Part 2: The One Where Everyone Sleeps With Malfoy
He spent that evening having a reasonably sized and entirely acceptable breakdown. It involved drinking a questionable amount of Firewhisky and leafing through a handful of Witch Weekly articles that featured him.
Not that he enjoyed reading about himself, he really didn’t, and especially not the kind of sensationalist rubbish Witch Weekly liked to churn out. It was more that he’d never been popular before. At least, not before Hogwarts, where all eyes had been on him, but not in a way that felt comfortable and certainly not in “I want to snog him, fucking hell, is Harry Potter hot”- sort of way.
He’d barely even made out with Cho. And sure, Ginny had pursued him pretty relentlessly from the start. Still, he’d never thought of himself as attractive in any meaningful way, never imagined that his looks were something people noticed, let alone talked about. He knew it was shallow and a bit ridiculous to care. And yet, some small part of him still did.
So when he’d been voted “Most Eligible Wizard” three years running, he’d kept the articles. And, privately, he’d started collecting others as well, the ones that described him as handsome, even fit, and speculated enthusiastically about his love life. Particularly after it became public knowledge that he was bisexual. Which Weekly had gone completely ballistic, tying him to a string of really fit film stars and even one frankly absurdly attractive athlete. It did, to be fair, wonders for his self-esteem and he found he liked how it made him feel.
Which stood in sharp contrast to how Malfoy made him feel. It was as if Malfoy saw straight through the Witch Weekly version of Harry Potter and directly to the awkward, gangly teenager with low self-esteem – and despised what he saw. Or, despised was probably the wrong word. That would have required actual effort and Malfoy didn’t grant him that much. He looked straight past Harry, as if he simply wasn’t worth noticing.
The more whisky he drank, the angrier he got. The articles stopped being convincing halfway down the bottle, and by the time he reached the end, they might as well have been blank. To be so apparently unfuckable to Malfoy was doing something deeply unpleasant to his pride, and shooting a gaping hole though his self-esteem.
He woke the next day sprawled on the sofa. The Witch Weekly articles crumpled around him, with no memory of how they’d ended up like that. It took two hangover potions and a triple Pepper-Up before he could even face breakfast, let alone make it into the office.
The feeling, however, refused to leave him. The sense of being exposed, and that it was Malfoy who saw him most clearly, stayed with him. It took him through the whole Friday, and when he finally got home, he threw away all the articles and Flooed Ron.
It took Ron a little longer to answer, which was unusual. He was normally glued to the Floo once the weekend rolled around, always ready to head out. Harry liked Muggle pubs, and more often than not a few others from their close-knit Hogwarts group would drift in as well, until they all ended up at some club where Harry was generally too drunk to do much more than sway vaguely to the music.
He wondered if Luna was hosting another party and had finally given up inviting him, when Ron’s head popped up in the flames.
“Hey,” Ron said, a little out of breath. Harry realised he must have sprinted for the Floo. Maybe he’d only just got home from work.
“Hi. Just wanted to see if you fancied grabbing a pint or something.”
“Brilliant. I’m coming over.”
It wasn’t until then that Harry noticed that Ron wasn’t just out of breath, he looked a bit ruffled as well. Like he’d been in the middle of something.
“Shit,” Harry said. “Sorry. Are you busy?”
“Kind of, yeah,” Ron said, with a grin that immediately tripped Harry’s internal alarm system. He’d seen that grin before. Recently, in fact, across his desk, when Ron had told him about…
“Hi, Harry,” Hermione said, leaning into view beside Ron. “How are you?”
The rush of relief was immediate and then just as quickly replaced by sheer confusion. “Hermione?”
“Yeah, uhm. Surprise? We’re back together,” Ron said as a way of explanation, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
“Hold on, since when?” Harry asked, and realised only once the words were out that “since when” was probably “right now.” Possibly very right now. “I mean, now?” he added quickly, before either of them could answer.
“We’re sort of back together,” Hermione clarified, glancing at Ron. “But you can have him in an hour?”
That hour turned into two, and by the time Ron finally sat down opposite Harry at the pub, he looked so happy it practically radiated off him.
“Sorry, it's just… we had a lot to talk about.”
“Sure, okay.” Harry said, and deliberately left it at that. He wasn’t particularly keen to hear the details. Hermione had always felt a bit like a sister to him, and Ron had in the past spared him the specifics, something Harry had deeply appreciated.
“I think we’ve got Draco to thank for it, actually,” Ron added, just as Harry took a generous swig of his pint. It went down the wrong way immediately.
“What…you…what do you mean?” he wheezed, fighting for breath between coughs.
Ron leaned across the table and gave him a solid pat on the back. “You alright?”
Harry nodded, even though his eyes were still watering.
“Right,” Ron said, settling back. “It’s just… well. We both snogged him, yeah? And we both liked it. Like…liked it a lot. Like really, really…”
“Alright, I get it,” Harry cut in, in no mood whatsoever to hear about Malfoy’s apparently extensive expertise in the art of snogging. Had he started dipping his tongue in heroin beforehand, or what? “What’s your point?”
“I,.... it, okay. It just reminded me of how Hermione and I used to snog, you know. At the beginning. And I realised I’d missed it. Missed her. Turns out she’d been thinking the same thing.”
Harry stared at him for what felt like a solid minute, trying to assemble Ron’s words into any sort of meaning.
“So,” he said at last. “Malfoy. The bully and resident bigot we grew up with. That Malfoy has apparently done a full one-eighty and reinvented himself as some sort of…of...sexual fucking prodigy? When did he even have time? I genuinely don’t get it.”
Harry couldn’t fathom why everyone seemed to be gravitating towards Malfoy, like moths to a disturbing flame. A very tall, pale flame with ridiculously expensive clothes and some weird genetic quirk that gave him those haunting grey eyes. Not that Harry thought about those eyes, obviously, it was just that they sometimes looked unreal in certain light, as though the colour had been washed out of them entirely. Hard to look away from. Or at least, that was what Harry had thought when Malfoy actually used to look at him.
Ron cut through his thoughts with a short, barking laugh.
“What?” Harry threw his hands up. “Why are you laughing? First it was Dean and Seamus, and now you two as well?”
Ron’s laughter faded as he raised an eyebrow. “People are allowed to change, yeah? I don’t think you really mean he can’t.” He paused, thoughtful. “And it kind of seems like he’s making an effort.”
“Yeah, right,” Harry said. “Because nothing says personal growth like snogging and shagging your way through our entire bloody year.”
Ron studied him for a moment. “Are you getting a little obsessed with him? Again, I mean?”
“I’m not obsessed,” Harry said immediately, which, even to his own ears, didn’t sound as convincing as he’d hoped. “I’m not,” he added weakly.
“Right,” Ron said, and Harry, in lack of a better retort, simply kicked him under the table.
“Ow! Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron protested. “Now you’re adding violence to our friendship? Maybe you should watch Draco a bit more, yeah? Take some notes.”
“Ha. Hilarious,” Harry said flatly.
“Yeah, I know. But honestly, you could try kissing him at dinner. See what it’s like.”
Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. “Seriously? He’s with your brother. Remember him?”
“So?” Ron shrugged. “He’s not exactly known for putting labels on his flings. Don’t think he’s got a monogamous bone in his body, honestly.”
“Maybe he’s grown one,” Harry said darkly. “Malfoy does seem to have some sort of magical ability to make everyone lose their bloody minds. I’m sure he’s up to—”
Ron didn’t let him finish. “Harry, mate. Listen. He’s not up to anything. Draco’s just—”
“Why are you even calling him Draco?” Harry interrupted. “Like you know him?”
Ron grimaced. “It feels a bit daft calling him Malfoy when I’ve had my tongue in his mouth, doesn’t it?”
“I didn’t,” Ron said. “You brought it up.”
Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he took a long, steadying gulp of his pint, which did absolutely nothing, because now he had a vivid mental image of Ron and Malfoy enthusiastically making out. Malfoy’s long, capable hands tangled in Ron’s hair, and—
Fuck. This was getting out of hand. What did Malfoy even have that Harry didn’t? He was tall, sure, but Harry had more muscle. And yes, Malfoy was pulling off that haunting, vampiric look rather well, but still, that had to be an acquired taste, surely? What other qualities was Malfoy apparently bringing to the table that gave him all that… appeal? A tongue that leaked Amortentia, or just a really large cock that made everyone momentarily forget that Malfoy was deep down a genuinely rubbish person with deeply questionable morals?
“What do you like about him then?” Harry asked, the question tumbling out before he’d had a chance to think it through.
“Yeah. Draco. What is it about him that makes everyone collectively ignore all his general shittiness?”
Ron eyed him. “Alright. We’re really doing this?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “We’re doing this. Tell me.” What he has that I don’t went unsaid, but years of friendship made it loud enough anyway for Ron to catch it.
“Mate. What is this actually about? Are you jealous of him? Or…” His eyes widened a fraction. “Hold on. You’re not jealous, you want him to—”
“No,” Harry said immediately. And then, to really underline the point, he said it again. “No. I really don’t. Don’t look at me like that, I just…” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I just don’t get what’s happening. It’s like I’ve stepped into some weird parallel universe and I don’t know how to get back.”
Harry didn’t answer, and Ron didn’t wait for one. “I think you feel a bit left out.”
Harry looked back up and winced. Not because Ron was wrong, but mostly hearing it said out loud made it sound so petty. It was hard to admit without feeling exactly as pathetic as he suspected he was.
“I don’t need him to pick me. I really don’t. I’d have said no anyway. It’s more that I…” He trailed off, frustrated. He was losing the point, not even sure how to convincingly lie just to sound a bit less embarrassing.
Ron snorted. “You know, Harry, plenty of people want to fuck you too. They’re just scared to ask.”
“No, they don’t,” Harry said. “They come up to me all the time.”
“Yeah?” Ron said sceptically. “Let me guess, you tell them about the war and then just stand there with that broody look of yours. Works every time, does it?”
“Wait, what? I don’t brood.”
Ron gave him a look. “Mate.”
“Alright,” Harry said. “Maybe a bit.”
“Listen. You are fit as fuck. Trust me. But you’re also kind of intimidating, yeah? Not just because of the war effort, which, by the way, was impressive, but because you walk into a room full of strangers and immediately radiate this massive fuck off, right?
“You absolutely do,” Ron said cheerfully. “And that’s fine. I get it, trust me. But people don’t see the rest of you. They don’t get past that bit.”
“So what I’m getting here is that Malfoy just does the opposite?”
“Kind of. But honestly, Harry, you are a massive catch. You know that, yeah? You’re like a really fucking good roast potato. Absolute highlight of the meal. People just overlook it because the beef’s supposed to be the main event, but really? It’s the rosemary roast potato.”
Harry laughed, he really fucking loved Ron. “Roast potato, yeah?”
“Fucking yes.” Ron clinked his glass against Harry’s before lifting it to his lips. “And for what it’s worth, fuck Draco. He’s the one missing out. Too busy eating everything else on the plate.”
All the way home, he tried very hard not to think about Malfoy, which, inevitably, meant thinking about Malfoy. It was useless. He wasn’t obsessed, that was ridiculous. He was a grown man, with real responsibilities and far more important things to worry about.
It was just that Ron’s words kept sloshing around in his head, and maybe he had been a bit broody. Maybe Malfoy was just pretending to be the sun, so he could blind everyone, not making them look too hard. It was still entirely possible that it was all an act, right? Like he secretly had some part-Veela thing he’d very cleverly covered up.
Harry snorted to himself. He was a fucking roast potato, and if he needed to be the bloody sun as well, he could manage that. Whatever Malfoy had going on wasn’t going to last forever.
Harry was going to outshine that wanker.
I originally posted this yesterday, immediately realised something was missing, and chatted with @fluffyunderneath who read it and suggested the potato conversation. Her mind is brilliant. Always and forever, best hype woman ever to live.❤️
And yes, I'm also lost in the Heated Rivalry-mass hysteria and had to add a little sunshine to this story as well, hehe.
Part 3 will be at the Burrow, where Harry is going to play it so cool. Painfully, famously cool, right? (This is a lie, lier told you that!)
