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Chapter Text

Present Day: Bristol, England. July 15, 2012.

Ginny Weasley should not be sitting in the stands.

This was the thought that usually had her stewing in silent, barely concealed bitterness during her husband’s matches. Today, though, during this particular game, she was not trying (and failing) to live vicariously through the players as was typical. No, the inspiration for her bitterness stood in the middle of the field, short and stocky as ever, the head full of messy, black hair peppered with premature grey. Harry appeared visibly older- was older, but it was different from how her husband had aged. He looked beaten down, bruised by life, smacked around by one too many Bludgers. It was getting to him, she realized vindictively. Losing was getting to him. He was a loser and he looked old, but he still had the upper hand, because he was not looking at her. He was looking at Draco. He was always looking at Draco.

Harry was known for being an obsessive sort of bloke. Once that obsession wasn’t fixated on defeating dark lords, Quidditch seemed a natural supplement. Harry was addicted to the sport, even when he hated it. The problem… the problem was that Harry’d grown bored. And when Harry’s bored, he’s unmotivated. What’s the point of beating eighteen year old boys fresh out of Hogwarts who are too green for the victory to mean anything? To Harry, the sport wasn’t rules and athleticism. It was the opposing team. The players. The person chasing his tail to the Snitch. Today, it was Draco Malfoy. And fuck, Harry hadn’t really played Quidditch since their match some thirteen years ago. The day remained vivid in his mind. The sweat dripping from Draco’s temple and down his throat. The windswept mess of his hair. The steely grey of his eyes, sharp and obscure, concealing something, always holding back. Harry had wanted to break him that day . He still did. Since that match, when Harry thinks of real Quidditch, he thinks of Draco.

For Draco, Quidditch was about pride. It was about Harry Potter, beating him to the Snitch, every single time. There was no joy left. No stress relief. Only pain and, lately, humiliation. It was him, day by day, match by match, realizing that no amount of World Cups would be enough to make him feel done. That no roaring applause would ever drown out the nagging thoughts that kept him awake at night. He’d worked and toiled and hurt, and here he was again, standing in front of Harry Potter, a git ranked the one-hundred-and-second seeker in the league, fully expecting to lose. If he lost this match- what was the point? What was the point of his whole fucking career if he lost to a minor league player at a pick-up seeker tournament? What was the point of becoming a seeker in the first place, if he couldn’t beat Harry Potter?

The men approached one another with the distinction of gladiators, prepared to fight to the death in a display of debased gore. Harry held out his hand for Draco to shake. Draco looked to the stands and found Ginny’s gaze. Not on him, but Harry. Years later and she still looked at him like that. It drove Draco mad. Gripping the proffered hand, he met green eyes with a grimace, taken off guard to see his expression burning with fiery animosity, much changed from the excited cockiness he’d displayed all morning across the pitch.

The crowd screamed around them, cameras flashing excitedly at the clasp of their hands. Fire and Ice Together Again! the headlines would read. Draco loathed the nickname now more than ever. On his left, he heard the chant of his name, Dray-co! Dray-co! Dray-co! Didn’t they know their faith was sending him careening toward the edge of something he’d never claw his way out of? He squeezed his fingers, not in a display of strength so much as a reminder- this was real. He was here, with Harry. They were about to play a game together.

Draco doubts they ever stopped. It was never really about Quidditch, was it?

One week earlier: Llanelli, Wales.

Ginny is already up when the alarm goes off. Draco watches her through bleary eyes as she moves around the room in one of the hotel robes, hair still damp from a shower, her body beautiful despite its changes. Physically, she wasn’t the strong little thing from their youth, inadvertently muscled from Quidditch training. The tone of her arms and thighs was for show now, the result of morning yoga and nightly swims. He wished his own exercise regimen was so holistic. But, no. He knew what his day would be. Smoothie, protein bar, physical therapy, weights for two hours, four mile run, then drilling on the practice pitch until his match. Maybe she’d let him get away with a two mile run. She wouldn’t want him to tire out before he played, and it wasn’t as if he was nineteen anymore. He buried his face in the pillow and prayed for five more minutes.

“Up.”

The command was soft. Unbothered. Not because she wasn’t serious, but because there was no question as to whether he would comply. Swallowing a heavy sigh, he gets up.

Gabriel, his personal nutritionist, was standing at the Muggle cooler, sorting bottles containing suspicious looking liquids that Draco had learned to swallow with barely a grimace. Sitting out on the counter was a green one, labeled ‘morning’. Gabriel greeted him pleasantly, paying no mind to his dead-eyed dread.

“Tastes about as good as it looks.”

Draco opened the cap and chugged it in under ten seconds, shuddering at its bitter tang and odd, crunchy bits. “Like moldy beans,” he sneered.

Jeremy chuckled, pointing to the grandiose fruit basket on the counter. There was a note sticking out of it that read ‘Welcome back to Stradey Park!’. “Get some fruit in you. Natural sugars, for a change. I won’t tell the Missus.”

“Can’t do it,” Draco admitted. “She can smell fear. And bananas. If it doesn’t have thirty grams of protein, there’s no avoiding her wra-”

He promptly sealed his lips as Ginny breezed into the room, thankfully with those little mini speakers in, blasting music directly to her eardrums. Then he caught his name coming from the tiny radios and realized she wasn’t listening to music at all. Picking up the remote from the coffee table, she clicked on the telly and yanked the buds out by the wire. Pressing the secret code into the remote, the Muggle news switched to the wizarding sports channel, the screen displaying the kid he was supposed to play today. Young and scrawny, he looked ever the deer caught in headlights, moving quick and agile through the air- on instinct. There was no training there, only talent. Draco resented he’d gotten this far on natural ability alone. Resented even more the sloppy black hair, falling over his forehead and into his eyes. The commentator, Dean Thomas’ successor, picked up where Ginny’s ear radios left off.

“Obviously, the biggest match-up today is going to be Malfoy and Boucher.”

The man’s co-anchor agreed with a despondent shake of his head. “I would not want to be Boucher right now.”

“I don’t know, John, the kid never lost a single Seeker Tournament in the minor leagues.”

“Sure, Peter, but just look at Malfoy’s portfolio. Two World Cups back to back! Not the face you wanna see stepping into your first qualifying match, especially when you’re playing for a team as highly ranked as the Tornados.”

“No one’s saying Malfoy isn’t an excellent Seeker. That doesn’t change the fact that he has some reason to be nervous. Since his surgery last season, he’s been a bit… shaky.”

“Well, thirty-one’s as good as fifty in Quidditch years.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Draco reached over and pressed mute, silencing the men’s voices. Ginny blinked at the remote, then turned those blank eyes on him.

“PT,” she murmured, returning her attention to the footage of Boucher’s last Seeker Tournament.

Draco sat shivering in an ice bath, muscles exhausted from his run. He’d done two miles, a sort of fuck you to Ginny for making him listen to two men far older than him running their mouths about his age. He was only thirty-one!

“You need to conserve your energy this week so you can focus on recovery,” his PT, Mark, was telling him. “Try to end this match as quickly as possible, yeah?”

As if Draco would try to drag it out. “This bloke’s pretty good…”

“Mate, he’s a pancake. You’re going to flatten him.”

Molars ground together as Draco tempered his annoyance.

When he returned to the sitting room half an hour later, Ginny was gone, but she’d left her notes for their ad campaign spread out on the sofa. It was a picture of both of them, facing each other in profile, their hands wrapped around the polished wooden handle of a Blazerunner broom. The words GAME CHANGER were printed in bold across the top. At the end, in red marker, she’d tacked on an ‘s’.

“I want you to force him into as many false starts as possible.”

They were walking briskly toward the pitch, the press yelling at them uselessly from the sidelines. There was a time when he and Ginny would have complained about their lack of privacy, the ridiculous sense of ownership the media had concerning their personal life. Those days were long gone. Everything beyond Ginny’s words was a blur.

“His one big weapon is never having lost. He’s arrogant, too sure of himself. Use it against him. Make him think he’s already losing.”

They came to a stop at the benches, his teammates greeting them with confident grins, smacking him hard on the back. He winced. Saw Ginny clock it.

“How’s your back?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

She nodded sharply. “Good.” Surprising him, she took his face in both of her hands, her eyes pinning him to the spot with more fierceness than he’d seen in some time. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Decimate that little bitch.”

That evening, Draco stepped into the press room sweaty and exhausted. His spine felt like a gnarled tree root, wonky and painful no matter which foot he transferred weight to. Taking a seat in the little plastic chair, he pointed to one of the eager journalists waiting with her hand up.

“Hi, Draco.”

He despised that the media felt they could use his name so casually. “Hello.”

“Congratulations on your team’s win today.”

“Thank you.”

“So, obviously this match didn’t go as predicted. Boucher is fresh off the minor leagues. Though your team is still moving forward, this is the third qualifying game this season where you’ve failed to catch the Snitch. I have to ask- what happened out there?”

Draco stared at her. “What happened?”

“You choked.”

Ginny was having them rewatch the match. Draco averted his eyes as the tiny version of himself in the screen missed the Snitch flying directly in his peripheral. He’d never taken to watching his own failure in slow motion.

“He’s a good seeker-” Draco started.

“I’m pulling you out of the World Cup,” she declared. “Let the reserve seeker-”

“Ginny-”

“You were rubbish today.” Her voice had that no-nonsense quality, a mirror of her mother. Ten years together and he’d never pointed it out. He may be rubbish, but he wasn’t thick. “You’ve been rubbish all season. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself or your team.”

“I’m just rusty after the surgery.” He waved his wand, renewing the heating spell on his back. “And with all that shite they were saying on the telly- it shook my confidence.”

“Well, get your fucking confidence back. You were never lacking it in school.”

“I’ll focus on PT this week, and-”

“Fucking-!” She broke off, frustrated. “This is not because of your surgery. I would have killed to have a recovery like yours-”

“I know.”

“I would have literally hexed someone. The minister. An orphan. A defenseless crup. I’m so tired of you using your accident as an excuse to retire.” The exasperated shake of her head never failed to deliver her disappointment directly to Draco’s chest.

“I’m not retiring.”

“Yet. You could, you know. We could just be rich people now. If that’s all you can handle. If you can lay down in our bed every night and feel content and fulfilled from simple-minded, geriatric hobbies. Attending the fundraising galas your mother puts on. Or. You can be a fucking Quidditch player.”

He stared at her. Rock. Draco. Hard place.

“What will it be?” she insisted.

He leaned his head into the sofa, defeated. “I’m going to be a Quidditch player.”

“Good.” Ginny picked up her mobile and started tapping away.

“What are you doing?” The single-minded concentration on her face had him squirming into the sofa.

“I’m looking at the AQP schedule. We need to get you on a pitch before the Cup.”

“It’s too late. Everything’s in America, or it’s already started.”

She unceremoniously showed him her phone screen. “Not this one.”

Squinting to read the tiny words on the screen, he frowned. “That’s a seeker’s tournament.”

“I know. It starts tomorrow, in… Bristol. Maybe someone dropped out.”

He studied her face carefully. “You’re serious,” he realized. “I haven’t played a seeker tournament in thirteen years.”

“Brilliant. Then it’ll be really embarrassing if you’re eliminated in the first match.”

The very thought horrified Draco. At least most of the men on the professional teams were older, like him, with the odd bum hip or creaky knee. The minor league, though, was full of Bouchers; young players at the peak of their health, each with something to prove and plenty of stamina to do it.

“Draco Malfoy,” Ginny announced in an approximation of a commentator from the Wizarding Sports Center. “Two time World Cup champion, the savior of Puddlemere United, usurped by an unseeded opponent at…” She checked her phone. “ Bristol Blooms’ Spring Seeker Tournament… a month before the World Cup.”

He can’t help the wry smile that works its way onto his face. There was such distance between them, not atypical this far into a relationship, but she still knew exactly how to manipulate him. With his pride. “You’re such a Slytherin.”

In school, such a comment would have ignited her infamous wrath. Now, she recognized it for the compliment it was. “I’m going to call Ron and see if he can get you in last minute.” She stood to make the call.

“Hey,” Draco called after her.

She stopped and turned toward him. Eyes empty. Empty as the bottles in the bin that used to contain his mysterious smoothies. Empty as the nightstand drawer where they used to stash sex things. Empty as the spare room at their townhouse in London. One more season, she said at the end of every season. Then we’ll try.

But they’d stopped trying a long time ago, in more ways than one. There was only Quidditch. The sport was their life, marriage, and baby. He hadn’t even pretended to ask this year. He knew what he’d see. This. Exactly this. This look. This void.

“I appreciate you.”

It was his way of saying the L word. Appreciation was close enough. It was better, actually, in some ways. How many people loved and got used to loving without ever acknowledging how rare and lucky it was? He wouldn’t get used to it. Distance or no, he wouldn’t take it for granted. His father was Lucius Malfoy, for crying out loud. Love and distance were mutually exclusive.

Not always, a voice whispered in his head.

He hated that voice. Could go months without hearing it. But Boucher reminded him, and now that it’d cropped up, he would have to go through another several months of suppression and irritation and self-hatred to start forgetting again.

She stared at him. Always without seeing.

“Watch the match. I’ll quiz you on it tomorrow. Rest your back tonight.”

She left and he reluctantly pressed play.

Same day: Cat’s Cradle Inn. Bristol, England.

Harry leaned across the reception desk of the soul-crushingly sad lobby. There was a distinctly damp smell in the air. Gnats fluttered around with every slight movement of his hands. He’s stayed in worse places. Grimmauld, to be blunt about it. He’d sooner sleep on a park bench than spend a night in that hostile house.

Plastering a friendly look on his face, he inwardly cursed his inability to be deceptive. He was always so easy to read. Ginny was the first to tell him that. A few weeks into dating, she informed him that she’d sorted him out within the first ten minutes of that party in Edinburgh. He didn’t think she was exaggerating- Ginny saw everything. Draco disagreed vehemently on the matter at the time, claiming to have no earthly understanding of Harry’s decision making process. But then, Draco had a tendency to only see what he wanted to, even when it was right in front of him. He looked without seeing. Willful ignorance, Harry’d decided at age sixteen. At thirty-one, he was more empathetic. Generational trauma, he figured now. Or, self preservation, perhaps.

“I left my wallet all the way back home in London…” he trailed off. “There’s plenty of Muggle money on this card-”

“Wizarding currency only,” the office assistant repeated for the second time.

Harry faltered, then tried again. “I have to stay here. I can bring you the money tomorrow-”

“We don’t give out rooms for free, sir.”

She was an irritable young woman, chomping on a piece of peppermint gum in the same manner with which she probably chewed up boys before spitting them out. If Harry was younger, he would try to work his way around the situation with flirting. As it was, he was at least five years too old for it to be appropriate and, admittedly, not looking his sharpest.

“I’m good for the money,” he promised. “I’m competing in the tournament tomorrow.”

“The one at that country club?”

“That’s the one.”

“My aunt Betty owns that flower shop. The sponsor.”

“That’s neat,” Harry lied. “Well, you know, I get money just for competing. I can come back here tomorrow and pay you. I just need a place to rest before my first match in the morning.”

Not an ounce of pity, “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you a room without a deposit.”

Harry frowned, his irritation getting the best of his amiable facade. “What if I sign a spare Snitch and give it to you?”

“Sir, I don’t know who you are.”

That would have been refreshing if Harry wasn’t in such a desperate situation. “Well. I’m Harry Potter.”

This had to be among one of the saddest interactions of his life.

A loud snort erupted from her nose. “Yeah. And I’m the queen of England.” She pulled a ‘closed’ sign out from beneath the desk and hung it over the back of the computer. “No Galleons. No room.”

Abandoning his polite pretenses, Harry left the room in a storm, letting the door slam behind him. Back in the street, he leaned against the brick wall of the inn and pulled out his cell, scrolling through names in his contacts until he found her.

HP: Hey Cho! How are you??? Weird favor, but you live near Bristol, right?

His hand was halfway to the pocket of his leather jacket, searching for a cigarette, when his phone pinged. His eagerness at the timely response was tempered by her tone.

CC: We haven’t spoken in five years.

That was to be expected, he supposed.

HP: Yeah, that’s crazy, right? How’ve you been?

The bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Off and on, much like their relationship.

CC: You said someone else’s name while we were hooking up.

Fuck. He completely forgot about that.

HP: I just need a place to crash for the night.

CC: Fuck off, Harry.

CC: And lose my number.

“Shite.” Pocketing his phone, he mounted his bike- not Sirius’ old thing, but a new, Muggle one he bought after crashing the other. He revved the engine and took off down the cobblestone street.

Pulling into the country club, he looked around the empty lot and found a relatively secluded corner, killing the engine. He removed his jacket and shook it out, using a spot of wandless to transfigure it into a thick quilt, which he spread on the grass. Curling up there on the ground, he folded his arms beneath his head and listened to the crickets chirp, figuring he’d probably sleep better here than in that nasty inn, anyway.

He woke to soft sunlight and someone kicking his sneakers.

“Hey! Up you get!” It was one of the club’s security guards. “You can’t sleep here, mate.” His right hand fingered his wand- not threatening, but prepared.

Still groggy, Harry gestured to the pitch across the road. “I’m playing today.”

“Oh…Well, that’s okay then…” The cop squinted at him, recognition overriding his suspicion. “You know, you look like an older Harry Potter.”

“You think?” Harry asked indulgently.

The man cocked his balding head, as if to observe Harry from a different angle. “...Eh, little bit. Anyway, uh, check-in’s just inside if you wanna get a head start, lad.”

Harry obediently gathered his things and headed toward the club, taking in the perfectly manicured lawns, the bountiful flowerbeds, the spotless glass doors. The whole effect made him feel considerably shabbier than he had moments before, in the clean morning air and dew damp grass. He slipped his de-transfigured jacket back on, a shoddy effort to hide his wrinkled, off-brand top. Blazerunner wasn’t exactly tripping over themselves to promote the one-hundred-and-second ranked player in the league, savior of the wizarding world or not.

“Checking in?” a healthy woman behind the counter asked. Her accent was notably posh and it reminded him of- but he couldn’t think about him right now. He needed to lock in.

“Yeah.”

“Name?” she asked as he approached. He didn’t hear her, though, because he was too busy staring at her untouched breakfast sandwich. It dripped runny, orange yolk onto the white paper beneath it. “Sir?” He blinked, focusing on her friendly gaze. “Name?”

“Oh, uh, Harry Potter.”

She chuckled a little, then blinked. Then blinked some more. “Oh. It is you, isn’t it?”

“ 'Fraid I don’t have my ID on me. Will the scar do?” He gestured to his fringe, as though he might pull it away from his forehead.

“No, no! I’ve kept up with you, actually. On that new wizarding sports program? Different, seeing you in person.”

“Shorter, you mean,” Harry grinned good naturedly.

“Oh- no!” It was a lie. “No. Stockier, definitely. Strong lad, aren’t you? You wouldn’t remember this, but I was one of the referees during your UK Open in fall of ninety-eight.”

“Oh, that’s cool!”

“Oh, I was so excited to watch you play! You were really something back then, huh?”

Harry stared, unsure how he was supposed to respond to such a statement. Especially such an accurate one. She seemed to notice her faux pas.

“Oh… I’m sorry, that came out wrong-”

“No sweat,” Harry assured her.

“Obviously, you’re still a fantastic player.”

Channeling his potion’s professor, he drawled, “Obviously.”

Giving him an awkward smile, she pushed past the moment. “Well, we’re excited to have you, Mister Potter.”

“Chuffed to be here.” His eyes wandered back to the sandwich, his stomach clenched painfully. It wasn’t as if he was starving- he was just used to consuming food every three hours like clockwork.

“Hungry?” she asked, and Harry saw in her that same desire to nurture that was present in Molly Weasley. He nodded sheepishly. “Oh, here, love.” She picked up the sandwich and held it out to him. He couldn’t bear to think of how pathetic he must look.

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“You could! They’ll have pastries out with the coffee soon. You go on and take it, I’m not even hungry.”

Hesitant, he accepted the sandwich- then promptly bit into the egg and sausage, chewing with elated aggression. “Thank you,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“So. You’ll be playing your first match against Gonzalez. Obligatory reminder that seekers tournaments are different from regular matches. You’ll be paired with a team of reserves, one match a day, a different team for each match. If you qualify for the finals, it’s best two out of three-”

“Finals one match a day?” Some places crammed three into one, which was almost worse than when they left it at one match to win without swapping reserve teams.

“Yep, we run qualifiers Monday through Wednesday, finals Thursday through Saturday. The celebration ceremony’s Sunday.”

“Ace.” He took another impossibly large bite, bereft to see half of the sandwich was gone already.

She slid a packet across the table toward him. “There’s a map of the club and pitch in there, and-”

“Yeah, I was wondering if there’s any way I could get an advanced payment of the prize money?”

Mouth moving in odd shapes, she stuttered, “Well, usually-”

“I mean, regardless of how I do, I’m supposed to get a hundred galleons today, yeah?”

“Generally,” she grimaced. “We don’t hand out winnings until the player has… competed.”

“Right, but, the inn down the road wouldn’t take my Muggle card, and I haven’t any wizarding currency, and- yeah, I need the money.”

“Well…” she squeaked out something that resembled a cough. “You could always lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Harry looked at her. He would hate her, if it wasn’t for the sandwich. “Right, but losing would sort of defeat the purpose of needing a room at the inn…”

They stared at one another, and it was like the young girl behind the counter again. No discernable path forward. A stalemate.

“I’ll let you know what I can do.”

He knew from the inflection in her voice that she was pandering.

“Thanks.”

A moment’s pause followed, wherein she leaned forward conspiratorially, lips puckered in suppressed excitement. “By the way,” she added coyly. “I’ve just caught wind there’s been a last minute wild card added to the mix.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry swallowed another bite.

“Wanna guess who it is?”

Harry, who could care less, but felt like a bother, prompted, “Who?”

Rather than answer with words, she pointed over his shoulder. Turning, he saw an autographed poster displayed in a glass frame, hanging on the wall among other famous wizarding sports stars. The bloke was decked out in tight quidditch leathers, broom slung around broad shoulders- he’d always made a good beater, Harry noted to himself with no small amount of nostalgia. In the moving picture, his eyes smirked at the camera, then looked out of frame like someone called his name. His eyes returned a moment later, looking right at Harry, lording a secret.

“Draco Malfoy,” she whispered as if it needed to be said.

Harry grinned as Draco’s eyes danced away again.

He hadn’t been this excited in ages.

Present day: Bristol, England. July 15, 2012.

Draco’s fingertips just barely grazed the fluttering white wing- and it zipped left again before he could close his fist around it.

“Fuck!” he cried, bringing his broom to a halting stop. His eyes moved frantically- he’d been so bloody close! Quidditch was beginning to feel like one of those Muggle arcade games. The claw machine one, making you think you’d been close to a prize, only for it to slip through metallic fingers. Draco wondered why he kept inserting change; the game was fucking rigged.

I’m so tired of you using your accident as an excuse to retire.

Why shouldn’t he retire? He’d already peaked. This was a boy’s sport.

The ref used a sonorous to make the call. “Unsportsmanlike conduct. Verbal obscenity. Warning: Malfoy.”

Draco knew there would be plenty of mothers clutching their pearls in the stands at their favorite redeemed pureblood letting one rip. He flew back to his perch in the left corner to observe the pitch at large, freezing when he caught Potter across the pitch, eyes taunting, smug as ever. He hadn’t even bothered to chase after Draco. He’d always had a sort of-

“Sixth sense,” Draco shouted over the wind.

Edinburgh, Scotland. June 2nd, 1999. International Minor League Tournament Finals.

Thirteen years ago.

Eyes rolling forcefully back into his head, Harry jerked his head to the opposing team’s seeker. “I don’t have a sixth sense, he’s got Snitch repellent.”

“Oh, that explains the smell,” Draco hummed.

“Get back down there,” Harry ordered with all the authority of a team captain. “They’ll flag you. The Snitch is behind that stand-”

“How do you-?” Draco whined.

“They’re gonna lob me when I make a break for it. And-”

Draco finished the thought for him. “He’s closer.”

“Take care of him, eh?”

“Say less, Potter.”

“Harry!” he bellowed after him as he zipped away.

“Noooo,” Draco yelled back. “I’m Draco. One too many Bludgers to the head, mate!”

“Oi! Malfoy!” one of their teammates yelled. “Get your arse over here!”

The play worked beautifully. It always did. It was the closest to perfection life ever got, being on the pitch with Draco. All Harry had to do was fly full speed ahead. The Snitch wanted to be caught by him. Practically flew into his hand, some days. Draco took care of the messy bits, and did so with impossible finesse. He made swinging a bat look like ballroom dancing. The same moment Andrew Finnigan fell off his broom from Draco’s Bludger, Harry closed fingers around the golden bird.

He hit the ground running, barreling toward Draco before he’d even fully dismounted his broom. They embraced hard, jumping up and down, absolutely losing their minds. Harry jumped into his arms and they went toppling into the dirt, their teammates celebrating uproariously around them. To Harry, though, this was his and Draco’s win. They howled maniacally in each other’s faces, Harry’s legs hooked around his waist and grasping his friend as close as physically possible, desperate to share the feeling, to convey his trust.

I knew we would win, he meant to tell him. We’re unstoppable. We’re the closest thing to perfection that exists. We will always win together. Let’s stay together forever.

Harry kissed a sloppy, wet thing to Draco’s forehead, delighting in his jovial cries. He’d never smiled so brightly. Never seemed so carefree. The terrible thought that battered around the shield of Harry’s happiness was: this is when the shoe drops.

They stepped into the press room to a hundred flashes of light. Photographers screamed Harry’s name. Journalists waved their hands desperately for his attention. Draco stood still and reserved by his side, the rest of their teammates chatting quietly behind them. He’d learned a long time ago to resent the publicity that came with being Harry Potter’s best friend. Harry secretly worried he wouldn’t be able to handle the constant scrutiny of being in the professional league. Harry was mostly numb to it, but Draco wasn’t like him. He couldn’t get mad for a minute and let things go. He bottled feelings up, shoved them deep down inside, occluded, and waited for something to trigger an explosion. Harry witnessed his fair share through their adolescence.

“First, we’d like to congratulate the Highland Heroes for playing a great game today and throughout this entire tournament.” Harry led the room into a staggering round of applause.

Draco’s lips quirked with amusement. He always forgot about things like that. Sportsmanlike things.

“Those guys have given us a lot of trouble this week…” The room warmed with kind chuckles. “And, er, we’d all like to thank our coach, Sara McGee. Couldn’t have done this without you…” In the bleachers, Sara gave a deceptively humble show of looking abashed by the thanks. “And…” Harry looked at Draco and laughed. “This is so mad. It feels like just yesterday, we were two twelve year old boys in our dormitory, daydreaming about being exactly here, together.”

Harry hoped his sentimentality was obvious. Draco was bad at picking up on things like authenticity. To his mind, every kindness and word of praise served an ulterior motive. His father utterly ruined him. Good thing Harry happened to like him ruined just as well. The steel grey of his eyes softened, almost blue, and Harry thought he understood.

“So, yeah…” He shook their championship trophy in his grasp, eliciting another wave of cheers. “This is bark raving mad. We’re proper chuffed.”

A journalist spoke up, asserting himself among the faceless swarm. “You and Malfoy have dominated the minor league as a joint sign-on in every team who’s tried you out this season- your first season. Something people love about watching you play together is your drastically different flying techniques. Are you aware people call you Fire and Ice?”

“Like Victor and Wood?” Draco scoffed.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Harry admitted. He hated the catch-all almost as much as he knew Draco would.

“Who’s fire?” he accidentally asked into the microphone.

HARRY! the crowd concurred dutifully.

“Malfoy,” The reporter had his wand to his throat now, projecting his voice. “Your game tends to be more elegant and precise. Harry, you’re…”

“I’m mad,” Harry surmised.

“Well, I wouldn’t say-”

“No, he’s gone fully round the bin,” Draco interrupted matter-of-factly. “Lost the plot sometime around third year and never found it.”

Laughter buzzed like a hoard of bees around them. They smiled at each other with their eyes, and it felt more like Spring than Summer.

“And now,” the reporter continued. “You’re in the odd position of playing on the same team for the boys minor league playoffs today, and then facing off in the seeker tournament finals tomorrow.”

“It’s barmy,” Harry confirmed detachedly.

He’d never played Draco in a seeker match outside of practice. Frankly, Harry couldn’t understand why Draco would want such a thing. He was a fantastic beater. The best in the minor league. Would be in the professional league, as well, soon as they were signed. This dream of being a Seeker was… well, it was fucking with Harry’s plan. It was supposed to be him and Draco, together, forever.

He shook the anxious fog from his head. Draco just needed to get it out of his system. Today must have proved to him that their partnership was special, right? It would be a waste to throw away such a good thing.

“Any predictions about how the finals are gonna go?” the reporter pushed.

“I think,” Harry began. “That we’re both gonna try to kick each other’s arse. I mean butt! Sorry! Shite. Sorry!” Flustered, Harry stepped away from the mic, hiding his face behind the shiny, silver trophy.

“You have to get this bloke off air,” Draco advised them.

“Alright, well, are you rooting for anyone in the girls’ minor league finals this week?”

“Oh, yeah!” Harry exclaimed. “Ginny Weasley!”

“She’s a fellow Hogwarts alumni,” the reporter contextualized for the listeners. “Fresh out of school. Are you friends?”

“I got on with her brother, but she’s bloody brilliant. If they’d let her loose on us today, we’d’ve gone home crying with our tails between our legs. Draco’s never seen her play in person, we’re hoping to catch her match later today.”

“Alright, well, you lads enjoy that. Congratulations, again, to the minor league boys’ champions!”

The stands were noticeably fuller when they sat themselves for Ginny’s match. The hum of conversation grew louder by the minute as excitement mounted. Fire and Ice may have made a headline or two, but in Quidditch, the moment was Ginny Weasley.

“Can you do me a favor?” Draco asked.

Harry was two un-swallowed bites into a hotdog, so he chewed hastily before washing it down with a large gulp of his pop. “I’d do anything for you, love.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He still thought Harry was joking. “Can you not completely humiliate me tomorrow?”

“Oh, stuff it, Draco,” Harry groaned, twisting the cap back on his drink.

“I’ve made peace with the fact that you’re going to win and you’ll always be better than me at every endeavor-”

“You’re a much better drunk than me. Way more fun.”

Draco ignored him, probably reading patronization into Harry’s praise, as was habit. “Even if it’s not a fact that you’ll win , statistically it is likely-”

“I love it when you talk swotty to me.”

“I’m just saying… throw me a match?”

Harry crumpled the napkin in his hands and vanished it with a flourish of wandless. Draco clucked at the casual display of magical power. “If it matters-” Harry paused, noting his untouched food. “Draco, eat. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Draco took a dutiful bite of his hotdog. Harry watched earnestly as he chewed, his lips smeared in ketchup, and resisted the urge to reach out and wipe it away like a mother hen.

“If it matters so much to you,” Harry picked up. “I can just give it to you.”

Draco blinked. Then nodded with satisfaction. “Brilliant, thanks.”

“I mean, it is a curse, after all,” Harry shrugged, the picture of ease. “Every now and then, a seeker champion will make it into the professional league, but most of the time they fall off the map. Forgotten to a mass of almost-made-its.”

A single blond brow hitched in his direction. “You seemed excited about winning the minor league tournament?”

Harry waved him off. “Yeah, but that’s different. That’s you and me. That’s just…” The entire point. “... good fun.”

“Well,” Draco spoke around a second bite, and Harry would have snapped a picture if he didn’t think Draco would hex his disposable Muggle camera into a million tiny pieces. “If you’re happy to throw tomorrow, I’ll take it. But you can’t just retire. You have to make it look like I really won.”

“Do you have money on this or something?” Didn’t sound like something Draco would do, but certainly a Malfoy would.

“No, but Grandmother’s going to be listening in from her little nursing community. She keeps floo calling me, going on about how proud she is. I hate encouragement, it-”

“It makes you choke.”

“Exactly!” he mumbled as he went in for another bite.

Harry watched him tear into it appreciatively. Lowering his voice suggestively, “You’re taking that hotdog so well, Draco.”

He promptly choked, chewing and coughing at the same time. Tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Harry patted him hard on the back, barking guffaws at the look on his face.

“That’s okay,” he cooed. “Most people can’t swallow the first time.”

“You-” Draco gulped thickly and coughed into his shoulder, face beet red, flushing all the way down his neck. Harry’s eyes followed the blush to the buttons of his polo. “You are such a sick bastard. I was just talking about my sickly grandmother-”

“You were guilting me with your sickly grandmother,” Harry corrected.

“As if I would ever.” Draco smirked, not bothering with false horror.

The speakers blared to life, sending the entire stand ducking into their own shoulders, shirking from the noise. “Now entering the pitch, hailing from Russia, girls Seeker champion number five in the world, Irina Petrovska!”

“Bond villain, she is,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Harry elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Be nice.”

“What? Bond villains are notoriously sexy. Electra King. Xenia. Alec Trevel- Trev- oh, you know the bloke.”

He watched the girl bare her teeth in the other team’s direction. “Jaws,” Harry contributed.

“Now who’s being mean?” Draco snickered.

“Unlike you, I’m not a superficial twat. I care about what’s on the inside.”

“I care about the inside,” he responded defensively. “It doesn’t matter how pretty someone is if they’re an annoying fucking bint.”

“Here, here.”

They clinked their pops together as Irina pulled out her broom, a new Firebolt 12.

Harry leaned into Draco’s ear, as if telling a secret. “Ginny’s already got a brand deal with Blazerunner.”

“What? How? She hasn’t even finished the tournament…”

“She’s probably already got a contract typed up with the Harpies. I watched her at the Australian girls’ tournament; she could win the Cup tomorrow.”

Draco blinked at such effusive praise coming from Harry. Harry didn’t pander. Especially not when it came to quidditch. “She’s that good?”

“She’s in another league. She’s beautiful.”

Brows raised, Draco tried to remember the last time Harry commented on a girl’s appearance in front of him. He couldn’t pin down anything after fifth year. “That’s nothing to do with her game.” His face stretched in a rouge grin. “If it was, I’d be better than you.”

Not taking the bait, Harry simply nodded. “Hell, you’d be better than her.”

His serious gaze made Draco do that squirmy thing, that thing where his skin felt like a separate organism. Like it might come into consciousness and jump from his bones. Harry was too good at those uncomfortable jokes. If Draco was a bystander, if he didn’t know better, he’d think he meant them.

Before Draco could formulate a response that exceeded the look of irritated disbelief on his face, Harry went on. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about her looks. Her game is beautiful. Elegant. Kind of like yours, only…”

“Better?”

“Less restrained,” Harry agreed without the unhelpful ranking. “But still controlled. She’s the best of both of us.”

The universe must have been eager to prove his point, because the speakers blared to life again. “And now entering the pitch, the girls Seeker champion number one in the world and winner of the minor league Australian Seeker’s Tournament… GINNY WEASLEY!”

The deafening scream of the stands could rival the World Cup. People went mad for her. The enthusiastic display made their little press conference look utterly cute. Harry and Draco leaned forward as eighteen year old Ginny Weasley walked onto the pitch, wearing the sleekest Blazerunner leathers there were. With the silky red hair, cream colored skin, and long legs, she could have passed for a supermodel. Then she hiked her broom up and over her shoulder, flexing muscles and unleashing an earth-scorching determination on the poor girl across the pitch- and she became a force of nature, flashing a charming, million watt smile as if it was no effort at all to be such a walking juxtaposition.

“Fuck.”

Harry glanced at Draco, watching Ginny in a state of awe. The silly look made Harry want to take the piss. Something curdled in his gut and he couldn’t quite manage.

“Yeah,” Harry allowed. “S’pose she is rather beautiful.”

“She was at Hogwarts?” Draco didn’t seem to believe it.

“Yeah. You wouldn’t have paid her any mind, what with her being a dreaded Weasley.” Harry isn’t sure why he brings that up in such an offhand, joking manner. Some part of him was suddenly desperate to immerse them in the past. Remember when you hated her without knowing her and I was your only friend and it was just you and me and no one else mattered? Remember when Ginny Weasley didn’t matter? Remember a few moments ago when you’d never seen her?

Harry hated it when he had thoughts like that. He liked Ginny. Or, he used to like Ginny, and now he was eager to watch her play and pick apart every flaw.

Problem was, as soon as the players mounted their brooms and kicked off, Ginny absolutely smoked the poor Russian girl. Her cool athleticism made Irina’s game look like child’s play. At one point, Ginny flew straight for the girl in a scare tactic, barreling toward her stunned face and then hauling back a second before making impact. The swift jerk of her broom had both men jumping in their seats, Harry’s hand a firm, gripping presence on Draco’s thigh. Watching her play, he felt every bit like the teenager he was, awkward and horny in a dark cinema, groping blindly at his date with every jump scare.

When Ginny’s fingers snared the Snitch ten minutes in, her calm demeanor broke, and she let out a guttural, belly-deep scream;

“LET’S GO!!!”

Startled by the victorious outcry, Harry and Draco turned to one another, both ardently aware that they’d witnessed something other-worldly. They broke up in nervous titters, shoulders falling from their ears. Draco was the first to turn back to the pitch, his wide eyes finding Ginny among the rest of the reserve players, shaking hands and patting backs. He looked star-struck.

That’s when Harry felt it.

    The shoe.

        Dropping.

Chapter Text

Edinburgh, Scotland. June 2nd, 1999. Closing Ceremony dinner.

Thirteen years ago.

Brooding silently, Harry sipped his drink, watching Draco watch Ginny.

“Let’s go,” he said finally.

“Potter-”

“Harry.”

“Gesundheit. Potter, I’m not leaving here without you introducing me.”

This was why Draco took so long getting ready, fiddling with his hair in the mirror. Harry spared her a brief glance, and yes, she was gorgeous, but so were lots of people. That’s not what this was about.

“She’s gonna make her whole family millionaires,” Harry predicted casually. “She’ll have her own fashion line. Her own supplement. A foundation…”

“Why are you-” Draco narrowed grey eyes at him. “I thought you liked her?”

“I do. She’s a fantastic player. She’s the player. And that’s why you’re…” Harry gestured to his own face. “All doe-eyed right now.”

He was expecting the scornful cough that followed. “I am not doe-”

“You’re attracted to power,” Harry interrupted. Draco fell silent. “You always have been.”

Crossing arms over his chest, “So?”

Harry frowned. “So? So you don’t like her, you like her game.”

“I don’t know her.” He said the words slowly, like Harry was stupid. “That would be the point of you introducing me.”

Harry stared at him and he stared back. Then he got that earnest look on his face and Harry caved with a groan. “Fine, whatever, just. Be cool.”

Draco rolled languid shoulders. “I’m ice, darling.”

Harry tried to disguise his puff of amusement as a snarl, but it came out all wrong. Grabbing him by the elbow, Harry dragged him in Ginny’s direction, resenting every step that led them there. She was talking to someone, an older gentleman with a nametag. Her milky skin was covered in a midnight blue dress, bare shoulders splattered in freckles, like bits of orange zest. Harry pictured Draco licking them and felt sick. They waited patiently nearby for the man to leave, and as soon as he did, they both started to speak at the same time.

“Hiyuh, Ginny-”

“You were incre-”

They stopped and looked at each other.

“Fire and ice.” Her eyes were bright, calculating things. “You know what we called you two in school?”

“I’ve a feeling it’s not nearly so boy band,” Harry ventured teasingly. Draco frowned suspiciously. Partly because he hadn’t any idea what a boy band was, and partly because he could recognize when Harry was intentionally tapping into his charm.

“Nor as nice, I’m afraid,” she warned. Her eyes flickered to Draco. “The princess,” Brown eyes returned to Harry. “And the pauper.”

Harry whistled. “Ouch.”

“At least it’s more imaginative,” Draco mumbled.

Ginny laughed brilliantly, eyes keen on Draco’s put-out expression. He knew he needed to act now that he had her attention.

“You were incredible today. That wasn’t even quidditch. That was something else.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “I know.”

“I felt bad for Irina,” Harry agreed, appeased when she turned his direction again, away from Draco and the fairy lights twinkling against his fair complexion.

“Don’t,” she advised. “She’s a racist bitch. I’ve played tournaments with her since we were fourteen and she’s always saying the nastiest stuff about Muggleborns off the pitch. Throws around the M- word like it’s a Quaffle.” Ginny turned sharply back to Draco. “I heard you’re going to Cambridge next year.”

Harry turned sour at the reminder. They still didn’t talk about it, Draco’s decision to attend Wizarding Cambridge. Harry was sure he’d snap out of it any day now. Every week that passed made the feeling of dread in his stomach build, heavy as a brick, stacking a wall up his chest and blocking up his throat. He couldn’t breathe when he thought of Draco going to Cambridge.

“So am I.”

She was pleased about this, Harry could tell. It made the dead weight in his gut compress, packed and malleable like clay. Her gratification squeezed the fearful stuff and shaped it into something cruel and territorial. Something Harry always feared he was capable of. They would be at Cambridge together, playing on the pitch, training in the gym, running the track. Lunching together. Cramming for tests. Becoming friends and falling in love. That is, if the fucking didn’t start tonight.

Harry just couldn’t have that. He would… he wasn’t sure what he would do, but it wouldn’t be good. It wouldn’t be good and he didn’t care. He had to keep them apart, until Draco got over it. Until he realized how powerful they were. Together. He didn’t need to seek strength in another person. He was plenty strong on his own.

“What?” Draco’s eyes lit up at the prospect. No doubt he was imagining all those horrible things in a very different light.

“I just accepted the offer,” she confirmed. “They mentioned you were playing for them.”

“You’re not going pro?” Harry cut in, except it sounded like, You should go pro. Leave him alone. Leave the country.

She eyed him, impassive and calm, like she was on the field. Harry got the feeling she saw too much. “Not yet.”

“Why?” he bit out.

Ginny looked surprised by the intensity of his question. He felt Draco shift by his side.

“Why would you waste your time playing uni Quidditch?” He spat the word uni with no small amount of ire.

Draco didn’t react to Harry’s spite. Didn’t wince or get defensive. He swallowed the disappointment like he’d been doing for several months. It still hurt, though. Hurt especially that Harry never once asked Draco why he wanted to play university Quidditch. He’d only blown his top and stomped off. Nevermind that Draco’s answer was quite simple; he wanted to study medical magic. A bit. That was all. He just… liked it. Wanted to understand why the physical therapists did what they did. Wanted to help Harry when his calf tensed up as it was oft to do. But all Harry heard was, I’m leaving you. And, well, Draco knew him well enough to know there was no rationalizing with him over matters of abandonment. He would just have to prove that he was coming back. That he would always come back. Hadn’t all those months in the Forest of Dean shown Harry as much?

“Ginny!” Her coach called from across the room. Ginny held up a single finger in her direction before turning back to the boys.

“I’ve got to go sign autographs. But… There's an after party tonight. By the lake. You guys should come.”

“Uh,” Harry starts.

“We’ll be there,” Draco answered for them.

Her eyes flickered from one to the other, a mischievous look on her face. “Cool.” To Draco, “Nice meeting you, Princess.”

She turned and walked off, leaving them staring after her. Numb and quiet, they turned toward each other.

“I’d let her peg me with a beater bat,” Draco declared.

Harry’s gaze honed in on him sharply. “If you’re into that,” he joked. Only, it didn’t sound like he was joking, voice and eyes dark as they were. “I’m not going to that party,” Harry told him, like that was the end of.

“Why not?” Draco glowered. “I can hardly go alone.”

“We’ve got a final tomorrow. We should rest. Prepare.”

“If I’m winning either way, why should it matter to you?”

Harry searched for an adequate excuse and came up empty. “Right… but don’t you want to rest?”

Face twisting considerately, “I mean, I guess…” He trailed off, analyzing Harry’s openly desperate expression. “Wait.”

Comprehension dawned in Draco’s face. Harry couldn’t decide if that scared him or excited him.

“I see what you’re doing.” You’re keeping me away from her, Harry knew he would say. “You want to be the only one who shows up!”

Harry flinched away from the misinterpretation. “What? No, I-”

“Wow, you’re an arsehole.”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

“Are you that threatened by me?”

“Draco, look at me. Is that the kind of thing I would do?”

Draco looked at him. It was.

“Look, I’m not trying to Slytherin you out of having a shot with her so I can swoop in. I just think you’ll regret it-” If you make me do what I have to do to keep you from her. “-if you stay up all night flirting rather than studying my game.”

Draco was unmoved. “I’ve studied your game since we were kids. It hasn’t helped.”

“You know,” Harry knew before he said it, that Draco wouldn't take him at face value. “It hurts my feelings, how little you believe in yourself.”

His friend laughed him off, a self deprecating lilt to the sound. Blond hair had turned white in the moonlight, and Harry almost exhaled a wistful gust of breath.

“I’m not going to the party,” he repeated. “Seriously.”

“Promise?”

He clenched his jaw. Released. “Promise.” Draco nodded at this. Harry half expected him to hold out his pinky and make him swear by it. “And you?”

“Why do you care?” Draco hedged.

“I don’t. Just asking.”

“Well… I’m not going if you’re not going.”

“Great.”

“Brilliant.”

Two hours later: The Lake

People danced and shouted over shite Wizard music, wearing dresses better fit for the club and hugging each other like they hadn’t been fighting for their lives on the pitch a few hours earlier.

Draco smoothed down his fresh button up and scowled. “I can’t believe you.”

“I’m here because I knew you would be here.” Harry hadn’t bothered to dress up, still wearing the same athletic polo and jeans.

“Aren’t you dating someone?”

Harry cringed at the reminder. “What, Cho? She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Does she know that?” Draco grumbled.

It was angsty little comments like those that gave Harry pause. That made him cock his head and wonder if, maybe, Draco wouldn’t mind if Harry…

“Of course,” Harry finally answered. She didn’t, in fact, know that.

Draco looked around, trying to control his face. Then, “How are we going to handle this?”

“Handle what?”

“We can’t both go at her with our pricks swinging. We’ll scare her off.”

Harry was getting steadily fed up with this bit. He wanted to scare her off. That was the whole point. “I don’t want-”

Swift as a Snitch, she was there. “You came!” She acted like this was a surprise. “I didn’t realize when I invited you that your match was tomorrow. Do you need to, like, prepare or something?”

Draco tried and failed to make his shrug come off casual. Harry hated it. He’d never really had to suffer through watching him pick up women. He wasn’t very good at it. Too obvious. Too performative. Same as he was on a broom. “It’s just a seeker tournament.”

“Yeah,” Harry piped up, hating the resentment that spurred his tongue. “We both know how it’s gonna go.”

Draco shot him a look, pissed, but Harry kept his eyes determinedly on Ginny. If he couldn’t stop this with Draco, he would stop it with her.

“Well,” She paid their obvious tension no mind. “Cool that you came.”

“Yeah,” Draco breezed. “We should get to know each other better if we’ll both be at Cambridge next-”

“Do you smoke?” Harry asked Ginny, cutting Draco off mid-sentence.

“Cigarettes?” Ginny was the picture of unimpressed.

“Yeah.”

“No. Do you?”

“Yeah. Wanna get some air?” He nodded toward the empty fire pit, where lawnchairs sat out in a semicircle. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, only that he wanted Draco to feel as sore as he did.

She paused for a few seconds, then looked at Draco, who was glaring at Harry. Ginny Weasley may be a bit of a jock, but she had plenty of brains to go with the brawn. Looking at these two ridiculously codependent boys, she understood that they were completely at her mercy. And only one of them knew it. The thing that’s always sort of pissed her off about Harry Potter? He barreled forward, never thinking too far ahead. Rubbish chess player, she reckoned.

But she loved to win.

“Sure,” she agreed eventually. She inserted herself between them, linking her arms in each of theirs at the elbow. “Lead the way, boys.”

“I can’t believe Harry Potter smokes cigarettes.”

Ginny whisper-yelled the words to Draco from the lawn chair beside him. Harry was standing close to the water, blowing smoke away from them.

“Oh, it’s part of his rebranding efforts,” Draco explained nonchalantly.

Harry whirled around, dubious. “Rebranding efforts?”

“Smoking, driving flying motorcycles, getting tattoos- he had a mustache for a fortnight.” Ginny busted into a round of giggles at the picture. Draco’s eyes danced with smarmy mirth. “He wants to be a baddie so terribly.”

“I’m not a baddie,” Harry denied. “I’m alternative.”

“You’re certainly trying.”

Harry didn’t like this, getting ribbed for a laugh. Sure, it wasn’t the first time Draco had given him a hard time about the motorcycle. And Merlin, Harry thought he’d never let the mustache thing go. But this was different. This didn’t feel like teasing. This was Draco trying to make him seem embarrassing. Un-dateable. Because he was so fucking worried about Harry stepping on his toes. Ginny Weasley wasn’t even his type, pretty though she was. She really was very pretty… she probably already had a boyfriend, Harry thought hopefully.

“Sorry,” Harry dropped the cig and stomped it under the toe of his shoe. “But I’ve gotta ask about Cambridge.”

Ginny regarded him with cool reservation. "Okay. Ask away.”

“What’s the deal?” When Ginny didn’t respond, he continued. “Like, what’s the angle there? You’re not gonna get any better beating up on girls who were the best players at Hogwarts.”

Her lashes batted innocently. “Weren’t you the best player at Hogwarts?”

Draco sat up a little. “Matter of opinion,” he mumbled.

“You know,” she continued without waiting for Harry’s snarky response. “They do teach classes at Cambridge. I don’t want my only life skill to be chasing a ball around on a broom.”

A light went off in Harry’s head. “Oh, okay. I get it. That’s great.”

Ginny’s gaze narrowed skeptically. “What?”

Harry chuckled to himself. “You’re making us wait for you. Letting the minor league champions go pro, get comfortable out on the pitch, just so you can show up a couple years later like: Hey! Remember me, motherfuckers?”

Ginny bristled a bit, but hid it well. She hadn’t anticipated him being so observant.

“Meanwhile,” Draco piped up with a sly look. “You get to be the Quidditch phenomenon who cares about her education.”

“It’s a good look,” Harry admits. “I can imagine the Blazerunner campaign.”

“And when are you going pro?” she inquired bluntly. He could see she was ready to tear apart his answer, no matter which way it went.

“Soon as I can.” He avoided Draco’s eye in favor of scuffing his shoes against dirt. “It’s a young person’s game.”

Ginny scoffed. He wondered if she’ll insist on carrying on when she’s middle-aged. He can’t picture it.

“Chasing a ball around on a broom is better than sitting behind a desk. It’s definitely better than coughing up cash just to write papers about global-warming and Muggle-Magical integration.”

“See,” Ginny pushed herself to her feet, the gauzy hem of her dress fluttering around her slim legs in the breeze. “That’s your problem. You don’t realize Quidditch is a job. You think you’re an artist or something. Your coaches have been telling you that you’re a genius since your first time on a broom. And they’ve all been letting you do whatever you want ever since, because they’re too afraid to ‘mess with the magic’. That’s why you’ve still got that atrocious kick off-”

“It works,” Harry interjected half-heartedly.

“It wastes time. But yeah, your game works. For the minor league. With him,” she pointed to Draco. “-making things easy for you. But once you’re signed? You’re going to be playing guys who are, like, five-hundredth in the world. And you’re going to lose. Because you’re a boy and they’re men. They win because it’s their job. They win because they know what it feels like to lose. They need to win. You just want to win, because you love hearing other people tell you what a natural talent you are.”

Unable to decide if he was angry or impressed, Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but Ginny was pointing at Draco again, much to his alarm.

“Meanwhile, without you, Draco couldn’t get your coach’s attention if he hexed her in the gut. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s better than you in a few years. Or, at least, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is still his job and you’re… I don’t know… an Auror or something.”

He scrunched his nose. “Wouldn’t be able to stand the bloody uniforms.”

“The point being…” She turned toward Draco, a serene expression on her face. “You can build something from ice.” Her eyes cut, fiery, to Harry. “Fire just burns things down.”

For a reason Harry didn’t want to analyze, he felt terribly cursed by her little speech. Like speaking the words into the universe would bring them to fruition. His eyes fell over her shoulder, to Draco, and Draco wasn’t looking at him. Wasn’t comforting him or defending him. He was enraptured by her. Fucking enraptured.

Taking a beat, she looked across the lawn to the club. “I should get back. My coach will be looking for me…” She started heading toward the light.

“Wait,” Draco called, rushing to his feet. “Can I get your mobile?”

Ginny’s face marred with confusion. “My mobile?”

“He means your floo,” Harry elucidated. “He’s asking you out…” Harry watched a soft expression steal her face and his temper flared.  “And so am I. Right now.”

Draco was appropriately betrayed. Here Harry was, doing exactly what he’d insisted he wasn’t going to do. He wasn’t surprised, though. Harry was simply proving what Draco always knew. What he learned as a babe.

Everyone has an ulterior motive.

“You’re both asking me out?” she clarified.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed.

She pursed her lips reluctantly, but she was loving it. This would be a good game. Maybe her best yet.

“I’m not a homewrecker.”

Harry waved her off with a blithe hand. “We don’t live together.”

“It’s an open relationship,” Draco joshed.

“I can’t give you both my floo. And I won’t choose and mess with your heads before the match tomorrow.”

Draco shot Harry a wicked look. “Potter has a girlfriend.”

“I do not.” Which was true. Well, it was his truth. Not his fault Cho believed what she wanted to.

“They put us up in Stonefield.”

Harry side-eyed Draco, not sure what the fuck he was suggesting.

Ginny cocked a brow. “Want me to come sing you a lullaby?”

“Come hang out with us later,” Draco pushed. “Then you can decide?”

Ginny considered him for a few moments, noting Harry’s clear disapproval of Draco’s brazen plan. She pondered their dynamic, trying to decide if such pretty faces were worth the trouble. “We’ll see.”

“Room three-ninety-four!” Draco yelled at her back as she trekked toward the club. “We have Firewhiskey!”

“Good night, boys!”

She left them there, teetering on the edge of something. Something she knew they’d never claw their way out of.

Can’t help but wonder, Ginny mused as she walked away, what a little push could do.

Harry and Draco sprawled across their hotel in nothing but their pants, bodies damp from the humidity in their tiny room. Harry, reclining in the armchair with his feet on the bed, cast another temperature regulating charm without a wand.

“S’not working,” Draco groaned. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Fucking castles,” Harry muttered. “Remember how cold the dungeons were? Year round. Spells be damned. Hell, we practically shared a bed during the Winter…” He looked up, hoping to tease Draco with some innuendo about how desperate they’d been for body heat, but Draco was spread out over the bed on his stomach, chin resting on his arms, staring at the door. “She’s not coming,” he snapped shortly, wishing he’d never dragged Draco to her match.

“She might.”

“You made it sound like we wanted to hook up with her in here.”

“We do want to hook up with her in here…”

Working his jaw, Harry scowled out the window into the night sky, dotted with stars. He looked uselessly for familiar patterns. “What was your plan? She comes over and- what? We flirt with her until she, best case scenario, shags one of us while the other sits in the lobby?”

He watched Draco’s head turn to him in the window. He stared at Harry’s profile for a moment or two with an odd expression twisting his face, unaware that he was being seen. The look cleared in a blink, his voice perfectly even when he spoke. “You would shag her tonight?”

Harry waited a beat, trying to read something in his tone, to interpret the odd shape his lips made. “Do you not want me to?”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I mean… no. Obviously, no.”

Harry didn’t look away from the glass. He worried Draco wouldn’t be honest directly to his face. “Because you want to shag her?”

“Why else?” Draco prompted unhelpfully.

Harry hesitated. Just as he was gearing up to respond, a knock came at the door. They went still. The knock came again, and they were scrambling out of their positions and throwing on clothes.

On the other side of the door, Ginny pressed her ear to the stone, listening with rapt amusement as they hissed at each other and ran about the room tidying. The door was yanked away and she quickly straightened up, playing the role of someone completely ignorant. They stood side by side, forcing themselves into the narrow doorway, half dressed and reaking of cigarettes.

She held up her deck of cards. “Wanna play a game?”

“Flush!” she cackled, laying down her hand on the awful green rug. They whined and groaned at the loss, all in good fun. Ginny was fun. Harry had almost forgotten that he hated her.

“Another round?” Draco suggested.

“No,” Ginny waved him off. “It’s no fun when you make it so easy.”

Draco laughed, but she noticed the pink tinge to his cheeks. He’d taken the retort personally. Now that she thought about it, the comment applied to whatever this was, too. He was throwing himself in her direction without asking himself why.

Ginny was more than happy to help him discover his motivations.

“So,” And now the game was really beginning. “What’s with you two?”

They stared blankly at her.

“I mean, you were friends at Hogwarts, but these past few years you’ve been joined at the bloody hip.”

Draco responded evasively. “Yes, well, nothing can bond a pair like Slytherin politics.”

“And a few odd months on the road looking for horcruxes.” Harry added it intentionally, she knew, because he was looking right at her, deathly serious. A notice, she realized. We’ve been to the gallows and back, that look informed her. This one’s mine.

“Yeah, I heard about that…” Ginny’s eyes flickered over Harry’s form. He was much fitter than this time a year ago. Regular meals and less running for his life had done him good. “Speaking of hearing about things. Is your girlfriend still Cho Chang?” She crossed her legs and waited patiently.

“No,” Harry answered with a shake of his shaggy head. He fiddled uncomfortably with his glasses. “We just hang out sometimes.”

“Right…” She turned to Draco, with his heartbreaking dimples and strange eyes. “And you? Why aren’t you pretending not to have a girlfriend?”

“Oh, I’m not-”

“Draco’s notoriously picky,” Harry cut in.

“I’m not! That makes it sound like I’m-”

“A tosser?” Ginny offered.

“A virgin,” Draco supplied with a roll of his eyes.

“Who would think that?” Harry snorted. He placed a hand intimately against Draco’s cheek, thumb falling familiarly to the dimple. “Look at the face!”

Draco squirmed away from his touch, swatting at him with some mixture of mirth and discomfort. Ginny never thought she’d see the day a Malfoy balked under praise. Unshakeable calm in place, she lengthened her spine and gave them each an assessing look.

“So…” She gestured between the three of them. “How often does this happen?”

They looked at each other, then Ginny. “What?” Draco’s brow pinched. “Going after the same girl?”

“Yeah.”

Harry made an unreadable face. “Never.”

“We usually have different types,” Draco reasoned.

“Oh,” Ginny hummed. “So I should be flattered?”

“Well…” Draco gave her a look from under his lashes, so coy that it almost made her feel something. “Aren’t you everybody’s type?”

Harry’s eyes darkened enough that she did feel something.

Working to conceal an expression Ron called ‘schemey’, Ginny leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin in palm. “So what about the two of you?”

While Harry eyed the rug with a carefully blank expression, Draco blinked at her. It took a few seconds of that for him to seek clarification.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Her eyes flickered between the two of them. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “You’re two very pretty boys.”

“Oh!” Draco’s exclamation was a touch too loud. He turned to Harry with a disbelieving expression. Harry made a similar face back at him, but it rang false. “No!” Draco sniggered, obnoxiously, like such a thing were ridiculous. “No,” he said again, calmer. “Why? Is that surprising?”

Her eyes drifted to Harry. He looked lost in his head. A memory that had his lip caught between his teeth. Feeling Ginny’s attention, he lifted his gaze, something evasive in his expression. He blinked innocently.

“What?” she demanded, eyes narrowed.

Harry shrugged, bored… then opened his mouth. “Well…”

“No.” Draco gave him an imploring look.

“I mean-”

“No,” he repeated, eyes closing mournfully.

Harry threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry-”

“Potter.”

“I just-”

“I think there’s a story there, Harry,” Ginny encouraged.

“No.” But Draco looked resigned to his fate, face buried in his hands and the tips of his ears going pink.

“It’s kind of a sweet story, actually…”

“Uh-huh, right. Fuck you, Potter.”

“Sweet?” she gushed excitedly. “Well, alright, let’s hear it!”

Extremely unamused, Draco held his hand against his forehead, like he was checking for a fever. Probably hoping he was deliriously ill and this was all a dream, Ginny wagered.

“I taught-”

“Salazar’s fucking balls-”

Harry carried on delightedly, choosing to ignore Draco’s turmoil. “I taught Draco how to rub one out.”

A long silence followed, wherein Ginny really absorbed the situation she’d gotten herself into. This wasn’t something that started flaring up in their looming adulthood as a result of some intense camping trip and heated quidditch highs. This went deep. This was foundational. She looked Harry in the eye and understood his propriety over Draco. He taught him how to touch himself. It was no wonder Draco followed his lead in everything.

His decision to leave for Cambridge must be sending Harry fucking batty.

Nodding slowly, she tried not to let on how pleased she was. “Right…”

“Potter was an early bloomer,” Draco exploded, apparently deciding to take control of the narrative. “And I think I was on time. And one time, when we were twelve, and it was just us in the dorm-”

“His father can pull strings like that,” Harry sprinkled in.

“He thought I was asleep, and he was…”

“Jerking off,” Harry filled in.

“Yeah, and I asked him, Hey? What are you doing? And he told me, you know…”

“Jerking off,” Harry repeated.

“And he asked me if I’d ever done it, and I said no, and so… he just…” Draco lifted his gaze, meeting Ginny’s eye for the first time since the story started. “He showed me how.”

Harry looked at her with a wicked smirk, horribly proud of himself for having been the catalyst to Draco’s sexual awakening.

She made a face that said And??? “What do you mean he showed you how?”

“No!” Draco replied swiftly. “No, he didn’t-”

“We-” Harry began.

“He did it on his bed, I did it on my bed. We did it at the same time, but on opposite sides of the room.” Draco seemed aggrieved at having to explain such a thing.

“Yes,” Harry allowed, though Ginny felt there was more to be said.

They sat in quiet again, waiting for her verdict.

“Silent?”

“No!” Draco snapped his fingers at Harry. “We were talking about Mary, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mary.”

“Potter said it’s better to think of someone, when you’re doing it, so I asked him who he was thinking about and he said Mary Belmont, this pretty sixth year girl. Right?”

“Right,” Harry confirmed in that mild tone he used to lie. He was a bad liar, Ginny noted.

“So I… thought about her, too.”

She licked her lips. This was so rich. “Wow. Okay.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s aura was pure gloating.

“So who finished first?” It had to be asked.

“Um, I don’t remember-”

“Oh, it was Draco.” Draco gave him a hostile look and Harry’s eyes widened demurely. “What? It was your first time, it’s to be expected!”

“Alright,” Ginny chuckled. “How was it after? Awkward?”

“Oh, well, Draco was really surprised by the whole thing. I forgot to tell him to have his wand handy. He was just sitting there with it all over-”

“Merlin, Potter!” he exclaimed, pulling the front of his shirt over his face to hide his blotchy skin.

“Well, you’re right, Harry.” Ginny maneuvered onto her knees and climbed to her feet. They stared up at her, waiting. Draco, with anxious eagerness. Harry, with some combination of contempt and curiosity. “That is a cute story.”

She strolled over to the bed and paused. It was two beds, actually, and they’d been moved, pushed together into one giant bed rather than separate fulls. Taking a presumptuous seat in the middle, she bounced against the mattress and settled. They remained stretched out on the floor, watching her.

“Come here,” she commanded.

Harry’s brows met above his eyes. “Which one of us?”

Draco was already jumping from the floor, skipping over to plop down on the bed. Harry pushed himself up, slower, but came to sit on her other side all the same. She smiled at him. It was almost a celebratory smile. Congratulations, she thought. You’ve been caught on my web.

Pulling off his glasses and tossing them at the pillows, she leaned in a bit, refusing to continue until he moved infinitesimally toward her. His alarmingly green eyes flickered past her ear- she presumed to make sure Draco was watching. At the last moment, she pulled away, giving him a playful shake of her head. She turned to the boy on her other side. His lips weren’t as full as Harry’s, but they were pink and soft looking, all the same. She nudged his cheek with her nose. Pressed their mouths together in a soft kiss.

It was slow, but good, each moment building on the prior, every second hotter than the last. He was perfect with his tongue. She wondered if Harry taught him that, too.

When she pulled back, she lingered. Draco was a person it would be easy to linger with. There was something rather domestic about him, something that begged to be taken home in your purse. She gave him another chaste kiss and pulled off completely, turning to Harry again.

She thought he might throttle her, his eyes were so intense. He wasn’t moving slowly anymore. Whether motivated by jealousy or lust, she wasn’t sure, but he surged toward her, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss that was immediately a mess of tongue and teeth. He pulled at her hair. She scratched her nails down his arms. The kiss ended much the way it started. Abruptly.

Sitting there between them, she faced the painting of wildflowers that hung opposite her on the wall, gathering her hair behind her shoulders. They read her cue at the same moment, moving their hot mouths to her neck, her shoulders, kissing at her skin until she hummed. They were almost in sync, really, their tongues swiping in and pulling away in a natural rhythm. Moving up her throat, along her jaw, they sought her mouth again. She went to Harry first, enjoying the way Draco sucked a love bite behind her ear. Then she returned to him, letting Harry press open mouthed kisses against her cheek. Taking their chins in each hand, she led them both to her mouth, made them hover there as she took turns kissing each of them, gently pressing with her mouth and pulling with her hands, until they were a medley of mouths and tongue. Until she couldn’t tell Draco’s tongue from Harry’s. Until Harry shifted to the left, lapping against Draco’s bottom lip, and Ginny fell back against the duvet.

From her elbows, she watched them kiss and clutch one another. Harry’s hands moved desperately over Draco’s biceps, down his chest, up his thighs. Draco tangled fingers in his hair, molding their lips together, not allowing a millimeter of room to gasp for a breath. She was intrigued to see Draco’s patient approach temper Harry’s wildness. To see Harry’s passion embolden Draco’s touches. It was like watching them play quidditch. For those few moments they were in total harmony, it was perfection.

Ginny cleared her throat.

They froze, lips open, tongues searching- and promptly pulled away, mouths audibly snapping shut, to stare at each other like strangers.

“Okay.”

They whipped their heads in her direction.

“I’ve gotta go.”

She hopped to the floor, shimmying her sneakers back onto her feet and grabbing her bag.

“Wh-” Draco cleared his throat. “Who gets to take you out?”

Harry slowly turned to him, blinking once. Twice.

“I’m not a homewrecker,” she reminded him.

“Please,” Draco breathed. His eyes looked a little wild. Something different than desperate. Something… frightened.

 “Okay.” She planted her hands on her hips. “How about this? Whoever wins tomorrow gets to ask me out.”

Draco groaned and Harry exhaled a secret sigh of relief.

“If you wanted to pick him, you could’ve just said so,” Draco told her forlornly.

“You can beat him, Draco. You should, actually.”

Draco stopped pinching the bridge of his nose to look at her. “Are you saying you want me to?”

“I’m saying he needs an arse kicking. And you won’t get my floo unless you deliver.”

“But what do you want,” Draco insisted.

“I want … to watch some good fucking Quidditch.”

The door clicked shut quietly behind her, submerging them in silence.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Draco murmured.

It hadn’t been on Harry’s bingo card either. “Yeah…”

“Are we sure she didn’t roofie us somehow?”

Harry pursed his lips. Then, “Didn’t seem to need drugs the last time-” 

Draco stopped him before he could land his point. “Remember when you said you’d let me win tomorrow?”

“That was a lifetime ago,” Harry evaded.

“What about my grandmother?”

Harry’s eyes flickered to Draco’s prominent erection and back. He pushed in, mildly hurt when Draco leaned away. He would not be throwing the match tomorrow. Not now. Draco and Ginny couldn’t happen. He would see to it, even if it meant he had to keep Ginny entertained himself- he was a Slytherin, after all. And if Draco realized he didn’t wanna be a seeker after losing tomorrow’s match? Harry certainly wouldn’t complain. If Cambridge was off the table, he’d never even have to take her out.

“I hope she has a fucking stroke,” Harry breathed against Draco’s lips.

The next day: Boys UK Seeker Tournament Finals

Harry bolted toward the earth after the Snitch and Draco hastened to follow him. He knew Harry’s weaknesses. Knew his calf cramped up when he was flat on his broom like that. Knew his leg would kick out in an effort to shake it off… now. Just now. Knew it would slow him down a whole half second. Enough for Draco to surge up to his side. He knew Harry’s arms were shorter than his. Knew, as they reached their hands for the Snitch, that there was no reason Draco shouldn’t get it first.

No fucking reason.

Harry jumped from his broom while he was still a foot in the air, holding the Snitch high above his head as his reserve team swarmed him. He looked over at Draco, chest heaving, his jealous zeal fading in favor of utter exhilaration. It’d never been so close before. They’d both played the best Quidditch of their lives and it was invigorating. Harry wanted to share it with him. They shared all their wins.

But Draco wasn’t looking at him.

Current day: Bristol, England. July 15, 2012.

Draco was looking at Ginny. So much that Harry’s chest prickled with thorny irritation. It was what he wanted, though. Him seeing her staring at Harry. Seeing them exchange meaningful glances. He hoped it hurt. Hurt so much that it made him furious.

For the moment, he just looked disappointed. Maybe that’s why he gave up in the second half. By the end of the first day of finals, the scoreboard read:

  Malfoy: 0

Potter: 1

Harry lingered in the club’s locker rooms to see if Draco would come in. He must have gone straight to the hotel, with Ginny, so they could nurse his wounds before they did it all again tomorrow.

He’d have to go to them.

Later that evening: Bristol Marriott Hotel

His date looked like Pansy bloody Parkinson. Pretty, sure, and a lawyer to boot, but still- there it was. There was no way he would shag her, much less crash at her place for the night. He might just have to bite the bullet and use what’d he made competing today for a room… somewhere cheaper than the Bristol Marriott, obviously.

They sat at the bar, sipping red wine she ordered and barely speaking.

“Do you play off for the Cup?”

“Ah, no. I’m not in the professional league. I just compete in tournaments.”

“Well, how do you get to be a professional?”

“Er… another professional signs you.” 

“Oh… but, aren’t you, like, thirty?”

Harry looked around, regretting every decision that led him to this moment, until he saw her. A flash of red hair, chopped in a severe bob that barely grazed her chin.

“Are you okay?” his date -Madison?- asked.

“Huh?”

“You just got this, like, mad look on your face. Did I say something to piss you off?”

“Oh, no, sorry…” He looked to the stairway again, where Ginny seemed to be hovering, her eyes on him. “Um. Someone I know is over there… Do you mind if I…?” He was already getting up.

“Oh.” Trying to play it cool, “Of course. You go.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Harry stalked toward her, a cacophony of every cruel thing he’d ever wanted to say to her boiling inside his head. Once within range, he opened his mouth to begin. She beat him to it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” she hissed.

“I literally just played Draco-”

“I know that. I mean here. You’re not staying here, are you?”

“No,” Harry snorted. “Not in my price range.”

“Great, so you’re stalking him again.”

Harry didn’t even think to deny it. “Why are you staying here? Thought you two would rent a bloody castle or something…”

“Draco hates castles. Bad-”

“Temperature regulation. I know.”

Her mouth pinched. She let a sharp breath break through her clenched teeth. “You need to clear out. You know Draco’s paranoid. If he sees us together, he’ll assume we’re conspiring or something. He already thinks I’ve planned this whole thing just to humiliate him.”

Harry hitched a brow at her. “Haven’t you?”

“Clear. Out. He needs to get you out of his head before your second match.”

“Have I gotten under his skin already?” Harry loved the thought. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You knew I was gonna be here and you made him show up anyway…”

“He needs practice.”

“He needs his fucking spirit ,” Harry seethed venomously. “Dragging him here, to the minor leagues- how the fuck will that help anything? Merlin, you’re like a fucking Quidditch vampire. You’ve sucked him dry-!”

“Oh, trust me, I have.” She was dead-eyed and tight lipped.

Harry faltered, biting his tongue against a litany of curses. Once he’d gathered himself, he said, “That’s the thing about making Quidditch a job. You take the joy out of it.”

Ginny’s nose curled into a sneer, an expression she’d no doubt picked up from her husband. “It’s not about joy. It’s about winning.”

Harry glanced back at his date. She looked quickly down at her glass, pretending she wasn’t staring. He cut Ginny one last glare.

“Well, then. Good luck tomorrow. Mrs. Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

Hogwarts’ Quidditch Pitch. August 1st, 1999.

Thirteen years ago.

“I thought you weren’t going to call her?”

Harry wobbled on his feet when he hit the ground, his calf going stiff from the added weight. He cursed. “ Mmmotherf… Why the fuck are we playing so early?” he moaned, fidgeting with the Snitch in his hands.

“Discipline,” Draco informed him, touching down gently beside him and dismounting with grace. “If we get into the routine of practicing in the morning, we’ll skip less sessions and have more energy the rest of the day.”

“Quidditch is the only thing I need the energy for.”

“Well, some of us are going to be starting coursework soon,” Draco teased. “I’m trying to get my sleep schedule sorted before Cambridge. Ginny swears by it.”

Turning his back on Draco with the pretense of toweling away sweat, Harry struggled to force the chagrin from his face.

“Water,” Draco reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry was not a morning person. He certainly didn’t want to drink anything but tea or pumpkin juice this time of day. He hated feeling slow. Hated the unshakeable fogginess.

“The timing is kind of suspicious…” When Harry turned around, reasonably under control, Draco’s gaze was cast down to the water bottle in his hands. “The moment she reaches out to me, you decide to finally ask her out?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You said you were over it.” Over her.

“I was, when I thought you actually liked her. But now it kind of seems like you’re intentionally being a prick about it.”

“Merlin, Draco. I’ve been busy-”

“No busier than I’ve been.”

“Regardless…We’re having a good time.” Harry dared to shoot him a wink.

Things hadn’t exactly been bad since their seekers tournament. Something definitely changed, though. A new undercurrent existed beneath every conversation, pulling them into moments of passive aggression and barely concealed allusions. They couldn’t talk about anything other than Quidditch without the unspoken subtext: we’re pretending everything is normal, but your tongue was in my mouth not so long ago.

Draco caught his eye. “So you shagged her?”

Harry huffed, shaking his head. “I’m not telling you that.”

Making a look of exasperation, “What? Now you decide to play the gentleman?”

Rolling his eyes, “She told me not to run my mouth to anyone.”

“She had to know you’d tell me.”

“Okay, let me be more specific. She told me, verbatim, Do not run your mouth to anyone, especially Draco.”

Tossing his water on the ground with a scoff, Draco grabbed his broom and started back across the field, anxiously running fingers through his hair. Harry studied the drape of his fringe, the rhythm of his gait, the dramatic taper from his shoulders to his waist that made him look more like a model for athletic gear than an actual athlete.

“Alright then,” he yelled across the pitch to him. “Give me a signal.”

Harry watched him launch back into the air, twirling in a tight, swift spiral before hanging upside down in the air, hair falling away from his head. His face went pink with a rush of blood, the sight making fondness swell in Harry’s chest. 

“A signal?” he echoed.

“I’ll ask questions and you’ll just react. That way you’re not actually, you know, running your mouth.”

Harry draped a leg over his broom and kicked off with a wobble, speeding directly over to where Draco hung like a sloth from his broom. With a sharp twist, he flipped in the air, matching Draco’s position and thinking idly of Spiderman.

“Isn’t this weird for you to hear?”

Draco inched closer, their proximity apparently inconsequential so long as the world was upside down. “I’m very happy for you. I just don’t want to be left out. We always talk about these things.”

“No, I always talk about these things. You’re usually a prude.”

He saw the exact moment Draco began to turn himself right side up and followed suit, barely a moment behind. Draco chewed a piece of gum as his coloring returned to normal.

“I resent that.”

Harry held out his hand. Draco’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he spit the gum into his palm. Harry made a show of closing his fingers around it and displaying his empty palm in a flourish.

Eyes blown wide and mouth hanging open, Draco whispered, scandalized, “Are you a wizard or something?”

“Only when I have the time.”

“C’mon, Potter, let the Snitch loose and let's get on with it.”

“Let’s get on with it, he says. Such a romantic.”

Harry pulled the ball from his pocket and brandished it in the air, prepared to release it to the sky and track it’s zipping movements around the pitch.

“Wait.”

Harry tightened his grip, looking at him.

“How about this? If you guys shagged, throw the Snitch like I do-”

“Draco…”

“If you didn’t, just let it go.”

“And then you’ll let it go?”

“Salazar’s honor.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean much.”

“I’ll let it go! Just, if you shagged her, toss it in the air normally like I do.”

“Normally,” Harry repeated sarcastically.

“What?”

“Draco. You realize you have a little tic, right?”

His brow furrowed. “Tic?”

“I thought you knew!” Harry chortled. “When we play, and it’s your release, you always rub the Snitch against your chest, here, before you throw it.”

“... I do?”

“I thought it was intentional! Like, a superstition thing.”

Draco frowned, miming holding the Snitch in his hand, his palm moving automatically to his chest. “Huh. Well, then, sure. If you shagged her, do that.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“You won’t be telling me! That’s the point of a signal.”

Harry looked at him, exasperated. Draco raised his eyebrows, trying to egg him on.

Finally, Harry cradled the Snitch in his palm, bringing the fist to his chest and rubbing it in a circle against his heart. Draco’s light demeanor strained, but he snickered, nodding like he’d already known the answer.

He supposed he had.

Harry shot him a cheeky grin as he threw the Snitch up in the air, bolting after it when it took off on its own.

Draco hovered there a moment longer, remembering the night in Edinburgh, the way Harry kissed her with something painfully desperate. Draco’d never seen him kiss someone before that. Sometimes -often- the image popped into his head, seemingly out of nowhere, and made him feel something he never knew Harry could inspire in him…

Hatred.

Present day: Bristol, England. July 16, 2012.

He wondered what Draco was thinking about, with that look on his face. It was a sinister, nasty look, like the world could burn down and he wouldn’t care so long as Harry burned with it. He chugged water from one of those stainless steel cups and carefully stretched his back from side to side. When he pulled the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sheen of sweat from his face, Harry decided to approach.

“Morning.” He smiled pleasantly, reaching into his cupped palm to pop a chocolate covered raspberry into his mouth.

Shirt falling back into place, Draco glowered at him, lips a thin line. He ripped open a protein bar, one of those low carb things packed with artificial sugars and protein. Behind him, Ginny stood by one of the reserves Harry played with the day before, her mouth open as words trailed off into nothing at the sight of Harry on their territory. He winked and waved, laying it on thick. When his gaze returned to Draco, he was glancing surreptitiously between him and Ginny. Impossibly, his mood soured further, now razor edged with suspicion. For a moment, they were all looking at each other in a kind of Western stand-off.

“Just wanted to say good luck today,” Harry continued when Draco failed to return his greeting.

“Sure,” Draco mouthed, biting into his meal replacement.

Harry extended his hand- not for a pre-match shake, but to proffer the raspberries. “Candy?” A camera clicked somewhere nearby.

Draco glanced bored at the chocolates. He started to look away, then doubled back, eyes glued to his palm in a moment of realization. His face flushed red from cheeks to chin. Grey eyes shone bright in the midst of all the color.

Harry shot him an insufferable grin. “Suit yourself.”

The announcer started demanding everyone’s attention with a sonorous. Harry gave Draco a parting wink before he crossed the pitch back to his reserves. Draco watched him go, feeling that same bone-deep hatred he felt thirteen years ago.

It was time he channeled it.

Mounting his broom and kicking off, he zipped to the tips of the goal hoops, staring Harry down across a wide berth of space. He held the Snitch in his palm, ready to toss it in the air, resisting the urge to press it against the chest of his jersey.

Yesterday was ancient history. All that mattered was today.

Cambridge University. January, 2000.

Twelve years ago.

Ginny touched down on the grass to a cacophony of noise from the other girls.

“That’s got to be a fucking world record, that!”

“The game barely started!”

“Hope you can pull that off when we’re actually playing…”

Her teammates cheered, and so did someone standing solitary by the locker rooms. Turning toward them, she saw Draco, leaning casually against the brick. He lifted his hand in a wave, and she waved heartily back.

“So when are you going pro?”

Ginny dropped her fork, giving him a look. “Not you now.”

Draco finished chewing a bite of peas and swallowed like the well-mannered pureblood he was. “I mean, you can’t keep doing this for three more years. You’re too fucking good.”

“And what about you?” she posed. “Has anyone caught the Snitch before you yet in practice?”

“No… but I still have to try.”

“I’m trying!”

“Rubbish.”

Ginny sat back in her seat and shrugged. “If we win the championships, I’ll leave.”

“So April.”

“I said if we win.”

“So April.”

Leaning forward excitedly, Ginny asked, “Did Harry tell you he’s coming to watch my Durham match on Saturday?”

At the mention of Harry, Draco’s demeanor immediately shifted. He sat straighter, stiffer. Pushed peas around his plate with his fork. “He told me.”

“We should all get dinner or something. You can bring that girl- Tori?”

“Sure. If you want.”

Ginny paused, noticing his weird mood. “What? Did you two have a lover’s spat?”

He gave her a look. “We’re not even serious enough to have a lover’s spat.”

“I was talking about Harry, actually.”

Draco cut his eyes away to keep from rolling them back into his head. “We haven’t had a row.”

“Then what’s up with your face?”

“There’s something wrong with my face now?”

“Oh, always,” Ginny ribbed. “Much too pretty. Hard to look directly at you. Except for right now, ‘cause you’ve got it twisted up all ugly like you’ve sucked on a lemon.”

His expression lightened some at her teasing. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. What is it?”

“It’s nothing! Just…”

She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“I’m just surprised you’re still seeing each other,” Draco finally said.

Ginny studied him a beat. She stood in a blink, scraping her chair against linoleum, and picked up her tray.

“Wait,” Draco sighed.

“Why did you ask me to lunch, Draco?” she hissed with venom. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“What?”

“Is he seeing other girls on tour?” she demanded.

“No!” he bellowed. “Or, I mean, I don’t think so, I don’t know.”

“He might be?”

“I don’t know!” Draco swore. “That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

“He’s not in love with you,” he blurted. Draco moved a fist to his chest, rubbing in soothing circles until the tightness eased some.

Ginny stared blankly at him. “Did I say I love him?”

He dropped his eyes a moment, then thought that Ginny would probably read it as cowering and lifted them again. “No.”

“Then why the bloody fuck would I care if he loves me?”

Draco searched her face for deception and found none. She was serious. “Don’t you think you deserve that?”

Ginny shook her head slowly from side to side. “Sweet Merlin… you might be the worst friend in the world.”

“Maybe,” Draco admitted, thinking, again, of Harry kissing her in Edinburgh.

Same day. Girton, England. Men’s Seeker Tournament.

Harry’s shoulder ached like someone hit him directly with a beater.

“That was a foul!” he shouted at the referee.

“Hit wasn’t called,” the stout man told him.

He pointed accusingly at the other seeker, Patrick something-or-other. “He knocked me off my broom! That’s a body check!”

“A foul wasn’t called.”

“Un-fucking-believable.”

“Watch it.”

“All bloody week you’ve been pulling this shite…”

He pressed the tip of his wand to his throat and projected, “Code violation: unsportsmanlike conduct, verbal obscenity. Penalty, Potter.”

Harry laughed petulantly, rolling his shoulder and kicking off to restart the match. The Snitch made its presence known a few minutes later. Harry didn’t even attempt to chase after Patrick. Just sat in the air, bored and pissed. The ref blew his whistle and called it.

“Game, set, match: Zweig!”

Friday. University of Cambridge.

Draco bounced the yellow ball against the black top. The tennis courts were the only Muggle spot in Cambridge he was comfortable breaching by himself. It felt good to be the best at something. He played blokes on the school team for a bit of exercise and they begged him to join. Yet, always looked a little relieved when he didn’t. He met Jonathan’s eyes across the court and went into his serve.

“Whoo!”

Draco froze, the ball still in his hand.

“Does he go here?” one of the other players whispered.

Draco bounced the ball again, prepared to-

“Big serve, big serve!”

Draco shot an annoyed look over his shoulder. Harry was making his way toward him across the court, wearing a band tshirt, jeans, and a sunny disposition. He needed a coat, Draco thought- then berated himself for caring.

Trying to ignore him, he tossed the ball in the air-

“That’s right, love!” The shout of Harry’s voice startled him. He caught the ball and turned to face Harry, glaring. “Show that wanker who’s boss!”

Unsmiling, Draco returned to his partner and served the ball, hating how shaky his hand suddenly was. Jonathan hit it back and they rallied. After a minute, Draco was out of his head, falling into the pace with ease.

“Finish it up, Malfoy,” Harry rushed him.

Draco almost dragged it on out of spite, but Jonathan tried to lob him. He jumped to meet the ball, demolishing his play in an unreturnable smash. He turned to Harry with a cocky expression, hands on hips. Like that?, it seemed to say.

“All right,” Harry clapped. He opened his arms wide then, stepping toward Draco, as if to envelope him in a dreaded hug. Draco’s mouth twitched at the familiar bit.

“No.”

“It’s been weeks! Months!”

Draco started to back away. Harry followed after him as if pulled.

“You can’t hug your best mate?”

With that, Draco took off running, giggling like a mad man at Jonathan’s bemused face.

“Draco!” Harry took off after him in chase, jumping the net and roaring with laughter.

They were playing again.

“Six,” Draco told the woman behind the counter.

“Six?” she asked, like that was not a believable number.

“Six,” he confirmed.

She disappeared into the back and he turned around to see what seats Harry chose in the cafeteria. He was a bit startled to find Harry’s gaze on him, his face distant and tense. A few seconds too late, the expression cleared, a smile replacing the frown.

Ignoring the oddity, Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “How’s the tour?”

Harry shrugged, looking off to the side. Draco knew him well enough to know the topic embarrassed him. He wasn’t doing as well as he’d thought he would.

“Not up to any fun?” Draco tried instead.

Harry frowned. “Like what?”

The woman returned and he thanked her, stuffing a wad of Muggle money in the tip jar. Making his way over to Harry, he feigned, “I don’t know.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, considering him. “What about you? Fun stuff? Seeing anyone?”

“Not really,” Draco snorted.

He went to sit in the nearest chair, and as he did, Harry hooked a beat up converse around the leg and pulled it closer. Draco landed on it with a heavy thud, falling sideways into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry leaned in, searching his eyes. “Nothing? No one?”

Draco almost told him about Tori, but it made him feel… weird. Guilty. Like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “No one. Are you? Seeing someone?”

Harry finally gave him some room, pulling his elbows onto the table and digging out his share of the churros Draco bought. He dipped one in a vat of chocolate sauce and bit off the end. “What kind of question is that? What am I doing here?”

Pretending to take offense, “You mean you’re not here to see me?”

Teeth bit into lip before Harry could stop himself. “Yeah, well, you don’t put out, do you?” Draco’s face darkened and Harry’s eyes found the ceiling. “What?”

“Are you committing to this thing?” Draco grumbled, toying with the thin paper wrapping.

“Eat, Draco,” Harry murmured. Draco mechanically snapped a chunk off with all the enthusiasm of biting into a carrot stick, contempt in his eyes. Harry watched his mouth move and thought about how their tongues tasted the same right now. “You mean Ginny?”

Draco bobbed his head as he swallowed.

“Yeah.” He stuffed his face with more cinnamon and chocolate so his answer came out warbled and vague. “I mean, we’re taking it slow, but, you know… I like her.” At Draco’s avoidant eyes, “What?”

“Nothing…” Draco hedged. “Just… from some stuff she’s said… I got the idea that…”

“Take your time,” Harry harped sarcastically.

Draco put his second churro down and fixed Harry with a serious look. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Swallowing his bite, Harry gave him a disbelieving look. “You don’t want me to get hurt?” Draco made a casual gesture of confirmation, his mouth busy with chewing. “Did she say something to you?”

“No. Not really.” He idly dipped his churro in the chocolate. “I just got the impression that she wasn’t looking at this as a… serious thing.”

“You got the impression?”

“From a conversation we had.”

“Hmm.”

Looking up from the sticky table top, he found Harry smiling at him.

“What?”

Harry lunged at him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and bringing their foreheads together. “You fucking snake,” he whispered gleefully.

Draco’s perfectly confused expression cracked with a damning smirk.

“I’m proud of you, honestly,” he continued. “I’d be doing the same thin-”

Draco smashed the rest of his churro into Harry’s mouth, rubbing the granular bits into his skin with the blunt heel of his palm. “I’m not doing anything!”

Harry smacked his assaulting hand away, tightening his hold around his back and bringing sugar covered lips close to Draco’s chin. “It’s fine, Draco! I like it. It’s exciting to see you like this! It’s what’s been missing from your Quidditch.”

Draco pushed him sharply away, the humor draining from his face. “What?”

Pursing his lips, Harry inwardly cursed himself. He moved to backtrack. “I just mean, it’s nice to see you lit up about something… even if that something is my girlfriend.”

A blond brow rose sharply. “Is that what you’re calling her now?”

When Harry loomed in close again, Draco was distracted by the sugar dusting his cheeks, sparkling in his hair. “You know,” He pointed at Draco with his churro, brandishing it threateningly. “You being jealous just makes it hotter for me.”

Draco caved to the urge and wiped at the sparkles beneath Harry’s eye, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “I would never do anything to come between-”

“I know!”

“-you and your girlfriend.”

“I know.” Harry took a bite off the treat still held between them. “You love me too much,” he teased through a mouthful, booping Draco on the nose with the offending churro.

Rather than respond, Draco snapped his jaw like a shark, teeth barely missing Harry’s sugared fingers as he finished off the desert. Their straining lips smiled goofily at each other as they chewed.

“C’mon,” Harry hopped from his chair. “Walk me over.”

It was always fast with Ginny. And not just him- her too. They joined in a blaze of something angry, shagged like they were punishing each other. Harry knew he wouldn’t last long. He’d been monogamous through his tour, despite not finding himself particularly obligated to it by Ginny. The dry spell had gone months now, and being here, seeing Draco swing that racket, watching him play the cunning Slytherin, watching him want Ginny- It all got his blood pumping. Angry, excited, ready.

“How’s tour?” Ginny asked as she kissed him, and that was a bit counterproductive to his goal of getting off as quickly as possible.

“Boring,” he muttered, lifting her top.

“Is that why you haven’t won any seeker tournaments?”

Harry’s irritation flared, but that was good. It made him angrier. Anger was sex for them.

“I watched your match in Girton from Dean’s little internet thingy.” She rolled her hips and he started to feel something. “You could have won, but then you tanked in the third set.”

Pulling away, Harry stared at her. “Ginny, come on. I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“What do you wanna talk about?” she breathed, scratching nails down his scalp.

“You and Draco have gotten awfully chummy.”

Ginny cocked her head, looking on the verge of charmed. There was something keen in her eye that Harry didn’t like. It made him regret bringing it up.

“Intimidated by him?” Squeezing a hand between them, she slipped inside his pants and started stroking him.

“No,” Harry grunted.

Straddling his waist, she pressed her chest against his, mouth hot on his neck. “Really?”

“Really,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“You should be,” she whispered.

“Mmm, yeah? Why?”

“Because Draco’s so smart…”

“Yeah,” he hummed, thinking of all the afternoons he’d spent tutoring Harry in potions.

“He’s handsome…”

Harry gripped the pillow next to his head, bucking into her fist. “Fu- Yeah, he is.”

“He’s good at tennis…”

“Mhm, yes, he’s- yeah.”

“And,” she pressed her mouth to his ear. “He’s really fucking good at Quidditch.”

Something akin to a whimper squeezed it’s way out of Harry’s throat. “He’s so good,” Harry gasped, urging her pace faster with his hips. “So good. He’s- fuck, he’s always so good…”

“Why shouldn’t I pick him? That’s your problem, Harry.” She nipped his ear.

“Draco,” he breathed. Draco was his problem.

“You always think you’ve won before the match is over.”

Harry blinked his eyes open, Draco’s name on his lips. She pulled back when she noticed his inertness, the flagging erection in her palm. “Are we still talking about Quidditch?” he asked.

Her sharp eyes bore into his. “We’re always talking about Quidditch.”

Scowling, “Can we not?”

Ginny clucked her tongue. “Fine.” She was on her feet again in a second, going straight to her dresser and pulling out a shirt to pull on over her bra.

“What are you doing?” Harry wasn’t sure if he was even disappointed.

“I’m just saying, you could learn something from Draco. I mean, look at him, still trying to stay in this thing-” She gestured between them. “-even though he knows you’re in here fucking me. He’s not afraid of aloofness. Or losing.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about-”

“He spent so much time practicing with you as a kid that, now, his default position is that the bloke on the other side of the pitch is going to be better than him. And it makes him a better player. But you think you can just play your game and the match will sort itself out.”

“I know he’s good,” Harry replied shortly.

“Oh, I heard you. He’s so good, isn’t he?”

Harry sat up swiftly in the narrow bed, hackles raised. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

“Nothing.” She yanked shorts over her shins. “I have to do my routine. I’ll see you after my match. If you’re not interested in me fixing your game for free, then don’t worry about it.”

“Why do you care so much?” Harry snapped.

“Because I’m dating you. It’s embarrassing if you suck.”

Harry guffawed an awful, empty sound. “It’s not uni Quidditch out there. We can’t all walk around calling ourselves the Whizzing Weasley.”

She stopped short of rolling out her yoga mat. “Wow.”

“I don’t need you to be my coach.”

“What do you think you need from me? A cheerleader? A fuck buddy? A girlfriend?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He knew why he was here.

“There are lots of girls who will be your girlfriend. You’re charming, you’re famous, you’ve got a big dick. Why don’t you go be with one of them?”

“Is this some new strategy you’re trying?” he hissed. “Start a fight to get the energy going?”

“I don’t need a fight to get the energy going.”

“No, just an hour of yoga.”

“What? You think that’s childish? Think I’m trying too hard? How’s coasting on talent alone going for you?”

The sound of Harry’s teeth grinding was audible in the silent room.

“Look,” She spread out the mat. “I need to do my stretches, can I just meet you there?”

“No.” Harry was on his feet, gathering his clothes and pulling them hurriedly over his limbs.

“What?”

“I’m not going to the match. Not if you think you can just dismiss me. I’m not a member of your fucking fanclub.”

“You’re not my fan?” she snarled.

“I’m your peer. But you don’t want that. You want someone you can control. Like Draco. You need someone to be Mr. Ginny Weasley. Yeah. You and Draco fucking deserve each other.”

The calm in her eyes should have tipped him off to what was coming next. She always saw too much.

“This isn’t about me wanting Draco, though. This is about Draco wanting me. Isn’t it?”

The wall of bricks in Harry’s stomach rattled. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“We met before that night in Edinburgh. You’d been ‘round the house, with Ron. Seen me in my swimsuit, even. I threw myself at you a few times. Always sort of had a thing for you, back then. But you never reciprocated… Truth is, you never paid me any attention until Draco started to.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “You’re way off.”

“For such good friends, you two are awfully competitive.” Folding arms across her chest, her lips twisted in a cruel smile. “He always plays his best with you. Makes me wonder what’s driving it. What you two are suppressing every other hour of the day that can only come out when you play.”

Harry snatched his shoes from the floor, not bothering to shove them onto his feet. “I’m going.”

“Mary Belmont.”

Harry stopped with his hand on the knob. “What?”

“Mary Belmont,” Ginny repeated. “I’m not the first, after all. S’pose Cho Chang counts, too. It’s some weird form of transference. You direct your sexual frustration onto ‘her’ because it’s the only way you can rationalize that you’d really rather be fucking ‘him’. A kind of… psychological regression to that night when you got off together.”

Through his shock, he wasn’t able to produce a discernible noise.

“Only, you were never thinking about Mary Belmont. Were you?”

With that, words came. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck him.”

“Have fun today.” He wrenched open the door. “Break a bloody leg.” It slammed behind him.

The Match

Draco sat on the top bleacher, scanning the crowd for the wild mass of black hair. Then he saw Ginny, pacing the grass, face grim and eyes blank. Looking out at her team and seeing nothing. Sometimes it chilled him, that look in her eyes.

DM: Where are you??

Harry responded almost immediately.

HP: Broke up

HP: Knock urself out

Once the match started, Ginny used the other seeker as a punching bag. Knocking shoulders, clipping brooms, letting out all her frustration. The girl was so average, Ginny couldn’t stand it. Let’s go!, she wanted to scream. Hit me! She barely paid attention to the game. She was just replaying the fight with Harry in her head. She never even meant for it to go this far. From the night of the party, she knew what she was to Harry. A threat. Something to be contained. When he asked her out, she just thought she’d get some good hate sex out of it. And she had. It was supposed to be the fulfillment of a childhood fantasy. That was all. But here she was, on the pitch, angry and insecure and thinking about a fucking boy.

She was supposed to be a winner.

This felt a lot like losing.

The Snitch caught her eye, hurtling in her direction. Eager to be finished and back on the ground, she reached for it, extending her arm long and graceful, hand wide and ready to catch-

Draco gasped sharply, jumping to his feet, seeing the projection of the bludger a millisecond before the crowd.

There was a sickening crack.

In the hospital, Draco sat by her side for hours. They were mostly silent. She alternated between staring at the wall and her busted knee. Completely drained of anything resembling life. He searched for anything to say and came up empty.

They’d healed her, but it wouldn’t reset right, even with magic. It would cause her pain for the rest of her life. If she went on the field and got injured again, she would almost certainly lose the ability to walk.

Harry appeared in the doorway sometime between her first and second ice pack.

“Leave.” Her voice was stone.

“I’m so sorry-” And he did seem sorry, red in the eyes from crying. But when Draco looked at him, all he saw was the screen of his mobile and the words, Knock urself out.

“OUT!” Ginny screamed, whipping out her wand and pointing it at him. “OUT OUT OUT!”

“Ginny-”

Draco snapped. “Get the fuck out of here, Harry!”

Harry looked at him, thinking that this was the first time in their lives Draco’d said his name. It was ruined. Shaking his head, he turned and left, something like betrayal churning in his stomach.

He hadn’t dropped the shoe. He’d burned it to bits.

Present day; Bristol, England; July 16, 2012.

Draco was on top of his game this time around. It wasn’t the perfection of their old plays, but it was intense. Slow and brutal Quidditch. The type of match where the Snitch was flirting and they were flocking to and fro, trying to get away with as much rough play as possible without the ref throwing a foul. Ginny reacted physically to every twist and nosedive as if she were playing through Draco. And unlike the day before, Draco wasn’t defeated before stepping onto the field. He imagined this might be something akin to what Ginny felt that day the bludger hit her. Undiluted rage.

Harry Fucking Potter. He could turn a saint into a sailor.

Cambridge University. June, 2000.

Twelve years ago.

“Fuck!”

Ginny hurled her racket at the ground, then lifted it over her head and did it again, hitting the black top over and over again, absolutely losing her mind. Absolutely losing.

She would never play again. Never win again.

“I can’t even play stupid fucking tennis!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Draco looked around, panicking. “I went too hard-”

“No!” she shouted. “I told you not to hold back. I needed to know. I needed- My knee is just fucked!”

Draco stood there awkwardly, totally lost as to how he could help. To his annoyance, he wondered what he would do if it was Harry, melting and hopeless. He stepped into her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. She clutched his shirt and sobbed.

“You could coach.”

Ginny snorted, tossing back a shot. They were in her dorm, getting drunk on lukewarm vodka and being miserable. “Who wants an eighteen year old coach who’s never played professionally?”

“Hogwarts probably would.”

She held the half-empty bottle out to him. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You will.”

“I’ll never forgive Harry.”

Draco fell silent. He wasn’t sure yet if he blamed Harry for making her so distracted. Certainly he was angry at him. Whether or not that anger was justified remained to be seen. But that wasn’t helpful. That wasn’t what Ginny needed to hear.

“We were fighting about you, you know.”

Draco took this in and Ginny was too drunk to decipher how it affected him. If the sadness there was real or presentational. 

“I’m not saying that to make you feel like shit. Just. You’re kind of my only friend right now. At least, you’re the only friend I have who understands how I’m feeling. To never play again… to never know what could have been…”

Draco stopped short of plugging his ears. He really couldn’t stand the thought.

“But I don’t have the headspace for anything else. For the drama.”

Draco reached for her, hesitantly tucking vibrant hair behind her ear. “I’ll fuck off if you want me to.”

“No.” She gripped his wrist, holding his hand to her face. “I want you here.”

“Okay.”

“I need you here.”

“Okay.”

Washington, USA; July, 2002.

Ten years ago.

“Draco…”

He lifted his head from his shoe laces to see a pretty, raven haired girl, maybe a few years older than him, batting her lashes.

“Can you sign my broom?”

“Oh.” He would never get used to this. Didn’t think he wanted to. The attention made him feel important, even as a part of him wondered if she was making fun of him somehow. “Sure.”

He maneuvered to his feet, taking the marker she offered him and sprawling his signature neatly on the handle of her Firebolt.

“Thanks,” she squeaked, cheeks pink. She turned and left in a nervous scurry. Behind her was a familiar face.

Ginny. The hair was a bit shorter, cheekbones more defined, but undoubtedly her. He lifted his hand in a cautious wave. He hadn’t seen her since Puddlemere signed him a little over a year ago. She mirrored the greeting, eyes raking over him from fringe to toes.

“You’re too still in the air.”

They were sitting in a brewery, a basket of chips between them that Draco hadn’t the stomach to touch, a glass of wine in each of their hands. Draco was still getting used to wine. Harry’d always pushed lager on him.

“Am I?”

“You need to move around. Circle. And spend less time watching the other seeker. What good is that if they’re always taking off before you?”

“Old habits,” Draco hummed.

“Well. Obviously, you should listen to what George tells you. He’s your coach. I’m just Katarina’s hitting partner…”

He sat up in the booth, watching her. “Want to jump ship? Come assistant coach for me?”

Ginny made a face.

“Ohh, I get it,” Draco reached into his pocket for his wallet, tossing his Muggle card down where the waiter had set the bill. “You want to coach someone with a little more potential.”

“You’ve got plenty of potential. I just…” She fixed him with a look, messing with the ends of her hair. “Do you think that’d be a good idea?”

Draco, now more accustomed to handling situations like this without his wizarding-savior buffer, decided to play dumb. “Why not?”

“Because. We have a history.”

He stared at her for a few long moments, seeing in her all the things that earned Harry’s esteem, and decided he was due for a relapse.

“You’re doing really well, you know.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ginny groaned, embarrassed. “What? You thought I was gonna walk into a stray Avada after the injury?”

“No. I’m just glad you didn’t walk away from Quidditch. Would’ve been a waste.”

“What else was I gonna do? My only skill is chasing a ball around on a broom.”

Draco chuckled, but it was a pathetic sound. “Sometimes I regret moving part-time. For weeks I had nightmares about leaving you behind. You told me you needed me and I left-”

“Draco. I would have fucking hated you if you’d turned down Puddlemere.”

“I never would have, though,” he admitted grimly.

“Good.” She frowned, eyes squinting skeptically. “So. That’s why you want me to join your team? You feel guilty?”

“No,” he denied. “I want you on my team because I want to win.”

Sitting back in her seat, she dared to say it. “I think you’d beat him if you played now.”

Draco looked away. “I don’t know. I doubt it. He has a sixth sense about the Snitch. But, whatever. I guess he’s still playing the minor league.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “You guess? You don’t keep in touch?”

“Nope.” His p popped carelessly.

“Wow. I really was a homewrecker.”

Draco meant to laugh it off. He really did. Instead, he thought of that night in Edinburgh. Harry’s hands tangled in her hair. His tongue against her bottom lip.

“Honestly, I think I’d have trouble just looking at the bloke across the pitch.”

She lifted her chin, let her eyes trail down his neck to the open buttons at his collar. “You would, though. If you had to. Because unlike him, you understand what Quidditch is. That’s why you’ll succeed.”

Draco’s brow furrowed over his nose. “Do I?”

“In spirit,” she giggled. “Quidditch… is a relationship. When you’re playing, for a few minutes, you and that other seeker- you understand each other. Perfectly. And it’s not about winning anymore. For a few minutes… you’re in love.”

She smiled at him, and when he smiled back, she wrapped a strand of her hair around her pinkie finger.

They side-aparrated to her hotel that night. He trailed behind her all the way to her room. Standing outside the door, they exchanged shy glances until Ginny braved the dwindling space to kiss him.

Inside, they slowly removed clothes, one item at a time, with no sense of rush. Once they were under the covers, he settled in between her legs. He stayed there until she was shaking and moaning, until she pulled on his hair and ordered him to kiss her. While he did, she reached between their bodies and stroked him. Pulling back, he ground his teeth, trying to concentrate. After a minute, she stopped.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I just… fuck-”

“Draco, look at me.”

“I can’t believe I’m-”

Taking his chin in her hand, she demanded his eyes. He was furious with himself, looking a moment away from committing seppuku.

“You’re going to do it,” she assured him. “Because I want you.” He swallowed audibly and she resumed stroking him. “Close your eyes and focus.”

He followed her instruction, committing his mind to an unarguable determination to feel something. To think of something reliable. Something that never failed to make him randy.

“I need you.”

His breath caught. Beneath her hand, he started to get hard.

Present day; Bristol, England. July 16, 2012

When the Snitch made itself known, hovering near the first row of the closest stands, Draco took off like an Avada, determined to kill. He was closer, but that’d never helped him beat Harry before. The Snitch was close to the people there, fluttering about the hairs of their heads. Skimming the surface of the crowd without barreling into them would require a gentle touch.

Harry’d never heard of such a thing.

Pulling up on his broom, he barely heard the startled yelps of the people beneath him as they ducked. He was too distracted by the way the move strained his back. He pushed through it. It couldn’t hurt as bad as a Bludger to the kneecap. He almost didn’t believe it when he snagged the golden ball from the air. Just stared, floating in the sky, as the stands erupted around him. 

Circling to face the pitch, he spotted Harry. Glasses skewed to the left, he stared at Draco, exhaustion evident in the lines of his face. He wondered how his calf felt and hated himself for wondering.

Malfoy: 1

Potter: 1

Later that evening:

Harry left his bike on the sidewalk outside the lobby, pondering how long this would be. It was nearly seven and he wanted nothing more than to collapse on the horrible bed at his motel and put a hot water bottle on his calf.

The moment he was through the door, she yanked him to the side, pushing him into a broom closet and casting a lumos.

“Why the fuck are you here again?” Ginny seethed. “Can’t find some poor girl’s place to crash at?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“I’m not fucking you.” It felt necessary for her to say, cramped as they were in the small space.

“And I’m devastated,” he deadpanned. “Is Draco gonna come looking for you?”

“He should have already left for the club.”

“Why?” Harry frowned. He was sort of hoping he might stumble across them walking out a broom closet together.

“The sauna here is broken. It’s part of his post-match routine. He thinks it helps his back.”

Harry tucked that information away. “How is his back? He looked like he was hurting when he touched down today.”

“I’ll worry about my husband, Harry,” she bit. “Now what do you want?”

Squaring his shoulders, he nodded decisively. “I have a proposal for you, Ginny.”

She looked at him, waiting.

“I want you to be my coach.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “What?”

“Draco may have won a match today, but only because I wasn’t putting in the effort. His best days are behind him. You know that, I know that, he knows that. That’s why you made him come here. To confirm that he’s done. And, let’s say he gets in a groove and wins the Cup; he’s still gonna retire as someone who was just really, really good. But he’s not gonna be one of the greatest who ever lived. And I know that’s not on the table for me. I’m not mad. I know I fucked that up a long time ago. But I have another season in me. I have one more season to change my legacy. Imagine if you could take the one-hundred and second player in the league and get him to win the Cup…”

He looked at her seriously. She stared for a long time before bringing her hand swinging through the air, slapping him hard across the mouth.

“Ow!”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” she snarled. “You want me to agree to be your coach so you can run off and tell him. Tell him I betrayed him, like he thinks you did thirteen years ago. Win back his favor. Merlin, to think you were almost a Gryffindor… You’re pure fucking Slytherin.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped, his defensiveness melting away. He hadn’t really expected it to work anyway. “And you’re a bullheaded Gryffindor who never learned to compromise. That’s why you’ll lose him.”

“Lose him? He answers to my beck and call, Harry. I’m his whole world.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“Fuck you,” she seethed. “You can stop pretending your whole fucking life hasn’t been about him.”

“Has he stopped pretending your entire marriage isn’t about me?” Harry hurled back.

Ginny’s mouth snapped shut, a muted fury in her eyes.

He felt his lips twitch. He wanted terribly to smirk, but refused to let it win out lest he come off too callous. He didn’t particularly want Ginny to be in pain. Not really. She’d suffered enough, and he never wouldn’t feel responsible. But it did soothe something in him, to see proof that he was right. That he wasn’t mad. Hadn’t imagined it all.

“Did he ever tell you about Dublin?” he asked her, quietly.

“Yes.” Her swift answer shocked him. “He chose me.”

Harry let that soak in. He’d always assumed Draco would rather die than tell anyone about what happened. He should have known better. Ginny could sniff out dishonestly like a bloody hound. Draco had come clean. And they stayed together…

“Well,” he said finally. “We all make mistakes when we’re young.”

“We’re still young,” she countered.

“Not in Quidditch years.”

Forest of Dean; December, 1997.

Fourteen years ago.

“Harry.”

Legs flailed and fingers clenched. Harry moaned, dripping sweat onto the cot beneath him.

“Harry.

He jolted to consciousness as green light flashed behind his eyes, his mothers screams echoing in his ears. Turning toward the voice in the darkness, he tried to find a glimmer of grey eyes.

“You’re okay,” Draco promised soothingly, like he always did.

Wind roared outside the tent, but inside it was nearly stuffy with heating charms. He doubted Draco had fallen asleep at all. Panting, he burrowed into his side, feeling his trembling limbs calm in the familiar embrace. Nose in his neck, Draco somehow still smelled like himself. Something earthy, like the woods outside.

“That was a bad one, hm?” Draco murmured, running a hand gently through his hair.

He only nodded a little, gripping Draco’s biceps, shivering in his own damp skin.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want some space?”

Harry seized him closer in a panic. “No! No. I want you here.”

“Okay.” He ran a comforting hand down his back and Harry shivered.

“I need you here,” he told him softly.

“Okay.”

Harry pulled back just enough to see his face, to make out the familiar angles, the dimples that had become too pronounced in the last few months. He placed a palm just so against his cheek, thumb sliding easily into the divot of skin. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Draco’s lips part. In surprise, probably. Or… maybe… maybe he might want…

Harry slid their noses together, stomach clenching at Draco’s sharp intake of breath.

“I need you.”

Chapter Text

Present day: Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

The Final Match.

Harry wasn’t sure who he wanted to piss off more. Draco or Ginny.

He wanted to prioritize Ginny. Especially after the shite she’d said last night.

Then there was Draco. He didn’t want to hurt Draco. That was actually the last thing he wanted, no matter what Draco thought on the matter. It wasn’t always that way. In his youth, he’d been too caught up in keeping Draco to worry about his happiness. At nineteen, all Harry knew how to do was fight. He stepped into the day like it was war. Determined to survive. Back then, survival meant Draco.

Now, survival was getting on without him. Harry knew how to get himself back to sleep at night. Knew how to make friends. Knew that family could be found in surprising places, like Ron and Hermione’s cottage in Dorset. There was a relief that came with that knowledge; he didn’t need Draco. Just wanted him. Missed him, desperately.

There was something he needed, though. He needed to wipe that miserable look off Draco’s face. Needed to see him lift his chin with that unearned sense of self. Needed him to smirk, cocky and self-deprecating at the same time. There was barely any Draco left in that husk of a man on the pitch. Ginny’d beaten him down using the same tenacity with which Quidditch had beaten Harry. He didn’t do what he wanted anymore. Only what Ginny wanted.

It made Harry sick. It made him furious. It made him desperate to feel capable again, to do something. To fight. Draco needed to decide to fight. He’d made the choice before, all those years ago, when Harry told him he wouldn’t be going back to Hogwarts for seventh year. He’d chosen to stand with Harry. To take care of him in the moments he was certain the prophecy got it all wrong. To remind him of who he was when he completely lost himself to the savior . How could Harry call it love, if he didn’t at least try to do the same?

That’s what he was thinking as he watched Draco warm up across the pitch for their final match.

Draco didn’t know that, though. All he knew was that he’d seen his wife drive off on the back of a motorcycle at one in the morning.

The evening before…

Draco stretched out on the bench, adjusting his towel to cover his bits and luxuriating in a moment of peace. He was fucking chuffed to have won the match and relieved he hadn’t embarrassed himself again.

There was still that little voice, in the back of his head, reminding him that it was a fluke. That one match couldn’t make up for the hundreds of practice sessions where Harry bested him. Didn’t cancel out Harry’s claim to Ginny from the last seeker tournament they played at nineteen. Draco wondered if a third World Cup would even the score. If that would be enough for Ginny to stop looking at him with those empty eyes.

“Can you do me a favor?”

The voice startled him from his solemn musings. He glared at the face in the doorway, some odd feeling seizing his chest at the aggressively green eyes, unobscured by smudged lenses. It was too intimate, his naked eyes.

Not as intimate as the actual nudity, but.

“Can you not completely humiliate me tomorrow?”

Dissatisfaction licked at Harry’s heels when Draco averted his train of sight to the far wall, saying nothing. He decided to approach directly, not bashful in the slightest.

“Hey, mate.” He bumped a fist against Draco’s bare shoulder, glistening with sweat. “Congrats on your win today.” Apparently feeling particularly audacious, he propped a foot on the step up, leaning into his space with the towel slung around his neck rather than his waist, seemingly inviting Draco to look at his crotch. Which he didn’t. On purpose, anyway.

“Sure.” His eyes fixed determinedly on the lightning scar above his brow, where it was safe.

Harry reached behind him, scooping water from the pale and releasing it onto the hot rocks, sizzling more steam into the room. “Hopefully the wind will calm down and we’ll have a fair fight.”

While he was turned away, Draco used the opportunity to slip from his corner, sitting straight with his feet on the floor and pushing himself further down the bench. Creating space.

Harry noticed, dropping the ladle and leaning against the wall, looking. Draco wondered how blurry he was. “Draco, come on. Can we talk like adults?”

The insolence of such a comment had Draco responding with a dry expression, tongue running over his teeth. “Can you put your prick away?”

Harry was accosted with a barrage of memories; the two of them changing together in locker rooms; changing in hotel rooms; jumping naked into warm lake water and wrestling until-

“It’s a sauna,” he reminded him defensively.

They stared at each other a moment too long, the both of them refusing to be the first to break. Finally, Harry caved. He’d learned to pick his battles.

“We’ve been here a week and barely said two words to each other.” He pushed off the wall and took a seat on the bench opposite, taking the effort to drape his towel precariously over his manhood. “I don’t want to go into tomorrow feeling like this. I mean, seriously. Why are you still so angry at me, specifically?”

Draco leaned back, throwing an arm across the top of his bench in an attempt to appear comfortable, refusing to let on how fucking pissed he was. “I’m not angry with you. I don’t think about you enough to be angry with you.”

“I know it’s not because of Ginny. Or, it’s not because of her accident. You told me as much. In Dublin. Remember?”

He made sure his expression remained totally impassive, but he couldn’t help the flush that spread across his chest and up his throat. Harry’s eyes traced it with the beginnings of something smug.

“I think, maybe, it still bothers you that she and I used to be together at all.”

“When we were teenagers,” Draco reminded him gruffly.

Harry’s eyes twinkled mischievously, smirk growing. “Sure. When we were teenagers.”

Jaw clenched, Draco immediately began to read into his response, his mind creating a whirlwind of scenarios that all included Harry’s tongue in Ginny’s mouth, his hands in her hair.

“Everything bothers me,” he said finally. “I’m notoriously ill.”

“Don’t talk about my mate like that,” Harry chuckled.

“I’m not your fucking mate.”

Harry’s face did something funny, a wince aborted halfway through. He tried to feign it as an amused shake of his head, but Draco knew. “It shouldn’t bother you, Draco. Lots of girls were into me. None of them wanted to marry me. That’s not what I was for.”

“Yeah,” Draco snorted. “What were you for, then?”

Harry stared at him, pupils blown wide and lashes heavy. “You were there, in the Forest of Dean. All those months, just me and you in that tent. You tell me.”

Draco’s heart picked up double time in his chest. He definitely hadn’t expected him to come out and say it. Allude to it, sure. But just- say it?

“Merlin, you should’ve been a bloody Gryffindor,” he mumbled.

“I’m surprised you’re not happy I made it to the finals,” Harry redirected. “You always wanted to beat me. It’ll be a great confidence booster.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything. This is a seeker tournament. Not worth playing mind games over.”

“Right.” Draco’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You don’t care about winning tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You’ve got a lot more to lose here than I do, Potter.”

“ Do I?” Harry mocked.

“Your fucking arrogance…” Two Cups and Draco still couldn’t find his. Harry on the other hand, appeared immune to shame. “I understood it when we were kids. You were The Boy Who Lived . Battling Voldemort, teaching defense, beating us on the pitch with your eyes closed… But how are you still walking around like the bloody Golden Boy? You’re thirty-one years old. Your career’s barely a career. Nobody gives a fuck anymore that you’re Harry Potter. And you walk in here, swinging your cock around like I should be scared of it.” Draco pushed forward, condensing the tense space between them. “All I see is a naked little boy who’s still gloating about winning the ninety-nine boys championship. Do you understand how embarrassing it is that you’re here?”

Harry’s good humor was gone. “Not as embarrassing as you being here.”

“I’m passing through. This is where you live. This is just practice for me. Do you get that? Maybe you’re playing for something else, to prove something, but I’m just practicing my technique. I’m using you to get warmed up for the Cup.”

“Not the first time you’ve used me to warm up,” Harry snarked, his temper a brusque, violent twist of his mouth.

“Like that,” Draco snickered. “You still think you can talk to me like I’m your peer because we came from the same place. But it’s not about where you come from in Quidditch, Potter. It’s about winning-”

“You sound like Ginny,” he interjected bitterly.

“-And I do win. A lot.”

“Never beaten me.”

“So what? I haven’t beaten most of the wizards who play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

“I don’t matter?”

The gentle question, posed with such soft anger, derailed Draco’s entire train of thought. His self-righteous speech slipped away, until all he was left with was what little pride he’d wrestled back from Harry’s grip on the pitch today.

He bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood, then repeated the action on the other side of his mouth. He ached to rub at the tightness in his chest, but resisted, clenching his fingers into fists instead. “Not even to the most obsessive Quidditch fan in the world.”

Green eyes went dull. Thirteen years ago, Draco would have deemed the sadness genuine. As it was, he didn’t know Harry anymore. He couldn’t tell.

“I’m not talking about Quidditch.”

The tension between them became too much, too palpable and heady. Draco sat back hard against his seat, gritting his teeth at the spasm that radiated up his spine. “What the fuck else would I talk to you about?”

Eyes dropping to Draco’s bare skin, Harry traced the Sectumsempra scars that slashed across his chest like fractured glass. Pink, raised lines from the year their friendship almost hadn’t survived. Yet- they’d done it. They’d talked, and cried, and forgiven each other so fucking savagely that it breached forgiveness. Harry thought of it as absolution, at the time. The idea that a girl could snap it in two was ridiculous. Their bond was unconditional after that duel in the lavatory. Even if Draco forgot, Harry hadn’t.

“I just wanted to come and wish you luck, Draco.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it. I’m looking forward to it,” he divulged glumly. “... I miss playing with you.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nodded, that same mournful look in his unfocused gaze.

Draco hauled himself to his feet and stood tall, hand braced on his lower back. “Well, I don’t miss playing with you, mate.”

Harry’s gaze slid down his chest again, the smooth, pale skin and defined abdominals. Not nearly the scrawny thing he’d been in that tent. Weird, then, that he didn’t have a preference. Confirmation, he supposed, that it wasn’t lust alone driving his actions back then. When he drifted past the v of his hips to the bulge hidden under a curtain of white fabric, he caved to an intrusive thought. He lifted a hand to graze the outside of Draco’s thigh, just at the hem of the towel. Felt warm skin and fine hair beneath his fingertips and licked his lips, lifting his face to meet Draco’s terrified eyes as he sucked his lip between his teeth.

Draco jerked to the left, shoving on the door in a frantic haste, muttering as he went,

“I’m too bloody old for it.”

Later that night…

“Tell me it doesn’t matter.”

Ginny shifted next to him in the unfamiliar bed. “What?”

“Tell me it doesn’t matter if I win tomorrow.”

Sitting up against the headboard, she reached for her wand to cast a lumos, bathing the sterile hotel room in dim light. When she turned to him, he was looking into a void.

“No.”

The band around his ring finger felt too small. He rubbed his thumb over it under the sheets.

“Tomorrow can’t be about avoiding my judgment. You want me to absolve you, but I can’t. I’m not a priest. I’m not your mummy. I’m not going to give you permission to lose.”

“I’m not asking you to be my mum, I’m asking you to be my friend.”

Instead of comforting him, she said, “You can beat him.”

“What if I don’t?” He craned his neck to look up at her. “How are you going to look at me?”

The void blinked at him. “Just like this.”

“I’m going to say something,” he warned. “It’s going to piss you off.” She remained silent as he fidgeted and squirmed. “I want to retire this year. Whether we win the Cup or not.”

She looked sharply off to the side, an empty laugh escaping in a puff.

“I’m still going to try,” he promised her. “I want to win for the team. But… I’m tired. I don’t want to be one of those blokes who doesn’t know when to walk away. It’s embarrassing to still be doing this shite when you’re forty.”

Ginny faced forward, stared straight ahead at the painting of peace lilies on the opposite wall. “Okay.”

Draco pushed himself onto his elbows, searching her face beseechingly. “Okay?”

“I told you, I’m not going to sign your slip like you’re asking me if you can go to Hogsmeade with the other second years.”

“Ginny,” His voice was low, serious. “We’ve been doing this together-”

“I’m your coach. I work for you.”

“I’m playing for both of us. I know that. But I’m sick of fighting all the time. I feel like we’ve been at war since we were children. Even when the war ended out there, it stayed here. I’m tired of feeling like a soldier. Of feeling used. I want peacetime.”

She blinked at him. “If you lose tomorrow, we’re over.”

Draco collapsed against the bed, head in his hands. “All this time, and I’m still just a broom and a dick to you.”

“This isn’t about Quidditch-”

“Everything is about Quidditch with you!” he bellowed. “You want to beat me? You want to win? Fine! You’ve won! I’m utterly defeated.”

Her hard expression hovered above his face. “I want this to work. I’m not just living vicariously through you. That’s how it started, sure. But we’ve spent the last ten years together. You’re my best friend. One of my only friends. The only one who was there-” She cut herself off, brown eyes watery and reflective. “But I’m not your best friend, am I? After all this time, you still miss him. Don’t you? That’s why you’ll never beat him. You look at him and you’re seventeen again. Mooney eyed and following his lead. Desperate for his attention.”

He despised the tremble of his upper lip. Looking into her eyes just then, with those words between them, he realized… Ginny did see him. It was Draco who didn't see her . He never had. Never would have thought to dwell on her at all if he hadn’t wanted to be her so fucking badly. Like, if he was with her, if he studied her and loved her and took care of her, she might rub off on him. He might become more of what she was. More of what he wanted.

She wasn't empty-eyed. She was holding up a mirror. He'd only just recognized himself.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” he admitted. “I don’t care if we’re unhappy. Just- you’re my coach, so fucking coach me. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want. ”

The words acted as a sort of aphrodisiac for Ginny. She crashed into him, falling onto his chest, prying his lips open with hers. It wasn’t like their usual kisses. This was urgent, angry. It felt like a last kiss. Maybe it was. He never understood what was going on in her head. Never really tried.

Pulling back until there was nothing but grazing lips, she mouthed, “I want you to fuck me like you’re playing Harry.”

Recoiling sharply, Draco shoved her back by the shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length. “What the fuck, Ginny?”

“I don’t care what you’re thinking about,” she told him. “You think I’m using you? We’re using each other. We’ve always been using each other. So close your eyes and think about him. I don’t care.”

Shaking his head adamantly from side to side, Draco slid out of the bed, pulling a discarded sweatshirt over his head and stomping for the door.

“S’pose you’ll think about Quidditch.” He slammed it behind him.

Alone in the room, Ginny spread out comfortably in the middle of the bed, shoving her pillow directly beneath her neck. Draco would be settling into the couch, no doubt. No reason she shouldn’t enjoy the full bed. In a way, she hoped it would send a message if he came simpering back. Not welcome here! How convenient, that he got to throw this bombshell at her, tell her he was unhappy, and then storm off like she was ruining things.

So what if they weren’t in love? They still cared about each other. Still depended on each other. They built a life together, with Quidditch at its center. He didn’t know who he was without her? They were nothing without the Snitch.

Picking up her wand, she flicked it in a well worn motion. “Expecto Patronum!”

Her horse galloped from the tip, her mane flowing in the breeze of magic much like Ginny’s hair used to whip around on her broom. She missed flying like a limb. Didn’t Draco know she lived in constant phantom pain? Didn’t he realize that winning was the only reprieve? They were married. His wins were supposed to be her wins. And he won a lot.

Funny, she couldn’t recall a moment of celebration.

“Harry,” She started her message in a whisper. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

Dublin, Ireland; June 5, 2008;

Four years ago; 6:00pm

The flashes from the cameras were starting to give him a headache. He stood in the press room drenched in sweat, appearing very much a drowned cat and in no state to have his photo snapped. He pointed to a reporter up front, an unassuming guy with a soft gut.

“Draco, you’re coming off a win in Belgium, you’ve just made the final here in Dublin, and a lot of people are saying you’re on the track to winning your second Cup in August. How do you explain the consistency of your success over the last few seasons?”

“Oh, it’s all because of Ginny Weasley.”

“Your girlfriend.”

“My coach,” Draco corrected. “I do what she tells me to do, and then I win.”

The reporters laughed even though he wasn’t joking. He pointed to someone waiting patiently in the back.

“Hi Draco! After losing yesterday in the quarterfinals of his seeker match, Harry Potter told the press he was rooting for you to win the Cup this season. Do you have any advice for how he might improve his game?”

Annoyed, Draco forced a tight smile. “I didn’t get a chance to watch him.”

“But any advice? About his game?”

“I think Potter can figure out his own game.”

9:00pm

Draco breezed out of the bathroom fully dressed and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ginny asked from the bed, flipping through channels on the Muggle telly.

“I’ve got some adrenaline left over from the match. I’m going to walk it off or something.”

“Okay,” she hummed, eyes fixed on a football game. “Don’t stay out too late. You have that photoshoot with Witch Weekly at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be quiet when I come in. Probably just end up having a cuppa in the lobby.”

Draco did go to the lobby, but only in passing through to the spinning glass doors and onto the street. It wasn’t until he was standing in the narrow alley around the corner that he pulled the cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up. He exhaled with exaltation, smoke puffing against the air in a cloud.

“Now who’s trying to be a baddie?”

Draco startled against the brick wall, looking over to see Harry, standing with his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his godfather’s old leather jacket. His glasses were new. The same style, but noticeably non-wonky. Hair was shorter, too, on the sides. He looked so… grown up.

“Merlin, it’s weird to see you smoke.” He ran a rough hand along the back of his neck and head, tousling his already haphazard cowlick. “Feel like Lucius is gonna show up out of nowhere and smack it out of your hand.”

“Lucius died last year.” It came out monotonous, detached from him. Draco wasn’t sure why he said it. He’d never said it out loud, he didn’t think.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Saw in The Prophet. I owled you-”

“Told the elf to burn all your mail ages ago,” Draco told him, relaxing in the shadow of the night. He took another long drag, appreciating the dry ache in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said anyway.

“Why? I’m not. You certainly shouldn’t be. He hated your guts.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I didn’t know him like you did…”

“Yes, well, as far as he was concerned, you were the boy who I let ruin my life. Joining The Order, running away from school, playing a child’s game instead of taking over the family businesses.” He looked up at him, flicking ashes onto the ground. “What are you doing here? You lost yesterday.”

The left side of Harry’s face pulled in a crooked smile, but his eyes were blue. “It’s your birthday.”

At that, Draco squinted. “How did you know I was out here?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “I’ve been staying here since the tournament started. I was hanging at the bar and saw you rush out…”

“Staying in the same hotel as us. Convenient.”

“I just wanted to tell you happy birthday, Draco.” Harry hesitated, clearly deciding if he would say more or not. He lifted earnest eyes and barreled through. “And that I’m really proud of you.”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“And I really am rooting for you.”

Draco blew smoke obnoxiously in his direction, but he didn’t flinch. “I was rooting for you, too,” he finally admitted.

Suspicious of the statement, “You weren’t.”

“I was. I’d fucking love for you to get signed. You’d make a lovely seeker for the Canons.”

Realizing he was being insulted, Harry paced forward, resting against the wall beside him and studying his face. “So. Why are you down here having a secret ciggie instead of up there in bed with your girlfriend?”

“Fiancee,” Draco corrected impulsively. 

Harry visibly startled. “You asked her…”

“She asked me, actually.”

“Merlin,” Harry scoffed. “And you said yes?”

“We’ve been together for five years.” He dropped the dead cig and stomped on it.

“Fucking Christ…” Harry scowled, finding it suddenly difficult to look at him.

“We haven’t gone public with it yet,” Draco added threateningly. “I don’t know why I even just told you.”

The stormy expression cleared a little, pivoting to something thoughtful. “... Guess you wanted me to know…”

“Naturally. My wand is bigger than yours and what not…” He pulled another cig from his pocket and let it burn under the tip of his wand.

“Aren’t you excited?”

Draco glowered around his cigarette. “Of course I’m excited. Don’t I look excited?”

Harry observed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure out why you aren’t up there getting a birthday shag.”

Draco didn’t care for the implication. “I was wound up after my match. Needed to walk it off. Or, smoke it off.

“You’d rather smoke than shag?”

“What the fuck are you getting at?”

Harry watched smoke disperse and disappear in the air. “It must be hard for her. To see you doing so well in the professional league.”

“Is it hard for you?” Draco countered.

The answer was immediate. “Of course. Every newspaper broadcasting your perfect little life feels like one big reminder of everything I fucked up.”

Draco can’t help but wonder if Ginny is one of the things he felt he’d fucked up. “She doesn’t blame you. For the accident. She claims to, but she doesn’t believe herself. Not anymore, at least.”

Harry’s shoulders seemed to drop a little, but he still looked on warily. “Do you? Blame me?”

Draco’s gaze shifted to the empty street beyond the alley. “I blame you for a lot of things, but not that.”

“So she doesn’t mind it? Seeing you win?”

“Why would she?” A long drag followed as he tried to sort out his response. “We’re doing this together. Building a life together. As partners. It’s a relationship. ”

Feeling bold, Harry let his head drift closer, inhaling the second hand smoke and salivating for the nicotine. “Is that what we had before her? A partnership? … A relationship?”

Going cold, Draco stood his ground, meeting his eyes with bald tenacity. “You weren’t interested in partnership.”

“I was-”

“Weren’t capable, then.”

Harry thought of his aggression toward Ginny. His single-minded determination to hoard Draco for himself. His angst over Draco wanting to become a seeker. “Maybe not back then.”

“You’re exactly the same bloke you were back then. Want some advice on your fucking game? That’s why you keep tanking your matches. Quidditch became work. The whole point of playing for you was that it made you feel high. ”

Deep in thought, Harry slowly began to nod. “Yeah. You’re right. But that’s not all.” Harry refused to balk under the scrutinizing, grey gaze. “Thing is, we were in a relationship for a minute there. Maybe not in life, but in the game. We were so in sync. Playing with you… it was perfect. We were our best together. I was my best with you on that field. So, when I wasn’t playing with you anymore, it was like- what’s the point? We were supposed to do this together. We had a plan. We were going to sign with a team together and play until we were forced out by ageism. You changed the plan.”

“I-! You changed the plan!” Draco shouted in his face. “You ran off with her! She showed up and you started acting like a fucking prick trying to get into her knickers.”

Harry made a face. “You were the one who wanted to chat her up at that party.”

“And you couldn’t stand it,” he seethed. “Merlin forbid I do anything without you. Have a fuck without you. What’s bonkers is, that’s probably all it would have been, if you hadn’t made it into something ugly. A fucking competition.”

“I wasn’t competing for her,” Harry clarified indignantly. Draco didn’t seem to hear him.

“It’s not Ginny who can’t stand to see me win. It’s you. You’ve never cared about what I want. It’s always about you. Chasing your high no matter if it means you keep losing. Ginny may be an addict, but at least she’s figured out how to be sober. How to have discipline.”

“And you like that?” Harry deadpanned. “Her sobriety?”

“I’m marrying her, I must like something about it.” The cigarette was limp in his fingertips.

Wetting his lips, Harry took a final, oppressive step forward, so close that their shoulders knocked together, that he could feel Draco’s body heat. “I know it makes you feel safe, but does it turn you on?”

Draco huffed, turning away, hating the flush of heat to his face. “Fuck you.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” Harry pressed his nose to Draco’s neck, inhaling deeply, the oaky undertones taking him back to nights of warm embraces and hushed words of comfort.

“Getting in my head. Trying to get between me and Ginny. You think we’re still playing for her floo.”

“Not everything’s about Ginny.” His breath hit Draco’s throat, raising goosebumps and sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. Preening at the reaction, Harry gave his luck a nudge. “Though, I do wonder how she’d feel if she saw us right now.”

Jaw tight, Draco pushed him away, hard. “How do you feel knowing we’re engaged?”

Catching himself before he fell on his arse, Harry looked him straight in the eye. “A lot of fucking pain.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s not too late, you know.” Harry was almost apologetic, like he hated to say it.

“Too late for what, Potter?”

“To admit you’re marrying someone exactly like your father.”

Draco almost staggered under the punch of such a statement. “... She isn’t-”

“Controlling? Manipulative? Obsessed with being on top? You knew this, Draco. She said it that night in Edinburgh. You can build something with ice. She’s been molding you. What do you even talk about outside of Quidditch?”

Draco blinked rapidly, something like mania seeping through his skull and coating his thoughts in a sticky sheen of frenzy.

“Do you ever talk about me?” Harry went on, unaware that Draco was about to die. He felt like he was dying. Or maybe dreaming. It was hard to tell the difference, sometimes, with the things that kept him up at night. “I assume you haven’t told her everything. You’re utterly heterosexual, after all.”

“We were just being randy boys,” Draco dodged as the different sectors of his brain began to shut off, switching to autopilot as something inside him, something dormant, started to stir. He wondered when the portion labeled sanity would flicker out.

“You really want to marry her?” Harry dragged himself closer again.

“Why are you here, Potter?” he deflected, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Harry reached a hand out, pulse jumping in his throat when Draco didn’t pull away. He fit it against the side of his face, thumb sliding home in the sweet dimple of his cheek. He released a heavy breath, so long and loud it felt more like his soul rushing out of his body. Or maybe rushing in. Bringing him back to life.

“I’m getting my fix.”

Draco’s mind went blank. There was nothing but Harry. Harry touching him.

Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

The night before the final.

Harry brought his bike to a stop in an empty parking lot, the wind roaring around them as the predicted storm rolled in. Ginny released his waist the second the engine died, jumping off the back and coming around to stare him down with hands on her hips. She looked every inch Molly Weasley’s child.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Harry said, half joking, when she failed to speak.

“Please,” she groused. “I just want to talk to you.”

Harry raised a skeptical brow. “In the middle of the night. Before the final match.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Harry braced his forearms on the handlebars. “Get on with it.”

“I want you to lose tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorted. “I bloody well figured as much.”

“No,” Ginny bit out. “I’m asking you to throw the match.”

Harry squinted at her- then hacked a harsh laugh. “Fuck off, Ginny.”

“I’m serious.”

His humor turned black with the swiftness of the approaching hurricane. “How little faith do you have in him?”

“He’s been doing well this week. Even when he lost your first match, that was better than he’s been playing all season. He’s ready for the Cup. If he beats you, he’ll know he can do it. He needs this.”

Harry’s temper broke with the rain. Fat drops started falling on their heads. “He needs a fucking spine!”

“ We need this, Harry!” she yelled. Reeling herself back in, she took a deep breath. “He and I need this. Our- our marriage needs this.” She looked up at him with wide, heartbroken eyes. “I’m losing him. We’re one bad day away from breaking. We need a win.”

Dublin, Ireland; June 5th, 2008.

Four years ago; 10:00pm

Draco hadn’t exactly forgotten what it was like to be with Harry. He’d just repressed it for so long that it came as a surprise to remember. Or maybe he’d convinced himself that getting older had changed the way he fucked. That it was always so good with Harry because they’d been hormonal teenagers, inexperienced and raring to learn.

It wasn’t age, though, because here he was, harder than he’d been in years, and it was better than it’d been when they were kids. Better because they knew what the fuck they were doing. Better because they were on a bed, not a cot in the woods, scared for their lives.

Better because they wouldn’t have to act like best mates in the morning.

For all Draco’s talk about liking sobriety, he felt intoxicated, buzzing from Harry’s words like they were ninety proof. He liked to talk when they were young, too. He would narrate exactly what he was doing, like he couldn’t believe it, like seeing it and feeling it wasn’t enough.

Though, Draco was the only one talking at the moment, busy as Harry’s mouth was.

“Potter… mmm-!” He buried his face in Harry’s pillow, muffling the debased sounds coming from his mouth.

Taking offense to such an impediment, Harry lifted off his prick, casting dark eyes at him beneath hooded lids. “You’ll call me Harry when your cock’s in my mouth.”

“Fucking hell…” Draco panted, straining to look down at him. He rolled his hips, trying to encourage the resumption of their activities. Harry sucked cock like he’d die without it. Like Draco was an ice lolly in his favorite flavor.

Never having been one to follow orders, Harry held his hips down with an arm pressed heavily against his abdomen, his chest pinning Draco’s knees to the bed. Wrapping a palm around the base, he stroked him- too slowly, too loosely, watching his own hand move with unadulterated awe.

“So pretty.” Tongue flicking out, he swiped a bead of precome from the red, swollen tip. “So good.”

A whimper squeezed from the base of Draco’s throat, overcompensated for with a deep rumble of frustration. “Stop teasing.”

“You’re the tease.” Harry’s hand began to run dry and he wandlessly conjured more lube, making Draco groan audibly, futilely trying to buck into his fist. “Walking through the lobby in those trousers.”

“What about my trousers?” he grumbled, gasping quietly when Harry moved his hand to cup and roll his balls.

“Do you know how hot your arse is?” As if to remind himself, Harry let off completely, spreading Draco’s legs and sliding large, warm hands up the muscle of his thighs to palm his backside and squeeze. “So fucking tight.” He slid a wet finger between his cheeks and Draco jumped a little. “Shh, love,” Harry gentled him with the care of a wrangler calming a spooked horse. His finger rubbed with a firm but unobtrusive touch. “When was the last time?”

Draco was breathing heavily again, frightened and randy in equal parts. “You know when.”

Harry halted all movement, lips parting in wonder. “There wasn’t anyone after me? Before Gin-?”

“Not a man.” Draco resented that he had to say it out loud. Resented even more that Harry lit up like a Christmas tree. “Don’t be a cunt about it.”

Black lust rolled in, barely a sliver of green in his gaze. “Me?” His lips curved in a wolfish grin that made Draco’s cock twitch. “Never.”

Without warning, he pushed with his finger, working past the rejection of his clenching muscles until he was in up to the knuckle. Above him, Draco threw his head back against the bed, a strangled noise escaping his chest.

“You were always like that.” Harry indulgently lapped at the head of his cock. “Sensitive.” Curling his finger, he pushed as deep as he could get, searching. “If memory serves, it’s-” Draco’s hips jumped off the mattress, a guttural cry on his lips. “There we are. Fuck, do you know how often I think about this?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, again, just- come on-”

“Muggle swears? You’re in a state. So greedy. That hasn’t changed either. Such a spoiled little brat.” Harry moved his finger in a circular motion, stretching, pulling in and out, but wholly neglecting his prostate. “Spent so many school years fantasizing about ways to shut your whining mouth up. My cock featured in most of them.”

“Years?”

The surprised question momentarily pulled Harry from his singular focus. He looked up and found grey eyes on him, confused.

“Years,” Harry confirmed. Holding eye contact, he slipped a second finger in. Watching Draco’s mouth fall open, his focus readjusted to fixate on the pink of his tongue. “Remember how fast I came the first time you went down on me?”

Draco’s skin was steadily going red, his knees, chest, and cheeks breaking out in bloody blotches of color. He moaned, loud and clear, as Harry scissored his fingers and pressed open mouthed kisses to his shaft, his sharp hip bones, the thatch of blond hair that trailed down his stomach. He pressed a knuckle to his perineum and Draco bit his fist between his teeth, breaths shaky.

“I want to spoil you though,” Harry admitted. “I like you that way. Wanna make you feel good. Give you whatever you want. What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” Draco rushed out.

“I will.” Harry promised, adding a third finger and sucking his flagging erection back into his mouth. A few minutes of this and Draco was considerably looser, dripping with lube and choking on the word please. Harry pulled off of his weeping prick, loving the taste of salt on his tongue. “I will when you call me Harry.”

“What?” Draco whined distractedly, caught up in rocking against Harry’s fingers.

He winced when Harry removed them, but was somewhat appeased when he immediately surged upwards, catching his lips in an aching kiss. Their mouths moved in tandem, a blissful and familiar sensuality enveloping them, swaddling them in a cocoon of intimacy. For a few moments, they understood each other completely. For a few moments, they were in love.

Falling to his elbow, Harry laid on top of him so they were chest to chest. He slid a hand up his ribs, feeling the puckered skin of his scars and a sick twist of satisfaction knowing Ginny would have seen them every time they had sex. They’d never been intimate without Harry there, in the room, a permanent reminder of who Draco let rip him apart and stitch him back together. Harry reckoned he might be a terrible person. He might not care.

Breaking the kiss, he hummed contentedly when Draco chased after him, burying hands in his hair and tugging him closer. Harry persisted to his jaw, where he sucked love bites into as much skin as he could, hoping Draco would miss one or two when he went to heal them in the mirror. Reaching between their stomachs, he took their stiff pricks in a single hand, moving his fist in firm, slow pumps that had both of them breaking out in a sweat.

Mouth hot against his ear, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you won’t sit on a broom for a week. And after, I’ll let you have a kip with my cum inside you for fifteen minutes or so.”

Draco swallowed hard at the imagery, toes curling at the possessiveness in Harry’s voice.

“Then, I’m going to put you on your stomach and eat you out until you’re rutting against the mattress-”

“Merlin-”

“When you can’t take it anymore, I’ll push into you again from behind, fuck you really, really slow. Make you so cock drunk that your own fingers wouldn’t be enough if you tried. I’ll take such good care of you… make love to you so good, you’ll fucking hate her.”

Chest rising and falling rapidly, Draco considered the insistent throb of his cock, the empty ache of his arse, and thought he was probably a terrible person.

“But you have to call me Harry first.”

Hand trembling, Draco reached for the black ink decorating Harry’s back. The magic moved against his skin, the flickering, scaled tail of a dragon curling around his shoulder. He ran his thumb over it, remembering the day Harry peeled off his shirt and showed it to him. The war was freshly won. The whole of Wizarding Britain was full of hope. The world felt like something new. An uncertain, changed place. Draco didn’t trust it, at the time. Didn’t trust this modern world would accept a wizard with his history. With his scars.

Now you’re all over me, too, Harry’d said by way of explanation. Always.

Always. Draco was only just beginning to think Harry might’ve been right. That maybe… maybe there wasn’t always an ulterior motive. Maybe Harry was here because he wanted to be. Maybe he’d always wanted to be here. All over him.

“Harry.” The name felt foreign and provocative on his tongue. “Don’t make me beg.”

Melting against him, Harry watched his face with an expression of devout affection as he lined himself up and pressed in.

Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

The night before the final.

“We need a win.”

Staring at her, Harry almost got swept away with his sympathy. After all, he understood what it felt like to lose Draco. To become deranged in an effort to grasp onto him.

But he’d seen who Ginny was in those months they spent together. He didn’t think she was necessarily a bad person. Just passionate. Obsessive, like Harry. Not over the conventional things. She didn’t want to love and be loved. Didn’t want a partner. Wasn’t interested in the white picket fence.

She just wanted to watch some good fucking Quidditch.

“You don’t get enough credit for being such a manipulative, miserable cunt.”

“I’m a Quidditch player,” Ginny deflected. “Comes with the territory.”

“Why the fuck would I throw the match?” Harry growled.

“Because you owe it to me.” She could practically feel her knee throbbing. “And you owe it to him. Our lives would have turned out a lot differently if you’d just told him the truth back then instead of roping me into your twisted fucking game of denial.”

“Letting him win would be worse than if I did fuck you. It would be the most disrespectful- I’m not throwing it. I might lose, but I’m not throwing it.”

“I’m asking you to do me a favor.”

“No, you’re asking me to betray him for you. I’m not playing your game. I’m here to play him.”

“Look…” Ginny shifted her weight on her feet. “If the two of you want some kind of… arrangement or something, I can be… amenable to that. If you help me out.”

Harry stared at her for a beat, shaking his head. “Fuck off. You absolute fucking loser.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” she scoffed.

“Get on the fucking bike, I’m taking you back.”

Dublin, Ireland; June 6th, 2007.

Four years ago; 12:00am.

“Ha!”

Harry emerged from his magically extended duffle, brandishing a small pouch.

“Sustenance!” Returning to the bed, he collapsed beside Draco’s languid body, proffering the snack. “Chocolate raspberries.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Those are my favorite.”

Clearing his throat, Harry pushed through a blush. “I didn’t plan that, actually. I genuinely like them.”

Choosing to believe him (because the alternative was too creepy), Draco plucked one from the bag and observed it a moment, considering.

“Eat, Draco.”

Feeling the deep command in Harry’s voice, he popped it in his mouth, humming as he relaxed against the pillows. It’d been forever since he’d eaten something sweet that wasn’t full of Erythritol. From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry munching away happily, a giddy grin pulling at his lips every few seconds.

“So,” Draco waited for Harry’s eyes before he continued. “Is it also a coincidence that you’re staying at this hotel?”

Harry’s eyes diverted shyly. “This place is a little too posh for me to choose on my own. I wanted to see you.”

“And Ginny,” Draco added quietly.

“Wh- No, I-” As he shifted his body to face Draco with a frowning brow, he flinched, hissing through his teeth. “Bloody f-”

“Your calf?”

He nodded, body going taught. “Pulled it bad during my match yesterday,” he groaned.

“I saw.” Draco pushed back the sheet, crawling to the foot of the bed and taking Harry’s ankle in his hands. “You should be doing physical therapy for it.”

“Can’t afford it,” Harry ground out, eyes squeezed shut. “Wait?” He pried a single eye open. “I thought you didn’t watch my match?”

Lifting his foot onto his lap, Draco pressed his thumbs into the underside of the tendons in his ankle. “Still giving all your money away?” Slowly, he pushed up the leg until he reached the tight, spasming muscle below his knee.

“The fuck!” Harry yelped, shooting daggers at him.

Draco pressed in harder, rolling his thumbs in circular motions. “Give it a minute, Harry.”

At the sound of his name, Harry calmed, grimacing through the pain and trusting him. “Mostly I’ve been trying not to touch the vaults. Don’t want Teddy or ‘Dromeda to worry about anything.” After a few moments, the sharp cramp dulled to a sore throb, allowing Harry to suck in a deep, glad breath. “Thank fuck.”

“Thank Draco,” he corrected. His fingers were still moving, massaging the leg in deep, slow movements. “I’m gonna work the tension out a bit longer or you’ll be sore.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Better let me get your arse next.”

Draco cut eyes at him. “You got plenty of tension out.”

Giggling brightly, Harry’s physical discomfort eased into bliss under Draco’s touch. “Keep rubbing on me like that and I’ll do it some more.”

“Where’s that stamina been on the pitch?” Draco wondered aloud with a raised brow.

Harry shrugged, unbothered. “It’s different. This is you and me.”

Scolding aloofness stealing his expression, Draco settled in to chastise him. “You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself. You won’t be able to walk it off forever.”

“I know,” Harry sighed. “But then I think about Teddy going to uni, or buying a house, or having kids, and-”

“And he’ll be able to do all of that even if you blow your galleons on posh hotel rooms every day.”

“It just feels wrong,” Harry admitted. “Feels wrong to try…” He was silent for a long moment. “Why should I do anything to make my game better… or to feel better or decompress in a nice hotel, when Ginny…”

“Harry…” Draco frowned.

“The thing is, it is my fault. The things I said that day… If she’d just seen me in the stands- if I just showed up… maybe she wouldn’t have-”

“It’s Quidditch. Bludgers are part of the game. People get hurt.”

“But Ginny never did. She never got hit. Never got distracted.”

“Harry. Your savior complex is showing.”

He ran the flat of his foot up Draco’s thigh and over the material of his pants. “I love that.”

“What? Me calling out your bullshite?”
“You saying my name.”

Draco’s eyes jumped to Harry’s budding erection and back. “You don’t say?” He moved his hands over Harry’s knee, kneading the meat of his thigh, admiring the dark hair that covered his golden skin. “How do you have these thighs…” Draco pushed on his leg, bending it so Harry’s calf draped over his shoulder. “And still the knobbiest knees.” He turned his face into said knee, nipping at the bone with his teeth.

“Mmm stop dissecting my flaws with your PT brain.”

Draco snorted. “I’m not a PT. I got a degree in magical sports sciences. All I know how to do is this.” He rolled his thumbs into the inside of Harry’s thigh, eliciting a rumble in his chest.

“Don’t tell me that,” he moaned. “Now I’m just thinking about you touching fit tennis blokes at Cambridge like you’re touching me now.”

Gentling his touch, Draco slid one hand to cover the bulge in Harry’s pants, pressing firm with his palm. Harry made a funny noise and shifted against him, seeking friction. “I never touched them like this.”

Spreading the knee that wasn’t being held hostage, Harry reached for Draco’s hips. He directed him between his legs until they were flush together, their erections pushing against each other through strained fabric, hot and damp. Draco slid his hand up Harry’s chest, teasing a nipple and scratching through the coarse hair until Harry growled. He dropped his bad calf with an unceremonious kick, yanking Draco on top of him. Their mouths met in a wet, sloppy kiss. Gripping Draco’s backside, he forced them closer, meeting the rolling rhythm of Draco’s hips until they were gasping into each other’s mouths, tongues sliding, rutting wildly and coming for the third time that night.

Harry rolled off of him, wondering when he’d flipped them over. “I can’t believe I just came in my pants dry humping like a teenager,” he panted, struggling to catch his breath.

Beside him, Draco stretched arms over his head, the span of his body reaching from the headboard to the foot of the bed. “Can you do your little wandless magic thing before I chafe? I’ve sensitive skin.”

Harry complied with a lazy wave of his hand. “Don’t I know it. Remember the rash you got when we shagged on that rock?”

“Gave a whole new meaning to you being a pain in the arse.”

Chuckling, Harry sat up, leaning over Draco to press a soft kiss against his forehead, then chastely to his lips. “Need the loo. Be right back.”

Draco watched him swagger to the ensuite, his arse tight and back packed with muscle. He’d become such a stocky thing, to have been so scrappy in their teenage years. Feeling something prodding uncomfortably at his spine, Draco reached behind him and pulled away a raspberry, it’s chocolate coating melted beneath his body heat. Breathing a light snicker, he figured the added mass might have something to do with Harry’s constant grazing. He chucked the raspberry across the room, licking the smudge of chocolate from his thumb and humming at the lingering taste of Harry on his skin. It was so easy with Harry, like no time had passed at all. He and Ginny never talked like this. Never touched each other like this. Even in the beginning…

Maybe… maybe he should talk to her. Maybe, possibly, Harry wanted… He seemed so happy, here with Draco, maybe they-

He startled from his thoughts as something on the nightstand buzzed violently. It did it again and Draco realized it was a mobile phone. He reached for it curiously, wondering who would be harassing Potter in the middle of the night besides him. Holding the tiny device in his hand, he went still at the name on the screen.

While faucet water started running in the loo, Draco clicked on the middle button, the phone opening the message with a flash of the tiny screen.

GW: Are you awake?

GW: Draco isn’t here. Room 493.

By the time Harry was stepping back into the bedroom, Draco was fully dressed and shoving on his loafers.

He froze. “What are you…” Seeing the dark expression on Draco’s face, his chest filled with bricks. “What’s wrong?”

“Going back to my room,” he informed him stiffly, running hands through his mussed hair.

Harry’s face fell with all the innocence of a kicked puppy, eyes wide and concerned behind his glasses. The look fucking baffled Draco; how was he such a good liar?

“What? Why? Stay here, we haven’t even talked about… anything yet.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Draco straightened to his full height, tall and cross as his father always looked stalking around Knockturn.

“Nothing to talk about?” Harry echoed dully.

“I’m engaged.”

Harry flinched as if Draco slapped him. So good at playing the martyr, Draco praised bitterly.

“So that’s it?” He was angry now. “We get off a few times and you just- run away?”

“Pretty much.”

“Still a fucking coward I see.”

Restraint snapping under the echoed insult, Draco reared his arm back and absolutely lodged the cell at his head. Harry caught it in a flash, of course. He was a seeker. Brow furrowed, he looked down at the phone, his face immediately contorting in horrified understanding.

“Draco, I don’t know what she-!”

“Sure you don’t. Now who’s the fucking coward?”

Harry tossed the device to the bed, crossing the room to him and reaching with pleading palms. “I swear, Draco, I haven’t spoken to her in years-!”

“I can’t even be mad at her,” Draco chuckled dryly. “I’m here. With you. Letting you play your stupid fucking games because you can’t help yourself-”

“This isn’t a game to me!” Harry shouted, cradling hands around the back of Draco’s skull. “Please listen to me, I promise-”

“That’s the thing, Potter.” Draco yanked himself away, so hard he stumbled several steps, catching himself on the bedpost. “Your word hasn’t meant shite to me since you showed up to that party in Edinburgh.”

Harry shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what she wants. Please, Draco, I don’t want her, I haven’t-”

Draco made for the door, unable to look directly at Harry’s pitiful expression lest his manufactured sincerity fool him again. “Just stay the fuck away from us, yeah?”

Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

The night before the final.

“Where does he think you are right now?” Harry asked when they were back outside her hotel.

“He’s asleep,” she muttered, pulling her jacket tight around herself. They were both soaked through, and the rain just kept pounding.

Harry frowned. “You’re sure he didn’t see you go? He’s a light sleeper.”

“I’ll worry about my husband’s sleeping habits, thanks.”

Curiosity getting the best of him, he lifted his chin. “What did you even want that night? In Dublin? That’s why he went scampering back to you, you know? I’m pretty sure he suspects we’ve got some kind of long standing affair going on.”

After chewing reluctantly on her answer for a minute, she relented. “Draco wasn’t in the lobby like he said. Left his mobile with me. I was worried. I know you think I’m a heartless bitch, but I do care about him. I knew you were staying at the hotel and, stalker you are, figured you’d have a better idea of where he was. Should have known…”

Draco’s not here. Room 493. It looked so bad, that night, to have been something so innocent.

“Too bad we aren’t having an affair,” she said thoughtfully, alarming him. “He might actually play decently if he thought you were competing for my floo again.”

“But I beat him for it…” Harry glanced up at the sixth floor corner window that he knew was theirs. “And an affair would be different. It would be him realizing there is no prize. Just playing. And that’s the only way we’ll play real quidditch tomorrow. If he stops giving as shite about everything else and just fucking throws himself at it for the sake of the game.”

She studied him carefully, seeing the age old rejection in his eyes, the determination in the set of his mouth. Seeing too much. “If you won’t throw the match, at least destroy him. He won’t be able to stand it if he’s close.”

“I couldn’t destroy him if I tried,” Harry told her defensively. “Even with his injury, he’s an utter nuisance. He’ll go down kicking and screaming.”

Something sad flickered in her bright eyes. “Yes. We all have that in common.”

Audience to her grief, Harry couldn’t help but respond to the guilt that lodged itself in his throat. “I am sorry about what happened to you, Ginny. I know I’ve never really had the chance to say it.”

Her gaze cleared, the cutting keenness returning fast enough to give him whiplash. “You’re guilty about that, something completely out of your control, but not for fucking my husband?”

Harry considered that, hearing the lack of logic in this truth and searching his feelings for remorse. He found none. “Quidditch is the love of your life. Not Draco.”

“Oh, and you’re his soulmate? Is that what you’re saying? You love him more, so the infidelity is okay?”

Harry stared solemnly, feeling more sympathy for her than he had since the day of her injury. She was a thing to behold. Competent and brave, a complete force of nature. She had so much passion, so much love for the sport.

But Quidditch would never love her back.

Harry lifted one shoulder and let it drop, accepting her blunt critique of his hypocrisy without any hassle. “My love isn’t conditional.”

Present day; Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

The Final Match.

Draco kept glancing surreptitiously toward the stands in search of blazing red hair, paranoia evident on his face. A surge of fury swelled up in Harry every time it happened, spurring his magic to hurl him toward the Snitch that much faster. Jealousy was the reason he won the seekers tournament in Edinburgh. It was that same sense of jealousy that spurred him on today.

Draco tailed him, hot on his heels, swerving around the columns of the stands as they followed the fluttering Snitch under the crowd’s seats. Away from prying eyes, they got ugly, body checking and cursing up a storm. By the time they emerged from the fluttering banner covering the foundation, he and Draco were fighting for the lead. Unfortunately, one of the Chasers was zipping toward a hoop, Quaffle in hand, and collided head on with both of them. The three hurtled toward the grass to the sound of a gasping audience. They were close to the ground, thankfully, and landed in a painful, but relatively unharmed, heap of limbs and brooms.

The ref called a time out as they collected themselves, climbing to their feet, Draco’s back smarting and Harry’s calf tightening in a cramp. On their feet, Harry stared at Draco, looking him up and down, noting the way he clutched his spine and rolled his ankle.

“Alright?” the ref asked.

They all looked at each other. Nodded.

The ref summoned the Snitch and handed it off to Harry. “Potter. Your release.”

“But he released at the start,” Draco snapped, irritated he’d have yet another advantage in the match.

“Protocol. Loser of the prior match releases it in the present match.”

“But this was a time out.”

“Protocol applies to re-releases.”

Draco pursed his lips against a curse, not wanting to risk the expletive penalty. Harry’s team was already up a few points. No need to add any more. He nodded his consent.

They kicked off again, flying up high in the air. They kept several meters between them, hovering. Potter held the Snitch up, preparing to open his palm and let it zip away on its own. Before he did, though, he looked up, catching Draco’s eye with an odd expression. Draco stiffened when he turned his head, gaze drifting to Ginny, who sat watching them tensely from the stands. Harry’s attention unsettled her, had her squirming in her seat. Harry slowly turned back toward Draco, his face hardened and his jaw set.

Tightening his hold around the Snitch, he brought his fist to his chest, rubbing in slow, sure circles over his heart. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

That was the point of a signal.

Draco blinked at him, red tinting his vision, tinting the memory of Harry and Ginny on that bed in Edinburgh, swallowing each other whole. “Fuck off,” he scoffed, loud, not even meaning to think the words, much less say them.

“Code violation,” the announcer’s voice projected. “Unsportsmanlike conduct, verbal obscenity. Warning: Malfoy.”

Draco hardly cared. He turned his head to find Ginny, confused and anxiously looking between them. All he could hear was Harry’s voice in his head, thirteen years ago.

You know, you being jealous just makes it hotter for me.

Fuck it, Draco thought. Fuck it all. He was so sick of it, the jealousy. He’d never had Ginny. Never wanted her. He thought he should probably get angry. Hate Harry for pretending to wish him luck just to drive off with his wife in the night. Hate him so hard it showed in every twist of his broom.

He couldn’t. The truth was, they were all losers here. Pawns in each other's game. Draco was just as guilty as they were. Pretending otherwise had only managed to take him further from Harry. Further from the person who brawled with him as a child, then planted himself firmly by his side and checked him at every stop, forcing him to care, protecting him from himself.

He lost Harry when they stepped out of the forest. When he was too scared to let him hold his hand in front of Weasley and Granger. When he rejected a kiss at Christmas. When he decided to pretend nothing had ever happened. Hell, he’d practically chucked Harry out the window.

He was here now, though. His attention focused completely on Draco.

He threw the Snitch up and over his head. It took off like a shot, and they followed just as fast.

For the first time in a long time, Draco let himself feel the wind against his face, and think about how fast he was flying. Let himself become thrilled by it. He was alive, on his broom. He was young. He could do anything.

Harry cast him a look of surprise when he pulled up at his side, pressed flat against his broom, wind blowing the white blond hair from his forehead and unleashing the full effect of his shining, grey eyes. It was devastating. It was motivating. Harry pushed himself, trying to pull ahead. Draco followed suit, leaning into the current of wind like he was a bird, letting it carry him forward.

The Snitch changed course, moving toward the earth, plummeting away from them in a vindictive jump. Sharing a side-eyed glance, slow grins stretched across their faces, and they were boys again. Playing without the stakes. Playing for the fun of it. Tipping their brooms, they nosedived.

The ground approached them like a brick wall, but years of passing into platform nine and three quarters had taught Harry not to fear such things. He wasn’t sure why Draco refused to let up. It might have something to do with the joy on his face, the sense of certainty in every movement, the bald confidence in his outstretched hand. Harry should probably stop looking at him.

The Snitch skimmed barely an inch above the grass and they both pulled up sharply before they could crash, brooms teetering, the bristles dragging across the ground. But Harry’s correction was too rough, too blunt. He careened a bit off course, and it was enough for Draco to gain an inch, for his fingers to graze the golden sphere. It seemed to like his touch, the magic in his palm, because it let him wrap it up in clutching fingers. Harry nearly jumped with the triumph that bursted in his chest, blowing bricks over like straw- as if it’d been him catching the Snitch.

The jolt of his happiness was enough to make him jerk, to send him bumping into Draco. They hit the ground hard, brooms flying out beneath them, rolling around in the grass and dirt in a tangle of arms and legs. By the time they slowed to a stop, they were wrapped up in a tight embrace, shaking with laughter, grinning stupidly in one another’s faces. Perfect, Harry thought, You are perfect. We will always win together. Let’s stay together forever.

They announced Draco the winner over the roar of the crowd, one particular, gut-wrenching scream of victory tearing above the rest.

“LET’S GO!!!”

Chapter Text

Dorset, England. December 25, 2021.

Nine years later.

“Ahem. Draco, love.”

Draco pulled himself from his conversation with Hermione, raising eyebrows at Harry, who stood draped against the back door. At the curious look, Harry pointed above his head to the festive sprig of green. Draco rolled his eyes.

“This isn’t how mistletoe works,” he fussed. “You can’t just wander under it and demand kisses from whomever you choose.”

“I cannot believe this.” Harry placed a wounded hand to his heart, voice dripping in dramatic exaggeration. “Rejecting me on Christmas-!”

“Ugh!” Hermione groaned, falling back into the sofa cushions. “Get over it, you oaf.”

He paid her no heed. “ Again! I’m devastated. Heartbroken. Just shattered-”

Ron came traipsing through from the kitchen, grabbing Harry’s face between his giant palms and planting a dry kiss directly to his lips. He pulled back with a puckered sound, carrying on to the next room and leaving a gobsmacked Harry behind.

“There. Now stop your whining.”

Hermione and Draco doubled over, tearing up on the sofa at Harry’s pale, shuddering face.

Bristol, England. July 17, 2012.

Night after the finals.

“I didn’t do it.”

Draco lifted his eyes from the bar top. It was strange… he looked younger, Harry thought. He looked kinder.

“That’s what Ginny said.” The cagey air about him did little to temper his post-match glow.

“Can I sit?”

Harry wasn’t sure where they stood. They were caught up in the game before, with all the hugging and smiling. Harry’d been knocked over with his love, aching to tear off clothes and have him right there, in front of a stadium full of people.

He’d practically fled to the locker rooms. They hadn’t actually said a word to each other since the sauna, when Draco said that awful thing that may have permanently splintered his heart.

Draco nodded his assent, motioning to the empty stool by his side. Harry sat with no small amount of trepidation. He had to do this just right. He couldn’t fuck it up again.

“Drink?” the bartender asked, startling Harry from his tunnel vision.

“Er, Firewhiskey, please.”

He poured him a finger in a fine, crystal glass and walked away. Harry took a sip for courage, but found the burn more potent than usual. Setting it back down, he wrung his hands in his lap, pivoting to angle his body in Draco’s direction.

“So. Do you believe her?”

Draco’s mouth twisted to the side. He gave Harry a look. “I don’t think so.”

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Harry took a deep breath. “Can I explain myself, please?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“You see…” He gulped again- fuck, his mouth was so dry. “I’ve loved you since we were eleven years old.” Draco’s brow furrowed, so Harry rushed to carry on before he could interrupt with any denials. “And for a long time it confused me, and then it just- well, then it just hurt, for the most part. I’ve lost a lot of people I love. So- so my love for you… it made me do stupid things, trying to keep you. Inexcusable, toxic, jealous things. Like date the girls you like because, if I couldn’t have you, no one could. Like disappearing off the face of the earth when it felt like you’d chosen her over me.

“And I’m- I’ll never be able to apologize enough. For all of that. Even for things before that, trying- trying to force you out-” He lowered his voice. “Trying to make you be with me, in front of everyone, after the forest. Even though I could tell you were scared and-” He cut himself off, frustrated and full of self-contempt.

“I’m so fucking sorry. But I wasn’t lying to you in Dublin. I hadn’t spoken to Ginny since we broke up. She only texted me because she was looking for you. I- I thought… That night was so perfect. I wanted to, like, be with you. I thought we’d go to sleep, and wake up together in the morning, and I’d ask you to stay with me, and-”

“She said the same thing,” he interrupted. His face was more guarded than before, and Harry took that as a good sign. Caution meant fear. Fear was good. Fear meant there was something to lose. “About Dublin. Even if that’s true…” he trailed off, then picked up again. “I saw you picking her up when she snuck out last night. And you gave me the signal today.”

Harry reached out for him, hands stopping short when Draco retracted his elbows to his side, holding his drink in his lap. He lets his palms fall flat. “I didn’t touch her. I was just goading you. I wanted you to… get angry or something. Every time I watch you play, on the telly, you’ve been so… defeated. Or like, resigned. I couldn’t- I hate seeing you unhappy. I just wanted you to… light up again. To get excited, even if it was because you hated me so much.

“Ginny asked me to meet her because she wanted me to throw the match. Nothing happened. I didn’t touch her, I didn’t want to. I never wanted to. It was never about her. Draco, my- my whole life has been about you. And when we both made it to the finals, I- I had no illusions that I would break you two up or we’d… like, rekindle anything. I just wanted to play with you again. Really play. Today was the most fun I’ve had in thirteen years. Fuck, Draco, it’s never been about Quidditch.”

Draco studied his face, quiet and wary. “She told you to throw the match?”

Harry wanted to scream, a little bit. “Er, yeah.”

He frowned. “She told me she would leave me if I lost.”

“Oh…”

He still wanted to talk about Ginny. Ginny who went to Harry begging him to save her marriage in the dead of night. Slytherin he was, a part of him couldn’t help but regret bringing that part up. But honesty was what mattered now. Harry was done trying to outwit Ginny.

“That’s… stupid? I mean-” He paused, inhaling deeply through his nose. “I’m sorry. I know you love her-”

“No I don’t.”

Straightening in his seat, Harry bit back the pulse of elation that threatened to reveal itself in some embarrassing way, like song or dance. “... You don’t?”

“I mean,” he returned an elbow to the bar, leaning closer and directing his knees toward Harry. He clocked it, but dared not hope. “I love her the way I love Pansy. I think she’s amazing- or, I will, when I get enough distance to stop resenting her so fucking much.”

Perhaps a little hope was okay. “You’re splitting up?”

Draco nodded a little. “Long time coming. Never should have been married.” When his eyes dropped bashfully to his slim fingers, Harry’s breath caught. “We got into such a row last night,” he chuckled. “She said things about you and I. Kind of… forced me to acknowledge some things that I didn’t…” He seemed to gather himself for something, embarrassed and pink in the face, but squaring his shoulders and tightening his fingers into fists. “I never would have paid her any attention at all if you hadn’t called her beautiful.”

Heart throbbing, Harry’s trembling hand reached out again, landing soft on Draco’s knee. He ran his thumb over the fabric of his trousers and squeezed. “Look at me.”

Draco looked.

“We’re a couple of right tossers.”

Nerves visibly draining, he cracked a smile. “I’m afraid so.”

Harry dared to push closer, soaring when Draco didn’t pull away. “I didn’t throw the match.”

His grin grew, a wide, cocky thing that pulled at one side, morphing into something arrogant and sure. “I know.” He dropped his elbow from the bar, hand hovering above Harry’s on his knee before landing there decisively. Warm and familiar and right. “You do matter. To me. You… Merlin, you matter so much, Harry. You’re still my best friend.” He said friend, but the look in his eyes was fervently meaningful.

“I miss you so much,” Harry croaked, not caring a wink that his eyes burned and watered, wet lashes smudging the inside of his lenses.

 “Me too,” Draco murmured, so close now that their noses just barely grazed at the tip.

“Really?” he breathed, a deluge of desperation exuding from the question. “You believe me? Because I still love you and I want-”

Draco cut him off with a pressing of lips. It was a firm, sweet kiss, both overwhelming and not nearly enough. Harry kissed him back with little finesse, throwing himself into it, tongue slipping between lips and a heady groan pushing into Draco’s mouth. Draco allowed this, gentling him with a patient hand to his face, slowing him with a rolling, teasing tongue, holding him back with a fist pulling at his hair.

“Merlin, Harry,” he groaned, pulling his hot mouth away, face glowing red and dimples winking delectably from his cheeks. “We’re in public.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, ears hot, not regretting anything at all. “I really miss you.”

“Clearly. So…” Draco let go of Harry’s hand, reaching instead for his neglected whiskey and throwing it back. He grimaced and smacked his lips. “What’s next? Besides watching me win the Cup next month?”

Harry licked his lips, dropping his eyes to Draco’s swollen mouth. “You tell me.” Gathering all his bravery, he looked steadily into his cool gaze. “What am I for?”

Draco’s head cocked to the side, puzzled, like the answer was obvious. “Me.”

London, England. 2015.

Ginny stirred a conservative pour of milk into her tea and sighed, rolling her neck and flicking on the telly. She pressed the secret code into the remote, muttering to herself,

“Two-four-two-five-zero-nine-nine…pound.” She pressed and held the button, imbuing it with her magic, until the screen switched to a familiar face.

“ -not believe this news after having such a legendary few seasons. Going from the one-hundred-and-second player in the league to breaking three world records in the span of two years-”

“I know, Peter, it’s such a waste, especially considering the Cup is just a year away. This could have been a huge comeback for the Chudley Cannons, who, three years ago, hadn’t had a notable season in decades. Here’s a clip from the press conference earlier this morning, after Potter beat Ginny Weasley’s record from ninety-nine by three minutes.”

He nodded at the screen and Harry appeared, standing uncomfortably behind a mic, every bit as awkward under the attention as he’d been at nineteen.

“Getting to play with the Canons the past two years has been some of the best times of my life. Really. They’re a brilliant group of talented, dedicated players who I’m proud to have called teammates… which is why I know they’ll be more than fine without me next season.”

The room broke out in hushed gasps and urgent whispers. Harry continued without much pause.

“I’ll be working closely with our coaches and the team to find a replacement that’s up to snuff. I believe in my team and I know we’ll be seeing a lot of exciting things from them in the future.”

Finishing the obviously rehearsed speech, Harry folded his hands behind his back, cringing as journalists started jumping around, waving and yelling his name.

“Yeah, alright Jeremy, go ahead.”

“Hi, Harry. Despite your age, you’re at the peak of your game. You’ve been predicted to carry the Canons to the twenty-sixteen World Cup for the past two years. Why are you choosing now to retire?”

“Right, well, it’s not an easy decision, yeah? Like I said, I love my team. But they don’t need or want me to carry them anywhere. And as for why now, well… My husband and I have decided to start a family. We’re not getting any younger and having kids is really important to us. Frankly, I just don’t want to wait any longer. I love Quidditch, always will, but it’s time to start the next, er, chapter or whatever.”

Ginny snorted. She could see the headlines now. HARRY POTTER IS READY FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER… OR WHATEVER?

“Most Quidditch players would have no problem putting their personal lives off for a year if it meant winning the Cup. Aren’t you afraid of having regrets?”

At that, Ginny shook her head. What a stupid question. Just look at the git’s ridiculous face.

“Nah, I’m not worried. I know I’m a good player. I don’t need a trophy to tell me that. Besides, Draco and I share all our wins. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already got three Cups.”

Something in Ginny’s chest constricted, tightening sharply at such an apathetic comment. As if the Cup didn’t matter, as if winning didn’t matter. Draco’s wins are his… It was Ginny who got Draco those Cups! Ginny who turned him into one of the best players in the league. Merlin, it pissed her off, seeing the both of them so capable, so good, and just throwing it away because- because-

Because it was a cup. Because they knew it was just a stupid cup.

The tightness released, just a bit. It unfurled into something ruffled and small. Something that smelled sweet and felt like satin against her ribs. Barely a bud, but blooming inside her. It was hopeful and lovely as much as it was sad.