Archive of Our Own

Gap year.

The colloquial term to describe the period between leaving school and stepping into the next choice of study or career path, or in which one may take a year to, as Hermione phrased it so delicately-

“Take a break.”

She had gripped the edge of the table between them, leaning forward as he rubbed the crust from his eyes, another sleepless night, another coming and going between the days following the war, all the funerals he had attended, the ones he hadn’t, and the ongoing feeling of failure that kept spreading the more he contemplated on how to move .

Move on.

Move forward.

It all rather seemed to meld into one impossibly large concept intent on evading him. 

At least a dozen letters sat between them, glossy notes creased and bent open like a swarm of paper butterflies, offering all the paths that may change him from the child soldier he was and into a glorified employee for the Ministry, for numerous institutions and organisations, phantom hands reaching out to grab at him from between folded cardboard.

The most innocent now worn slightly around the edges, the offer of a return to Hogwarts, but even though Headmistress McGonagall’s words were to the point and simple in their invitation, he could not deny the utter dread he felt at the idea of returning to the place so many people had taken their last breath, their last laugh and smile, falling in his name.

He was so very tired.

Hermione’s concern was a constant in his life, and the concern only grew the more he struggled to get out of bed every following day, like a glitch in clockwork, its hand stuttering in place and unable to reach its next destination.  

“I’m on a break,” Harry had sighed, a hand fisting in the nest of hair at the back of his head, he had stared blearily at the pile before them and didn’t bother to flinch when another owl soared through the open window to add to it. “This is a break, isn’t it?”

Hermione dropped herself into the chair opposite, brushing the pile aside with a large swipe of her arm, reaching for his other hand as it rested upon the old, scored tabletop.

“Have you considered taking a gap year?”

Which was how Harry found himself spending the end of that summer following the war travelling the dunes of Egypt, taking in the breathtaking textiles of Morocco, growing golden beneath the sun of Lagos and Seville as he scaled old ruins of castle fortresses to take in each breathtaking view between the deserts of Africa, the beaches of Portugal and the Spanish plains.

Autumn found him in the vineyards of Tuscany, avoiding the pretty smiles of the Florentine girls in cobblestone squares, dining on rich wines and crusty bread, sparing muggle coins for the fountains with their statuesque sculptures casting shadows over him. He spent the rest of autumn travelling through the Balkans just as the chill of winter started to cast gooseflesh upon his skin.

He sampled the delicacies of Croatia, burning his mouth on minced meat and pepper relish, indulging in flaky burek in Bosnia, the sour cheese and spinach melting on his tongue, pastry painting his fingers in a thin sheen of oil.

He spent his winter travelling the expanse of Hungary, picking up trinkets in the dense market stalls of Vienna’s Christmas market where the golden spires of the Belvedere castle lit up the night sky as he swerved through the crowds, his Weasley scarf tied like a noose around his face, unable to feel the tip of his nose as he breathed in the many smells of vendors offering their flavours.

His hands shook as he took out the disposable camera Hermione had packed him, with the firm promise that he was to fill the film with as many memories as he could.

He sent postcards from every country border he crossed, always to Hermione who had returned to Hogwarts to complete her NEWTs, and to Ron who was supporting the shop with George as he continued to cope with the death of his twin. Often to Mr and Mrs Weasley who worried after him constantly, to Hagrid, and to Andromeda and Teddy, who he hoped wouldn’t grow too quickly to remember his Godfather’s absence during this period, which Hermione had assured him he wouldn’t.

He sent a little package of wooden puppets controlled by string, hand painted in bright colours and crafted by the locals from a small town bordering the Rhine, just in case Teddy was wondering where he was despite Hermione’s knowledge of infant memory.

He almost worked himself up to send Ginny a postcard while in Innsbruck, but the look on her face the last time he had brushed off another touch managed to flash on the forefront of his mind before he’d even finished writing her name, their tentative relationship slipping through his fingers as finely as the sand in Cairo had, with no one to blame but himself for its easy fall.    

Hermione had given him a set of luggage all fitted out with extension charms for his last birthday, and a snow-globe with the date and time that it would whisk him away to his first location.

“Have a good time,” she had told him with her soft eyes and a small smile. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Yeah,” Ron had confirmed, slapping him on the back with a tired, easy grin. “Don’t sulk your way through Europe, alright? Bring me back a pretzel.”

“A whole year?” he had asked for what felt like the hundredth time, shaking the inactive portkey and watching white confetti float around its glass bubble.

“A whole year,” Hermione had repeated softly. “You deserve some time to figure it out Harry, plenty of people take a year off to discover themselves.”

Harry had travelled the countries bordering North Africa, the golden coasts of Portugal and Spain, the rolling hills of Italian countryside and wandered the small, old towns dotting Croatia and Bosnia. He had huddled against the winter winds created between the alps of Austria, warmed his belly with veal schnitzel and sauerkraut in the beer halls of Germany, and in each country, he would make acquaintances with all types of people.

From locals in broken English to backpackers and bohemians who had travelled far across the globe, backs heavy with their large packs as they waved farewell and boarded their buses and trains. Perhaps they would even go on to mention the young man they had met along the way to their next acquaintance, or to family and friends once they got home as ‘that odd bloke from England with his funny scar.’

Not a legend, not a name to be awed over, just Harry, the messy haired chap with his funny scar.

And yet, despite his anonymity, despite his mind being occupied by historic sites and awe-inspiring scenery, Harry still found himself restless. He knew he was supposed to take this time to come to some much-needed decisions, about what it was he truly wanted, now that he had no predestined path laid before him. Still he felt as lost as he was before he’d begun.

Did he want a Ministry job? Was he ready to don the scarlet robes of the Aurors and head straight back into dark-wizard hunting? Pick up the craft of wand-making perhaps? Learn how to heal a gaping wound in St Mungo’s many wards?

A large part of him was ready to return home. Slip back into his bed where he could while away the nights, staring up into the canopy of Sirius’s old bed back in Grimmauld, ignoring the growing concern that would no doubt paint his friends faces as he continued to drift through the halls like a ghost day after day.

Part of him never wanted to return.

Another smaller part thought his loneliness would swallow him whole.

He found himself in Paris by the first week of May, the air growing warmer as summer heralded its appearance for another year by carts of ice-cream on the street, and the number of tourists clamouring around the many museums and iconic structures spread throughout the vast city.

He had found a small hotel in the wizarding district of Paris, just off the Champs-Élysées and situated close to the Seine where many magical vendors lined the brick walls with stalls of books and art and gifts, seemingly endless in their variety.

Harry had set off to see the Muggle sites, determined to cross off all the places Hermione had so diligently listed for him in her neat handwriting. This list found him nabbing a Muggle map from a nearby tourist office and wandering one of the quieter streets of Paris, squinting down at the small font and mouthing the names as he attempted to navigate himself towards the notoriously steep stairs of Montmartre.

The streets, at some point, had all started to look the same, with their cream facades and many windows, their small Juliet balconies filled with colourful flowers and sprawling vines.

He screwed the map up in one hand with a sigh, staring down the street one way and back the other, contemplating his choices before his eyes caught on the café behind him.

The first thing he noticed was how pink it was, the awning that stretched above the window striped a peach and cream combination, the bike that leant against the wooden windowsill much the same, its basket full of flowers large enough to cup in both hands, spilling over the wicker.

La Petite Patisserie.

Harry blinked up at the cursive lettering before letting his eyes fall to the glass windows, spying a large shelf of baked bread and pastries just over the counter, which held even more cabinets of cakes and sweets that had his stomach growling, despite having over-indulged in his complementary breakfast back at the hotel.

He observed a couple sitting by the window being served their coffee, the woman pointing out something on the menu with a smile as their waiter stood by with a tray of coffee and croissant resting in one hand.  

It looked good, all buttery soft and lightly flaked, he bet it would melt on the tongue.

He stared for a moment longer, enough to come to the sudden realisation that he was also being watched, watched by the server holding said tray of delectable croissant, seemingly frozen to the spot as Harry’s eyes met his.

On a quiet street close to the stairs of Montmartre, in a small café hidden in the depths of Paris, was Draco Malfoy, wearing a pink apron, holding a tray consisting of only a latte and a delectable looking croissant, watching Harry Potter stand before the window of La Petite Pâtisserie.

They stared at each other in wide eyed bafflement before Malfoy was forced to look away, back down at the woman he was serving and quickly pointed out something on the menu.

Harry came to the realisation he was gaping, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to come to grips with exactly what he was seeing.

Draco Malfoy was in Paris.

Draco Malfoy was working in a Muggle café in Paris.

Draco Malfoy was wearing an apron and serving Muggles coffee and croissants in a Muggle café in Muggle Paris.

Draco Malfoy watched as Harry Potter tripped and knocked over the sandwich board highlighting La Petite Patisserie’s Specials as he quickly fled the scene.  

Harry had always been curious by nature.

A characteristic he was certain a few of his peers, and many of the authority figures in his life would all too happily consider one of his strongest flaws.

Too impulsive, too nosy. One foot always in trouble and the other always toeing the line between self-preservation and the immediate urge to throw himself full bodily into potentially harmful situations.

Curiosity burnt through him like Fiendfyre, engulfing him.

He did try to stay away, truly he did.

He tried to listen to the little voice in his head that sounded uncannily like Hermione, the voice that told him not to rush into things head-first without a plan, to think deeply about his actions and their consequences.

And yet somehow all this internal debate managed to still find Harry standing opposite a tall, blond, familiar looking boy with a glare that could cut through metal, directed straight at him.

The effect of the look was severely diminished by the apron he wore, the silver badge adorning his chest declared him “DRACO” in bold font.

Malfoy stared at Harry.

Harry stared right back.

The former Slytherin inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut before seeming to steel himself against the onslaught of whatever Harry was managing to silently project his way. Harry almost startled when winter grey eyes pierced through him once again, this time matched with a forced smile that scrunched up the finely pointed features that made up Malfoy’s face.

“Bonjour, monsieur. Bienvenue à La Petite Pâtisserie. Qu'est-ce qui vous ferait plaisir?”

Harry blinked against the rapid quick-fire French as Malfoy raised a blond brow.

“Err-” Harry started, trying to piece together the small amounts of French he did know.

Bonjour was Hello.

The rest was a work in progress.

“What do you want Potter?” Malfoy sighed, his customer service smile falling off like sleet, his face back to its resting disdain.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked instead.

Malfoy took a moment to look around the café carefully, from the few customers seated, to the large chalkboard menu behind him, making a show of looking down at his apron before settling back on Harry.

“What does it fucking look like Potter?”

Harry sputtered, an incredulous laugh breaking through, “You- You actually work here?”

Malfoy lifted a shoulder lightly before dropping it.

Harry stopped laughing.

“Why?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Potter,” Malfoy replied in a cool tone, sweeping back his blond fringe carelessly, “but this is simply the terms of my probation, my community service if you will, for my pending freedom.” Harry continued to stare, enough for Malfoy to sniff as pink tinged his cheeks, slender fingers fiddling with a silver bangle encircling his wrist. “It was this or house arrest. Though you might have known if you’d stuck around to see the outcome of my trial, but last I’d heard you’d become quite the little hermit.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t very well.”

Malfoy spared him a curious look. 

“I did write a letter though,” he tacked on, scratching at the back of his head with a grimace. “To the Wizengamot, and for your mum too.”  

“Yes,” the blond drawled, curiosity turning to acquiescence. “I suppose I have you to thank for not having ended up in a mouldy cell of Azkaban. And now here I am, working amongst the Mug- this community, as a form of rehabilitation and far far away from the past ideology of- What? ”

“Sorry,” Harry tampered down his grin, shrugging. “It’s just- It’s a bit funny is all. Draco Malfoy working in a coffee shop.”

“Patisserie,” Malfoy corrected with a frown, bravado deflating and dropping his hands. “Now, do you want something or not? You’re holding up the line.”

“Oh.” Harry jumped, turning to look at the short queue that had started forming behind him without his knowledge. “Err- s’pose I’ll get a cappuccino then.”

He handed over a note and watched as Malfoy stared down at the till with a frown, small dent forming between his blond brows. 

“It’s the two smaller ones and-”

“I know,” Malfoy hissed before handing Harry his change. Harry handed him a euro back, suppressing another grin as a red flush painted itself across the Slytherin’s high cheekbones.

“So, how long are you here for?”

“There’s still a line behind you Potter.”

Harry jumped again as the man behind cleared his throat impatiently, forcing Harry to shuffle towards the collection point and away from Malfoy who had plastered a smile back across his face, lips moving quickly in fluent French.

He looked much better than the last time Harry had seen him, his mugshot pasted on the front of The Prophet along with his parents, cheeks hollow with dark circles around his eyes. A far cry from the proud young boy who had swanned about Hogwarts with the air of a peacock.

His hair was no longer gelled in a slicked-back manner, and it now fell annoyingly soft across his forehead with sides shorn short, emphasising the graceful length of his neck and managing to soften his high cheekbones.

Harry peered, subtly, over the coffee machine as one of the other apron-clad workers blocked his direct line of sight, lifting himself onto the balls of his feet and down again when grey eyes locked onto his in annoyance.

“ Le cappuccino,” a voice called out to his right, sliding a pink take-away cup towards him across the counter. “Merci, bonne journee.”

 “Err- thanks,” Harry stuttered out before flinging out a quick, “merci.”

Judging by the look of disdain that quickly flashed across the worker’s face before flouncing away, his pronunciation was obviously in need of some work.

He stood for a moment with the coffee cup in hand, looking back at Malfoy who was now moving around the counter to seat a large group of people, menus in hand and smile still stitched across his lips, sparing a look over his shoulder at Harry, who was still standing there, watching him like an absolute tosser, before silently mouthing, Get. Lost. His blond head jerked towards the exit before turning back to address the older gentleman at the table.  

Harry felt a flush of embarrassment, followed by a strong annoyance at being dismissed, and was half a block away from the café when he realised what he was feeling most of all was disappointment.

Harry set out the next day with the firm intention to finally make it to the stairs of Montmartre, climb his way up to the village and finally visit the Sacré-Cœur, which Hermione was adamant he must visit, if the many underlines beneath the bullet point were anything to go by.

If Harry was being honest, he felt that after having travelled across Europe, he’d now had his fill of churches and basilicas to last him a lifetime, but he was supposed to be ‘finding himself’ and apparently Hermione’s list was a way to ensure Harry was not, as Ron had put it so delicately, holed up and moping in his hotel room.

He reasoned that sustenance was needed before braving the stair climb, so it really was quite reasonable to nab a table in a little patisserie that just so happened to be on his way to the worthwhile location.

At any rate, it was worth it to see the look of open disbelief on Malfoy’s face as Harry plonked himself into a booth and eyed the blond over the laminated menu, watching as the blond went through the stages of acceptance via usual sneer and narrowed eyes.

Adrenaline surged through him as Malfoy strode towards him, fists curled at his sides as he stared down at the object of his contempt. 

Harry smiled up at him. “Hi.”

Malfoy’s eye twitched, his hands moving towards the pocket of his apron that had Harry jerking upright, however, instead of the wand he was expecting, Malfoy simply flipped open a notepad in one hand and clicked a pen in the other. Harry deflated back into his seat hoping the Slytherin hadn’t noticed his flight or fight response. But judging by the smirk quirking up the side of Malfoy’s lips, he’d been unsuccessful.

“Well then?” Malfoy asked smugly, pen tapping against paper. “What can I get for you?”

Which was how Harry came to find that the croissant he had spied that first day was just as buttery soft and flaky as it had appeared.

And if the vision of Malfoy delivering it to him on a silver tray and donning a dusky pink apron made it even better? Well, Harry wouldn’t be pressed to admit it was possibly one of the highlights of his trip thus far. 

The next day Harry tried the kouign amann, its caramelised golden crust melting in his mouth, powdered sugar coating the top of his lip, enough so that it had Malfoy scowling at him across the café in barely concealed horror as Harry wiped it away with the back of his hand instead of the serviette provided.

The day after that Malfoy placed a cappuccino in front of him just as he sat, followed quickly by a plate of various pastries, before spinning away and ignoring him for the rest of his visit. Harry ate the cakes sullenly, watching Malfoy work his way across all the tables before switching with his co-worker to man the till and attend to the coffee machine, chatting with the endless line of patrons coming through.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” Malfoy hissed at some point as he had passed by.

Harry was ashamed to admit he hadn’t realised just how long he’d been occupying the table, his pastries and coffee long since finished.

“Not really,” he replied softly, but Malfoy had already moved away to attend to a couple of American tourists.

The day following that Malfoy was looking at him differently, enough so that Harry didn’t stick around for very long, finding the grey gaze suddenly disconcerting. He got his croissant to go and ate it on one of the many benches lining the Seine.

The next day he visited the Musee D’Orsay and resolutely did not cross the river, wandering through the many sculptures of the museum. He sent a postcard to Hermione with a glossy picture of the Eiffel Tower and a vague explanation as to where he was and what he was up to, and that yes , he was doing well and enjoying himself.

He did not mention the small café he had stumbled across, nor its odd occupant.

When Harry showed up at La Petite Patisserie the following day, Malfoy was not there.

“Eet eez ‘is day off,” one of the other staff replied with a sniff when he dared to ask.

“Oh, when will he be back?”

She smoothed down her apron with a huff and looked him over in scrutiny, one over-plucked eyebrow high on her forehead.

“What does eet matter? You are ‘ere every other day, I am certain you will figure eet out,” she replied before spinning away in dismissal.

Harry looked down at his frothy latte, croissant a crescent to the full circle of his cup. He finished them both within minutes and departed.

Malfoy was back the next day, his eyes widening as Harry entered before narrowing again as he took one of the seats by the large window. He picked up the laminated menu, though by now Harry was sure he remembered it all by heart, cost and all.

He startled when a body dropped into the chair opposite him, his eyes peering over pink plastic to spy Malfoy staring at him, slouched with his arms crossed, legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles that only served to showcase their length.

Harry slowly lowered the menu and cleared his throat.

“I think I’ll try one of the ‘tart fram boys’ today.”

One of Malfoy’s eyes twitched slightly.

“I’m on my break.”

Harry frowned. “I’ve never seen you take a break.”

“Well,” Malfoy replied with a wry smirk. “You know when I disappear out that door for a while?” He pointed over the door that led, Harry assumed, to the kitchens. “That’s where I usually take it. Away from the glare of speccy-eyed gits.”

“But today…”

“Today I think it’s time to address the Potter in the room.”

“I’d rather you-”

“Are there no other cafés you could frequent?” Malfoy cut in, leaning forward over the table, grey eyes digging into him. “In fact, I believe I saw one directly next door to this one.”

Harry shifted in his chair, folding his own arms over his chest and shrugging casually despite the sudden heat he was feeling.

“This one is much more entertaining,” he replied, elaborating quickly at Malfoy’s sour look. “And I don’t have to fumble through bad French to get a coffee. French people are mean.”

Malfoy looked slightly offended. “I’m mean.”

Harry shrugged. “You’ve been meaner.”

“Yes well, one can only go so far in an apron,” Malfoy defended, deflating back into his chair and looking decidedly put out.

“It’s a good look,” Harry offered after a pause.

The Slytherin looked to the ceiling and shook his head slowly, “Potter, what the hell are you doing?”

“Well I was going to order a-”

“Here,” Malfoy cut off, glaring at him. “In this café. The café in which I work. That happens to be one of many in Paris. Why are you here in Paris and intent on bothering me?”

Harry felt his cheeks flame and avoided Malfoy’s eyes, instead focusing on a large bumblebee in the colourful flowers that had been arranged in the basket of the bicycle leaning against the window. The hopelessness he’d been trying so hard to ignore seemed to edge against him like waves against the shore. 

“I don’t know,” he answered with another lift and drop of his shoulder, feeling a small amount of weight roll off him as he chose to continue. “I thought travelling would help but, it’s like everything I left behind is just following me.

“People expect things from me, and I don’t think I’m ready to give my all for anything. I’m not special anymore and yet everyone is still so intent on having a hand in just who Harry Potter becomes from here on out. I don’t even know who I am anymore, I don’t think I ever did.”

He looked back at Malfoy with a small, rueful smile. “I suppose I just don’t know where to go from here. This seems as good a place as any to figure it out.”

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully, his clean, short nails drumming out a short melody on the tabletop as Harry looked at him. Malfoy looked for all the world like his ex-rival had just shared with him his favourite bloody colour, some banality instead of the personal unloading of existential dread Harry had been undergoing ever since Tom Riddle fell heavily onto the floor of the Great Hall.  

“That’s probably because you peaked before eighteen,” Malfoy offered after moments had passed.  

Harry blinked at him before tipping forward to let his forehead rest against the vinyl of the table, not even bothering to feel annoyed at the vibrations of Malfoy’s continued and erratic tapping, while also ignoring the slight stickiness of the table.

“How do I follow up saving the world?” he mumbled glumly into the tacky surface. 

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy exhaled, and Harry could just sense his eyes rolling, peeking up at him through his dark fringe as the fingers stopped their tapping to fiddle with one of the bangles that encircled both his wrists, silver glinting in the sunlight. “What the hell would I know? Two years ago, I thought for sure I wouldn’t make it through the war, three years before that my OWL results had me convinced that I could become the next Minister for Magic. And now I’m here,” he kicked at Harry’s leg, “making mochas in stupid, little pink cups- for Muggles. Excuse me if my heart doesn’t exactly bleed for you and the many opportunities you’ve been granted.”

Harry looked up, chin resting on forearms, to spare him an unimpressed look; Malfoy shot him his own.

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Harry asked.

“No,” the blond drawled as though he were being intentionally dull. “You’re supposed to stop feeling sorry for yourself. And your little internal crisis aside, it still doesn’t really answer the question of why, out of everything you could be doing, you are here, with me, when you could be out there enjoying your bloody life. You know, having fun?”

“How?” Harry sighed.

“Merlin, I always knew you had no social instinct.”

“You don’t-”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Harry shifted, sitting back up as casually as one could after plainly sulking. “I was going to get takeout and maybe read a book...”

“You’re just as boring as I feared,” Malfoy muttered.

“Thanks. ”

Malfoy clucked his tongue, frown growing darker the more he looked at Harry. “I’m going out tonight with some friends.”

Harry blinked, trying to quickly piece what Malfoy had said to some coherency. “What? Muggles? ”

“There’s no need to sound so surprised,” Malfoy replied, pushing back his blond hair, and sitting up straighter as though steeling himself. “One must adjust to their environment lest they wither away from boredom. So, to answer your question, yes, Potter. I have Muggle friends, and no, I do not hate them or look down on them for being so.” Malfoy spread his hands out. “See, the rehab has worked just as intended and I’ve reformed from my wicked, wicked ways. The process works. Etcetera.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice that despite Malfoy’s blithe bravado and attitude towards the rather big change in character he was undergoing, he couldn’t help but notice the waver in Malfoy’s tone when vaguely insinuating the misdeeds of his past and the wrong he had done.

“Huh,” Harry said instead. “Who knew?”

Malfoy flashed him a look and sniffed delicately.

“Indeed. I… The Muggles. They’re not that horrible.”

Harry smirked wryly. “High praise.”

Malfoy made a small hum before having the audacity to look annoyed. “Well then?”

Harry raised a dark eyebrow in question.

“Will you be attending?”

“Attending?” Harry repeated, mind trying to piece together what exactly Malfoy was implying.

“You- You’re inviting me? You’re asking me to come hang out with you and your friends?”

“You’re right,” Malfoy murmured in sudden dismay and made to stand up from the table altogether. “Apologies, I just had a sudden trip into insanity. Disregard my-”

“Okay,” Harry interrupted, Malfoy coming to a halt just as he made to leave. “I’ll come. I’ll come out with you and your- your friends.”

The look of alarm on Malfoy’s face faded just as suddenly as it had come, standing up straight and smoothing down his apron.

“My shift ends at nine. Meet me out front,” he told Harry, gifting him one last sneer before moving away to serve the small line of customers accumulating at the counter. “If you’re late I’m leaving without you.”

Harry rocked up to the café at the appointed time that evening having spent the time in-between Malfoy’s invitation and his inevitable return wandering aimlessly around the streets of Paris.

He had returned to his hotel suite at some point in the afternoon to shower, to muse on what he was to wear for a night spent with Malfoy’s, most likely, pretentious Parisian friends. He wished he had bothered to ask what the outing would entail, how best to fit in and not draw attention to himself. He dithered over the same pair of jeans he’d been rotating through his trip along with his tan trousers, before moving on to select a shirt that would be least offensive to Malfoy’s tastes.

Not that he cared what Malfoy thought.

No way.

He sprayed on the cologne that Hermione had stuffed into his luggage for the first time that trip and headed out in his worn jeans, worn t-shirt, and worn denim jacket, an ensemble he rather thought made him look like that one popstar from the trashy magazines he’d seen around newsstands. He’d even tried to tame his hair before yielding defeat to its permanently unruly state

He had loitered around the block a half hour before the designated time, just to make sure he was not late per Malfoy’s request, knowing the insufferable blond was likely to ditch him were he even a minute over schedule out of pure spite.

He only startled slightly when Malfoy appeared out of a side door next to the café, grey eyes widening in surprise as he gave Harry a once over, just as Harry did the same for him.

Malfoy was without his apron and looking particularly Muggle in a thin white t-shirt with its cuffs rolled up, his left forearm marred with the faded mark of his past alignment on display. The jeans he wore were ripped fashionably at the knees and held up by a belt which accentuated a slender waist and his white shoes were only just the slightest bit scuffed.

“What are you wearing?” Harry exclaimed in disbelief and blinked wildly. “Malfoy, are you wearing trainers?”

The former Slytherin snorted, patting at his back pockets. “Says the man wearing double denim.”

“What’s wrong with double denim?” Harry frowned, unable to keep the offence from his tone.  

“Nothing, I just didn’t realise you were part of The Backroad Boys.”

“Back-,” Harry stammered, his eyes feeling like they were bulging out of their sockets. “Do you mean the Backstreet Boys? ”

“Oh, right,” a pink tinge started to highlight the cheekbones of Malfoy’s face just as he scowled back. He moved past Harry to make his way down the street, calling over his shoulder, “Are you coming or not?”

Harry started to heavily consider his recent choices as he began to lightly jog after Malfoy like a dog to its bone.  

They caught the metro nearest to the café and sat on chairs closest to the doors and adjacent to each other, keeping a respectful distance before alighting after four stops deeper into the city centre.

Malfoy’s friends were waiting on a set of stairs leading up to a closed off church, one of the girls caught sight of Malfoy as they walked down the block and started waving as they made their way to them.

She was gorgeous, her skin dark and flawless, her hair falling in immaculate box braids that looped over the base of her skull, strands falling to her waist. Harry attempted to count the piercings threaded through her ears, lips, and nose as she practically threw herself onto Malfoy, crying something out in French before pulling him over to the small group which consisted of another girl and a boy.

The boy was tall and lightly muscled, skin a shade darker than the girl currently pulling on Malfoy’s arm, and horribly handsome, reminding Harry instantly of Cedric Diggory, all easy-going smile and bright teeth and careless beauty. The other girl in the group had strawberry blonde hair cut into a blunt bob framing a sweet, heart shaped face and pouty lips.

The girl who had accosted Malfoy caught sight of Harry hovering behind on the pavement before doing a double take, her eyes lighting up quickly in amusement.

“Draco, qui est ton ami ?” she asked, grabbing at Malfoy’s shoulder.

All eyes, including Malfoy’s, turned to stare at Harry who shuffled on the spot before lifting one hand. “Hi.”

“Ah, Anglais,” the boy said with a tut. “Si peu éduqué .”

“Au moins il est beau,” the other girl said openly leering at Harry.

“Compense le manque de cerveaux,” Malfoy replied with a smirk.

Harry frowned. “I’m being laughed at, aren’t I?”

“Oui,” Malfoy told him, before waving a hand. “Voici Harry, un ami de l’école.”

The three of them made small sounds of interest as Harry was trying to come to terms with the fact that Malfoy had willingly just used his first name to introduce him. The girl with braids reached out first to take Harry’s hands in her own.

“Allo ‘Arry,” she greeted in a heavy Parisian accent, her smile open and bright. “I am Sophie.”

“Cosette,” the other girl said, jumping down a step and pulling the other boy along, letting her head rest on his shoulder, and looking up at him adoringly. “Mon amour Leon.”

“She wishes,” the boy, Leon, scoffed, shaking Cosette off to briefly shake Harry’s hand with his own smirk.

“You know Draco from school?” Sophie asked, taking Harry’s hand and swinging it between them. “Good friends?”

“Err,” Harry stammered under all the sudden attention, sparing a look at Malfoy who chose that moment to light a cigarette. “Sure.”

“So you are coming to party?”

“I- I guess?” Harry replied, still staring at Draco as the blond inhaled and blew a wisp of smoke from between slightly pursed lips.

“He guesses,” Sophie admonished in dismay, spinning to Malfoy who looked down at her in bemusement. “Draco, ‘ave you not told ‘Arry what we are to be doing?”

“Anything is better than what he had planned,” Malfoy answered with a careless shrug, taking another drag. “Il est trés ennuyeaux.”

“Well, we can help with that,” Leon said with a grin, grabbing Cosette around the waist and spinning her off the stairs and onto the street. “The air is free, and the night is young.”

The sky was just beginning to grow dark when they reached their first port of activities, a dark bar that needed to be reached by going down a flight of stairs just off an alleyway, before knocking at the door to be admitted entry.

“The drinks are cheaper,” Sophie explained, balancing a tray of piss yellow shots, lime wedges and a saltshaker, sliding one to Harry over the booth they’d nabbed as the others grabbed for their own. “Shot, salt, and then lime.”

“I know,” Harry mumbled back, though she’d already moved on to spread salt over their wrists. “I’m not a bloody monk.”

The tequila was powerful and burnt his throat on its descent, he licked the salt off his thumb and spared a glance at Malfoy who was doing the same, tongue leaving a glistening streak over his skin when he looked up at Harry. They both flushed and averted their gazes to bite into their offered lime wedge as Leon made a loud whooping sound and slammed his hands on the table making everyone jump.

“Next!” he called out before making his way back to the bar, Cosette following along like a magnet.

“How many rounds?” Harry asked, voice raised over the music.

“Until you see stars,” Sophie replied cheerfully, brushing his shoulder with her own. “But can still walk among them!”

Harry looked to Malfoy who was still avoiding his eyes, one finger tracing the rim around his empty shot glass and looking rather contemplative.

“So, you’re saying I’ll get to see Malfoy drunk tonight?” he dared ask.

“Even better,” Sophie leered, piercings glittering in the low light. Malfoy bothered to share a scowl with them. “You’ll get to see him dance.”

By the time they left the bar the sky was finally dark enough to feel like night, Sophie had her arm looped with Draco’s as she stumbled along the pavement in her boots, reaching out with her other to catch Harry and drag him into her other side, using them both like makeshift crutches.

For a moment Harry recalled when Hermione used to do the same, when the snow was thick on their way down to Hogsmeade, using both Ron and him like human shields and heaters against the Scottish winter.

He was buzzed enough to smile at the thought while Sophie continued to natter in his ear about some boy that she’d managed to pull the last time they had ventured to their next destination.

The club was crowded when they stumbled through the doors, the music throbbing through his veins and the strobe lights flickering and painting everyone in neon greens and pinks. Leon managed to find them a tall round table that they stood around as he made his way, once again, to the bar to procure the drinks.

“Will you dance?” Cosette asked him coyly sucking through a short straw, thick cranberry syrup lacing the bottom of her glass. He had to lean closer to even hear her question over the music.

“No,” he shook his head, eyes wide with alarm. “No, I don’t dance.”

“It’s true, I’ve seen him try,” Malfoy offered over the table, his trademark drawl managing to make its way over even in the cacophony, lips twisted in amusement as he sipped from his own electric blue drink. Both Cosette and Sophie simultaneously pouted at Harry as though he had disappointed them greatly.

“It’s alright though, Potter quite likes to watch,” Malfoy said, downing the rest of his drink and disappearing like mist into the mass of gyrating bodies.

Both Cosette and Leon left the table shortly after, leaving Sophie to keep him company until a handsome looking bloke came up to her and asked her to dance, or that’s what Harry assumed he had done while waving away Sophie as she grinned and spun away.

Harry stood at the table with the sole intent of defending it until the others came back, tapping his foot along to the music, too buzzed to feel awkward about it.

A few pretty girls came up to him with invitations to join them on the dancefloor, but Harry, despite his inebriation, shook them all off with the repeated explanation of “I don’t dance” even as they tried to drag him into the crowd. He had a job after all, he was defending their table. And watching, a voice teased in his head.

Leon had lost his shirt when he made his way back to the table, dropping another drink into Harry’s hands with a wink. “Feel like dancing yet?”

“I don’t think you can ply me with enough vodka sunrises to see that happen.”

Leon hummed thoughtfully, finger tapping his bottom lip before reaching out and grabbing Harry to pull him into a dark corner of the club, ignoring Harry’s complaints as another group swooped in on their table claiming it as their own.

“Our table-,” Harry managed before Leon squeezed his bicep and offered something in his other hand. Two small white pills, to be precise. “What-”

“For fun,” Leon said with a smirk, taking one of the pills and swallowing it down. “Helps you relax. You do not seem very relaxed Harry.”

“Leon,” a voice cut in, Malfoy seemingly appearing out of thin air over Harry’s shoulder, grey eyes tracking from Leon to the pill and back to Harry. “He’s not going to take your bloody party drug.”

He clucked his tongue in response, giving Malfoy a fond look before offering him the pill instead. “I was going to share with everyone. Je ne pensais pas que tu voulais une répétition de la dernière fois.”

“And you would be correct,” Malfoy replied easily, pushing the offered drug away. Leon shrugged, not looking at all apologetic before moving away and back into the throng. Harry stared at the side of Malfoy’s face until the blond looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“You’re not having fun,” Malfoy stated rather than questioned.

“Am so,” Harry defended, quickly crossing his arms. “I’m drunk, in a club, in Paris. What’s not to like?”

Malfoy looked him up and down. “More shots then?”

Which was how he found himself knocking shoulders with Malfoy back at the bar, hands sticking to the counter as the former Slytherin ordered shot after shot for them to down until he was satisfied enough, managing to drag Harry out onto the dancefloor and into the crush.

“I don’t-,” Harry began, tongue stumbling in his mouth.

“Shut up and dance, Potter,” Draco shouted in his ear before pushing him into a ring of girls who all started dancing into, and against him.

“Prick,” Harry gasped once managing his way out, glasses askew on the bridge of his nose and hair messier than ever, making to grab Malfoy who was still grinning from ear to ear just as Sophie and Cosette swung in and cheered at Harry’s participation, begging him to stay as they clung to his arms until he sighed in defeat.

He still couldn’t bloody dance, even as Sophie and Cosette tried to get him to mimic their movements, brain too sluggish now to refuse, until he somehow caught the beat and started moving in earnest.

Malfoy moved away but remained in orbit, dancing like he was made for it, arms stretched high above his head as others joined him, blond hair changing from neon green, to pink and then orange, fringe falling into his eyes and skin glistening with sweat as he moved his body almost hypnotically, Harry thought idly, to the rhythm.

“He was right,” Sophie yelled into his ear as she entwined her arms around his neck.

“Right about what?” Harry managed, pulling his gaze away after a moment to stare at the girl currently swaying closer into him.

Sophie laughed, sincere in her mirth.

“You do like to watch.”

They left the club in the early hours of the morning, Harry stumbling and apologising to the uneven pavement as Sophie pulled him along, a scruffy looking boy she’d picked up sometime during the night on her other side.

“Draco,” she called out after Harry had bumped into a light post for the third time. “I think ‘Arry requires some assistance getting ‘ome.”

Malfoy looked over his shoulder at him, a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he scrutinised Harry. “I’m sure Potter can handle himself.”

Harry nodded in hazy agreement. “I can just, y’know, whoosh.”

“Whoosh?” Cosette repeated with a giggle, arms hooked around Leon’s neck and legs twisted around his waist as he piggybacked her through the streets. “Whoooooosh.”

Sophie frowned, “Draco? Whoosh?”

“He’s not going to whoosh,” Malfoy frowned, moving back to Harry, and grabbing his jacket. “There’ll be no whoo – any of that,” He leaned closer and hissed into his ear, “You’re not apparating like this, you’ll leave a leg behind.”

Harry stumbled closer to him, frowning down at the hand fisting his jacket, “I don’t know how to get back.”

“Just take him home,” Leon said, spinning around and making Cosette squeal. “He is a walking target like this.”

“You must look after your friend,” Sophie agreed, staring at Malfoy until he hissed out a sigh, dropping his fist from the denim.

“Fine,” he said, sounding none too happy about it. “Fine. He can sleep in the lounge.”

Malfoy’s flat took five stops on the closest Metro to get to, the others splitting up to make their own ways home. Malfoy had pushed him into one of the seats upon boarding, sitting in the seat behind him as Harry focused on an old advertisement for toothpaste, wondering why he couldn’t read the words before realising they were in French.

He tilted his head back over the seat’s metal railing, looking at Malfoy upside-down and grinning when the blond noticed him and scowled before pushing his head back upright. And if Malfoy’s hand rested in Harry’s hair for just that second too long? Well, they would just blame it on the third tequila shot. 

Malfoy steered him up what felt like an endless number of stairs, from exiting the Metropolitain as well as the narrow flights they had to scale to get into Malfoy’s flat. Harry had sat down on the fifth landing and exclaimed he was alright to sleep there, but Malfoy had kicked him until he staggered back up, using both arms to drag himself up the railings pathetically until Malfoy pushed him into a corridor. 

He leaned against the wall outside a door with a tarnished gold 9, picking at a bit of flaky red paint until Malfoy slapped his hand away with a hiss and unlocked the door with a small key.

“Alohomora,” Harry mumbled as Malfoy pushed him through the open door.

The flat was small. Much smaller than Harry had expected for the boy who had grown up in a bloody manor.

“Is everything spinning or is it just me?” Harry wondered, throwing his jacket onto the closest chair. “Do this often then?”

“Not nearly enough,” Draco sighed, closing the door and locking it with a loud snick, flicking on the switch and dousing the flat with artificial, yellow light.

Harry looked around the flat with a dopey smile, the room consisted of a small kitchenette off to one side, a dusky blue two-seater couch with a small round table in front of it covered in a stack of books. A comfy looking double mattress covered in a plush quilt, and clean looking sheets, was pushed against one of the two French door windows that occupied the flat.

“Well then, Potter, did you have fun?”  

Harry hummed before throwing himself down onto the mattress and groaning into one of the pillows.

“No, absolutely not,” Malfoy said, voice far away but nonetheless annoying in its insistence. Harry slapped away the hands attempting to pull him from the comfort of the makeshift bed.

“Malfoy, you don’t have a bed frame,” he announced into the cotton, breathing in the scent of what he quickly realised was probably what Malfoy smelled like, citrus tones and woody accents. “You sleep on a mattress. On the floor.”

Malfoy pulled at his arm again, stumbling at his weight, “Get up, you’re not sleeping in my bed.”

“Your mattress,” Harry corrected with a snigger, turning to look up at Malfoy who stood over him with a dark scowl, “it’s not a bed. Beds have frames.”

“Regardless,” the blond hissed with another tug of Harry’s arm. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“There’s nuff space for both of us,” Harry said after another futile attempt to lift him off the mattress. He waggled his eyebrows and laughed as Malfoy’s eyes widened, before pulling him down onto the mattress with him and trying not to feel too offended as the blond flailed away so they weren’t touching.

The two of them lay there, side by side and still completely clothed, staring up at the cracked ceiling of Malfoy’s studio in silence, though Malfoy’s thoughts were loud. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in, the alcohol still pumping in his blood, a ringing in his ears making it easy to separate his heartbeat rapidly thumping against his eardrums.   

“If you touch me at all,” Malfoy said after a few moments, sitting up to unbuckle his belt and shimmy out of his jeans. “I’ll break your nose again.”

Harry nodded dutifully.

“That goes for snoring too,” Malfoy tacked on before lying back down and curling away from Harry so only his back was exposed to him, sheets covering his bottom half, not that Harry was looking.  

“Kay,” Harry murmured, eyes fixated on the nape of Draco’s neck.

“And turn off the light.”

“Nox,” Harry managed to breathe out, letting the darkness succumb over them.

Harry woke to soft morning light sneaking in through the tall windows at the foot of the mattress closest to his head, the sounds of the outside world came along with it. He groaned and pushed his face into the soft fabric, eyes not quite ready to be assaulted by the sun, no matter how soft.

He breathed in spiced orange peel and cedar, the throbbing in his head dulling slightly before turning to open his eyes blearily, frowning when he was greeted by the blurry vision of Malfoy standing on the opposite side of the apartment, leaning against the counter of his kitchenette and chewing thoughtfully on something.

Harry frowned, fumbling for his glasses, and growing agitated the longer it took to find them, knowing Malfoy was likely watching him struggle. He found them just to the side of the mattress on the rough looking floorboards and slid them onto his nose, blinking as his vision cleared.

Malfoy raised one prominent eyebrow when Harry looked at him and frowned, lifting the item in his hand with a smirk.

“Croissant?”

Harry ate his croissant at the small table that served as Malfoy’s dining table, close to the other tall windows with sheer curtains, doors opened slightly to let in the morning breeze. Malfoy sat opposite him, elbow on the table and chin resting in the palm of his hand as he watched Harry pull apart the flaky pastry.

Harry should have found it awkward, instead he found Malfoy’s gaze only the slightest bit disconcerting, the other part of him found himself basking under the silver grey of the blond boy’s attentions. They drank bad instant coffee with too much milk and barely uttered one word to each other as they made use of Draco’s small bathroom.

He stared down at the mattress, the sheets mussed and ruffled, and had the urge to throw himself back onto it, instead, Malfoy came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and hair damp, pale skin flushed pink and he got momentarily distracted.

Harry flicked idly through one of the books he had nabbed from the table, eyes flickering up every once in a while as Malfoy fixed the bed sheets and fluffed up his pillows, grabbing a pair of shoes from the bottom of a narrow closet before sitting heavily next to Harry on the dusky blue couch. 

“I have a shift,” Malfoy said swiftly tying the laces of his shoes with his long, elegant fingers, white-blond hair falling into his face. “I suppose you can apparate from here.”  

Harry brushed a hand through his tangled hair and nodded, standing up.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” he said as he moved to the centre of the room.

Malfoy scoffed, sitting back and playing with one of the silver bangles on his wrist, “Oh please, as if you won’t be sniffing around the café by this afternoon.”

Harry frowned, mouth opening to dispute the claim as his fingers found the handle of his wand.

“And besides,” Draco cut in before he had the chance, lips quirked up into a sly grin. “You haven’t tried one of the canelé’s yet.”

Harry hesitated, licking at his suddenly dry lips before once again nodding with a casual shrug.

“That’s true,” he managed before spinning away, the image of Malfoy’s grin following him well into the midday sun.  

The canelé was rich with vanilla and infused rum, its crust a caramelised golden colour and its centre filled with a tender custard. It was, unsurprisingly, delicious.

More surprising was the soft smile Malfoy offered as he delivered it to his table.

More alarming was the way Harry’s heartbeat sped up, face growing hot even as Malfoy moved away to serve other waiting patrons.

They were tucked away in a club hidden in the Latin Quarter a week later, walls covered in a collage of French magazines and music heavier than the last, the bass thrumming up through the floors and into their bones.

They drank through the rainbow in an array of shots that lined the bar between them, red and indigo, violet and yellow. Sickly green absinthe that burnt the lining of his stomach and sent Cosette into a coughing fit that had the rest of them laughing. 

Harry still had the keen sense to know his dancing was still stiff, his body refusing to move as naturally as the rest of them did, but the music was different, less rolling of bodies and more jumping, arms punching the air and trying not to trip on discarded glasses, red lights flashing across their features. It was exhilarating.

Leon turned to him and showed the small pill settled on his tongue before swallowing with a grin, both Cosette and Sophie grabbed at his closed palm to take their own chances of euphoria.

At some point during the night, he found himself crawling out an open window and onto a fire-escape after Malfoy, leaving his Muggle friends to throw themselves around the sticky dancefloor. He sat a couple of stairs down from Malfoy, the cold of the metal biting through his trousers and hugged his knees to his chest.

Malfoy already had his pack of cigarettes out and lighted one with practised ease, smoke flowing out through pillowed lips before offering it to Harry. Harry accepted it after just a moment’s hesitation, took a hard pull that had him stifling a cough, his eyes burning before handing the offending item back to Malfoy who watched him with barely concealed glee, silver eyes bright.

“You know those things will kill you,” Harry said, immediately regretting the words and looking away as Malfoy brought the cigarette, the one Harry had just had on his own lips, back to his mouth.

Malfoy looked rather amused. “You promise?”

Harry rolled his eyes, standing up to remove the jacket tied around his waist and put it back on, the chill of the late summer night and the sweat on his skin making him shiver. He leant against the brick wall and tipped his head back, staring up at the sky and the few stars that glittered back at him.

“What’s it like then?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific Potter, the rest of the class hasn’t caught up yet,” Malfoy replied with a smirk.

“What they’re taking,” Harry clarified, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the general vicinity of where the three Parisian youths were currently working through whatever high the pills had brought them.

“Ecstasy,” Draco sighed out, flicking off the ash accumulating at the end of his cigarette, “The high you get from it isn’t worth the comedown, or in my case the paranoia, panic attacks and endless vomiting. Leon says I just got a bad hit, but-” Malfoy shrugged looking contemplative, his other hand playing with one of the thin silver bangles on his wrist.  “I took it to forget and all it did was make me remember.”

Harry watched the silver catch the light from a streetlamp, mesmerised once again as Malfoy spun it around. He cleared his throat. “What’s with the jewellery?”

Malfoy tutted. “So many questions tonight.”

He raised his hand to Harry who took it between his own, feeling the cool of the metal on the pads of his fingers as he traced around its circumference, frowning as he felt vibrations pulse against his magic.

“Their dampeners.”

Harry frowned, letting go of him as Malfoy leaned back on the stairs, blond hair falling as he tilted his head and flicked the remainder of his cigarette into a potted plant filled with sand and the remnants of other forgotten stubs.

“Dampeners?” Harry repeated.

“No magic allowed,” Malfoy drawled with a sneer. “To ensure I behave.”

Harry blinked. “You can’t do magic?”

“Are you telling me this entire time you thought I could?” Malfoy laughed, looking back at Harry with growing incredulity. “Merlin, you are completely oblivious, aren’t you? Think I would catch the bloody Metro for atmosphere when I could simply apparate back to my flat? Not on your life.”

Harry crossed his arms, trying to think back on at least one instance he had seen Malfoy using magic in all his time in Paris and came up with absolutely bugger all. Harry shifted the weight on his legs, suddenly uncomfortable at the fact he’d been in Paris for three weeks and had spent most of his time wandering after Malfoy.

“Does it hurt?”

Malfoy looks surprised at the question, moving forward to lean his forearms against his thighs, clasping his hands before him and staring at the cuffs with some consideration.

“It was uncomfortable at first,” the blond said after a moment, “feels a bit like an itch underneath the skin, but if I don’t focus on it, it’s bearable enough.” Malfoy huffed, biting at his bottom lip. “It’s driving Father absolutely batty though. Mother can’t write a letter without it containing one of his infamous little tantrums.”

Harry had been so careful in not bringing them up, knowing now that, like Malfoy, they were also under strict probation, but the thought of Malfoy being attached to the man who had tried so hard to see him dead, along with his wife who lied for him at just the right moment, was too close to home.

It made Harry think about Malfoy and all he had done, of the meaning behind the dark ink on his skin, and he didn’t want to think about it.

“I can imagine how it would be hard for him,” he offered with a shrug. “Can’t say I care all too much for his comfort though.”

“Fair,” Malfoy accepted lightly. “We acted indecently.”

“He was one of the worst.”

“Yeah,” the blond sighed with his own shrug. “Still my dad though.”

Harry looked down at his scuffed trainers. “How’s your mum?”

“She gets on. They’re on house arrest,” Malfoy explained, coming to the quick conclusion that Harry really hadn’t kept up on the news of the trials since the war and their outcomes. “Living at one of the properties the Ministry couldn’t seize, a couple of hours south from here by train, just past Lyon. I think Mother’s deluded herself into thinking it’s one of our summer holidays just extended by a number of years, but then she’s always loved the Chateau, more than the Manor if I had to bet on it.”

“Do you like it better?”

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully.

“The Manor was my home, and despite- Well. I have a lot of good memories of it. Sliding down the bannisters and being shouted at by old portraits of ancestors past, pushing Pansy into the koi pond by the rose garden. The decorations we had during Christmas rivalled Hogwarts, and the balls Mother would hold were filled with beautiful robes and distinguished guests and dancing. Salazar, I miss the dancing,” he sighed off, shutting his eyes and smiling wryly. “Greg and Vince were pants at it, all the moves there but no coordination whatsoever.”

Harry grimaced. “Sounds pretty pureblood-y.”

“It was,” Malfoy conceded, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, Harry catching a sliver of pale hip bone and looking away quickly. “But it’s what I knew, being part of the Sacred 28 and all.”

“Sacred what?” Harry frowned.

“The Sacred 28,” the blond repeated, leaning against the wall next to Harry, so close he could smell the tobacco on Malfoy’s breath and that familiar mixture of citrus and baked goods, of a forest after the rain. “It’s a listing of only the purest families.”

Harry’s mind had to catch up, shaking his head with a short laugh. “That’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard. But I guess after seeing that tapestry back in Grimmauld it’s not all that surprising.”

Malfoy perked up. “Oh, am I on it?”

“Yeah. You look like a gnome,” Harry teased, earning himself a light thump on the shoulder for his trouble.

“I’ve been there you know,” Malfoy said, tipping his blond head to sit on the grimy wall. “When I was a child. Has it still got those awful elf heads?”

“First thing to go when I get back,” Harry said firmly. “That and the bloody troll foot.”

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Malfoy exclaimed softly. “I suppose I was too busy evading Great Aunt Walburga’s fingers, she was a cheek pincher,” he explained at Harry’s questioning gaze. “She also smelled of moth balls.”

Harry was stumped at the thought of Sirius’s mother, the woman who would scream out obscenities from her portrait, to have ever been the type to pinch children’s cheeks and smirked at the thought of Draco, as a child, doing his best to avoid her.

“Well, the smell remains,” Harry said.

Malfoy hummed under his breath and the two of them looked up at the night sky and its lonely looking moon.

“I think the stench of him will still be in the Manor.”

Without thinking, Harry found Malfoy’s hand and squeezed - before jumping just as quickly apart as Sophie’s head poked through the window leading out to their small sanctuary, her eyes bright and braids pulled up high into a bun.

“What are you two moping about?” she asked with a laugh, voice too loud in the quiet space they had created.  

“Nothing,” Malfoy replied, brushing past him, pushing Sophie’s head back through the window before climbing through gracefully, Harry clambering after him and back into the thriving club.

“You’ll ‘ave to help me get Leon ‘ome,” she yelled over the noise, one finger coming up to her ear and twirling it in the air as she pulled Draco through the crowd. “Ee’ eez starting to spout absolute nonsense.”

Roping Leon into leaving was not an easy feat, the man attempted to run off and lose himself in the streets of Paris while Cosette became increasingly annoyed and began speaking in angry, rapid French every time he made to dash away.

Malfoy wasn’t exactly helping, strolling along behind with another lit cigarette and one hand in his pocket while Sophie and Cosette tried to herd Leon down many streets, Harry hung back with Malfoy and meant to help, but the blond had shaken his head and pulled him back when he made to intervene.

“As ‘elpful as always,” Sophie spat at Malfoy as they pushed their addled friend through the doors of a building Harry could only assume was their home, the door swinging shut behind Cosette and Leon. 

“You could help put him to bed,” Malfoy said instead with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow.

Sophie grimaced, “I ‘ave done enough. Walk me ‘ome?”

She held Malfoy’s hand and swung it between them as they walked ahead, and Harry could not determine why he felt distinctly uncomfortable by it, like something heavy sitting on his chest.   

They parted ways after a few short blocks, Sophie kissing Malfoy firmly on both cheeks and then doing the same to Harry, who’s rising feeling of resentment softened instantly, before watching her bid them goodnight and skipping up the stairs of her own apartment.

Malfoy sighed and turned, back the way they had come before pausing to look over his shoulder at Harry who stood hesitantly on the sidewalk, knowing he was sober enough to apparate, and close enough to the Wizarding District that he could walk himself, but was hoping Malfoy would invite him back to his place all the same.

“Well?” Malfoy’s tone was light with amusement, his head canted slightly. “Are you coming then?”

Harry had enough time to nod before Malfoy turned back around to continue making his way down the empty Parisian street, Harry catching up with him in a few long strides and tucking his hands deep into the pockets of Sirius’s old jacket.

Waking in Malfoy’s flat the first time was one of the more surreal experiences Harry had been through, and that was counting the time Dobby had dropped a cake on Mrs Mason’s head, or watching Aunt Marge float through the sky of Surrey, or even the time he had, you know, died.

Waking up in Malfoy’s flat for the second time had also somehow made the list, residing somewhere between having found out he was a wizard and flying on the back of a hippogriff.

Malfoy seemed to be just as perturbed by the situation, lying still next to Harry as he had woken and staring up at the cracked ceiling, brow knitted in what looked like some thorough self-contemplation.   

“Morning,” Harry managed, words coming out more like an incoherent croak.

Malfoy hummed in response, dark blond lashes brushing against his cheeks as he turned slightly to stare at Harry who watched him carefully, silver gaze making him increasingly uncomfortable, body going warm.

“This is weird,” Harry murmured, grimacing slightly. “Right?”

“You’re doing a great job of not making it any weirder,” Malfoy retorted, rolling his eyes, and turning back to look up at the ceiling of the flat.  

They laid there for what felt like hours but was probably just a few minutes, sheets twisted around their legs and eyes gritty, listening to the sound of cars on the street below.

Harry broke the silence first.

“Coffee?”

They sat again at Malfoy’s small kitchen table, golden slices of toast and strawberry jam sitting between them as they picked up a piece each and slathered it red. The golden light of the morning filtered between the flimsy curtains, creating small rainbows against the shelf of glasses above the sink.

Harry wiped his hands against his trouser legs. “What time do you work?”

“I don’t,” Malfoy answered simply, moving a crust around his plate with one pointed finger. “I have the day off.”

“Oh.”

“Whatever are you to do now that you can’t haunt me in my place of work?” Malfoy asked, blond brow raised in question as Harry shifted on the chair, the wooden frame creaking slightly.

“Maybe sight-see a bit,” he replied slowly with a shrug, quickly thinking about the list of places Hermione had suggested. “I haven’t seen the Mona Lisa yet.”

Malfoy frowned, “The what?”

“You know, da Vinci,” Harry explained simply, taking in the growing confusion on Malfoy’s face. “The greatest artist of the renaissance? One of the most famous paintings in history?”

The blond shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling quickly.

“You’re telling me you’ve been living in Paris for the past year, and you’ve never once been to The Louvre?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“I’m not a bloody tourist though, am I?” Malfoy sneered, cheeks flushing pink. “Besides, I’m far too busy waiting tables to spend time in Muggle tourist traps.”  

Harry watched the other boy deflate, avoiding his green gaze by turning his face to stare out the window instead, his lips pressed firmly together. Harry looked away from Malfoy’s sharp profile, taking a sip from the cold instant coffee he had made before steeling himself.

“Want to come with me?”

Harry bought the tickets, though Malfoy was the one who spoke to the man through the booth in fluent French, watching the transaction of euros with a finely raised eyebrow.

“I invited you,” was all Harry said at the questioning glance as he took the ticket stubs. “I pay.”

The return of the flush on Malfoy’s skin was worth the extra ticket, and Harry noticed the colour managed to spread to the back of his neck as he led the way into the museum, pamphlet in hand. Harry rather liked seeing Malfoy flustered.

The chamber holding Leonardo da Vinci’s infamous work was crowded with tourists, cameras held high above heads to get a shot of the still woman. Harry’s shoulder was mashed against Malfoy’s own as they made their way to the front barricade to stare at the famous portrait.

“It’s smaller than I thought,” Harry announced after a moment.

“I don’t understand how this is supposed to be one of the most famous artworks in the Muggle world,” Malfoy complained quietly, looking around at the mass of crowds trying to get closer to the small portrait. “It doesn’t even move.”

“It’s a bit underwhelming,” Harry said, chuckling at Malfoy’s plain scepticism.

Malfoy’s frown only grew as he stared resolutely at the painting, as though studying every brushstroke. Harry shouldn’t have found it so endearing, and yet here he was, next to Draco Malfoy wondering idly that it was around this time last year Malfoy was sitting in a holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry, awaiting trial. Back when Harry found sanctuary in Sirius’s old room and avoided his friends’ owls.

“Where are her eyebrows?”

The question broke Harry from his sudden reminiscing and dropped him back into the present, he looked to Malfoy whose indignation for the supposed popularity of the piece had continued to grow while Harry was mentally absent.

He looked back to the portrait and thought he rather liked the way the eyebrow-less woman smirked back at him.

He shrugged instead. “Dunno.”

Malfoy was insistent on looking around every crevice of the gallery, looking rather impressed by the room filled with golden gilded ceilings, and had even made a hum of approval when spying the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Harry drifted away every time Draco made to read the plaques, which he seemed to do for every piece, leaving Harry to sit on the benches around each hall as he did so.

They stopped in at one of the attached gift shops after what had to be hours of wandering the many rooms of The Louvre. Harry nabbed a postcard with the Mona Lisa’s likeness, and after much deliberation, Malfoy chose a magnet which did much the same despite his vocal disparaging of the painting.

They grabbed sandwiches from a small kiosk in the gardens close by and ate silently, watching the sun fall in the sky as they lay in the shade of tall trees for a while, letting their legs rest before taking another stroll down the Seine, and this was what Harry imagined a successful date would feel like, if that was what Malfoy and he were on.

Which they weren’t.

They were close to the Wizarding district and Malfoy must have realised as he paused mid-step before falling back slightly, looking rather disturbed by the proximity to the Wizarding Quarter.

Harry grimaced, “My hotel is-” 

“I’m at the café tomorrow,” the blond cut off quickly, looking away as Harry turned wide eyes to him.

“Alright,” he said in response.

Malfoy nodded shortly, mouth opening slightly before choosing to swallow whatever words he was going to impart, instead he turned and made to stride away as fast as he could.

Away from Harry who continued to watch after him, heart racing and voice catching before bursting forth.

“Hey, Draco!” Harry yelled, making Malfoy pause and turn slightly back to him, grey eyes wide, whether from the sudden loud vocalisation or the use of his first name, or perhaps a mixture of both, Harry couldn’t determine, instead he smiled and raised a hand. “See you tomorrow.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment more, before rolling his eyes.

“No shit, Potter,” he yelled back, raising a hand hesitantly before using it to run through his hair, a grin quirking his lips before he turned away, once again, to depart.

Harry leant against the railing for a long time after that before making his way back to his hotel and penning another postcard to Ron and Hermione, letting them know he was staying in Paris, for just a bit longer.  

“What is that?”

Harry looked up with a small grin as Draco slid into the chair opposite, chewing on a bright green macaron and looking confused by the object Harry was currently spinning around in one hand.

“It’s a camera,” Harry replied, shaking the plastic device.

Draco snorted in disbelief, as though Harry were pulling his leg, “No, it’s not.”

“It’s a disposable,” he said, laughing at the growing confusion knitting Malfoy’s brow. “Just a Muggle thing.”

“I gathered that,” the blond replied, annoyance evident in his tone.

“It’s only got one roll of film in it, and once you take enough pictures and get it developed, the camera is thrown away. Single use thing,” Harry explained with a shrug.

“Seems a bit wasteful.”

“Yeah, handy though,” Harry agreed with a small smile down at the camera. “The Dursleys always used a proper one when they went on holidays.”

Malfoy frowned. “Dursleys?”

“My aunt and uncle. And my cousin Dudley,” he tacked on quickly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at the change in topic.

Draco hummed, spinning one of the silver dampeners around on his slender wrist, “Do you see them anymore?”

“No,” Harry replied with an uneasy shrug. “I don’t think I’ll ever see them again.”

“But… They’re your family.”

“They had a funny way of showing it,” he shifted uneasily, not meeting Draco’s penetrating gaze. “There’s no love lost between me and the Dursleys.”

There was a dent in Draco’s brow, but he dropped the subject and leant back in the chair, finishing off the rest of his macaron, and Harry felt the pang of something he could only discern was a craving.

“So why the camera?”

“I forgot Hermione packed it in my case,” he answered, spinning the camera around on the tabletop. “She wanted me to take some photos, show her where I’ve been and all. So far there should be pictures of the Pyramid of Giza, the beaches in Lagos, loads of churches and ruins, and a funny looking dog I saw in Munich.”

“Fascinating,” Malfoy said, though his tone said it was anything but. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’ve taken photos of things that you could easily get on postcards but hold no real insight into your trip whatsoever?”

“And a funny looking dog,” Harry corrected with a nod.

“How could I forget?”

“You won’t when I get this developed,” he picked up the camera and started spinning the wheel with the pad of his thumb to wind up the film. “It will haunt you.”

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, almost knocking his chair over as he stood when Harry pointed the camera at him, hands coming up quickly to cover his face. “Absolutely not. ”

Harry laughed, lowering the camera slightly. “But the pink of your apron brings out the flush in your-”

“Shut it,” Malfoy said, hands dropping and looking practically venomous when the flash went off in his stunned face. “You utter bas-,”

“Perfect,” Harry interrupted, stuffing the camera back into his bag just as the blond moved forward to grab at it. Jabbing one long finger in Harry’s face, close enough he had to recoil slightly.   

“You’re never to show it to anyone, understand?”

“Private collection,” Harry promised, and felt his face heat as soon as he said it, though judging by the pink reaching the top of Draco’s ears he was not the only one affected by the sentiment. The blond sniffed delicately, proceeding to pick up the empty plates and cups from the table.

“We’re going out tonight,” he said firmly, silver gaze settling on Harry’s own, still looking ruffled.  

“Alright,” Harry agreed without a moment’s hesitation.  

On Draco’s next day off they took a train to Versailles, and even though he wouldn’t admit it, Harry was certain the other boy was excited by the prospect, nattering away about Louis XIV and how he practically drove the French to poverty in his goal to create the perfect palace for himself.

“It’s said that they kept the water fountains off unless he was wandering through the gardens,” the blond explained as they walked up the long strip of road towards the palace, its golden gates glinting in the early morning light. “And then whenever he’d pass by, they would quickly turn it on, and then when he moved on, they just turned them off again, because it was too expensive otherwise to have water running so freely.”

“Birds of a bloody feather,” Harry muttered, avoiding Draco’s piercing glare after having delivered a stellar retelling of the Sun King’s need for oranges year-round.

They spent the morning wandering around the palace grounds and staring at still portraits, commenting on the overuse of florals in some of the quarters reserved for the consorts and ladies of court, and staring up, wide-eyed in the Hall of Mirrors where Harry even managed to take another picture of Malfoy staring up at the many crystal chandeliers lining the narrow gallery with his disposable.

He shot an unimpressed look at Harry as he stowed the camera back into his satchel which Harry plainly ignored with an innocent little smile.

When Harry got back to his hotel later that afternoon there was a letter waiting for him from Hermione on the small desk by the window of his suite, Pigwidgeon sitting on the sill and twittering at him until he got a few treats out from his luggage to offer him.

She wrote of her surprise, as she rather thought Harry might not have taken so much to the Parisian lifestyle, went into a lengthy analysis of what was keeping him there, before signing off with how glad she was that he had taken an interest in local culture.

Ron’s short scrawl was beneath it, bluntly implying that Harry had found a French girl who was keeping him occupied, before signing off with a simple, ‘We miss you’.  

The words shouldn’t have affected him as much as they had, and yet Harry found himself lying flat on his back and staring into space.

‘Reckon you must’ve found a French bird…’

Harry’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as he thought of all the girls that had continued to approach him back at the clubs, the girls in Florence with their obvious smiles, the girl in Austria who had backed him against a wall before giving him a messy snog. He thought of the way he would pull away from their attentions and avoid looking at them dead on, murmuring apologies before fleeing to his hotel room.

Of course he found girls attractive. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have made such a big clown of himself going after Cho or laying his sights on Ginny. He had managed a few successful snogging sessions and not much else, beyond Ginny once getting him off with a palm over the crotch of his trousers between Potions and Transfiguration classes in sixth year.

The one attempt at doing more had ended in the complete disintegration of any relationship they could have built.

He thought maybe the war had broken him, left him too deep in despair to find satisfaction in the arms of another. He sighed out and stared blindly up at the ceiling, wishing it were cracked and as flawed as he felt.

And then he thought of Malfoy.

Thought about the way Malfoy looked at him, rings of grey slate framed by dark lashes, blond hair falling over his forehead in a soft cursive wave, lips pressed together in a petulant pout. All angles and slender waist, wide shoulders, and prominent collarbone, and unmistakably male.

Heat pooled in Harry at the thought of Draco sitting a short distance across from him, sharing toast and jam and bad instant coffee. Blond hair closer to white, ruffled from tossing in his sleep beside Harry, sitting in his small flat with its cracked ceiling, flaking paintwork and leaky faucet, and Harry began to feel warm the more he thought about him alone in his flat, maybe thinking about Harry the way he was thinking about Draco.

He took a long shower and wanked for the first time in a while, thoughts circling around one figure with its sharp cheekbones and sharper words, lips pressing around the filter of a cigarette and blowing smoke straight into Harry’s face. He came with a grunt, letting the water pound against his back and wash away the physical remnants of his fantasy.

And he realised, with increasingly chest-aching dread, that he was certifiably fucked. 

Malfoy, for all his faults, was not an idiot, and despite the dawning light-bulb moment Harry had suffered from the climax of his orgasm, it wasn’t enough to stop him from haunting the tables of La Petite Patisserie .

Every time Harry caught his gaze, he felt the firm flush of embarrassment fill him, turning away to stare resolutely out the window, or down at whatever sweet Draco had deigned to treat him to that day. He was less responsive to his questions, murmuring vague answers that had the blond sporting a perpetual scowl whenever he looked over at Harry’s lurking figure.

“Enough,” the blond had said after the third consecutive day of Harry’s sudden change in mood. “We’re going out.”

The club they went to was close to the Arc de Triomphe, filled with youthful locals and foreigners. The DJ filled the cavernous insides of the space with modern pop that had everyone singing, though Harry was unfamiliar with most of it having most of his musical taste rely heavily on whatever was playing on the wireless in the Gryffindor common room.

Sophie plied everyone with shots before dragging them out to dance, and Harry once again had to rely on his steady inebriation to allow his body to move in time to the music. Draco was all long limbs and slender hips, dancing up close to Sophie who gave just as good as she got.

And Harry knew for certain that what he was feeling was, without a doubt, seething jealousy.

Draco caught his eye, raising an eyebrow in question and Harry had to school his face into something more pleasant, but still had Malfoy sliding away from Sophie and coming up close, skin glistening under the bright, flashing lights.

“What’s wrong, Potter?”

Harry shook his head, body unable to move until Malfoy grabbed for his hand and dragged him away from the throng of people, from his friends who had just taken their little pills and from the flashing lights that had his head spinning. All he felt was Malfoy’s hand in his own.

Draco found him a glass of water and shoved it into his hand. Harry gulped it down quickly, finding himself completely parched. “Thanks.”

“You haven’t taken anything, have you?” Malfoy asked clearly, taking him into a quieter corner. “Leon didn’t slip you anything?”

Harry shook his head, looking down at a discarded and torn packet that had at one point housed a condom going by its size. He startled slightly when Malfoy placed the back of his hand against his forehead, under his fringe and over his scar.

“I can’t tell whether you’re feverish or not,” Draco said, bottom lip pouting out slightly. “We’ve been dancing, but you do look rather pale-,”

“I- I think I should go home,” Harry cut him off, feeling himself go even warmer under the attention.

Draco blinked, looking back to the dancefloor, biting at his bottom lip, and then looking back at Harry who was doing his best to avoid the probing gaze.

“Alright then,” Malfoy said with a sigh, grabbing Harry’s hand again and pulling him towards the exit.

“You can stay,” Harry protested, feeling instantly guilty that he was ruining Malfoy’s night. The blond frowned at him over his shoulder, moving steadily through the partygoers with an impressive speed that had Harry stumbling.

“Nonsense,” Draco replied firmly, and pulled him out into the night.

Halfway back to Draco’s flat it began to rain.

Draco was still holding on to his hand as they ran to the nearest striped awning above a closed restaurant door, just enough for two people to stand under and take shelter from the sudden downpour of summer rain. 

“Fantastic,” Malfoy sighed, hair drenched a dark gold and raindrops falling into his eyes.

“I could-,” Harry offered, miming a wand movement but Draco quickly shut him down with a shake of his head and huddled closer to him, hands crossed over his thin shirt which had gone see-through from the rain.

“It’s all a part of the muggle experience, besides, it’s just a shower. It’ll lift soon.”

Harry nodded, taking off his fogged-up glasses to rub between his own wet shirt before sliding them back onto his nose.

“Sorry I ruined your night,” he offered after a moment, rain still pounding against the pavement around them.

“You didn’t ruin anything, you’re obviously in a strop about something,” Draco replied carelessly, looking at Harry from the corner of his eyes.

“We didn’t say goodbye.”

Malfoy clucked his tongue and shrugged. “They’re not the type to care.” 

“I like your friends.”

“I think you should also count them as your own now, Potter.”

Harry returned the shrug. “Are we friends then?”

Draco turned to look at him this time, face rather close to his own, breath misting a bit from the sudden humidity. “I don’t know Potter, are we?”

Harry swallowed. “Why do I have to say it?”

“Less to lose,” Malfoy replied quietly, and Harry’s stomach dropped when his flinty gaze flickered down to his lips.

Harry licked at them, and Draco’s gaze turned darker as Harry turned to incoherent goo, feeling rather like he’d taken a blow to the head from a Troll’s club when he uttered the damnable words-

“I like you.”

“Alright,” Malfoy replied, crowding him against the door to the closed restaurant, leg coming in between his own with a smooth movement.

“We’re friends,” Harry managed before Draco closed the distance.

“Alright,” he breathed again before his lips landed lightly on Harry’s own, as soft as the brush of a snowflake against the skin and Harry melted.

One of his hands instantly came up to thread through strands of blond hair, while Draco’s own moved up to cup at his jaw, the kiss turning from soft to intense within a matter of seconds. The tips of their tongues running along the seam of lips to allow entry, to slide into the damp warmth of each other’s mouths.

Harry pulled him closer, one hand tangled in wet hair and the other fisting and stretching the thin cloth of Draco’s shirt, before moving to slide under, to map the damp skin of his waist as Malfoy groaned into his mouth-

Before being drenched by a wave of water from a passing car running through the flooded gutter. 

“Son of a bitch,” Draco yelled, jumping back slightly and scowling as the car disappeared around a corner. He looked rather like a disgruntled wet cat, frowning when Harry had the audacity to laugh, having been mostly shielded from the wave by Draco’s form hovering over him.

“You kiss all your friends like that?” Draco asked, eyes changing from flinty grey to something warm, looking Harry up and down and pausing on his reddened, swollen lips, moving close once again to trap the bottom between his teeth and nip at it lightly.

“Only if they’re pretty,” Harry managed with a wry smirk and Draco’s eyes glittered in the lamplight.

“Just me then.”

Moving back in to capture his lips and tangle his own fingers in the dark mess of Harry’s hair, he pulled slightly to tilt his head and grant him a better angle, and Harry shuddered, losing themselves once again as they huddled underneath the striped awning.

They were unaware when the rain finally stopped.  

Draco’s shirt was the first thing to go as they stumbled through the door of his flat.

He had to peel the wet material off his skin to reveal his slender figure, nipples hard against the sudden chill as Harry’s fingers came up to touch, Draco moaning deeply into his mouth as he traced along the scar that followed from collarbone to hip, the one from his armpit that disappeared under his belt.

He should have felt bad about them, but the guilt fled just as quickly once Draco groaned deliciously against the attention to them, scrabbling to rid Harry of his own damp shirt, pulling it out from under his belt and barely managing to separate their mouths to get it over Harry’s head.

His glasses fell to the floor along with the shirt, and Harry couldn’t find the energy to protest when Malfoy’s lips found his once again before moving down to litter his jaw with small licks and nips, making Harry’s legs fill with jelly as they stumbled onto the mattress, kicking off their shoes and tripping over them as they did so.

Draco made quick work of Harry’s jeans, peeling them off his legs to reveal the black cotton of his boxers, cock straining against the material.

Harry’s body jerked upwards when Draco leant down and nuzzled his face against the bulge, inhaling  with a grin, silver eyes glittering in the lamplight directly up at Harry who stared down at him before tipping his head back onto the mattress as Malfoy mouthed over the clothed tip of his cock. He crossed both arms over his face, his hips arching upwards until Malfoy’s hands came to press them firmly back into the mattress.

Harry shuddered as Draco’s thumbs found the waistband of his boxers, dipping under to touch the skin dipping into his pelvis.

“Please,” he gasped out, arms falling to his sides after another thorough nuzzle.

“Move,” Draco told him breathily, removing his hands to shove at him slightly, urging Harry’s body to wriggle up the mattress until the back of his head found a pillow. He quickly stuffed it under his head so he could view Malfoy as he traced long fingers back under his boxers and began to peel them over his thighs and bent knees, moving back to roll them over his calves and off his feet, throwing the article carelessly to the side and spreading Harry’s legs once again to move into the V of them, breath cool on his overheated skin.

“A few rules,” Draco said, tongue flicking out to lick the pearl of liquid forming from the tip of his cock, one hand finding the base of it and squeezing gently, making his legs tremble and his back arch slightly once again. “Keep your hips down.”

Harry squeaked as Malfoy licked up the side of his entire length, other hand pinching at his hip in warning.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

Harry wordlessly summoned his glasses, cramming them onto his face as soon as they flew into his outstretched hand, and looked directly into grey orbs that glittered up at him in unconcealed hunger.

“Good boy,” Malfoy said with a shiver, taking the head of his cock in between his lips and giving it a swift suck as Harry swore, fighting the urge to lift his hips, to go deeper into the damp warmth of Malfoy’s mouth was tempting him with, the muscles in his stomach clenched and his obliques were burning as he fought the urge to twist.

“And lastly,” Malfoy breathed, blowing on the bulbous head, squeezing the base again. “Be as vocal as you like.”

And with that last titbit, Draco’s lips engulfed him fully, sinking down to where the two fingers and thumb encircled his length, warmth immediately embracing Harry and making him groan, Malfoy’s cheeks hollowed out and sucked at him with delight, his own moan vibrating against the sensitive skin in his mouth and making Harry have to fight back the urge to come right there and then.

“Shit,” Harry hissed as Draco bobbed his head, cock throbbing as the fingers encircling his length left to fondle at his heavy balls, sliding delicately along the skin of them, tugging gently at them. “ Shit. Malfoy-”

The tip of Malfoy’s nose was almost buried in the dark thatch of hair covering skin, grey eyes flickered up to him with pupils blown black. Draco’s other hand reached for Harry’s, the one fisting the cotton sheets, and led it to the top of his blond head where Harry instantly threaded his fingers through the silky blond strands and pulled.

Malfoy moaned, eyes fluttering shut as Harry fought the mounting urge of release, tried instead to imprint the image of Draco between his legs, lips covering Harry’s cock, hand tangled in his hair, setting the pace of his bobbing head as his hips ground the mattress between Harry’s socked feet.

He didn’t last much longer, but the key to his climax was found when one of Draco’s fingers braved the passage from under his balls and across the skin of his perineum, delving into the crevice and letting a single finger rub a small circle around the furled, pucker of skin found there.

He came with a shout, fingers in Malfoy’s head tugging him off urgently, coming straight into Draco’s face.

“Sorry, sorry!” he managed as his orgasm shot through him, letting go of Malfoy who moved his wandering hand back to Harry’s cock and pumped the rest of his release out until he was nothing but a quivering mess, covered in his own warm fluids.

“You didn’t get it in my eyes, it’s fine,” Draco replied in light amusement, wiping the remnants of Harry’s climax off his cheeks with one digit, before sucking it into his mouth and chuckling when Harry groaned, arms coming up to shield his flaming face. “Having fun yet, Potter?”

“Shut up,” Harry grunted back as Malfoy removed himself from between his legs and lay next to him.

He removed his arms to find Draco’s face extremely close, close enough to immediately pull him into another kiss, tasting himself on Draco’s tongue and finding his cock twitching again in interest, despite having just shot a load all over himself and Draco’s face.

Harry was ashamed to realise Malfoy’s own cock had been horribly neglected and wished to remedy it, his hand coming down to unbuckle the leather of his belt and pull it away from the linen, dropping it to the side of the bed. He slapped Draco’s hand away as he went to undo the button.

“I’m going to do it,” he complained, blushing when it came out sounding rather petulant, but it made Malfoy laugh so he figured the embarrassment was worth the reaction.

“What are you going to do, exactly?” Malfoy asked, effortlessly polite.

“What-,” Harry frowned as he unzipped the trousers and pushed them down over Malfoy’s milky white thighs, his brain stuttering, “what- ahh..”

“You can do it Potter,” the blond teased, voice breathy as Harry stared down at the sight he offered, sizable cock straining against white briefs, begging for its release. “Use your words.”

Harry’s hand pressed against the bulge, a damp patch spreading against the cotton as Malfoy pushed back against the pressure.

“I can-,” Harry licked his lips, “I can suck you off.”

Malfoy groaned into the junction of his shoulder and bit down, making Harry’s eyes flutter shut against the sting of his sharp teeth.

“I’m likely to come directly into your mouth as soon as you breathe on it,” Draco said, tongue lathering over the bitten skin, hand coming up to direct Harry’s face to his own and nipping at his bottom lip, nose knocking against his glasses as he tugged gently upwards. “Just a hand will do.”

Harry nodded eagerly. “I can do that.”

His hand dipped under the band of cotton, fingers wrapping around Draco’s cock, the difference from his own obvious in his hand, yet the weight was familiar. Hot, velvety soft skin dragged against the callouses on his palms making Draco hiss.

“Use this,” Draco said, removing Harry’s hand to drag along his own cooling release still on his stomach. “Or accio my lube. This is quicker.”

Harry smeared his hand around his stomach before plunging it back into Malfoy’s pants, easily gliding it over his length, thumb rubbing into the tip where Draco’s come mixed with his own, both of them jerking closer at the action till Harry’s hand was trapped between both their hips, his spent dick having the audacity to twitch in interest again.

He jacked Draco off like he would do to himself, thumb drifting to rub at the frenulum, which had Draco moaning wantonly, hips thrusting up into his fist as their lips met again, snogging while Malfoy’s fingers dug into his biceps and the other into his waist, pulling him closer.

Malfoy came with a heavy shudder, gasping against Harry’s mouth as he rode out his orgasm, wet warmth spreading over Harry’s hand, between his fingers and onto Malfoy’s stomach, continuing to pump at it until Malfoy’s hand encircled his wrist and pulled it gently away, all the while making sure his lips didn’t leave Harry’s.

“Feel free to wave your hand and clean us up,” Draco sighed into his mouth, the mess on their skin starting to dry and go tacky. Harry did just that with a twitch of his hand, the spell leaving patches of their skin red and irritable.

“And the sheets,” Draco added with a scowl, and Harry hurriedly twitched his hand again.

They fell asleep curled against each other, exhausted and spent. And satisfied, Harry thought as sleep beckoned him into its embrace, Draco’s fingers interlaced with his own and resting on his hip. Extremely satisfied.

Harry was awash in a forgotten contentment he had not felt since long before the war.

A moment from when the sight of scarlet red drapes greeted him in the boy’s dormitory of Gryffindor House. Some forgotten Sunday morning, if there had ever been one. Perhaps the idea of waking in a bed of his own, unhindered by some great dark force trying its best to see his death, was simply just a fantasy he had crafted to have some semblance of normalcy.

Some fantasy that he was just like every other boy, where the only dilemma available was a forgotten essay or a pimple on the end of one’s nose. Spending their Hogwarts years trying to get their pash’s attention in the awkward ways teenagers did, with brushes in the hallway and bad flirting and pretty charms. Watching them intently from across the Great Hall and averting their gaze when they dared to look back.

Harry frowned against the light creeping in through the window, groaning slightly as he turned onto his side and smashed his face against the pillow, sighing out-loud and startling when a foot kicked at his naked calf under the sheets, followed by a grumpy mutter from his bed mate.

He opened his eyes to find winter grey glaring at him through narrowed slits, annoyance already plain on Malfoy’s face at having been woken. Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the way Draco, once again, looked like a disturbed, disgruntled cat.

“Hey,” Harry greeted softly.

“Hello,” Draco croaked back, his voice a bit rough around the edges. Heat pooled south when Harry quickly realised the reason for that. He hid a grin, pressing the side of his face deeper into the pillow as his cheeks flamed.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, reaching out to tug at a dark strand of his hair, pushing it behind the ear not currently mushed against the pillow before flicking at the lobe and letting his fingers rest on the side of his neck. 

“Who knew?” Harry pondered aloud after staring at each other for a moment longer, eyes tracking features, lingering on lips and across the small bruises littering each other’s jawlines.

“Can’t say all the stalking didn’t clue me in,” Draco replied wryly. “Do you regret it?”

“Not at all,” Harry replied quickly, before frowning just as Malfoy’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip. “Why, do you?”

“No,” Malfoy spared him a soft, unimpressed look, “you utter idiot.”

Harry released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding onto, and despite the insult, he felt relief soar through him.

“So, what now?”

Malfoy shrugged, thumb dragging over Harry’s bottom lip and down his chin.

“We could stare awkwardly at each other till one of us figures it out.”

Harry nodded. “We could do that.”

It was at that moment one of their stomachs gave a mighty rumble and judging by the pink flush brushing across Draco’s cheeks, pointy face screwing up in annoyance, it wasn’t Harry’s making such a fuss.

“Or I could make breakfast?” Harry offered, a grin creeping onto his lips.

“The least you could do,” Draco muttered, lifting himself up from the shared mattress with a groan and another rumble of his stomach. “Bloody freeloader.”  

There’s a routine to their days, two boys lost in the haze of a hot summer.

They spent most of their time tangled between the sheets of Malfoy’s bed and exploring one another, fingertips scaling and charting out the planes and dips of their bodies like cartographers to their maps.

The other part of summer he spent sitting by the window that the other servers at La Petite Patisserie had come to know as Harry’s Table. He started bringing books, crosswords, and puzzles, or else a magazine to flick through, while whiling away the hours until Draco could join him, pastry in hand and coffee hot.

And then they would leave together, walk the pavements of Paris, ride the metro a few stops to his flat and sink back into the clean sheets that Harry had started cleaning with a flick of his wand, saving Draco the trip to the laundromat down the street.

The hotel in the Magical Quarter became all but useless to him as he spent most of the nights with Draco who never seemed to complain about the sudden full-time schedule of his presence. Harry made sure to stock his fridge in return, preparing full English breakfasts that made Draco grin, the smell of sizzling bacon and sausages, of saucy beans and brown toast, making the blond practically fly from his mattress to the kitchen table.

Other days they sampled cheeses from a fromagerie Harry found a few blocks over, goats’ cheese and honeyed figs a combination Harry had never thought to sample but that quickly became a favourite of his.

He started taking Draco on day trips out of Paris, to Giverny where they wandered through Monet’s famous gardens, standing on bridges to view waterlilies bobbing on the surface of large ponds.

On another day they took a lengthy train journey to visit the tidal island of Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy, which ended with Draco falling asleep against him, French countryside speeding past for the two-hour trip home, one hand interlaced with Harry’s own.

They visited new bars and pubs along with Sophie and Cosette, and Leon, finding the darkest corners to snog against graffitied walls, to push against the door of a loo and get each other off in quick thrusts, in his mouth or Draco’s, with a firm hand sticky from spilled vodka and orange juice, their Muggle friends too oblivious and high to even imagine what they’re up to when they disappear from the dancefloors.

It didn’t take long for Draco to fuck him properly.

All it took was Harry pushing against him one mid-summer night and goading the blond to ‘fuck me’ before he was tossed onto all fours with one slick digit pressed inside him. The intrusion felt strange until it didn’t, especially when Draco had curled two fingers, their tips brushing against the bundle of nerves. The sensation had him arching his back like a cat in heat and begging through stuttered breath for Malfoy’s cock.

It hurt at first, the burn of Malfoy’s tip around his stretched hole, and Harry had to brace himself against the skirting board because Malfoy was too cheap to invest in a bedhead, his fingers scrabbling against the small edging as he told Draco just that through burning eyes. It had earned him a smart smack to one cheek, and somehow caused his flagging erection to spring back to life.

It had taken a fair few moments for the pleasure to start again, but soon enough Draco began fucking into him with reckless abandon, Harry’s cock bouncing against his own stomach leaving wet brushstrokes against skin. Malfoy had taken him in hand and pumped him through an orgasm, following Harry soon after with a high whining sound against his neck.

Harry had been sore in the morning so they had eaten leftover pastries on the mattress, their mugs of coffee on the floor.

Malfoy was a prickly little git about being fucked. Domineering and quick to throw Harry on his back instead, proceeding to ride his dick like a jockey to his champion horse the moment Harry had taken too long of a second to pick up the pace per Draco’s demands.

He had let him take the reigns until Malfoy was at the precipice of his climax before twisting them back over, his hips snapping against Draco’s ass cheeks, his ankles locked somewhere above Harry’s neck, until they both lay slumped and tangled together, their chests heaving and covered in Malfoy’s come.

They had a bowl of yoghurt and berries in the morning, and Draco looked so thoroughly blissed out Harry never wanted to see him any differently. He would keep him like this forever if he could, never to leave the flat with its cracked ceiling and flaking paint.    

It was one particular night, at the end of July, that Harry couldn't sleep.

He had gone back to the Wizarding Quarter for the first time in what must have been close to a fortnight, a pile of letters and parcels greeting him on the desk closest to the window.

He spent most of the day working his way through the pile of well-wishes and gifts, and a far too large amount of ‘when are you coming home?’ notes.

He found his mood swiftly declining, to the point that when he went to join Draco later that afternoon the blond had become noticeably quiet, recognising the warning sign of dark clouds hovering over Harry’s head.

Instead of making him talk about it, or falling back onto pointy barbs to bait him into a reaction, he had taken Harry’s hand in his own, thumb grounding into skin as they stood close on the Metro, leaning against each other as the carriage swayed. 

It had been almost a year since he left.

“A whole year?” he recalled asking Hermione, standing opposite one another in the sitting room of Grimmauld, a snow globe in one hand and luggage in his other.

It had seemed so impossible then, and now…

Now he tossed and turned, on the clean sheets of Draco Malfoy’s bed, an itch under his skin and mind too full to even consider sleep.

It was on his dozenth rotation that Malfoy had finally turned over with a big sigh and glowered at him through bleary eyes.

“What?”   

“Sorry,” Harry replied, feeling both guilty that he’d woken Draco up, and partially pleased he wasn’t suffering through his restlessness alone, “Can’t sleep.”

Draco stared at him for a second longer, before dragging a hand slowly down his face and nodding.

“Alright, get up Potter,” he demanded gruffly, pushing himself off the mattress and onto wobbly legs. His back audibly cracking as he stretched his arms upwards, body elongating into a slender line of white skin that had Harry’s cock twitching as the pale orbs of Malfoy’s ass seemed to glow from the lamplight outside the flat, almost like the fucking moon was in the room.

Draco twisted around to stare down at him, scowling as Harry stared up at him in awe.

“Did I stammer? Stop gawking and get the fuck up. I don’t have all night.”

They dressed in the dark and left the flat. Paris was eerily quiet in the early morning, they made their way to La Petite Patisserie, the streets empty enough for them to walk, undeterred by pedestrian lights, seeing as the last train was done for the night. The walk was long but at the same time brisk, Draco’s hand in his own was enough to keep his mind from drifting too much.

“Bit early for a shift,” Harry said when Draco took out his ring of keys and stepped up to the side door of the patisserie.

“For the baristas, yes,” the blond agreed with a smirk. “But the bakers? They started a half hour ago.”

He led Harry into the kitchens, passing him a pink apron from one of the hooks close to the wash station. There was already a man and a woman occupying the large space, rolling out uncooked dough and speaking loudly in French over a radio that sat on one of the many work benches.

Draco moved to converse in quick French with the woman who then smiled back at Harry once Malfoy had pointed his way before coming to some sort of agreement.

Draco moved to sit at a stool surrounding the area where the male pastry chef had begun to envelope a large block of butter into an even larger block of dough. Harry hopped onto the stool next to him and watched in interest, Draco tying the apron strings at his back into a neat bow and doing the same for Harry.

“What are we watching?” he asked after a few minutes of watching the chef roll out thin layers of dough before folding it back in on itself repeatedly. 

“It’s called laminating,” Draco explained with a grin. “Combining the dough and butter together, thus creating an equal distribution of thin layers throughout the croissant. When it bakes the layers will melt and create steam, which then creates the flakiness of the texture.”

Harry blinked back at him in mild surprise. “You know a lot about croissants.”

“You’re not the only one who has sleepless nights,” Malfoy replied, nudging him slightly before turning back to watch the pastry chef craft his croissants, sharp knife cutting into soft dough to shape out triangles, rolling them up to a shape more familiar to the crescent of a buttery croissant.

They watched in silence as he loaded four trays of the uncooked pastries into the oven before turning to Draco and saying something that had Malfoy grinning back and getting off his stool.

“He’s letting us make our own,” Draco explained, pulling over a lump of leftover dough. “On the deal that I have to clean the station and all his shit afterwards.”

They rolled out their dough side by side and cut it into triangles, Harry’s coming out too short on one side like a scalene, and Malfoy’s too narrow. They attempted to smother their sudden case of giggles, trying not to disturb the chefs concentrating on the other side of the kitchens, and folded up their little monstrosities before popping them into the oven along with the masterpieces.

Harry was placed on washing duty while Draco flitted about with a cloth, placing items back into their designated spots around the kitchen and into their drawers. The pastry chef gave them their tray of croissants with a raised brow, plainly judging the lumpy forms and rolled his eyes, muttering in French as they burst into another fit of laughter.

They ate behind the counter of the dark shop, the light from the kitchen the only thing illuminating the space as they tore into their croissants, the tips of their fingers burning from the hot butter. He watched Draco for just a second too long, enough for the Slytherin to recognise the look for what it was. A signal that Harry was ready to rid himself of some weight.

“What? ” the blond asked, sucking a finger into his mouth and raising a brow.  

Harry shrugged, looking away from Malfoy’s piercing gaze and staring instead at the hollow of his throat, the dip that followed and spread into a prominent collarbone.

“It’s my birthday.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly before he hummed thoughtfully, looking down at his plate and tearing apart his croissant in pinches. “Would you like me to sing?”

“No, that’s-,” Harry started to protest, but Draco was already singing, moving closer and offering a morsel of pastry between his fingers.

“Joyeux anniversaire,” he sang, voice lilting up as he pressed the croissant against Harry’s lips, not letting up until Harry opened his mouth to take the offering. “Joyeux anniversaire.” He pressed another segment of croissant into Harry’s mouth, sniggering when Harry made a small sound of protest.

“Quit-,” he tried from a mouth full of pastry, groaning when Malfoy lifted yet another bit to his lips with a determined nod and a shit-eating grin.

“Joyeux anniversaire ‘Arrrrry,” he continued to sing, elongating his name for a few seconds as he pressed the flaky pastry in, Harry unable to chew or swallow as he smothered his laughter, his cheeks full of croissant. “Joyeux anniversaire.”

Malfoy finished it off with a small huff, before leaning in to kiss Harry lightly on buttery lips, tongue lingering against the bottom before pulling away.

Harry shook his head.  

“You’re an asshole,” he mumbled, trying to chew his way through the croissant to free his mouth for more snogging.

Draco grinned. “Still sad?”

Harry licked his lips, staring into Malfoy’s knowing eyes. “Thank you.”

“I’m a fabulous distraction,” Draco sighed, removing his apron, hair tousling with its removal. He yawned widely. “Think you could sleep now?” 

They caught the first metro back home, the hint of dawn starting to lighten the early morning sky.

They tumbled straight into bed once reaching the flat, Harry instantly curling around Malfoy’s back. Exhaustion seemed to wash over him like he’d been suddenly doused in a bath of Dreamless Sleep.

“Draco?” he managed, even as his eyes fought against him.

The blond sighed tiredly next to him, fondness creeping through, “Yes?”

Harry bit his lip and pulled him in closer, face burying in the nape of Draco’s neck.

“What did you do for your birthday?”

Malfoy scoffed, and Harry could feel his eyes roll.

“Some proper wanker took me to see Versailles.”

Harry smiled, kissing the back of Malfoy’s neck lightly and breathing in the citrus and cedar, before letting sleep quickly take him.  

There were things they talked about.

Paris for one was a safe subject.

They explored it together whenever Draco had a day off, or the nightlife with his group of friends who’d all seemed to clue into the new nature of their relationship. Sophie was very quick to congratulate them the moment Draco’s hand lingered too long on his shoulder, both Cosette and Leon buying them a round to celebrate.

The three Parisians had seemed far too invested in their recent development, pushing them in closer together and using the word ‘copain’ and ‘boyfriends’ far too freely, considering the two of them had yet to discern what they were to each other. Draco would grow noticeably silent with every use of the word before pulling Harry away from the group and finding some corner to snog him into.

Draco’s work-life was another safe topic, and Harry rather liked hearing about the odd-balls that frequented the café and was often there to witness it in person and discuss it in full afterwards.

Malfoy enjoyed talking about how he learnt to work as a Muggle, how nervous he was in the beginning when interacting with customers, or when he moved into the flat with the small amount left from his personal vaults.

Draco explained how he would work six days a week just to be distracted, about how he had met Sophie, Cosette and Leon after they had stumbled into the patisserie looking thoroughly thrashed from a night out, about how they had taken to him instantly and invited him out and how he’d taken the leap and accepted it.

Every topic seemed to toe the line between safe and unsafe.

Harry didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want to remember just how much he had hated Malfoy in school, how much of an absolute wanker he’d been to all his friends, and if he thought about it, he’d think about how everyone he left in England would react.

Harry didn’t talk to Draco about apologies or redemption or atonement, and in return, Draco didn’t talk about Harry’s inevitable return home.

It was mid-August when Draco mentioned he’d be taking some time away.

“Just for the weekend,” he quickly amended, licking dripping honey off his wrist.  

Harry had blinked back at him, feeling something rather akin to abandonment, and instantly felt embarrassed at the dependence he’d been placing on Draco’s shoulders the past few months, afraid in some way, to be alone with his thoughts.

Instead of saying something embarrassing like “why?” he chose to shrug instead, nodding casually as he sopped up the melted butter and honey mixture on the plate in front of him with a crusty baguette.

But somehow the unhappy “Why?” managed to slip out anyway.

“I have to check in with my probationary officer,” Malfoy explained, shaking one wrist to show off his unwanted accessory. “And my parents want to see me. I’ve been avoiding a visit.”

It was one of the topics Harry didn’t want to touch. So instead of offering anything, he tampered down the urge to start an argument and nodded again. “Alright.”

Malfoy had looked at him through narrowed grey slits but let the matter drop.

“Perhaps you can visit the Sacré-Cœur, you haven’t managed to see it yet,” he offered, voice an octave too icy to be partial to Harry’s despondency. “That’s the last thing left to do on your list, isn’t it?”

Draco was due in Lyon by the evening. Harry lightened his luggage as they made their way to the Gare de Lyon.

They weren’t fighting exactly, but the line that Harry had drawn was somehow being crossed with Draco’s departure, even if the blond didn’t know it himself, but there was still a noticeable distance between them as he wished Harry goodbye and told him not to go back to his dull, old self. Harry attempted to smile but felt a part of him crumbling away.

“You’ll be back by Sunday, right?” He asked in lieu of a goodbye, hand reaching out to grab at Malfoy’s wrist and squeeze, silver biting into his palm.

Draco had raised a brow. “You’ll still be here when I get back?”

And though Draco hadn’t struck at him physically, he felt the slap of his words all over his skin.

“Of course,” Harry said after a moment had passed between them, the busy station buzzing in their peripheral as they stared each other down. “Draco, I wouldn’t just leave.”

Malfoy watched him a moment more, features softening almost immediately before he looked away to clear his throat, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a key and place it into Harry’s hand.

“Look after my flat while I’m gone, alright?”

Harry stared down at the silver key, fingers closing around it and lifting it to his chest with a nod that Malfoy returned in lieu of another goodbye, or a kiss, or any possible intimacy that they could have offered each other.

A promise was left in the palm of Harry’s hand instead. 

The stairs of Montmartre were steep.

Harry’s calves burned and there was a stitch in his side, but he found the feeling rather invigorating. For a few flights he took the steps two at a time, apologising whenever accidentally stumbling into photographing tourists, but otherwise refusing to stop for a break on his ascent up into the village. He wandered the markets amongst the many restaurants, purchasing a few postcards and a stuffed black cat wearing a bright red beret for Teddy.

The line to get inside the basilica was long, so he spent most of his time waiting, staring up at the white domes of the building backlit by the morning sun, casting shade down onto him and the waiting crowd. Artists were wandering around them with large pads, pandering to the tourists who passed by to sit for them, to show off their talents in return for some euros.

He sat in the pew of the old church and stared up into the main dome, a likeness of the Catholic deity and saints looking back down upon him, blue and gold accents along with pale brick, painted façade so sincere. The light filtered in through the many windows, and he found himself feeling rather small from it all, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things really.

He was so sick of feeling like he wasn’t worthy of a happy life.

And most of all, he wished Draco was there, sitting next to him on the pew and offering his unhelpful diatribe, complaining about the smell, or the bad acoustics or something so horribly absurd Harry wouldn’t be able to do anything but smother his laughter into Draco’s shoulder, the blasphemous sound echoing across sacred space.

He left the Sacré-Cœur to sit outside on one of the many steps overlooking Paris’s sprawling city, the Eiffel Tower the size of a needle between his thumb and forefinger, the plastic giftbag full of postcards and Teddy’s stuffed cat rustling in the breeze.

He had slept the night before underneath a crack in the ceiling, missing the presence of Draco’s nearness and wondering idly if he’d reached the Malfoy Chateau safely, whether his parents had greeted him with soft words and smiles or sly words about his negligence, his choices to spend time with the Muggles instead of under house arrest with them. He wondered whether the probationary officer was kind to them, and if Draco was also staring up at a ceiling and thinking about Harry, alone on a mattress hidden in the depths of Paris and missing him.

He idly watched a tourist trip up the stairs.

Draco would have laughed.

He used the last available frame left on his camera to take a photo of the white stoned basilica standing proudly atop its hill, looming over the city like a sentinel, before returning to his hotel room in the Wizarding Quarter to pen out his messages on glossy postcards.

The snow-globe that sat on the desk was still, confetti waiting to be shaken, waiting to be activated and send him hurtling back to the life he thought he was simply taking a break from, a holiday with every intention of going back, returning with a newfound sense of direction.

Moving forward.

Moving on.

He needn’t forget.

He just had to accept that this feeling was a part of him now, something he would always carry with him. There would be choices he had to make, and no matter what he decided, somehow it would let people down.

And the key in his pocket was warm.

Draco returned late Sunday night. Late enough it may as well have been Monday. He had woken Harry up by placing cold hands onto the exposed skin of his back and had laughed into his mouth as Harry latched himself onto his lips, using both hands to pull his pointy face as close as possible.

They woke up to a crack in the ceiling and their legs tangled between soft cotton. They ate at the too-small table in Draco’s too-small kitchen, the pantry and fridge empty once again so they had to settle on a box of stale cereal split into two mismatched bowls.

The conversation came up a couple of days later with a plate sliding into view under Harry’s nose at his usual table in La Petite Patisserie, the familiar lines of Draco’s body sliding into the chair opposite with a smirk, his eyes twinkling as he delivered Harry’s treat for the afternoon.

“Pain au chocolat for the pain in my arse,” he announced, one hand sweeping out in a flourishing movement across the table.

“How long have you been sitting on that one?” Harry bothered to ask, putting down a particularly tricky sudoku puzzle and picking up the rectangle pastry, chocolate glistening at both ends.

“All morning,” Draco admitted, picking invisible lint off the pink material of his apron. “I’m just naturally witty like that.”

Harry bit into the soft pastry, chocolate burning his tongue, but he moaned despite it, the flavours sending his taste buds into heavenly sweetness.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of freshly baked croissants,” he sighed happily, licking chocolate off his bottom lip, grey eyes watching him so intently from across the table.  

“No?” Draco asked, a small dent forming between his brows, voice as casual as ever. “You might.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully, chewing around another bite of the pastry. “I don’t think so.”

Malfoy looked out the window, face twitching across a couple of emotions before settling on familiar, barely eligible, indifference.

“There are croissants back in England though,” the blond said as Harry continued to chew on his croissant wishing he had a coffee to wash it down with, if only that he hadn’t already had two that morning. “And from what I’m guessing, there will also be some highly esteemed opportunity with your name scribbled all over it. So many things seem to be in England really. Your friends and many acolytes. And who can’t make a bloody croissant? Loads of cafés, I’d wager.”

The last piece of pain au chocolat sat between Harry’s thumb and forefinger, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he stared at Draco, who was now doing his absolute best to avoid his gaze.

He licked at his lips, placing the bit of croissant back onto his plate before clearing his throat slightly and really wishing he had another cappuccino at hand.

“We’re not talking about croissants anymore, are we?”

There’s a tick in Draco’s jaw, but instead of answering he suddenly stands. “I – I have to go clean that table."

The blond fled to the opposite end of the café, over to a suspiciously clean table, and began running a wet cloth on its surface while Harry continued to stare after him with a frown.

It's not until later when they’re walking back to the flat, that Harry tried again.

“You know, I think I prefer the croissants here.”

Draco paused mid-step, still a block away from home and walking down a park, bicycles zipping past them on both sides of the path, but Harry could tell the Malfoy heir wasn’t going to move any further before hearing everything Harry had to say, his grey eyes boring intently into green, lips set into a firm line and silvery blond eyebrow quirked up.

His arms were crossed when he deigned to answer, with a casual yet high pitched, “Oh?”

Harry nodded, stepping in a bit closer and just avoiding a bike that almost managed to nick him. Draco reached out to grab at one of his arms and pulled him in like a kite to its string.

“In fact,” Harry continued, fighting the smile he knew was lifting his face. “I think I could live on them for- oh, I don’t know- say another three years or so.”

Draco’s fingers were tight on his arm, and it was the closest Harry thought he’d ever come to making the blond speechless.

“What do you think?” he asked after the Slytherin was silent for a bit longer than strictly necessary for his wilting ego, suddenly afraid that he’d read all the bloody signals wrong and just made a complete arse of himself, and not quite sure what he’d do if Draco rejected him.

“You’ll get fat.”

It was perhaps not quite the response he expected.

But he’d fucking take it.

Draco started to smile, his cheeks going pink and hands sliding down Harry’s forearm to grip his hand instead, squeezing gently, their fingers slotting together so perfectly, and Harry felt his own blush staining his cheeks.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Harry asked as they began to walk again, feet carrying them back to their mattress on the floor and the crack in the ceiling, back to a life he thought he would gladly live if Draco was there to kick him through it.   

“No,” Draco replied, shaking his head and grinning, and Harry could practically see the quiet happiness he was feeling, reflected right back at him. “Not at all.”

There were words between them that would still be left unsaid, at least for the time being, that he knew would resurface somewhere in the future of their relationship. And maybe bringing the darkness of their pasts out into the bright light of day, recognising them together as having stemmed from the fault of people they had thought they could trust most. Of the choices they each made under duress, of the words and barbs spat from the mouths of misinformed, brainwashed youth, that the recognition of them would only make what they had stronger.

Harry knew it wouldn't be easy, that there would be more obstacles to face now that he’d claimed Draco as someone important to him, and there would be a lot of voices who would speak up against it once rumours started to spread of what exactly happened to Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. 

Dancing around an apartment to Ca Plan Pour Moi with a former Death Eater probably wouldn’t be their first guess, nor would sharing a mattress on the floor or picking up a dictionary to finally attempt some improvement in French.

Maybe they would stumble across a small café by accident in Paris and dismiss the boy donning a pink apron and messy dark hair as a simple stranger, an unknown identity just another small part of the churning metropolitan city.

He wasn’t a seer by any means, and the future was just as uncertain to him as it was when a portkey whisked him away to the tall sand dunes of Cairo.

He didn’t know what the future held for him, but whenever he caught the grin of his grey eyed companion, he knew without a doubt that he no longer feared tomorrow.

Qui Vivra Verra. He who lives shall see.