Kiss the Pitch

Then

20 June 1998

Harry smoothed a hand down his midnight blue dress robe and examined his image in the mirror critically. Frowning at the hair sticking up at the back of his head, he licked his palm and tried to flatten it down without success. He noticed the threading inside one of his buttons was loose, so he reached down to tug at it. However, instead of neatly ripping off, the wayward thread grew longer, and Harry became more frantic to remove it. After a few seconds, the thread detached with a quiet snap, and Harry felt relief for a moment before the button coasted from its spot on his robe down to the carpeted floor.

He stared at it in horror, and then dived to pick it up and dust it off. A bad omen, it had to be. Harry wouldn’t do this without all of the buttons on his robe. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t even if he wanted to. What would Malfoy say if he saw him missing a button?

“Borrowing a robe from Weasley, Potter?”

Harry squeezed the button in a tight fist and ran downstairs to the Gryffindor common room.

“Hermione!”

Now

26 May 1999

“Hermione!” Harry exclaims, surprised to see her standing in the middle of his living room with a flushed face and hands on her hips.

“Do you know?” she cries, waving a piece of paper in the air too fast for him to read.

“What are you…”

“Do you know what your frienddid now?” she continues, unbothered by his attempts to respond.

Harry sighs and closes the file on his lap. Hermione only refers to Ron as “Harry’s friend” when Ron does something insufferably daft.

“I swear, ‘Mione, I don’t have a clue what you’re on about,” he asserts.

“He said you had the idea,” she accuses.

Pushing his work off his legs and onto the couch cushion, Harry stands up to face Hermione eye to eye.

“Idea for what?”

“Did he tell you that he wanted to plan a vacation to celebrate our two year anniversary?”

Looking for the trap, Harry replies carefully, “Yes.”

“And what did you say?” Hermione demands, in that tone of voice that means she already knows the answer.

“I said to do something you would both like.”

“Why?” she cries, shocking Harry.

“It seemed like good advice!”

Hermione takes a step forward, and Harry fights against the survival instinct that tells him to leap back.

“Why, when Ron came to you asking about romantic vacations, didn’t you say Bermuda or the South of France? Why did you let him pick?”

She sounds livid, and Harry feels the dread pool in his stomach.

“Why, what did he choose?” he asks.

The paper in Hermione’s hand slaps against his chest. He peels it off to see that it’s a brochure. A quick perusal of the contents has him groaning and running a hand over his face.

Kiss The Pitch ’99-Deluxe Edition!

Spend two weeks traveling around Britain and all of Europe seeing historical sites, making new friends and, most importantly, KISSING THE PITCH! Visit all eight Quidditch pitches in Britain and Ireland, plus only in this Deluxe Edition, ten of the national pitches throughout Europe! Tour the grounds, meet members of the hard working grounds keeping staff and finally, in a Quidditch Quazies Inc. exclusive, step out onto the grass and actually KISS THE PITCH!

KISS THE PITCH of the legendary Josef Wronski, creator of the Wronski Feint, in Poland! KISS THE PITCH of “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn, Finbar Quigley, Glynnis Griffiths and many, many more!

KISS THE PITCH has been making the dreams of Quidditch fans come true for over two hundred years! Let us do the same for you!

*NEW*--Now featuring the first ever stop at the pitches of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Durmstrang Institute and the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic! KISS THE PITCHES where all the greats began—Viktor Krum, Caron Beauvais and, of course, the Boy Who Lived!

“Oh my god.”

“’It says historical sites, ‘Mione,’” she mimics, her voice deepening in a terrible impersonation of Ron’s, “’so you’ll have fun too.’”

“You can fix this,” Harry responds, thinking quickly. “Explain the situation to Ron and then get his money back and spend it on someplace better.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He can’t?”

“It’s non-refundable.”

“Of course it is,” Harry answers, falling back on the couch. “So what are you going to do?”

It takes Harry several seconds to understand Hermione’s raised eyebrow, but once he does, he hops back off the couch.

“Oh no, no, no. I am not going with him!”

“You’re his best friend! You love Quidditch!”

“Not enough to pay money so I can kiss the ground that I myself once walked on,” he argues.

“You wouldn’t have to pay anything.”

Harry rolls his eyes when she focuses on the most insignificant part of his comment. “I mean really, the Hogwarts pitch? Remember fifth year when Slytherin beat Ravenclaw and Seamus, Dean, Ron, me and all those Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs pissed on it? It’s unsanitary!”

“Too bad Quidditch Quazies, Inc. didn’t know about that incident. Imagine—the place the Boy Who Lived played and peed. They could have charged double.”

“I have to work,” Harry tries.

“You have vacation time.”

“And you want me to waste it by spending the summer in Norway and Bulgaria?”

“Look, Harry, one of us has to go, and it’s not going to be me,” she says.

“No! You can’t make me do this!”

Then

20 June 1998

“I have to do this,” Harry told himself, squinting down at the button Hermione spelled back onto his robe.

He bucked himself up the way he had for the last month by replaying a good memory in his mind.

The beginning of seventh year when all the members of the Order still had to learn to trust Malfoy. Malfoy strolled into a meeting mere minutes before it was scheduled to begin, the air of vague disinterest he cultivated lingering in the straight line of his back and lazy sway of his hips.

The only time Harry had seen him lose his careful demeanor had been at the end of sixth year when he walked into Dumbledore’s office bruised and bleeding and pissed off, talking about war and tactics and weak links.

Ignoring the suspicious stares of most of the other group members, he had made his way to the back of the room, sliding into the seat beside Harry. During the meeting, as Arthur Weasley and Mad Eye Moody had lectured on Death Eater strongholds, battle plans and constant vigilance, Malfoy had shifted until his left arm and thigh rubbed against Harry’s right ones. When Harry had turned an incredulous eye on him, Malfoy didn’t look away from Arthur’s presentation up front, but the corner of his mouth had turned up in sly amusement and Harry had felt Malfoy’s thumb graze the thin skin at the inside of his wrist. He had to rely on Hermione’s copious notes to learn what had been said at the meeting.

And really, Harry could think of no better time to confront Malfoy. On their last night at Hogwarts, the seventh year students celebrated by throwing a party after hours in the great hall. The teachers stayed away with the explicit agreement that the Head Boy and Head Girl would stay sober and supervise the gathering. That meant Hermione and Malfoy couldn’t drink the whole night.

One more gathering as a class, and the next day they’d pack their stuff away, get on the Hogwarts Express and leave the safety and familiarity of the old, drafty castle they’d come to think of as home. That meant if Malfoy didn’t feel the same way, if he didn’t want Harry back, Harry would never have to see him again.

With that last thought, Harry lost all the ground he’d gained, so he took a deep breath and calmed himself down again.

A little earlier in the year, nearly three months following the defeat of Voldemort over Christmas hols. It had been one of the first warm days after the winter, and many students had been sitting outside talking, playing or doing their homework. Harry had been bent over his scroll of Astronomy homework in a fairly secluded section of the grounds when the ingratiating sound of a giggle made him look up.

Pansy Parkinson had been kneeling beside Malfoy, her back to Harry. Malfoy lounged against a large, shaded tree with his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. One of his elegant, thin hands stroked a methodical line from the middle of Parkinson’s shoulder blades down to her lower back over and over while she placed sucking kisses on Malfoy’s neck and jaw.

Harry had found his gaze riveted on the hypnotic motion of Malfoy’s hand trailing down and back up Parkinson’s back, his fingertips lightly grazing the thin material of her white shirt. The longer Harry’s eyes helplessly followed the path, the harder his breathing had become. He managed to jerk his stare up and away at the same moment Parkinson’s mouth finally touched Malfoy’s.

Harry started when he discovered Malfoy’s grey eyes watching him intently.

The two of them had remained like that for several seconds, with Malfoy’s wet, swollen lips parted underneath Parkinson’s and his hand not stopping its slow, torturous path up and down her back, yet all of his attention focused on Harry.

Harry’s fingers had flexed uselessly at his sides, and the quill and parchment he been working with fell off his lap onto the ground. He didn’t even notice. His tongue ran unconsciously over his bottom lip when Parkinson did the same thing to Malfoy.

The dropped quaffle from an impromptu Quidditch match whizzing passed Harry’s head ended the moment.

“Harry, are you ready to go?” Ron asked as he let Hermione fiddle with the collar of his robe.

“Yes.”

Now

25 June 1999

He Apparates into Ron and Hermione’s shared flat three minutes before they agreed to meet.

“Harry, is that you?” Ron calls from behind the bedroom door.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be out in just a minute!”

“All right,” Harry answers, and then practices his long perfected skill of not hearing any noises coming from the vicinity of his best friends.

Ron appears quickly with a dazed looking Hermione following behind him. She greets Harry with a small kiss on the cheek and Harry’s eyebrow rises at her calm behavior.

“You boys have a good time now,” she chirps, leaning forward to snog Ron.

Harry focuses his attention on the clock floating above the mantle and blocks out the slick sucking sounds Ron and Hermione make.

“We’ll miss the Portkey if we don’t leave now,” he says after a few moments.

“He’s right,” Hermione whispers, backing away regretfully and using her thumb to wipe away a smudge of lip-gloss from above Ron’s top lip.

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” Ron responds, his body still bent over her smaller one.

When Hermione’s hands fist around the lapel of Ron’s robe, Harry clears his throat and points at the kitchen. “Should I just…”

“No, no,” Hermione answers, propriety abruptly returning to her body language. “Get a move out. It’s supposed to rain in Yorkshire when you visit there, so remember your umbrellas.” She ushers them to the fireplace and grins one last time. “Bring me back a souvenir.”

“We will,” Ron promises.

Harry scoops up some Floo Powder and steps gratefully into the fireplace. Within seconds, he comes to rest inside the Quidditch Quazies headquarters. Ron pops in minutes later, and the expression of pure smugness on his face makes Harry roll his eyes.

“You can’t expect to get out of every fight with sexual favors,” Harry says.

“Why not?” Ron reasons slyly. “It’s worked so far.” His smug grin melts into a genuine smile. “Listen mate, Hermione likes to pretend that she’s tough, but it’s an act. She does it because she thinks that’s the only way anyone will take her seriously.”

Harry gives him a disbelieving look to show his skepticism.

“’S true,” Ron insists. “In reality, she’s all soft.”

The wolfish grin that spreads across his face gives Harry the impression that Ron’s thinking about soft parts of Hermione that have nothing to do with her personality. His nose wrinkles in distaste.

“Oh, please stop,” he begs. “All I’m saying is that eventually she’s going to call you on your shit.”

“And you’re the expert on relationships, are you? What with you having not been in one at all in the last three years,” Ron states. “As a matter of fact, I can’t even…oh no, I’ve got it. The last time you mentioned an interest in anyone was the middle of last year when you had that crush on Malfoy, of all people.” He snickers at the thought. “Fuck, that was funny. D’you remember?”

Harry smiles bitterly and heads to the receptionist’s desk. “Yeah, I remember.”

People laughing at him, the story of his life.

Then

20 June 1998

“Harry? Harry,” said a laughing voice.

A hand waving in front of his face broke Harry out of his reverie. He turned to see Seamus grinning beside him, trying to get his attention. He smiled weakly in apology. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it.”

“Out of it?” Seamus repeated. “You look sick.”

“I feel sick,” he replied. Nauseous was more like it. Months, months Harry prepared himself for this day. Only now that it had arrived, all of his memories and reasoning seemed ridiculous.

Harry expected to march into the great hall and right up to Malfoy before he lost his nerve, but that didn’t happen. He’d been there almost half an hour and hadn’t seen Malfoy yet, which meant the Head Boy was patrolling the grounds to keep an eye on the inebriated teenagers milling around. Though knowing Malfoy, he’d be more likely to point and laugh at any bladdered students he came across than actually put an end to their fun.

The longer Harry didn’t act, the more his anxieties and insecurities infected his mind. Every passing second, his resolve slipped a little more. He began to think the plan was a very bad idea.

“I know what you need.”

Harry jerked to face Seamus again, having forgotten about him. He grinned at Harry and held up a cup for him to take. Harry reached out for the proffered glass and examined the contents cautiously. The liquid looked like the color of the Atlantic Ocean on a clear day, a sparkling, unnatural sapphire. Harry swirled the drink and watched its heavy, lethargic circles inside the glass. It was dense.

Experimentally, he sipped it. It reminded him of a blueberry milkshake, thick and tangy. After he swallowed, the sharp, metallic aftertaste of firewhiskey followed the trail of blueberry to burn down his throat.

It coated his stomach pleasantly with warmth, and he took another, bigger gulp. Already the drink soothed some of his frayed nerves. He smiled slowly at Seamus.

“Thanks for that.”

“Sure, Harry. Dean and Parvati made a whole bowl full of it at our table. Just come by if you want a refill.”

Licking his lips, Harry nodded.

Now

27 June 1999

Harry nods along as Ron speaks, gushing about seeing the pitch where the Cannons beat Puddlemere United in the best game he’d ever seen.

“I kissed it, Harry! I kissed the pitch where Dedalus Humphrey performed a V-Curved Plummet to catch the Snitch and win the game by one point. A single point!”

Harry can’t concentrate on Ron’s words because his mind has stalled in an attempt to comprehend the massive amount of orange his friend wears. They make orange shoes? Amazing. Is it possible that Hermione has dated Ron for two years without mentioning how ridiculous redheads look wearing orange clothes?

Behind Ron’s shoulder, the French brothers on the tour, Guy and Armand D’Aubigne dance around the pitch with arms linked and bottles of French wine hefted in the air. They both wear bright pink outfits. It’s in honor of the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, Harry knows, but still. Pink. And they’re always dancing. And drinking.

It’s only two days into the tour, and Harry’s exhausted. The tour guide, Thom, is very efficient, and very enthusiastic, but that means that they hardly stop in one city or country before Portkeying to another. Thom’s promised a three-day respite in France though, which Harry anxiously awaits.

Ron stops talking to him and rushes back out onto the pitch with Keara and Gale, the two Irish women who have dragged their more reluctant boyfriends, Liam and Aidan, on the tour. Their love for Irish Quidditch rivals Seamus’s, and Harry often hears the two women bickering over their favorite teams. Liam and Aidan seem indifferent to the whole game.

Already on the field are Nakimo, Reiko, Kisho and Yoshimitisu, four twenty-somethings from Japan. Fiorenza and Giovanni, the Italian newlyweds, pull out a handful of grass and store it in Fiorenza’s purse with the rest of the samples from the other pitches. Kiran (who prefers Karen), a Hindi teenage girl whose mother, Chanda, watches disapprovingly from the sidelines strokes a hand along the left goal post farthest away from Harry and stares up at the hoop, captivated. Tenoch and Julio, two Mexican men in their late twenties or early thirties, race from across the pitch, and both look like they’re more interested in each other than Esperanza and Marisol, the women that came with them.

Harry hears footsteps and groans when he sees Eliza jogging up the bleachers two at a time to reach him. Eliza went to school with Harry. She won Cho Chang’s position on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team in their last year at school, and now plays for Manchester in the unofficial, semi-professional league. She’s a Seeker, but she hasn’t got the reflexes to go pro. What she lacks in talent, she makes up for in enthusiasm. She first noticed Harry about an hour into the tour and has since not left his side, rattling off question after question about his games at Hogwarts.

At first the questions entertain him, but they quickly become tedious. He barely manages to stop from rolling his eyes as she takes a deep breath to begin speaking.

“Hello, Harry,” she says. “I was wondering, in your sixth year when you played against Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup—an amazing game, by the way, even though it should have been Ravenclaw there instead of those cheating snakes. Did I tell you how Thaddeus Trent pushed Sara Newport off of her broom, but made it look like an accident?”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it,” Harry sighs.

“Anyway, about that game. In the last ten minutes of it when you first saw the Snitch, how did you know to move out of the way of the bludger that Kilgore Gurney aimed at you? You didn’t even look back, just pulled up and let it sail right under your broom.”

“It was probably luck,” he replies honestly. Eliza’s face drops and he hastens to think of a lie. “Intuition?”

“Intuition, yes!” she crows. “Wronski, Griffiths, Murray. Do you know what they all had?”

“Intuition?” Harry guesses.

He glances to his left and sees Lateefah and DaKarai Oabsakah sitting on the other side of the bleachers watching their son, Uba, prance around the field with Szymon from Poland. Mr. Oabsakah is an ambassador from Nigeria to the Ministry of Magic, and both he and his wife look regal and elegant in their multicolored African robes.

They hold hands, and smile as Uba joins in the impromptu rendition of the Chudley Cannons loyalty chant that Ron and the D’Aubigne brothers lead in the middle of the pitch.

“Intuition!” Eliza shouts in agreement.

Harry wonders how rude it would seem if he gets up and sits by the Oabsakahs.

Then

20 June 1998

Harry didn’t often drink alcohol, at least not the way that Ron and Dean did, pint after pint at the Three Broomsticks. That’s why Seamus looked impressed when Harry lumbered to the Gryffindor table for his fifth Blue Monsoon in forty-five minutes. Hermione wore a concerned frown on her face as she watched him drink glass after glass of the frothy, potent concoction. He smiled in her direction to reassure her that he felt fine, perfect, floaty.

Truthfully, Harry felt nervous and sick, his bravado and courage almost completely gone. On the other hand, though, his limbs were pleasantly heavy, and with each successive drink his mind numbed a little further. At the rate he was going, by the time Malfoy showed up, he’d be fearless.

Where was Malfoy, anyway? He should have been there. Hermione was there, and she was Head Girl to his Head Boy. Knowing his terrible luck, Malfoy was probably lying dead at the bottom of the lake, lunch for the Giant Squid. Harry stopped abruptly. Oh God, what if he was dead?

“Whoa!” Hermione cried from beside him, and Harry felt her grab his elbow. “You can’t even walk on your own!”

“I wasn’t walking,” Harry argued, pulling his arm out of her grasp.

“No, you were tipping over, mate,” Ron corrected with a grin, appearing next to his girlfriend.

“A bit hard to stay standing with so much going on,” he reasoned. The last of drink number five slid down his throat like water or milk or…fluffy blue clouds.

“That’s it,” Hermione said. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”

“’Mione,” Ron laughed, “he’s not sick, he’s drunk. Let him be, it won’t do any harm. You can play nursemaid in the morning when he’s throwing up all over the train.”

She gave a loud, explosive sigh. “Fine, but as Head Girl I’m cutting him off.”

“Deal.” Ron slapped Harry on the back, making him jolt forward. “Hear that? No more Blue Monsoons tonight.”

“Tastes like clouds,” Harry responded and then frowned. It didn’t sound right when he said it out loud, so he tried to clarify. “Blue ones.”

As his friends tried to untangle the meaning of his words, Harry saw a flash of familiar white-blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. He turned towards the entrance and watched Malfoy stroll into the Great Hall, looking gorgeous in a snug emerald colored robe, his Head Boy pin on one of the collars.

Helplessly, Harry watched as any liquid courage his drinks provided earlier left his system as his heart thrashed against his chest. When Mandy Brocklehurst caught Malfoy’s attention in her low cut scarlet robe and he stopped walking to wrap his arms around her waist, Harry felt his face flush with embarrassment.

What had he been thinking? Malfoy wouldn’t want him, not that way. God, what he’d almost done. His face flushed even further as he imagined the outcome had he gone through with it—imagined Malfoy laughing at stupid Harry Potter and his crush. Harry’s knees wobbled and Ron put an arm around his shoulders.

“What’s the matter…?”

As usual, Hermione figured it out first.

“Malfoy,” she answered, and Harry winced at the note of pity in her voice.

“Malfoy?” Ron echoed. “Where?”

“Dancing with Mandy Brocklehurst,” Hermione replied, giving a nod to where Harry’s gaze was still locked. Malfoy wedged one of his thighs between both of Mandy’s and they rocked obscenely against one another.

Ron sighed in resignation when he saw their display. Although Malfoy’s help within the Order of the Phoenix had ended any overt hostility between Malfoy and Ron, some of the old bad blood and animosity remained buried under the surface. If Harry weren’t so drunk and crestfallen, he would have been touched at the way Ron put aside his personal feelings for Malfoy to commiserate with Harry.

“It’s ok. Everyone knows Malfoy swings both ways,” Ron responded in a way Harry knew was meant to comfort him, but only managed to make his insides twist a little more.

He laughed against the bitter taste in the back of his throat.

“I’m leaving.”

“Harry…” Hermione tried.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “I just can’t be here right now.”

He walked away on unsteady legs and then started when he looked down and saw the empty glass still in his hand begin to fill with another Blue Monsoon. He looked back at the Gryffindor table and Seamus gave him an empathetic smile and conspiratorial wink.

Harry raised the glass once in thanks and searched the hall for the best exit. Pushed his way to the wall as far away from Malfoy as possible and kept his eyes fixed on his shoes, not looking where he wanted to the most. He made it all the way to the exit before he broke his resolution, visually scanning the floor for Malfoy. Caught sight of him, only to find Malfoy looking straight back. Jerked his head and rushed away from the party and down the hall.

He slipped out the first door he came to in an alcove next to the Arithmancy classroom. His legs lasted just long enough to get him to the granite benches set up along the walkway. He took a long, artless slurp from his cup, pretending he could still taste the alcohol before slumping his shoulders and covering his eyes with his free hand.

A moment later, his head snapped up and his stomach dropped at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice beside him:

“You look like shit, Potter.”

Now

29 June 1999

Harry’s never visited Marseilles before, but now he can’t understand why. The streets bustle with people speaking rapid French, and Harry admits to himself that he’s taken with the language. The way it rolls off the tongues of the natives, sounding somehow both haughty and sexy at the same time.

The weather feels perfect, and though it’s nearly July, a light breeze ruffles Harry’s already mussed hair. He runs a hand through the strands, a small, pleased smile on his face, as he watches the ripples that the wind makes on the surface of the sea spread out in front of them like a endless blue velvet. For a moment, Harry’s mind sees a similar looking blue drink, but he shakes off that bad memory as soon as it hits and enjoys the beautiful surroundings.

Earlier in the day the group toured Northern France and saw the pitch used for international Quidditch games played in France. Harry likes the feeling of the little city with its homey cottages and elderly Wizards and Muggles alike tending to their vineyards. It can’t compare to Marseilles, though, and the way the sun seems to shine brighter than anywhere else Harry’s ever visited.

Harry’s train of thought deserts him as a gorgeous Wizard with dark hair and eyes and deep olive skin passes, using loud French words and expansive hand gestures to make some point to the Witch walking beside him. He notices Harry’s gaze and pauses a moment to give him a knowing look from under long, thick eyelashes. Harry turns his head and catches up with Ron and the others.

The group walks through the center of the Wizarding community on their way to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. As much as Harry loves the moors, thick foliage and mysterious fog surrounding the Hogwarts Castle in Scotland, he feels jealous of all the students who lived here for seven years of school.

Thom promised the group a three-day respite in the empty student dorm rooms at the Academy. He’s also leading an optional tour of some of the biggest pitches in France, and Ron’s attending that, but Harry plans to relax at the school and enjoy the few days he has in Marseilles.

The closer they get to the entrance of the school, the more excited Guy and Armand D’Aubigne—the Brothers Grimm, as Harry’s nicknamed them in his head—become. They chase each other around in circles, zipping past Harry’s view in a blur of pink and the musk of wine. Thankfully those two, along with Eliza, are also taking Thom’s extra tour, which affords Harry at least seventy-two hours of peace before they head to Germany.

Looking around at the other people on the tour, Harry’s eyebrows rise when he sees Liam and Aidan, the disgruntled Irish boyfriends, laughing with Marisol and Esperanza, the forgotten Mexican girlfriends, at the back of the group. When Aidan tries to say something in Spanish, the two girls giggle hysterically and Esperanza pronounces it again while Aidan stares at her mouth.

In front of the Oabsakahs, Keara and Gale bicker over the outcome of a certain game played at the pitch they’d just kissed. To the left and in front of the girls, Julio throws an arm around Tenoch and rests his chin on Tenoch’s shoulder to whisper something slyly into his ear. Tenoch snickers and shakes Julio off of him before darting behind Kisho and using his body as protection from his friend’s advances.

Harry briefly entertains the thought of what internal drama the next three days will bring when Guy and Armand let out unholy whoops of joy and race full tilt ahead. In the distance Harry sees a sign most likely welcoming them to Beauxbatons.

The walkway to the Beauxbatons mansion winds long and far, lined with brightly colored flowers and lush, low hanging trees. As they round another bend, Harry makes out what looks like a lumbering giant coming towards them. He’s startled a moment until he realizes it is a giant, or rather, a half-giant in the form of Olympe Maxime, the Headmistress of the school. As she reaches them, Harry notices her impeccable wardrobe, manicured fingernails and sparkling jewelry hasn’t changed since the last time he saw her during the Tri-wizard Tournament in his fourth year.

She smiles in the polite, distant manner that Harry remembers from her encounters with Hagrid, and tells them how pleased Beauxbatons is to have such dedicated Quidditch fans take advantage of the school’s facilities, but warns them that there will be some students around for the summer sessions, so they’ll be staying in empty professors’ quarters for the next three nights.

They head straight for the main attraction, the pitch set up behind the mansion. Guy and Armand attended the school over a decade ago, and they are quite excited to see their alma mater. They try to spring in front of the group, but a quelling glare from Headmistress Maxime stops them short. She must remember them from their time at Beauxbatons, because the look she gives them drips with years worth of frustration.

When they finally round on the pitch, Guy and Armand skirt past Maxime onto the turf, followed closely by Nakimo, Giovanni, Kiran and several other frenzied fans. The D’Aubigne’s fall to their knees and kiss the ground while Fiorenza lets Ron grab her hand and twirl her around.

Harry watches, the corner of his mouth upturned, with the Oabsakahs and flirting Irish men and Mexican women around him. He climbs up the stands to sit and take in the ambience of the place. Leaning back, he balances his elbows on the seats behind him and turns his face up to the sun and shuts his eyes with a sigh. He enjoys experiencing all of these pitches, just not to the fanatical degree that many of the others on the tour do.

“Regardez eux, ils dansent comme des enfants.”

The words come from somewhere off to the right of him away from the tour group. Harry’s eyes snap opened because even speaking a foreign language, he recognizes that derisive, aristocratically cultured voice immediately.

On the other side of the stands, obscured from view, stands Draco Malfoy, wearing the traditional Beauxbatons light blue and accompanied by two other similarly attired men. For a moment, Harry felt as though he couldn’t breath.

It can’t be possible. It can’t be possible for Harry to run into Malfoy in France of all places, and in the middle of this ridiculous “Kiss The Pitch” tour. It can’t be possible, because there has to be a limit on the number of times he can embarrass himself in front of the same person. There has to be.

Apparently the gods of probability don’t agree, because while Harry looks around for somewhere to go without attracting attention, Malfoy’s gaze finds him. His startled look of recognition coincides perfectly with the sounds of Guy and Armand drunkenly beginning to bellow the words to the Beauxbatons school song.

Harry’s eyes close in humiliating defeat.

Then

20 June 1998

Malfoy startled him so much that Harry hopped off of the bench he sat on, realizing his mistake when he felt himself tipping over. Just before the momentum caused him to fall, strong hands gripped his upper arms and kept him upright. Malfoy’s curious eyes came into his vision along with a raised eyebrow.

“Having some problems?”

The Blue Monsoons were probably responsible for how humorous Harry found Malfoy’s unintentionally accurate statement. He began giggling and nodding his head.

“Yes, definitely having some troubles. Yes, yes, yes.”

Malfoy’s nonplussed expression blossomed into amusement. “You’re drunk!”

More enthusiastic nodding as Harry felt his legs turn into liquid under the onslaught of fire whiskey attacking his system.

“Whoa,” Malfoy said, stepping forward to tighten his grip on Harry’s arms and steady him. “You should sit back down.”

Shaking his head, because with his mind a fuzzy mess and Malfoy’s hands burning into his already overheated skin, the only thing he could think was that he didn’t want to let go. Leaning forward, Harry let his head fall onto Malfoy’s shoulder and shut his eyes.

“Uh-uh,” he mumbled into the warm skin of Malfoy’s neck.

Malfoy allowed the contact with only an obscenity muttered under his breath, then asked, “Have you ever drank before, Potter?” His tone still sounded imperious despite his body fitted snugly against Harry’s.

“Yes,” Harry replied. With Malfoy’s hands on him, the scent of Malfoy’s cologne lingering in the soft curve where his neck met his shoulders and Harry’s head floating so peacefully, all his fleeting courage came creeping back up his spine, making his hands open and close at his sides. In the back of his mind he remembered Mandy Brocklehurst and why doing this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t muster enough strength to care.

“I’ve drunk before,” he continued, “and it makes you do…stupid things.”

“Stupid things?” Malfoy asked, the words spoken into Harry’s hair.

“Mm-hmm,” he confirmed, and then placed a delicate kiss on the other man’s neck. Malfoy stiffened as Harry’s mouth traveled up to his jaw, the corner of his mouth and finally his lips, soft and firm. He didn’t respond when Harry’s mouth opened against his to deepen the kiss, nor to Harry’s hand that slid into his artfully tousled blonde hair. Harry squeezed his eyes shut as his heart hammered in his chest from the knowledge that he was doing what he’d thought about for months.

The kiss wore on for several seconds until finally Malfoy pushed him away, dropping his hands from their place on Harry’s arms. Harry’s alcohol-slowed brain finally recognized Malfoy’s lack of participation and he stumbled back another few steps, mortification flushing his whole body.

Malfoy looked at him for long seconds with a peculiar expression that Harry’s racing mind didn’t stop to comprehend, and then he tipped his head back and laughed.

“Oh God.” Harry’s stomach roiled and he pushed past Malfoy and fled to the castle on shaky legs. At the entrance he stumbled over an errant rock but caught himself on a wall and trudged forward. With his hand on the door, he turned, taking one last look at Malfoy’s back and too-blonde hair before slamming the door shut.

Now

29 June 1999

When Harry opens his eyes, Malfoy’s standing on the bleachers in front of him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his thin summer robe. He inclines his head at Harry with the bright midday sun glinting off of blonde hair that Harry knows from experience is soft and sleek. His heart rate spikes.

“Come to kiss the pitch, Harry?” It’s so suggestive that Harry feels his face heat before he scowls.

“I’m here with Ron,” he answers tersely, pointing to his friend frolicking with Guy and Armand, looking as though he’s enjoyed some of their ever-present wine.

“Ah, I should have known,” Malfoy replies. “This is right up Weasley’s alley.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He stares straight ahead at the pitch and fakes an interest in the revelry occurring on the grass.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other,” Malfoy continues.

“I guess,” Harry responds, thinking that Malfoy becoming a teacher in France might have something to do with that.

“Was my birthday party the last time?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest and feels his face redden, cursing himself because he knows that’s what Malfoy wants.

“That sounds about right, yeah.”

Out of the corner of his eye he makes out a shifting of Malfoy’s posture. “Harry…” Malfoy attempts to close some of the distance between them, his voice serious, but Harry takes several steps back and holds up his hand.

“Don’t.”

Malfoy bristles and annoyance flashes across his face. “Will you just…”

“No! Stop! What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here!”

Harry starts climbing down the seats to reach the bottom of the bleachers. He hears the clank of Malfoy’s boots following him and quickens his descent.

“Look, I’m sorry about…”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he growls, cutting him off again, determined not to let him say anything that might weaken Harry’s defenses.

When they reach the ground, a hand grabs his arm to keep him from running. He spins angrily in the grip to face Malfoy.

“I can’t do this, ok? You aren’t supposed to be here,” Harry shouts, the tone of his voice revealing his desperation and lack of control.

“Can’t do what, Harry? All I’m trying to do is apologize.”

“You know what! I can’t…look at you and your…stupid hair and stupid eyes,” Harry feels his mouth running away from him, saying things he doesn’t want said, but Malfoy’s head is tilted to the side and he has this curious, speculative look on his face. It feels like he’s sifting through the contents of Harry’s mind, and Harry’s self-consciousness manifests itself through his nervous babbling. “I’m almost over you, I am. I just have to stop seeing you, that’s all. If you could leave me alone, I’d be fine.” He means to sound confident, but knows it comes out like he’s trying to convince himself.

Malfoy’s bemusement melts into shock. “Almost?” he repeats.

When Harry realizes he’s staring at Malfoy’s mouth, watching it form the word, he jerks his head up. Malfoy stares back at him silently for several long seconds, his eyes flitting over Harry’s face, searching for something that Harry tries to hide. Finally, his face clears and shifts into a look that is predatory and purely sexual. Harry’s mind helpfully supplies him with memories of the last time Malfoy looked at him that way, when Malfoy’s body, somehow both pliant and hard at the same time, was writhing against Harry’s back, arms around his waist and lips on his neck and Harry can’t contain a low groan at the recollection.

Malfoy’s expression shifts again, his lips turning up into a knowing smirk, as if he can see the lewd dance replaying in Harry’s mind, as if he knows exactly what the memory does to Harry and it amuses the fuck out of him. When he takes a step forward, Harry hops back, scanning the pitch for a rescue.

His eyes fall on Eliza, and he calls her over to them, an idea forming in his mind. She’s at his side in a flash, a large, eager smile stretched across her deeply tanned face.

“Hiya, Harry,” she greets.

“Hiya, Eliza. Listen, you remember Draco Malfoy, right? Seeker for the Slytherin team when we were in school? I thought maybe you’d like to talk to him.”

Her expression darkens and her ponytail nearly whips Harry in the face when she spins around, accusations flying in a loud, hostile voice, hands flapping dramatically. Malfoy looks blind-sided, mouth agape, as he tries to squeeze a word into Eliza’s rant. Harry grins and hurries towards the safety of the mansion.

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