Chapter 5Chapter TextHarry woke up the next morning feeling cross and out of sorts, his neck aching and his foot caught up in the empty, greasy pizza box. He knew he'd had bad dreams, could feel the memory of them clawing at his brain, but when he tried to remember what they were, he found he couldn't.
Fuck it. He pushed himself out of bed and lurched to the bathroom, shrugging off his clothes – he hadn't even managed to get dressed for bed last night, it seemed – and turning the shower on as hot as he could stand it, giving himself a good scrub and standing with his face under the torrent of water until he felt almost alive again. Once he was dry, he found some clothes and went downstairs. It took him some time to find his keys and wallet, and his shoes turned out to be upstairs under the bed, but once he was decent he left the house and walked the twenty minutes it took to get to the nearest decent-sized supermarket. There, he bought more food than he could comfortably carry, staggering home again with plastic bags rammed full of fruit and vegetables, the handles cutting into the palms of his hands uncomfortably.
Once home again, he unpacked his shopping and grabbed a black bin liner, going methodically through each room and picking up empty chocolate wrappers and old newspapers and scooping up things he didn't want to look at too closely with a shudder. Then, he took out the rubbish, washed his hands very thoroughly, and went back to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and scramble some eggs for breakfast. Soon, he was sitting down in the dining room with his over-strong tea, eggs and burnt toast. He still felt out of sorts, but at least he didn't feel quite as gross as before.
As he ate, he switched on his phone and stared at it grumpily. He'd managed to make a phone call the previous day, so he was sure he could work out how to use the rest of it. He was a wizard, not an idiot. Carefully, he pressed buttons, managing to bring up his phone book and scroll through the numbers. It wasn't a long list. Dudley was on it, for some reason, and Harry managed to accidentally call him, but as he was swearing and trying to hang up before Dudley actually answered, he could hear a tinny voice at the other end of the line saying, "The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please try again." It was both relieving and insulting. Harry continued scrolling through, coming across numbers for work, for his GP surgery, for Parvati, and for a handful of other people whose names he didn't recognise. Were they school friends? Harry didn't feel very keen to find out. Either way, they hadn't contacted him in the last couple of days, which told its own story. It was expected, but still disheartening, to see how unpopular he apparently was here. Harry supposed he hadn't made any friends at primary school and had clearly continued that fine tradition into secondary school too.
Parvati seemed to like him, though, didn't she? Harry thought about ringing her, and then decided against it. He'd text her instead. If he could work out how. Harry ate some more of his eggs – his breakfast had gone cold now, but he was hungry and at least it wasn't pizza – and prodded at the phone, finding an old message from her about his next shift and working out how to hit reply.
PARVATI WHATS MY PHONE NUMBER FROM HARRY, he managed to type, and stared at it glumly for a moment. It had no punctuation, and he couldn't work out how to change the case so the message did give the unfortunate air of screaming rage, but it would have to do. He hit send, and then waited, taking a big slurp of tea and chasing it down with the rest of his egg on toast.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone started ringing, but he managed to pick it up and answer it before it cut off. "Hello?"
"Have you had a stroke?" Parvati's voice asked from the other end of the line, her voice tinny and amused. "Or is your phone broken?"
"Er, neither," Harry said, and then didn't feel up to admitting that he didn't know how to use it. "I think a key is stuck," he prevaricated.
"Harry, love," Parvati said, speaking very slowly, her voice drenched with pity, "why don't you know your own phone number?"
It was a good question, and it was also a shame that Harry couldn't tell her the truth. He presumed, too, that there was some easy way to find his number out, but then he reckoned that if he asked Parvati to cast the Wand-Lighting Charm right now she'd find it a bit of a challenge, so he didn't see why he had to be amazing at Muggle mobile phones at a first try either. "Humour me," he said.
He could almost hear Parvati mentally counting to ten. Then she read off a number, very fast. "Er, let me get a quill – I mean, a pen," he said, scrabbling for one and coming up empty handed. She was going to kill him, wasn't she? There was the sound of heavy breathing for a few seconds, and then the dialling tone. She'd hung up! Harry glared at his phone for a minute, and then dropped it with a crash when it started to emit a hideously loud rhythmic noise that nearly burst his eardrums. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEP BEEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. He scrabbled for it, hoping it wasn't broken, to find that he'd got a text from Parvati. With his phone number, and the message 'idiot', followed by a kiss. Well, he supposed he deserved that, he thought.
After a good few minutes of trying, he managed to transfer the number into his phone book under 'Me', and then went to hunt down a pen, writing it on the back of his hand for good measure. That done, he went back to the dining room and, with extreme reluctance, picked up the book that contained the photo of sexy bedtime Malfoy from where he'd left it at the other end of the long, scarred table and flicked through until he found the picture. Trying not to look at the fucker, he copied the number into his phone too, saving it under 'Dickhead Management' and slamming the book shut as soon as he could.
Harry stared at his phone in silent dislike, and then decided that he'd better get on with it before he lost his nerve. So he dialled 'Dickhead Management' and after only two rings a female voice said, "United Talent, Maya speaking, how can I help you?"
"Uh, could I speak to Malfoy, please?" Harry said politely, and then amended, "Draco Malfoy, I mean."
Maya appeared to stifle a snort. "If you let me have your details, caller, I can pass them on to Mr Malfoy's management team, who'll be in touch."
"You mean Pansy," Harry said glumly.
"Ms Parkinson is a member of Mr Malfoy's management team, caller," Maya conceded. "What's the message?"
"Oh, er," Harry said, "could you tell him – I mean, could you tell Pansy that Harry called? Er, Harry Potter, that is. And that he'd like Malfoy – I mean, Draco – to call him back?"
"Harry. Plotter. Call. Draco," Maya repeated. "And what's the message?"
"Potter," Harry said. "It's Harry Potter."
"Yes, of course, Mr Plotter," Maya said cheerfully. "The message?"
Plotter! Harry decided to let it go. But what message should he leave? Fuck it. "Sorry," Harry said.
"I said, what's the message, Mr Plotter?" Maya repeated, sounding as if her patience was wearing thin.
"No, the message is 'sorry'," Harry said through gritted teeth. He wasn't sure if he was apologising to Malfoy or to Pansy, but either way, he certainly felt very sorry – for himself, at any rate.
"Thank you, Mr Plotter, I'll pass it on. Thank for you calling United Talent, and I hope you have a—"
"Wait," Harry interrupted, "I haven't given you my number."
"Oh," said Maya, and she appeared to listen as Harry read it out, repeating the digits in the right order, but it wasn't very reassuring. He had a very strong feeling that unless Maya decided to lead with 'Pansy, we had the weirdest caller earlier today!' then his message would never get passed on. For a brief moment he felt tempted to shout out something about magic, and Voldemort, but decided against it at the last minute. He reckoned there was a fine line between being considered a weirdo and a psychopath, and psychopaths tended not to get their messages passed on to cute mega-selling pop stars. Neither did weirdos, his brain helpfully added, but he couldn't help that, could he?
That hideous chore done, Harry picked up his dirty plate and mug and went to wash up. He hadn't washed up by hand for several years, and it was about as much fun as he remembered, but at least it didn't take very long. He looked at his watch; it was barely half past nine. It didn't make sense to hang around staring at his phone, waiting for nobody to call back. And besides, it was a mobile phone, wasn't it? He could take it with him, in his pocket. He wondered how that worked; it felt pretty much like magic. He shook his head and went back upstairs to rummage about in the pockets of yesterday's trousers, pulling out the piece of paper with 'H' Granger's phone number and address written on it, and keying in the digits before he changed his mind.
The phone rang three times, and then Hermione's voice said, "Hello, Hermione speaking?" and Harry realised he should have given this slightly more thought.
"Er, hello," he said, and crossed all his fingers and toes that she would recognise his voice and he wouldn't have to try to explain that magic was real over the phone.
"Who is this?" Hermione said, very brisk.
Harry uncrossed all digits; he needed them to do a dance of panic in his bedroom. "I'm, er, Harry. Harry Potter?" he tried, on the off chance that would help.
"Is this a sales call?" Hermione said, tone now snotty and suspicious. "Because if it is, you should know that I'm signed up to the telephone preference service, so you must take my number off your database immediately, or I'll—"
"No! Wait!" Harry interrupted, before she could hang up, and then couldn't think what to say.
"Well?" Hermione said.
"Er, what if I told you that magic was real?" he said quickly, and then squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of a scathing response.
The scathing response came in the form a dialling tone. She'd hung up.
Well, Harry thought, putting the phone down and conducting a full-body cringe, at least now he knew for certain that Hermione didn't remember being a witch. It wasn't a very encouraging discovery, and Harry felt a bit like giving up. But, he then thought, if he gave up, he'd be stuck like this forever, and that was even less encouraging. He shot his phone a look of intense dislike. It wasn't ringing, which meant that either Malfoy hadn't received the message yet, or . . . he had received it.
Harry thought about the fact he seemed to be relying on Malfoy to solve his problems, and then considered Hermione again. OK, so she was Muggle, or as good as. But . . . she was still Hermione, wasn't she? Capable in a crisis, passionate about righting wrongs, and full of good ideas. She was also a huge and terrible know-it-all, Harry thought, and if she was anything like his Hermione, she would find being presented with a puzzle she couldn't solve a terrible insult, and would do anything she could to work out the answer.
Harry looked at the address he'd written down. Finsbury Park. She wasn't even that far away. And she was home, wasn't she? He'd just called her, and she'd answered. It wasn't stalking to go and knock on her door, he told himself as he stood up and headed outside. She was in the phone book! She'd practically invited him.
^^^^^^
"Hi!" Harry said brightly when Hermione opened the door, feeling like the biggest creep to ever walk this earth. He tried not to move too much, thinking that the rustling rain jacket only made things worse.
Hermione – wearing well-ironed blue jeans and an equally well-ironed white blouse, her hair scraped back in a very sensible ponytail, an ink stain on her cheek – frowned at him, no hint of recognition in her face. "Yes?"
"I'm, er, Harry," Harry said, a sensation of déjà vu crawling down his spine. "Harry Potter?"
Hermione gave him her best unimpressed stare. It was a stare she had hitherto reserved for people like Malfoy, and Harry was deeply unnerved to be on the receiving end of it.
"I called you earlier. Can I come in?" Harry asked, trying not to shuffle his feet.
"Absolutely not!" Hermione said, her stare now suggesting he was a lunatic. "Do I need to call the police?"
Bloody hell. "No! Sorry! Merlin! I mean – God!" He was aware he wasn't explaining himself very well, and felt his shoulders droop. "I need your help."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"This is really hard to explain," Harry said miserably. "You and me – we're best friends. We went to school together. At Hogwarts." Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry ploughed on regardless. "A school for witches and wizards." Hermione shut her mouth again. "Only, I made a mistake with some wish magic and now the world's different, and you don't remember me, and I don't know what to do!"
Hermione had folded her arms, and she was regarding him with an intense, but highly sceptical air. It was one she'd worn a lot in Professor Trelawney's classes. He tried to look plausible and not insane.
"Please, can I come in?" Harry said after the silence had become uncomfortable. For him, at any rate. "I'll try to explain. I . . . I can prove it!" he added. Could he? Possibly, he thought gloomily, trying to think of a reliable wandless spell he could perform on cue and coming up with nothing.
This seemed to swing it for Hermione, though. Her eyes glinted, and she gave a very small, very unenthusiastic nod. "I have a rape alarm," she said firmly.
Harry had no idea what that was, but it didn't sound much fun.
"And pepper spray," she added. She stepped aside to let him go past her. "It's illegal, you know, but it's amazing what you can buy on eBay."
Several flights of stairs, and several more doors later, Harry was sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair in a room that didn't seem to know if it wanted to be a kitchen or a bedroom, a mug of tea in his hand. "You have a nice, uh, home," he said untruthfully, in an attempt at small talk. He'd never been very good at small talk. Hermione's flat was so small that if you tried to swing the proverbial Kneazle in it, it would hit the walls and bounce back to bite your nose off.
Hermione shifted a stack of thick textbooks from a second chair on to the floor and sat down, folding her arms again. "Well?" she demanded, and Harry sloshed some tea over his leg.
"Well what?" he said defensively, casually spreading a hand over the dark stain and hoping she hadn't noticed.
She had noticed. "If you want me to believe in magic, prove it." She sounded pleasant, but it was somehow terrifying. Harry had never felt less ready to do magic in his life.
"I'm not very good at wandless magic," he started, and watched her eyebrows rise until they hit her hairline.
Hermione stood up, managing to neatly extract the mug from his hand as she did so. "It was very nice to meet you, Mr – Potter, was it? – but I have an essay to write, and a lecture to get to, so if you wouldn't mind—"
Shit. Harry tried to think of something he could do that would actually work without his wand. He could . . . try to clean up the spilt drink, he supposed.
He frowned at the stain on his leg, and said, very firmly, "Scourgify!"
Nothing happened. Fucking typical. Except, it wasn't true that nothing had happened, Harry thought with irritation. He'd magically made Hermione Granger scrunch up her nose in disgust, and that was something.
"Having performance issues?" Hermione asked. There was now a pitying edge to her voice and demeanour, as if she now no longer suspected Harry might be a violent criminal, but instead had concluded he was simply someone who needed urgent medical attention.
"Wandless magic is very difficult!" Harry said defensively.
The pitying look was so strong now that Hermione had practically gone cross eyed. "I'm sure it is," she said soothingly, and took a pace towards him – not threatening, more like herding. "Why don't you go and do some more practise, and when you're ready, give your GP a call and they'll help you work through it. All right?"
It would have taken a stronger man than Harry to stay seated with Hermione looming at him, and he found himself already on his feet and lurching towards the door. "I'm telling the truth!" he protested.
"I believe that you believe what you're saying," Hermione said unhelpfully, still herding.
Harry wracked his brains. If Hermione refused to help him, he really would be stuck with Malfoy. "If I brought someone else to see you who'll back me up, would that help?"
A horrified look bloomed in Hermione's face. "Please don't."
Harry sighed. Malfoy was never any bloody help. What was the point of him? Right – it was time to try the wandless magic again, he decided. If he left it any longer, he'd be out on the doorstep. "SCOURGIFY!" he yelled, ignoring the look of bewildered panic on Hermione's face, and concentrated as hard as he could on thinking clean, sparkling thoughts.
He screwed his eyes tight shut at the blinding flash that erupted from nowhere, and then didn't want to open them again, because that wasn't meant to happen with a simple cleaning spell, bloody hell.
"Harry, did you say?" Hermione said, sounding curious rather than terrified, and Harry risked opening his eyes, to be greeted by a room that was . . . exactly the same as it had been before.
"Er, yes," Harry said, wondering what in the bloody hell he'd managed to do. "Harry Potter."
"Good to meet you, Harry," Hermione said, sounding surprisingly business-like all of a sudden. "Would you like me to lend you some trousers?"
What the hell? Harry had a moment of panic that he'd somehow managed to clean off his trousers and underpants entirely and was now standing in Hermione's tiny bedsit, proudly displaying his sparkling clean cock. To his relief though, when he looked down, he'd only managed to melt away his entire trouser leg. And if it had convinced Hermione that magic was real, he supposed it was a small price to pay.
^^^^^^
Ten minutes or so later, Harry was dressed in very tight raspberry-coloured cotton trousers and trying to feel grateful for small mercies. OK, so the trousers were at least six inches too short and there was a good chance they'd split across the arse if he did anything energetic, e.g. breathe out, but at least Hermione had some trousers she was willing to lend him. And – and the Scourgify that had melted a large section of his own trousers off had, at least, left him his underpants, so at least he hadn't flashed Hermione. Ron would never forgive him if he flashed Hermione, he thought, before remembering he didn't know Ron in this reality. Did Ron even know Hermione? Harry tried to rally, helped by the fact that Hermione – who appeared to have got over the shock of a man magicking away his own trousers in her tiny apartment inhumanly quickly – had got out a notebook and pen and was clearly ready to learn absolutely everything there was to know about magic.
An hour or so later, Hermione had filled up a least a dozen pages with incredibly neat handwriting, and yet . . . she didn't look very impressed with it all. Harry wondered if, in trying to boil down the entire history of magic and their time at Hogwarts into a short summary, he might have emphasised the wrong things.
"So let me get this clear," she said, staring down at her notebook, pen in hand. She had even more ink on her fingers now. "Magic is real – was real – and you have accidentally altered reality to make it so that only you are able to do it."
"Not just me," Harry said uncomfortably, not wanting to bring Malfoy into it unless he really, really had to. "But pretty much. Everything that was there before – the whole wizarding world – doesn't seem to exist any more."
"Yes," Hermione said, and set down her pen in a meaningful way. "And you want the world to go back to how it was."
"Yes!" Harry said, pleased she'd got it. But . . . Hermione didn't seem very pleased to have got it. She was frowning. He'd been certain that once he'd proved magic was real, she'd be dying to help him fix reality. That was what Hermione was like!
"A world where . . . I'm a witch, not a dental student," Hermione continued slowly. "Working in government, to better the rights of – let me get this straight – a race of people who are enslaved as domestic servants, and who aren't allowed clothes?"
"Um, yes," Harry said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. When she put it like that . . . it didn't sound great, did it? But: "All of this – it's not real. Once I've fixed the spell – once we've fixed the spell – it will all go back to how it's meant to be. Back to normal."
Hermione sat up very straight at that. "I am normal, thank you very much," she said, very haughty.
Yes, Harry supposed that right now she was. Although – was spending your working life with your hand in strangers' mouths entirely normal? He thought it better to keep that one to himself. "My friend Hermione isn't normal," he said instead. "You're not normal. You're extraordinary. I wish you could see how much better it is, our real lives."
Hermione seemed torn between intrigue and annoyance. Harry supposed, the issue dawning on him, that he was basically asking her to wish her own life out of existence. As far as tooth-fixated-Hermione knew, her life here was as real as Harry's magical life was to him. If only he had access to a library, or something, to help persuade Hermione how much richness there was to magic, despite the admitted horrors that came with it. Even Hogwarts: A History would be a start. But there was nothing. Just Harry himself.
Hermione looked past him; not towards the wall, but as if she was looking into her own mind. "I'm going to be a dentist," she said. "My parents are dentists. It's what they want for me and . . ." She trailed off, and then turned to look at Harry, her gaze more focused now. "I'm quite happy to be a dentist. You know where you are with teeth."
Harry supposed you did.
"Sometimes they have decay," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Sometimes they require really quite complicated diagnostics and drill work. Sometimes, small children bite you with them. But—" And here she appeared to pause for emphasis; Harry tried not cringe. "They never come back from the dead with no nose and try to kill you," continued. "And they never, ever make you mind-wipe your own family and send them to Australia."
Harry took this as confirmation that, yes, when he'd explained all about magic, he'd overdone the Voldemort bit and underplayed the research potential and—
"Ron!" Harry said.
"Bless you," Hermione said.
Harry ignored that. "No – Ron. Ron Weasley." Even if he hadn't yet managed to convince Hermione about how good magic could be, surely she'd want to get back to the love of her life?
Hermione looked definitely baffled now. "The footballer? What about him?"
Footballer? Harry experienced a sinking feeling. But, he thought, at least she'd heard of him, and if Ron was a Muggle, at least he was an active, sporty one in this reality, rather than chief sandwich taster at a factory somewhere. "You love each other," he said firmly, thinking he'd stress Ron's commitment to family, loyalty to friends and cheerful, stubborn sense of humour, rather than his magnetic attraction to buffets.
Hermione pulled a face that suggested to Harry that Ron didn't feature heavily in her list of top ten crushes. "Please no," she said. "Not that ginger tosser."
"Ron's not a ginger tosser!" Harry protested.
Hermione visibly let out a breath of relief, her shoulders relaxing. "Thank heavens. Must be another Ron."
"I mean, he is ginger," Harry said, and watched Hermione freeze up again.
"Hang on," Hermione said, and got up, coming back with a thick black box that looked like the one Harry had seen in his own house. She opened it up, and yes, it was a computer, after all – the screen and keyboard attached by a hinge. She plugged in various wires and started it up, attached electronics making a variety of unpleasant dialling and beeping noises as she did so. Finally, she typed something, waited, and then turned the screen to Harry.
"Ah," Harry said, and uttered a silent bollocks. There was a selection of photos on screen. In the ones where Ron wasn't kicking a ball, he was drinking in bars with a small selection of cheerful, well-built drunk men, and a much larger selection of – different – blonde women with large chests. It was Lavender all over again, Harry thought in despair.
Hermione sniffed meaningfully and turned the screen back towards her, letting out a little shudder before closing the laptop lid. "I suppose he's handsome enough if you like that sort," she said.
Harry didn't dare enquire what that sort was, but it was clear enough that Ron's face alone was not going to entice Hermione to throw over her life of teeth for love. Harry wracked his brains for more inspiration – what might persuade Hermione to help him – but came up short. He could hardly offer to teach her some spells. Even if she still had her magic lying dormant inside her, they wouldn't get far without wands. Or he could—
"Hello? Are you listening?" Hermione said, waving her hand in front of his face.
Harry jumped guiltily. "Yes?"
"I was saying that while I'm sympathetic to your troubles, and I . . . mostly believe what you're saying," she said primly, "I was telling the truth when I said I had an essay to write before I'm due in at uni for a lecture, so we should leave it here for now."
"Right," Harry said gloomily.
"Give me your phone number and I'll be in touch if I think of anything that might help," she said, picking up her pen again and rummaging around in a bag by her chair, pulling out a small black book.
Harry held out his hand, where he'd written the number earlier, and Hermione snorted, but copied it into her book anyway.
"It was certainly interesting meeting you," she said, rising from her chair.
Harry, feeling the social pressure, rose too. Had it been interesting? It had been horrible, in his opinion. She was Hermione enough to make him love her, and different enough to make him desperately want his Hermione back. She didn't even know Ron! God. OK, so sometimes Ron and Hermione didn't act like a normal couple – they yelled at each other, and wound each other up, and if Ron kept laying waste to every buffet he met then there was a danger Hermione might snap – but they were Ron and Hermione. If they weren't together, then nothing was right with the world. Determination bubbled up in him again. He had to fix this; for his friends, if not for him.
"I really am going to have to persuade Malfoy to help, aren't I," Harry muttered to himself as he got to Hermione's front door, trying not to groan.
"I – what?" Hermione said, halting dead.
Harry stopped too, startled by her sudden change in demeanour. "Sorry?"
"Did you say Malfoy?"
Why did Hermione suddenly look happy? It pinged a memory in his brain – something dark and terrible. What was it?
"Draco Malfoy?" Hermione continued, twisting her hands together, her eyes widening.
"Um, yes?" Harry said.
Hermione's eyes were the size of moons. "As in, Draco Malfoy, whose last single was number one for eight weeks, and whose latest has just hit number one again despite stiff competition? Who was the youngest person to win 'Best Male Newcomer' at the Brit Awards this year? Whose song-writing skills are far in advance of any other popular artists around, but whose talent is vastly underappreciated in the mainstream media because of his good looks and his large, immature fanbase?"
Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or vomit on his shoes. "Probably!" he squeaked, taking a step backwards as she took a step towards him. "I mean – he didn't do those things when I knew him!"
"No? That's your reality's loss, then," she said sanctimoniously, cunningly swivelling round him until she was between him and the door, "although I'm sure he would be just as impressive, no matter what world he was in or what career he chose. I am an enormous admirer of Draco Malfoy – for his talent, of course. I have a complete collection of all of his releases, including several foreign import versions and some of them very limited editions, and—" She stopped, suddenly thoughtful.
Gilderoy Lockhart. It reminded Harry of how she'd acted around Gilderoy Lockhart, before he'd been exposed as a fraud. It had been annoying then, and it was really, really annoying now.
"In this other world. Are you sure I was going out with Ron?" Hermione asked, stroking a hand thoughtfully over her hair. "Not Draco?"
"Yeah, pretty sure," Harry said, overcome by horror.
"Let me put on his new album," Hermione said, "and you can tell me everything you know about him. You – you said you needed his help? So you've met him here? You're friends?"
Friends was pushing it. Harry gave a half-nod and wondered if Malfoy had got his phone message yet. Probably not, he thought gloomily. God, Malfoy was annoying.
Harry's lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to dent Hermione's though. She beamed at him. "Amazing! You must have so many stories to tell. Hang on, I'll get a fresh notebook."
Hermione turned her back and strode over to the other side of the room, and Harry did the only thing he could. He fled, before Hermione – Hermione! – could do something horrendous, like ask him to get her Malfoy's autograph.
Once outside and round the corner – Harry wouldn't put it past Hermione to chase him down, pen in hand – Harry leaned up against the wall of someone's front garden and considered what had just happened. He'd met Hermione, and not only did she not know Ron, she . . . fancied Malfoy.
Harry could not live in a world where Hermione fancied Malfoy. It was bad enough that he . . . He shook his head hard, to try to scramble his brain into compliance. That wasn't the point. No – something must be done about this, and right away. The only question was: what?
^^^^^^
"Is this Harry?" Pansy said, sounding like she had her fingers crossed it wasn't.
"Yes!" Harry said, overenthusiastic, turning off into a side street and pausing under a shop awning, one finger in his free ear to try to hear properly over the noise of the traffic. "Thanks for calling back!"
"My receptionist tells me you've called the office forty times in the last—" Pansy broke off and Harry could faintly hear another voice in the background. "Thirty-nine minutes," she said. "I mean this in the politest of ways, but – what the fuck?"
"Uh," Harry said.
"What do I have to do to get you to stop calling?"
Harry considered this. "Call me back?" he suggested.
Pansy snorted. "Very funny. Anyway, why are you being such a pain in the arse? You're upsetting the talent," she said. More noises in the background. "The talent says to tell you that he's not upset." This time, the noise sounded more like a violent struggle.
"Er, could I speak to 'the talent' directly?" Harry asked, imbuing the words 'the talent' with as much sarcasm as humanly possible. Fucking Malfoy.
"Apparently, he's not here right now," Pansy said sweetly, and then added, "Ow! Draco, that hurt!" She cleared her throat and said, in a very pointed tone, "He's in rehearsals for his upcoming tour today, so he definitely doesn't have time to see you, given that he appears to have forgotten every dance move he's ever learnt. But he can spare you five minutes, if you drop by the studio in the next hour or so." She reeled off the address, and then made noises as if she was about to hang up.
"Hang on! Hang on!" Harry said, once again patting himself down frantically for a pen that he wasn't carrying. "Where's that?"
Pansy muttered something that Harry couldn't quite catch but which was possibly offensive. "The Fac. To. Ry," she said very slowly, as if she thought Harry couldn't speak English. "Four. Oh. Seven. Horn. Sey. Rooooooad."
"Ye-es," Harry said, equally slowly. "But whe-ere is that."
"Can't you just get a taxi?" Pansy said plaintively, as if she hoped that it would all be over soon.
Could he? Harry had a vague idea that they worked a bit like the Knight Bus – you shoved out your hand and one would stop – but he had visions of not having enough cash to pay the fare and the driver calling the police on him. How would he rescue Hermione from her Malfoy fangirling if he was sent to jail for fare-dodging? "Let's say no, I can't get a taxi," he said.
There was a short, and somehow pained, silence. "Where are you now?" Pansy asked. "We're in North London," she conceded.
Well, that, at least, was good news. "Me too," Harry said. Where was he exactly, though? He'd wandered about aimlessly a bit since he'd fled Hermione's flat. He looked about for a street sign, and then blinked at it. "I'm on Hornsey Road, it says here," he said.
"Oh my god," Pansy said, and hung up.
^^^^^^
It would have taken five minutes to get the studio if Harry hadn't set off in the wrong direction. As it was, he arrived there some fifteen minutes later, cross and slightly sweaty. It was a warm day, and his clothes were too tight and his jacket too waterproof. He felt a bit like he was steaming himself very gently. Apparition had its drawbacks, he thought – hotly – but at least you arrived at your destination at the same body temperature you started.
The place was unimpressive – a series of low sheds, next to an industrial estate – and Harry half suspected that Pansy had been taking the piss, but when he entered the receptionist was rude and snotty enough to make him think that this was the sort of joint that might contain a Malfoy. She made him wait in reception on an uncomfortable plastic chair for over twenty minutes while she 'cleared' his admittance, and it was almost a relief when eventually Pansy showed up, wearing another very smart suit and a very smart scowl.
"What on earth are you wearing?" Pansy said, eyes immediately dropping to take in his – Hermione's – trousers, and then quickly added, "Never mind. I don't actually want to know." She gave an exaggerated shudder. "The backing dancers are taking five, so Draco has kindly agreed to give you a minute of his very precious time. This way."
Harry tried not to grind his teeth, remembering that he needed Malfoy's help. He'd phoned him up to say sorry, hadn't he? For a moment he couldn't quite remember why, overwhelmed by annoyance at the whole situation. Oh yes – he hadn't said please to Malfoy, the pop star knobhead, when asking for his help to reset reality. He took a deep breath and tried to picture himself saying please now; it was a strain on the imagination.
Pansy ushered him through a door into an enormous cavernous space. The floor was panelled wood, slightly springy underfoot, and one wall was entirely mirrors, but otherwise it was empty, white, brightness. Empty, that was, apart from Malfoy, who was sitting slumped against the wall at the other side of the room, drinking from a water bottle in his hand. Harry was pleased to see that Malfoy jolted as he entered, a dribble of water spilling down his chin. That was about the only thing that was pleasing, though. Malfoy wasn't quite hitting the heights of 'sexy bedtime Malfoy' standards, Harry thought, swallowing hard and feeling himself fill from head to toe with impotent rage at himself, but he was clearly trying. Today he was dressed in a loose, pale T-shirt and loose, pale jogging bottoms, a pile of fabric that might be a jumper heaped beside him. He was so informal, it was almost like seeing him naked.
Harry tried not to imagine him naked. This was Malfoy. He was as bad as – oh Gryffindor – Hermione.
"Don't make him cry," Pansy said dismissively, and then shut the door behind her, leaving Harry to wonder who, exactly, she thought was going to be doing the crying, and why.
Malfoy didn't get up, so Harry walked towards him, realising, as he did so, that Malfoy looked knackered. His hair was damp with sweat, as were his clothes. For some reason, this didn't help with the whole sexy bedtime business one iota.
"Potter," Malfoy said, his tone fucked off, and then he let out an extremely undignified snort. "What the fuck are you wearing today? Are you trying to look like a lunatic, or does it just come naturally?"
Harry tilted his chin up, in order to give Malfoy a dignified stare, but had to lower it again when it turned out he couldn't actually see Malfoy that way. "It comes naturally," he said, and to his surprise Malfoy actually smiled. It was a pretty poor excuse for a smile, as if Malfoy was trying hard to suppress it, but it was a smile nonetheless. "I do have a reason for the trousers," he confessed, wondering whether if he sat down the seams would survive.
Malfoy tipped his head to one side. "Oh?"
Harry decided to risk it, sliding down to the floor gingerly. The seams strained, but held, and he only felt a tiny bit like the waistband was going to slice him in two. "I, uh, tried some wandless magic."
Malfoy continued to look at him, head tipped. "And decided to try a new look?"
"They're not mine!" Harry protested, wondering why he was bothering. "They're Hermione's."
Malfoy grimaced. "Already in Hermione's pants, are you? How sickening. I almost feel sorry for the Weasel."
"Actually," Harry shot back, "in this reality, Hermione's into you." He regretted it as soon as he'd said it; when this was all over, Hermione – the real Hermione – was going to kill him for letting that one slip. Once she'd killed Ron, for making himself sick from laughter, that was. It was possible she might need to kill Harry too.
Malfoy's eyes went comically wide. "I beg your pardon? Did you just say . . .?"
Harry grinned. "Oh yes. And –" inspiration struck – "if you don't help me fix this mess, I'm going to introduce her to you. She's your number one fan," he added unkindly.
"Granger?" Malfoy said faintly, and pulled a face.
Harry began to feel bad. "Hermione's a very lovely woman," he said sternly. "She's much too good for you."
Malfoy set down his water bottle and folded his arms. "Potter, while I'm enjoying this lovely, revolting chat, I thought you had something to say to me?" he prompted.
"I do!" Harry said. "Help me, or I'll set Hermione on you. She's very enthusiastic," he added thoughtfully. "She knows more about you than an encyclopaedia."
"Potter, there is no reality in which I would wish to date Granger," Malfoy said snottily. "Kind though it is of you to try to set us up."
Harry gaped. "I wasn't!"
"No?" Malfoy said.
"No!" Harry protested, before realising that his evidently not-so cunning plan had gone wrong somewhere. When he looked back to Malfoy, Malfoy was smirking. "Oh, all right," he said, annoyed. "Please will you help me fix this spell, Malfoy. Happy now?"
"What was that?" Malfoy asked, still smirking.
"I said please," Harry repeated, irritated.
"Sorry?" Malfoy murmured.
"PLEASE!" Harry bellowed. "Please will you, great and mighty Malfoy, help me. I beg you on bended knee."
"Probably better not," Malfoy said, one corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. "There's no way those trousers will survive, and I'm not going to lend you mine."
Harry immediately pictured Malfoy taking his jogging bottoms off, and felt warmth boil from his head, to set his cheeks and ears aflame. "I wouldn't have thought you'd want to wear Muggle clothes in the first place," he muttered.
Malfoy was giving him an odd look, but he shrugged, his T-shirt almost slipping off one shoulder. "Clothes are clothes," he said. "The whole fuss about wizards not knowing how to wear Muggle clothes is basically just politics." He waved a hand about. "Ha ha, imagine knowing how to dress like a Muggle?" he said, putting on a quavering voice. "You might accidentally turn into one if you know their social rules!" He snorted. "As if dressing appropriately is difficult." He half-turned to look Harry up and down. "For most of us, that is," he amended.
"No, really though," Harry said through gritted teeth, trying to keep his temper. He attempted to cross his legs and then thought better of it when he nearly cut off the blood circulation in his thighs. "You seem to be coping with this Muggle thing pretty well."
Malfoy gave him a narrow look. "Are you being rude?"
Harry considered this, thinking that Malfoy seemed to be trying to keep his temper too, despite the sarcasm. "Probably," he said.
Malfoy laughed, without much humour.
Harry took a deep breath. "Seriously, though. Shall we, er, call a truce?" He held out his hand.
Malfoy regarded it suspiciously. "I didn't realise we were still at war." Harry nearly pulled his hand away, but then Malfoy let out a shaky sigh and took it.
Malfoy's hand felt very warm in his, and Harry could feel himself flushing all over again. Was he holding Malfoy's hand too tightly? How long were you meant to shake a hand for, anyway? This felt far too long for comfort, but he didn't want to be the first one to pull away, in case Malfoy took that as some kind of insult and decided he'd actually quite like to stay in this reality, being a pop star and marrying Hermione. Harry experienced a pang of something that felt almost like jealousy, but couldn't possibly be. He refused to be capable of feeling jealous over Hermione and Malfoy. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"I'm not sure handshakes usually last this long, but as long as you're enjoying yourself," Malfoy said snidely, and Harry pulled his hand away faster than his Firebolt's top speed. He felt curiously unable to look away from the floor. It was very polished, and surely too slippery to do any kind of physical activity on safely, he thought judgementally.
"Also, the reason I'm coping with 'this Muggle thing' pretty well," Malfoy continued, in the tone of voice a normal person might use when talking to another normal person, "is that I appear to have gone from one reality where I am rich and indulged –" he paused, and amended, with hearty brightness – "was indulged, to another reality where I am extremely rich and indulged."
Harry looked up, to find that Malfoy wasn't pulling a mocking smile. He just looked . . . normal. Well, whatever normal was for Malfoy; Harry didn't think it was possible for him to pull a completely normal face, without at least a tinge of arsiness shining through.
Malfoy shrugged again. "Pansy sorts out my schedule and my travel, Luna sorts out all my clothes and I appear to have coaches for all the singing and dancing and shit. I've barely had to do a thing for myself – or by myself," he added, a note of irritation creeping into his voice, "since I woke up to find myself apparently a Muggle."
"Can you still do magic?" Harry asked.
Malfoy tilted his head back, leaning against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. "I suppose so. It feels like I could."
"It feels . . .?" Harry repeated, a bit puzzled. Hadn't Malfoy tried? "Don't you miss your wand?"
Malfoy's entire body seemed to stiffen, the line of his shoulders, his neck, suddenly angry. He made an obvious attempt to relax, though, shaking the stiffness out of his neck. "As I was saying, I've barely been asked to do anything, I'm so well looked after, so it'd be difficult to cock that up. Really, the most challenging thing I've done is to try and keep up with the professional dancers today. I'm fucking exhausted."
Ah yes, Harry thought. Malfoy – the multi-talented dancer and singer. He hadn't picked those skills up at Hogwarts, that was for sure. "So, why didn't you perform on that Muggle TV show last night, then?" he asked, suspecting he knew the answer. How could Malfoy perform a song when he couldn't sing?
"I didn't perform because I . . . I . . . had a headache," Malfoy said, a flash of panic darting across his face as he settled on a really rubbish excuse. He raised his chin and tried to stare Harry down.
"Oh?" Harry said, sensing he had the upper hand. "Not because you don't know the words to your own song and didn't want to make a massive bell-end of yourself in public?"
Malfoy stared at him for a moment, and then his normal smug expression slide back into place. "Of course I know the words to my own song, you moron. I learnt the whole dreadful album the first day I woke up a fucking pop star. It's not difficult."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry, sensing he had lost the upper hand, damn it.
"Yeah," Malfoy said, tone mocking. "Learning pointless nonsense is a special skill of mine. When I was a child, my parents liked to impress their guests at parties by dressing me up in full formal robes and having me recite ancient poetry," he continued drily. "When I was five, I regaled a special delegation from the Ministry with the whole of Ingolfr the Iambic's 'Saga of Blood and Gold' in the original Norwegian. A hundred and seventeen verses," he added. "The guests were very . . . impressed."
"Were they? I bet they were very glad when you'd finished," Harry said. And to his surprise, Malfoy grinned.
"I bet you didn't take the starring role in parties with your Muggles," he said, his tone a dare.
"No," Harry said, and something compelled him to add, "mostly, Uncle Vernon made me stay in my cupboard under the stairs until they were over."
Malfoy's face did something complicated. "I beg your pardon, Potter," he said politely. "Did you just say 'my cupboard under the stairs'?"
Harry felt the pang of old hurts and wondered why he was talking about this with Malfoy of all people, who'd only store it up to use it against him at a later date. "Yes," he said shortly. "Didn't you know? I slept in a cupboard, wore my cousin's cast-offs and didn't have any friends until I came to Hogwarts. It's always been great fun being Harry Potter, you see."
Malfoy stared at him, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Well, since we're sharing old wounds," he said, leaning in confidentially. "You know that revolting cellar in Malfoy Manor, under the drawing room?"
Harry nodded, feeling miserable and wound up.
"Well, when I was bad . . ." Malfoy said, and then snorted. "My father used to give me a stern look, and then my mother would give me sweets to make me smile again. I was much too lovely a child to ever be punished, however naughty I was, you know." And he leant over and gave Harry a sharp dig in the ribs with his elbow.
Harry felt a spike of anger, and then to his surprise, he found he was laughing, the unpleasant atmosphere in the room dissipating as he did so. "Git," he said, and shoved him back.
Malfoy grinned at him, relaxed and warm. It did terrible things to Harry's insides.
"Go on, then, why did you really bunk off your performance," Harry asked, and Malfoy's smile went wonky. "Are you actually a terrible singer?"
Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "I'm all right, I think. No one's cried when I've rehearsed, at least."
"Did you spill food down your white top and throw a tantrum?" Harry tried.
"No, fuck off," Malfoy said, folding his arms across his chest.
"Did you demand a red carpet and no one gave you one?"
Malfoy looked confused. "Is that a thing?"
Harry let it go. "Well, go on then," he said. "What was it?"
Malfoy shot him an odd look, and then looked away. "You . . . you pissed me off," he said, and pressed his lips together.
Harry laughed. "So you were sulking, then?"
Malfoy's eyes widened. "I was not sulking! I was . . ."
"Sulking?" Harry suggested.
"No!" Malfoy said. And then, as if he couldn't help it, he started to laugh.
Harry felt himself starting to reluctantly smile too – this whole situation was too bizarre for words; had he really just been talking to Malfoy as if he was a friend? – when the door to the studio opened and Blaise Zabini stepped through it. Harry experienced a complicated, baffling conflict of emotions: irritation at being interrupted, and a sharp pang of something that couldn't be jealousy because Harry was not jealous over Malfoy. Except . . . hadn't Pansy implied that Malfoy and Zabini were . . .
"Who's this?" Blaise said airily, coming closer. "New boyfriend?"
There was an extremely loud silence. "He wishes," Malfoy said, very pointed.
He . . . hadn't just said that. Had he? "I really don't!" Harry found himself saying, his voice coming out very high pitched. He felt hotter than the sun, and he couldn't have turned his face towards Malfoy, even if someone had offered him a million Galleons to do it.
Was Malfoy really—
Had Malfoy basically just admitted—
Blaise looked amused by this. "Then can I have him?" he asked Malfoy. "He looks so innocent and darling."
Harry's head was going to explode. "Have you seen his trousers, though?" he heard Malfoy saying, the sod.
Blaise laughed. "All the more reason to get him out of them."
Was Harry going to die? Possibly. No, probably. He was going to die, possibly of a blood overload to the head, and he couldn't look at Malfoy, could never, ever look at Malfoy again, and there was no fucking way Malfoy hadn't noticed that, was there?
"Fuck off, will you, Blaise?" Malfoy said, although there was a warm tone in his voice that Harry hadn't heard before. "I'm busy."
Blaise shot Harry a sly look. "Yes, all right," he said. "But our supreme leader says to tell you five more minutes only, or you'll push the schedule out of joint." He blew Harry a kiss as he sashayed out of the door.
There was another short and painful silence. "He – he wasn't like that at school," Harry said faintly into it, looking at his shoes.
"No," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "Although he did once threaten to ask Dumbledore to reinstate the annual school play, so perhaps showbiz was in him all along."
The silence silenced a bit more. "Are you really, um," Harry asked the wall.
"Um?" Malfoy repeated, the sarcasm tap turned on full. "I'm not going to answer if you can't even bring yourself to say it."
The thought that Malfoy might, actually, answer the question honestly nearly did him in. He felt extremely ill equipped to be having this conversation. But now he'd started it, it seemed impossible to stop. And he was a Gryffindor, wasn't he? Albeit an inarticulate one when he was nervous, even he would admit that. "Are you, um, gay?" And then he found himself burbling, "I didn't even know anyone in the wizarding world was gay!"
"You didn't know anyone was gay," Malfoy repeated, sounding odd. "Are you telling me . . .?"
"No!" Harry squeaked. His heart was pounding so fast that the room started to get a bit blurry. It would be the grown-up, reasonable thing to turn and look at Malfoy, so instead he attempted to lean forward and bury his head in his knees, only to be prevented by his trousers. "I'm not!"
"I did actually sleep with Blaise a few times," Malfoy offered, to Harry's enormous alarm. "The real one, I mean, back at Hogwarts. And once I—"
Harry turned to him, desperate to stop this stream of confidences he didn't want. "Please don't say Goyle," he interrupted.
Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "How could you think so low of me," he said. "That would be like you fucking the Weasel. Did you?"
Harry felt his mouth drop open, and he closed it hastily. "Of course not!" he said.
"You didn't want to?"
"Never!" Harry protested. It was true, after all. He'd barely thought about sex during his school years, which it now occurred to him was unusual. But he'd been busy! Surely Voldemort was a good enough excuse?
"Have you ever done it with a man?" Malfoy asked casually, as if he was asking about the weather.
"No!" Harry said, voice going squeaky once again.
Malfoy – horrors – seemed to be smirking. "But you want to." It wasn't a question.
"I – I – I –" Harry stammered, horrified to be so transparent in front of Malfoy, of all people. How was this even happening? He'd gone to talk to Malfoy about the fucking spell, to get his help so they could get back home, not to accidentally reveal a secret he'd been trying very hard to keep from himself, let alone anyone else.
"And in the spirit of our new caring, sharing relationship, Potter, I'm happy to tell you that yes, I am gay," Malfoy said relentlessly. Harry didn't know what his face was doing, but it seemed to cheer Malfoy up even more. "And if you want to try out cock—"
Fucking hell.
"—well, I have one, and if you ask me very nicely, you might be able to persuade me into a series of sordid experiments."
Harry swallowed hard, and then again, and willed himself not to get turned on by Malfoy's fuckery. There was absolutely no way he was serious. And even if he was, there was no way he'd want to—
Malfoy was still looking at him. Harry couldn't keep up the pretence that he didn't fancy Malfoy even in his own mind, but for the sake of his own dignity, he had to try. "No, thank you," he managed, his semi rapidly doing its best to swell into a full-on erection, despite the lack of space in his trousers. He could feel it, trapped uncomfortably in his trouser leg, and when he looked down, fucking hell it was obvious. And just looking it was making it worse.
"No?" Malfoy said lightly. Harry's eyes flashed to Malfoy's face, and Malfoy smirked, before very obviously looking down at the outline of Harry's cock.
Quick as a flash, Harry rested a hand on his lap to cover it up, which he realised a fraction of a second too late was possibly the worst thing he could have done. Now, not only did Malfoy know he had a hard-on, but he was touching it in front of him. His cock strained up to meet his hand, the layers of fabric between them suddenly feeling very thin.
"Well, think about it," Malfoy said pleasantly, still looking at Harry's hand. On his cock. And then Malfoy held out his hand.
Could Harry blush any harder? It turned out, yes. At least, his face felt even hotter, which he wouldn't have thought possible. And yet, there it was. "What?" he managed.
"Give me your phone, wanker," Malfoy said.
Wanker! Harry managed to fish his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and toss it over to Malfoy one handed, still grimly resting his other hand on his throbbing erection.
Malfoy caught it, and then finally – finally! – looked away from Harry's lap, to concentrate on the phone. He seemed to know what he was doing, just about, but he let out a displeased snort after pressing some buttons. "Dickhead Management?" he said.
"Just someone I know," Harry said, trying desperately to think of unpleasant, unerotic things, like . . . like Malfoy. Sexy bedtime Malfoy popped up in his head and licked his lips.
"Here," Malfoy said, and chucked the phone at Harry, who raised both hands reflexively and managed to catch it.
Malfoy looked at his lap again, and then up to his face.
"Well, this has been amusing," Malfoy said lightly, to Harry's throbbing, aroused rage.
"Malfoy, why on earth are you – you—" Harry started, and then didn't know how to complete his sentence.
"Telling you my deepest, darkest secret?" Malfoy said lightly, and looked again at Harry's lap, his face one enormous smirk.
"Yes!" Harry spluttered.
Malfoy seemed to consider this, still staring at Harry's cock. "I seem to have the upper hand for once, Potter," he said pleasantly. "It would be crazy of me not to enjoy it. And besides –" his eyes slid up to fix on Harry's face – "it's not as if you could use this against me when you do find a way to return us to the wizarding world, could you?" He raised his eyebrows. "No one would believe you. And it would mean revealing something quite interesting about yourself in the process, wouldn't it?"
Harry gaped at him, feeling steam pouring out of his ears. "If I do find a way to return us?" he grated out, trying to focus on the important thing here and ignore the rest. He could deal with that later; preferably by returning home immediately and Obliviating himself over and over until he couldn't even remember his own name.
Malfoy sniggered. "It's your mess, isn't it? You fix it, Potter. I'm having fun. Now fuck off," he said, sitting up straight and stretching widely, his T-shirt riding up to show a sliver of his toned, pale stomach. "I'm busy."
Almost as soon as Malfoy said the words, the door to the studio swung open again, and Blaise re-emerged, trailing a dozen or so Lycra-clad men and women, chatting and drinking violently green liquids with apparent pleasure.
Harry wanted to think of a parting remark that would cut Malfoy down to size, but he was too busy wondering how he was going to stand up without displaying his hard-on to the entire room.
"Here," Malfoy said as he got up, and a thin hoodie landed in Harry's lap. "Don't forget to think about it – my offer, I mean," Malfoy said, his smirk deepening to epic proportions, and then he turned and walked towards Blaise and the other dancers.
Harry didn't hang around. He bounded up – managing, by some miracle not to rip his trousers in the action – and, keeping a firm grip on the hoodie, half-ran out of the room and away to freedom.
^^^^^^
Harry wasn't sure how he managed to get home; by the time he got in through his front door, hoodie tied firmly round his waist, he was so simultaneously turned on and angry that he could barely think. He banged the door shut behind him, tearing off his rustling jacket and the uncomfortable hoodie, and then yanked open the front of his too tight trousers, pulling them down his thighs and taking his Y-fronts with them in one ungainly move.
God, it felt good. His cock, which had softened into an infuriating semi, immediately stiffened right back up, and Harry leant back against his own front door, feeling the edges of the letter box dig into the small of his back, and took it in hand.
Malfoy had offered to conduct sordid experiments, Harry thought angrily, lust pounding through his veins as he tightened his fist around his cock. His hand slid easily, foreskin slick with precum. He felt like he'd been turned on for hours. Years. Malfoy was an arsehole, and a tease, and he definitely hadn't meant it. He was just taking advantage of the situation. Of Harry's confusion about – Merlin that felt good. Of his need for Malfoy's help, even though the arsehole had hinted he'd help, and then told Harry he was on his own with fixing things, after all. And there was no way Malfoy was really gay, despite what he'd said. Malfoy was a pure-blood wizard. Malfoy was going to get married, and have an heir, and—
Harry's brain pictured a smirking Blaise pressing Malfoy up against a wall, and the spike of angry jealousy that punctured him was so sharp it actually took his breath away. His blood was humming, his pulse pounding. He shut his eyes, and the picture switched. He was pressing Malfoy against the wall, grinding their hips together. He felt his lips part, focused in on the thought as his hand worked harder. He was dimly aware that his thighs were starting to shake with the effort of keeping himself standing. Had he wanked standing up before, outside of the shower? He couldn't think. God.
The picture switched again. Now he was the one being pressed against the wall by Malfoy. Was that hotter? He didn't know. He felt so hard. Everything throbbed. He was close. Harry bit his lip, leaned his head hard back against the door. Focused in on Malfoy in his head. Their grinding hips. It was hot, but . . .
Harry pictured Malfoy naked, on his knees in front of him. Harry pressed the head of his cock against Malfoy's sulky, willing mouth, pushed his lips apart. His cock slid inside Malfoy's mouth. Tight. Hot. Harry's hand on his cock was tight. Hot.
Harry came with a shudder, pulling his cock towards his body to spare the floor and ending up with come splattering his T-shirt, hitting his chin. He kept jerking his wrist, his toes curling in his shoes, and his cock pulsed more come, and then just pulsed dryly, so sensitive it almost hurt.
Harry dragged the back of his hand over his chin, and then scrubbed it on the bottom of his T-shirt, panting hard. He tucked his cock back into his underpants and kicked off first his shoes and then his borrowed trousers, feeling odd and almost guilty. It was weird to wank in the hallway. It was weird to wank in the daytime. And it was definitely weird to wank to thoughts of Malfoy, even if Malfoy had basically goaded him into it. Malfoy had goaded him into it, Harry thought as he stepped over the sad pile of clothes and went upstairs towards his bedroom. He would . . . get some clean clothes and have a hot shower, wash the madness away. Then, maybe he'd be able to think about things properly, without the fug of hormones clouding his judgement. Work out what Malfoy had really meant by the – the sordid experiments. Because whatever he'd meant, he hadn't really meant . . . that. Had he?
Harry realised he was hard again, tried to drown out the screaming of his brain telling him he was ready to go again. Then thought fuck it. It was his own house, wasn't it? His own sanity he was wrecking. So he headed straight to his bedroom, instead of the shower, and peeled off his clothes, lying down on top of the bedcovers and taking himself back in hand.
Harry spent the rest of the day wanking, pretty much. In bed, with the lube he'd found in a drawer. In the shower, slick with shower gel. And on the stairs, slow and almost sore, the book with sexy bedtime Malfoy open next to him, taunting him to come now, come faster, come harder. He was so turned on that he thought he was going mad. It was mad, to do this. He didn't even like Malfoy. And yes, OK, he felt vastly, overwhelmingly aroused by him, but that really wasn't the fucking point, was it? He didn't want sex divorced from love; he wanted what his parents'd had. Hell, he wanted what Ron and Hermione had. Friendship, companionship, true love, alongside the passion. Every time he pictured dating a man, even for a second, he found the whole idea terrifying. It was wrong, wasn't it, to fancy other men. Disgusting, even. And love wasn't meant to be terrifying, to make you feel like you were wrong in some way. It was meant to be warm, and safe. It was meant to be home.
Eventually, Harry had another shower, pulled on his dressing gown and went downstairs to have some food. He was starving, had lost all track of time. Had he even had lunch? No, he didn't think so. It was probably dinner time by now. He made himself a sandwich and ate it too fast, before remembering he had a phone somewhere, and . . . Malfoy had his number. He felt disinclined to check it, to connect with the real Malfoy, and when he finally forced himself to go back into the hallway and pick up his coat, rooting through the pockets for it, he found that it had run out of battery.
Harry stared at the blank screen and went to plug it in to charge, pressing down on the 'on' button until it blinked into life, the battery indicator flashing. After only a few seconds, the thing started beeping, and Harry jabbed at buttons until the beeping stopped, bring up a text from . . . "Dickhead Supreme?" Harry said out loud, and then snorted. Malfoy had clearly seen the entry for his agency and gone with the theme. He was almost impressed. He frowned at the text itself, though. It seemed to be written in a foreign language, and for a moment he wondered if it was actually some kind of error, rather than something Malfoy had sent. Then he remembered Malfoy's tale of his five-year-old prowess. Show-off he texted back, and then tried to work out what the other message notifications on the phone were. Voicemail, possibly.
Harry pressed more buttons and eventually Hermione's voice filtered out of the phone. "Harry, it's Hermione. I'm sure you had a good reason for running out on me earlier," she said, very sniffily. "But a thought occurred to me about your predicament. You said you needed a wand to be able to harness your magic successfully. Well, why don't you buy one, then?" she suggested, as if it was obvious. "I did a quick search online and immediately came across half a dozen wandmakers – druids, and so on. Why don't you bring Draco – I mean, Mr Malfoy – over to my flat some time and we can discuss it in more detail?" she said, and then hung up without saying goodbye.
Hah! As if Harry was going to take Malfoy anywhere near Hermione, he thought, and then considered her suggestion. Could a Muggle make a working wand? He supposed that one had to have made one at some point; before there could be a wizard with a wand, there had to be a Muggle with a wand. But somehow he doubted that a druid, whatever that was, would be able to reproduce this momentous occasion just for Harry. Still, it might be worth a try. Anything was worth a try, he thought, if it got him home and away from Malfoy and his piss-taking, life-destroying suggestions.
His phone beeped again, very loudly, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Dickhead Supreme's name flashed up on his screen, and Harry pressed his eyes tight shut for a moment, before opening up the text. Thinking about my offer? the text read, and Harry could almost sense the smugness wafting off it.
No, he sent.
Liar, Malfoy answered.
Harry turned off his phone and picked up the laptop, switching it on and hoping it would be easy to figure out. He needed to order a wand, and quick, before he completely lost his mind.