Work Text:
(-1)
Draco wakes up to the unpleasant sensation of water dripping down his back and he jerks away.
“Be careful!” a voice cries just as his head starts spinning.
He stills, then cracks his eyelids open to a bright light and a pair of green eyes.
“Potter?!” he demands, squinting. “What the bloody…”
“I’m sorry!” Potter says, quickly. He’s wringing his hands, careless of how the wet cloth he’s holding is dripping on Draco’s face.
“I ran into you in Diagon Alley and knocked you over- by accident! And you hit your head really badly on the cobbles...”
Draco squints up at him. “I don’t remember you working at St Mungo’s,” he says.
“Er, I don’t,” Potter says.
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you take me there then?” Draco demands.
“Er, you asked me not to,” Harry says.
Draco sighs. He probably had, not that he remembers. He’s hated St Mungo’s ever since his mum had died there.
“Well, I suppose if you knocked me over, fixing me up is the best you can do,” Draco says.
Harry sighs. “You weren’t exactly looking where you were going, you were in some kind of blind rage,” he says. “Here, if you sit up, I’ve got a healing potion.”
Draco nods, wincing again as it makes his head throb, and Potter helps him to a sitting position. He drinks the healing and pain potions Harry gives him and sighs as they take effect.
“Why were you so angry?” Harry asks.
Suddenly Draco remembered the whole ordeal. “Idiot lawyers,” he hisses.
“Lawyers?” Potter asks.
“I cannot inherit the entire Malfoy estate,” Draco says.
“You can’t?” Potter repeats.
“Are you a bloody parrot?” Draco demands, then immediately regrets it. He’s been trying to be cordial to Potter and his friends ever since the whole war ordeal. Potter had testified on his behalf, after all, and Draco can admit he'd been in the wrong about, well, a lot of things. And anyway, Potter has influence and power. It only make sense, politically, to be less of an arse to him.
But, Merlin, does he get under Draco’s skin sometimes.
“Sorry,” Draco mutters. “The lawyers claim that according to the entail of the Malfoy estate, an heir can not properly inherit until they are married.”
“Oh,” Potter says. “I’m sorry. I thought-weren’t you engaged to the younger Greengrass girl? Ashley? Erin? Something like that?”
“Astoria,” Draco says. “I was, but I called it off. I didn’t want a fake marriage. I want to marry for love.”
“Oh,” Potter says again. “And there’s no one you’re in love with?”
“Unfortunately, you’re not allowed to marry yourself,” Draco says.
Potter chuckles and Draco feels unreasonably smug.
“You don’t have any friends who’d marry you, just as a favour?” Potter asks.
“That’s a pretty big favour,” Draco says. “And no- they’re all married or in America. Except Luna, and she’s…”
“Living as nature intended in her nudist commune?” Potter finishes, with a smile.
“Exactly,”
“Well that’s rubbish,” Potter says. “You deserve to wait until you find love.”
“I do?” Draco asks with some surprise.
“Everyone does,” Potter says, a little too fiercely.
“The Weasleys pressuring you to settle down?” Draco asks.
“Molly set an empty space next to mine and told me she was holding it in reserve for my future partner. Luckily, Teddy insisted on sitting there.”
“Wow,” Draco says. “That’s a lot. Doesn’t she have like a million children-in-law already?”
“She’ll never rest until it’s a million and one,” Harry says.
Draco smiles and rubs the back of his head. “I think I’m good,” he says. “Thanks for healing me.”
“Of course,” Harry says. “I’m happy to heal you every time I injure you.”
Draco chuckles. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, as Harry walks him to the door.
He turns back on the stoop, feeling like he should say something. “Uh, thanks again.”
“No problem. I’ll see you next Friday.”
“Next Friday?” Draco asks.
Harry’s face falls a little, like Draco’s somehow disappointed him. “Weren’t you going to the Midsummer’s ball? I could have sworn I saw you on the list.”
“Oh,” Draco says, suddenly remembering he’d bought tickets. “I was going to go with Blaise and Pansy, but his mum is sick again…”
“Oh,” Potter says, his disappointment clear. Had he been looking forward to seeing Draco? “Maybe you could… since you already have a ticket… You could sit at my table.”
Draco wants to bite out something abrasive about Gryffindors, but he is trying to be politic, isn’t he? And Potter had, well, yes, apparently split his head open, but afterward he’d been surprisingly good company.
“You know you’ll still get the money whether I go or not?” he says.
Potter smiles. “I do know how my own fundraisers work, yes,” he says.
“Well then,” Draco says, “I suppose I could come for a bit.”
(1)
Draco takes too long to get dressed, rejecting robe after robe, confused about why he’s nervous. He’s been to a million of these galas and balls and functions and they’re always the same, the same people, the same places, the hosts and planners desperately trying to come up with something novel and always failing.
But Potter had wanted him there, and that’s new. No one else much wants Draco, besides the old Slytherin gang of Blaise and Pans and Greg and Milli. They want his money or his notoriety or his connections, but never him.
Potter doesn’t want him either, he reminds himself. He was just being nice, still feeling bad for knocking Draco out. Still.
Potter’s in the receiving line when Draco gets there, shaking hands and smiling and fumbling for his words as usual.
Whoever has had the dressing of him has done a miserable job- neither the colour nor the cut of his robes suits him at all, though the robes are at the height of fashion. They only make him look more awkward and uncomfortable, a look he needs no help achieving.
“Malfoy!” Potter exclaims, as Draco reaches him. “You came!”
“You asked me to,” Draco reminds him.
“Er, I know,” he says, running his hand through his hair and messing up any attempt at styling. “I put you next to Luna, at my table. I hope that’s alright.”
“You convinced her to wear clothes?“ Draco asks with a quirk of his eyebrow.
“It was a midsummer miracle,'' Potter returns, relaxing a little. “I’ll join you when I’m done here.” He points to the table and Draco spots Luna’s platinum blonde hair.
“Can’t wait,” Draco says, and weaves through the crowd to the table.
Luna is animatedly chattering with the youngest Weasley when Draco arrives, but she breaks off to greet him with a wide smile.
“Draco!” Luna exclaims. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Likewise,” Draco says, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “You as well, Ginevra,” Draco says.
“Malfoy,” Weasley says, with a nod of her head.
Luna stands and grabs Draco’s hand. “Let’s get a drink,” she says. “They’re serving something bright purple and orange.”
“I think those are the centrepieces,” Draco says, feeling vaguely alarmed.
“Are they?” Luna asks. “They did taste odd.”
Draco orders a white wine while Luna tries to convince the bar staff to ‘mix a little of everything together and see what happens’. Her resulting drink is a disgusting shade of brown.
“I want to hear everything about the commune,” Draco says, as they head back to the table, stopping to exchange pleasantries with people Draco doesn’t really like.
Luna giggles. “It’s not a commune,” she says, “it’s an anarchist collective. I think I’m this close to convincing Ginny to join! You should come visit.”
“But isn’t it muggle?” Draco asks, as they sit down again.
Luna waves her hand, sipping her drink. “They’re all too stoned to notice.”
“It’s true!” Ginny exclaims. “They’re high as hippogriffs.” She giggles. “It’s hilarious.”
Potter arrives at the table then, slumping down into his chair, looking exhausted. “I hate these things,” he mutters.
“What happened?” Ginny asks, concern lacing her voice.
“Nothing,” Potter says. “It’s just…” he runs a hand through his hair, further messing up the styling. “I feel like such a fraud,” he says, finally. Draco remembers this about him, how he can be brutally honest. “These stupid robes, and I never know what to say, or remember people’s names, and I just always feel like such a fool!”
“Well, those robes are awful on you,” Draco says.
“Thanks Malfoy,” Potter says, giving him the stink eye.
“He’s not wrong,” Ginny says, leaning forward. “They’re all wrong for you.”
“Don’t you have an assistant or something?” Draco asks. “Someone should be helping you with all of this.”
“I do,” Harry says. “Pavarti. But she’s got so much to do, it’s not like she can stand at my shoulder and help. And Lavender picked out my robes. She knows fashion- I thought she’d be able to pick out something good.”
“They’re good,” Draco says. “They’re just not you.”
“I don’t understand,” Potter says.
“They’re the wrong colour and the wrong fit,” Draco says. “And worst of all, they make you uncomfortable. Nothing is going to be flattering if you look uncomfortable in it.”
Potter blinks at him. “Well, that doesn’t sound right,” he says. “I’m not comfortable in anything.”
Draco shakes his head. “You haven’t tried the right clothes on then. I could introduce you to my tailor- he’s very good at his job and he has impeccable style.”
“I don’t know,” Potter says, sounding even more doubtful.
“Don’t I look good?” Draco asks.
Potter’s eyes flicker over him and a blush grows beneath his brown skin. “Yeah,” he mutters.
“See?” Draco says. “It’s because I have a good tailor.”
“But you always look good,” Potter mutters.
“Because I always wear things my tailor made for me,” Draco says, then deliberately looks up to where an elderly woman is approaching their table. He stands and gestures for Potter to stand as well, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, “Mrs Spiderworth. Very wealthy, loves sheep. Compliment her earrings.”
“Mrs Spiderworth!” Potter says. “So lovely to see you. And your earrings are so lovely. Is that wool?”
“From my very own herd,” Mrs Spiderworth preens.
“Impressive,” Potter says, and glances at Draco with a small smile.
Draco stays by Potter’s side the whole evening, feeding him information whenever he can, and by the end of it, Potter’s looking miles more comfortable, even though the robes he’s wearing are still atrocious on him.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Potter says, when nearly everyone’s left and the house elf cleaning service has begun tidying away the wreckage.
“It was my pleasure,” Draco says, and surprises himself by meaning it.
Potter eyes him sharply. “You can’t mean that,” he says. “Do you actually enjoy this?”
“I did tonight,” Draco says. “It was nice to use my knowledge for good, not evil for once.”
Potter smiles. “I’m glad you’ve switched allegiances,” he says. “I could use you every time. Can I hire you?”
“You couldn’t afford me,” Draco says and Potter sighs.
“That’s probably true. It would just be so useful having someone like you around. Hermione and Bill and Dean are the best, but none of them know high society like you do. Bill even joked that I need a society wife just to help me…” he trails off, looking at Draco with a growing speculative expression. “What if I did?” he says, half to himself.
“What?” Draco asks, concern mounting.
“You need to get married,” Potter says. “I need someone to help me navigate all of this. It’s an insane idea…” He peeks out from behind his glasses.
“No, it is,” Draco says, too sharply, berating himself when he sees Potter flinch.
“It’s… too generous,” he adds. “You can’t marry me just so I’ll help you with a few events.”
“You could help me with clothes too,” Potter says. “Give me advice on manners and things. And we could have some events at the Manor- I’ve heard you’ve fixed it up beautifully since the war. It would be a huge savings- you know what rentals go for.”
“You’re bargaining,” he says. “You think that if it seems equal enough I’ll agree to it. But there’s no price which would actually make it equal, you know that, don’t you? You’d be giving me everything, and for something you could just hire someone to do.”
“I’ve tried hiring people,” Potter admits with a sigh. “None of them are as good as you. And it’s not forever, right? A year or two?”
Draco nods. “I’d have to check the stipulations, but five at the most, I imagine.”
Potter nods. “And you have to come to the Weasleys with me.”
“I take it back,” Draco says. “That does make it much more of a burden. But that means… you want everyone to think it’s real?” He almost shook himself for speaking like he was actually entertaining the notion. What was wrong with him?
Potter sighs. “As much as I don’t want to, telling one Weasley is telling all the Weasleys, and since they’re basically half the wizarding world at this point…”
“Potter,” Draco says. “This is an insane idea.”
Potter chuckles. “Have you met me?” he asks. “Do you remember school at all?”
“Ah,” Draco says. “I don’t think we should rush into it though.”
“We can’t, anyway,” Harry says. “If we’re not going to tell the Weasley’s the truth, we have to tell them a believable lie.”
“So…?”
“We have to date for a bit- just long enough to make it convincing. Luckily, I’m the kind of person who rushes headlong into things, so it doesn’t have to be too long.”
“How long?” Draco asks, unable to keep an amused tone from slipping into his voice.
“When do you need to get married by?”
“Half a year,” Draco says.
“We should aim for three months,” Harry decides. “That’s enough time to decide, right? With some time built in as a buffer. We can go on dates, and you can escort me to events, and give me fashion advice…”
“So you get all the benefits and I get none?” Draco asks, with an arched eyebrow. “How do I know you just won’t string me along indefinitely?”
Harry smiles. “Because I’m a self-sacrificing Gryffindork. Didn’t you know?”
Draco knows. Draco knows too well.
Draco is just about awake when Pans storms through the floo, Blaise hot on her heels.
“Draco!” she calls, her voice so loud and screechy that Draco winces even halfway across the manor.
“On the patio!” Draco yells back, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
Pans and Blaise storm out onto the patio, Blaise sinking into a chair across from Draco, Pans throwing a copy of The Prophet down, barely missing tipping over the cream and sugar.
“Lovely day, isn’t it, old bean?” Blaise asks languidly, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Draco shrugs. “Could use some sun,” he says.
“Explain this!” Pans demands, tapping the paper.
“That old rag?” Draco asks. “Ah… people like fake news?”
“This!” Pans elaborates, opening the paper and practically shoving it into Draco’s face. It’s a shot from the midsummer gala, Draco leaning over Potter’s shoulder, whispering to him, Potter looking up at him with a small smile.
Draco’s insides twist a little, looking at the two of them. Had Potter already been coming up with his scheme back then? What else could explain that smile?
“That horrid robe Potter’s wearing?” Draco asks. “A crime against humanity, I agree. Still no reason for you to storm over here.”
Pans drops into a chair and accepts the coffee Blaise hands her.
“You are the worst,” she says. “Seriously, Draco, what the bloody hell is between you and Potter?”
Draco shrugs. “We might be dating,” he says, trying to sound as careless as he can.
“What?!” Pansy shrieks.
Draco winces and calls for Garky. “Some pain potion, if you please,” he asks.
“Right away, master,” Garky says, with a small bow, disapparating with a crack that makes Draco wince again.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you’re dating.”
“Maybe dating,” Draco corrects. “It’s very new. He asked me last night.”
“Potter asked you to date him?” Pansy demands.
Well actually… yes.
“Yes,” Draco says.
“Why?” Pansy asks. Blaise sits back in his chair, an amused look on his face.
Draco opens his mouth and then closes it again. He really has no idea. “I guess he must like me,” he says, faintly.
(2)
Potter’s talking to his house elf, an old and gnarled creature, when Draco comes through the floo, casting a surreptitious spell over himself to shake off the ash. The elf sees Draco and immediately starts bowing and scraping, then apparates away, promising to bring back tea.
“Do you argue with your house elves?” Draco asks Potter, amused.
“He’s upset that I hire a free elf cleaning service,” Potter says, with a frown. “But he’s too old to clean the whole house by himself, and honestly, I don’t think he’s ever properly tried.”
The house elf pops back in and sets a tea tray down before Draco, then pops out again. He notices, in amusement, that it only has one cup and a plate with one biscuit on it.
“I think your house elf likes me better than you,” he says, with amusement, beginning to fix his tea.
“Of course he does,” Potter says, with a frown. “You know this place is the great and ancestral home of the Blacks? By all rights, he should be your house elf, not mine.”
Draco looks around the parlour. He vaguely remembers Grimmauld Place from his childhood, a creaky, creepy house filled with unpleasant wrinkled old relatives. It didn’t look like that anymore; the parlour was bright and airy, with a row of flourishing plants in front of a large window, light colored walls, and paintings of blue skies.
“Thank goodness,” he says. “One ancestral heap is enough for me. You did a good job fixing it up though.” He sips his tea. “I’d ask for the whole tour, but we need to get going for our appointment.”
Potter stands and seems to steel himself.
“Relax, Potter,” Draco says. “We’re going to the tailor, not the torturer.”
Potter grimaces and shakes his head and follows Draco through the floo.
The receptionist at the tailor smiles at them as Draco steps to the counter. “Mr Potter to see Mr Upadhyay,” he says. The receptionist nods. “Of course. If you will come this way, gentleman,” he says, and leads them up the stairs.
“Are you sure this is a tailor?” Harry asks, looking around. “I don’t see any clothes.”
“A tailor, Potter, not a department store.”
A short Indian gentleman is waiting for them. He greets Draco with familiarity and Potter with enthusiasm. “And Mr Potter is here for?” he asks, once the introductions are over.
“Everything,” Draco says, eying Potter’s baggy jeans and dirty trainers.
“Only formal robes,” Potter protests.
“Everything,” Draco says again.
Potter sighs.
The tailor chuckles. “Why don’t I show you your options, Mr Potter, and you can decide for yourself?”
He talks Potter into several pairs of formal robes, all of them far more flattering than any Draco has seen on him before, and then says, “Mr Potter, you are of Indian ancestry, I believe?”
“Er,” Potter says. “My grandparents, I think. But I’ve never met them.”
“It’s a shame to be separated from one of your ancestral cultures,” Mr Upadhyay says.
“Yeah,” Potter agrees.
“Perhaps you would like to try on some Indian wizarding robes? In recognition of your ancestry? I think you will find them most comfortable.”
“Er, can I?” Potter asks.
“Of course,” Mr Upadhyay says. He opens a cabinet and unfolds a long rack of beautiful robes and matching trousers, all in exquisitely embroidered silks and cottons. “India is a more colourful place than Britain,” he says, choosing a robe in gold with green embroidery that will match Potter’s eyes and make his dark skin glow. It comes with a pair of matching green trousers. Mr Upadhyay shows him how the Indian robes are shorter than English ones, designed for the matching trousers to show, with slits up the sides to allow for easier movement.
“Er- are you from there?” Potter asks. “Your accent…”
Mr Upadhyay chuckles, choosing another set, this one in dark blue with red and green embroidery. “My grandparents,” he says. “But I’ve visited.”
The robes fit Potter well, and this time he actually admires himself in the mirror, as he hadn’t done when trying on the British robes. Draco had taken him to Mr Upadhyay because he was the tailor he trusted the most, hadn’t even considered this.
“They’re so comfortable,” Potter says, looking down at the fabric, smoothing it over his thigh. “It’s not too bright?”
He looks at Draco, who shakes his head. “As Mr Upadhyay says, it is the style for them to be colourful.”
And colourful suits Potter, Draco realises. He’ll stand out like a jewel among the dull colours of the English wizarding world, all blacks and greys and muted colours since the war, as if everyone is still mourning. How did they let it go on so long? he wonders.
“It suits you,” he says, without really meaning to. He steps up behind Potter and puts his hands on his shoulders, straightening out the collar a little and brushing his palms down the silk sleeves.
Potter meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles.
They wander out of Mr Uhadhyay’s shop a while later, Potter back in his horrid jeans, robes left behind to be fit and then sent on to Grimmauld Place.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” Draco asks, and Potter looks at his watch. “Oh, no,” he says. “Drat- sorry, I’ve got to run.” He looks up at Draco and smiles. “Thank you so much for taking me,” he says. “I really appreciate it. I’ll owl you about our next date, okay?”
“Next date?” Draco repeats, confused.
Potter smiles cheekily and stretches up to press a kiss against Draco’s cheek. “Bye!” he calls, and rushes away.
Draco does not stare after him and touch his cheek. He doesn’t.
(3)
The next time they meet, after exchanging a flurry of owls- they’re extraordinarily busy for two people without proper jobs- Draco comes again to Grimmauld Place and they floo over to Diagon Alley.
People stare as they leave the Leaky Cauldron and make their way down the street, their hands clasped together (Harry’s idea), leaning over to draw each other’s attention to this or that attraction. Potter, it turns out, has a thing for street food and chivvies Draco into trying the things he buys; hand pies and something that resembles a sausage wrapped in chips and soft, smooth ice cream.
He teases Draco and hand feeds him bites of pie and grins at him and winks saucily after dragging his tongue over the tip of the ice cream and Draco’s heart does that weird flippity floppity thing every time, like it thinks this is real. Not that Draco wants this to be real, this laughing banter they’ve somehow fallen into, the looks Potter gives him, up through his eyelashes, the way Draco’s fingers itch to push back his hair.
“Let’s go into Weasley’s,” Harry says, grabbing Draco’s wrist with hands still sticky from the ice cream. Draco stops him and casts a cleaning charm on the both of them and Harry rolls his eyes with a grin, then tugs at his wrist again. “Come on.”
Draco follows him into the hectic shop, lets him tug him along until they find Ron Weasley, who eyes them warily.
“Harry!” he greets. “And Malfoy. What a surprise seeing you here.” Not a pleasant surprise, his tone says.
“Oh,” Harry says airily, throwing his arm over Draco’s shoulder. “Draco and I were just on a date.”
“A what?!” Weasley splutters.
“You know,” Harry says. He’s clearly enjoying this. “A date. When two people who are romantically and/or sexually attracted…” he trails off and looks at Draco. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Do you think it’s a date if you just hang out at home?”
“If it’s mutually agreed upon I don’t see why not,” Draco says. “I think it really depends on the parties involved and their understanding of the situation.”
Weasley is glaring now.
“Why are you on a date with Malfoy?” he demands.
Harry pulls away from Malfoy far enough that he can flick his eyes over him. “Because he’s fit,” he tells Weasley. “And he’s funny and smart… but mostly because he’s fit.”
Weasley groans. “You’re the worst,” he says. And Harry grins again and pulls Draco out of the shop.
“What was that?” Draco demands when they’re back on the pavement.
“What?” Harry asks, doing a poor job of feigning innocence.
“That whole thing with Weasley.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “He keeps trying to set me up on blind dates and I keep telling him ‘no’ and we got into a thing about it.”
“So you went in there and deliberately used me to piss him off,” Draco says and crosses his arms in front of his chest, trying not to feel hurt. Why should he be hurt? They’re just using each other, after all.
Harry blanches. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry,” and Draco thinks, with faint surprise, that he really means it. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was just so pissed at him and I wasn’t thinking… but you’re right, it wasn’t right- you deserve better.”
Draco is speechless. He does deserve better, it’s true, but he also deserves worse, doesn’t deserve to be here at all, under the noon day sun in Diagon Alley, the taste of ice cream on his lips, Harry’s warm hand curled around his wrist.
“Can I make it up to you?” Harry pleads, “I’ll take you to lunch.”
And Draco can’t help laughing. “How can you have room for lunch? You’ve only eaten at half the market stalls?”
“I’m a growing boy,” Harry says, doing that thing that Draco absolutely can’t bear, where he looks over his shoulder and glances up at Draco slyly, like they’re in on some amazingly hilarious secret.
“Oh?” Draco asks. “And where exactly are you growing?”
(4)
Harry is not expected at the manor, but he comes by anyway, stepping through the floo that Draco had added him to the receiving list of on a stupid whim, oh, years ago, after they’d had the first not-terrible interaction of their lives.
The elves are off, of course, they always are when things like this happen, so Draco has to tear across the house, when he feels the tug at the wards, still dirty from the gardening he’d been doing.
Potter’s still in the floo room, noisily looking at the portraits and knick knacks, and he smirks at Draco when he bustles in.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, taking in Draco’s dishevelled appearance and dirty hands.
Draco takes a deep breath. “I was just out doing a little gardening,” he says. “Would you like tea? I’m afraid I’ll have to make it myself. Garky’s afternoon off, you understand.”
Potter raises his eyebrows. “You can make tea?” he asks. “I had no idea you were so domestic.”
Draco humours him with a brief glare, then leads the way to the kitchen, trying not to be too frustrated with the way Potter dawdles, examining the carvings on the bannisters and a pair of statues in an alcove, stopping to peer out a window at the gardens below.
“You do the gardening yourself?” he asks, when they finally get to the kitchens. They’re underground, of course, but in the renovations that had followed the war Draco had added large magical windows that show a view of the gardens and taken out the false ceilings, revealing ancient vaulted brick arches.
“Only the rarer plants,” Draco admits.
He washes his hand, puts the kettle on the hob, and measures leaves into the teapot, rummaging about until he finds the chocolate biscuits he knows Potter likes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, when he’s poured tea for both of them and Potter has doctored his with a ridiculous large amount of cream and sugar. The man must have a ridiculous metabolism if he always eats like this and still looks… the way he does.
Draco isn’t about to be jealous, he isn’t.
“I was thinking.”
“Novel,” Draco interjects.
“Very original,” Potter says, failing at masking his humour behind a scowl.
“And?” Draco asks, an eyebrow raised. The scowl turns to something else and Potter looks away.
Draco jumps when he suddenly feels Potter’s hand on his shoulder.
“That,” Potter says.
“What?” Draco asks.
“When we were in Diagon Alley,” he says. “Every time I touched you you flinched away a little bit. And yeah, it’s cute and all when you’re just starting dating, but if you’re gonna come to the Weasleys with me…”
“I never agreed to that!” Draco protests before remembering that, oh yes, he had agreed to that.
“... or if we’re going to convince anyone that we’re actually dating, then you’re gonna need to get used to it. Me touching you,” he adds. “And you should probably touch me too.”
“So you’re saying,” Draco says, heart doing that ridiculous thing again, “that we have to practice touching each other?”
Potter nods seriously. “Maybe…” he hesitates. “Kissing a little too? Just so we can be convincing.”
“Perhaps we need to practice shagging as well,” Draco says sarcastically, crossing his arms in front of him. “Just in case we’ll be called upon to do that in front of an audience.”
Potter flushes. “I’m sorry,” he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “If it’s something you’re uncomfortable with, of course we don’t have to. I just thought it’s something that would make this all more convincing.” He pauses. “I’m sorry for touching you without asking first.”
Sometimes Draco really hates him.
“You’re right,” he says instead of punching him or pushing him down and shagging him or something. “It wouldn’t be very realistic if we never touch. But do you really think kissing is necessary? Plenty of people don’t kiss in public.” Harry worries his lip.
“I guess you’re right,” he says. “Draco… if you don’t want to do this, you do have to.” He laughs a little, as if he’s suddenly trying to pretend the whole thing is a joke. “I mean, it’s a kind of crazy idea. I just… I don’t want to think I pressured you into it.”
Draco shakes his head. “You’re doing me a favour,” he says. “I’m the one who has to get married, remember?”
“But I don’t want… is it that important to you?” Harry asks. “Malfoy manor? I mean, you could get a job. You could… if you needed somewhere to stay for a while, Grimmauld place is excessively large.” He looks out the kitchen window. “You know I don’t know anything about this stuff… you know, families. It’s just that you said you wanted to marry for love, and I hate the thought that you’re not and it’s my idea.”
Draco takes a breath. “I know you’re trying to be kind,” he says. “It’s not just that it’s my ancestral home. I’ve been thinking about how proud you can be of a family after…” he pauses. “After they’ve done harmful things. Can I really be proud of twenty generations, when those twenty generations only survived, only managed to own all this because they were taking advantage of others? You don’t become rich through kindness and generosity, and you don’t stay rich that way either. So maybe, if it was about family I’d let it go.” He says the last with a small hitch.
“But I restored the manor after the war, I cleaned it of dark magic, I scrubbed the stones and washed the walls and purified every inch of the house and the grounds. I made this place something I could be proud of.” He looks down, smooths his fingers across the table.
“But even if it were just the Manor, I could let it go. What is a house without a family, after all? I don’t… I don’t tell a lot of people this, but since you’re determined to see the good in me anyway, you might as well know. I resolved that I’d make the Malfoy name something to be proud of. I invested in businesses, ones that help people, and in charities and I spend a lot of my time helping people ward their houses and businesses. I’ve been working so hard at it, and I’ll lose that if I lose the inheritance. There are people who depend on me- and my money. And it will go to someone- I don’t even know who, the connections are so entangled- who won’t understand, who won’t keep it up.
“I feel like an arse saying this, a rich man desperate to keep his money because he fancies he can do some good with it, and I guess that’s what I am, but…” he looks at Harry. “I don’t value love more than that, and if I’m going to marry someone I’m not in love with, marrying someone who has the same values I do is really the best I could possibly hope for.”
Harry is looking back at him, his eyes welling up, and he puts his hand on Draco’s and then stands up and comes around the table to him and wraps his arms around him. “Thank you,” he murmurs into Draco’s hair, and it does feel very nice to be held like this, but Draco’s breath is escaping him and there’s a claxon ringing in some part of his head don’t fall into this trap, don’t fall into this trap, don’t fall in love with someone who will never love you back.
Of course, they’re properly disgusted with themselves after that display of emotions, and Draco gives Harry a tour of the grounds, and Harry does what he sets out to do and sneaks touches, a hand slipping into Draco’s or around Draco’s shoulders or, once even, his waist. He walks so close to Draco their shoulders knock together, he leans against him, slightly, and Draco tries to reciprocate, he really does, at least tries to relax into it it, but the thought that this means nothing, this is just practice stiffens him again and again.
And Harry’s disappointed, though he doesn’t say anything, and leaves perhaps earlier than he might have, leaving Draco to drink whisky and stew and wish he could talk to someone about this, but he is, of course, English and has used up years of his allotment of talking about his emotions in one single afternoon already.
Pansy comes to see him again, Blaise in tow, with the last three editions of the Daily Prophet. He and Harry are prominently featured on the front pages on all of them.
“Darling, are you serious?” she demands, throwing the papers down, dramatic as ever. Garky pops up with lavender-flavoured lemonade and some delicate iced biscuits, and brusquely sets the table and then pops off again.
“Serious?” Draco repeats. He opens The Prophet lying on the top of the pile and admires the way Harry’s new robes- he’s wearing the more formal Indian ones, a dark maroon embroidered with cream- set off his features. He looks stunning beside Draco, Draco flatters himself. Draco's wearing light blue robes, with a dark blue embroidery that almost seems to match that on Harry’s robes. Should they get matching robes, he wonders? Mr Upadhyay could make something subtle.
Pansy clears her throat and raises an eyebrow at Draco.
“I suppose it is,” he drawls.
“We know about the entail,” Blaise says carelessly, sipping at the lemonade.
Draco looks at him sharply. “You do?” he asks. “How?”
Blaise shrugs elegantly. “Word gets about,” he says.
“Private words,” Draco asks. “Between myself and my lawyer?”
“Draco, are you just marrying Potter to keep your entail?” Pansy asks Draco sharply.
“Marry Potter?” Draco repeats. “We’ve only just started dating.”
“Well, either you’re hoping to sweep him off your feet in the next six months or you’re getting ready to shove him off so you can court properly,” Blaise concludes.
“Perhaps I’m tired of dealing with entails and such and getting ready to shove the whole lot of it,” Draco says.
“No,” Pansy says, waving off that idea with a wave of one lace-covered hand. “You’ve put too much work into all this.”
Blaise is looking at him speculatively. “Does Potter know about the entail?” he asks.
Draco doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Pansy is leaning forward now, eyes narrowed. “Draco Malfoy!” she hisses. “This is all a scheme, isn’t it? I knew I smelled a rat! You and Potter are only faking a relationship. But why?” She leaned back in her chair and frowned. “What do you have over him?”
“Nothing!” Draco exclaims. “I have nothing over him! It’s not even my scheme, it’s his. He wants to marry me for some unexplainable reason- he said a lot of nonsense about me helping him with his charity and so on, but it doesn’t make any sense!”
Blaise and Pansy are staring at him, Blaise having for once lost his careless expression. “It was his idea?” Pansy asks.
“Yes!” Draco explains. “I told him about it- I don’t know why, I was probably suffering from a concussion because he’d just knocked me out…”
“He knocked you out?” Pansy demands.
“It was an accident. It was just after I’d found out about the entail, I wasn’t looking where I was going, and when I woke up I was on his couch and he was cleaning the head wound and then somehow it just came all spilling out, and then he asked me to go to the Midsummer Ball and he was so uncomfortable I had to help him out, and then at the end of it he said ‘if we got married then you’d get your estate and you could keep helping me’ and yes, I know it’s completely absurd, but how could I turn down Harry Bloody Potter?”
If anything, they were staring harder now.
“He offered to marry you,” Pansy says. “In exchange for you helping him out at charity functions?”
Draco put his head down on the table. “Yes,” he says.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Pansy says. “There must be something more to it. He’s going to divorce you and take you for half your money.”
“Potter is even richer than Draco is,” Blaise reminds her.
“He’s…” Pansy begins, then falters. “He’s… What the hell is he doing?”
“I think he’s just being kind,” Draco says, his forehead still pressed against the cool cast-iron.
“You don’t marry someone because you’re kind,” Pansy says. “Even if you’re Saint Potter.”
“I have a theory,” Blaise says, “but I’ll need to see the two of you together to test it. When’s your next date?”
“Tomorrow,” Draco says, finally lifting his head. “At the Burrow. What’s your theory?”
“The Burrow?” Pansy repeats, horrified.
“He’s going to parade me around so the Weasleys stop harassing him about being single,” Draco says, making a face. “What’s your theory?”
“Ugh, all those Weasleys, being so common and… common,” Pansy says, with disgust.
“They’re not so bad,” Draco says. “What’s your theory?”
“I can’t tell you,” Blaise says, “not until I’ve confirmed it. Host a dinner party sometime next week. I need to see the two of you in action.”
Draco stares at him for a moment, but Blaise is back to being unreadable. “Don’t tell him you know,” he says. “No one was supposed to. He’s not even telling his family.”
“He shouldn’t,” Pansy agrees. “The Weasleys are horrible gossips, everyone knows that. But we’re Slytherins, we know how to keep a secret.”
“Until it benefits you to stop,” Draco says.
“Of course, Darling,” Pansy says. “What good are secrets if you can’t use them to your own end?”
(5)
Draco dresses down for the event, as down as he goes, anyway, which still means light summer robes in a neat sky blue cotton. He’s not about to put on muggle clothes, with those revealing tight trousers, not even for Harry. He’s surprised to see that Harry is again dressed in one of his new robes, the informal ones Draco had badgered him into buying.
He smiles at Draco as he comes through the floo.
“I thought you’d been in trousers,” Draco says, and Harry smiles and looks embarrassed and smooths down his robes.
“I knew you’d be wearing robes,” he says, “and I didn’t want you to feel too out of place. I hadn’t realised robes were so comfortable.”
Draco doesn’t know how to feel about that. Harry’s kindness sucks all the air out of him sometimes.
He shifts the flowers he’s holding, and Harry’s eyes drop to them. “You brought flowers?” he asks.
“For Mrs Weasley,” Draco says. “I… it’s impolite not to bring something. They’re from the Manor gardens- I thought she’d appreciate them.”
“I’m sure she will,” Harry says. “Let’s go. Do you mind side-along?”
Draco shakes his head and Harry wraps a hand around his arm and pulls them into nothingness and then into an old orchard.
“They’ll be nice to you, I promise,” Harry says, as they make their way along the path towards the house. His hand is still on Draco’s arm and Draco doesn’t want to pull away.
They’re almost at the house when a horde of Weasleys spill out of it, Ginny and Ron and George all tussling over something, Ginny running around, trying to keep it out of her brothers’ grasp.
“Oi, Harry!” she calls when she sees them. “Catch!” And she throws it at them.
Harry lets go of Draco’s arm and snatches whatever it is out of the air, then inspects it. It looks like a remembrall, but with a whirling gyroscope inside.
“What is it?” Harry asks.
“No time!” Ginny says, “throw it back to me before they get to you!”
The Weasley brothers have clearly done this before and without speaking Ron charges Harry while George guards their sister.
Draco resists the urge to hide behind Harry.
Harry grins and hands the device to Draco and Ron stops his charge, looking confused.
The glass sphere lights up blue and the wheels inside of it spin.
The Weasleys look at Draco and Draco looks at Harry.
A blue haired boy comes running out of the house. “Harry!” he cries, and throws himself into Harry’s arms.
“Psst, Malfoy!” Ginny hisses, and Draco looks over to see she’s taken advantage of her brother’s distraction to sneak to the other side of a hedge.
He tosses the device to her, then stuffs his hand into his pocket, to make it look like he still has it. She winks at him and slips away.
The boy in Harry’s arms is babbling to him about something involving planes or trains or some form of muggle transportation, and when he’s done, Harry turns to Draco. “Teddy, have you met Draco?”
The boy shrinks back and stuffs his fingers in his mouth and shakes his head, shyly.
“Draco is your cousin,” Harry says and Draco stares.
“Cousin?” he repeats.
“He’s your Aunt Andromeda’s grandson,” Harry explains, and Draco’s eyes widen.
“I’ve never met Aunt Andromeda,” Draco says. “My grandparents disowned her for marrying a muggleborn.”
“Well she’s here,” Harry says. He leans closer to Draco. “Don’t be alarmed- she looks a lot like Bellatrix, but she’s nothing at all like her. Teddy,” he turns back to the boy, “can you say ‘hi’ to your Cousin Draco?”
The boy reluctantly pulls his fingers out of his mouth and whispers “hi, Cousin Draco.”
Behind them Draco hears George yelling “you cheat!” and then the boys are racing off after their sister again. Harry grins at Draco and they make their way to the house.
The Weasleys are overwhelming and there’s too many of them, but they smile at Draco and try to include him in their conversations. The food is what Draco’s mother would have described as ‘rustic’, but it’s good and generously portioned and the Weasleys talk and gossip and tease and fight through the whole meal, talking over each other and carrying on cross-conversations and the whole time Harry is there, smiling at Draco and holding his hand, and Teddy decides he likes Draco and climbs into his lap and gets him all grubby and Aunt Andromeda does look terrifyingly like Aunt Bellatrix until she almost bursts out crying when Harry introduces him and then wraps him in a surprisingly strong hug for such a small woman and after that she doesn’t look like Bellatrix at all.
Draco’s exhausted when they leave, Harry apparating them back to the Manor, even walking him to the door, and they’re so engrossed in their conversation- about the curriculum of the school Harry’s charity is funding- that he invites Harry in for tea and the next thing they know it’s two in the morning and they’re both yawning and their eyes are drooping and when Harry gets up to go he presses a kiss on Draco’s cheek without seeming to realise it because then he apologises and Draco has to say, no it’s alright, but the feeling is burning his skin and his heart is pounding and he doesn’t know how to get it to slow down enough to sleep.
(6)
The next date is dinner. Harry’s suggested they do something more traditional, and so they meet at one of the nicer restaurants off Diagon Alley, a French place which Draco has always thought is a little gaudy and overpriced, but they’re there for the visibility, not the food.
Harry’s dressed wonderfully again, a robe in a dark blue that makes his skin glow, and he smiles at Draco like Draco is a sunny day after a week of rain. How is Draco meant to survive this? But he lets Harry rest his hand on Draco’s back as they’re led to their table, right in the middle of the room where everyone can see Harry sit down in the chair cater-corner to him and he can lean over and murmur in Draco’s ear, which burns when Harry’s breath gusts over it.
Draco tries to concentrate on the menu, since he’s promised Harry, who claims to be ignorant on all matters of French food, that he’ll do the ordering, but Harry has laced their fingers together and people are staring at them and murmuring all around the restaurant. Haven’t they seen the pictures in the Daily Prophet? It’s been weeks! Is this all still so new?
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the waiter greets them in a fake French accent. “What will you be drinking?”
Draco orders a wine he picked more or less at random, and the waiter drifts away.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks him. Their fingers are still intertwined. “You seem a little… twitchy.”
Draco forces himself to relax, to calmly look back at him. It’s just Harry. He can talk to Harry. He takes a breath and asks about the charity and soon Harry’s talking about some problem they’re having and Draco is asking questions and making suggestions and then, just like that, everything is easy and the night passes in a blur.
(7)
He hasn’t had a dinner party in ages, and so frets about every little thing; the wine selection and the food, and whether to have it outside (will it rain? Of course it will rain, it’s England, but he’s got the transparent marquee and it’s so lovely in the garden when it rains, and it’s light until eleven at night in the summer and they might as well take advantage of that). And then there’s the guest list, another big headache- how small does he want it? Would Harry suspect something if it was just a few people? And he does want to invite Aunt Andromeda over, she was so kind, and, well, it takes a few weeks longer to organise than he’d hoped, weeks of meeting Harry for dinner and drinks and strolls through Diagon Alley all the time wondering, wondering, wondering why Harry smiles at him the way he does and what he wants from Draco, really, and what caused the twinkle in Blaise’s eye, what does he suspect?
And whole time Harry touches him, holds his hand, whispers in his ear, and it’s for show, of course, it’s all for show, but Draco has to bite his lip to keep from turning his head and kissing him, to keep from pulling him against him, to keep him from ripping those beautiful robes off of Harry’s tanned body and every time they meet it gets worse and worse and worse.
“Darling!” Pansy cries, crossing to Draco and air-kissing him, Blaise following at her heels as always, looking smug and idling scanning the room. Pansy is dressed all in white and dripping with crystals and has an ostrich feather in her hair, of all things.
Blaise idly shoots his cuffs.
“Is Potter here yet?” Pansy asks, looking around.
“Of course he’s here,” Draco says, practically hisses, “he had to come early to ‘help me set up,’ which entirely meant ‘get in the way and try to eat all the canapes before everyone else got here.’”
Pansy smirks and Blaise radiates faint amusement.
Harry reappears from wherever he’s gotten off to. He’s wearing the most beautiful of his new robes, dark red and gold- an atrocious choice to wear at a party at Draco’s house, but he looks so good that Draco couldn’t even make a snarky remark about it- with an off centre opening fastened by dozens of tiny buttons, and even though Draco’s been staring at him since he got there, he still can’t look away.
Harry smiles at him, and then looks at Blaise and Pansy. “I’m so happy you came,” he says, as if he’s the host. “It’s been so long.”
Blaise is as serene as ever, but Pansy looks at him dubiously. “I’ve heard you’ve been shacking up with our boy,” she says.
“My boy now,” Harry corrects with a smirk, and snakes an arm around Draco.
Pansy gives him a sharp look and is about to say something, but Aunt Andromeda sweeps in.
“Draco!” she says, “Harry, darling boys, thank you for inviting me.”
Pansy gives Draco a look he can’t interpret and then wanders off, probably to gobble down the canapes Harry hadn’t managed to eat.
The dinner party is fairly small, only twelve people, and Draco had finally decided to set it in the garden, and the weather for once cooperated, and the trees are filled with lantern fairies he’d bribed to be there and everything goes of without a hitch, or Draco assumes it does anyway, because he spends most of his time looking at Harry and listening to Harry laugh and is distracted by Harry every time someone who is not Harry tries to talk to him.
And at the end of the evening, he can tell Blaise and Pansy want to talk to him, but Harry is still there, lingering, and Draco can’t look away from him, so, with a huff, they leave.
Harry turns away from where he’s been watching the lantern fairies flicker through the rose bushes, and smiles at Draco and his dark skin is illuminated by the fairy lights and he’s so beautiful that Draco really, honestly, can’t stand it, doesn’t know how he’s still living, doesn’t know how he can keep this going, doesn’t know how he can give it up.
“Harry,” he says, and even that catches in his throat, and the smile slips from Harry’s face and Draco doesn’t know how to read the look that replaces it.
But Harry struggles through and smiles again and says “I guess I should be going now, that you, really, for hosting this, it… it was really fun,” and then he’s gone and Draco feels like he’s been cored, hollowed, something.
He doesn’t know how he makes it to bed.
Of course Blaise and Pansy come around the next day, far too early, when Draco is moodily staring across the garden where the remains of the dinner party have been cleared up, a tumbler of whisky clutched in one hand.
“Drinking so early, old bean?” Blaise asks. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
Draco curses his transparent skin and takes a swig of the whiskey, then whirls on Blaise. “Well?” he demands. “What’s your theory then? Why did Potter do all this? What does he want from me?”
Blaise looks at him, drops his facade for once and looks at him with compassion. “Draco,” he says, “he wants you.”
“For what?” Draco demands, gesticulating so wildly he splashes the whisky, eliciting a gasp and a cry from Pansy. He ignores her.
“He wants you for you, you idiot!” she exclaims. “Draco, this is silk!”
He turns and stares at her. “He wants me for… me?” he asks.
“He’s head over heels,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Everyone can see it.”
“He’s not,” Draco says. “He’s just acting. That’s the whole point! We’re pretending to be together so when we get married no one knows it’s a ruse.”
Pansy covers her eyes. “Merlin’s saggy tits,” she mutters. “Draco, no one is that good an actor. You’re obsessed with each other, everyone can see it.”
“You’ve always been obsessed with each other,” Blaise adds. “None of us have forgotten Hogwarts, as much as we pretend to.”
“We hated each other!” Draco exclaims.
“You stalked each other,” Pansy says, dryly. “And now you’re idiots, stuck in a fake relationship, pining away for a real one.”
Draco shakes his head. “You can’t be sure,” he says.
“You can be,” Blaise says. “All you have to do is ask him.”
“And what if he is just pretending?” Draco demands. “Then I’ll have ruined all of it.”
“Then you can move on,” Pansy says. “And not end up trapped in a depressing one-sided marriage.”
“And lose my estate,” Draco says. “Lose everything.”
“Oh, darling,” Pansy says, wrapping her arms around him. “You’ll never lose everything. You’ll always still have us.”
“I don’t want to bugger everything up,” Draco says.
“And yet you want to get buggered,” Pansy muses. “What a conundrum.”
“Shut up, you harpy,” he says.
Pansy laughs, and hugs him tighter.
(8)
“Draco, is everything all right?” Harry asks. Draco looks up at him, helplessly.
“Yeah,” he mutters, reaching for the menu, but Harry grabs his wrist.
Draco can’t help looking up into Harry’s green eyes. Fuck.
“If you’re not feeling up to it,” Harry says, then pauses. “Let’s just go,” he says, standing up, dropping Draco’s wrist.
“What?” Draco asks, bewildered. “Where?”
Harry shrugs. “Anywhere,” he says. “You’re not happy. We don’t have to do this if you’re not happy.”
“What?” Draco asks, as Harry tosses a few galleons on the table and leads him out.
Harry turns back to them when they’re outside. It’s one of those unpleasantly misty days where you get wet just standing outside. Draco casts an impervious charm over them because he knows Harry will never cast one on himself.
“Draco,” he says, “our last few dates you’ve seemed… Please tell me what the matter is.”
There’s no way Draco can say ‘I’m hopelessly in love with you’, and he doesn’t know how to lie, not about this, so he just stares at Harry, speechless.
“We can call it off,” Harry says. “You know we can, right? If you don’t want to do this anymore. With me. If you… if you have feelings for someone else, or you realise you can’t marry someone you don’t love…”
And he looks so desperate and so anxious that for the first time Draco thinks that maybe Blaise is actually right, and he can’t stop himself then, just because of that tiny sliver of hope, and can’t help stepping a little closer to Harry and feeling him gasp and Harry’s eyes widening and then their lips are pressing together, just a little bit, chaste and soft and even that light kiss is more than Draco ever thought he’d get.
But then Harry wraps his arms around him and pulls him tighter and the kiss changes into something desperate and heated and there are tongues and teeth and then Harry’s pulling away panting and he’s murmuring ‘Draco, Draco’ and Draco, who has always been a fool and a coward, pulls away, steps back, and disapparates.
Draco is a coward and a fool who deserves to be drinking alone in his garden while the mist is so thick you get wet just by standing in it, wishing he hadn’t kissed Harry or he hadn’t run away or something. The wards ripple across his skin and he ignores them, just leaves Garky to deal with it, and he must, because no one comes. He drinks until he's thoroughly chilled and thoroughly drunk and then goes and lies alone in his bed in the dark and stares up at the ceiling and wishes he were someone else.
(9)
“Draco, you arse,” Pansy is saying in his dream, and then he’s blinking his eyes open and oh Salazar’s balls she’s saying it in real life and his head is pounding.
“Oh,” he hisses, clutching his head.
She looks down at him, unimpressed, and shoves a hangover cure in his hand.
“No,” he says, pushing it away, “I don’t deserve it.”
Pansy narrows her eyes and then, quick as a snake, pinches his nostrils until he has to take a gasping breath and then pours the hangover cure down his throat and he has to swallow or choke.
He coughs. “You’re a vile person,” he says, sitting up.
“You’re a git,” she says. “Draco, what the hell happened?’
“Nothing happened,” Draco mutters.
“Potter came to us last night,” Blaise interrupts, calmly.
“Interrupted us,” Pansy says. “We were right in the middle of fucking too. You owe me an orgasm, Draco.”
Draco stares at her. “How the hell am I supposed to make that it up to you?” he demands. “You don’t actually want me to…”
“Eww,” she says. “No. Get off with Potter and we’ll be in the clear.”
“He said that you kissed him,” Blaise continues, as if there hadn’t been an interruption, “and then you ran away.”
Draco looks down.
“You little fool!” Pansy cries. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“I don’t know!” Draco says. “I don’t know! I kissed him a little and he kissed me a lot and I just… freaked out!”
Blaise sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
“Draco,” Pansy says, “do you want him?”
“I’m in love with him,” Draco says. “I thought we established that.”
“Yes,” Pansy says, “but do you want him?”
“I don’t know!” Draco cries. “It’s just so much! I have so many feelings and I feel like I’m going to explode with them!”
“Oh, darling,” Pansy says. “That’s tough. But you’ve got to decide if you want to deal with it or if you want to be miserable and alone forever.”
“That’s a bit rough, Pans,” Blaise says.
“That’s how it is,” Pansy says. “Go to him and apologize and tell him how you feel or just accept that you fucked it up and you’re buggered and not in the way you wanted to be.”
“I know,” Draco says.
“Good,” Pansy says and shoves something in his hands and suddenly Draco is falling out of the air and onto the front steps of a respectable Georgian townhouse in just his pyjamas, still stinking of a hangover.
He barely has a moment to right himself and stand up before the door opens. Harry stands there, eyes wide. “Draco,” he says, his voice cracking.
“That bloody, noisy, intolerable bitch!” Draco exclaims.
“You’re in your pyjamas,” Harry says.
“Pansy threw a portkey at me!” Draco says. “I was in bed! I don’t even have my wand.”
He pushes past Harry into the house.
Harry turns and stares at him and Draco suddenly remembers. “Oh,” he says. What he wouldn’t give for clean clothes and a mouthwash charm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For leaving like that.”
Harry’s too close, the hallway is too small, and Draco is aware that he must stink.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I shouldn’t have kissed you…”
“I kissed you first!” Draco cries. “And then I ran away!”
“You did,” Harry agrees. “Er… why did you?”
“I don’t know,” Draco says. “I didn’t think… Harry, why did you offer to marry me?”
Harry looks away, wrings his hands. “You said you had to get married,” he says. “I didn’t want… I didn’t want anyone else to marry you. I thought… maybe if we pretended to be together then you’d… you’d start feeling like I do.”
“And how do you feel?” Draco asks, his breath catching.
“Like…” Harry moves closer. “Like when I’m with you I can’t breathe, like you’re what lights the sun, like…” he ducks his head down and kisses Draco and Draco kisses back, tongue and lips and oh Circe, Harry’s hands sliding down Draco’s back.
Draco pulls away. “Wait,” he says.
Harry steps back, looking hurt and afraid. “I’m sorry,” he begins, but Draco shakes his head.
“I do,” he says. “I do feel the way you do. Every time I see you I think you can’t get more wonderful and then somehow you do.”
“I’m not wonderful,” Harry says.
“You are to me,” Draco says, and then Harry is on him, and Draco pants into his mouth, but then pulls away.
“What now?” Harry demands.
“My breath,” Draco says. “It’s awful, I’m sorry, I’m a mess, she didn’t even let me shower,” but Harry’s laughing and Draco feels the minty tingle of a tooth-cleaning charm and then the fresh zap of a cleaning charm and Harry asks, teasingly, “is that good enough?” and then he pulls Draco into his arms again.
It takes them forever to get to Harry’s bedroom, they keep having to stop and kiss, unbutton and touch, and they leave a trail of clothes along the hallway and up the stairs.
“Why is your bedroom so far from the front door?” Draco asks against Harry’s neck.
“I have no idea,” Harry murmurs back, sliding his hands under the waistband of Draco’s pants, "but it’s bloody stupid.”
There’s an awkward moment when they’re finally in Harry’s room, decorated in sea glass colours of soft greens and blues, naked, and standing in front of each other, pricks hard and dripping, Draco’s all pink and Harry’s brown and delicious looking, but then Draco decides to stop being a coward for once in his life and pushes Harry against the bed so he sits down on it, then falls to his knees on the thick carpet in front of him, licking up the trail of precome that has dribbled down his cock, tonguing his head and his slit before sliding his mouth over it.
“Oh!” Harry gasps, and slides his hand into Draco’s hair. “Oh!”
Draco fills his mouth with Harry’s cock, lets it rest heavy on his tongue for a moment so he can delight in how it’s pulsing and leaking, how Harry is shuddering, then he pulls back and begins to bob on it, one hand stroking the bit he can’t fit in his mouth, the other on Harry’s hips and Harry is making the most delicious sounds and jerking his hips slightly, like he’s trying to contain himself, and Draco can’t do anything but drink him down, so full and good.
“Draco,” Harry moans, “I want you to fuck me,” and like that Draco’s up and pushing Harry back on the bed, kissing him again, Harry’s mouth wide and wanting, nipping down his neck, and demanding to know where Harry keeps the lube.
Harry grins his crooked grin and casts a few charms on himself wordlessly, though Draco can tell what they are by the magic; cleaning, protection, lubrication. When he slides his hand between Harry’s legs his arse is leaking.
“Draco,” Harry says and Draco is pushing his legs apart and slipping a finger inside his arse and then another, while Harry rocks back on them and moans, and then Draco’s inside of him and it’s so good and Harry’s so tight, and Draco can’t help himself, he really can’t, he’s shoving himself inside of Harry, his face pressed against Harry’s neck and he’s whispering ‘I love you, I love you’ and Harry is laughing, joyful and delighted and moaning and pressing back into Draco, his legs on his shoulders, his hands bruising Draco’s back, and he’s saying it back ‘I love you, I love you, Draco, we’re such idiots’, and Draco is laughing too, and they cum like that, so happy and so full of love.
Harry goes to use the loo still laughing, comes back with a damp towel to clean off the lube and cum that’s been smeared on Draco’s skin, then banishes it and wraps himself around Draco, humming with happiness.
“Did you ask me to marry you because you liked me?” Draco asks.
“That’s usually why people ask that,” Harry says with a smirk.
Draco pinches his arm.
“Ow!” Harry exclaims. “Okay, yes, a little bit. I didn’t love you, not yet, but I knew I wanted to spend more time with you and, oh it was such torture.”
“Torture!” Draco exclaims. “You kept touching me. How was I supposed to stand it?”
“You kept flinching away from my touches!” Harry exclaims. “I thought you must really not like me.”
“It was just too much,” Draco murmurs. “I thought you were just… I thought you were acting.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “I probably should have just asked you out, huh?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and kisses his nose. “I kind of… panicked. I thought you might do something stupid because you were afraid of losing your estate so I thought that that stupid thing might as well be me.”
Draco laughs. “I guess I’ll be doing you for a while,” he says.
“Yeah?” Harry asks. “The wedding is still on then?”
“Are you an impulsive enough Gryffindor to marry someone you only just started shagging?” Draco asks.
Harry smiles. “I think I might be,” he says.
(and a wedding)
They married in the fall, the Manor gardens magicked back into full bloom, the grounds full of guests. Everyone who is anyone in society must be invited, Draco had insisted. He took his position as Harry’s social advisor very seriously. On top of that, anyone who is anyone to Harry and Draco (more, admittedly, on Harry’s side, but then the Weasleys were practically half the wizarding world), the people who work at Harry’s charity and the students who go to the schools it funds and the people who own the businesses Draco invests in and they might as well have just put an advert in The Prophet saying everyone who wanted could come (and possibly they did).
It was all lovely, the happy people, the children running about, the tables of food (it was a buffet, which would have horrified Draco’s mum, but the logistics of a table service for this many people had given Draco stress-dreams until Harry had talked him down).
The loveliest thing, of course, was Harry, who was radiant even in those horrid old muggle clothes he used to wear, but who was stunning in his new robes, blue-grey to match Draco’s eyes, covered in green and gold embroidery. Harry who looked up and met Draco’s eyes and gave him a blinding smile, so bright and brilliant that Draco’s heart burst and he could never look away again