!” Ron said, starting to look angry again. “You talk to every kid you meet, you donate, you—”

“I lose my temper with people, though.” Harry took a breath. “I arrested that man last year who wouldn’t leave me alone—”

“He was trying to shove his hand down the back of your trousers!” Ron sputtered.

“—and that whole thing in the Prophet questioning how much of an asset I could be to the Ministry when my name got in the way of my job… Well, it got a lot of traction,” Harry said. He looked down at his plate, stomach suddenly churning. “And whenever I go to public events, I stay on the sidelines, or I’m accidentally rude to some diplomat—”

“That happened twice!”

“Four times.” Harry grimaced. “More, really. Apart from little things like spilling wine all over Ireland’s Minister for Magic or insulting that envoy from Brazil by having to leave early when I got sick off the Firerolls they served at their event, apparently my dress robes are all wrong, I’ve not once used the correct fork, I may as well eat my feet for how often they’re in my mouth, and I refuse to dance, no matter who’s asking.”

“Well you’re not good at it!” Ron fairly yelled, getting so red in the face his freckles were barely visible. “How the bloody hell can anyone blame you after what happened last time!” Harry huffed a pained laugh and looked at him, and Ron winced. “I mean—”

“Ron,” Hermione said quietly. Ron flicked her a glance and subsided, jaw tight.

Harry leaned forward to deposit his untouched dinner onto the coffee table. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, tipping his head against the back of the sofa. Studying the ceiling, he admitted, “They want someone who’s not going to step on the hem of the Spanish Minister’s daughter, tearing her dress all the way up to her knickers and I’m— I’m a fucking mess.”

“No you’re not,” Hermione said loyally. She took his hand, voice firming. “You’ve got every reason to be tetchy with the press and crowds of people who trail after you, and Ron’s right— you are wonderful with everyone else. And you’re clever, Harry. No, I mean it,” she insisted when he snorted. “When you’re interested in something, you learn it so quickly. You’ve simply got caught in your own head, and so you don't execute… Or perhaps you forget…"

“Proper manners?” Harry suggested, feeling a tired smile cross his face. He squeezed her hand in thanks.

“Oh, tosh.” Hermione sniffed and flipped the cloud of her hair away from her face. “Everyone knows you’re polite and kind and talented; just because you haven’t taken the time — or been given the time,” she added, a hint of disapproval lacing her tone, “to learn the etiquette you've been told the Wizengamot expects from you doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I’m not going to get the promotion I’ve been working my arse off for,” Harry said wryly. He let the knowledge of it settle, quiet and unavoidable, inside him. It felt to weigh about a thousand tonnes, and he was abruptly glad he hadn’t eaten anything; there probably wouldn’t even have been room.

“Well of course not, if you’re giving up,” Hermione said, sounding irritated.

“What d’you suggest?” Harry asked, eyeing her. “Forks and fashion don’t interest me, I’m rubbish at small talk, and I don’t think you need the reminder that I went to the same dance instructor as Ron did before your wedding and somehow came away a worse dancer than I was in fourth year.”

“God, that’s right,” Ron muttered. He glanced at Hermione’s bare feet as if to reassure himself that Harry hadn’t magically broken another one of her toes, and Harry choked on a laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. Ron looked at Hermione. “What’s your plan?”

“What makes you think I have a plan?” Hermione asked innocently.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Hermione?”

“I don’t have a plan,” she said. Harry waited her out; she always had a plan, even when one wasn’t necessary. Flicking Harry and Ron nervous little looks, she nibbled on her lower lip, then reached for Harry’s plate and set it back on his lap. “I don’t,” she said. “I just have…”

“What?” Harry picked his fork up again when she nodded pointedly towards it, and cut off a bite of his fish when she didn’t say anything. He chewed and swallowed, then cut another bite. “What do you have?”

Hermione gave an apologetic sigh. “An idea.”

The door was as rickety as the staircase had been, the wood splintered and not quite fitting into the frame, and Harry checked the slip of parchment again. Held it up to the small, copper placard beside the door to compare its tasteful engraving with Hermione’s hurried, looping scrawl in the flickering light provided by the corridor’s lamps. They continued to match no matter how many times Harry inspected them for an inaccuracy, though Harry supposed he could guess why Hermione left the title of the place off the parchment she’d pressed into his hand last night.

Harry considered sending Hermione a Patronus, but he wasn’t sure he could even conjure one at the moment, let alone whether one would carry the message, “What the fuck are you thinking?” to her. Feathering the hair over his forehead with a hard exhale, Harry knocked, three gentle taps that he hoped might not break down the door entirely.

“Please enter,” a woman said, calm and melodious, to the general air around him.

Paranoid, Harry looked around, waiting for someone to perhaps jump out from behind the corner, but when no one did, Harry twisted the knob and stepped inside. It was rather like entering a wizarding tent; immediately, the room was brighter by far, chunks of buttery sunlight spilling in through the gauze-curtained windows though the sun had gone down an hour ago — and bigger than Harry expected, too, the gleaming pine floors and bare walls seeming to expand the space all on their own. With the distant echo of chimes in his ears, Harry took everything in: the foggy four-paneled screen dividing one corner of the room from the rest of it, the high, padded table near the centre, and the reception-like desk just a few steps from him. There was a doorless frame against the back wall, two heavier white curtains blocking the back from view, and Harry took a step towards it when the woman’s voice startled him again:

“Please remove your shoes and sign in. Someone will be with you momentarily.

Sweet Merlin, if Hermione was sending him to a place like this, Harry could only assume he must have even less hope than he’d originally thought.

Harry removed his boots and, self conscious in his uniform and socked feet, headed to the reception desk. A book and quill stand had appeared, and he wrote out Ha Customer under where it asked for his name, and Hermione Granger under where it asked for his reference. He was still dithering over what to write under the last line — What brings you in today? — when the curtains at the back of the room rustled, and—

And Draco bloody Malfoy walked out.

They stared at each other, the shock spiking through Harry comically reflected on Malfoy’s face for the barest of moments. There was a room-length between them, but Malfoy looked mostly as he had the last time Harry’d seen him, tall and lanky and pale as snow, only now his eyes were clear and his complexion healthy — and he wasn’t swaying on his feet.

Malfoy recovered first. “Potter,” he drawled, just as the silence began to stretch into the territory of awkward. “Granger sent you?”

“I— She—” Harry broke off, nodding stupidly. Malfoy’s clothes were different as well, a long-sleeved white cotton t-shirt and white drawstring trousers in place of his traditional robes, and his feet were bare, but his face had shuttered into a close approximation of the haughty expression he’d worn through most of their years at Hogwarts. That, at least, was familiar.

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he only returned Harry’s nod and gestured to the room divider. “Well, it’s technically after-hours, but I can fit you in. Go ahead and disrobe behind the screen — there are towels and products — and pick the oil or tonic you prefer, and I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“For what?” Harry blurted.

One hand parting the curtains he came out of, Malfoy paused. “You can choose whichever you’re drawn to, though I’d personally recommend the ylang-ylang oil along with the lavender tonic; the sensation will be intense, but you’re so stiff—” he flicked his fingers in Harry’s direction, his assessment getting more accurate by the second, “it’s colouring your magical atmosphere, so it’s probably best you unload as much of it as you possibly can before we proceed to a more languid stripping at a later session,” he said as Harry scrambled to come up with some sort of reply.

Mouth apparently entirely disconnected from his brain, what it supplied was, “Stripping?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, hand dropping away from the curtain. He sucked in one cheek, accentuating the sharp, high line of his cheekbone, and then abruptly barked an unamused laugh. “I don’t owe Granger that much, Potter. The sign out front isn’t code for anything else, I assure you.”

“What—” Harry gulped in a breath, relieved. Probably. “What do you owe her?”

“She didn’t tell you,” Malfoy said flatly. “About anything, I suppose. Ah.” He crossed his arms over his chest, slender biceps bunching under his shirt, and rolled his eyes. “Legal confidentiality. Did you even know to expect me?”

“She said…” Harry forced the words out. “She said you were someone who could help me.”

“That’s probably true,” Malfoy said, running his eyes up and down Harry. “Merlin knows you look even more hopeless than you did in school. But am I supposed to glean from that taciturn expression what sort of help you’re expecting? You’re obviously not here for what I traditionally offer.”

The fact that Malfoy was right didn’t make Harry any less curious about what, exactly, it was that Malfoy offered, but he shook his head. “No, it’s personal. A personal issue.”

“And Granger has you knocking on my door for it?” Malfoy asked. He lifted one incredulous eyebrow and clicked his tongue. Smirked. “I have to admit, I never thought I’d see such a day. Precisely how desperate are you?”

Just like that, enough blood flowed back to Harry’s brain to restore his common sense. Malfoy wasn’t yelling drunken obscenities at him any longer and may have successfully reintegrated into wizarding society since their last confrontation, he might be on secret speaking-terms with Hermione and look mouth-wateringly good wearing extremely thin drawstring trousers, but… He was still Malfoy. Arrogant to the last and clearly prepared to hold anything Harry divulged over Harry’s head.

“Desperate enough to show up not knowing what might happen,” Harry bit out. “Not desperate enough now that I know.” He retrieved his boots and gave Malfoy an abbreviated nod as he reached for the door.

“Potter, wait.”

Harry hesitated. Behind him, Malfoy heaved a long-suffering sigh, and when Harry turned, he found him brooding angrily at the floor. Then Malfoy scowled and scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed again as though bracing himself to do something unpleasant, and finally met Harry’s eyes.

“There’s a place down the road, on West Street,” he said, reluctance radiating off him. “The Ivy. Give me thirty minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you there.”

The Ivy turned out to be a restaurant, art deco in design and a bit too trendy and upscale for Harry’s comfort — and, he thought, attire — though the hostess promptly seated him at the bar. He set aside the two menus she furnished him with and stared at the clock, waiting for Malfoy to not show. The whole thing was preposterous, both that Hermione would send Harry, unprepared, to Malfoy for help, and that Harry was considering actually asking him. But he couldn’t shake two facts: that Hermione did trust Malfoy enough to send Harry his way, and that Malfoy’s ‘wait’ had sounded… almost like an apology.

Malfoy arrived five minutes before the thirty were up, windswept but stylish in a pair of charcoal trousers cinched at the waist with a narrow black belt, and a lightweight, soft-looking blue jumper over a collared shirt and tie. He looked around and saw Harry at the bar, smilingly murmured something to the hostess, and before Harry knew it, he was being escorted to a small, private booth in the back of the dining room. Malfoy ordered without opening the menus, passed them over, and faced Harry as the hostess walked away.

“So I suppose the polite thing would be to refrain from asking any questions?” he asked.

Harry blinked. “I suppose the polite thing would be to pretend you’ve ever been polite?”

“Well, I distinctly remember not telling you to fuck off when you showed up,” Malfoy said. His lips curved in a more subtle version of the smile he’d given the hostess, reserved but— appealing. Striking. Harry blinked a few more times and inhaled sharply when Malfoy decided to lean toward him, across the table. “Might even hold off on my weekly virgin sacrifice out of consideration for your job — depending on what you want, of course.”

As disconcerted as he was unwillingly amused, Harry said, “Do what you need to; virgins are overrated anyway.”

“Good to know.” Malfoy sat back. “Wouldn’t want your reputation to suffer too badly. It might be of use to me, especially if it’s going to reflect on me somehow.”

“It should be of use to someone,” Harry said bitterly, reminded of the regretful edge to Robards’ voice as he broke the news. Malfoy frowned and looked so like he was about to say something scathing, Harry couldn’t stop a snicker from breaking free from his throat. “Besides, I’d be more worried about the Hippogriff population, really.”

“You have my word as a Malfoy I’ve never taken the virginity of a single Hippogriff,” Malfoy said, and Harry laughed outright. He supposed on some level he’d always known that Malfoy could be clever; it was just so much easier to appreciate when Malfoy directed his sense of humour towards Harry rather than at him. Malfoy went blank for a beat at Harry’s laugh, then seemed to waver between pleasure and disapproval, a faint pink tinge climbing his throat as Harry quieted down. Harry couldn’t figure out how two such opposite expressions could live so harmoniously on someone’s face, but it was Malfoy, and Harry could relate, at least, to feeling both at once — a big part of him, perhaps the majority, was still trying to convince himself to brandish his wand.

Drinks arrived, two whiskies Harry’d barely heard Malfoy order. Malfoy hurriedly took a long swallow of his and, confused, Harry followed suit, silent when Malfoy set down his drink and cleared his throat. “Those things leave scars, you know. Bad enough having one on my arm, I’d be terrified of getting one on my cock.”

Annoyed, Harry rolled his eyes. “Buckbeak did not leave a—”

“Oh no?” Malfoy asked, upper lip pulling back with just enough derision to make Harry pause.

“You were faking,” he said at last. “Not—” he held up a hand to forestall Malfoy’s objection, “—the initial injury, I know that. But later.”

Malfoy glared at him, and Harry might have felt bad that they couldn’t even muddle through a conversation for a few minutes without the past rearing its ugly head, except he’d been there; he knew, without a doubt, that Malfoy’s endless drama over getting scratched had been an ill-tempered bid for attention to distract from the fact that he was to blame. But then a warped sort of self-righteousness skittered over Malfoy’s face, and he reached for the hem of his jumper. Pulling it off over his head, he dropped it carelessly to the seat next to him and wordlessly removed the cufflink pinning his left sleeve closed. It gave a metallic rattle as he dropped it onto the table.

Nonplussed, Harry inhaled sharply, quietly. “Malfoy—”

“Why waste time arguing over it when I can just show you,” Malfoy said coolly, folding his sleeve back with quick, jerky movements. Harry’s gaze was drawn immediately to the bright ink on the inside of his forearm, a tattoo of some sort covering his Mark, but Malfoy continued shoving up his sleeve when it reached his elbow, and rotated his arm. Only a few inches were visible, the rest disappearing behind the material of his shirt, but there it was: an ugly, gouging scar bisected over the skin of Malfoy’s bicep — roughly the width of a Hippogriff’s talon. “It goes all the way up to my clavicle,” Malfoy added, looking grimly satisfied. “Though I’d prefer not to take off the rest of my clothes in a crowded restaurant to prove it.”

Harry realised his hand was hovering over the table as though it had decided on its own to touch Malfoy’s scar. He lowered it and looked at the clothes Malfoy had indicated, a blue shirt and navy tie, both askew, like his hair had been when he’d walked in. There was something about Malfoy like that, a vulnerable quality that seemed to live just under his first layer of clothes, that made it easier for Harry’s brain to distinguish between the man sitting before him and the Malfoy who’d done his level best to antagonise Harry for years.

Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.

He reached for his drink, finishing it off in two swallows. It was smooth, and the scald of it down to his stomach distracted him enough from the direction of his own thoughts until Malfoy chuckled.

“Did you really think I’d deliberately miss the opportunity to fly against you?” Malfoy asked. Harry darted him another glance, then looked away from Malfoy’s humourless smile a second before he went on, “Madam Pomfrey didn’t store the same amount of Dittany before Snape began supplying her with it, after this scarred so badly.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, flying back up to Malfoy’s face. It wasn’t exactly like taking a Stunner — and Harry’d taken enough of them to make the comparison — but it wasn’t… not like that. His face flooded with heat and he fumbled his tumbler back onto the table, wondering what it said about him that it had never even occurred to him to ask if… If...

“No, I wasn’t thinking— of—” Harry exhaled, shaking his head at the automatic defence that rose. You’re the one who—! “Good,” he said instead. “I mean— not that she didn’t. But that Snape did.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to apologise, but it seemed like his fluster was enough for Malfoy, who nodded silently and looked down at his bared arm, abruptly smoothing down his sleeve. A small, embarrassed grimace pulling his brow tight, Malfoy deftly fit his cufflink back into place, then ran a hand down his rumpled shirt and tightened the knot of his tie.

“So what on earth did Granger send you to me for?” Malfoy asked. “Or was she just having an off day?”

“She doesn’t really have off days,” Harry admitted, albeit more than a little grudgingly. “Unless she’s angry with me and I don’t know it — but she usually lets me know.” And he still had all of his body hair, which Harry felt was a pretty good indicator. He went quiet as the waitress brought over two more drinks and their food, some sort of delicate risotto with asparagus for Malfoy, and what looked like an entire chicken off the bone and mashed potatoes for Harry. Everything was topped in a creamy sauce that floated whole mushrooms through it, and as the scent wafted up to meet him, Harry’s stomach rumbled, mortifyingly loud. “This looks good.”

Malfoy had already tucked into his risotto. Without looking up, he said, “It ought to; you’re paying enough for it.” Harry did a double-take at that, but as he was deciding whether he should let it go, Malfoy swallowed his next bite, patted his lips with his napkin, and added, “Eat. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last, and I can only guess what they’d do to me if the Chosen One were to pass out from malnutrition at my feet.”

“Should we talk about that?” Harry asked, cutting into his chicken. It was so tender, the side of his fork did the job for him. He spared Malfoy a glance as he took the first bite, and then his eyes fell shut and he couldn’t completely refrain from moaning. “God.” He opened his eyes to find Malfoy staring at him, his fork suspended midair. Harry flushed and Malfoy looked back down at his plate.

“Talk about what?” he muttered. “How you look ready to wilt away or your atrocious lack of table manners?”

Harry took a bigger bite to irritate him, then another, barely pausing between them to say, “I’m working so much I sometimes forget to eat, and if you didn’t want to see me do it you probably shouldn’t have ordered for me.” He took another bite, suddenly ravenous. “And I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Potter.” Malfoy licked the shine from his lips, and said, “I was drunk and you were there. I’ve kept my head down since.”

“So merely being drunk in my presence is enough to set that off?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow when Malfoy lifted his drink. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Oh shut it. Being in your presence, drunk or no, has always been enough to set that off,” Malfoy said, not meeting his eye, “but there were some other factors at play that day and no, we aren’t going to talk about them, and if you need me to apologise for my behaviour before you tell me what the bloody fuck we’re doing here, I might as well ask them to wrap up my meal to take home.”

Harry returned to his meal. He didn’t particularly want to relive it either, disturbed even at the recollection of Malfoy’s bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, and the way he’d staggered up, pinched and ashen, to yell obscenities and blame Harry in general for the ruination of his life — at all of twenty-one. Harry could still feel the crawling rage he’d felt when he thought about it, the urge to haul Malfoy in for public drunkenness out of sheer spite for how unfair it had all been; as far as people their age went, Malfoy seemed to have a lot less than others to complain about. But what ended up sticking with Harry more, in the days and weeks that followed, was the way Malfoy had dissolved into broken sobs when Pansy Parkinson had Apparated in out of nowhere and pulled him close. The way Malfoy’s shoulders had rounded and shook as she hushed him and smoothed his hair back, her eyes gleaming with tears.

Go, she’d mouthed over Malfoy’s shoulder. Just go, and Harry had gone.

He’d never been able to piece together any sort of reason for Malfoy’s outburst. His parents were healthy, by all accounts — though that probably wouldn’t be the case if Lucius ended up spending his full twenty years in Azkaban — and Malfoy had been recently released from his own sentence, able to travel out of Wiltshire again; Harry'd even relinquished Malfoy's wand to the DMLE for return once Malfoy was allowed to use one again. But then the three years mandatory patrol time Harry had to serve as he trained had ended, and the department had made him investigator and then given him lead, piling him with so many cases that Harry hadn’t time to think, let alone ponder the curious few moments between him and Malfoy in that pub. They’d been relegated to a once-in-a-while sour taste in the back of his mouth as he fell asleep at night.

Harry’s chewing slowed as he considered, and then he swallowed and said, “I need etiquette lessons. Or something to that effect.”

Malfoy snorted. “Colour me astonished,” he said, aiming a pointed glance at Harry’s plate. But he was paying attention, so Harry huffed and set his fork down.

“I’ve got five weeks to learn the finer points of socialising with— everyone I’d be required to socialise with as Head Auror,” he said. “I’ve got to figure out how to charm the press — or at least not hex them to pieces when they approach — and politely turn aside stalkers, and dress in a way that the Wizengamot approves of and, I don’t know, hell, dance without breaking someone’s toes or ripping their clothes off—”

“I read about that one,” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Not one of your finer moments, but it did amuse.”

“Well, it didn’t amuse her father, who I’ve been told ensures that there are six months worth of red tape any time one of our investigations leads us into Spain,” Harry snapped. “Mariana was barely eighteen, on her first trip out to London, and dancing with the one person whose identity pretty much guaranteed photos would make it back to her local papers.”

“Even better,” Malfoy said, smirk broadening into a grin. He made a little assessing noise. “Though not from her perspective, of course. I can only speak for my own. Next time, try dancing with the wife. Politician’s wives are a lot harder to embarass; you’d be surprised at how easily they can laugh at themselves.”

“Thanks so much,” Harry said dourly. “I guess I should have found him a wife while I was at it, too.”

“Mm.” Looking vaguely interested, he nodded at Harry’s uniform. “And the wardrobe? As far as I can tell, even the Head Auror wears robes.”

“Only on a case,” Harry said.

“So you’d still be working cases.”

“Yeah. Except,” Harry sighed, “I’d get to pick my own cases and supervise the rest. Train incoming Aurors. Delegate. Argue directly with the Wizengamot over the budget we’re alloted and hire new staff. I might even be able to take some of the holiday time I’ve accrued. And the only thing that’s stopping me is—”

Malfoy said, “You.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, pulling a face. “I was really hoping that’d take off.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” Harry hand-waved it away and devoted a few more minutes to his dinner. There was something to be said for having a meal with someone who, despite Malfoy’s admonishments, didn’t seem to particularly care whether Harry ate or got up and walked away, or even if he fainted from hunger; for the first time in a while, Harry thought he might be able to finish. “Why did Hermione think you might be able to help?”

Taking a breath, Malfoy spent several seconds using his fork to fluff the negligible amount of risotto he had left. “Maybe she can see how much the services I offer might—”

“Malfoy.”

Malfoy shot him a withering look. Sitting up straighter, he said, “I worked, for a time, doing... that.”

“Being a wizard masseuse?”

“You wish,” Malfoy said scornfully. “I’m a licensed magical massage therapist, thank you. But no—” He cut himself off and Harry watched, fascinated, as Malfoy looked to have a whole argument in his head before continuing as though there’d been no pause, “—I meant, giving etiquette lessons. For Muggleborn children.”

He twisted his napkin ‘round his fingers, a nervous gesture. But his jaw was tight, and he seemed affronted by Harry’s prolonged silence. In truth, Harry wasn’t sure he oughtn’t be; teaching etiquette sounded like such a… a self-indulgent job to take on. Making sure that kids were well dressed and knew their forks, or wouldn’t embarrass their parents at posh luncheons. Teaching them to be seen and not heard.

“Why that?” Harry settled on asking. Malfoy ground his teeth together, and Harry held up a hand. “I just mean—”

“What was I supposed to do, starve to death?” Malfoy clipped out, eyes like flint. “You don’t know what it— I had to support myself somehow, had to gain capital. Even if there’d been someone who was willing to hire me after I was released from house arrest, no witch or wizard in their right mind wanted someone who couldn't even... But there were plenty of people who were willing to pay so their children knew how to get along in polite society, and that had been bred into me before birth so I used what tools I had at my disposal, and just so you know,” he said, words almost running over themselves in his haste, “if I agree to do this for you, it won't be my idea of a thrilling time, either, so you can wipe that fucking look off your face.”

He was breathing hard when he finished, two high spots of red colouring his cheeks, everything said so fast, as though it had been trapped inside him for years. It was just as he’d been in school, never able to hold back a quip or nasty joke for very long before spouting off — dramatic and petulant to the last.

Except this time Harry didn’t think his dramatics were a bid for attention. As fast as he’d spoken, Malfoy couldn’t hide the roughness of his voice, the defensive tension in the line of his neck. He hadn’t liked telling Harry any of that, wasn’t aiming for sympathy or trying to impress.

Harry nodded slowly. “How much?”

"You assume I'm not doing it because you'd be a step up from the arsehole currently in the position?"

"You mean my friend and mentor? A man I trust, who cares deeply about justice?" Harry said, bristling. "No, I assume you've got a history of making sure your interests are taken care of first. So: how much?"

Malfoy exhaled through his nose, clenching a little. “Twenty Galleons per hour—”

“That’s it?” It wasn’t nothing, but Harry’d half-expected Malfoy to demand a look inside his vaults before quoting a price.

“It’s five more than I charge my clients now,” Malfoy said. He pursed his lips. “Plus a favour.”

“Of course,” Harry muttered under his breath. “I can’t abuse my position,” he told Malfoy, frowning. “And I wouldn’t if I could.”

“And for the ‘of course’, the price is now twenty-five.” Malfoy frowned back. “I’ve successfully refrained from running afoul of the law for years now, Potter. Don’t think that didn’t have a lot to do with avoiding you; you’d be the last person I’d come to for that sort of aid.”

That seemed pretty reasonable. Harry shrugged. “What, then?”

Malfoy’s fingertips drummed against the tabletop, pinky to index, a swift, rolling beat. He tsked. “Honestly, I think it’s a stretch that I’ll be able to teach you how not to look so constipated when you’re talking to strangers—”

“Oi!”

“—but I’m willing to set aside my burgeoning business and try if—”

“What exactly is your ‘burgeoning business’?” Harry asked, irritated.

“If you’re really not interested, don’t bother trying to wrap your head around it,” Malfoy said loftily. “That’d take me another month to explain it to you and we don’t have that kind of time. So.” He straightened his shoulders, the tendon above his collarbone going taut. “I want you to be a client of mine.”

Harry waited, and when no explanation was forthcoming, said, “Uh, Malfoy?”

“What.”

“Aren’t I going to be a client of yours?” Harry asked.

“A public client of my business,” Malfoy said. “When all of this is said and done, we’ll allow the press to see you coming to my studio, where you’ll spend an hour or two once a week for a few months, and then you’ll mention my services in glowing terms to the press—”

“I’d have to understand what they are first,” Harry said resentfully. “I’m getting conversational whiplash.”

“—something,” Malfoy continued, talking over him, “you’ll be able to do graciously, once I’m done with you. And be able to steer yourself around confusing conversations,” Malfoy said. He huffed quietly. “Most of it is bullshitting, and you mastered that at twelve.”

“I—” Harry hesitated, unsure if Malfoy was insulting him or complimenting him. “Why do you—”

“Because you’re a trendsetter. Whether you want to be or not,” Malfoy said, “and even though whatever’s happened to you in the last few years has turned you into an absolute wreck in front of people. They patronise the clubs you’re— you used to be seen at, they buy the groceries they’re able to spot you carrying in pictures; hell, you can’t walk through Diagon Alley without running across some desperate character with a lightning bolt tattooed on their forehead. If you come to me, they will too.” Malfoy dropped his napkin onto his near-empty plate, then pushed it away. He rose, his jumper held fast in one hand. “It’s a win-win, but it’s up to you.”

Harry didn’t have a real objection to Malfoy’s terms — other than he’d have to deal with the press, and that was part of the bargain regardless — but he let Malfoy stand there, awkward in the aisle next to their booth, as he pretended to consider. “What if it doesn’t work and I don’t get the job?”

Malfoy made an offended sound, glaring down at him. “I’m supposed to have a stake in the results? That’s not the way this works, Potter.”

“But would you really want me as a public client if I’m such an embarrassment after your lessons that I make a scene at the Ministry gala?” Harry asked.

“You’re Harry Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “The incident with that girl’s gown may have looked bad politically, but half the witches and wizards in London charmed their clothing indecent for the next three months.”

Well, that explained a lot. Harry distinctly remembered that period for how odd it had been; almost everyone he came across seemed to have a strategically-placed gape in their robes that had shown their undergarments — and quite a bit more, sometimes, when they didn’t wear any. It had got to the point where the Ministry had to institute a formally acknowledged dress code, and after awhile people stopped doing it in general as well. Harry had just assumed it was a fashion trend made up by teenagers that had caught on.

He shrugged and met Malfoy’s eyes. “But what if I’m too polite?” he asked. “I mean, at a certain point, the use of etiquette might be considered offensive in itself, right?”

“What?” Malfoy shook his head, a half-grimace twisting his mouth, and Harry bit down on his lips. “Potter, are you mad? The whole point is— Oh sod off!” he said when Harry grinned. Malfoy flushed. “Have any of these been actual questions, or were you going to accept my terms anyway?”

“Probably would have even before I heard them,” Harry said unapologetically.

Malfoy clenched his jaw. With extreme patience, he said, “And just for that, it’s now thirty.”

“Whatever.”

“Fine. Good lord, what have I got myself—” Malfoy’s chest deflated with an angry exhale, and he said, “I’m done with you for tonight. We’ll go over specifics tomorrow. Be at my studio at ten.”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Potter,” Malfoy said, and promptly strode for the door.

Harry watched him leave, narrow shoulders far more rigidly set as he skirted neatly around a cluster of people waiting for a table than Harry thought his stupid joke warranted. He sighed and started to slump back, but was jarred upright when the server approached again to set down a small dessert bowl in front of him.

“What’s this?” The small mound in the centre of the plate was covered in a sticky, toffee-coloured glaze, and topped with a scoop of melting ice cream. Harry poked at it with one of the two spoons propped carefully in the bowl.

“Burnt banana-and-butterscotch tarte tatin,” she said, “with rum and raisin ice cream. When he arrived, your partner asked for whatever in our selection someone who loved treacle tart might enjoy. This is very sweet — but divine. Will he not be joining you?”

“Oh. No.” Harry remembered to look up at her again after a moment. He forced a smile. “Thanks. If I could have the bill, please?”

“Of course.”

She scurried away, and Harry brought the glaze-streaked spoon up to his mouth.

It wasn’t treacle tart, but it was delicious nonetheless.