Chapter Text
Draco loved his job. No, really, he did. Sure, it might sound sarcastic, and he’d often curse himself repeatedly for deciding on such a career, but he really did love it. It was a phrase he found himself repeating often during the cases that turned out to be a complete waste of his bloody time. For paramedics in Muggle London, however, that was just part and parcel of the role.
The most recent 'casualty' Draco had the delight of dealing with was Frank, a 55-year-old man who thought he was dying. Unsurprisingly, Frank was in fact not dying but instead was slightly dehydrated and had a dry mouth, which was a common occurrence when you hadn’t consuming any liquid in over ten hours.
He was being a hypocrite, Draco realised. Sure, he would resent the cases where people were being a bit stupid, but if he was being honest with himself, he much preferred the simple, routine callouts - the ones that didn’t result in a trip to A&E or worse, a body bag. It was way better when he ended his shift knowing that everyone he had taken care of was alive and well.
Sadly, car crashes and knife crime were common events that occurred in London, and Draco had dealt with his fair share of the two; he knew damn well that wishing to put his trauma training and experience to good use would be the epitome of stupid.
The thing is, he didn’t actually hate the more tedious jobs. He just hated the quiet that came with the paperwork. It allowed him to think. Think a little too much and wander down memory lane as if his brain had suddenly forgotten that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. That it wasn’t utterly traumatic and didn’t feel like a hippogriff was stamping on his chest every time he re-lived it.
Like slipping into a scaldingly hot bath, the memories would start slowly and ease him into it. He’d recall his career and how it all began, though mainly the sheer lunacy of it. For the wizarding world to discover that Draco Malfoy, of all people, had left England to become a healer in Paris? Well, they’d likely tell you to sod off and fall to the floor laughing. But to double down on the madness and cause the aforementioned people to keel over and die of shock, he chose to return four years later and enrol in a muggle university course, stumbling out the other side as a fully qualified paramedic.
Not that he was hiding from anyone; he was bloody proud of what he had achieved and how he’d turned his life around, but aside from the occasional trip into Knockturn Alley to support his friends' businesses or stock up on the more difficult-to-acquire ingredients for his potions, he was in no real need of contact with anyone else.
Much like his need for the wizarding world.
Of course, he didn’t give up being a wizard. That was second nature to him, and he’d be a moron to abandon it in some misguided pursuit of self-imposed retribution. He’d settled himself in a world where magic was limited to storybooks and make-believe, and it proved incredibly useful. Sure, using magic on muggles wasn’t entirely ethical, but wasn’t it worth the risk if it reduced the severity of their potentially fatal injuries? Draco certainly thought so.
Almost a decade has slowly trickled by since the war and, consequently, the circumstances that forced him to bid the wizarding community of the United Kingdom a not-so-fond farewell. Fragments of his involvement in the war and how he’d realised he was on the wrong side too late to really be able to do anything about it would be the next thing to flutter in his mind, helpfully humbling him whenever he’d managed to forget about his history for more than half an hour.
Draco did realise he was on the wrong side, though, no matter how close to the end of the war it was. He vaguely recalled throwing Potter his wand after he miraculously survived the killing curse a second time, and then fought alongside Hogwarts in the battle with the little wandless magic he’d mastered at the time before his mother found him and dragged him out of Hogwarts by the scruff of his neck.
The next thing he knew, he was waiting for his trial in a cell in Azkaban, still reeling from the fact that the Dark Lord was actually gone, for good this time, and he and his family were safe. Sure, he might have been in one of the worst places in the world, and it was torture while he waited for the court proceedings, but they were all safe.
Once his trial date arrived, he was summoned to the courtroom, shackled in his ugly, striped prison uniform. Draco wasn’t hopeful, nor was he an idiot. He was a Death Eater for crying out loud, and he played a major part in Dumbledore's death, amongst other terrible things. It likely made no difference that he acted under duress and fear of losing his friends and family to that noseless maniac.
The oppressive room with an audience of what felt like a thousand condemning eyes froze him in place as he sat and waited for people to speak, most of whom were against him. No matter the amount of money that could be thrown at the very best of lawyers, it wouldn’t get him anywhere. It would simply be a matter of whether his wrongs outweighed his rights.
Which, wow, they did by a lot.
He expected a quick decision and to be sent back to the same cell he left an hour earlier - that is, until the Golden Boy himself showed up for his trial, looking every inch like the war hero he categorically didn’t want to be. He spoke with confidence and sincerity on Draco’s behalf, arguing that he played a crucial role in the battle against the Dark Lord and should be pardoned for his crimes, though he didn’t look at Draco once.
He was still in shock over the absurd and wholly undeserved character statement when it turned out it actually worked.
It was later, after he’d reunited with his mother, that he found out Harry had spoken for her too, his testimony paving the way to also allow her to walk free. Although the mark on his forearm couldn’t be removed and the memories would stick in his brain like a stubborn stain, his charges had been dropped, and he was a free man, now in possession of a priceless gift of freedom that he intended to use wisely.
His father, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. His arse had barely touched the seat in the centre of the Wizengamot when he was sentenced to life imprisonment with no chance of early release. Despite his doubts that life in prison would be any better, Draco was admittedly surprised that his father had been spared the Dementor’s Kiss for his crimes, but then again, this way it did mean that his suffering would last longer, and he couldn’t argue that it wasn’t deserved.
In the days following their return home, they tried to return to some semblance of normalcy, though Draco knew it would never work. The verdict of his trial was graciously kept from the Prophet for now, though the news would be revealed soon, and then likely a bounty would be placed on his head.
It was probably this realisation that led his mother to inform him that she was leaving for France the following week, waxing poetic about how good it would be for her and not so subtly suggesting he join her. It felt like he had slipped into his old ways, fleeing rather than facing the music of the wizarding world head-on as soon as the news of his trail became public, but it was the fresh start he had been longing for. So, of course, he grasped the opportunity with both hands.
The days that led to his departure were one thing he looked back on fondly; they were spent writing letters of gratitude and apology, each and every one more than deserved by their recipient. Granger’s was the first on his list, followed by the Weasel, which started a chain reaction. Soon he found himself writing to Hagrid, and he wondered for a moment if a hippogriff would appreciate a letter. That was the point when he realised he was becoming a bit delirious.
Draco forced himself to continue, making sure he finished the most important letter he was leaving for last simply because he hadn’t the foggiest clue on what to say to the man who saved his life over and over again.
He ultimately decided to go with simple.
‘Thank you’ and ‘I’m indebted to you’ were included, but they felt flat. He couldn’t bring himself to apologise in a letter; it didn’t feel right. With the actual scars still visible on his chest, they had both hurt each other over the years, and it wasn’t exactly something that could be ignored or resolved with a simple ‘I’m sorry’, inked on parchment. The man at least deserved to have Draco say it to his face.
Draco blinked rapidly after he realised he had zoned out again, dammit, with his pen poised in the air while filling out paperwork. It had been a while since he fell down that particular rabbit hole. He bid Frank farewell, sternly advising that the man set reminders on his phone if he was getting so carried away that he forgot to have a bloody drink.
He grabbed his medical bag and left, quickly radioing into the control room that he was available again for further call-outs. He’d already cancelled the ambulance that was en route when he arrived to find it was a false alarm and wouldn’t require additional medical support or transport.
Securing his bags to his motorbike, he’d only just started the engine when his next call came through the radio.
Late 20s, male, blunt force trauma to head, penetrating head injuries, and suspected stab wound to left lower abdominal - requesting ETA
Fuck.
~
Draco arrived at the scene four minutes later, blessing the bike's agility as it allowed him to get through the London traffic far quicker than any other emergency vehicle. He cut the engine and dismounted the bike in well-practised movements, ticking off his mental checklist of tasks as he hurried his way over to the group of concerned-looking muggles. A pair of surgical gloves were hanging limply in one hand while he wandlessly cast Revelio.
Someone was a wizard. Interesting.
That titbit of information did make him pause for a second, but he forged on, snapping the gloves into place. He made a mental note of the building they were outside, a nondescript brown brick building, though it pulsed with the lively music that hummed inside. He knew the place incredibly well; it was probably the best gay bar in London. Plus, it didn’t rip you off or water down their drinks, which was a bonus. He hadn’t been in months.
“So,” Draco began, plastering on a tight smile, one he hoped conveyed concern, “who's the unlucky sod I get to call my patient?”
A reasonably attractive man flapped his hands towards Draco. “He’s here." The man cut himself off and made a strangled noise of distress. “Poor love. He only came out for fresh air and a quick ciggie and ended up getting jumped. He’s called Harry.”
Draco hummed, nodding as he took in the information. He followed the man down the alley next to the bar, and he saw his patient slumped against a wall, pressing what looked to be a jacket against his stomach.
“Hi Harry, I’m Draco. I’m a paramedic, and I’ll be getting you checked over so the ambulance can get you to the hospital.” He turned his attention quickly to the muggle and waved him off, confirming he had everything under control.
It was probably for the best, since it was likely he was going to use magic. Even wandless, it wasn’t the easiest thing to explain when he started muttering under his breath like a madman.
He was taken out of his routine of unpacking equipment and dressings by an inelegant snort.
"Draco." The injured man murmured in a familiar voice, slightly deeper with age and rough with alcohol. “I knew a Draco. S’not very common.” The slouched head thumped onto the brick wall, and piercing green eyes widened in surprised recognition. “Malfoy?”
Draco was facing the wall and propped on one knee next to his patient, Harry, and slowly moved his head to make eye contact. “Potter?”
He felt stupid with medical scissors and gauze suspended in midair, but he was shocked still, mouth agape. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, blinking to clear the mental fog that had clouded his professionalism.
He cleared his throat and gestured to the jacket pressed against the wound, slowly extricating it from Potter’s grip. Draco could feel Harry’s eyes burning into his forehead as he worked, poking and prodding around the wound and delicately snipping away his ruined shirt.
“What’re you wearing?” Harry slurred slightly, his cleaner hand tugging on Draco’s jacket.
“My uniform?” He answered, smirking, “So, Mr. Potter. I would simply apparate you to St. Mungo’s since I’m assuming you’ve had too much to drink to do so yourself; however, I have the small issue of an audience, so you have one of two options.”
Harry’s expression was unreadable as he stared at Draco, but he nodded for him to continue.
“I can heal this quickly and discreetly, but it will leave a scar. That means I can cancel the ambulance that’s en route to take you to A&E and state the injuries were falsely reported. Or we can stem the bleeding for now, and you can have a lovely jaunt to St. Thomas’.”
Draco was buzzing with additional adrenaline while he was talking to Harry, as if he weren’t the one person to whom he owed his very comfortable life. He was coping outwardly, at the very least.
Air whooshed out of Harry as if he were holding his breath. “The former, please. Merlin, it hurts.”
Draco moved before Harry could finish his sentence, shielding his hands and face from the few onlookers speaking with the police who had finally arrived. They were far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear him speak, thank God.
He quickly radioed in to cancel the ambulance, removing the surgical gloves once it was confirmed the cavalry wouldn’t be arriving any time soon. His hands were already moving effortlessly through the air as he cast the necessary spells and charms to knit the damaged skin together, ignoring Harry’s intent gaze as he continued to work wandlessly.
He moved to the small incision on Harry’s scalp; head injuries always looked worse than what they were, and soon he was as good as new, albeit with a few more scars to add to the collection and a bit bloodied and bruised.
“There we are, much better. You’ve been a great patient, but alas, I’ve no stickers left to reward you.” Draco smiled, though it was placating and didn’t reach his eyes. “I do, however, have a sobering potion with your name on it.”
He held the vial between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the glass and wiggling it in front of Harry’s glassy eyes. He took it gratefully, not yet uncorking the bottle. “Bloody show-off.”
“I beg your pardon." Draco scoffed, incredulous. That was the last thing he’d expected the other man to say.
Harry’s lips pursed in an attempt to curb his laughter. “You and your wandless magic, using it like it’s nothing. Then you fix me up, wearing your funny uniform with your funny hair.”
“M… my hair?” Draco decided he was suddenly over the conversation. Drunk Potter was fucking annoying.
“M’not annoying.” Harry pouted. Draco didn’t mean to say that bit out loud.
“Take the sodding potion, Potter. I doubt it’ll work properly because you smell like a brewery, but it’ll be enough for you to apparate home and not splinch yourself.”
Thoroughly chastised, though still pouting, Harry drank the potion, and Draco felt like he was at least a little bit in control of the situation again.
“The police are probably going to want to grab a statement from you to find out what happened, so don’t run off just yet. I will, however, be heading back to work now.”
Harry’s eyes were far more focused now, and he wasn’t wobbling in place anymore. “You talk like a muggle.”
Draco snorted, “Keen assessment there, Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor.”
He shook his head and gathered his medical equipment, casting a quick glance towards Harry and accidentally making eye contact. He averted his eyes before it could be considered inappropriate and grabbed his helmet, sitting it atop his head without pulling it on fully.
Once upright, he held out a steady hand to help Potter to his feet; the offer was unexpectedly readily accepted. At his full height and far more sober than he had been ten minutes prior, Harry still stood slightly shorter than Draco, though only by an inch or two.
Harry awkwardly shoved his hands in his pockets while Draco shouldered his medical bag, pushing his helmet on properly and leaving the visor open. He nodded his farewell and made his way out of the alley towards the police, quickly recounting his medical findings as part of his statement as the attending medical professional to the officers. After, he made a hasty retreat to his bike, hoping to get away without any awkward conversation or mindless platitudes.
“Malfoy, wait!” God dammit.
Draco had successfully managed to mount his bike, push the side stand back, and flick the visor closed before he was accosted.
He contemplated pretending that he didn’t hear anything being shouted, but his curiosity was piqued. Draco made a show of sighing and flicked his visor open as Harry approached.
“You could at least pretend to be injured, you know.” Draco sighed as he shook his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?"
“I wanted to write to you, you know,” he started, and Draco couldn’t for the life of himself think as to why, “when you sent your letters. We all got them. Hermione and Hagrid cried.”
Draco swallowed visibly, not at all prepared to address the elephant in the room so abruptly and talk about the letters he wrote when he was eighteen and vulnerable. “It was the right thing to do. I would have said the contents in person, but circumstances didn’t allow it. Plus, I was rather fond of my face, and I didn’t fancy getting punched in it… again.”
Harry smiled, though a fleeting look of hurt flashed across his eyes. “I wanted to reply, but you didn’t leave your address, and no one had a clue where you went. I even got in touch with Pansy, and she told me I’d have to use an unforgivable before she told anyone.”
“You voluntarily spoke with Pansy - to get my address?” Draco was utterly baffled. This was probably the first civil conversation he’d had with Harry, and it wasn’t what he expected in the slightest. “It must have escaped your notice, Potter, but I didn’t want to be contacted.”
Harry nodded in understanding. “I thought as much, but I wanted to apologise to you.”
Okay, Draco was certain he was in the twilight zone now. What the fuck was going on?
“Have you gone mad? What would you need to apologise for?” Draco didn’t miss how Harry’s eyes flicked to the exposed skin on his neck, one of the only visible places where you could see the Sectumsempra scars when he was dressed. “Ah, I see.”
“I’m so sorry, Draco; I never had the chance to say it-”
Draco shook his head to stop him from continuing, and he rolled his eyes. He lifted the helmet off his head and made direct eye contact with Harry. “You acted in self-defence,” he continued to explain, despite Harry's spluttered attempts to interrupt him. “I forgave you a long time ago. We were dumb kids, and I don’t believe for one second you’d have used that spell if you knew what the outcome would be.”
“I wouldn’t have,” Harry agreed.
“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was quite flagrantly throwing the Cruciatus curse at you. Not to mention the casual bullying over the years, nose-breaking, and racism towards your best friend. So I believe I got what I deserved.” He busied himself with his leather gloves, adjusting and readjusting the velcro. “But for what it’s worth, I appreciate it. And I’m also sorry. I wanted to apologise in the letter, but it didn’t feel right considering our history. I can’t say I would have expected it to happen outside a gay bar in London, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
Harry’s reaction was an amusing display of shock and embarrassment, his cheeks flushing like he was caught red-handed.
Draco’s radio beeped, cutting off Harry’s stuttered attempt at a response. “Alas, duty calls." He quickly answered the call and put his helmet back on, casting a discreet tempus, and addressed Harry again, "I've got three hours left of this torture, and then I can go home. See you around, Potter.”
He forced a smirk, saluting him with a gloved hand as farewell, leaving Harry standing alone and confused in the cool early hours of the morning.
~
The rest of Draco’s shift passed in a blur of monotony, which, for once, he was incredibly thankful for. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind after his random meeting with the wizarding world's saviour, so the lack of activity was a godsend.
He clocked out at 6:04 am, leaving St. Thomas’ tired and on edge but in no way ready to crawl into bed and sleep the early hours of the day away. His mind flitted between two options: Should he nip to the corner shop and buy a cheap but trusty bottle of red, drowning his racing mind with the numbing balm of alcohol? Or maybe waste an hour or two and drop by the cafe that knows his order by heart since he practically lives there?
Sighing, he decided on the latter - he wasn’t in the mood to waste his weekend with a blurred state of drunkenness and hungover. It was unusually bright for the time of day, but given that it was almost summer, he wasn’t surprised.
He took the sunglasses from the blazer draped over his satchel and quickly put them on, sighing in relief as the sun no longer blinded his eyes. He then methodically rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, subconsciously rubbing the tattoos that overwhelmed and dominated the aged paleness of the dark mark on his forearm.
Palming the back pocket of his jeans, he wrestled the half-full packet of cigarettes out and placed one mindlessly between his lips, walking down the path in the direction of the cafe.
The cigarette hung loosely in the centre of his mouth as he walked, simultaneously patting various pockets to find his lighter and huffing in frustration when he found it in the pocket of his shirt, where he, of course, checked first. He’d managed to strike the lighter once when the sound of someone clearing their throat brought him out of his trance.
“Do you forget you’re a wizard?” The age-worn voice of Potter broke through his one-man mission for black coffee and a freshly baked pastry. “Surely magic is easier than that?”
Draco paused with the lighter held in cupped hands, arching an unimpressed eyebrow at the other man as he fixed him with a glare over his sunglasses. He flicked his eyes back to the cigarette and promptly lit it, taking a deep, soothing breath before properly acknowledging the half-arsed greeting .
“Resorted to stalking me again, Potter?” Draco joked wryly, allowing the smoke to trickle from his nose as he brushed his hand through his hair. “I’m touched.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, though he was fighting a smile. “Call it curiosity.”
“Ah, that’s what they’re calling it these days, is it?” Draco nodded, taking another long drag of nicotine. “You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat.”
“I'm the cat in this scenario?”
"It depends on what you’re curious about.”
That roused a genuine laugh from the man, and Draco couldn’t fully ignore the way his heart fluttered. Damn it. Time had been kind to Harry, and Draco was, despite the sun’s best efforts, not blind. He’d filled out and lost the awkwardness over the decade since he’d last seen him, and he was no longer the gangly teen who miraculously defeated a raving lunatic. His hair was still a wild mess, though it only framed a beautifully matured face.
Luckily, Harry was still laughing while Draco was shamelessly ogling him, and he quickly schooled his expression. He continued walking and wasn’t shocked to find he’d apparently gained a stray.
“Since you’re intent on following me, I might as well ask. How’re you feeling?” Draco queried, his eyes hovering over where he’d healed a stab wound a little over three hours ago.
“Never better,” Harry mused. “The police have all the statements but seem to think it was a crime of opportunity; they didn’t get anything other than a few notes and some loose change.”
“Hardly seems worth the effort; are you sure it wasn’t anything more?”
“It wasn't because I’m a wizard; if that’s what you’re asking, the place is completely muggle. I guess it could be a hate crime? Who knows. All I know is that I had a really good healer. He fixed me up like it was nothing, but he didn’t have any stickers. I was pretty miffed about that.”
“Naturally.” Draco hummed. “Other than that, care to enlighten me as to how you found out where I work and why you’re curious?”
“I was an auror, you know. I might have been three sheets to the wind yesterday, but you offered up enough information to make it easy enough to find you.” Harry shrugged, pausing for a moment to gain on Draco and walk in tandem. “And I’m curious because it’s been ten years, for Merlin’s sake. You disappeared, literally what felt like overnight, and then we bump into each other in the weirdest of circumstances and you’re-”
Draco continued to walk for a few steps until he realised Harry wasn’t continuing. “I’m what?”
“Fit.”
As luck would have it, the smoke held in Draco’s lungs tickled, and he spluttered at the completely unexpected answer. He wheezed a few breaths after being caught so off guard, and when he finally recovered, it was to be greeted with Harry’s amusement. He made a gimme motion towards the cigarette that was still burning away in Draco’s hand, and Draco stared at the other man in open-mouthed shock.
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done with the Harry Potter I knew ten years ago?” Draco rasped.
The smile Harry returned could only be described as cheeky. Fucking cheeky!
“He grew up and came to the startling realisation that he liked men after understanding that he spent a good few years pining over a certain someone in school, which he wildly misinterpreted as mutual hatred; though, granted, this person was a complete asshole.” He inhaled deeply on the stolen cigarette before he continued. “The problem was that when this realisation happened, said certain someone had buggered off out of the country, never to be seen again... until now.”
Draco continued walking and swallowed audibly while he tried to quickly process what the hell just came out of Harry’s mouth. “I am completely out of my depth right now.”
“Funny you say that; so am I.”
"Okay, so. After ten years of radio silence and a chance meeting, you decide the best course of action is to stalk my workplace, confess you had a crush on me, and apparently still do, but it’s maybe a little more than that. What is the goal here? Other than grabbing the day by its bollocks, seizing the opportunity, and crossing your fingers, have you given this any thought?"
Harry’s expression was painfully void of any embarrassment, and it was infuriating.
Draco huffed. “Did you not stop to think that I might have a partner? Or if I’m interested in you? Congratulations on your working gaydar, but that part is bloody obvious.”
“Do you have a partner?”
“That’s… that’s not the fucking point, Potter!”
Harry smiled at the unintended admission. “I’ve played this scenario in my head hundreds of times, Malfoy. About meeting you again. While I was still an auror, I was so damn tempted to try and find you, although that would’ve been a flagrant misuse of resources and a complete invasion of your privacy. That’s when I resorted to asking Pansy and Blaise, but they were about as useful as a chocolate cauldron.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, the minutes stretching and distorting, so Draco couldn’t truly tell how much time had passed. Draco lit another cigarette just for something to do with his hands and chanced an uneasy glance at Harry, who seemed happy to walk at his side, entirely unaffected by the bombshell he’d dropped on Draco’s shoulders like a lead weight.
“You’re such a gryffindor.”
“I never really grew out of that one, if I’m honest. It’s part of the reason I left the DMLE - too much of a liability.”
Draco was admittedly grateful for the change of topic for a moment. Although it was equally mind-boggling that Harry was being so open with him, he just needed to process the admission so that his response wasn’t completely humiliating.
“That, and the fact that you probably spent the best part of your teens fighting, surely you’d want a break from all that. I’m actually surprised you considered it a career choice, considering everything.”
“You know how it is—the pressure of expectations and how the world seems to make decisions for you. It’s why I’ve been at Hogwarts for the past six years; I bet you can’t guess what I teach.”
“Not Potions, that's for sure.”
“Hah, for real, though, try me.”
“Will you give Slytherin five points if I get it right?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll hold you to that. I take it that the jinx placed on the Defence Against the Dark Arts post has finally been broken. You’ve obviously lasted more than a year.”
Harry’s answering smile was warm. “I have, haven’t I?”
Draco’s reply died in his throat as the familiar rendered building of the cafe came into view, and he jolted at the realisation that he’d been speaking to Harry for the best part of an hour. He glanced at his watch and noted he was five minutes early, though the cheery barista spotted him through the glass and waved him in.
“Want to join me?” Draco asked, choosing to be spontaneous, though he was unsure if he was fully prepared to play into the absurdity of the day. It wasn’t even 7am yet, and the world had lost the plot. “I’ll admit this little crush you had wasn’t entirely unrequited.”
Draco hadn’t ever seen the whole ‘light up like a Christmas tree’ expression before in real life, but there it was - all six feet of it with messy black hair and a dazzling smile.
“I’d love to.” Harry beamed.
Much like their journey to the cafe, the impromptu breakfast date had sped by incredibly fast. The conversation flowed terrifyingly easily, as if they hadn’t been childhood nemeses, though Draco was certain that their admission of mutual crushes might’ve helped them overcome that particular hurdle.
“I hate to do this because it’s been a while since I’ve had a conversation with someone who isn’t a complete plebeian, but I’m going to have to cut this short. I’m knackered.” Draco yawned to prove his point, his jaw cracking as he tried to mask it with the back of his hand.
Harry waved him off, battling the infectious nature of the yawn as he nodded his understanding. “I’m not much better off. Live far?”
Draco shook his head and pointed towards the block of flats on the opposite side of the road. “You’re welcome to use my floo since it’s not the easiest to apparate in broad daylight.”
After fighting over who was paying, Draco ultimately won with the advantage of not having his muggle money stolen the night before. He shooed Harry from the cafe and across the street. Moments later, he stumbled through the door of his flat and hoped it wasn’t too much of a chaotic mess.
“Shut the door quickly; my cat will try her best to escape if we’re not careful.”
“I would’ve never guessed that you were a cat person.” Harry mused, being blatantly nosy as he surveyed Draco’s home.
“Ah, I’m not - not really. She’s a special case; it’s all thanks to the ‘Cat Distribution System’." At Harry’s perplexed expression, Draco continued, “She was a stray and in bad shape. It was the end of one of my shifts, and this little grey ball of dryer lint walked over to me and nuzzled my foot. I'm not sure what happened to her, but she’s missing an eye, so I’ll let you make your own assumptions.”
As if knowing she was being spoken about, the now larger ball of dryer lint made her way into the hall and intertwined herself between Harry’s legs while trilling at them both.
“Meet Goose,” Draco announced proudly, delighted at the belly laugh it received.
“Oh my god, Goose?! That’s amazing.” Harry laughed more and knelt to pet the sweet cat, clearly falling in love as she forced her head into his hand. “Why did I think you’d be called Josephine or Penelope - something really fancy?”
“Past preconceptions, perhaps?” Draco left Harry to love on Goose while he quickly entered the kitchen, refilling Goose’s food and water dish so he could crash for a solid six hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“Why do you have a floo?” Harry asked, making Draco jump with how close he suddenly was.
“My mother, mainly. She’s still in France, and she visits every now and then…” Draco paused, wondering how much he wanted to share, “with her girlfriend.”
“As in friend who is female or,”
“Romantic partner, girlfriend. She’s called Aurelie; they’ve been together for a little over three years. She worships the ground my mother walks on, as she should.”
“Other than your cat being called Goose, that has got to be the second-best thing you’ve told me.”
Draco snorted, "Yeah, it was a pretty awkward conversation when she broke the news, on her end, of course. I was all but waving around a rainbow flag, so you could imagine my amazingly positive reaction.”
Harry smiled at that and leaned his hip against the kitchen counter. “I’m glad she was able to move on; I heard about your father. He wasn’t my favourite person, but I’m sorry for your loss.”
Draco waved him off. “It’s appreciated, but I didn’t mourn for him. I lost him as someone I cared for long before the end of the war, when he chose Voldermort and power over his family. My mother left him the minute she was able to contact her lawyers to draft up the divorce papers.”
“Sorry to sour the mood like this,” Harry laughed awkwardly.
“You haven’t,” Draco assured him.
Harry nodded, seemingly mulling something over. “I don’t suppose you’re free Sunday evening, are you?”
“It depends. Why?”
"I understand if it’s outside of your comfort zone; you have been living in the muggle world for a reason. But would you like to come to a Quidditch match with me? I have a box, so it’s pretty private.” Harry fiddled with his t-shirt's hem, appearing genuinely anxious for the first time.
It was quite endearing.
“Hmm, who’s playing?”
The small, hopeful smile he got in return was adorable; no, he did not think that. “Puddlemere United and the Marseille Mooncalfs, it’s a friendly match.”
"Ah, the Weasel and Weaselette’s team. Are you sure it’s wise to bring me, of all people, to such an event?”
"Of course. They’ve all forgiven you, Draco, and they would be happy to see what you have done for yourself after everything."
"Well, when you put it that way..."
"So, is that a yes?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, you’ve worn me down." He pushed Harry to the floo, effectively cutting the conversation short. “Now be gone, or I will fall asleep on you, and I don’t think you’d make a very good mattress.”
“How dare you question my skills as a mattress."
“Shoo!”
Harry gave up, raising his hands in surrender. He took some floo powder as he turned to Draco. "I’ll see you Sunday; 6pm?"
As soon as Draco nodded in agreement, Harry announced his address and vanished into the verdant flames. Draco was miraculously able to drag himself up to his room, stripping off his clothes along the way to slip into bed blissfully nude, promptly dreaming of a cheeky smile and kind green eyes that would lull him into a warm, comforting sleep.