When the curse struck Harry in the unkempt kitchen of another nameless criminal hideout, and lightning burned his nerves until his vision ran white, he thought: Should’ve called for backup.
Long after his feet failed beneath him, and he had stared at a mangy floor mat for hours alone in the night, he thought: Not again.
And as the sun began to leak through the cracked window over the sink, and Harry couldn’t feel his face or fingers or legs, he finally closed his eyes and stopped thinking entirely.
He sank into the inky dark. The world around him softened as he floated down, moving further and further along the silent void. Steadied by the familiar quiet, it took time to notice the light in the distance. Its edges blurred when he looked at it, so he didn’t for long. His course shifted toward it. Not faster or slower—just onward. King’s Cross Station, maybe, though it had been The Burrow ever since his divorce. No one had explained it to him yet, how Limbo circled the beginning and end of things. “Because the people who go there usually don’t get to tell us about it,” Hermione’d once said, squeezing his hand. Except it hadn’t taught him anything special, being the exception. She had no answers for that.
As the light grew stronger, he closed his eyes. Then he recognised the lush floral scent of rosemary and smoked cherry wood in the air; the glossy green tiles cold beneath his feet; the echo of rain dancing on a skylight overhead. A sudden strangeness bubbled between his ribs, and he pressed a hand to stop it.
It was the workshop in Malfoy’s Amsterdam flat. A few feet away, Malfoy bent over the island dominating the centre of the room. It had an inch of pale marble resting on a stained mahogany base and shelves that glinted with glass spheres and copper pots and cast irons of every size. On the countertop, ingredients were arranged in no discernible order. Mosses next to fruit rinds and roughly cut honey combs, lavender blossoms brushing against freckled brown eggs. Ice sweated clear in a large bowl, each cube filled with flowers in shades of blue, orange, and yellow. The walls would be filled with more of the same, if Harry could see them. Malfoy kept a wild garden more than he maintained a distillery. Only here, the light from the window overhead acted like a spotlight, highlighting Malfoy and his work. Mist obscured the rest of the space.
“It begins with the slate,” Malfoy said. He kept several under the island: slabs in various sizes, the edges uneven, but all the same charcoal grey. Some made a terrible scraping sound when he pulled them out from the shelf. Most slid heavy and smooth from their holding place. And he always washed them by hand, noble fingers curled around a new sponge. It shouldn’t matter, the colour of the slate, how it was cleaned. Harry felt sure it didn’t. But Malfoy insisted on it.
“It’s a ritual.” Malfoy flicked the excess water from his fingers before wiping the slate dry with a towel. He hadn’t tied his apron strings. They twisted around his feet when he walked back to the island. He placed the slate down and adjusted it to his liking, then stepped back to clap his hands in thought.
The clapping thing was weird, too. Posh people didn’t clap, not with that much sound and emphasis.
“Then, the base.” Malfoy tapped his fingertips over the bottles in a wooden crate at his feet. He muttered the names to himself as he went. Gin. Vodka. Tequila. Bourbon. Brandy. Rum. Always Muggle liquors to start. Something about building from a magicless place. This was ridiculous, Harry’d watched him do this a thousand times over the years, there were more pressing things to talk about. As Malfoy started to pick one of the bottles, Harry stopped him.
“What are you doing here?” Harry said.
This Malfoy blinked up at him, then lifted the bottle of tequila.
“I’m teaching you how to make a drink.”
Harry sighed. "You know what I mean. Why are you in my Limbo? This isn’t the place for casual… for, er, mates, like us." He’d stumbled over the words, and his face flared warm, but he pushed up his glasses to cover it. Dumbledore had been in this place, and Molly Weasley. He couldn’t go around saying things like ‘fuck buddies.’
Malfoy’s head tilted. It tipped his hair out of the loose braid he’d kept it in, and the string of piercings on his ear caught in the light.
“You tell me,” Malfoy said. He reached for Harry’s face. “Maybe you miss me.” He smiled, thin lips stretching in a line. “Or maybe you’re just thirsty.”
***
Harry read about his incident in the paper, once he recovered. It had taken two days for them to find him, and a week to wake him up. He spent the week after that making his usual post-near-death experience circuit: The Burrow, The Treehouse (Ron and Hermione’s place further down the road), the Head Auror’s office, and the Media Room. And then he had the case to solve, of course, which had come together nicely when he went back with a team.
So he’d been very busy, he reasoned, as the Portkey landed him in an alley of Leidseplein. There were things to attend to, and he’d attended to them. No one was avoiding anyone. And Malfoy probably hadn’t even noticed, with the hols closing in, and the bar likely full of people avoiding their obligations. Either way, this thing between them didn’t have a schedule. No expectations.
“And I’ve got nothing to apologise for,” he said, catching the attention of the girls passing on his right. They frowned at him and kept walking. The street around him flowed with people, arms full of shopping bags and steaming drinks. He’d hardly noticed the crowd, though it must’ve jostled him for the last few blocks. Maybe his boss wasn’t full of total shit—he could pay more attention to his surroundings.
The crowd thinned once he turned the corner to Malfoy’s street. Most shops on the block weren’t open this early. These were pubs and clubs for the evening crowd, with restaurants starting late enough to serve them. Staff were setting up window displays in several of them, and he waved at the handful he recognised. He waited until he was out of their line of sight to check on Malfoy’s building, though, and he made sure Malfoy himself wasn’t lingering in the street having a cig.
Unlike the other businesses, Malfoy’s bar with Blaise had blackened glass windows and concrete columns on the first floor, a stark contrast to the bright red brick and white window frames for the three floors standing above it. Someone had added ‘Winter’ over the bar’s ‘Wonderland’ logo—not their most creative theme—and drawn a scene much like Hogwarts in winter across the various panes. Children skating on a frozen lake while a squid arm waved candy canes. The Whomping Willow covered in Christmas lights. Harry tilted his head back to check the top floor windows. With the afternoon glare, he couldn’t tell if any lights were on, and the balcony was empty. Maybe Malfoy was out. Harry fiddled with the key in his pocket.
He’d have a drink with Blaise first, then go up to Malfoy’s flat. He hadn’t gone to the bar in ages, and their conversations always left him with something to share at the next Treehouse dinner.
Standing a bit straighter, Harry touched the door handle, waited for the flare of magic to recognise him, then stepped inside. Violet curtains hung from the ceiling, boxing in the entrance with the unmanned host stand. A large mirror hung on the wall behind the stand, and his reflection winked back at him while he adjusted his hair. Harry rolled his eyes. Five hundred times that had happened, and it charmed him each one.
He followed the curtained hall to the left, eyeing the greenery and lights strung between the sconces. The hallway emptied into a low-ceilinged hall. Short white tables shaped like petite fours dotted the wooden floor, each surrounded with a set of plush, high-backed chairs in jewel tones. Curtains cut them into more intimate spaces. As for the white bar, it ran the length of the right side of the room, its surface disrupted every few feet with a small snowy tree. That strangeness rose in his chest again at the familiar sight.
Blaise’s laughter took him out of it. The man lounged on one of the bar’s leather stools, ringed fingers covering his face. And then there was Malfoy, laughing along behind the bar.
There went that plan.
“Oh, there’s our survivor,” Blaise said, his voice carrying through the empty space. An elaborate beaker on the bartop beside him billowed with smoke. “Tell me, are you ever going to change your name back? Harry Weasley reads so awfully on the front page. And it’s not nearly as fun to throw around with my better clientele.”
“And this is supposed to convince me to change it?” Harry stretched his hand out for a shake, once he reached him, then nodded at the drink. “That new?”
Blaise hummed to himself, glancing between Harry and the drink. “It will be for you. Been on the menu about a month now, but it is the newest item. Our auteur has been in a bit of a funk as of late.”
“Have not,” Malfoy said. He’d ducked beneath the bar when Harry first approached, though the top of his ponytail was still visible. Now he was adjusting the flame beneath the bottom of the beaker. The light winked off his lip stud. “And the themed drinks for December are already set. We won’t need anything new for a while.”
Above the beaker was another, rounder version, and Malfoy lifted the lid from it to mash the ingredients steaming inside. Lemon peels, from the smell of it, with shreds of ginger and ground clove. Rosemary, too. Harry rubbed at his neckline.
“Of course,” Blaise said. He swirled his small tasting glass. “Well, maybe inspiration has come to call regardless. Muses can be fickle things.” He finished the last of his drink and stood, a striking figure in a navy suit and open collar. “Always good to see you, Harry. If you’re around later tonight, come back downstairs. I know several people who would love to hear your latest caper. That kitchen floor did look dastardly in the photos.”
Harry was still waiting for Malfoy to look at him. He felt Blaise’s gaze and turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah, sure. See you then.”
Blaise left them in a smooth turn of heel, heading toward the back office. He wore his station after the War better than any of them: an educated man of means, confident in taste and bold in his pursuits. What that must be like.
When the door swung shut, it left the two of them with the soft bubbling of the cocktail. Harry lifted his palm, letting some of the smoke curl around his hand. One of them had to say something.
“That for me?”
Malfoy stilled, then extinguished the flame. “No.”
He set the top beaker aside, shaking the excess amber drops into the lower one, then poured the drink into a nearby ceramic highball. He didn’t speak again until he’d taken his first sip, eyes closing briefly in something like bliss.
“Your usual is waiting upstairs. Assuming that’s why you’re here?” His feather grey gaze started at Harry’s feet, but Harry felt its journey along his thighs, up his chest.
“One of the reasons,” Harry said, once Malfoy finally met his eyes. “I’ll show myself up.”
***
Harry kept the lights off in the apartment. He didn’t linger in the foyer and averted his eyes through the kitchen and the workshop. Their corners and contents had been with him enough the last few weeks. In Malfoy’s bedroom, he stripped to nothing and put on his robe—Malfoy’s robe; bugger it, the one that had been set aside for Harry, for this. He tossed his clothes on the left side of the bed and went to set down his glasses.
Then he saw the Quidditch Weeklies. He’d set them there the last time. They were the only things he read before bed. And there they were now, the corners still bent for any pages he’d found interesting.
That pressure in his chest swelled again. He folded his glasses into the robe pocket, tightened the belt, and let himself into the nearly empty ceremonial room at the back of the apartment. The cherry wood smell carried thick and earthen in the air. He surrendered to muscle memory once he closed the door and his eyes adjusted to the dark. He took the three steps up to the wooden platform; lowered himself, naked, into the black jade tub set down in its centre; and drew his legs close while the steaming water slowly swallowed him. Three second breath in, three seconds out. Find the flatness of the walls. Count the plants on the floor. Repeat. It took a few rounds for his pulse and thoughts to slow, but he’d settled by the time Malfoy appeared.
He’d changed into a loose pair of joggers and lost his shirt. He circled the platform, setting bottles and bowls and candles as he went. An ashen grimoire floated beside him. Harry hated that thing. It looked something awful, the leather gnarled and somehow disapproving, like all that Malfoy pride had coalesced into its pages. But it was necessary, according to Malfoy, so Harry contented himself with scowling at it whenever Malfoy looked away.
With all the pieces in place, Malfoy walked up the platform and knelt where it met the lip of the tub. He really was beautiful. Had Harry ever told him that?
“Ready?” Malfoy said, before Harry could tell him now. Harry nodded.
Malfoy picked up the rolls of cotton-like webbing nearest his knees. Harry lifted his hands from the water and held them steady as Malfoy wove the fabric around Harry’s wrists and palms. Acromantula webbing infused with flobberworm mucus. Softer than it sounded, but sticky. When Malfloy finished, Harry planted his hands on the platform and listened as Malfoy mumbled Latin over a handful of lionfish spines. The thin strips flashed white and crumbled into ash. Malfoy pressed the dust over the wraps. He wiped the excess along Harry’s forearms, coming close enough for Harry to catch the sweetness of his hair.
“Are we even sure this works?” Harry said, once Malfoy moved back a safer distance. Harry understood, now, why they usually did this after they’d had a go or two. Every touch and breath in this hushed space ran through him.
The blonde already had a small bowl of mud in his hands, into which he mixed turquoise scales a fingerful at a time. “The spell, you mean?”
“Uh huh.”
Malfoy pulled out the mud and rolled it into a ball. “Of course, it does. Why do you ask?”
“Because I keep dying. Aren’t protection spells supposed to stop that kind of thing?”
“Depends on the spell, but usually not. There’s... really only one that’s ever been known to do that.”
Oh. Right. Harry shifted at the thought of his mother. After a pause, Malfoy split the ball into two and held the pieces out. Harry took them in each hand. When he crossed his arms, he felt the mud forming to the indents of his ribcage. It eased the ache.
Malfoy took a handful of golden-coloured flowers and stirred the bouquet counter-clockwise in the water. After three turns, he pulled the dripping plants out and kissed the petals to Harry’s shoulders, then his forehead.
“Okay,” Harry said once the room came back into focus. “So if this isn’t keeping me from dying, what’s it protecting me from exactly? Bad colds? You?”
Malfoy frowned as he said: “You don’t need protection from me. Not for a long time.” As he broke off the flower heads, he let them fall into the water. “This spell protects you from the consequences of your actions."
Harry frowned back at him. "And what does that mean?"
Malfoy flicked one of the buds at Harry’s face. “It means you don’t know how to do your job in a way that isn’t life threatening. Even if there were a spell to prevent death, there are limits. So, this just takes out the finality. You'll always be able to come back, if you want to. As long as we do this at least."
He used the leftover bits of pollen from his hands to swipe once, twice, over Harry’s lips. Then he stood, focused anywhere but on Harry. “Anyway, I’ll be right back. I forgot something.”
Harry watched the door swing closed, ears ringing. You don’t know how to do your job in a way that isn’t life threatening. Harry’d said the same thing to Gin, before the divorce, though not in so many words. How could he explain the clarity in his mind, when he knew what needed to happen? When the pieces fit and there was something he could do then to resolve it? He knew enough not to say it outloud, that being a husband, being loved, wasn’t going to change things.
So how did Malfoy know? Harry sank further into the water and blew bubbles from beneath its surface. Maybe they should have fucked first. Then he could be going through this with his typically blissed out state of mind.
Malfoy returned empty-handed. His cheeks had flushed a pale rose colour, and the hairs around his face were damp. Maybe now, Harry could tell him; but then, Malfoy turned away, his hands gently lifting a large grey egg from a tin. Harry shifted to his knees, remembering the next step in the process. After breaking the egg into a bowl of milky liquid, Malfoy tapped his wand over the mixture until its consistency became butter-like. Harry leaned his head back to let Malfoy run the substance down Harry’s neck and clavicles.
“Where did you say you learned this spell?” Harry said.
Malfoy glanced at him. “I didn’t.” His thumb circled the new starburst-shaped scar on Harry’s sternum, his brows drawn. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions today. Did something happen?”
Harry swallowed, watching the thumb against his skin. “I was wondering if the spell controls what happens, er, afterwards. Like, where I go or what I see.”
“I see,” Malfoy said, moving on to the rest of Harry’s chest. “No, it doesn’t. It’s only meant to stop the process. Give you the chance to choose. Why?”
Harry touched his now tacky skin until Malfoy batted his hand away. “Because it changed this time. Limbo.”
Malfoy rinsed his hands in the water, then picked up a vial of poppy seeds and poured it over a jellied liquid. “Didn’t you say it’s been making treacle tart with Mrs. Weasley, the last few times?”
Harry extended the nearby Jobberknoll feather as Malfoy turned for it.
“Yeah, it had been.” When Malfoy tried to pull the feather away, Harry gripped it tighter. “This time it was you.”
“We made cookies?”
“No, you berk. We were in your workshop.”
“Doing what?”
“You were teaching me how to make a drink.”
Malfoy finally tugged the feather free. “Odd.” He tapped the feather against his own face as he consulted the grimoire.
Harry tried to see what was on the pages. When his effort failed, he said: “You don’t think that’s interesting?”
Malfoy shrugged, but wouldn’t look at him. He closed the grimoire and stirred the jelly with the feather’s quill. After a time, he said: “Is that why you stayed away for so long—because it was me you saw this time?”
That was the problem with pushing Malfoy. He always knew how to push back harder.
“No,” Harry said. “I had stuff to take care of.”
“Right, of course.” Malfoy was shaking his head, tapping the jelly into a bottle of purple liquid. It turned crimson, then orange. When he’d emptied the jelly completely, the liquid glowed green. Malfoy stared at him as he re-stoppered the bottle and shook it to hell.
“You realise you’re a terrible liar? It is frankly shocking how far you’ve made it up the ranks at the Ministry without giving away some deep government secret. And worse that you thought I wouldn’t know.” He dumped the contents in the bath and gestured sharply with his wand. The water flared on the edge of unbearably hot, which was convenient because Harry’s face already felt like it was burning.
“Fine! You want to talk about what's shocking? How about dying and expecting to find mentorship and advice and unconditional care—to find treacle tart!—and instead finding…” He didn’t even know. He sputtered for a moment, then gestured at the space around them.
Malfoy's arms were crossed, his eyes hard. He had the high ground on the platform and he used it to lean over Harry, voice low and steady: “Find what, Harry? Say it. Don't bother mincing words now.”
Harry glared back, fingers itching to shake that look right off his face.
“No response? Fine. Deep breath.” And in a flash, he submerged Harry's face beneath the water's surface. Fuck, Harry'd forgotten about this part. Malfoy usually had a softer lead in. Harry tried to push himself back up, but Malfoy had the better angle. Harry could hear garbled Latin phrases through the water and the bubbles. A cold flash ran along his bones before fanning into every nerve, the inside of his skin. When the feeling passed, the bath warmed once more, its water back to clear. Malfoy let go and Harry burst through the surface for gulps of air.
“You total arsehole.” Harry squinted through the water in his eyes and surged forward to pull Malfoy in with him. It was hard to find a grip on him. They were both bare skinned and slippery. A sharp elbow hit Harry’s face. His vision tilted and faded at the edges. Before it went too dark, Malfoy lifted his head above the water. His pale hands were tight enough around Harry’s jaw to keep him in place and at a distance. Harry reached up to circle Malfoy’s wrists.
“Takes one to know one,” Malfoy said after catching his breath. His hair’d fallen loose and pooled on the water’s surface.
Unbelievable. He was not admiring Malfoy’s attractiveness while he was this pissed off.
“What?” Malfoy said. “What does that face mean?”
Harry sighed, letting his chin slump into Malfoy’s hands. No avoiding it now.
“Am I in love with you?”
In the following stillness, a lifetime passed on Malfoy’s face. His hands retreated with him as he settled back into the farthest end of the tub. “Sometimes, I’m not even sure you like me.”
That seemed fair, given all the things Harry’d missed. Hadn’t said. How did people learn to do this?
Harry nodded, then said: “Do you… love me?”
Pain. It was pain that lingered on Malfoy’s softened cheekbones, in the edges of his eyes. He made a show of pulling his hair back into place.
“The spell wouldn’t work if I didn’t.”
Harry closed his eyes. First a mother he never knew, now a man he’d refused to see. His chest pulsed as he crossed his arms. What a mess. And he couldn’t focus on the scents: they all blended together.
“Well, shit. What do we do now?”
Malfoy huffed something like a laugh. “So many questions today.” The water rippled later as he stood. “I have no idea.” His hand brushed over Harry’s.
“What if we start with a drink?”