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“What is your name?”
Michael Corner, dark-haired, bright-eyed, fit as a fiddle—puts his cup of tea down. “You already know my name,” he says. He points to them each in turn: “Draco Malfoy. Michael Corner. We went to Hogwarts together.”
“You are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct?”
Michael Corner cracks a smile, looking bloody proud of himself. “Sure was.”
“Has Harry Potter ever expressed a dislike of your company or your person?”
Now Michael Corner looks less proud, more confused. “What kind of ‘best mate talk’ is this? I don’t think so, Malfoy. I dunno. Didn’t like me too much when I was dating the Weasley girl back in Hogwarts.”
That’s… a half strike? A half strike.
“Have you ever treated Harry Potter distastefully in the past?”
“Dunno. Not that I remember.” Michael Corner is grinning now. “Are you practicing to be an Auror? I hate to break it to you, but Muggle-Wizard university is not where you want to be, mate.”
“Have you ever harmed Harry Potter emotionally in the past?”
“Dated his girl the one time,” Michael says, and then considers. “Actually, also dated his ex-girlfriend. We traded spots. But it doesn’t seem like he holds it against me, if you know what I mean.”
“Have you ever harmed Harry Potter physically in the past?”
“No.” Michael seems very sure. “You know he’s too good of a fighter. Could anyone beat him in class?”
“Are you a wizard?”
“Oh, come on, Malfoy.”
“Do you engage with and-or make use of Dark Magic, and-or have you engaged with and-or made use of Dark Magic in the past?”
“Hmm,” Michael Corner says, now grinning even wider. “Let me think real hard on that one. Have I ever engaged with Dark Magic? While the Second War with Voldemort was happening all around me?”
That qualifies as an answer. It is not, however, a strike, since Michael doesn’t say he used it.
“Did you fight in the war?”
Michael’s expression subsides. “Yeah.”
“Which side?”
“Are you kidding?”
That also qualifies as an answer. Or, rather, the look he’s giving Draco—one of horror—is an answer.
“Do you have any ill intentions towards Harry Potter?”
“No.”
“Have you had any ill intentions towards Harry Potter in the past?”
“No. Actually—I was dead jealous when he started dating Ginny Weasley. Would’ve taken her off him if I could, but she had her mind made up. Is that an ill intention?”
Not really.
“Do you consider yourself to have a strong moral compass?”
The grin returns. Again. “Merlin’s fucking tits, Malfoy, I’m shagging him and dating him a bit, not getting married.”
“Do you consider yourself to have a strong—”
“Sure, I do. I mean, I risked my life fighting…” Michael Corner’s eyes flick to Draco’s wrist. “I mean. Nevermind. Yeah, I think I do.”
Draco swallows and sits back, finishing off the last of his tea. “Alright. You have two half-strikes, which is one strike. Two strikes and you’d be out.”
“I think it’s three, Malfoy.”
“Not with me.”
Michael’s giving him an odd look. “You’ve gotta work on your friendly talk from the best mate,” he says. “That was an interrogation.”
“Sure, goodbye.” Draco has a procedure, and it’s really the most efficient way to go about things anyway.
Michael Corner: One strike.
Harry’s out on the field, playing “soccer,” a Muggle sport, when Draco gets back to their dorm after the “interrogation,” as it were. The Boyfriend Check.
When Harry comes back, Draco is studying. Harry is sweaty. His hair sticks up even more, and his breath is heavy and his skin shines. It’s bloody distracting.
“He’s changed since school,” Draco says, looking quickly back down. Harry’s stripping off his shirt. Draco can hear Harry wandering closer to where Draco is laying on his bed. “Do you like him?”
Harry’s shucking off his trousers now. When they started rooming together, they'd been careful to keep it behind closed doors. They’d even taken turns changing in the bathroom.
Now they just pull their clothes off around each other all the time.
It’s not good.
“I didn’t know you knew him in school,” Harry’s saying. He’s walking past Draco’s bed—in the corner of his eye, Draco can see Harry’s bare calves, a light speckling of dirt on them from the soccer.
Draco drags his eyes away again, back to Muggle Innovation: the invention of the telephone, he reads, the invention of the telephone… “Not well, but he seemed more talkative than I remember.”
Harry’s voice is amused. “Maybe because you were asking him questions. He said it was like you were investigating my murder.”
“He’s your new boyfriend,” Draco says defensively. “I have to make sure… I have to make sure he’s alright.”
Harry hums. “Yeah, he’s alright. I like him.” And then, unnecessarily, “I’m going to take a shower.” He closes the bathroom door.
Harry doesn’t sound flustered or urgent or in love or anything. He sounds kind of lukewarm.
He always does with his new boyfriends. Sort of… curious. Trying them on like trying on new shirts. Over the two years, they’ve been attending this college, Harry’s already garnered a reputation as being kind of a player—but the most genuine kind.
He just jumps around, trying out options. Enjoying himself.
And boy, are there options.
Half the people here are wizards, and hardly anyone will pass up the chance to date Harry Potter for a couple of weeks. (Coincidentally, these fans are the people Harry’s least likely to date.)
The other half are Muggles exempt from the Statute of Secrecy—mostly siblings of Muggleborn Wizards. They’ve only heard of Harry Potter in passing, second-hand.
But Harry himself does the job himself when his reputation isn’t there, Draco thinks, as Harry steps out of the shower not ten minutes later, drying his hair with his towel. And not wearing a towel around his waist.
He’s fit.
He’s bright and genuine and funny.
And he’s got a roommate who doesn’t mind Harry bringing boys or girls back, so long as they firmly magic up some curtains and cast all the important privacy charms.
Who wouldn’t want a piece?
Anyone would want to date Harry Potter.
Anyone could date Harry Potter.
Harry hasn’t been picky.
“What’re you staring for?” Harry asks, wiggling his hips jokingly. The way he probably would to Ron: with complete assurance that there’s no real physical attraction going on. “What’s up?”
Draco shakes his head and looks back down at his textbook, which has fallen shut. He swallows hard. “Do you think you’re going to last? You and Corner.”
Harry shrugs, frowning faintly. “Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t know until you try, right?”
“Mmm. You didn’t last very long with anyone else, either, Potter.”
“Slut-shaming.” Harry’s pulling on boxers, and then trousers. “Do I have to? Is it not enough to enjoy the current moment?”
Draco arches an eyebrow. “Did you get that from a therapy book on clearance?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I like it, okay? I like, I dunno, meeting people. Having fun. I’ve never really… I’ve always…” He makes a frustrated noise, his head emerging from the collar of his T-shirt, his hands gesturing helplessly. “I’ve lived my whole life afraid. You know? I have… I have the world now.”
Draco’s heart tugs. His fingers tighten around his textbook.
This is what he doesn’t understand about Harry: the trying out. So many people. Does he really never feel a spark that tells him this is the one, this is the only one?
Because Draco does. Merlin’s fucking tits, Draco does.
Harry standing in the middle of the room they share, his wet hair sticking up everywhere, in boxers and a T-shirt, saying I have the world now, that’s it. That’s the spark. That’s the end all be all and Draco knows it, he knows it in his bones.
All of Harry’s boyfriends are maybe, maybe, we’ll see.
“Watch out, your head is getting even bigger.” Draco looks away from Harry. His whole life is looking at Harry or looking away from Harry. Obviously, says a snide voice in his head. But he thinks so much about whether he’s looking at Harry. It’s like sitting or standing or lying down: a state of being, a situation, a whole-body act.
Harry laughs. “Prat,” he says fondly, settling on Draco’s bed. “What are you studying for?”
“Muggle Innovations,” Draco answers. “It’s so unfair that you don’t have to take this class.”
“I have hands-on experience.” Harry peers over his shoulder. Draco’s on the same page as he was fifteen minutes ago: the invention of the telephone was a revolutionary force in Muggle history. (Damn Potter and his distracting calves and bare feet and wild hair and bare arse) “Besides, I did a little of Muggle History, in elementary school.”
Draco wrinkles his nose. He’s heard an excessive amount about “elementary school” from the Muggles here in college, as well as from a few Muggleborn wizards and wizards whose parents decided to send their children to Muggle school before Hogwarts. “Elementary school,” he says, as if it feels bitter in his mouth, “I can’t believe Muggles send young children off to school! Don’t they have a childhood? I can’t imagine it.”
“‘Course not.” Harry presses one warm hand to Draco’s shoulder as he stands, making his way to his own bed. “Spoilt.”
Draco flips back to the beginning of the book, in the earlier years of Muggle history, where it talks about their schools. They’d learn about history and mathematics and all sorts of word things—but not spell things, just spelling. “Was it any good?”
“Better than being at home!” Harry’s voice is light, but Draco can see the muscles of his back tense. “I got bullied, but at least it was by other kids and not by my legal guardians, you know?”
Harry says you know as if somehow Draco is supposed to relate to this. No, he doesn’t know. He’s never been bullied in school. No matter how much he adored his father and wanted to impress him, how much pressure his father later put on him to do as he was told, he was never treated badly by his parents to the same degree that Harry was by his aunt and uncle.
He hates the way Harry says it as if it’s normal. Just something you live through.
“And then you started going to Hogwarts,” Draco says. And I bullied you, one arsehole for another.
“Yeah,” Harry says cheerfully, seemingly unaware of Draco’s thoughts, as if that isn’t the natural direction for the topic to stray towards. “Say, what do you ask my boyfriends? Michael said you asked questions like you didn’t know him at all, even though we all went to Hogwarts together.”
Draco just shrugs. “It’s just easier to use the same list every time.”
xxx
“What’s your name?”
“Everett Butcher?” Blonde and narrow and blue-eyed, someone from the soccer team; he’s got those shoes on with the nubs at the bottom—cleats. Hair up in a bun, nervous.
“You are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct?”
Butcher flushes deep pink, shifting in his seat as if he can still feel it. “Isn’t that… why we’re talking? I mean, don’t you already know that?”
“Has Harry Potter ever expressed a dislike of your company or your person?”
“Is this a wizard thing? Are you always so….” Butcher’s shoulders go up under Draco’s gaze. “No, he hasn’t. Sometimes he curses me when we play each other and I do something good, but it’s friendly.”
Not a strike.
“Have you ever treated Harry Potter distastefully in the past?”
“...No?”
“Have you ever harmed Harry Potter emotionally in the past?”
“Mmm… no? I’ve won soccer games against him? I mean, I’ve played a hand in winning… but he’s a really good sport.” Butcher smiles to himself, sweet and pleased, looking down at his teacup.
“Have you ever harmed Harry Potter physically in the past?”
“Maybe when we’re playing? I’ve probably run into him a couple of times, but I’ve never fought him.” Butcher grins, the first sign of semi-confidence Draco has seen so far from him. “I’d lose. He’s—I’d lose.”
“Are you a wizard?”
“No, but my sister is.”
“Do you have any ill intentions towards Harry Potter?”
Butcher looks at once offended and alarmed. “No, of course not! Why would I want to harm Harry Potter? He saved my sister’s life.”
“Have you had any ill intentions towards Harry Potter in the past?”
“I hardly know him, I just—last night we just—and then we kind of… I didn’t even know him.”
That’s a good enough answer.
“Do you consider yourself to have a strong moral compass?”
Butcher smiles slightly, as if this might be a joke, but it slips off when Draco doesn’t return the smile. “Yes? Doesn’t everybody?”
“No,” says Draco, “Not everybody. Goodbye. You passed. Flying colors.”
Everett Butcher: Zero strikes.
Harry’s out on the field, playing soccer with his boyfriend, when Draco gets back from the Boyfriend Check.
Draco pulls out Astronomy and starts studying. The interesting thing is that they’re not studying the magical elements of the planets, the constellations, any of that. They’re studying the mechanics.
Why does the Earth go around the sun and the moon go around the earth, and the stars shine so bright even when some of them are already dead, how do stars die, etc., etc. It’s fascinating, the how. It bores Harry to death, and Draco can’t understand it.
When Harry gets back, Draco is studying astronomy and Harry is sweaty and panting and bright-eyed.
“Were you fucking or playing soccer?” Draco drawls, sitting up from his studying position on his stomach. “You look like you’ve been getting physical.”
“Oh, shut up, Malfoy.” Harry flushes, beaming wider, his shoulders shaking a little as he laughs. “You’re the worst.”
“You’d better be careful with him—I think you may have buggered his brains out.”
“Draco. That’s—” Harry frowns, and Draco feels a spike of something black and unfriendly towards Butcher. “That’s rude. He’s just—he’s nice when you get to know him.”
But that’s the thing about Harry—nearly everyone is nice if you get to know them, because nearly everybody is sympathetic in some way, and that’s good enough in Harry’s book. As long as you’re not bad, you’re good enough. Even if all your questions are sentences and you have the personality of a mouse in a cat household.
“I have got to know him,” Draco argues.
Harry grins. “Have you?” He’s pulling off his shirt and stepping closer to Draco at the same time. Or, rather, stepping closer to his own bed, which happens to also means he’s stepping closer to Draco’s bed, which Draco is sitting on. He smells like sweat and cut grass, like clean, outside air. “I don’t think chasing him down and questioning him counts.”
He’s turned towards Draco now, in nothing but his boxers, walking over to look at Draco’s textbook again. Draco looks back down at his textbook, too, ignoring Harry’s thighs and the shape between his legs. “Always studying.”
“Don’t come any closer, you’re all sweaty,” Draco orders, putting out a hand to stop Harry from taking any more steps closer—he won’t be able to handle it, all that warm brown skin so close—but he misjudges the distance and his hand lands, almost comically, in the center of Harry’s chest.
He’s hot to the touch, warm enough that Draco can feel the heat radiating from him where Harry’s shoulder hovers near Draco’s, but warmer still skin-to-skin.
He’s as sweaty as he looks, and that should be really gross, but it really isn’t.
His chest shakes a little when he laughs. “Not very effective if you’re trying to avoid my sweat,” he says.
Draco yanks his hand away several seconds too late. Harry has muscle. It’s not a surprise—he’s lifted things, you can see his muscle in his chest and his back and his arms and his legs—muscles everywhere—but it’s a completely different thing for Draco to press his hand to them, to feel them move under his fingers. “Oh, Merlin,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “You’re so disgusting, oh gross. Go take a shower.”
Harry laughs more. He hasn’t stepped back from Draco. “Yeah, I was going to.”
“Oh? You didn’t want to strip down to your boxers and get your sweaty body in my personal space just for the sake of it?” Since Draco’s hand is already sweaty, he sticks it in Harry’s sweaty curls and rumples his hair a bit, as if he’s trying to get revenge on Harry for dirtying up his hand. “I need to go wash my hands.”
He follows Harry into the bathroom as Harry drops his boxers.
He doesn’t look. Which means he shoots several looks—it’s not like Harry’s trying to hide anything, or like there’s any reason why Harry would want to hide anything (Salazar save Draco)—but he pulls his eyes away quickly enough that he doesn’t get caught and he can absolutely call it self-control.
He’s made a habit of not looking over the years, both Hogwarts Eighth Year and now college.
“Sorry to disturb your studying,” Harry says, coming to stand behind Draco so they’re both looking in the mirror. He’s smiling apologetically, carefully not touching any part of Draco’s skin or clothing, his eyes affectionate—the kind of affectionate he reserves for Ron and Hermione. Draco’s heart tumbles in his chest, head over heels, head over heels, head over heels. Despite the space, it still feels like Harry’s too close.
“Go shower,” Draco says again, because he doesn’t have any other words; he has to start reusing recent phrases. “Get clean.”
Harry winks in the mirror. “Yessir. Anything for you, my loyal protector.”
He steps into the shower and closes the shower door, which happens to be clear glass. Draco doesn’t look as Harry turns on the water, but he knows Harry’s mouth is opening in a sigh—he’s looked before.
“Wait, hey,” he says, shutting off the sink. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Mister Malfoy and his scary, scary interrogation? I could never.”
Draco does look.
Harry’s eyes are closed, soot-black lashes wet against his cheeks, and his hair is soaked, the only time it ever lays something akin to flat. His mouth curves up in an amused smile.
“You are!” Draco accuses, fighting his own smile. “You’re making fun of me. Here I am, Potter, putting myself out there, spending my precious studying time to ask your sexual partners a few questions of interest for your own benefit, and you don’t even appreciate me.”
Harry’s laugh sounds weird because it’s both muffled by the glass and amplified by the way it bounces off of the tiles in the shower. “How can I appreciate you if I don’t know what you’re asking them? And oh my god, Draco, sexual partners? You sound like a bloody health care provider, not my best mate. What are you asking them, if they have an STI?”
Draco does a really good job of not thinking too hard about Harry having sex. He thinks: Harry had that person over last night, therefore he had sex with that person, therefore they are probably his new boyfriend, therefore I should interrogate them.
His mind kind of skims over the sex part.
But the mention of the STI, combined with Harry Potter in the shower through an only partially steamed-up glass door, makes Draco think about the act of sex, rather than the vague concept of it.
Of Harry Potter, all muscles and sweat and bright eyes in the darkness… moving moving moving.
Draco’s gut twists. He thinks of skinny, muscled, soccer-player Butcher under Harry, looking nervous and eager.
“Butcher doesn’t have an STI,” he says when he’s found his voice. If Harry notices his especially long silence, he doesn’t say anything. “He’s a virgin.”
“He’s definitely not a virgin,” Harry says, voice low and amused.
Merlin fucking dammit. Nobody needed the reminder.
“He’s a virgin in spirit,” Draco counters lamely, and changes the subject. “But I didn’t ask anyway. I don’t ask about their sexual history, that would be too awkward.”
“Sounds awkward enough already,” Harry says.
Draco can’t believe this. They’re having a conversation through the shower door. His knees are weak and his shirt—a long-sleeve button-down because one of them has to have a sense of propriety—is getting steam-stuck to his skin.
They’ve had conversations through the shower door before, but they were all sort of…
“Potter, be a House Elf, will you, and grab me a tissue?”
“A tissue? It’ll just disappear in the shower.”
“That’s not how tissues work—”
“What’d’ya need a tissue for?”
“There’s a spider!”
“Wash it down the drain!”
“What if it gets mad at me and—”
“What a coward, here’s your damn tissue, Malfoy.”
This is a real sort of conversation, kind of. It’s just so weird.
Draco can hear Harry soaping down and rinsing off, and he can tell when Harry starts on the shampoo, can hear the suds hitting the floor. He’s just sort of hovering there, talking through a steamy door.
“Some things are awkward,” he says through the door, “it’s a hard fact of life, Potter. But it’s a good thing. An important thing.”
“To protect me from a big, bad boyfriend?”
It’s more about making sure Harry’s boyfriend deserves him, but Draco can’t say that. It would sound… it would sound far too sentimental. And really, it’s not as if Draco’s questions actually help determine whether someone deserves Harry.
Harry, who literally chose to die for the chance that it would save everyone else? Harry, who buried Dobby with no magic to honor his memory, even in the shitstorm of the Second War? Harry, who fought a battle every single year of his Hogwarts years and managed to come out still in love with life instead of defeated and jaded, who never stopped fighting until stopping fighting was the only way to win—and then came back?
Harry Potter, who rescued Draco Malfoy from the Fiendfyre after Draco had gone there to attack Harry, after Draco had spent seven years preventing Harry’s happy place from being an actually happy place…
The answer is always no. No, of fucking course they don’t deserve Harry Potter.
But the Boyfriend Check is something. The first line of defense.
“Yeah,” Draco says finally, “To protect you from a big, bad boyfriend.”
This time, Harry definitely notices the pause. There’s no way he could not notice the pause—it’s nearly a minute long.
The water shuts off and Harry steps out.
Water’s running from his wet hair, down his neck, following the geography of his back as he pulls down a towel and starts toweling off. His eyes land on Draco, who feels like he’s got an uncomfortably wet second layer of skin in the form of his shirt.
It just had to be white.
Draco wonders if Harry can see his nipples—probably yes—and his Dark Mark—probably yes. He’s been around Harry naked before, but he’s never been in a basically shirtless state without the proper emotional preparation. Emotional preparation mostly consists of the internal speech: he knows you’re a Death Eater. It’s not like he’s forgotten. He knows you’re a Death Eater. It’s not new news for him to see your Dark Mark. He knows you’re a Death Eater. It’s not stopping him from being your friend. He knows you’re a fucking Death Eater you fucking idiot.
Harry’s eyes flicker over him, something hot stealing into them. He glances up at Draco. “Er. Thank you for your concern.”
It takes Draco a couple of seconds to rewind their conversation so he can figure out what Harry’s talking about.
“Yeah, well. It’s my job. As a friend.” It’s ridiculous how solemn he feels in a fucking translucent shirt.
Harry hums, a low noise in his throat. He seems distracted. “Yeah. Uh. You might want to change.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.”
xxx
“What is your name?”
“Jacob Jacobs.” Straight brown hair that falls into his brown eyes, tan skin and freckles, looks completely out of place in this coffee shop, his knees spread wide and his large hands fiddling with the sugar. He doesn’t seem to be drinking his tea.
“Jacob Jacobs?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“You are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct?”
“Is that why you dragged me here? Are you jealous or something? I know you’re gay, and I know you’re not blind.” Jacobs smirks, leaning back in his chair. His eyes fix on Draco as if trying to catch a reaction.
“You are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct?”
“Yeah, fuck yeah.” Jacobs closes his eyes. Tips his head back a little. He should get a strike just for that. But Draco is extraordinarily fair.
“Has Harry Potter ever expressed a dislike of your company or your person?”
“Thought I was a right prick, at first,” Jacobs says casually. As if Harry Potter thinking you’re a right prick is not grounds for concern. “But you know, once you’re up close and personal, things look a bit different, don’t they?”
That’s a strike.
“Have you ever treated Harry Potter distastefully in the past?”
“Nope!” He’s too cheerful, too careless. He could be lying his way through this and Draco wouldn’t even be able to tell because it wouldn’t be a bad faith lie, just a good old lie of convenience and impatience.
Draco waits.
“What? No, I haven’t. I haven’t spent that much time with the guy, how should I have been treating him? Scattering rose petals in his wake? Interrogating everyone he meets?”
Draco ignores this. “Have you ever harmed Harry Potter emotionally in the past?”
“Do I seem like I matter enough to Mister Harry Potter to have emotionally harmed him? No. No to all your questions.”
“Have you ever harmed Harry Potter physically in the past?”
“Ooh—yes.” Jacobs turns his neck to the side and taps it, right where his neck meets his shoulder. “Did you see it this morning?”
Merlin, how Draco wishes that could count as a strike. This guy is—fuck. Merlin. It gives Draco a headache to think about this man putting his hands all over Harry, putting his mouth on Harry’s neck, tasting his sweat and feeling his body move under his hands. This guy?
Draco grits his teeth. “Are you a wizard?”
“Pretty good one, yeah.”
“Do you engage with and-or make use of Dark Magic, and-or have you engaged with and-or made use of Dark Magic in the past?”
Jacobs’ eyebrows jump. “No.”
“Did you fight in the war?”
“You’d think if I fought in the war I would’ve engaged with some Dark Magic, wouldn’t you?” Jacobs’ incredulous expression eases, though, into something more solemn. “I should have, though. I was nineteen, and I… do you want me to say I fought beside Harry Potter? I didn’t.”
“Did you have any allegiances to a particular side while the war was happening?”
“Which side do you think? Didn’t you know all the Death Eaters your age, Malfoy?”
“It’s just a question,” Draco snaps before he can stop himself. He takes a breath. “Do you have any ill intentions towards Harry Potter?”
“What counts as an ill intention?”
“What counts—do you not know what ill intentions mean? Do you want to hurt him?”
“Not… in a dangerous way.”
“Okay, then your answer is no.”
Jacobs raises his eyebrows at Draco. “Relax! Yes, my answer is no. It’s a joke.”
“I know it was. Haha.” Draco takes a moment to refocus. He’s usually better at this, but then again, Harry’s taste is usually better. “Have you had any ill intentions towards Harry Potter in the past?”
“Did you just ask that a minute ago?”
“This is about the past, not the present.”
“I thought you already asked that.”
“I did, earlier, ask about whether you’d harmed him or acted distastefully—”
“Right. Right. You’re a little repetitive.” Jacobs puts his index and thumb fingers up, indicating an inch. “Just a little.”
“Have you had any ill intentions towards Harry Potter—”
“No. As previously mentioned.”
“Do you consider yourself to have a strong moral compass?”
“Mmm… no. Not particularly. I’m not a bad guy but a strong moral compass?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Sure am,” Draco says. “Goodbye.”
Jacob Jacobs: Two strikes.
Harry Potter is playing soccer when Draco gets back from the Boyfriend Check.
Draco can’t focus on studying, so he writes out a transcript of what he can remember from the little chat he’s had with Jacob Jacobs. It’s easy because he knows his questions well, and remembering responses is easier when he remembers the question.
It’s even easier because all of his answers were so infuriating.
STRIKE, he writes in big, red letters beside thought I was a right prick.
STRIKE, he writes in big, red letters beside Not particularly.
When Harry gets back, Draco has finished his transcript and Harry is only a little bit sweaty, but and breathless and smiling.
“You’re not studying!” he says, as if delighted, and walks over to Draco. Draco hastily folds the paper in half. “I wish I was here for that—I could’ve dragged you out into soccer.”
Draco wrinkles his nose. “Soccer doesn’t have the grace necessary to entice me into playing,” he says. “You smell—you smell.” You smell nice, he was going to say. Like sunshine. It looks like Harry hasn’t played all afternoon like he usually does—just a half-hour or something. He smells pleasantly like the sun and like his cologne.
“So do you,” Harry says, not fooled. “You smell like a candle shop.”
Draco blinks. “A candle shop?”
“A scented candle shop.” Harry looks at Draco’s bed in askance, and when Draco nods, he takes a seat beside Draco, their shoulders brushing. Draco was right—he’s barely sweating.
“A scented candle shop.”
“You know.” Leans even closer. Draco tries not to move, his breath stuck in his throat as Harry very nearly presses his face into Draco’s neck. “Like a bunch of things at once.”
“Ah…” Draco doesn’t know what else to say. His brain has stopped working. His stomach is a wild mass of butterflies. “That’s… good.”
“Yeah.” Harry’s warm breath ghosts across Draco’s collarbone, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine, and Draco starts… well, he starts wishing he had a pillow in his lap.
“I don’t like your boyfriend,” Draco announces abruptly, because he thinks any more of this will have him absolutely losing control of himself. “I think he’s a bad one.”
“Boyfriend?” Harry sits up, his forehead wrinkling. “I don’t have… oh, you mean the guy leaving my room last night—Jacob?”
“Jacob Jacobs.”
Harry makes a face, a laugh escaping him that makes Draco feel warm. “His name is Jacob Jacobs?”
Draco makes a face back. “You didn’t know his name?”
“I knew his first name!” Harry protests. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He was just… you know…”
Ah. A one-night stand. “He’s terrible. Two strikes. Out.”
A spark of mischief enters Harry’s expression. “Yeah I thought it would be a bit of a triumph to get that prick under me, you know? ‘S weird. Like… not a hate fuck, but a dislike fuck? What were his two strikes?”
“Should do that to me,” Draco blurts.
Harry stares.
“I mean. You should’ve done that to me,” Draco amends quickly. It isn’t much better, but it’s better. “It would’ve been fun,” he adds unconvincingly.”
“Oh…” Harry says, as if suddenly realizing something. His gaze on Draco’s sharpens, dips from Draco’s eyes to his lips and then quickly back up again, before raking helplessly down Draco’s body—fuck, god, Draco’s never felt closer to overheating in his life—and then back up to Draco’s face again. He looks at a loss. “Oh.”
He’s probably realized how Draco feels.
How fucking obvious it is what Draco feels.
“Oh.” He says. Again.
“His two strikes,” Draco hurries to say, before Harry can insist on talking about it. “For Has Harry Potter ever expressed a dislike of your company or your person? He answered that you thought he was a prick, and for Do you consider yourself to have a strong moral compass? He answered Not particularly.”
Harry’s expression—lips parted, eyes darting around—suggests he’s not keeping up very well. “What… what? Draco, what do you ask them?”
“My secrets are mine to keep,” Draco replies, eager to egg Harry on down this new conversational tangent. “You’ll never get them out of me.”
“Draco,” Harry says, “What do you ask them?”
“Do you want to hear the full list?” Draco asks. “Or—even better—would you like to read the transcript I made of my Boyfriend Check with Jacob Jacobs? The strikes are circled in red.”
He says this with a little more relish than he probably should’ve, given that Harry’s already sniffing out his feelings, but he doesn’t manage to keep it in. And it’s also very obvious how much Draco enjoyed marking Jacobs down, based on the violent red slashes that mark the errors.
“A transcript… for the ‘Boyfriend Check’...” Harry repeats. “Hmm… yeah, okay. Yeah, sure.”
So Draco hands it over—success! Distraction successful!—and beats a hasty retreat. “I’m going to shower,” he says.
It’s a testament to how distracted Harry is that Harry finds nothing odd about Draco showering in the middle of the day. Draco showers in the mornings, because it’s the only way to do it, frankly—that way, you get to be clean all day—and Harry always makes fun of him for it.
Then you go to sleep dirty, he says, which is more applicable to Harry, who does sports and sex.
So Draco takes a shower.
He takes as long as he can soaping up, and as long as he can rinsing down.
The door opens and closes, and then, even though the door to the shower is steamed up too much for Draco to see, Draco knows Harry’s standing in the bathroom—especially when all the warm steam rushes out of the bathroom, clearing the air by at least 50%.
“Didn’t you know all the Death Eaters your age, Malfoy?” Harry reads. “Did he really say that?”
There’s something hard and threatening in Harry’s voice, something that makes Draco’s heart beat faster. It’s fucking hot, that voice. “Yeah,” he manages.
“I can’t believe I fucked him,” Harry’s mutter comes, just over the sound of the water. “Christ.”
“Bit of an asshole, but he’s not wrong,” Draco says lightly.
“Fucking hell,” Harry says.
“Well. Not everybody’s going to forgive me.”
“He didn’t even fight! He didn’t know what it was like, being in war.”
“Harry.” Draco’s clean. There’s no more stalling he can do. He shuts off the water and steps out. “His anger is justified.” He can’t help adding, as he grabs a towel, “But thank you for your concern.”
Harry doesn’t respond.
When Draco finishes drying off and looks at him, drying off his hair vigorously, he almost dies on the spot.
There’s no other word for Harry’s expression.
It’s hungry.
He looks absolutely stunned, like he’s just seen his sex dream come to life.
Draco can’t talk. He swallows hard.
Harry doesn’t look like he can talk either, so they stand there. And they stand there.
And finally, Draco’s hair is as dry as it will get through the work of the towel, so Draco hangs it back up.
“Harry,” he says. Harry’s standing in front of the door.
“Uh,” says Harry. He shuffles out of the way, courteous enough to pretend he doesn’t notice Draco’s erection growing and growing under Harry’s gaze.
Harry needs to stop looking, or Draco will lose it. It feels like he’s this close to trembling with want, this close to falling to his knees, this close to throwing it all away and kissing Harry, kissing him, kissing him.
Let me be one of your boys for one night, Draco almost says, even though that’s the last thing he wants. The thing he wants more than anything, anything, is to spend the rest of his life around Harry.
If he spends the night with Harry, he won’t be able to handle it, emotionally, to be around Harry any longer. It won’t work.
Boyfriend Check, Draco thinks fiercely. Boyfriend Check.
He wants to say one night. One chance. But he keeps his mouth shut.
Boyfriend Check, Draco Malfoy: Eight strikes.
xxx
“You know… I think I’ve noticed something about these questions,” Harry’s voice comes. It’s been a week. Draco thought he’d escaped it.
Apparently not.
Draco stares down at his textbook, not reading a single word, not looking up. Salazar, fuck, this is going to be catastrophic. Catastrophic.
“Will you take the Boyfriend Check?”
The bed dips under Harry’s weight as Harry sits on the edge of Draco’s bed, right by Draco’s pillow. Draco can see in extreme proximity the curve of his arse, the line of his thigh.
Catastrophic.
“Eight strikes,” he says, bringing his eyes back down to the page. “I’m eight strikes, if you were wondering.”
Harry gets up off the bed, and Draco hopes—but then he just sits on the floor, so that he’s at eye level with Draco. No wonder he had so many boyfriends. He’s bloody charming when he wants to be. “Draco… so many of them are about the past. They’re things people have no current control over.”
“Your past is part of you,” Draco says.
He abandons the textbook. When has he ever managed to read anything when Harry Potter was existing in the same space? Never. He pushes the textbook aside, and now Draco’s facing Harry straight on, Harry sitting on the floor and Draco lying on his stomach on his bed. Harry’s not the least bit sweaty, and his expression is breathtakingly earnest and open.
“They’re perfectly fine questions,” Draco continues. “What would you ask?”
He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to form words with Harry’s green eyes on him like that, all… all… fuck. Harry looks like he cares for Draco… that way.
Draco can’t even think it.
Boyfriend Check, Draco Malfoy: Eight strikes.
It doesn’t feel right.
“This is… this is like a background check,” Harry says, the slightest bit of amusement entering his voice. “How about, oh, I don’t know, how do you feel about Harry Potter? That seems like a pretty reasonable thing to ask to check a boyfriend.”
“Oh,” says Draco. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re dating you.”
“What is your name is obvious,” Harry says. “Are you a wizard, you are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct? Those are obvious.”
“But…”
“Draco.” Harry’s voice is achingly soft. It makes Draco feel deliciously, terribly hopeful. “This check is just keeping you out.”
“No, it’s not.” Yes. It is. Isn’t that the point?
How else would Draco keep himself away? How else would he be able to look at Harry and watch him take other boys to bed and not break? This way, he knows he can’t have it, objectively so. It’s so much easier. So much easier.
Harry gazes at him with those green eyes. Neither of them speaks.
“Will you take my Boyfriend Check?” Harry asks. “It’s just one question.”
“Mmm.” Draco can’t make his throat do anything else.
“How do you feel about Harry Potter?”
Draco draws a breath. “Don’t ask me that.”
“That’s the Boyfriend Check,” Harry says. “How do you feel about—”
“Harry—” Draco hates himself for the way his voice wobbles. “Why are you even asking?”
Harry looks at him. He hesitates.
And then he cups Draco’s face, very carefully, as if Draco’s made out of glass, as if Draco’s made of butterfly wings, as if he wants to give Draco every last chance to fly away.
He leans forward and closes his green, green eyes, and breathes against Draco’s mouth.
And he kisses Draco.
Softly.
Gently.
His lips brush Draco’s, and then they brush a little harder, and then he’s tilting his head, leaning closer, sliding his fingers into Draco’s hair.
Draco squeezes his eyes shut, and—Merlin and Morgana and Salazar—kisses Harry back.
It’s a terrible idea.
It’s the best thing he’s ever done.
It’s going to trainwreck his emotional state and it’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s so worth it.
It’s worth it for the feeling of Harry’s soft, warm mouth on his, it’s worth it for the feeling of Harry’s firm, careful hand at his jaw, it’s worth it for the feeling of Harry’s fingers combing through Draco’s hair, it’s worth it for the sheer, simple knowledge that this is Harry, this is Harry kissing Draco, he wants to be kissing Draco.
Harry pulls back just as gently as he leaned in, breathing deep and shaky. His forehead presses, warm, against Draco’s. “Why—” His voice is faint, barely a whisper. “Why do you think?”
Draco swallows. His whole body is tingling. “I don’t know.”
“Draco, please.” Harry’s eyes flicker with something Draco’s never seen before when he’s talking about any of his boyfriends: Flustered. Urgent. In… love. “How do you feel about Harry Potter?”
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. It’s obvious anyway. And Harry wants the answer so bad. Draco wants to give it to him.
“I love you,” he gets out. “I love you.”
Harry’s breath rushes out. “Draco.”
“Boyfriend Check,” Draco murmurs, his heart pounding. “How do you feel about Draco Malfoy?”
“I feel…” Harry’s eyes flutter open, and he sits back just far enough to look Draco in the eye. “I feel like I’ve been searching for you.”
“I was here,” Draco says. The textbook digs into his elbow. “I was always here.”