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There’s a loud noise and a muttered shit from the living room, as the Floo whooshes and something which sounds expensive breaks against the marble hearth.

“Evening, Potter.” Draco takes his time making his way to the offending intruder. Nobody makes an entrance quite like Harry. “That’s a Ming vase you’re trying to glue back together.”

“I bet that means expensive,” Harry mutters, two pieces of blue and white china in his hands. He pulls a face as if it’s Draco’s fault that Potter is a clumsy oaf. “Why do you always put priceless antiques next to the Floo where anybody can trip over them?”

“Because most wizards I fraternise with have mastered the art of Floo travel.” Draco flicks his wand and slides on the jacket which flies through the air into his outstretched hand. “Besides, I like it when you owe me favours.” Draco winks to emphasise the point.

“I owe you loads.” Harry puts the now fixed vase back on the hearth. “And I don’t think you’ve called in a single one.”

“Remiss of me.” Draco adjusts his jacket and doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes, in case he gives himself away. “Merlin’s Arms as usual?”

“We could stay in.” Harry’s closer than before and his breath carries the faint scent of coffee liqueur. “You've got booze, haven’t you? Not to mention Skeeter’s threatening to come out and take photos of me when I’m pissed. I’m supposed to be doing interrogation training tomorrow, and the last thing I need is for Shacklebolt to see me half-cut on Schnapps.”

“Where’s the fun in staying in?” Draco looks up and meets Harry’s eyes. “Think of all those single wizards missing the pleasure of our company.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Harry doesn’t blink and his lips press together in a firm line, as if to say I dare you.

With a careless shrug of his shoulder, Draco relents.

“Fine. Try not to break things.”

“Promise.” Harry makes a strange salute, his face breaking into a broad smile. “Have you got any of that cherry stuff?”

“Somewhere.” Draco pretends he doesn’t have a bottle in at all times, just in case Harry visits. Because he does. Three bottles, in fact.

Sometimes Draco still can’t quite fathom how he and Harry became friends. It shouldn’t work. They have practically nothing at all in common, expect for sharing a mutual loathing for ginger beer and a proclivity towards other men.

It just happened, as things do when you least expect them. Somewhere between Scarhead and Ferret Face they became Harry and Draco, drinking shit cocktails and cherry liqueur in a wizarding bar with a rainbow flag above the door.


“Where the fuck is the cheese?” Harry pokes his head around the door and stares at Draco as if he’s mad. “You’ve got cheese, haven’t you?”

“Three drawers down in the pantry. Under a cooling charm.” Draco crosses his legs and watches as Harry disappears off again. He’s discarded his jacket, slinging it casually on the sofa after kicking off his shoes. Draco wonders when his living room became a second home for Harry bloody Potter. It’s an expensive wizarding bachelor pad – a piece of prime real estate which has made him a fortune since he came into his trust fund. It’s not the sort of place people fling jackets and boots around, and eat cheese and onion sandwiches. It’s the kind of place Draco brings wizards for a casual fuck, the sort of place he does Serious Business which involves speculating on wizarding stocks. It’s something he’s rather good at, and his post war investments have boomed. It’s not the sort of flat that an untidy looking Harry Potter should enjoy lounging about in, but it is and he does.

“Do you want any?” Harry calls from the kitchen with his mouth already full of food.

“No, it doesn’t mix well with the brandy.” Draco resists the urge to make a comment about crumbs. He’s got house-elves that can tell Potter off for that sort of thing. “Do try not to-”

“Make a mess, I know. Honestly, Malfoy.” Harry’s laugh travels from the kitchen into the living room and fills the flat with warmth. “Anyone would think I don’t know how to clean up after myself.”

There’s a muttered curse and a crash. With a sigh, Draco gets to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen where he leans in the doorway watching Harry. He tries not to focus too deeply on the way Harry moves from one side of the kitchen to the other, his jeans taut in all the right places. He lifts his gaze from the long, lean lines of Harry’s legs and the curve of his backside and swallows back a groan. He really should have insisted they go out so he could have at least found someone to fuck with dark hair and a disarming smile. Someone not unlike Harry, but just different enough so Harry doesn’t realise Draco has a very particular type.

Draco pushes the thought to one side and flicks his wand to set the precariously balanced china plates in a straight pile. Harry munches thoughtfully on his sandwich and gives Draco a sheepish grin when he finishes, wiping the crumbs from his hands with a quick smack.

“Delicious. You should have let me make you something.”

“I think the less time you spend around knives and crockery the better.” Draco steers Harry from the kitchen, and watches him flop onto the sofa. He pulls his feet up beneath him and stretches out in a line of long legs and ripped jeans. He’s carelessly messy even when he’s sitting down. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and wiggles his toes, flashing Draco a smile. “Are you sitting down?”

“Because you left me so much room.” Draco contemplates the armchair for a moment, because he knows what Harry’s up to and he tells him so. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Relaxing?” Harry’s smile continues to play over his lips and he stretches just enough to make Draco even hornier than he already is. It’s not really fair that Harry is handsome, charming and heroic to boot. It’s far too distracting.

Draco pulls a face as if sitting next to Harry is a horrible chore. He pats his lap so Harry can put his feet up properly and slides his thumbs over Harry’s toes. They’re surprisingly bony and his feet are warm, just like the rest of him. He slides his hand higher, letting his fingers brush against Harry’s tanned ankle. He rubs his thumb lightly over the dark hair before moving back to Harry’s toes which are altogether safer territory. There’s a hole in his socks, just below his big toe. Draco slides his thumb over the bit of exposed skin and raises his eyes to the ceiling. Harry Potter’s fucking toes are giving him a hard on, and it’s mortifying.

“Malfoy?” Harry’s voice is gruff and unsteady. “Are you giving me a foot massage?”

“Perhaps.” Draco squeezes Harry’s foot, hard. “Your socks have holes in them, Potter.”

“Yeah, they’re old. I didn’t think it would matter.” Harry’s voice has steadied out somewhat, and Draco shifts trying to adjust himself so Harry’s heels don’t brush against his cock. “Does it matter?”

Draco rubs his thumb over the ball of Harry’s foot and shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“I only wear the scruffy stuff for you.” Harry’s teasing him now, his voice light. Draco knows if he looks at Harry he’s going to be wearing the kind of wide smile that makes Draco lose his mind. “I know how you like it so much.”

Draco snorts in response and pointedly ignores Harry’s flirting.

It’s safer that way.


When Harry’s Patronus appears in Draco’s study and shimmers before him with a help, come quickly, Draco doesn’t waste a moment. He enters Twilfitt and Tattings with his wand outstretched, and his hand shaking.


“Oh, thank fuck.” Harry turns and he gestures to a pile of robes and an angry looking shopkeeper. “Can you help?”

Draco pockets his wand and counts to ten while his heart slows to a normal pace. “I thought you were being attacked you bloody idiot.”

“Not attacked, no.” Harry frowns at the robes and shakes his head. “It’s worse. I’m supposed to be at the Ministry at seven thirty. I’m giving a speech.”

“Of course you are.” Draco rolls his eyes and begins to sort through the selection of robes. “Perhaps you should consider contacting people in a way which doesn’t immediately make someone think you’re in mortal danger?”

“I might be in mortal danger if I don’t find something soon. Shacklebolt’s going to kill me if I don’t get there early enough to meet the Swedish Minister with him and I’ve already been here for an hour.”

“An hour and a half, Mr Potter.” The shopkeeper looks pointedly at the clock. “I was supposed to close half an hour ago.”

“However, I’m quite sure Harry Potter will receive plenty of press attention this evening.” Draco gives the shopkeeper a placating smile. “And he’ll be sure to mention how helpful Twilfitt and Tattings have been.”

“Obviously.” Harry nods and flashes the shopkeeper one of his wide smiles. It seems to suffice.

“I think the green…” Draco picks up a set of deep green robes, and fingers the black stitching on the cuff.

“You’re dressing me like a Slytherin?” Harry raises his eyebrows and eyes the robes doubtfully.

“Naturally.” Draco pushes Harry towards the changing room and takes a seat, flipping idly through a copy of Robes to Riches. “Hurry up, Potter. I haven’t got all evening and neither have you.”

“You have plans?” Harry pulls the changing room door closed and Draco can hear the rustle of his clothes dropping to the floor and the familiar slide of leather through a metallic buckle. The thought that Harry Potter is less than two foot away from him and half naked is not an unwelcome one.

“I have a guest coming over.” Draco places down the magazine and looks at the closed door. “You’re not the only one servicing the wizarding community.”

“Altruistic of you,” Harry mutters. He opens the door and spreads his hands out. “Well? They look fucking ridiculous.”

Draco’s throat goes dry and it becomes difficult to swallow. He stands and advances towards Harry, brushing his fingers over the luxurious material. The robes fit to perfection. The toned lines of Harry’s body are framed with the heavy velvet, and they make him appear taller and more powerful than usual. They are perfectly befitting of Harry’s public persona: Hero, Auror and Ministry darling.

Draco moves his hand to the small of Harry’s back and he murmurs in his ear. “They’re not ridiculous in the slightest. I just hope you remember how to dance.”

When Harry laughs, his body fills with it and he presses close to Draco. He places his hand on Draco’s shoulder and shakes his head. “This isn’t my first ball, Malfoy.”

Before Draco can respond, Harry’s whispering you lead in his ear and they’re turning in dizzying circles around the small shop. The request is rich with possibility, and the way Harry allows himself to be led makes Draco’s body respond with ready eagerness. Considering Harry can’t make a sandwich without breaking something, there’s a surprising elegance to the way he moves. As a Malfoy, Draco has years of formal dance training to and moving around a dance floor comes easily to him. What takes his breath away is the way Harry’s body melds against his own, and the way Harry follows Draco’s every move without question. He’s warm and firm in Draco’s arms, his cheek pressed close to Draco’s and his feet moving with the same speed and confidence as Draco’s own. Harry’s hair tickles Draco’s skin, and he pulls Harry closer. His mind fills with thoughts of dipping Harry and kissing him firmly, of turning him in circles and sliding along a polished floor without a care in the world.

Harry might be clumsy when he does normal things like use the Floo or make sandwiches, but when he dances he’s exquisite and Draco doesn’t want to let him go. The awkward boy who stepped on his partner’s toes at the Yule Ball all those years ago is long gone, and it makes Draco ache for them both. The children they once were are little more than hazy, bitter memories. Still, somehow, in this brave new world Harry Potter continues to occupy Draco’s every waking moment – only in this world he dances with Draco until they are both flushed and laughing lightly with the nervous throat-clearing of two people doing something they probably shouldn’t.

“You’re full of surprises.” Draco doesn’t recognise his own voice, the usual crispness lost in the scent of Harry’s musky cologne and the heat of his body.

“Aren’t I just?” Harry’s laugh catches in his throat and he brushes his lips to Draco’s cheek. The touch is too close to Draco’s lips to be accidental, and the way he holds Draco tightly even when they stop moving doesn’t go unnoticed. Finally, Harry takes a step back and does a peculiar twirl to show off the robes to their full advantage. He finishes with a flourish, giving Draco a mock bow and bending low at the waist. “These will do. Thanks, Malfoy.”

“I’d say anytime, but frankly I have better things to do with my time than help you discover fashion.” Draco waits for Harry to change and breathes a sigh of relief when he returns, scruffy and casual. Normalcy restored. “Try not to cock up the speech.”

“Will do. Have fun with your guest.”

Part of Draco hopes he isn’t imagining the note of jealousy he’s sure he can hear in Harry’s tone. He studies Harry’s face for a moment, and then gives him a quick smile.

“See you around, Potter.”

“Yeah.” Harry clutches onto his bag and gives Draco a small wave, his smile faltering.

Draco tries not to overthink it and takes the Floo home, his body still warm from the memory of Harry in his arms.


The next day pictures of Harry are splashed all over the paper, which Draco knows because his breakfast is rudely interrupted by Harry carrying a copy of the Prophet and two obnoxiously large blueberry filled muffins.

“I prefer coffee.” Draco gestures at the pot and winces when Harry puts the muffin in front of him. “Nobody can eat that much sugar for breakfast.”

“Watch me.” Harry tucks into the muffin at an alarming rate, and washes down a large mouthful with a swig of coffee. “They said I looked good. I mean, it’s Skeeter, so she talks an awful lot of shit. But still, the robes went down well.”

“Oh?” Draco feigns disinterest, but the photo of Harry dancing with Oliver Wood doesn’t go unnoticed. His body chills as he takes in the photo. “I expect you went down just as nicely as the robes.”

“Oh piss off.” Harry laughs and he shakes his head. “It’s Oliver. I didn’t suck him off. He was just being nice.”

“You don’t even see it, do you?” Draco rolls his eyes and resists the urge to tell Harry about the hungry look in Wood’s eyes. If Harry doesn’t notice those things it’s probably wise not to draw attention to them. There are times Draco’s sure his own eyes hold the same hunger and desire. “And the speech?”

“It was brilliant.” Harry puffs his chest out, proudly. “I mentioned the Merlin’s Arms. You know they’re planning to shut it down? They want to build new flats or something. I’ve said it has to stay – that it’s important. Because it is, isn’t it?”

“It’s an old pub that stinks of stale beer.” Draco sits back in his seat and dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “It’s nothing special. I’m sure I can find somewhere else to meet people to fuck.”

“I’m sure you can.” Harry’s brow furrows and the brightness leaves his face for a moment. “But it’s not the point. It’s somewhere we both knew we could go after war. Somewhere we knew we’d be accepted. I wouldn’t be here talking to you if it wasn’t for the Merlin’s Arms.”

“You’d still be feeling like the only queer at Hogwarts, I suppose?” Draco gives Harry a brittle smile and he closes the paper so he doesn’t have to watch Wood pawing at Harry for another moment longer. “There’ll be other places, other rainbow flags. Besides, I think it would be much better for my blood sugar levels if we hadn’t bonded over men in leather.”

“As if you’d be into leather,” Harry replies. His face takes on that earnest, animated look that he gets when he talks about noble causes. “Don’t you want to help keep it open? It’s an institution.”

Of course Harry can’t just be queer quietly, like Draco. Instead he has to fight against the people that still think being gay is an abomination. People like Draco’s father, not that Draco cares what he thinks anymore. Much.

Harry has to march in parades, draped in the flags like the Muggles. He has to shout from the rafters I’m here, I’m queer as if it’s going to do any good. He has to be a fucking hero in everything he does, even when it comes to having sex.

“The wizarding world isn’t the Muggle one. There are plenty of people that would be happy to see the Merlin’s Arms close. Haven’t you had enough of fighting battles for other people?”

Harry frowns, and Draco knows it’s a low blow. Harry’s had more than his fill of trying to save the world. He told Draco once, after cocktails and cherry liqueur. His lips were full and plump and Draco couldn’t stop staring when Harry talked, his warm, sweet breath coasting over Draco’s cheeks.

“This isn’t war. It’s not the same.”

“It’s not the same,” Draco agrees. “But trust me when I say there’s going to be another battle.”

“I don’t care.” Harry is resolute, his expression grim. “How can I sit back and just keep quiet, if there’s a chance I could help?”

Draco sighs and he picks up the paper to look at the financial news. “How, indeed.”


“We’re in the papers,” Harry announces when he stumbles through Draco’s Floo on a Friday evening. He manages not to send things flying, largely because Draco’s close enough to end up with an armful of Potter.

“You’re in the papers, you mean.” Draco narrows his eyes with suspicion and reluctantly releases Harry, who dusts himself off as if Draco might be anything other than impeccably clean.

“Nope, it’s both of us.” Harry takes a seat and drops the paper in Draco’s lap. “Skeeter thinks we’re shagging.”

A quell of nervous terror rises in Draco’s stomach and he picks up the paper, swallowing thickly when he sees his own face smirking back at him from the front page. “Why the fuck would she think that?”

“Oh.” Harry’s cheeks heat and he pulls a face.

“Potter?” Draco hopes he sounds sufficiently menacing.

“I mentioned the robes, just like you said. I might have said something about you having good taste at the same time.” Harry holds up his hands when Draco reaches for his wand with a growl. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think she’d put two and two together and come up with a hundred and fifty. You know what she’s like.”

Draco knows he shouldn’t be angry with Harry because he’s not exactly one to encourage the press, but the whole thing cuts too close to the bone. He begins to pace and shakes his head to clear his racing thoughts.

“I’ll issue a statement tomorrow. Demand that it gets printed or threaten to withdraw any Malfoy funding.”

“You will?” Harry tips his head and looks curious. “You’re that put out by it?”

“I’m not entirely sure how I can be expected to meet nice young wizards if people think I’m screwing you over – literally.” Draco stops pacing and glares at Harry. “For fucks sake, Potter. You’re completely insufferable. Are you trying to ruin my sex life completely?”

“I couldn’t give an arse about your sex life.” Harry stands with a huff and grabs his jacket, indicating he’s not going to stay while he’s being shouted at. “You can tell whoever you like it’s all bollocks, because it is, isn’t it? You’d have to be pretty bloody stupid to think there might be any truth to it.”

Harry has the same forlorn look he had when he waved Draco off at Twilfitt and Tattings, clutching onto his new robes. He’s angry about something, and Draco can’t allow himself to think about the whys and wherefores of that too closely.

“Not everybody wants to fuck a hero,” Draco says, because it’s the only thing that’s cruel enough to mask the thoughts flooding his mind. He doesn’t want Harry to know what goes through his mind whenever there’s a whoosh of the Floo or whenever Harry stays late enough to fall asleep on the sofa. He doesn’t want Harry to know how much that one stupid dance was possibly the most perfect moment of his miserable existence. “I don’t have relationships, Potter. You must have noticed. I don’t want a partner – real or make believe. Love fucks everything up.”

Harry flinches and he tugs on his coat. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong it makes me insane.” He pauses before he leaves, standing too close for comfort. “Why do you think you’ve never shagged me, Malfoy? Why can we fuck anyone else but never each other?”

“Because I don’t find you remotely attractive,” Draco responds smoothly. He’s lying through his teeth but it’s something he’s become increasingly good at doing.

Harry snorts. “Yeah, that’s why. Don’t worry about the Prophet - it’s my name that caused it. My stupid comment. I’ll sort it.”

With a tight smile that is distinctly unlike Harry, he leaves in a burst of green powder which fills Draco’s nostrils as he finally allows himself to breathe.


The Prophet issues a full apology, and Draco doesn’t see Harry for a week. What he does see is a picture of Harry watching Oliver Wood play Quidditch, and it makes Draco’s stomach churn.

Draco can tell himself it doesn’t matter when Harry fucks strangers because Draco’s all too familiar with how little that means. It’s watching Harry laughing with one of the older Weasleys and brushing shoulders with Wood that makes Draco’s hands ball into fists as a wave of jealousy leaves him reeling.

“Bloody hell.”

There’s a crash from the living room, and Draco’s pathetic heart does a leap in his chest. Hope. That’s what Harry gives Draco, and Draco hates him for that. Hope is a dangerous fucking thing. It’s not the sort of thing Malfoys should have. Malfoys have money and questionable politics. They marry into money or they don’t marry at all. They own property in Europe and they make clever investment decisions. They don’t lose their heads over activists and heroes. They just don’t.

“Missed you.” Harry brushes his lips to Draco’s cheek before taking a seat. “Even if you are a total prick sometimes.”

“Potter. What an unexpected surprise. How nice to have you here to break all of my antiques again.”

“Isn’t it?”

Harry smiles at Draco, and his heart thud thuds in his chest until it drowns out the sound of every sensible protest running through his mind.

“By the way, I know why we haven’t shagged yet even if you don’t.” Harry flicks his wand and a pot of tea flies through the air with alarming speed. If Harry’s topic of choice had been a little more innocuous, Draco would have told him not to combine magic, china and boiling hot water.

“Is that so?” Draco’s voice is tight and clipped.

“It’s because we like each other too much.” Harry adds an obscene amount of sugar to his tea and gives Draco a loaded stare from the delicate china cup. “Isn’t that right, Malfoy?”

Draco responds with a dismissive huff and pours his own cup of tea with a steady hand, as if being near Harry again doesn’t leave him shaking. He manages to drink his tea like a proper Malfoy, proud and distant. He doesn’t let on that his whole body zings with need when Harry stretches out on the chair, and watches him with a smile that says I know your secrets.

He doesn’t correct Harry’s use of the word yet, because Draco knows it’s just a matter of time.

“I should have bought muffins.” Harry’s brow furrows, and that’s that. Shagging one minute, muffins the next. “Do you prefer chocolate or blueberry? I like the lemon ones myself, the ones with the seeds.”

“Poppy seeds.” Draco finds his voice and he can’t seem to stop looking at Harry, because it feels like it’s been forever. “They’re called poppy seeds.”

“I know what they’re called.” Harry waves his hand and tips his head to the side. “So you like those too?”

“Yes,” is all Draco can manage.

“That’s brilliant.” Harry smiles and seems to be making a mental note. “I’ll get those next time.”

If he was a stronger man, Draco would say there won’t be a next time.

Instead he murmurs something about crumbs, crockery and seeds all over the new carpet.

It makes Harry laugh, and the flat is warm again.


“I don’t think Skeeter likes me much.” Harry’s cheerful when he’s eating chocolate and even though Draco can only see his head through the fire he can hear the pop of Harry’s fingers being sucked into his mouth one by one, and isn’t that an image. He wishes he had chocolate, or Harry. Something to take his mind off his growing erection and the idea of doing all kinds of depraved things to the hero of the wizarding world.

“Of course she doesn’t like you.” Draco pokes at the edges of the fire with a poker and watches the embers burn. “Where the fuck are you?” He hopes Potter doesn’t realise that’s Malfoy code for why aren’t you here?

“At the Burrow, I told you. It’s Bill’s birthday. There’s chocolate cake.” Harry’s sucking his fingers again and Draco has to adjust his trousers. “Do you want a slice? I reckon I could bring you some through the Floo, just quickly. No one would even notice.”

“Okay,” Draco says even though he knows he should resist Gryffindors carrying chocolate cake.

“Hang on, then.”

Draco stands and moves back from the Floo in case Potter decides to tumble over his head. He waits for a moment before the familiar whoosh brings Potter into the living room, brandishing a plate of cake, which he puts on the mantelpiece.

“There you go. Molly’s a brilliant cook. You’ll love it.”

“Thanks.” Draco can’t think of anything else to say, because Potter’s in his living room and he’s about to go back to a party where various Weasleys might try to seduce him into bed. “Can you leave soon?”

“No, I’m staying overnight. I’m in with Charlie.” Harry sounds casual, and not as if he’s mentioning a boyfriend. Probably.

“Charlie?” Draco taps his finger to his lips, trying to recall which one Charlie is. There’s so bloody many of them.

“The one with the tattoos,” Harry offers. “He’s a dragon tamer.”

Fuck. That’s the worst one of the lot, Draco’s sure of it. Dragon tamers are notoriously kinky, not to mention tattoos have a certain attraction if you like the rough around the edges look.

In with Charlie?” Draco pushes, and Harry flashes him a smile and gives him a wink.

“If I’m lucky. Or should that be he’s in with me? I don’t know. I’m working on it. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Please don’t.” Draco holds him his hand and mock-shudders, Harry’s words making his stomach clench. “I have no interest whatsoever in hearing about the mating habits of any member of the Weasley family.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Harry’s close all of a sudden, and his breath is warm on Draco’s cheek. “And you wouldn’t be jealous, either. Because that might make things weird.”

“Not jealous in the slightest.” Draco grits his teeth and hopes Harry doesn’t notice the effect he’s having. “Why would I be jealous?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Harry brushes his lips to Draco’s. “Because there’s really no need.”

Before Draco can respond, Harry’s kissing him properly. His mouth tastes of chocolate and wine, and his kisses make Draco dizzy. Draco pushes his hands into Harry’s hair and kisses him back. All too quickly, Harry pulls back.

“I have to go. Will you be up later?”

“There’s a fair chance.” Draco knows he’ll be up until the sun rises if it means another minute kissing Harry. “What about Weasley?”

Harry laughs and he brushes his lips to Draco’s ear, his voice low and teasing. “I’ll say something came up. Besides, I was teasing about Charlie. I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

With that, Harry steps through the Floo and Draco is left with a puff of green smoke and the taste of chocolate cake lingering on his lips.


“I didn’t think I’d be this late. Shit, I’m drunk…”

“You can’t just get into somebody’s bed when they’re trying to sleep, Potter.” Draco turns and gives Harry a look. He’s definitely pissed, tugging his jumper over his head and pulling down his jeans before getting under the covers and pressing close to Draco.

“You can if they leave the Floo open for you and a note telling you to come upstairs.”

Draco had forgotten about the note. That must have been the brandy. He runs his fingers down Harry’s arm and delights in the way he shivers at the touch. “Well, now you’re here…”

“In a minute,” Harry mumbles. He shifts closer to Draco and yawns, his speech slurred with fatigue. “Sleep first. Not for long.”

Draco snorts softly, because Harry’s already practically snoring. “I hope there’s more cake.”

“Always more cake,” Harry mumbles. He nudges Draco’s arm with his head and settles against his chest, his breathing slowing and deepening. “Got to get muffins.”

“The muffins can wait.” With a roll of his eyes, Draco wraps his arms around Harry who moves willingly into his arms.



“It’s the crack of dawn.” Draco hopes he sounds sufficiently irritable, even though he doesn’t care because Harry’s giving him the sort of look that promises him something good. “I’m not exactly a morning person.”

“I reckon I can change your mind.” Harry grins and he leans forward for a kiss which quickly becomes a heated snogging session. “See?” His voice is breathless and unsteady, and he pulls back to nuzzle Draco’s neck. “Told you.”

“Hmm.” Draco can’t manage much more than that when Harry’s toes are rubbing up and down his legs, and his fingers are running over the outline of Draco’s cock through his pants.

“Can I ask you do something?” Harry catches Draco’s earlobe with his tongue, his voice rough. “I’ve always wanted to try it, but I can’t very well do it with someone I hardly know.”

Draco swallows, wondering when his capacity for speech left him. “It depends what it is.” It probably doesn’t if he’s truthful. There’s very little Harry could say that he wouldn’t go for. It’s Harry, and that makes all the difference.

“I want you to tie me up.” Harry’s voice is quiet but firm, the whispered words sending little jolts of pleasure through Draco’s body. “I want you to tie me up and blindfold me. I want to know if it feels as good as they say.”

Of all the things Draco thought Harry might say, that wasn’t one of them. He punctuates his words with kisses and strokes of his tongue over Draco’s skin. Tie me up. Stroke. Blindfold me. Stroke. With each flick of his tongue, Harry slides his fingers over Draco’s cock. His grip isn’t firm enough to make Draco come, and not light enough to fail to have an impact. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. It’s maddening.

Harry finishes his request with a kiss, catching Draco’s lips in his own and breathing into his mouth as he kisses him roughly. It’s a filthy sort of kiss that promises more where that came from. Draco grips on to Harry’s jaw and pulls him in deeper, brushing his hand against the base of Harry’s spine where it seems he’s particularly sensitive.

“Do you really like that stuff?” Harry breaks the kiss, his voice breathy. “I couldn’t get enough of hearing about it. They say it feels good.”

“Who says?” Draco slides his fingers down Harry’s spine and enjoys the way his body responds to his touch.

“People you’ve been with.” Harry shivers again, his voice rough. “I don’t know much about it, but I’d like to. Word gets around, doesn’t it? I mean, people always find out.”

Draco tries not to think too deeply about the amount of information Harry could possibly have found out about his sexual preferences, and instead he decides to make the most of having an eager Harry Potter in his bed. He gives Harry another slow kiss.

“I’ll let you find out if they’re right if you get on your knees. Hold onto the headboard, keep your legs apart.” Draco slips into familiar territory, keeping his voice as firm and dispassionate as he can. With a cool hum of appreciation, he can’t resist placing a row of feather-light kisses on Harry’s left shoulder once he’s followed instructions.

“Fuck, yes.” Harry does as he’s asked, and Draco takes his time sliding the satin bindings over Harry’s wrists to keep him tied in place. When he’s sure the bindings are secure, he places the blindfold over Harry’s eyes and slides his hand over Harry’s back, as the muscles flex and shiver underneath his palms.

“How does that feel?”

Good.” Harry’s almost squirming in place. Draco murmurs a spell which leaves his hands slick with oils, and he begins to massage his way along Harry’s back. He’s quicker than this with most of his conquests. He doesn’t spend his time taking in every muscle or running the tip of his tongue over every unexpected scar when he takes home a stranger. He’s a lot more focused on his own pleasure, and fucking as hard and as quickly as he can. With Harry, it’s different.

“Good?” Draco kisses Harry’s ear, and then dips his voice to a throaty whisper. “It gets better.”

Draco slides his tongue down Harry’s back, lower to the base of his spine. If the blindfold’s having the desired effect, every nerve in Harry’s body will be alive to Draco’s movements. Not knowing where Draco is or what he plans to do next will increase the sensation from every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers and each cant of his hips as he pushes into Harry. Draco plans to take full advantage of Harry’s heightened state of pleasure. He blows on Harry’s back, a cool line of air down the curve of his spine. He scrapes his teeth against Harry’s skin and murmurs another spell to slick his fingers, massaging lower until he reaches Harry’s backside.

“Merlin…” Harry trails off and he pushes back towards Draco with a light hiss of pleasure. “Merlin, that’s good.”

The faint scent of Harry’s sweat and arousal makes Draco’s mouth water. He bites back a groan and parts the cheeks of Harry’s backside, smiling when Harry sucks in a breath. He dips his head and then licks, a slow stripe from the base of Harry’s spine and in between his buttocks. He keeps Harry spread open before shifting his head and murmuring quietly. “No sounds. I want to be able to hear you, but you won’t be able to hear me. Can you do that?”

Yes.” There’s a wobble to Harry’s voice and Draco kisses the base of Harry’s spine in soft reassurance. It relaxes Harry, and the tension leaves him. “Yes,” he repeats more firmly. “I want that too. Please?”

Draco obliges and murmurs a spell to take Harry’s hearing from him entirely. He feels Harry’s body tremble beneath him and strokes his fingers down again over Harry’s back to let him know he’s still here.

“Draco?” Harry sounds uncertain, and Draco shifts up to kiss him full on the mouth. The light flavour of the oils makes their lips tingle, and Harry parts his lips into the kiss with a sensual groan which goes straight to Draco’s cock.

Draco keeps kissing and touching Harry while he settles. When Harry eases back into his position once more, Draco moves back down Harry’s back. He slides his tongue along the rough knobs of his spine and presses his fingers into the tissue where Harry’s backside curves into his back. The motion elicits a murmur of approval from Harry, and Draco can’t stand it any longer. He slides his tongue between Harry’s buttocks again and again, before pushing his tongue inside Harry. Harry’s skin smells faintly of the coconut oil and he shouts out as Draco’s tongue breaches him roughly. With a low groan, Draco slides his tongue from Harry and pushes in a finger. He takes his time to watch his fingers sliding in and out of Harry, while Harry pushes backwards to seek out a firmer touch. He rocks back and forth as much as he can in his bindings, and Draco’s name falls from his lips.

Draco slicks his cock and takes his time running his fingers over every inch of Harry’s body. Finally, he pushes into Harry with a deep groan. Perspiration slides down the curve of Harry’s spine, and Draco’s hands slide over his hips. Harry is wild and beautiful in his abandon, pushing back against Draco and arching up, his head thrown back in pleasure. Draco takes in everything. He takes in the way Harry’s lips part when he’s being fucked and the way he yanks at his bindings, reacting to being tied up and not being able to see or hear anything around him. He takes in every shift of Harry’s movements and when he slides his hand over Harry’s cock, he savours the way his name falls from Harry’s lips – over and over – almost reverential.

“You’re so fucking lovely, it kills me.” He can say those words when Harry can’t hear. He can fuck him and tell him how much he matters when Harry’s deaf to it, and blind to the darkness and need in his eyes when he takes Harry until Harry’s body trembles and he begs for release.

As he comes, Draco presses against Harry’s back and murmurs into his ear the only words he can think of saying.

“I’m lost in you.”

He takes Harry’s cock in his slick hand and slides out of his body, fisting his cock until Harry arches underneath him and comes undone.


They sleep for an hour before fucking again, slow and lazy. Harry’s still stretched and lubricated, and Draco presses him onto his back. He hooks Harry’s legs over his shoulders and moves into him with hard, firm strokes. It’s both blissful and painful being able to look at Harry while he’s being fucked. Draco wants to close his eyes, but Harry keeps him there. Look at me he says and fuck, Draco as if it’s Draco he’s wanted all of this time – as if he’s finally found a home.

Harry fucks with intensity and passion. He kneads his hands into Draco’s back and clutches on tight until they’re both coming hard.

When they finally break apart, Harry looks at Draco, his eyes wide and open. “What next?”

Harry’s hair is sticking up all over the place. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are blown wide with arousal and need. He licks his lips as he waits patiently for an answer, his skin still sticky with heat and come. Draco knows in that moment that he’s in love with Harry Potter. Stupidly, madly, head over heels in love. His skin flares with heat when Harry’s fingers dance over his body. His heart responds to every sound of the Floo, and his body warms when Harry laughs with ineffable joy. But Malfoys don’t love like Potters. They don’t throw themselves in front of spells or wave rainbow flags just to proclaim it, or to give someone else the chance to love too. They love privately, and alone. They don’t fuck up their carefully planned lives for a shared hatred of ginger beer and love of lemon muffins – the ones with the poppy seeds.

Draco’s vulnerable, exposed and furious. He’s lost his heart to Harry, there’s no way he’s getting it back and it’s never going to work because it can’t. It’s too hard, they’re too different. Malfoys don’t fight for love.

So when Harry asks what next, Draco panics and says, “Nothing.”

He watches the light leave Harry’s eyes, and he feels a cruel satisfaction at first before a stabbing guilt hits him slowly and builds with targeted precision until it slices through his heart.

“Nothing?” Harry’s voice wavers, then firms. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It was just a one night stand, Potter.” Draco’s hand trembles as he lights his cigarette, and he blows a careless ribbon of smoke into the air. “Just like all the rest. I’m not interested in relationships. You know that. If you want kinky sex on a regular basis though, I’m happy to oblige. Friends with benefits, I think they call it.”

The bed dips, Harry stands and Draco tries to ignore the cold chill which covers his body. He props himself up and watches Harry dress himself with shaking hands.

When Harry finally turns, his face is pinched and drawn.

“I trusted you. More than anyone else, ever. I trusted you.”

Harry flicks his hand and disappears with a crack.

Draco takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs and fights back the overwhelming urge to cry.


The pictures of Harry in the papers are brighter than ever before.

He clutches rainbow flags around his shoulders in makeshift capes. He holds his wand aloft and sends sparks of colours flying from the tip as people clap and applaud. He makes placards for the Merlin’s Arms and he leads marches, speaking out with his usual firm but fair manner when the Ministry begin to come down hard on him for being too vocal – too political.

There’s an undercurrent, and Draco can sense it. He sees it first hand over supper with his father, who murmurs something about fairies which makes Draco see red. His mother insists she doesn’t agree with his father, but Draco knows when she pushes a card into his hand that she agrees alright – she agrees with every last word.

Astoria Greengrass.

Draco rips the card up as soon as he gets home, and he goes to the Merlin’s Arms. He avoids meeting Harry’s eyes and he strikes up a conversation with a dull red-head that reminds him too much of Weasley to be really appealing.

Just after ten, Draco leaves his Weasley-a-like to it. There’s nobody that interests him when Potter’s there, looking firm and fierce and draped in his stupid flag again.

“Potter.” Draco approaches Harry, who stares at him in response.

“Malfoy. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Drinking.” Draco shrugs. “It’s an institution, after all.”

“It is.” Harry’s hands twist and he gives Draco an unfathomable look. “I won’t go back. Not to being your friend, and bringing muffins. Not to pretending I don’t want more. I’m not fighting for that. I’m not campaigning for the kind of love that breaks your trust and tells you to fuck off when they’re finished with you. Because that’s not any kind of love at all.”

Draco’s throat constricts and he stills Harry’s hands. “It’s the only kind I know.”

“Ah.” Harry nods and he looks away. “Not good enough, I’m afraid.” His hand slips into Draco’s and his breathing catches in his throat. “Not bloody good enough.”

“Perhaps I don’t have anything else to give.” Draco’s voice is low, and hesitant. The words spill from him without reason or rationale thought. They just come out from an honest place that he wasn’t sure he ever wanted Harry to see.

Harry laughs softly and just as it always has, the sound warms Draco to the tips of his toes. “Liar. You’ve got plenty. You’re just not brave enough to take a chance.”

There’s a charged silence, and Draco wants to tell Harry to just stop. He wants to tell him he doesn’t have to fight for battles for everyone else. He wants to warn him that there’s a rumbling of dissatisfaction and an underbelly of people who don’t want to think about Harry Potter sucking cock. They want him to keep his sex life to himself, thank you very much, or to see him marry that nice red-haired girl or clever Hermione Granger.

“People are angry, you know.” Draco waves his hand, releasing Harry’s in the process. “They don’t want any of this.”

“People can fuck off.” Harry’s face clouds and he leans forward, his breath hot on Draco’s cheek. “I’m angry. I’m angry this is still something we have to fight for. I’m angry at the witches and wizards that can’t see there’s nothing wrong with love. I’m angry you can’t see that.” He sighs and rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m really bloody angry with you. You behaved like a total shit.”

Draco nods, a tacit acceptance and about all he can manage. “You say it as if it’s a surprise. I’m a Malfoy. I’m meant to behave like a prick.”

“Good job living up to the family name,” Harry mutters.

Draco clears his throat, and pushes his hands into his pockets to stop himself reaching for Harry. “I believe in it. What you’re fighting for. I hate the fucking rainbow cape, but I believe in it.” His lips twitch into a smile, and he hopes to Merlin Harry gets it because he’s not planning to walk him through the finer detail. “I suppose you could say I’ve been convinced by someone – someone unexpected.”

Harry gets it, of course. He gets it because he knows Draco better than anyone and he knows that with Draco it’s all about reading the subtext. Harry gives Draco the brightest smile he’s ever seen and time stops. There’s a breathless laugh, a beating heart and everything unravels all at once. The words he wants to say linger on Draco’s lips, but still he can’t seem to bare himself to Harry so completely. He wants to apologise for fucking up, and he wants to ask when he’ll get another chance – if he’ll get another chance. Harry’s not looking at anyone but him, he’s focused wholeheartedly on Draco, his eyes shining and his eyebrows raised in question as if he knows they’re on the brink of something life changing.

It’s so electric, so full of magic and heart that Draco almost misses the curse hissed from tight lips. Almost. He knows the target before the spell leaves the caster’s mouth, and it’s all he can do to shout and fling himself forward just moments too late. Harry’s face crumples, and his eyes widen with shock as he drops to his knees and his face says this isn’t fair and not now and not when I’ve just found you again.

Draco casts spells towards the perpetrator and shouts for help until his voice is hoarse. His lungs burn from shouting and Harry’s name falls from his lips over and over until he thinks he might not ever say another word.

Harry’s lips form a word, and it’s Draco.

“If you die with my name on your lips I’ll never forgive you. I mean it. Never, Harry. I’ll never fucking forgive you for it. I don’t deserve it. I don’t. Just live.” Draco clutches Harry close to his heart and wonders if the pounding of it is enough to keep them both alive just for now. But Harry’s not responding anymore and his head’s bleeding all over Draco. Draco tries to stem the bleeding, his nose running and tears streaking down his cheeks until he can’t see anything anymore but blood and all he can hear is Harry’s heart weakening.

“Malfoy. Malfoy.” Weasley’s on the scene, with his band of Aurors and Draco can hardly hear him through the ringing in his ears.

“Help him, Weasley. There’s too much blood. There shouldn’t be this much blood. Weasley. Help him.”

The last thing Draco hears before his world in implodes is Weasley’s voice in his ear and a firm hand on his arm, keeping him upright.

“Malfoy, we’ve got him. We’ve got him and he’s still alive.”


When Harry wakes up, it’s one hundred and thirty three hours and fifty two minutes since the attack. Draco knows because he spent every minute counting as the clock ticked and he listened to Harry’s heartbeat. He knows because for every hour that crawled by, he made another promise to Harry. He knows because for the brief times he slept, he fell asleep to the steady thrum of Harry’s heart.

Harry can’t speak at first because there’s tubes and all sorts and for a moment it’s like he’s forgotten how. He looks at Draco with a blank stare, and Draco wonders if all Harry can remember is the time before the attack – the time Draco wishes they could both erase. He wonders if Harry can remember him at all.

Because Harry can’t speak, Draco has to. Finding Harry mute gives Draco the capacity to say everything he’s been unable to articulate, and his words begin to spill from him like Harry’s blood on the floor. The images flash before his mind, and Draco clings on to Harry’s hand while he talks. Promise thirty seven. Never let Harry go again.

“I’m sorry,” comes first followed by, “I love you.” Harry blinks for a moment, his only response to look at Draco as if he’s not entirely sure where any of this is coming from. “Do you remember anything?”

Harry shrugs and squeezes Draco’s hand in a tell me everything sort of gesture, and so Draco does. He tells Harry about the Merlin’s Arms, and about the rainbow flag. He tells him how he felt to discover he shared a secret with the most famous wizard on the planet, and why it mattered that Harry wasn’t prepared to live in secret anymore.

He tells Harry about the muffins, the cake and the chocolate-flavoured kisses. He tells him how he takes his tea impossibly sweet until hot tears prick at the back of his eyes, and he wants to hold Harry so tightly it’s killing him. He tells Potter he needs new socks, because the old ones have holes. Promise forty two, buy Potter a trunk full of socks. Promise forty three, give Potter the best foot massage he’s had in his life.

Harry’s lips press tightly together when Draco tells him about the fucking, and the subsequent fucking up. Finally, Draco kisses Harry – fleeting kisses on the eyelids, then on the cheeks. He kisses Harry’s nose and chin, and the curve of his Adam’s apple. Promise number one. Kiss Harry Potter every single day.

He pulls back, and Harry isn’t blinking anymore. He isn’t looking at Draco as if he doesn’t know him. He isn’t pale and wan. Instead, his cheeks are flushed light pink and he’s smiling in a way which is so achingly familiar, it makes Draco’s heart melt.

Harry Potter’s turned him into a fucking sap, but Draco’s too tired and hopelessly in love to care.


Harry’s out there again, six months later with an ill-fitting rainbow cape and a fist full of leaflets.

“Are you helping or are you just going to be distracting?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Draco brushes his lips along Harry’s neck and relieves him of some of the leaflets.

“You made me over a hundred promises and they didn’t include helping me keep the Merlin’s Arms open?” Harry puts his leaflets down and glares at Draco. “Not to mention there were some really stupid ones, like chocolate cake on Sundays and the suitcase full of socks. I’ve got socks coming out of my ears.”

“I was sleep deprived and traumatised, Potter.” Draco catches Harry’s lips in his own and murmurs against them. “It’s a lot of promises. I had to be creative.”

“They’re not exactly difficult to keep,” Harry points out. He casts a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one’s around and leans forward. “Like making sure you fuck me every day. How the bloody hell does that help me?”

“How does it not?” Draco rubs the heel of his palm against the front of Harry’s trousers, pleased with the groan he elicits.

Fine, it’s not completely horrible.” Harry bucks forward into Draco’s hand and lets out a pleasing whimper of frustration when Draco pulls away. Draco maintains what he hopes is an innocent look and he wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, tugging him close and speaking against his lips. “I also promised to kiss you every day. Does that not help?”

Harry heaves a put upon sigh. “It must be tough for you, Malfoy. Really bloody difficult.”

“You have no idea.” Draco moves his hand to Harry’s head, where if he lingers too long he can still feel the sticky blood between his fingers and hear his own cries and Harry’s ragged huffs of breath getting ever fainter. His voice catches. “Truly.”

Draco can almost hear Harry rolling his eyes, but then he’s being kissed back.

The shouting and blood disappear and the world returns to normal. There’s just Harry, the Merlin’s Arms, a cape covered in rainbows and a lifetime of promises Draco fully intends to keep.