Chapter Text
It's a spectacular morning. There's warmth behind and on top of Draco, enveloping him in a protective bundle, and the bed smells amazing. Sage, home and sex. It's familiar, but he can't place it. A firm chest presses against his back, expanding in the deep inhale of someone waking from a nice dream. Stubble tickles the top of his spine as the man behind him moves. A cock is nestled in the curve of Draco's arse, half-hard. Perfect size. He chose well. Even completely wasted, his taste is immaculate. The man kisses his neck and nudges Draco's legs with one of his own. It's sweet. Draco's tempted to go for another round. It wouldn't be too slutty of him, would it? It has been a while.
He strokes the dark hair on the arm around his waist. "Good morning." He purrs.
The man freezes. Nothing happens for two incredibly confusing seconds, then the arm and the chest and that lovely cock scramble away. There's an oof as the stranger hits the ground. Panic surges as Draco turns, but he recognises the voice sooner than he lays eyes on the biggest mistake of his life.
"Malfoy?"
"Potter?" Draco exclaims. "What the fuck!"
They gape at each other. Potter buck naked on the floor, hanging on to his modesty by a corner of the rumpled sheets, and Draco in the bed, pulling the blanket up to his neck.
"This can't be happening, I - I refuse to - what have you done?"
"Me?" Potter splutters in indignance. "I seem to recall you enthusiastically participating last night."
"Oh, fuck you!"
"You already did!"
Draco covers his face with his hands and starts laughing. It's not a nice laugh. Rather, a slightly unhinged one. Now that he's fully awake, the memories have floated back to his conscious mind, and good Merlin. He and Potter went at it as if the world was ending. It's a miracle that the bed didn't break. Did someone put a lust potion in their drinks? Draco's going to be sore for days, he's sure. If only he could claim to have no regrets about it.
When he lets his hands drop again, Potter's dressed in the ugly jeans Draco all but tore off him last night, and he's throwing Draco's designer clothes in Draco's direction. Of course. Now that they're both sober, he's trying to get rid of Draco as if a dragon was on his tail. Draco grabs his silk underwear, grumbling.
"Turn away."
Potter puts his hands on his hips. Draco's satisfied to note that his chest is adorned with bite marks. "I've already seen what's there to see."
Draco bares his teeth. "Turn the fuck away."
Potter huffs but obeys, so Draco can finally cover up what colossal idiots such as Potter should have never been allowed to see. He can feel the sticky souvenirs of their tryst all over his body, and it makes him cringe. He has a distinct memory of Potter saying that he wanted Draco messy, that he wanted him wet, kissing filthy words into his neck until Draco's mind blanked on the protection spells. Fuck. If Potter gave him something, he's going to kill him with his bare hands. That ought to work better than those flimsy Killing Curses he keeps repelling.
Fully dressed, he rises from Potter's bed and makes a face at the rumpled sheets. "This never happened. We never shagged, never slept in the same bed and never woke up to you humping me in my sleep. Wipe it from your memory, find an Obliviator, whatever."
Potter's piercing green eyes glare at him. "I wasn't humping you."
"Good. Just like that." Draco waves a hand at him, refusing to blush when it occurs to him that he used those exact same words several times last night. "Now, if you'll forgive me, I have to go drown myself."
A sigh makes Potter's shoulders sag. "Does it have to be such a big deal?"
"Oh, you're right, why would it be?" Draco hisses like a cornered wildcat. "I don't do this thing, Potter. Especially not with you. Don't even dream of it happening again."
Potter scoffs. "As if I would."
"Fine." Draco snaps and storms out of the room, stomps downstairs and makes his way towards the front door. His shoes and dragonhide jacket are strewn over the dusty floor of the hallway. He picks them up, fuming, and when he straightens again, a familiar freckled face stares at him from the bottom of the stairs. As if to make his humiliation complete.
He flips Weasley off, walks through the door and Disapparates.
Healthy or not, wallowing in self-pity is one of his favourite coping mechanisms. When he arrives back to his apartment, he runs himself a hot bath, lights a scented candle - lavender, not sage - and sinks into the water with a groan. It's a balm for his aching muscles. His skin feels clean again. He wets his hair, then tilts his head back to rest it on the edge of the tub. There's a bruise on the inside of his right thigh, a round bloom of colour on a pale canvas. As he rubs at it absently, he can't help but remember the heat of Potter's mouth there and the gentle pressure of his teeth.
"Stupid." He curses at himself and builds a foam hill on his arm.
It felt as though nothing could go wrong. Draco has a day like that once in a while, when he feels confident, right in his skin and pretty enough to get through barriers he gets stuck on otherwise. He knows it must be some psychological effect. Radiate good mood, get a positive response. That kind of thing. But this is the first time that his lucky day didn't actually yield a lucky result.
He wonders who could have pranked them with that potion. George Weasley wasn't there in the club, but Finnigan was. The first in his list of suspects. Who else? After a moment, he decides to disregard the other Gryffindors, they're too high and mighty for this horrible joke. He considers his own companions. Blaise? Could be. But where's the sneaky bastard then? Draco would expect him to be here by now to laugh his arse off at Draco's predicament. What if it was some random crazy fan? Or, Merlin forbid, the press? Draco is so going to sue the pants off whoever did it.
He hears the flare of his Floo and wonders if it's Blaise, coming to confirm his weak suspicions, but the sound of heels clicking on the floor tells him it's someone else.
"Pansy?"
"Hello, darling." Her voice sings from behind the door. "Are you decent?"
"I'm in the bath."
"Decent enough for me." She barges in, her Louboutins hanging from her fingers now. Ignoring Draco's squeak, she kneels on the soft bath mat and crosses her arms on the rim of the tub.
"You won't believe the night I had! Remember Theo's Italian cousin, with the curly hair? He fire-called after I got home from the club and -" She gives what's visible of Draco's body a once-over. "Wait. Did you pick someone up?"
Draco thinks of Potter's hands on his hips as they danced, of the hunger in his eyes under the stroboscopic lights, and he sighs. "You could say that."
"Oh my God." She gasps like one of the heroines in those silly Muggle movies she loves to watch. "You've never done that before. I thought you preferred to make them work for it."
"I do."
"Then?" His helpless shrug doesn't satisfy her. "Anyone I know? Was he one of those Gryffindors we bumped into?"
Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. She grasps his arm, red nails digging in. "Was it Potter?"
"Yes." Draco says, defeated, and glares when she bursts into inelegant cackles. "I don't know why he was so into me last night, someone must have given him a potion, I suspect -"
"Or maybe he likes you back."
Draco snorts. "When chocolate frogs fall from the sky. And I don't like him."
She strokes a wet strand of his hair behind his ear condescendingly. "Of course you don't."
For a few seconds, they sit there in silence, then Pansy loses her patience. She flicks some water at him. "So?"
"So what?"
"How was it?"
Draco lets his head drop back again. He blows out a long exhale. "Amazing."
Pansy titters again. "His wand must be very impressive then."
When his withering look has no effect on her, Draco clears throat. "It's acceptable."
Her grin widens. "High praise from a size queen."
"I'm no such thing. Can we move on?"
"Do you think you'll do it again?"
"Don't be ridiculous." He gives her a dark look. "It was clearly a once-and-never-again situation."
"If you say so."
"A little sympathy, please." He whines, then covers his face with his hands. "Pansy, I slept with Saint Potter. How will I ever recover from this?"
She pats his head. "With lots of expensive chocolate, darling."
Life, inexplicably, goes on. Draco hunts down Finnigan but all he gets out of him is an angry denial and some creative insults. Doesn't seem like a guilty reaction. Where to go from there? His investigation turns up nothing. The press stays silent on the affair. The club doesn't have a history of lust potion scandals, it's a decent place. No one tries to blackmail him. At this point, Draco has to conclude that it was either a crazy fan or - and this the worst - they weren't roofied at all. Perhaps Potter is into hate sex. Hate sex that isn't painful but rather possessive instead.
Draco can't figure it out. He's frustrated, confused and worried, which culminates in a wretched week that he spends snapping at everyone. To quell his anxiety, he decides to go through the humiliating experience of STD testing. He walks into St Mungo's rapid test stall with his head held high despite the judgemental looks his paranoid mind perceives in every glance, and then walks out of it with tears of relief in his eyes. Negative. Well, Potter should be the one relieved, honestly. He gets to keep his jewels intact after all. And jewels they are...
That's another pressing problem. He can't deny that he harboured a bit of a crush for Potter at Hogwarts but as the war took over their lives, the feeling disappeared and only returned as a nostalgic ache every now and then. Since their night together, however, it has become a full-blown fire again. Although he'd deny this to his grave, he's not easy to satisfy in bed. Or out of it, for that matter. He always finds his partner lacking in something. It's not about size, no matter what Pansy says, it's about something missing. But not with Potter, no - he had to surpass expectations in this too, didn't he? Draco can't stop thinking about his lovely, warm hands. Isn't that pathetic?
He tries to channel his fluctuating feelings into his job. He always enjoyed the thrill of complicated spells, but he had no desire to die a gruesome death as a Curse-Breaker or an Auror, and twelve-hour Healer shifts weren't designed for people like him. Technically, he doesn’t have to work, but the detached aristocrat lifestyle lost its allure a long time ago. He’s too active for that, and his interest in politics never ran beyond his obedience.
The post-war world, in a way, opened up a few new possibilities. Such as being an artisan. Making stained glass and crystal sculptures. Pretty things. Treasures. It’s hard to recall when his fascination with this field of magic began, but he remembers being eight and nagging the house elves to buy him Colour-Change Paint. He grew up surrounded with beautiful artwork and learnt to appreciate it quite early on in his life. The darkness of the war only intensified this feeling.
He bought his shop right after his house arrest ended. He wanted to leave the Manor and its tainted spaces, and he thought opening his business in a tiny side street branching into a courtyard from Diagon Alley would be a pleasant mix of peaceful and busy. Starting out wasn’t easy, with a name so dirtied by the war - but as the other shop owners got used to him, the hatred started to ease up. Nine years ago now. Time flies, doesn’t it? And Potter has the audacity to keep getting hotter every day.
“Stop it.” He mutters to himself and leans forward to rest his forehead against a shelf.
“What?” Mark, one of his assistants, calls out from the register.
It’s still early in the morning and Thursday is a slow day. The shop is empty. Draco has been rearranging some of the items on display, and now they form a circle, with a small, Murano-style glass egg in the center. He doesn’t know why he finds that so pleasing all of a sudden, but he tends to roll with it when inspiration strikes.
“Nothing.” Draco waves Mark away. He wonders how well it would go over if he confessed that he can’t get famous Harry Potter’s firm muscles out of his mind.
Irritated, he focuses his attention back on his creations. It’s a beautiful egg, blue as the summer sky with white flecks of clouds floating in it. A season captured in a paperweight. He should make another of these. A green one, maybe. A swirling, glittering serpent in a glass egg. With fluttering golden grass. Yes, that sounds stunning. He could make a nestful. Mind made up, he marches back into his workshop to start on it immediately, but the bell over the front door chimes, and the draft blowing in brings a whiff of sage and home to his nose. He blanches, peeking back around the doorframe.
It’s Weasley with a mousy, unfamiliar Auror who can only be Potter in disguise. Draco would recognize that scent anywhere now. Besides, the man’s eyes are green. He has seen Potter without his glasses, unfortunately - those are his irises.
“We’re looking for your boss.” Weasley tells Mark after a cursory greeting.
“Oh.” Mark dithers, a true Hufflepuff in his loyalty. He probably thinks Draco's in trouble with the Ministry. “Let me just -”
"Look, who it is." Draco comes out before Mark makes a fool of himself. He crosses his arms and glares at Potter. “Came to investigate me? I can assure you, Harry, nothing here is illegal, and no, I didn’t lace my sculptures with dark magic.”
Potter blinks in surprise. "How did you know it was me?"
"I could smell your stink all the way from the workshop."
Potter glances at Weasley, who gives him a look that suggests that Draco is mental. Draco purses his lips. "Mark, please show Auror Weasley -" Where to stick it. "- around while I talk to his partner here."
Mark looks back and forth between them. "Do you know each other?"
"Vaguely." Draco replies. The face Potter makes at that is a delight.
"All right." Mark shuffles away, clearly disappointed to miss out on some top quality gossip.
Draco leans over the counter, propped up on his hands. A lock of his hair escapes from behind his ear but he lets it hang loose, framing his face. "What do you want?"
Potter fidgets, then reaches into the pouch hanging from his neck. "You left this at my place."
In his palm, there's a tiny glass sculpture, a branch with two little birds on it. It was in Draco's pocket when he went out. He thought he lost it somewhere in the club. As he watches, the sunset-coloured bird hops down on Potter's palm, looks around, then flies back to its ivy green companion. The second bird chirps. They fit so well in Potter's hand. Something in Draco aches to leave them there, to give them away as a gift.
"Keep it." He pokes the back of Potter's fingers to make them curl around the glass. "I wasn't going to sell it anyway."
Potter mirrors Draco's posture over the counter, leaning closer. "Why not? It's… nice."
"Nice?" Draco snickers. "Goodness, save us from Potter the art critic."
Potter shakes his head, but he's smiling. It would look more attractive if he was wearing his own face, Draco thinks morosely. "Listen, Malfoy. I was thinking -"
"Bad start."
"Shut up." Potter wets his lips. He must have been worrying at them because they’re bright pink. "I thought we could, er. Get a drink sometime?"
Draco's eyebrows make a valiant attempt at disappearing under his fringe. "Merlin's balls. Why?"
Potter rubs the back of his neck. "We haven't talked in ages. It would be good to… catch up."
Draco scoffs. "I think we got that out of the way last Saturday."
"Oh, are we allowed to talk about that now?"
"No."
Potter sighs. "You don't have to be embarrassed, we had a good -"
"Spare me your platitudes, okay?" Draco straightens, well aware that his face is heating up. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay." Potter backs off. "Is that a no to the drink?"
To his mortification, Draco hesitates. His eyes wander around the room to avoid Potter's. A spark of displeasure flares up in his chest when Weasley touches the summer sky egg. He doesn't want to sell it to him. It should be Potter's. He doesn't know where that thought came from, but it's undeniably there.
Potter puts the glass sculpture back into his pouch and gives Draco an imploring look. "I know a place you'd like."
"I don't want to get drunk in your company ever again." Draco says. But when Potter's face falls, he can't help giving in a little. "Let's get lunch instead."
A huge grin pulls at Potter's lips. "All right. Tomorrow?"
Sensing that the conversation is about to be over, Weasley and Mark begin to amble back to them. Draco crosses his arms over his chest again.
"If I must." He grumbles.
"I'll pick you up at one."
Draco resists the urge to feel excited about that. He jerks his chin at Weasley, who's still holding that beautiful egg. "That's not for sale."
Weasley gives him a flat look. "The price tag said ten galleons."
"For Hermione?" Potter asks, staring at the egg in awe.
"Yeah. Valentine's Day, you know?" Weasley turns beet red, looking like a giant tomato with that hair of his. And fuck, how could Draco forget that wretched excuse for a holiday? It's only a week away. "This is bloody expensive but I think she would like it."
"That's the price of quality, Weasley, but what would you know about that." Draco mutters, but accepts Weasley's galleons with great reluctance. It's okay. He can make another one. Maybe one that depicts the starry night sky, constellations blinking in and out of sight as the dark patterns move. Would Potter like that too? He slams the coin drawer closed and affects some fake cheer. "Thank you for shopping at The Dragon's Lair, hope you have a horrible day."
"Git." Weasley glares, then marches away, muttering something about not getting Potter at all. Potter rolls his eyes, and they leave.
Potter's idea of a lunch date is buying some greasy pizza in Muggle London and eating it among the ruins of a church. Draco’s Italian trousers scream at him as he sinks onto a wooden bench that must not have been cleaned by anything other than the rain since its installation.
"Stop complaining." Potter says when Draco voices his opinion of this. His Auror breeches are no doubt used to this treatment. "Think of it as an adventure. I bet you haven't had pizza in St Dunstan before."
"Nor have I ever wanted to." Draco retorts, but he has to admit, he rather enjoys the change of scenery. As wondrous as it is, waking up a stone’s throw away from Diagon Alley kills the excitement of the high street after a while.
He and Potter sit under the remains of a gothic window, secluded from the busy financial district. Vines cling to the stone arches around them and twist through the gaps, nature thriving even in the desolation of winter. What did this church look like in its glory? Simple, but elegant, with white walls and red roses in the garden, he imagines. He pictures delicate stained-glass windows and the play of light as the sunshine hits the building, and it fills him with longing. It must be nice to get married in a place that's so sacred to you. To believe that the shadows of colour on the marble floor are blessings for a holy union, that the echo of your vows is a sign of forever. Does Potter know what a traditional wizarding wedding is like?
"You're quiet." Potter remarks. To invite conversation, probably, but Draco doesn't think it would be wise to share that he's thinking of weddings and bonding charms.
"I tend to be. Sorry for the disappointment." Draco takes a ferocious bite of his slice of pizza.
"I don't mind." Potter says mildly. "So, you live in the apartment above your shop, right?"
"Yes, but you'll need a search warrant before I ever let you in there."
Potter tilts his head heavenward for a moment. "Malfoy - Draco. Do you have to be this hostile all the time? Can't we just get along?"
"I'm afraid that's impossible." Draco finishes his food, then moves to stand up. "So, if you’ll excuse me…"
"No." Potter grabs his wrist. "Come on. We got along just fine on Saturday."
Draco takes a sharp breath in. "That was different."
Potter swallows and looks away, then turns his gaze back to Draco, determined. "I think that was the most honest we've ever been to each other."
Draco takes his hand away so that he can bury his face in it. "I told you. I don't do that no strings attached crap. You were an anomaly."
"That's not what I'm after either."
Draco makes a noise of disbelief. "Convince me."
"I'll have to talk about Saturday then." Potter warns. It earns him a groan.
"Fine."
"Do you know what I enjoyed the most?"
"Holding me down?" Draco's cynical voice suggests.
"No." Potter frowns in disapproval. "The last few minutes before we fell asleep. You kept babbling about your art and your favourite books and how you love kissing."
"Salazar." Draco mutters under his breath.
"It was the happiest I've ever seen you."
"I was drunk."
"You were honest." Potter points out. "Can't we just try that? Without alcohol. You know, just give it a chance?"
Draco picks at the embroidery on the sleeve of his winter coat. "It's a bad idea."
"Why?"
Because I'll fall in love with you, Draco thinks. "Because we have quite a loaded history, in case you forgot."
Potter seems to mull that over, but then his expression turns even more resolute. There's no way he's letting this go without Draco conceding defeat. "Then let's work through that first."
Upon seeing Draco's uncertain look, he continues. “Let’s talk about it. One issue at a time. We could start with something small.”
“Like what?”
“Um.” Potter’s cheeks turn pink, although that may just be the cold. As he reinforces their Warming Charms, a Muggle passes them with a strange rectangular device pressed to her ear. The wind whistles through the cracks in the damaged walls and tangles its invisible fingers in her hair. Potter’s face lights up with an idea. “How about my hair? You keep insulting it.”
“It’s a disaster.” Draco offers as an explanation.
“There’s nothing I can do about it.” Potter laughs at Draco’s sceptical look. Shifting to sit sideways, he drapes his arm over the back of their bench. It brushes Draco’s shoulders. “I swear! No matter how short they cut it, it grows back overnight.”
Draco can’t suppress a smile. “I’ve always thought it suited you.”
That seems to take Potter by surprise. “Really?”
Draco shrugs. “You’re just as much of a disaster yourself.”
“Hey!”
It’s Draco’s turn to grin. “Do you deny it?”
Potter glares, but it’s more playful than angry this time. “No.”
They turn to watch the Muggles milling around the fountain in the nave, dress shoes clicking on cobblestone, woollen scarves battling the chill. Draco’s hair tumbles out of place as the breeze catches on it and tickles his cheek. When he reaches up to tuck it back behind his ear, he finds Potter watching, his eyes unreadable. Draco stares back for a long moment, his heart pounding in his throat. Unbidden, memories rise to the surface of his mind. The feel of Potter’s dark stubble under his lips, his weight, the hitch in his voice when he asked Draco to go home with him. It feels like a dream. Hazy and singular, never to happen in real life, out of the fog of liquor. But Potter seems to want it to. Can they really mend what Draco thought is beyond repair?
“My turn.” He says, pretending nonchalance. Potter’s gaze gleams. “When we first met. Officially, I mean. You didn’t take my hand.”
“You were mean to Ron.”
“I know.” Draco says quietly. “It’s what I was taught. And, well, my personality in general is a bit… acerbic.”
“That's one way to put it.” Potter snorts, but his fingers brush Draco’s shoulder, as if to say that it’s okay. Despite his defensive instincts, Draco tries not to shy away.
“But if you can get over that, and really want to force us through some kind of reconciliation.” He takes a breath and extends a hand. “I suppose I can give it a chance.”
Potter’s smile could rival the sun.