#harrival

At age sixteen, Harry is more or less and adult, by Dursley standards, and even easier to brush off while Dudley tours the city’s colleges, whose admissions standards no doubt are higher than Dudley’s grade point average.

Harry’s good with faces — has to be, to identify Dudley’s ever-changing gang of bullies — and so he recognizes the tailor as the same man he saw years ago. Maybe not for the same reason that he knows the faces of Dudley’s friends, but some things about himself, Harry is still coming to accept.

Harry understands himself about to be told off for loitering, entranced by the view from the window, but instead the tailor holds out a small box.

“For you,” the tailor says, tapping the box with his pointer finger.

Harry has already taken it by the time he thinks to reply. “I don’t have any money.”

“It’s a gift. Every young man should have a nice tie. Think of it as my hope of seeing you as a customer in ten years.” At Harry’s doubtful look, the tailor laughs. “Anything can change in a decade’s time. Why don’t I pencil you in for an appointment? Three in the afternoon, August 6th, ten years from now. You can decide later if your schedule allows you to keep it.”

And maybe it’s a joke, but Harry doesn’t have a lot going on in his life. He’s got two more years of being the Dursleys’ charity case, then a wide open future that’s as exciting as it is terrifying. Without family to mark his milestones, without friends to care whether he graduates or not, without teachers who note his progress at St Brutus's, he feels awash in the sea of life.

But this, well. Harry meets the tailor’s eyes with a determined expression. “I’m holding you to it. I’m coming back in ten years for a really nice suit.”

The tailor smiles. It’s an unfairly nice smile, the kind that has Harry in a loop. “I’ll need your name for my appointment book.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry Potter. My name is Percival Graves.”

Later, Harry marks the date on his calendar. It’s only then that he realizes he’s signed himself up for international plane tickets in ten years’ time, this time not grudgingly paid for by the Dursleys. Which means that he’s really got to think about his future, to plan a career that allows him to do this.

And yeah, maybe it’s stupid, maybe Percival will forget it in ten years’ time. Maybe Harry will knock on the door of a closed shop. Maybe none of it matters because he’ll never afford the trip on his own.

Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a future waiting for Harry Potter, and all he has to do is go out and grasp it.

*

By the time ten years rolls around, Harry is already a repeat customer of Percival Graves. Harry’s tailor hadn’t been wrong; time has a way of scooping you up and delivering you to a different place entirely. University, meeting Ron and Hermione there, who become friends for life, then later business partners, using the hair care formula found in James and Lily Potters’ old notes to start their own brand of products. It’s a rocky start, but years later, they’re going strong, with an office of their own in New York City, though not quite as central as Percival’s.

And Harry needs nice suits for meetings, doesn’t he? One suit, two suits, three suits, until Percival takes him to dinner and finally takes the suits off properly.

The ten year mark arrives with less fanfare: no flight needed, just a metro ride from his apartment to the shop. When he arrives for his appointment, the door is unlocked, the lights on. Harry knew it would be, but it settles something inside him anyway. That the appointment that for years was far away has been kept, that he’s grown and changed so much in order to do it.

That he’s so happy, loved and loving, and that there’s nowhere else he wants to be.

“Harry,” Percival greets, and leans in for a kiss, and it’s been a few months of this and Harry’s still not over it.

Might never be over it. “I kept my appointment.”

"He finally gets it," said Lena, who taught runes to the older students. "I was waiting for it to finally click."

Harry shook his head. "This time? It's the first time."

"He's terrible."

"The worst."

"Can't stand working with him."

"Nearly kicked him out of the mentorship program when I ran it."

"What," Harry muttered aloud. "Percival Graves is a genius. A delight to work with. A brilliant man with a lofty career -- any one of my students would be thrilled to partner with him in the mentorship program. I've almost gotten him to agree to take one on. Margit, who's known she wanted to be an auror ever since she first entered these halls."

"Mhm," Lena said. "So what happened?"

"He decided today that on no uncertain terms would he be participating in the student mentorship program. Not this year, not any year. He doesn't have the time for it in his busy schedule. I can't believe he would do that to the students."

One of his colleagues nodded knowingly. "To the students," he repeated.

"They're devastated," Harry agreed. And, even though it was far less important, he added, "And he stood me up for coffee this morning. I thought that it was separate, his interest in the program and our weekly coffee, but apparently not." Harry rested his head dramatically on the back of the couch. "I should have known better than to trust the government's promises."

"He may be hot, but I don't believe he's the entirety of the government yet."

Lena shrugged. "There's always rumors that he'll run for Picquery's position once she's done with it."

"I'll never find anyone like him again," Harry sighed. 

James, who taught lower level potions, patted his arm. "There, there. There's plenty of other prospects for the mentorship program out there. Maybe even Picquery herself!"

"He means--"

"Thanks, James," Harry said, cutting Lena off.

Well, yes, he did mean it in a romantic sense, but he was beginning to think that perhaps he was being pathetic. And not in a cute way that might get him a pity date.

As the staff slowly dispersed from the lounge in favor of the classes they were teaching or other commitments, Harry munched on his bagel and wondered how he'd gotten here, mooning over a man who had no interest in him. He'd had a pretty solid start to his life -- defeating a Dark Lord at age seventeen and all that. There were worse accomplishments to have. But then came the accidental permanent jaunt through time, which left him in a time where no one quite appreciated a good Dark Lord slaying like they used to, especially a Dark Lord no one had ever heard of. Harry had found himself at loose ends, finding himself at Ilvermorny first as a seasonal greenhouse assistant, then part-time world history professor, then head of the student mentorship program that sought to connect students with a mentor in their chosen field.

Harry prided himself on trying to find the most interesting, least stuffy mentors available. And then there had been Percival Graves, who came off as just one more workaholic in the auror department, but whose dry wit and kind heart Harry couldn't get enough of.

"Maybe he's possessed," Harry said up at the ceiling. "Maybe that's why he won't see me."

Lena looked up from the bundle of papers she was marking. "Maybe he's, as you said, just one dick among many in the department. You can do better."

"I don't want to do better," Harry replied, mournfully.

Lena was a good friend. "I have a possession detection amulet if you want to check. I'm not entirely sure it works. I've never tested it. It was my grandmother's and she was more than a little paranoid about everything under the sun, but who knows how the magic has held up."

It took her another day to find the thing, then another one for Harry to find out Percival's schedule. Now that the man was no longer conveniently around wherever Harry looked, he relied on a few former students to track him down.

By the time he found him, it was the next day's evening. Most government employees had gone home. What Percival was doing in the census records room, Harry had no idea. How Harry had gotten into the records room, well, that was a question that Percival didn't seem to realize he needed to ask.

Instead, Percival raised an eyebrow and said, "Are you stalking me?"

"A little," Harry admitted. He held up the amulet in front of him. "This is for you."

"A gift?" Percival didn't seem particularly charmed, but he took it all the same.

Harry was about to correct him to say that no, in fact it was not a gift, and Lena would not be pleased with him for handing a family heirloom as a courting gift. In fact, she would storm in here to get it back, Ilvermorny professor facing down an auror or not.

But he didn't have to say any of that at all. Because the amulet was for Percival, not the man whose face slowly bubbled out from under Percival's, the amulet steaming all the while.

"Bless paranoid grannies," Harry breathed, grabbing his wand out of his robes.

The duel was longer than he was used to when it came to Dark Lords, but Harry's practice with Voldemort came in handy. And so did his absolute determination to find out what exactly this man had done to the man whose identity he assumed. Harry refused to be tempted by any of Grindelwald's words -- what he wanted was simple, yet complex. Neither was he cowed by Grindelwald's elder wand, not when he'd already spent too long on the subject of the hallows with Voldemort.

Suffice to say, he won.

And he found his man.

"I stood you up for coffee," Percival said, eventually, finding Harry in the throng of aurors, politicians, and healers all throughout Grindelwald's base of operations. "I hope you'll let me make it up to you?"

"By taking one of my students on as a mentor?"

"In that way, too," Percival agreed. There was a twitch to his lip, a possessiveness to the way he laid his hand on Harry's arm. It wasn't that Harry wasn't aware just what kind of man Percival Graves was. He was a dick, that much was certain. Ambitious, authoritative, too attractive for words. "Let's go. I'll buy you that coffee."

It was just that Harry had never quite been sane himself, and he wouldn't trade this man for any other. "And a danish?"

"And a danish," Percival promised.

"And a kiss?"

“Your lunch, sweetheart,” Narcissa says, never mind that Draco ate lunch two hours ago and has often called it embarrassing for his parents to ever be in the vicinity of the aurors’ floor of the ministry.

Lucius makes a beeline for Harry’s desk. In his hand is a scroll wrapped in the traditional white bow. “For you. We hope you will consider it. You’ve grown into a fine young man and your embrace of Draco as your partner has said well of you.”

“We look forward to receiving your response,” Narcissa says, smiling at Harry.

Harry takes the scroll from Lucius, feeling gobsmacked. He hopes his mouth isn’t hanging open.

From behind Narcissa, Draco is mouthing, “I’ll kill you,” and making cutting gestures toward his throat.

“Thanks,” Harry says, and blinks at Lucius’ smile.

It’s a politician’s smile, but, well. Harry has never minded those when they come from people as pretty as Draco’s parents. He watches them leave. All that blonde hair is… not unappealing. He’s been partners with Draco at work for years now, and it’s something to see his parents outside of a ministry function, in all their gorgeous scheming. For all that he was a Slytherin in Hogwarts, Draco has largely let those schemes fall to the side in favor of work. Lucius and Narcissa, meanwhile, have only picked up steam after living through the war and managing to avoid most retribution for their parts in the war. Harry’s to blame for some of that.

“Don’t you dare,” Draco tells him as soon as the door shuts behind his parents.

Harry shrugs. “I haven’t said no. You can start calling me Dad now to get used to the idea.”

Draco looks as though Harry has spilled pumpkin juice all over his reports, all aghast and pouty. “I’ll murder you and write up the incident report myself. No one would blame me.”

“Your parents can plan my funeral. I bet they would make great mourning spouses. Your mum looks great in a veil.”

Harry dodges the curse that follows, then sends bacl a spell of his own: one from the holiday spellbook Luna wrote, sending flowers into the air. Courting colors, of course.

Later, Harry takes the courting proposal home with him, if only to properly decline. Much as he thinks the Malfoys are pretty, Harry doesn’t want to be one himself. He gets four more courting proposals that evening by owl, which go into a stack that has long since fallen in a pile on the floor and grown to the height of his desk. Harry occasionally wonders if he should be using his proposal letters as census data; it seems as though every single adult and interested couple has approached him throughout the past decade.

One hour later, he sends off the refusal to the Malfoys and looks down at the pile.

Something has to be done, Harry thinks.

“If you respond to them properly, they won’t be able to contact you again,” Hermione has told him time and again.

But were Harry to respond properly, in the format society demands, he would spend all his free time answering the damn things, citing specific points about each courter as reason to decline, or even having to meet with the person to decline. It’s tedious. Easier to throw the proposals in a corner and forget about them.

Still, were Harry to declare himself taken, surely no one would expect him to entertain others’ courtship proposals? All he has to do is proclaim himself so madly in love that no one will think they can match or gain Harry’s interest.

With that thought in mind, Harry apparates to the main office of the Daily Prophet.

“I’m Harry Potter and I have something to say,” Harry tells the receptionist, who sets him up with a senior reporter within minutes.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“I’d like to apologize to anyone whose courtship proposal I haven’t replied to. It’s only that there’s only one person who I can imagine agreeing to, and I haven’t received his proposal. I’d like to ask for anyone else to refrain, please, since my heart is taken.”

“And who is this lucky person, Mr. Potter?”

“Er,” Harry says.

*

“Percival Graves? Really?” Draco asks when Harry arrives the next morning. He holds up the newspaper to show Harry a copy of the article. As the wizarding world is doubtlessly addled, news of Harry’s new revelation takes up the full front page. “At least now you can’t marry my parents.” Through a cough, he adds, “Homewrecker.”

“Both your parents proposed,” Harry reminds him. “If anything, I would be joining rather than—”

“Don’t even go there!” Draco says, almost in a screech. “I hope that with enough time, I’ll be able to scrub this experience from my brain. Perhaps I will Obliviate myself. Have you ever even met Graves?”

“A few times. He’s part of the American auror continent that attends the yearly law enforcement conference at the ICW. The first time we spoke, I told him about how I enjoyed his lecture on the protocols surrounding the capture of dangerous magical creatures accidentally or purposely released in urban areas.” Harry sighs happily. “I shook his hand.”

“You’re a fanboy,” Draco huffs. “Why didn’t I know this about you?”

“I kept it from you because I knew you would be insufferable.”

“Understandable. Carry on.”

“Then next year at the conference, he asked me to join him for a drink.”

Draco’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

“It was all professional,” Harry says. “Robards was there. We talked about strategies to improve the solve rate of cases. He didn’t flirt with me once. Then last year, I managed to get a seat at his table during the conference closing dinner. We were the last two at our table to leave.”

“Also professional?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He sounds straight.”

Harry sighs again. “Yeah. All of this, it’s just to get other people off my back. I know Percival isn’t interested. Besides, I have your parents as a backup plan.”

“As do I, with murder,” Draco reminds him. “I would pull off the Azkaban jumpsuit look. Don’t underestimate me.”

*

“Why him?” Hermione asks, later, during one of their dinners.

Harry reaches for another helping as he says, “He’s the most attractive man on earth.”

“No, he’s not,” Ron replies. “That’s Chudley Cannons seeker Galvin Gudgeon.”

“Wrong,” Harry says, not even entertaining the idea.

Ron rolls his eyes. “Graves has that professional politician look. The hair and voice.” To Hermione, he explains, “We used his news clips and interviews back in training for how to speak to the press. He hasn’t had a PR mishap in over a decade. The guy is a machine.”

“A sexy machine,” Harry corrects.

Hermione laughs. “What are you going to do if he reaches out to you?”

“He won’t. I’m sure the director of the American DMLE doesn’t read the Daily Prophet. Everyone abroad knows our paper’s bonkers. I’m sure he only reads Gringotts Today if anything. The man doesn’t think of me as anything except a foreign celebrity and auror. I’m safe from courting proposals for a while; I haven’t received any in days.”

Ron shares a look with Hermione, then says, “But don’t you want to fall in love? This announcement, it will stop anyone interested in you from telling you how they feel, too. What if you’re wrecking your own chances by doing this?”

Harry shrugs, looking down at his hands. It’s a topic he and his friends have often revisited; the way that Harry’s friends have all seemed to pair up after Hogwarts, while Harry’s singlehood keeps extending year after year. “I’m not unhappy, is the thing. Would I like to be in love? Sure. But I’d rather be able to look out the window without the view being covered by an owl than have good dating prospects.”

“If you say so,” Ron says, shaking his head. “What’s Draco think of all this?”

“He’s disappointed that I refused to become his stepdad,” Harry replies, grinning.

*

A few days later, Robards calls him into his office. “Is this thing with Percival going to be an issue for you?”

“No, of course not,” Harry says. “It won’t have an impact on my work. In fact, I’ll be working harder to never, ever mention it again…”

It’s the first and hopefully the last time he’s talked about love with his boss, even in oblique terms. Robards, who doesn’t even let people know where he buys coffee, let alone whether he has a partner, has never been the type for casual conversation on the topic.

“Good,” Robards replies, firmly. “You’ll be joining the usual crowd for the ICW conference. Do not solicit the director of the DMLE for sexual or romantic connections.”

“Sir.”

“Unless he invites them, at which point I don’t want to know. You’ll be at his table again. I’ve also scheduled you two for a one on one, which I’m now regretting.”

“What for?”

Robards makes that face he makes when he’s been asked to be sincere. “Percival is one of the men I most admire in this profession and you are one of the best the department’s had in my time. You two could learn a lot from each other. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Impossible— I’m already the Boy-Who-Lived,” Harry says. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Robards lets him get halfway to the door before he says. “At least you have good taste.”

“I sure do,” Harry agrees.

He packs lightly for the conference. It’s a week-long event and he’ll be expected to be in his auror robes, the good ones, not the daily wear. Despite himself, Harry packs his suitcase with the knowledge that Percival will see him in whatever he chooses. Harry has never put much stock in fashion, nor paid attention to the trends, but he suddenly wonders if he should invest in some tie clips. He’s heard those are getting popular again…

On the morning of the first day of the conference, Draco is Harry’s portkey buddy.

“I told Ron I would be your wingman,” Draco says, deigning to touch with one finger the metal plate that is their portkey. “What does that entail?”

“Not letting me make a fool of myself.” Harry pats down his hair. “How do I look?”

“Good enough. If he didn’t flee on sight last year, with that mess of a haircut you had, then you’re fine.”

“I’ll take it,” Harry says, just as the portkey whisks them both away.

The conference is held in Paris this year, in a hotel that straddles the muggle and magical worlds with stately opulence. Draco mentions offhandedly that he’s been there twice, while Harry avidly looks around. International guests spill out from the lobby and into the open doors leading into the French magical district.

Harry doesn’t see Percival until lunch, during which he catches Percival’s eye across the room.

Percival returns Harry’s nod and continues to speak with his companion, a woman Harry faintly recognizes as a Canadian auror. Too soon, Harry is pulled into a different conversation, and he loses track of Percival.

Relief is at the forefront of Harry’s mind. It seems that Percival hasn’t seen the article or has seen it and put it out of his mind. A part of Harry is disappointed, but he expected this outcome. It’s not a surprise to know that Percival Graves isn’t interested. Just a disappointment, and Harry has encountered many of those during his life. He will get through it.

As Harry circles around in Percival’s direction, he has decides to believe that it doesn’t matter at all that Percival doesn’t fancy him. Then once he reaches him, only a meter away, and encounters Percival’s handsome face again, Harry realizes deciding doesn’t make it fact.

“Mr. Graves,” Harry says in greeting. “Hello.”

“Mr. Potter,” Percival says in return. “Are you enjoying the conference?”

Now that you’re here, yes, Harry thinks, and says, “It’s my second time in Paris and on better terms this time. I like it.”

“The basilisk case?”

“That’s the one,” Harry says, shaking his head. “The things that dark wizards get up to. I don’t know how they find the time.”

“Perhaps they steal it from us,” Percival replies. There is a smile lingering at the edge of his lips. “Are you available for brunch tomorrow? It’s one of the few free moments in my schedule and I want to make time for you.”

I want to make time for you. Harry is a grown man, and therefore doesn’t swoon, but it’s a close one. “I’ll be there.”

He spends the rest of the day as if bespelled. Draco, as befitting a wingman whose interest lies in keeping Harry away from his parents, bears with Harry’s various comments about how cool Percival’s career is and how nice his hair looks.

The next day, Harry bears with the morning events, then arrives at a wizarding cafe near the hotel for brunch.

Percival doesn’t spend much time on small talk, evidently wanting to make the most of their one on one. “Tell me about the Parkinson matter. Robards mentioned it to me.”

“A mess all around,” Harry says, shaking his head before going into it in detail.

He doesn’t try to downplay his own shortcomings. One of the best in the department or not, he’s made his mistakes. Harry listens to Percival’s advice, noting the criticism and appreciating the praise, and eventually says, “Did Robards ask you to mentor me?”

“Not officially.” Percival pauses, taking a sip of his coffee, and says, “I will begin campaigning for Seraphina’s spot once her seven year term draws to a close. She’s looking forward to retirement; more time to enjoy with her husband and to heckle me about my choices. I haven’t made an official announcement yet.”

“I won’t tell.”

“I know you won’t. Robards is taking advantage of the time I have now, since I will have less of it in the future. Is mentorship something you are looking for?”

Harry steals Percival’s answer with a smile. “Not officially. I’ve had a lot of people willing to mentor me. It comes with the territory of my fame. But I like the occasional conversation before making my own decisions, be they good or poor. I value your perspective either way.”

“I have heard my perspective is not your only concern,” Percival replies. There is a twitch to his lips that has Harry realize immediately what he means. “As president, I would not have time to make a courting proposal, of course, as per your recent announcement.”

Harry chokes on air. “Percival. I—”

“So I would hope to get to know you beforehand. If all goes well, I should hope that the voters support my embrace of personal connections. Seraphina has noted it as something I’m lacking in.” Percival pauses for a moment, then adds, “And so have I. Not for professional reasons, nor for my ambitions, but for simply myself.”

“Then it could be anyone that would catch your eye?”

“Not anyone,” Percival promises, holding Harry’s gaze. “I am a creature of habit. I find it difficult to diverge from my usual habits. You make me want to. I understand that it will be difficult to do this with an ocean between us…”

“I’ll agree to the next case that takes me to New York. I heard Robards already has one—something about a British organized crime ring expanding into the States.”

Percival inclines his head. “I would like that, Harry.” He withdraws a scroll from the pocket of his robes. Harry’s heart skips a beat when he sees the white bow. “My courtship proposal, as requested from you to the world.” His expression gains a touch of amusement as he says, “Will you announce the start of our courtship in the same manner?”

Harry takes the scroll and unrolls it, signing without reading the proposal. He’ll take it. Every line, every moment. “If I have to. Everyone should know you’re taken, after all. I’m a lucky guy.”