the bloody paper
A month later, from the awful day with Ron and the fucking library with Malfoy, owls descended on the Great Hall carrying the papers as they often did. Harry Potter doesn’t even blink, too focused on buttering his toast and idly listening to Ginny rant about the upcoming Gryffindor match with Hufflepuff. It’s only when that familiar whispering began around him, and everyone pretended to not be staring and doing a terrible job of it, that Harry realised that perhaps he should have.
“Hermione,” said Harry tightly. He doesn’t want to know what’s been printed this time but if it has caused this much of a stir.... He hasn’t had a subscription to anything for ages now, besides the Quibbler, but Hermione does. She liked to keep up to date on the news and, even though she tried to hide it, what’s being written about Harry so she’s aware of what’s being said and whether he has to know. There’s a paper gripped in her hands so tightly that it's a wonder it doesn’t rip. An owl gently pecked her for payment but Hermione doesn’t react even when the poor thing gradually becomes more aggressive with its efforts. Eventually, Ron took pity and placed a knut in the little pouch. The owl left with a disgruntled hoot.
“Harry.” Coming out of her mouth, his name was distressingly reluctant, as if Hermione hadn’t wanted to say it at all. Dread pooled low in Harry’s stomach. She pushed the paper towards him. Harry doesn’t look at it right away, desperately wanting to live without whatever’s causing that tone in Hermione’s voice, but he hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor and survived years of being hunted for nothing. Steeling himself, Harry looked down. He regretted it immediately.
EXCLUSIVE: HARRY POTTER’S SHOCKING SECRET! IS THERE MORE TO THE SURPRISING BREAK-UP WITH GINEVRA WEASLEY? THE VANQUISHER OF YOU-KNOW-WHO, INTO WIZARDS? Find out more on P.G 16!
His own face, exhausted and grim, stared back up at him on the front cover. It was a photo taken a few days after the battle. He still had blood on the corner of his mouth. Below it are small pictures of Harry with any man the media has managed to capture of him. Most of them are with his family; there are even a few old ones from the Triwizard tournament, one with Cedric’s arm around him with a brilliant smile. Harry swallowed down nausea. How has this gotten out? Nobody knew besides his friends about him liking blokes and they’d never sell him out. Had anyone seen the exchange between him and Malfoy? Was his weird attraction so plain on his face, even when he’d just realised it? He’d known he was bisexual for a while now, having it basically thrown into his face by Ginny when they’d been fighting about getting back together. They both hadn’t wanted to but thought the other did, and it had been so messy and awkward that any conversation they had dissolved into arguments. They’d worked it out soon after Ginny had sent his entire perception of himself into disarray; he’d started to cry, the revelation breaking the metaphorical dam on his barely-there control of his emotions that he’d built up once Voldemort died. Ginny had held him and Harry had clung to her like a child, something he tried to forget, even grateful as he had been for the comfort. They’d been alright after that.
Harry forced himself to skim the article. He’s relieved when nothing mentioned Malfoy. But if not Malfoy, then how? Harry doesn’t know how they’d found out. He hadn’t been with any bloke at all. Hell, even his random, utterly insane thought about Malfoy was a stretch. (Unless they were an expert Legilimens ? He was rubbish at occlumency…)
Seeing his sexuality written so plainly, something he’d just finished working through, for everybody to read and talk about like it was their fucking business, made Harry so angry he tasted blood.
“Fucking vultures,” said Ginny scathingly next to him, slamming her fork down onto the table. She glared at everyone who dared meet her eyes. “Honestly, MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!”
Ron joined in the glaring too, even if his fury is less intimidating with jam stuck on the corner of his mouth. The two of them together scared most of the surrounding people near them to put their heads down. Harry would laugh at the power of furious Weasleys if he wasn’t struggling to not kneel over and be sick. Unable to help himself, he cast a glance over Malfoy. He was staring back like Harry knew he’d be, his face unreadable. Harry looked away.
Ron clapped him on the back. “Ignore this rubbish. All rotten, it is. Not the, uh, you liking wizards bit. You know we’re happy for you.”
Hermione rubbed anxiously at her wrists as she said, “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Harry, don’t worry. Whoever this mole is, they won’t be hidden for much longer!”
“And I’ll curse their mouth shut,” Ginny added darkly.
Harry couldn’t breathe. “I’ve got to - I can’t be here.”
“Yes of course,” Hermione said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They all stood up, his friends forming a physical barrier against all the eyes in the Great Hall. They managed to block most of the staring but the whispers followed Harry, their incessant muttering filling his ears and causing him to hunch further in on himself. When the doors shut firmly behind them, Harry took off his glasses and pressed the meat of his palms into his eyes so hard they ached. Harry groaned. He should have stayed in bed and avoided the beginning of what was going to be an awful week. “What the fuck.”
“What the fuck,” Ron repeated.
“What the fuck,” Ginny echoed irately.
They all look at Hermione, who sighed and said, “What the fuck.”
He quickly decided to skip all his classes. There’s no way he was going to step foot in a classroom, surrounded by people who wouldn’t stop staring and discussing his fucking sexuality like he wasn’t right there. Hermione promised to write his notes for him and Ginny swore a bat-bogey hex on any bastard she caught talking about him. It made him feel marginally better. He stayed in his dorm, getting his food brought to him by Ron (who’s had a chat with the house elves to ensure his favourites are served) and Neville. He lasted all of two days of this before Hermione forcibly dragged him out of his self-imposed isolation.
“You can’t stay hidden away,” was Hermione’s logical reasoning, “That’s just giving them power they don’t deserve.”
It’s good that he’s alone; his steps are heavy with his anger and being seen stomping like a child will not be received well in the fucking media. Hermione had gone on an extensive rant about his image in the Wizarding public, as she often did, but she'd emphasised the increased importance of it now that he’s been turned into another figurehead. (“Your actions represent an entire community,” Hermione had fretted, “I know you didn’t want this again Harry, I’m sorry, but you must be more careful.”) The wizarding world still held prejudices, albeit significantly less than muggle society; their ‘Saviour’ having interests in wizards had caused quite a stir. He’d been glad he’d already hired someone to manage his mail. The idea of someone going through his mail had left Harry uneasy but it was preferable to the alternative: being set upon by cursed parchment, constantly propositioned or letters doused in love potions to entice him, or drowned in thick stacks of long, heartfelt messages. The Burrow had been receiving letters far quicker than they could get rid of them before he’d gotten professional help. Harry had felt horrible about the whole affair but Molly had been grateful for something to focus on after… After everything. He’d been informed that thousands upon thousands of letters had stormed in soon after the news of the current invasion into his life broke. There’d been many negative messages, quite a couple of howlers, but even more positive letters. Hermione had reported that it had done a lot of good for the queer wizarding community. As much as he loathed this whole fucking situation, Harry was happy it had helped some people. He just wished he’d gotten a choice in the matter. His entire life had been prophesied and plotted, his fate sealed before he’d ever been born. Sometimes, in Harry’s darkest moments, he resented everything he’d done, everything that had been done to him. By the Dursleys, by Dumbledore, by Voldemort, by every adult in his entire life who let him down, by this fucking magical world he loved, by this shitty prophecy that declared Harry the only possible option once Voldemort had murdered his parents. He’d been a child. Just a kid whose only choice was to move forward and to fight. To die. He’d done all that and yet his life still wasn’t his own. It was Harry’s mistake, really, to think it would ever end.
Unable to hide away in his dorm, Harry was forced to head early to what classes he could to avoid the suffocating crowds. His friends had offered to come with but he’d turned them all down, preferring to spend the time waiting to work through his grievances in the privacy of his own head so he wouldn’t blow up in class at the slightest look. Which is why, so deep in his thoughts, it took him by surprise when a hand snatched his arm and dragged him behind a dusty tapestry. His reflexes kicked in automatically, honed by years of desperation and fighting, and within seconds Harry’s body is crushing his attackers against the wall, his wand pressed against the throat of -
“Malfoy?”
His snatcher froze. Malfoy was so still that the only movement Harry can feel is the rapid thump of his heart, before he slowly, very slowly as if not to alarm Harry, bared his throat to show he’s not resisting. Unthreatening. Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and dropped his wand arm to hang by his side. He doesn’t move away.
“Don’t do that.” Harry’s voice, in this tiny space with Malfoy pressed up against him, was uncomfortably hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I don’t do well with being snuck up on. I almost cursed you.”
“Should’ve known you’d react like a spooked Hippogriff,” Malfoy replied, tone as bland as if they were talking about the weather. The only sign he’s nervous was the tension of his shoulders, the quick pace of his heart against Harry’s chest. Malfoy smelt irritatingly good - Harry can’t place what it is, only that he wanted to breathe it in more. It’s mortifying.
There’s only one reason Malfoy dragged him behind this painting after months of avoiding him, after he’d wanted to be left alone so badly, Harry realised. The prickling of pain behind his eyes blooms into a fierce ache. Malfoy must’ve finally had enough of trying to be a ghost, slinking about in the background, trying to fold himself into an ill-fitting, unrecognisable shape so that everyone could pretend he doesn’t exist. A dirty, regrettable stain that couldn’t be scrubbed out no matter how hard you tried. Only ignored. It likely hurt, trying so hard to be nothing, when Malfoy constantly demanded to be something. Now that the Daily Prophet had handed him something about Harry on a fucking silver platter, he couldn’t resist taunting him, if only in private so nobody was reminded that he existed. Harry wanted Malfoy to fight, to be horrible and petty and infuriating, but not like this. Harry doesn’t want to hear it. Not from anybody and especially not from Malfoy. Harry tore himself away, backing up as far as the little hideaway permitted. The few inches between them felt a much greater distance than it had any right to be.
“You’d know all about spooked Hippogriffs,” Harry snarled. He’s more upset with himself but directing it towards Malfoy is familiar. Like sinking into a warm bath after quidditch in a blizzard - Aching and comforting. “What do you want?”
Malfoy’s lips are white from how hard he pressed them together. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Honestly, it’s like talking to a brick wall. You’re lucky you’re not completely appalling to look at. To your fawning groupies, I mean.”
Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s this about, Malfoy?”
His reaction only made Malfoy angry. “I’m talking about your ridiculous desire to duel. I’m sick of you walking around like a kicked puppy,” and by the look on his face, Malfoy hadn’t meant to say that but he recovered quickly. “It’ll do you good to get your arse kicked. Everybody lets you get away with things far too quickly these days.”
Harry’s jaw dropped, all anger was forgotten in favour of complete and utter bewilderment.
“But we’re not doing it until you sign this.” Malfoy continued, brandishing a fancy piece of parchment out of nowhere alongside an equally fancy quill. “Oh don’t look like that, you idiot. I’m not asking for your firstborn. It’s a legal document acknowledging this was solely your idea and that I’m not liable for any damages caused. We’re doing this but we’re doing it my way. The public can’t hate me any more than they already do if this gets out but I refuse to get sent to Azkaban.”
“God, you talk so much,” said Harry, because he’s still a little irritated. “Did you practise this?”
The high points of Malfoy’s cheeks turned a delicious pink. Harry thought of Malfoy standing in front of his mirror, pretending to talk to him, planning on what to say and how to do it. He wondered what options he’d discarded before coming to this decision. Orchestrating this particular scenario was no small feat. Had he been here long, behind this tapestry, waiting for Harry to walk by alone? Had he waited in other hidden spots, only for Harry never to pass by? He must have. Malfoy didn’t have the Marauder’s Map to know Harry’s whereabouts, like Harry has for Malfoy’s.
Dazed, he accepted the items Malfoy thrust forward, not bothering to read it over before he signed the parchment. The words flare a bright white as soon as he does. The parchment curled in on itself, crumbling to papery dust. Harry sneezed.
Hermione would strangle him if she knew what he’d just done. She’d been particularly worried about any autographs he’d reluctantly signed, citing the chance of being tricked into signing something magically binding. He stopped doing it so she’d stop worrying. (Which, in all honesty, had been very easy given he hated doing it and now had a reasonable excuse not to. Saying no to sobbing, grateful people throwing themselves at him was a lot easier with a reason. Hermione had felt bad enough to set up pre-signed magically replicated posters that people could buy, the funds of which went directly to post-war restoration efforts).
If she ever found out that he’d willingly signed a legal document by Malfoy, of all people… Harry would rather face Voldemort. With the frown Malfoy’s giving him, he’d probably cheer her on.
“What? I thought you said you weren’t after my first kid.”
“That doesn’t mean you should trust me,” Malfoy replied, aghast. “How are you even still alive? Merlin. Signing legal documents you haven’t read . I’m starting to see why Granger always looks so bedraggled all the time. It's clearly stress from having to deal with you .”
“Shut up Malfoy,” said Harry, even though he’s sort of right. “So we’re doing this, then.”
“This is solely to put you in your place. You haven’t won at anything.”
Harry doesn’t understand how he’s even remotely attracted to this asshole. “Right.”
Malfoy sniffed. “I’ll see you in the trophy room before breakfast on Sunday. Bright and early, Potter.”
“Wait a minute -”
“You wanted to duel so badly you’ve been accosting me in libraries and hunting me down in corridors since the start of the school year. If you’re late by a second, you can forget about it. You get one duel and one duel only, Potter.” And with that, Malfoy pushed past him and left before Harry could argue back. Harry stared with his mouth agape at the space he’d left.
He ought to ignore the git. Who was Malfoy, anyway? Harry didn’t need a duel, nor wanted it enough to get up on Sunday morning! Annoyed, Harry swatted the tapestry out of his way, heading to his own class. He would let Malfoy get up on his Sunday and wait for a person that wasn’t going to show up! It would serve him right.
-
“You’re rather early Potter,” Malfoy said with a smirk. Harry scowled at him. “One would almost think you are eager to lose.”
Harry doesn’t know if it’s because of the early hour, or the obnoxious way Malfoy leaned against the trophy case, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in the pockets of his stupid dress pants (on a Sunday morning!), looking so bloody pleased with himself, that he snapped, “I’ve defeated tons of dark wizards stronger than you. Does, oh I don’t know, Voldemort ring a bell?”
The anger left him as quickly as the words left his lips. Malfoy’s amused glint flattened into nothing. Malfoy pushed off the trophy case in one smooth motion, his posture no longer distressingly relaxed, but taut and uncomfortable. “Yes, well. This clearly isn’t going to work. Good day, Potter.”
“Wait, wait. Sorry. I didn’t mean that, er, sorry. Can we just start again? I’ll be good, promise.”
A muscle flexed in Malfoy’s jaw. Harry watched it slightly transfixed. What was it about these little things Malfoy did that Harry couldn’t help but stare at? It was infuriating. He was not that attractive! “I suppose I deserve that, given… Everything.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Harry shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Right. Uh, how are you?”
“Really, Potter? What are we, Hufflepuffs? Honestly. Just pull it out and let's get this on with.”
"What?”
Malfoy looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Your wand, Potter. Let’s get this over with so I no longer have to deal with your stupidity any longer.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, sure.”
Malfoy waited until Harry grabbed his wand, who fumbled a little bit as he’d pulled it from his pocket, before drawing out his own. The sight of Malfoy’s wand pointed at him sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “No grievous wounds, no dangerous curses. I’d prefer not to be sent to the Hospital Wing because Saint Potter can’t help cutting down ex-Death Eaters.”
Harry winced. He’s unable to stop himself from eyeing Malfoy’s chest. Are there scars under his robes? Did Snape manage to heal his wounds quickly enough, or was it too late? Malfoy couldn’t have been too pleased with the aftermath, beyond the almost being murdered bit. He’d always been rather vain in his appearance. If there are scars, Harry wondered if it would be too weird to ask if he can see them
“I swear to follow the same rules,” Malfoy continued smoothly as if he hadn't brought up one of their worst moments. Like the weight of Harry’s curse slashing into bloodied skin, a failed cruciatus, is only a snide comment rather than a common feature in Harry’s nightmares. “If you want an unbreakable vow we can put this on hold but I refuse to have Weasley be our witness. Granger, preferably, if needed but I doubt she’d -”
“S’alright. I trust you.”
Malfoy faltered. “You trust me, your childhood nemesis, frequent tormentor of you and your horde of Weasleys, with not using dangerous spells?”
“Yeah. Y’know, if you think about it, it’s really odd that I considered you my first enemy when Tom Riddle existed.”
“You’ve never had much sense. I suppose I should feel flattered that I ranked higher on your list for some time.”
“You’re not on it anymore,” Harry said stiffly. “My, er, enemy list.”
Malfoy’s smirk was despairingly wicked. “I’m off Harry Potter’s sacred enemy list. The columns would have a field day with this. Ex-Death Eater and Disgraced Malfoy Heir No Longer a Known Enemy of Our Saviour! The utter scandal .”
At the mention of those fucking gossip rags, Harry’s mood soured once more. It must reflect on his face because Malfoy waved him off. “No need to be so enthusiastic, Potter. I won’t be tattle telling you to the paper. You get enough of that as it is.”
“Thanks,” Harry replied drily. “Much appreciated.”
Malfoy pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. The skin revealed was unmarred by the mark. Malfoy had switched his watch wrist, just to prevent the slightest glimpse of it escaping. (Was there something irreparably broken in Harry, if he wanted to ask to see the Dark Mark? Surely there was). “We better get this disaster started. I’ve things to do today beyond duelling you.”
“What things do you have to do?” Harry says before he can help himself.
Malfoy’s lips formed an unhappy frown. “I’m not up to anything dastardly, I assure you. No need to stalk me further.”
“I don’t stalk you,” Harry defended weakly. There’s no way he knew about the map, right? The look Malfoy gave him was disturbingly too Hermione-ish. It’s extremely discomforting. (Harry can only imagine what Hermione would say if she knew he was here with Malfoy. That would be a conversation he’d rather die again than have).
“Yes, of course. It’s not you dogging my heels like a begging Crup and interrupting my valuable studying at all moments. My mistake.”
Harry doesn’t bother to reply. He positioned himself in the formal duelling position, settling into it, almost like pulling on a different skin. Almost all the duelling he’s ever had never involved any formality, beyond two terrible instances.
(Sometimes, in his nightmares, Harry pictured Malfoy in Voldemort’s place in the graveyard, as he had been in second year. Malfoy would conjure Nagini, and laugh as Harry’s Parseltongue failed him. Malfoy would watch as Nagini slithered forward and ate Harry, limb by limb, swallowing all his bones with a sickening crunch).
Harry bowed uncomfortably. Malfoy followed suit, eyes that stayed pinned on Harry’s, leaving Harry’s skin prickling. They’d done this once in that ridiculous duelling club, barely nodding their heads at each other, the animosity between them so thick it was practically tangible. It felt like that now, only it wasn’t exactly animosity that Harry’s feeling. There’s something about Malfoy bent low with respect across from him that caused Harry’s mouth to go dry. It’s actually happening. They were going to fight. He’s finally going to get this bit of normalcy, despite how weird it's making him feel, and Harry could, for the first time since stepping back into this war-ravaged castle, be normal.
The amused edge to Malfoy’s smirk was all the warning Harry got before he called out, “Everte statum!”
Harry can’t help his grin. “Rictusempra!”
Malfoy deflected the spell easily. “Is that all you got, Potter? Surely you can do better than second year?”
Harry’s grateful that the war’s over and that Voldemort and Death Eaters aren’t lurking to kill him and everyone he cares about. He’s happy his life is no longer in constant danger but… But he’s missed this thrill, the way his body thrums with power and magic. It’s not quite as deathly but... because it was Malfoy on the other end, it was enough. His thoughts turned blissfully quiet, every single part of him was focused on the battle, the flow of spells going back and forth, defend, attack, dodge, attack. It was exhilarating. Harry couldn’t help the ecstatic laugh that bubbled from his throat as he sent a wordless hex that Malfoy redirected with a simple flick of his wand.
They continued like this, spells being cast so quickly that the flash of colour was engraved behind his eyelids. Sweat dampened Harry’s upper lip as he violently flung himself out of the way of a particularly nasty body bind.
Malfoy duelled almost completely opposite: controlled, every moment accounted for, with slight flourishing only when he thought he could get away with it. He hasn’t taunted him since but Harry found that he didn’t mind. This was better, the severity of it, both of them focused wholly on each other. Malfoy had barely moved, preferring to defend with strong shielding spells rather than the way Harry preferred to erratically dodge.
He felt as if he were finally alive again. His heart was beating so fast against his chest that it was almost painful, his lungs burn with exertion, and Harry was so fucking alive and real and euphoric, nothing and nobody could ruin this sliver of happiness now that -
Malfoy stopped casting. It’s only finely-honed instinct that stayed Harry’s magic. The abrupt switch left him disorientated.
“Did you hear that?” Malfoy cocked his head.
“Hear what?”
But Harry doesn’t need Malfoy to elaborate; he could see Mrs Norris’s tail disappearing behind a case of snitches.
“Oh fuck,” Harry swore. They shared a single, panicked look before they both bolted, shoving each other out the way in a race to get out of the room first.
“If we get caught,” Malfoy grunted in Harry’s ear, elbowing him hard in the abdomen, “I will find a way to destroy you so completely that even your adoring fans will scorn the very sight of you.”
“Noted,” Harry replied breathlessly. The hallway was clear of Filch, thankfully, which meant they had a chance of getting away. Malfoy immediately started running while Harry, who’s still a little out of breath from the duel, followed a little behind.
“That duel wasn’t finished, you know!” Harry yelled after him, grinning.
"You only get one, Potter, and I clearly would have won!” was Malfoy’s reply, before he took a sharp right turn and disappeared from sight entirely.
A loud mewling sounded from behind him. Harry cursed. If only he had the cloak. Still, there’s something thrilling about running away from Filch and his bloody nosy cat. Like Harry had never really left Hogwarts and fought a war.
He took the long way out. Just for the fun of it.