Merely Players

Harry grips the sides of his cloak in sweaty hands as he watches Neville speak seriously to a reluctant Pansy Parkinson. Past them, Hermione glides forward on Blaise Zabini’s arm, mid-conversation about the upcoming vote on her Bettering Engagement Legislation to Eliminate Normalised Distrust. They approach Ron, who is chuckling along with Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, and Astoria Greengrass, all of whom turn to greet the new arrivals warmly. As the group bursts into a new round of laughter, Harry rubs his palms a few times against the cloak hem, then strides forward. Across the room, Draco Malfoy similarly judders into motion; after a few jerky steps, he whips his cloak into a billow behind him and struts to meet Harry several metres in front of the smiling, inter-House group.

As they near each other, Harry jerks to an abrupt stop. He fights the urge to grip the edges of his cloak again. ‘’Malfoy,’’ he says. ‘’Draco,’’ he amends. ‘’Draco Malfoy.’’

Malfoy, very obviously fighting back an eyeroll, sketches a complicated flourish in the air in front of himself with one hand while snapping his cloak once more into a billow with the other. ‘’Potter,’’ he announces.

Harry fidgets. ‘’It’s good to. See you. Er, to see you doing so– so well. After….everything.’’ He wants to glance around wildly, but he’s been reminded enough times about eye contact, so he continues to stare into Malfoy’s face as he emphasises, ‘’I’m glad you’re well.’’

Surely faces are not meant to maintain the sort of smile Malfoy is clinging to? ‘’Indeed, Potter,’’ somehow Malfoy sounds more like he is announcing an evil plot in a panto than agreeing about banal niceties. ‘’It is truly spectacular that we are both,’’ here he pauses in his booming pronouncement to turn toward the gathered crowd watching them. Once he is certain he has their full attention, he finishes with, ‘’...well.’’ He smirks assuredly.

Behind them, there is a faint but fervent, ‘’oh my god’’ before Hermione strides forward and claps her hands. Behind her, the director, exasperated, claps her hands a bit louder. Her shout of ‘’CUT!’’ just barely overwhelms Hermione’s ‘’OK!”

Hermione turns to Mia with a tight smile plastered to her face and waves a hand to the assembled inter-House crowd, clearly saying, ‘’well, then, direct.’’

‘’So,’’ Mia begins, consulting the United Civic Reconciliation Action Project binder Hermione had provided all the campaign advert staff, ‘’there were definitely strong moments in there, but there are still some things to work on.’’ She glances briefly at Harry, then, flustered, turns to Pansy and says, ‘’Miss Parkinson, you could stand to relax a little bit – look as though you want to speak to Mr. Longbottom. And I wonder if it might be better to have Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy’s marks a bit closer to the group, so everyone looks a part of things.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes and says, ‘’Great, Mia, that’s fantastic. While you address all of those issues, I’m just going to have a little chat with Harry and Draco.’’ She glares at them meaningfully as she marches toward her tiny office with its United Civic Reconciliation Action Project branding. Harry, as usual, glances at it to remind himself that Hermione’s judgment can be imperfect.

_________________________________________________________________________

In this instance, Harry must admit, Hermione’s judgment is pretty fair.

‘’So, acting class, huh?’’ Ron is clearly trying for sympathetic, but Harry knows him too well to buy it.

‘’Every Monday and Thursday for six weeks,’’ Harry agrees glumly.

‘’Maybe it won’t be so bad?’’

Harry gives him a scathing look. ‘’It’s acting class, Ron. With actors.’’ After a beat, he adds, ‘’oh god, actors and Draco Malfoy.’’

Ron makes a passable effort at turning a snorting laugh into a sneeze.

Harry groans and sinks his head onto his folded arms. ‘’I cannot believe Hermione is making me do this.’’

When there is no response from Ron, Harry looks up. Ron is sipping his beer and studiously avoiding Harry’s gaze.

Suddenly suspicious, Harry narrows his eyes and says, ‘’I can’t believe Hermione, entirely on her own and with no support from anyone else, is making me do this, Ron.’’

Ron puts his drink down and says, ‘’Yeah. Yep. Hermione. Old solo operative Hermione.’’ He finally meets Harry’s now-sardonic gaze, winces, and tentatively offers, ‘’Maybe…maybe it will do you some good.’’

‘’Acting class,’’ Harry says flatly.

‘’Well not that specifically,’’ Ron sighs. ‘’Just…look, mate, it’s not like you’re doing much else, you know? You dropped out of Auror training five months ago– I know, I know’’ he raises a placating hand, ‘’you don’t feel ready yet. That’s fine, but you’ve got to get out of that house.’’

Stung, Harry retorts, ‘’I do get out of the house! I’m out of the house right now!’’

‘’OK,’’ Ron replies patiently, but what about yesterday? Or any other weekday we don’t drag you in for Unity stuff?’’

‘’...sometimes I go for walks,’’ Harry points out sulkily.

‘’Mate,’’ Ron is shaking his head, ‘’that is so bleak.’’ He wrinkles his nose and adds, ‘’Worst case scenario, acting class will help you lie to Hermione and me better.’’

‘’Worst case scenario,’’ Harry mutters, ‘’I spend six weeks doing humiliating acting exercises with Malfoy.’’

_________________________________________________________________________

Class One: Legwarmers

Harry pauses outside the studio. He could still turn back. He doesn’t really owe this to anyone. The magical world can’t actually demand any more of him. He tells himself this sternly, then sighs and puts his hand on the door handle . The magical world can’t ask him for shit, but Hermione can. He would do anything for her. He walks in.

He expects an obvious instructor – his only classes to date have been at Hogwarts, after all, with desks and robes and age to indicate instructorship – but as he gazes around the room, no one stands out to him. Finally, a young white man with a messy bun and a moustache raises a mug of tea in Harry’s direction. ‘’I’m Taylor,’’ he murmurs around his scarf. ‘’Take a minute to get to know your classmates while we wait to start.’’

Harry glances desperately around, hoping someone decides to get to know him, as, to date, he has gotten to know people by sitting next to them on fraught train journeys and fighting trolls together, and neither of those things look likely at this time. A bright, short girl with a blonde ponytail seems to notice his discomfort; she abandons the group conversation she’s currently in to walk over to him.

‘’I’m Sara,’’ she says with a smile, then leans in confidingly and adds, ‘’It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?’’

Harry smiles what he hopes is the smile of someone who also finds it a bit much, but not to the point of being sick or anything.

After a lingering moment, he adds, ‘’Oh, I’m Harry.’’

Blessedly, she glosses right over his obvious immediate abandonment of social norms. ‘’I almost didn’t come today,’’ she reveals.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, then realises how weirdly that forms lumps in his jeans and pulls them out again. Then…what should he do with his hands? He shoves his glasses up his nose. ‘’Oh?’’ he asks hopefully.

She nods, ponytail bobbing, and gets a determined set to her face. ‘’But I thought, you know what? No. No, if I want to do this – to really do this, to act – I need to.’’ She nods to herself. ‘’I need to have confidence, you know?’’

Does Harry know? He considers. He certainly doesn’t want to act, but he does want to support Hermione, which requires acting, and he does need confidence, so, ‘’...Yeah, I know,’’ he manages. ‘’I stood with my hand on the knob for a full minute before I came in.’’ Horror dawns on him. ‘’THE knob,’’ he emphasises, leaning way too far into Sara’s personal space. ‘’The DOORknob. Not, uh, not my…’’ is his face on fire?

Sara’s wide-eyed expression dissolves into giggles. ‘’Oh my god,’’ she grabs him and turns, her ponytail whipping him on the arm. ‘’You have to sit next to me.’’

At that moment, call-me-Taylor finally rises from his cross-legged seat in the corner. He is still holding the mug of tea and continues to look unconcerned with the fate of his incredibly anxious students. ‘’All right, everybody,’’ he croons. ‘’Let’s warm up. Stretch how you normally stretch, to start.’’

Harry stares at him, dumbfounded. How he normally stretches? After a pause, he reaches for his toes. That’s a stretch, isn’t it? As he reaches stiffly toward the ground, he considers that jeans might not have been the best choice. A surreptitious glance around reveals that, yes, everyone else has taken a sort of sporty approach to the class. Sara is fetching in yoga capris and a tight tank top; the bloke next to her has chosen sweatpants and a tee shirt, and next to him sharp collarbones jut out of a loose sweatshirt on – oh, fuck me, that’s Draco Malfoy. Hell, even Malfoy got the message: he’s wearing…

No.

No, Harry cannot possibly be this lucky.

If Harry felt like a bit of a knob in his jeans and jumper, it’s nothing to how Draco looks in tight leggings, a loose sweatshirt, and are those…legwarmers?? Draco glares up at Harry’s gleeful expression from where he is stretching on the floor. They ARE! They’re knobbly wool legwarmers! As though someone knitted them FOR Draco, for this express purpose. Harry’s thrill at this discovery carries him through the class, on his walk home, all the way to Ron and Hermione’s new place, where he relates this with breathless joy.

‘’...and he was wearing legwarmers! Wooly blue legwarmers!’’ Harry pauses to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘’Can you believe it?’’

Bizarrely, Ron is not similarly doubled over with laughter. ‘’I don’t know, mate,’’ he looks pained, ‘’it seems like a lot of attention to–’’ From the kitchen, Hermione throws him a towel, which is a bit odd, as neither of them have spilled anything. ‘’It seems like, erm,’’ he looks over at her as though to ask what he should do with the towel. ‘’Like, what do you even wear to acting classes, you know? You were worried about it too, weren’t you?’’

‘’Yes, Ron,’’ Harry responds patiently, ‘’but Malfoy wore leggings with legwarmers.’’

Ron shrugs awkwardly. Harry considers repeating himself.

At this moment, Hermione sails over to the table, bearing pasta. She places the bowl grandly on the table, surveys her efforts proudly for a moment, then puts her hands on her hips and asks, ‘’Did either of you ever see Fame?’’ At their blank looks, she grins mischievously and sings, ‘’I’m gonna live forever! I’m gonna learn how to fly!’’

Ron is already reaching for the serving spoon, ‘’So it’s a movie about Harry, is it?’’ Harry grabs the abandoned towel and throws it at Ron.

Then he adds, ‘’Oh hey! You got dishtowels!’’

Hermione groans dramatically and slumps over her plate. ‘’How dare you notice that, Harry, honestly?’’

Harry is a bit nonplussed. ‘’I mean, we were throwing them at each other, so…’’

Ron pats her in absentminded sympathy and explains, ‘’Mum came to visit.’’

‘’She did NOT ‘come to visit’, Ronald,’’ Hermione raises her head wearily; ‘’she came to scope us out.’’

Ron grimaces. ‘’She, ah,’’ he says to Harry, ‘’she asked Hermione–’’

‘’She asked me how I was going to take care of Ron if the kitchen wasn’t properly outfitted,’’ Hermione’s voice is deadly calm.

Harry’s eyes widen. ‘’Oh no,’’ he says, helplessly.

‘’I tried to point out we’ve only been here three months, but,’’ Ron glances at Hermione, ‘’That was obviously less important than the, erm. Sexism.’’

‘’The lack of dishtowels,’’ Hermione is the picture of composure, ‘’apparently signified that I am insufficiently nurturing.’’

Harry shakes his head solemnly. ‘’You? Insufficiently nurturing? After you lit Snape on fire for us? After you permanently disfigured another student for us?’’

Ron places a hand over his heart. ‘’Would Marietta Edgcombe call you insufficiently nurturing?’’

Hermione gives them her most unimpressed glare.

‘’Look at this pasta!’’ Ron gestures grandly at the table. ‘’Look at these dishtowels! See, Harry? See how she takes care of us?’’

‘’Ugh,’’ Hermione is failing to fight back a smile. ‘’Take care of yourself.’’

_________________________________________________________________________

Class Two: Mushrooms

Two days later, Harry finds himself glancing desperately around the circle of his classmates, searching for someone with whom to make eye contact. Everyone here has chosen to be here. Everyone except — he wrenches his eyes resolutely back to the instructor and continues trying to be a mushroom in the rain.

‘’Feel the drops patter against your cap and drip down,’’ the instructor had told them. ‘’Be perfectly still and use all your senses to feel what is happening around you.’’

All Harry feels is a bit itchy between his shoulder blades. He wriggles his shoulders as discreetly as he can, but it’s not enough to soothe the itch. He tries hunching them forward to stretch his back, then adds another little wiggle. It’s not quite enough, he twists to one side and– oh, good. One other person does have their eyes open, and those eyes are rimmed in thick black eyeliner and coolly amused as he does his absurd little wiggle dance.

Harry freezes in his awkward hunched-over twist and frantically considers whether he is allowed to talk or communicate while being a mushroom. Mushrooms don’t talk, surely, so maybe he can just…pretend this didn’t happen. That girl – Em, or Ali, or some kind of nickname, he forgets how she’d introduced herself – is fairly intimidating, but she is also meant to be a mushroom, which means she is implicitly committed to not judging him. A mushroom wouldn’t judge him. Also, this is ridiculous; Harry will not quail in the face of a person pretending to me a mushroom.

Em or Ali or maybe Kat twists her lips to the side. ‘’Storm a bit windy?’’ she offers in a whisper, and Harry chuckles weakly.

‘’Smell the petrichor,’’ Taylor intones pointedly. ‘’Hear the rhythm of the rain.’’

Obediently, Harry faces forward once more, only to find that Malfoy has chosen dignity over pretending to be a mushroom, and is instead smirking at Harry, having clearly witnessed the entire incident. Excruciatingly aware that he does not have the upper hand on dignity, Harry instead throws himself into being the best damn mushroom he can be. Feel the fucking rain he thinks grimly, closing his eyes.

Eventually, they are all permitted to cease being mushrooms and become human again. Harry gratefully gets to his feet; beside him, Scary Eyeliner Girl adjusts her hijab, which must have come loose in that mushroom wind.

Malfoy, pushing past on his way to grab his water bottle, mutters, ‘’I could have just transfigured myself into a sodding mushroom.’’ Harry shoots him a warning glare. To his surprise, Malfoy startles, then shrinks into himself as though chagrined.

Harry frowns; he is still watching Malfoy when Sara bounds up to him. ‘’Hi, Harry!’’ she smiles. ‘’Hi, Kam!’’

Scary eyeliner girl, whose name is apparently Kam, nods in acknowledgement and says so enthusiastically it must be sarcastic, ‘’Sick fungus work, Sara.’’

Sara’s smile falters slightly, until Kam adds, ‘’I could only do so much with it; it didn’t leave mushroom for interpretation.’’

Harry’s shocked delight is reflected in Sara’s beaming face. Kam shrugs casually, continuing in a bored tone. ‘’It took me a while to figure out the morel of the exercise, but then I realised, shiitake, I can really take this with me wherever I go! It’s so portobello!’’

After a beat, she breaks into a grin. ‘’Literally all I did the whole time,’’ she confides. ‘’How did you get through it?’’ she asks Sara. ‘’I know you barely managed,’’ she tells Harry.

‘’Oh! I, well…I pretended to be a mushroom!’’ Sara exclaims, flustered.

‘’I tried to pretend to be a mushroom!’’ Harry adds defensively.

Kam shakes her head at them both, then points to Malfoy. ‘’I’m going to go talk to that guy, then, you losers. He didn’t even pretend to pretend to be a mushroom.’’ She gives them a wave and heads over to where Malfoy is studiously pretending that he didn’t just see her point at him.

‘’I did not see that coming,’’ Sara murmurs fervently, both of them watching Malfoy’s expression shift from wary to surprised to delighted as Kam speaks. Harry nods agreement, and they stand in silence until Taylor tells them the break is over.

‘’OK, now that we’re warmed up, we’re going to try a scene,’’ Taylor says, once they’re all gathered around him again. Go ahead and pair up, I’ll pass around some dialogue, and we’ll see how each of you interprets it. I’ll come around to answer questions and help you out where needed.’’

Sara latches onto Harry’s arm at the words ‘pair up’, which saves him the horror of having to wander around trying to decide which of these strangers he most wants to humiliate himself in front of. Still, this class matters to her; he should let her know what she’s getting into. ‘’Listen,’’ he says, ‘’I’m not really…very good at this.’’ Sara cocks her head in question. ‘’Acting,’’ he clarifies.

‘’Well, yeah,’’ she responds, laughing a little. ‘’If you were very good, you wouldn’t be in a beginners’ class.’’

Before he can explain further, Taylor hands them a script. Well, he tried. She’ll find out what he meant soon enough.

Fifteen minutes later, Sara can barely contain her laughter as she tries to explain what she means by ‘looser.’ Apparently Harry needs to be ‘looser’ in every sense, from his inflection to his stance.

The pairs are all politely ignoring each other – well, in theory. In practice, Harry is rolling his eyes at Malfoy’s theatrics. Trust the git to play up to any room, wizarding or muggle. Taylor surveys Malfoy and Kam, one arm folded across his chest, his other elbow propped on it and his hand cupping his chin. When their scene comes to an end, Malfoy turns and gives him a flamboyant bow.

Taylor hums. ‘’Listen – Drake, is it?’’

‘’Drac-OH,’’ Kam corrects for him.

‘’Right, well, Draco, I understand the instinct to overact. It can be easier to hide behind exaggerated mannerisms than to let the audience really see you.’’

It all sounds like nonsense to Harry, but Malfoy looks stricken. His eyes flicker over to Harry, then focus back on Taylor as he continues, ‘’Consider why you’re so afraid to let your audience see into the heart of you that you have to cover it up with flourishes and sweeping gestures.’’ He regards Malfoy for another moment, then turns and strolls over to another pair.

‘’Right, well,’’ Malfoy’s eyes skitter over to Harry once more, then he wrenches his focus back to Kam. ‘’Shall we try it with fewer flourishes this time?’’

It turns out that Harry’s enjoyment of Malfoy being chastised extends beyond the Hogwarts classroom and into the world of muggle acting. Is this how Malfoy felt in Potions all the time?

When Sara restarts their scene, Harry is quickly reminded that, no, Malfoy was good at Potions, so he could assume he wasn’t in for the same humiliation. After a truly excruciating half hour of repeating the same lines in the same manner with varying hopes that this time he has managed to do something different – looser? – Harry struggles through the closing exercise and makes his escape outside.

He is leaning against the brick exterior of the little studio, contemplating agony, humiliation, and the possibility of a cheeky gyro, when Malfoy bursts out of the door, flinging his bag over his shoulder and muttering, ‘’what colossal plonkers.’’

Abruptly, the daze of relief at making it through the hour is gone, and Harry’s prickles with the beginnings of rage. He pushes off from the brick, stepping into Malfoy’s path. ‘’What was that?’’

Malfoy falters for a moment, then straightens up, still clutching the strap of his bag. ‘’What was what, Potter?’’ he spits out. ‘’Acting, perhaps? No surprise you don’t recognise it.’’ His knuckles are white against the backpack strap.

‘’Look, Malfoy,’’ Harry is annoyed, ‘’the fact that you can do magic doesn’t make you better than these people.’’

Malfoy bristles, ‘’No, but the fact that I don’t spend my days role playing as fungi might, though.’’

Having anticipated a more, well, bigoted response, Harry is unprepared to reply.

‘’We had to pretend to be mushrooms, Potter,’’ Malfoy is oddly surly. ‘’I know you thought it was absurd; I was in the room with you.’’ His tone shifts to something more silky and taunting, ‘’Or did you only think it was foolish because you feel yourself superior to these people?’’ Before Harry can do more than bristle and sputter, Malfoy smoothly clarifies, ‘’I mean actors, of course – I assume that’s what you were referring to as well?’’

As he pushes past Harry, Malfoy adds, ‘’Such a delight to see Granger’s Unity reforms in action, truly. ‘Bettering Engagement Legislation to Eliminate Normalized Distrust’ indeed.’’

Harry is definitely getting a fucking gyro.

_________________________________________________________________________

Harry casts warming and stabilising spells over his potatoes gratin, then folds his glasses and places them in his pocket, before grabbing floo powder and calling out, ‘’The Burrow.’’ He arrives with self and potatoes intact and presents both to Molly for inspection.

She gives him an absentminded hug while she takes the dish. ‘’Oh Harry, these look excellent,’’ she exclaims.

It had taken Harry years to feel right about his attendance and contribution at Sunday dinners. He felt strange showing up empty-handed – especially once he and Ginny had broken up, and he couldn’t hide behind her as she breezed through the room – but Molly insisted she didn’t need any help. Finally, they had struck an accord: Harry asks her for cooking advice each week, then practices the dish they discuss once for dinner himself before bringing it for feedback and approval each Sunday.

Now, Molly serves Harry’s contributions proudly alongside her own, encouraging everyone to take a helping and compliment him. Secretly, Harry loves when someone else brings an offering, and Molly blusters and bristles and sets it to the side where no one can see it to ask for it. Harry is discerning with his support; for Sasha and Althea, he’d smiled vacantly and allowed their dishes to remain untouched until they were dumped or did the dumping and left family dinners. Pedro and Chioma, though, he’d liked, so he’d pulled them aside and told them not to bring anything for a while. Both had protested that it would be rude to show up empty-handed, but with some Weasley support — and, in the case of Chioma, backup from Pedro, who by then had been with George for well over a year — he’d convinced them.

Ginny slings an arm around him. ‘’What have you sucked up to mum with this week?’’ she asks.

‘’Potatoes au gratin,’’ Harry replies primly, ‘’and it’s not sucking up, it’s learning from a master.’’

Ginny ruffles his hair. ‘’Such a suck-up,’’ she says fondly.

Harry ducks out of her embrace. ‘’How’s the world of advertising?’’ he asks, snagging a mug and reaching for the teapot.

Distantly, he hears Hermione wearily protesting, ‘’No, it’s entirely different. ‘Bellend’ has two L’s.’’

Ginny grins surprisingly fiercely and purrs, ‘’Oh, it’s excellent.’’

Warily, Harry puts the teapot down and reaches for the milk. ‘’Ginny, what have you done?’’

She puts a hand to her chest. ‘’Harry, I have merely done my job,’’ she protests. ‘’Is it not my job to design beautiful visuals for the willing viewer?’’

‘’I...suppose,’’ Harry allows, picking up his mug and heading for a chair.

‘’Well,’’ Ginny pauses for effect, ‘’should my viewer be more than willing, that is all part of my grand plan.’’ She throws back her head and cackles dramatically.

‘’Does the,’’ Harry waves a hand about, ‘’situation really call for this?’’ he asks drily from his seat in the squashy green armchair.

Ginny shrugs and perches on the arm. ‘’Does any situation, really? And yet, I persist.’’ She pats him on the head. ‘’Please, join me,’’ and she throws back her head into another cackle. Harry, familiar enough with Ginny’s scheming to be nervous but comfortably certain this does not involve him, rolls his eyes. Then, mindful of his acting endeavours, he balances his mug on the other arm and joins her.
_________________________________________________________________________

Class Three: Non-Stop

‘’OK,’’ Taylor claps his hands together, eerily reminiscent of Hermione. ‘’Today we are going to open with ’What were they wearing?’ It sounds easy: you have five minutes to look around the circle and commit to memory what everyone else is wearing. Then, we’ll all turn our backs and take turns describing each other’s wardrobes. Stick to fact, please; no judgment of other people’s clothing or style.”

Harry’s heart sinks as he waits for more instructions, only to realise – nope, that was it. Could there possibly be a game he was worse cut out for? Well, literally anything else to do with acting, a voice pipes up inside of him. He clamps down on it and casts a gaze over his classmates.

OK, Sara is wearing a pink shirt. It’s…very pink. Aggressively pink, some might say. Oh, Harry probably shouldn’t say that, though. Uhh, ok, Brent is wearing sweatpants. And…also a shirt. The shirt is tight and red. Brent pretty clearly expects his body to do the work more than his fashion sense, and Harry determinedly does not note that that plan is working pretty well for him.

Given that everyone else is still peering intently around the circle, Harry suspects it’s too early to bury his face in his hands. He regroups. He can do this. Next to Brent is…ugh, Malfoy. Malfoy is wearing loose black trousers that hug his legs and nip in at his waist, which Harry can tell because Malfoy is also wearing a midriff baring top. A crop top! Harry thinks triumphantly. Malfoy has certainly begun to blend in better already; Harry knows he stands out in his uniform of jeans and a jumper, but he has nothing else to wear. At least Malfoy isn’t wearing those blue legwarmers again. Harry fights back a giggle just remembering them.

He is jerked out of his reverie when Taylor lackadaisically tells them all to turn around now. Fuck! That can’t have been five minutes! He only looked at three people! What if Taylor asks him to describe one of the other ten people present?

Taylor starts the circle next to him, with Sara. This is a small grace — he has one person as an example, but he can still set the tone. At least he won’t have to go last, after hearing everyone else perfectly describe each other’s attire.

Sara confidently gives a run-down of Brent’s outfit – apparently the sweatpants are, in fact, ‘joggers with an ankle cuff’, and his shirt is burgundy rather than red.

‘’Alright, Harry,’’ Taylor looks at him with warm hope and optimism. His eyes scan the circle behind Harry. ‘’Why don’t you tell us what….Richard is wearing?’’

Well, it had been fruitless to hope he’d get Sara; she’s right next to him, and he can currently see her out of his peripheral vision. Brent has already been described, and it’s not like he’d wanted to think about Malfoy’s clothing, so the main problem here is that Harry did not actually know there was a person called Richard in this class.

He briefly considers faking it. Richard is probably wearing a shirt and trousers, right? He’s fairly certain everyone in the room had been wearing, you know, clothes. Or maybe there is a spell that can help? He can only do a few spells wandless, but there must be some application for lumos in a situation like this.

His shoulders slump in dismay. ‘’Well,’’ he begins hopefully, ‘’I am certain that no one here was naked.’’ There are some titters, which might be a good sign. ‘’Beyond that, I could not tell you what anyone was wearing. I’m absolute pants at clothes.’’ He looks up into Taylor’s disappointed eyes and feels, immediately, as though he has let himself down. ‘’I’m sorry?’’ he adds. At least no one can see him.

Taylor gazes at him sorrowfully for another moment, then says, ‘’That’s fine, Harry. Thank you for your honesty. Maria, you’re up.’’

After the warm-up, Taylor gathers them in a loose group. ‘’OK,’’ he flicks his hair behind his shoulder. ‘’For this exercise, you’re going to monologue on a topic – any topic – for 3-5 minutes. You can’t stop during the monologue. Really, you shouldn’t have any time for preparation, but obviously some of you will be planning ahead instead of listening to your classmates.’’ He pouts around at all of them in disappointment. ‘’Go drink some water and we’ll get started.’’

As his classmates disperse, Malfoy appears at Harry’s shoulder. ‘’You have to help me,’’ he hisses.

‘’Uh, wow,’’ Harry replies, ‘’I super do not.’’

‘’You do if you don’t want me to break the Statute of Secrecy!’’ Malfoy’s eyes are wide.

Harry turns around to regard him, crossing his arms, ‘’Alright, look, threatening me is not going to help.’’

‘’Potter!’’ Malfoy interjects. ‘’Shut! Up!’’ He seems serious – honestly, he might be more serious than this calls for. Harry has broken the Statute loads of times; this weird acting class can’t be that big a deal.

‘’I don’t know anything about muggles,’’ Malfoy continues. ‘’How am I going to monologue for five minutes about even one topic without breaking the Statute?’’

He does have a point. Still, how is Harry meant to solve generations of bigotry in mere minutes? ‘’Well,’’ he shrugs, ‘’maybe they’ll think it’s, you know. Acting.’’

Malfoy glares at him. ‘’Oh ha ha,’’ he says. It’s sort of unbelievable; he actually says ‘’ha ha.’’ ‘’Like I won’t be fucked over for that.’’

Harry stares at him dubiously. ‘’I mean…would you?’’ he asks.

Malfoy throws up his hands, as though he has been waiting for this very response. ‘’Of course I would!’’ he answers. Sweet Merlin, does he speak only in exclamation marks? ‘’I would be raked across the coals,’’ he adds, in an unfathomably dramatic fashion.

‘’How did you not nail the campaign advert?’’ Harry wonders.

‘’What?’’ Malfoy responds, ‘’Potter! There are fish! to fry here! You have to help me,’’ he waves one hand carelessly, ‘’fry them!’’

Harry is amused, despite himself. ‘’Help you,’’ he mirrors Malfoy’s hand gesture, ‘’fry the fish.’’

Malfoy leans in, so close that Harry can feel his breath against his own ear as Malfoy whispers, ‘’Help me remain a wizard without letting muggles know what I am.’’

Harry steps back and regards him for a long moment. ‘’OK…’’ he says finally, ‘’well what are some things you know about?’’

‘’Flying,’’ Malfoy replies automatically. ‘’Potions. Charms. The care of—’’

‘’Oh my god?’’ Harry interrupts. ‘’Things that you think might be appropriate in this moment? I wasn’t asking for an encyclopedia of your knowledge.’’

Malfoy winces, ‘’Well that’s the thing, isn’t it.’’

‘’Jesus, Malfoy,’’ Harry is getting angry now. ‘’You really think you’re that different than muggles? You aren’t special! You could talk about….clothes! Or music, do you know muggles have music, you twat? Or, I don’t know, the Manor is posh and in the country, isn’t it? You could talk about fancy walks, or how absolutely smashing it is to be rich, or—’’

‘’Let’s get started!’’ Taylor coos. ‘’Kam, you first.’’

Kam takes the stage and delivers a compelling four minutes on makeup and animal rights. Sara, eyes shining, follows her, talking about her dedication to veganism. Brent, the leanly muscled Adonis whose body Harry carefully continues not to notice, enthusiastically outlines his commitment to healthy living, and then it’s Malfoy’s turn. Harry holds his breath. He could have been a bit more helpful; for all Malfoy’s faults, the two of them are in this together, and it really is – or could be, should he join the Aurors – Harry’s job to uphold the Statute.

Malfoy stands on stage gaping like a fish for a moment before he draws all his dignity to himself and begins. ‘’Clothes,’’ he intones. ‘’Clothes are what make a man. No matter the style of the era or culture – from Grecian togas to the frac and justeaucorps of Versailles, from Western suits to Nigerian agbada – the choice of what to wear can convey social status and, more than that, taste.’’

Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. If it’s clothes – and if Malfoy is managing to keep it multi-centennial – he’s unlikely to err too far.

‘’Indeed,’’ Malfoy looks pointedly at Harry, ‘’One man’s poor taste might signal him an unworthy companion even as his deeds suggest otherwise.’’

He’s still a giant twat, though.

Harry lingers at the back of the class just in case, but Malfoy does a surprisingly good job remaining general, talking of tailoring and style rather than specifics. He does say ‘robes’ once or twice, and Harry waves frantically when he starts down a tangent about accessories because not one thing he names sounds like something anyone Harry has ever met would wear – what the hell is a cravat, anyway? Once Malfoy finishes his bizarrely pompous opening, he mainly enthuses about ‘athleisure,’ and while Harry hasn’t heard of that either, there are enough nods of recognition rippling around the room for him to relax.

When Taylor calls time, Malfoy holds one hand in the air and speaks as though to an attire auditorium, ‘’As through Charms, one may not possess charm, though a man transfigure his clothes, he cannot transfigure his most essential self.’’ He inclines his head with a flourish of his raised hand, then steps down.

No one seems to notice the obviously wizarding aphorism Malfoy had decided to end with, the git, and by the time Harry finishes glancing surreptitiously around, Richard has begun declaiming on modern sexuality, so Harry focuses on taking deep breaths and rolling out his shoulders.

By the time it’s Harry’s turn to ‘go non-stop’, as Brent described it, he has nearly calmed down. Which makes it extra fun to have another surge of adrenaline as he realises he has to go. He shuffles reluctantly to the front of the room and swallows heavily. This is so ridiculous. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that everyone else is also having to go, but honestly, he was bored and judgmental through all of their non-stops, and his is definitely going to be way worse.

Oof, this pause is too long; it’s just way too long. How did everyone else open? Should he just…start talking? Does he need some kind of introductory line? He had so much time; why didn’t he think of an introductory line?

‘’COOKING!’’ he booms out, using volume to cover his panic. That will work. ‘’COOKING IS GOOD FOR THE BODY AND THE MIND!’’

His eyes zip wildly around the room, and he is surprised to see that Malfoy has taken up Harry’s spot at the back of the class. Is he expecting to catch Harry in breaking the Statute?

‘’THE BASICS OF COOKING SEEM SIMPLE BUT THEY ARE…’’

Malfoy is wincing and making a tamping down motion with his hands. Squash it? Does he want Harry to– oh, stop yelling. Probably he is suggesting that Harry need not bellow.

Unfortunately, bellowing was all that was giving him forward momentum. Harry lowers his voice and immediately begins to stumble. ‘’I’ve been, er, I’ve been trying to learn to, er, to cook for the past couple of years, and it’s, well, it’s both harder and easier than I expected. I want to, to, to be able to cook meals for myself, but, you know, I live alone, and I, well, I really prefer cooking for other people, so…it’s tough to practice.’’

Malfoy’s hands are still held before him, frozen in their command to quiet down; in combination with the softening of his features as Harry speaks, he looks almost beseeching.

Harry does not care for it at all.

What right has Malfoy to look soft and sympathetic as Harry discusses his sad little meals for one? Why even is Harry talking about this? What the fuck? His mind is racing and yet it still cannot catch up to his mouth.

‘’THIS IS ALL IRRELEVANT TO MY POINT, WHICH IS ACTUALLY HOW TO COOK AND NOT MY OWN LIFE’’

For the remaining time, Harry sticks to chopping, roasting, and sauteeng. Taylor takes pity on him and calls time the moment three minutes are up.

When Taylor waves a languid hand to end their cooldown, Sara bounces over to Harry. ‘’Hey, some of us were going to go out for drinks after! Do you two want to come?’’

Harry is appalled to realise that Malfoy is standing near enough that they might be considered ‘you two’, and he hastens to put some space in between them. ‘’Erm, yeah, sure, Sara, I can do that. I don’t know about Malfoy here, though; I don’t know what his plans are. Er, Malfoy, can you come?’’

Malfoy is staring at Harry as though Harry is an hopeless wally, which seems unfair given that Harry does not, in fact, know what Malfoy’s plans are. ‘’I’m free,’’ he replies to Sara, still looking exasperatedly at Harry.

‘’Great!’’ she enthuses. ‘’But, oh, erm, so sorry, but I thought your name was Draco?’’ she tilts her head in confusion.

‘’It is,’’ Malfoy smiles at her. ‘’Harry here is making a joke from one of the earlier exercises.’’ Harry winces. Malfoy turns to him, still smiling pleasantly, and hell if it isn’t weird to have Malfoy looking at him pleasantly. ‘’Harry, please do call me Draco outside of the exercises.’’

Sara is still there, so Harry also has to make his own face pleasant. The two of them stand there, making pleasant faces at each other. ‘’Right, sorry, Draco, sure thing.’’

‘’Great!’’ Sara says, ‘’We can gather outside and all walk over together.’’

She bounds away again, leaving Harry and Draco smiling vacantly at each other with – at least in Harry’s case – rising levels of nausea and panic. Continuing to smile feels weird, but he can’t, like, drop into an abrupt scowl. Is he going to stand here smiling until someone tells him to stop? Draco’s face is reflecting a similar panic underneath his smile.

‘’Oh, hell,’’ he moans faintly. Harry considers telling him to just stop smiling if it’s that awful, but considering his own dilemma, feels he had better leave it. Anyway, Draco continues, ‘’I don’t know how to ‘go out for drinks’.’’

Harry is grateful to have finally solved the smiling problem; he shifts to annoyed disbelief. ‘’What, Slytherins only drink the oldest of brandy from antique snifters in their ancestral homes?’’

‘’No!’’ Draco whisper-shouts. ‘’It’s just…they’re muggle drinks! And no!’’ he points fiercely at Harry, ‘’do NOT get all sanctimonious on me.’’ He puts on a deep, dull, gloomy voice, ‘‘Oh, Draco, muggle drinks are the same as wizarding drinks; stop thinking you’re so special.’’ Harry vaguely wonders if the shoulder waggling is really a necessary part of the impression. Draco drops the voice and glares at Harry. ‘’They are NOT the same; I am certain of it. There is no way muggle drinks make you breathe fire or switch voices with your friends or hover briefly or–’’

‘’Wait, what? What drinks make you– nevermind,’’ Hary responds. ‘’OK, but you still just…drink them. You don’t drink them any differently.’’

Draco’s voice is tight. ‘’I know! How to drink a beverage! Potter! But how do I acquire the beverage? I’ve practiced with muggle money – oh, don’t look so surprised; it’s condescending – but do I go somewhere special to get them? I assume you can’t speak your order to the table at even the classier muggle clubs. And even then, what do I order? What if the barkeep wants to make conversation with me? What is the protocol for buying drinks for each other? And what if–’’

Realising that Draco will carry on into eternity if no one stops him – no surprise he’d been so good at ‘going non-stop’ – Harry interrupts. ‘’OK, OK, these are all fair questions. Look, I’ll be there, too. I’ll make sure you don’t make a fool– well,’’ Harry lingers gleefully over the pause, ‘’that you don’t reveal you’re a wizard anyway.’’

Before Draco can deliver on the glare he leveled at that pregnant pause, Harry claps him on the shoulder. ‘’Come on, then, mate,’’ he booms with faux joviality, ‘’Let’s get you to your first pub night.’’

Draco hovers anxiously next to Harry as the group crowds through the door, assesses the drink options, and finds a table. He of course squeezes in next to Harry as they all shuffle along the booth; ‘’I can elbow you from a distance of a couple inches, you know,” Harry mutters.

Sara offers to get the first round, and Brent hastily stands up to offer his assistance in carrying them back. Kam makes eye contact with Draco and rolls her eyes slightly at this, which has the fortunate side effect of keeping Draco so focused on suppressing a smile that he forgets to be anxious about what he should order. When Harry requests, ‘’pint of lager, ta,’’ Draco has the presence of mind to say, ‘’same for me, please.’’

Across the table, Richard lets out a surprised, ‘huh’. When Draco looks at him curiously, Richard shrugs. ‘’Didn’t have you pegged as a lager bloke.’’

Draco stiffens, and Harry feels that the fact that he can feel Draco stiffen really underlines his argument that they are sat far too close. Draco maintains his composure; ‘’I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’’ he says smoothly.

Richard leans in and murmurs, ‘’Fine, be coy about it. I’ll figure you out eventually.’’

Surprisingly, this seems to make Draco relax. Harry can’t make heads or tails of the fact that being called a ‘lager bloke’ made him tense up but a direct statement of suspicion calmed him down, but really, he’s not looking to make heads or tails of anything about Draco, and the less anxious he is, the more Harry can enjoy his pint.

That turns out to be incorrect. Apparently, a comfortable Draco is a curious one, and once his focus has shifted from maintaining his cover to enjoying his evening, he has even more questions for Harry.

‘’Who is Daniel Craig? He sounds important.’’

‘’Why are these bits of cardboard everywhere? Is Guinness good for you? It looks like plain beer.’’

‘’What is the Prime Minister? Wait, is that who Daniel Craig is?’’

‘’What’s this song?’’ he asks brightly, when ‘’Faith’’ comes on the pub speakers. That one is loud enough for the others to overhear and results in splutters of disbelief and a table-wide sing-along.

After the thousandth time Draco leans in to ask for clarification on a topic, Harry bursts. He has to keep his volume down, so it’s a restrained burst, but a burst nonetheless: ‘’Maybe use all that Malfoy money to get yourself a phone. I’m not your own personal Google.’’

Draco recoils. ‘’Good Merlin, my own personal google? What on earth…?’’

‘’Oh my god,’’ Harry sinks his head into his hands. ‘’Just…google it.’’

‘’What are you two whispering about?’’ Brent booms.

‘’Google,’’ Harry moans from behind his hands.

‘’How bizarre,’’ Richard observes. ‘’Well, better have another round, then. Who’s for another? I’m buying.’’

He begins collecting drink orders, then makes a face. ‘’No way I’m getting all of these back. Draco, give me a hand? No, Sara,’’ he scolds jokingly as she moves to stand, ‘’you’ve already gotten a round; I couldn’t possibly ask you to head back up with me.’’

Draco looks slightly nervous but slides over Sara and follows Richard to the bar. Sara’s lips are pressed together as though to hold back a smile, and the moment they are out of earshot, Brent coos, ‘’ooooo-er.’’

Confused, Harry looks at Kam, who looks unimpressed. ‘’What?’’ he asks.

‘’They are both dishy,’’ Sara finally allows her mischievous smile to spread.

When they return with drinks, to a cheer from the table, Richard drags over another chair, pointing out how silly it would be to make Sara move again.

‘’I am dreadfully comfortable,’’ Sara laughs, stirring her rum and diet coke with its straw.

Draco is slightly flushed as he hands Harry his drink from across the table. ‘’Pint of lager for you, Po– Harry,’’ he says.

‘’What’d you go for this time, then?’’ Harry asks.

Draco looks at his drink like he’d forgotten it was there. ‘’Oh, Richard says this gin is particularly good, so,’’ he shrugs as he sits down, not noticing or ignoring the flurry of winks and smiles that fly around him. Richard smugly leans back in the chair next to him and slings an arm over the back of Draco’s chair, looking like the cat who got the canary.

Harry’s second lager must be from a different brewery or something, because it tastes a bit off.