Salt and Strawberries

The Canary Islands sun was relentless—a white-hot disc that bleached the sky and turned the Atlantic into hammered gold. Harry stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel room he was sharing with Ron, watching the sea shimmer like it was alive. First proper holiday he’d ever had, paid for by a grateful Ministry, and he was determined to enjoy it. Even if that meant sharing a bathroom with Ron’s explosive morning routine.

“Mate, have you seen the breakfast buffet?” Ron’s voice came from somewhere behind him, muffled by a mouthful of something. Harry turned. Ron was already halfway through a packet of complimentary biscuits he’d liberated from the minibar.

“We haven’t even been here an hour,” Harry said, smiling despite himself.

“An hour too long without food.” Ron crunched, crumbs scattering on his T-shirt. “Come on. Let’s go down. Hermione said she’d save us a table by the pool.”

Harry glanced at his reflection—tousled hair, new freckles already blooming across his nose, a lightness in his chest he hadn’t felt since before the war. He pulled on a loose linen shirt and followed Ron out.

The resort was a sprawling mess of white stucco and bougainvillea, with terraced pools that cascaded down toward a private beach. Harry breathed in the salt air and tried to ignore the giddy feeling that had been building all week. He was here. With his best friends. No Dark Lords, no prophecies, no pressure.

They found Hermione under a striped umbrella, a thick book open on her lap, her ginger hair twisted into a neat bun. She waved them over.

“There you are. I’ve already applied sunscreen. You should too, Harry. You burn like a vampire.”

“I do not.” Harry sat down, reaching for a bottle of water. The sun was already warm on his skin, a pleasant pressure.

Ron threw himself onto a lounger with a groan. “This is the life. No Death Eaters, no homework, no Mum nagging me about my jumper.”

“She’ll still nag you from a distance,” Hermione said without looking up. “She’s already sent three owls about the hotel’s laundry service.”

Harry laughed. For a moment, everything was perfect.

Then Ron sat up so fast he nearly toppled the umbrella.

“Blimey. Is that…?”

Harry followed his gaze down the beach. A figure was walking along the waterline, moving with a casual, unhurried grace that was instantly recognizable. Draco Malfoy.

But it wasn’t the Draco Harry remembered from Hogwarts. This Draco wore a pair of bright orange sandals that matched the fiery streaks in his hair, a tiny black bikini that barely covered anything, and an airy knit skirt that fluttered around his thighs like a whisper. His face was made up—subtle shimmer on his cheekbones, a hint of gloss on his lips, something dark and delicate lining his eyes. He carried a tote bag over one shoulder and a crystal-studded water bottle in his hand. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

Ron made a choking sound. “Is that… Malfoy? In a skirt?”

“It’s a resort, Ron. People dress differently on holiday,” Hermione said, but even she looked surprised.

Harry couldn’t look away. The way Draco moved—hips swaying just slightly, shoulders back, head high—was nothing like the rigid, sneering boy he’d known. He seemed… comfortable. Light. His pale skin glowed under the sun, and the freckles that dusted his nose and shoulders made him almost approachable.

“He’s staring at us,” Ron muttered.

Draco had paused, squinting in their direction. Harry felt a jolt of recognition, then a familiar twist of hostility. But Draco just tilted his head, gave a small, sardonic smile, and sauntered on.

“What’s he doing here?” Ron demanded, as if Draco’s presence was a personal insult.

“Taking a holiday, same as us,” Hermione said. “I heard his parents are staying at this resort too. Rebuilding their reputation. Public relations.”

“Great,” Ron grumbled. “So we have to share our paradise with ferrets and Death Eaters.”

Harry said nothing. He was still watching Draco’s retreating figure, noticing the way the knit skirt flared just above his knees, the fine gold chain around his ankle, the delicate arch of his foot in those ridiculous orange sandals. Something stirred in his chest that had nothing to do with rivalry.

---

Over the next three days, Harry found himself drawn to the beach at odd hours, hoping for a glimpse of Draco. He pretended it was coincidence. He told himself he was just fascinated by the transformation, the sheer audacity of Draco Malfoy wearing a lilac bikini and matching sarong while doing a hair flip on the sand.

But he knew it was more than that.

He watched Draco at the breakfast buffet, picking fruit from a bowl with delicate fingers, laughing at something his mother said. He saw him change bikinis twice a day—from a leopard print to a soft coral to a daringly low-cut emerald green—each one more breathtaking than the last. And every evening, just before sunset, Draco would walk to a secluded rock formation at the far end of the beach, prop his phone against a stone, and film short TikTok dances. He moved with a fluidity that was almost hypnotic, his hips swaying, his arms tracing shapes in the golden air.

Harry started going to that spot early, pretending to read, just to watch.

Mostly, though, they ignored each other. Or rather, they engaged in the same old verbal sparring whenever their paths crossed. It was reflexive, almost comfortable.

“Enjoying the view, Potter?” Draco drawled one afternoon, catching Harry’s eye as he passed his towel.

“Only the view of the sea,” Harry shot back, a little too quickly.

Draco’s lips curled. “Pity. I thought you might be appreciating the local scenery.”

“I’ve seen better.”

“Liar.” Draco winked—actually winked—and walked off, leaving Harry flustered and annoyed.

Ron noticed. “You keep staring at him, mate.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re staring. It’s weird.”

“I’m trying to figure out if he’s wearing a glamour.”

“He’s not. Hermione checked. Said it’s just good skincare and a lot of confidence.”

Harry grumbled and took a long drink of his iced tea. He wasn’t staring. He was observing.

---

On the fourth day, Harry woke early and decided to hit the hotel gym before the crowds arrived. He threw on a pair of shorts and a faded Quidditch t-shirt, pulled his hair back, and padded down the marble corridor to the fitness center.

It was nearly empty—just a few treadmills humming and a lone figure doing leg presses in the far corner.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry’s step faltered, but it was too late to turn back. Draco had already seen him.

He was wearing a simple black sports bra and high-waisted leggings, his hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his collarbone. He looked up from the machine, one eyebrow arching.

“Potter. I thought you preferred lazing on the beach.”

“I can do both.” Harry headed for a treadmill, determined to ignore him.

But his eyes kept drifting to the mirrors, watching Draco switch to a hip abductor machine, his thighs working in smooth, controlled motions. The muscles in his calves tensed and relaxed. Harry nearly tripped over his own feet.

He finished his run faster than planned, flushed and irritated at himself. He needed a cool down. A jacuzzi.

The hotel’s outdoor jacuzzi was tucked away behind a screen of palms, a small circular pool of bubbling water that overlooked the sea. Harry slipped out of the gym and walked across the hot stone tiles, already imagining the soothing heat.

The jacuzzi was occupied.

Draco sat in the water, arms resting on the edge, his head tilted back, eyes closed. He’d changed into a simple black one-piece, and without the makeup and accessories, he looked younger, softer.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, debating whether to leave. But Draco opened his eyes.

“Don’t let me stop you, Potter. There’s room.”

His voice was flat, not hostile. Tired, maybe.

Harry hesitated, then stepped into the water. The heat enveloped him, and he let out an involuntary sigh, sinking down onto the bench opposite Draco.

They sat in silence for a long minute. The bubbles churned around them, the only sound. Harry watched a gull wheel overhead.

“You’re staring again,” Draco said, without opening his eyes.

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.”

Harry self-consciously smoothed his forehead. “You don’t know what my eyebrows are doing.”

“I’m observant.” Draco’s lips curved.

Another silence. Then Draco spoke again, quieter. “You looked good in the gym, by the way. Your form was off on the treadmill, but you’ve clearly been working out.”

Harry blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wasn’t aware you noticed my… form.”

Draco opened one eye. “I notice everything.”

Harry’s heart gave an odd little flutter. He looked away, watching the steam rise. “Why are you being civil?”

“Because I’m on holiday. And I’m too tired to be a bitch.”

Harry snorted. “Fair enough.”

They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence, the tension of years slowly seeping out of Harry’s shoulders. The water was perfect. The view was stunning. And Draco Malfoy, for once, wasn’t a threat.

After a few minutes, Harry decided it was time to go. He’d pushed his luck enough. He started to rise, water sloshing.

“Wait.”

He turned. Draco was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t go yet. I… the water’s nice.”

Harry lowered himself back down, his pulse quickening. “Alright.”

They sat in gentle quiet, and Harry watched the sun climb higher, and he thought maybe—just maybe—this could be the start of something.

Then a shadow fell over them.

Harry looked up to see an elderly man standing at the edge of the jacuzzi, his skin bronzed from years of sun, a predatory smile on his lined face. He was staring at Draco.

“Well, well. And what do we have here?” The man stepped into the water without asking, his bulk displacing waves that sloshed over Harry’s chest.

Draco’s body went rigid. He pulled his arms inside the pool, hugging his chest. “Excuse me. This area is reserved for hotel guests only.”

“I am a guest,” the man said, moving closer. “I saw you from the bar. You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? All alone.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He sat up straighter.

“He’s not alone,” Harry said, his voice flat.

The man flicked a dismissive glance at him. “A friend? How nice. I’m sure he won’t mind sharing.”

Draco tried to stand, but the man’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Don’t be shy.”

“Get your hand off him.”

Harry was out of the water in an instant, water streaming from his shorts. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and shoved, hard. The man stumbled, splashing, his expression turning from surprise to anger.

“You insolent little—”

“I said. Get. Off.” Harry’s voice was ice. He stepped between the man and Draco, his body instinctually protective. “He’s not interested. Leave. Now.”

The man glared, chest heaving. For a moment, Harry thought he might fight. But then the man muttered something under his breath, turned, and stormed out of the jacuzzi, water dripping a trail behind him.

Harry turned. Draco was still sitting in the water, arms wrapped around himself, shivering despite the heat. His face was pale, his glamour cracked.

“Are you okay?”

Draco looked up at him, and for the first time, Harry saw something raw in his eyes. Vulnerability. Gratitude.

“I was going to hex him. Had my wand in my bag.” Draco’s voice was barely a whisper. “But I froze. I never freeze.”

“It’s okay.” Harry offered his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out.”

Draco took his hand. His fingers were cold and slender against Harry’s palm. Harry pulled him up gently, steadying him as he stepped out onto the hot stone.

“Thank you.” Draco said it like it cost him something.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. I—” Draco swallowed. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

Harry felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. “I’ll always be here.”

Draco’s eyes widened. They stood there, dripping, the sun hot on their backs, and something shifted between them.

“Potter…” Draco started.

“Harry.”

“Harry.” Draco’s lips quirked. “You’re a terrible swimmer.”

“I’m a perfectly fine swimmer.”

“You splash like a Kneazle.”

Harry laughed. It came out surprised and warm. “And you dance like a peacock.”

Draco’s smile widened. “Thank you. I try.”

They walked back toward the main building together, side by side. Draco’s hand brushed against Harry’s, electric.

---

After that, everything changed.

They started spending time together, deliberately. Private swims at dusk, when the rest of the resort was at dinner. Long walks along the shoreline, where the sand was cool and the stars emerged one by one. They shared an ice cream sundae at a beachfront café, Harry sneaking spoonfuls from Draco’s side while Draco complained loudly but didn’t stop him.

Their old bickering continued, but now it was laced with laughter. And touches. A brush of fingers when passing a salt shaker. A hand on the small of the back to guide through a doorway. The way Draco’s eyes lingered on Harry’s mouth when he thought Harry wasn’t looking.

Harry was drowning.

“You two have been joined at the hip,” Ron observed one night, watching Draco walk past their table with a small wave. “Since when are you friends with Malfoy?”

“We’re not friends,” Harry said, too quickly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you?”

Harry had no answer.

He found Draco at the sunset spot that evening, the same place where he’d filmed his dances. Draco was sitting on a flat rock, legs dangling, the sky a riot of orange and pink behind him.

“You came,” Draco said softly.

“I always come.”

Draco patted the rock beside him. Harry sat, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

For a long moment, they watched the sun sink into the ocean, a perfect coin of fire.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Draco said.

“I know.”

“We go back to Hogwarts in a week. Eighth year.”

“I know.”

“And then everything goes back to normal.”

Harry turned to look at him. Draco’s profile was silhouetted against the light, his hair lifting in the breeze. He looked beautiful and sad and utterly real.

“Does it have to?” Harry asked.

Draco met his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Harry took a breath. The words were there, pressing against his ribs. He’d never been good at saying this kind of thing. But for Draco, he’d try.

“I’ve been watching you all week,” he said. “On the beach. At breakfast. In the gym. In that ridiculous orange bikini.”

Draco’s lips twitched. “It’s coral.”

“It’s hideous.”

“You love it.”

“I love…” Harry stopped. Swallowed. “I love the way you wear it. The way you don’t care what anyone thinks. The way you dance at sunset like no one’s watching. The way you told me to drop dead one minute and then shared your ice cream the next.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

“I think I started falling for you the moment you walked past me in that knit skirt,” Harry confessed. “And I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to go back to being enemies.”

Draco’s eyes glistened. “Harry…”

“I know it’s insane. We’re supposed to hate each other. But I don’t. I can’t.”

“I don’t either.” Draco’s voice cracked. “I’ve been watching you too. Drowning in your too-big shirts, saving people, being impossibly noble. I think I’ve always watched you. But I was too scared to admit it.”

Harry reached out, slowly, giving Draco every chance to pull away. Draco didn’t move. Harry’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over the sharp cheekbone.

“Then don’t be scared,” Harry said. “Not anymore.”

Draco leaned into his touch, eyes closing. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what happens when the sun rises.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Harry leaned closer. “Together.”

When their lips met, it was soft and tentative, like the first note of a song. Draco tasted like salt and strawberries. Harry’s heart was a wild drum.

The sun set behind them, painting the world in shades of gold and rose, and Harry kissed Draco Malfoy on a secluded beach in the Canary Islands, and nothing had ever felt more right.

They pulled apart, breathing hard, foreheads touching.

“Well,” Draco murmured, a smile playing on his lips. “That was worth the wait.”

Harry grinned. “We should do that again.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And beneath the dying light, with the waves whispering at their feet, they kissed again—promising that this was only the beginning.