Chapter Text
“I could just do the Fidelius Charm,” Draco suggests, though he knows Potter wouldn’t be asking for his help if that was what he wanted.
They’re sitting at the café across the street. It’s Draco’s day off, as far as he has any; the baker’s daughter is home from school for the holidays, and Draco knows she’s saving for a tour of mainland Europe after she graduates. Draco’s all for encouraging the youth to broaden their horizons, even if he privately thinks that she would get more out of a trip to the Americas. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it, letting the youth learn for themselves. So Draco’s agreed to have her do as many shifts as she likes, her being of age and all, and being out of the pub in the evenings sometimes is quite a nice change of pace.
“No.”
Potter’s frown is so delicious that Draco can’t help but fish for more.
“No?”
“No. I don’t want to hide the house, I just want people to stop worshipping there,” Potter says, and the tiny scrunch of his nose is entirely endearing. “I don’t like it.”
Draco could spend weeks coaching that scrunch out to play and smoothing it away with the tip of his finger. Alas, no, so he takes pity on him.
“Alright, no Fidelius Charm. I’m assuming you’re also opposed to making the lot unplottable?”
“Yeah. No hiding.”
“So you want people to be able to see and find the house, but you want them to stop doing it as much.”
Potter looks relieved that Draco’s getting the point, and also a bit offended, because of course the sneering tone lands. His vibrant eyes get that lovely, hauntingly fiery look, like he’s been challenged to a duel after curfew.
He then shrugs it off, physically, because he’s a physical emoter, and Draco finds that endlessly fascinating.
“Yeah,” he Potter says, swiping at his hair as if it will calm it down. As if it needs to be calmed down. “Especially now that you’re making me fix it, I want it to become something where I can have friends popping over spontaneously and where neighbours can come ask for, I don’t know, eggs or something. Without it being a bloody tourist attraction.”
Draco can’t help the tiny smirk threatening his lips, but makes sure to clean it away shortly. “Only magical people, or also muggles?”
“Hmm. Yeah, muggles too.”
“So, essentially, you’re asking for a Tourist-Repelling Charm,” Draco concludes, already considering some options. Definitely another alteration of the Muggle-Repelling Charm, which might make the task a tiny bit less time-consuming, though it does need to be altered quite a bit.
“Exactly.”
The way Harry beams would be breathtaking, if Draco didn’t have decades of training in controlling his reactions, what with having been born into a family that values make-believe above everything else, then living with a mind-reading maniac, until choosing a life where his whole income relies on offering the public substances that lower their inhibition to speak up their most private thoughts.
As is, it only makes him ache as if someone’s tearing down his insides with a sledgehammer. But that’s nothing new.
“You do realize many of the shops in Godric’s Hollow mostly stay afloat due to the tourism brought in by the place where The Boy Who Lived, well, lived?”
Potter grimaces. Evidently, he hadn’t thought of that. And that’s exactly why they’re having this meeting; two minds to think of as many implications as possible.
“So unless you plan on investing a ton of money on businesses that would otherwise fail, and keep on doing that forever, we’re going to have to give the tourists something.”
Potter looks thoughtful, furrow in his brows deepening by the second, until he turns his electrifying gaze to Draco’s and as good as short-circuits his thought processes.
“Could we move the memorial sign? Somewhere close by, so that the tourists will still come and buy from the shops,” Potter talks enthusiastically, then gets an entirely illegal hint of mischief to his features, “evidently visiting your pub as well, don’t think I didn’t catch that, but not so close that it defeats the purpose of doing all this in the first place.”
Draco purses his lips, considering. That would be way easier than all the ridiculously complicated things he was almost considering. Figures, that Potter would be the more practical of them. Draco might go as far as to think that it could, potentially, be helpful.
“We could. Anyplace specific in mind?”
The first place that pops to Draco’s mind is the cemetery, but that’s out of question, obviously. Potter would never allow for masses of people stomping on others’ graves just to pay their respects to his parents.
“Somewhere at the other end of the main street? We could move the memorial sign there, and add to it, like an explanation on why it’s there?”
Draco’s not sure about the addition. For all intends and purposes, it’s counter-productive, and in terms of what he’s already planning, it’s also unnecessary. But they can circle back to that later if needed.
“And the muggles?”
Potter’s suddenly full of answers, it seems, because he jumps to the question. “Could you add that spell of yours, make it look like a memorial for the Great War or something? There are tons of those around the country anyway, so it wouldn’t be out of place.”
That’s so not how the spell works, presently, but Draco doesn’t say that, either. He can easily make it work that way if it’s what Potter wants. Or, perhaps not easily, but still. It’s certainly doable. The lengths he’s willing to go to make Potter happy is quite alarming, though.
“A World War memorial, I like that,” Draco muses, considering the idea. It makes Potter perk up. “Why the first one?”
“It seems fitting, doesn’t it? First Wizarding War, First World War.”
“One might argue that the politics involved in the second one were more similar to those in ours.”
Potter shrugs, as if he doesn’t care officially, because it’s not important, but secretly cares very intensely. “I guess.”
The way it’s so easy to read Potter, as if no-one ever taught him how to hide, hits Draco hard. And maybe that’s true, and possibly a bit sad, but also quite wonderful. A few years younger Draco would be insanely jealous; an even younger one would be insufferably derisive. The current Draco is simply charmed.
“We can do the Great War.”
***
“Why did you join the Aurors in the first place?” Draco asks, a couple days into the new year, leaning his hips against his bar.
Potter’s sitting at his usual spot, looking lost in his thoughts and moving the remaining vegetables around his plate. He’s been like that for a quarter-hour at least, and though it’s given Draco ample time to, well, ogle, it’s making him a bit nervous.
“Sense of duty,” Potter replies, still absent. He pets at his hair, as if trying to tame it, and Draco wants to snap his hands away, because it’s making him hot all around. If anyone should tame that hair, it should be Draco, though obviously Draco has no such claim on it. Oh, if only.
But Potter’s words are ridiculous, even if not unexpected. The fucking Saviour, indeed. “You quite literally died in the war.”
It’s sharp enough to call Potter back to the present.
“Yeah, and then I’d lived. Again. Felt like I had to see it through.”
The look on his face is a little defiant, even if his tone is nothing but tired. Draco does not like the combination at all. He very much wants to start an argument with Potter on the topic of his entirely twisted sense of duty.
“See what through? Voldemort was dead. You’d done the unimaginable.”
“But his ideology wasn’t. Isn’t.”
It’s just so outlandish. How could Potter possibly take responsibility for an issue that’s woven into existence on a deeply societal level, by generations and generations of fear and ignorance? No one person could take that task on their shoulders alone. And besides, the route by which he’d gone about it was entirely wrong.
“You thought you could eradicate blood supremacy by jailing enough arseholes?”
It gets another annoyed glance from Potter. “Something like that, yeah.”
Then his shoulders fall, and the defiance bleeds out. “In the beginning, at least.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t know, it made sense at the time.”
It’s all a bit heartbreaking, because it seems to bother Potter. And Draco doesn’t blame him at all; it’s not fun finding your ideas and efforts to be futile. He’d know, better than many.
“So what do you plan on doing next?”
Potter shrugs and gives a sheepish grin. “Fix my house. Maybe learn to knit.”
Draco thinks he doesn’t quite manage to hide the roll of his eyes. Oh, well. Potter is being quite ridiculous, and if he’s allowed, then Draco is too. It’s not like anyone’s going to tell Pansy.
It doesn’t take long for Potter to turn pensive again.
“I have absolutely no idea. I’m not really qualified for anything, other than being an Auror.”
Draco’s scoff, too, is quite unvoluntary. Evidently, Potter brings that out of him. “You’re Harry Potter,” he points out, because, honestly. “By default, you’re qualified for everything.”
The blasted grin lights up half the pub. “So you’d hire me?”
And wouldn’t that be a horror? A deliciously torturous existence. Draco would die.
“Except here.”
Potter looks way too delighted. It’s enough for Draco to consider using Occlumency just to stop mirroring the impression.
“But you just said –“
“You are not qualified to work at my pub. We have standards.”
It’s an absolute lie, and by the look of Potter, it’s not a particularly convincing one.
***
“How’d you come to own the pub?” Potter asks one day mid-January, when Draco carries his dinner over.
It’s bean stew, this time, with a few pieces of the bread Draco perfected as a dare back in the beginning of the millennium. It was one of his first lessons into the many ways in which muggle practices infuse something special into things that cannot be replicated with magic. Such as kneading the dough by hand, persistently, dedicatedly, and painstakingly slowly. Draco thinks it’s a form of magic all on its own, as ancient as the wizarding one, even if Muggles are exceptional at rationalizing it by the complex web of observations they call science.
Draco also often wonders just how many of the great advancements of Muggle science were caused by a well-meaning witch or wizard trying to explain the concept of magic.
“The previous owner wanted to retire.”
Potter raises his brows in what looks like an attempt at cocking just one. It’s so bloody precious.
“So they gave you the pub?”
“Of course not,” Draco scoffs. Do people just give things to Potter? Does he think that’s normal? “I bought it.”
They’re quiet for a moment, and watching Potter tear into the bread Draco spent an hour kneading and watching raise that morning is, possibly, a bit farcical. As if Potter’s digging into Draco’s very flesh. Good lord. The way he keeps handling the bread is making Draco’s insides turn into treacle tart.
“How’d that go, with your parents?” Potter asks, sarcastically, bringing Draco back to the conversation. “In fact, how are Narcissa and Lucius?”
It feels weird, hearing the names fall from Potter’s lips. A bit jarring. But he seems genuinely curious, even if he tries to hide it.
“Father’s in Azkaban, as you well know,” and it’s honestly the entire length of Draco’s knowledge on the topic, too. “Mother’s in mourning.”
“Because of Lucius?”
“Partly, yes. Mostly she’s mourning the lack of grandchildren.”
Draco wishes he knew why he’s being so open. It must be because of the bread. He can’t fully well go losing his composure because of baked goods. He should probably watch Potter eat his bread for ever and ever, until it becomes bearable. And then some more, just for fun. Draco’s nothing if not indulgent. Sometimes.
“You haven’t even turned 30 yet. Isn’t she a bit early?”
“I’m gay, Potter. She’s mourning the grandkids I’m depriving her of because of it.”
Potter blinks, as if Stupefied. It’s all doing unspeakable things to Draco. He wants to render Potter speechless like that in so many different ways.
“But being gay doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t –“
“Obviously,” Draco cuts in, because, actually, he needs to stop having this conversation immediately. “She doesn’t agree with my lifestyle, as she puts it, and I’ve told her not to expect any children of mine to be subjected to prejudice of any kind.”
Potter continues to look at him with those blasted eyes of his, still fingering the piece of bread in his hands as if he doesn’t have a clue how personal it all is to Draco.
“Well,” he starts slowly, “that’s shockingly healthy of you.”
Draco’s snorting with amused surprise before he can stop himself.
“I’m going to take that as an insult.”
It’s the grin that does Draco in completely.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
***
It soon becomes clear that Draco’s made a terrible mistake with being so open, because Potter seems to take it as a some sort of invitation.
“I’m gay too,” he announces the very next time he’s in, barely a breath after ordering the soup of the day.
The lack of subtlety would be comical, if the statement itself didn’t drive Draco’s mind straight to gutter. One of those open sewage gutters, too, blocked with partly decomposed leaves and all kinds of oddly shaped debris. It’s not that he’s surprised, per se, it’s just something he hoped to never know about. One day Potter’s going to come in with a date, and dear lord, then Draco’s going to have to imagine him with another man. A man that’s not Draco, but what if there are similarities? Or complete opposites?
It’s all way too much and yet not enough information for Draco.
“Good for you,” Draco manages with a surprisingly convincing brand of indifference. It’s honestly an art form, and he’s suddenly very pleased with some parts of his upbringing.
“Well, bisexual really,” Harry continues, looking at Draco with open eyes that are entirely too distracting in the dim flicker of the candlelight. “Or pansexual, I don’t really care about the terminology.”
Which, in essence, means that the options are endless and Draco might possibly be drowning in them.
“How delightfully progressive of you.”
He flees to the kitchen. To deliver the order, of course. And possibly to make sure that all the bread he baked that morning is gone.
***
It only gets worse from then on.
“So are you dating anyone right now?” Potter asks one extremely busy Friday evening at the end of January.
Draco has just delivered what feels like endless servings of the newest addition to the menu – a soul-healing curry dish dreamed up by Draco’s trusted chef and totally deserving of the enthusiasm – and has barely had a moment to rest his feet in at least two hours.
Which mean he does not have the energy to deal with Potter’s curiosity, even if it’s the only thing he ever wants to do. Especially when he’s wearing that outlandishly bizarre sweater that Draco’s never seen before and yet the likes of which he’s seen on Luna since approximately 1995. It looks soft, and like it couldn’t possibly hold coldness at bay, being so raggedy. The knitwork is horrendously bad. Maybe it’s Potter’s first attempt at the new hobby he mentioned some time back.
Which would be good, actually. Draco hopes he doesn’t spend all his time at the cottage, doing whatever it is that needs to be done in order for Potter to deem it fixed. Even if Draco spends all his own free time researching the underlining similarities between different motivations for morbid nosiness.
“No.”
“Why not?” Potter goes on without missing a beat.
Draco looks at him in disbelief. “Why am I currently not dating anyone?”
At least Potter has the decency to look regretful.
“Sorry. Have you dated a lot, in the past?”
Draco busies himself with checking on the temperature and humidity charms designed to preserve the lime wedges, mint leaves, cranberries, and other garnishes in their freshly-picked state. It’s mostly to escape Potter’s scorching eyes, because he cast the charms himself, so of course they’re perfectly stable.
“Enough to give up on it,” he eventually admits.
“Why?”
The question is so open, so innocent, that it makes Draco’s heart clench.
He masks it by cocking an eyebrow.
“Are you fishing for a list of my character flaws? I’m sure by now you could just write it yourself.”
It coaxes a delightedly messy laughter out of Potter, and it’s entirely too cute. Entirely too rewarding. It’s practically restorative, which is also entirely too dangerous. And if Potter continues to look at Draco like that, like he’s never attended a more interesting lecture, Draco just might spill out every one of his secrets.
“So they dumped you?” Potter asks next, mirthful but also genuinely curious.
“Your tendency to jump to conclusions continues to astonish me.”
Potter’s shoulders slump, and he glares at Draco. It, too, is deliciously dangerous. Draco wields his smirk like a weapon, because what else does he have left? Almost nothing.
“You do know you could also just speak directly?”
“Ah, but where would I find my entertainment, then?”
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on which side of himself Draco listens to more closely, the evening’s hullabaloo continues with a new round of diners, and he doesn’t get a chance to accidentally give his soul up for Potter to examine.
***
“Wizards, or muggles?”
Draco’s just served him battered cod and chips after a short meltdown in the back about the jeans Potter’s wearing today, and has absolutely no idea what he might be talking about. It’s an abnormally quiet early mid-week afternoon; Potter is quite literally the only paying customer at the premises.
“In relation to what?”
“You, dating.”
Ah, that. He might be marginally better adjusted for a conversation on his dating history than the last time it was approached, but he’d still rather not.
“Both,” he still answers, and he’s not entirely sure why he keeps entertaining the speccy disaster in front of him. Which is a lie, actually, it’s because the speccy disaster is so fucking hot and endlessly fascinating, and Draco wants to know everything about him, even if it’s just how he reacts to whatever answer Draco gives him.
“How’d that work out?” Potter asks, since he seems to think he’s privy to all aspects of Draco’s private life. It’s Draco’s own fault, really. “Dating muggles, I mean.”
“Splendidly,” says Draco drily, because he does have some degree of decorum left. “I gather you haven’t dated anyone muggle?”
Potter shakes his head, pursing his lips. Draco should definitely look away from his mouth. “I don’t fancy having to hide so much of myself. It wouldn’t feel real.”
“So you don’t date lightly,” Draco surmises, not surprised in the least but all the same quite intrigued.
“No, I’m either in it for the long term, or not at all.”
Potter’s looking directly at him, and Draco suddenly needs space, and lots of it. He’s not entirely sure why, and from what, but he needs a way out.
“I remember calling you progressive a few days ago,” he drawls, though it perhaps doesn’t come out as meanly as it would have, once upon a time. “Let me take that back.”
“Piss off,” Potter laughs. It’s free and entirely unoffended. Warm and comforting, and safe. Scary, is what it is. “It’s not like the institution of Harry Potter could date lightly even if I wanted to.”
Which, Draco thinks, is certainly not true. The institution of Harry Potter could quite literally do whatever the fuck he pleases, and be celebrated for it. “A friend of mine would claim it’s just a matter of proper PR.”
Potter laughs again delightedly; the way his eyes crinkle as he does could inspire entire anthologies, if Draco was inclined to pour his heart into words. Perhaps, in another life.
“You can call Pansy by her name, you know.”
Draco smirks.
“Whatever gave you that impression.”
***
Draco visits the cottage for the first time on a Sunday morning, to familiarize himself with the magic in the ground and structures.
Potter’s gotten quite far with the reparations; the roof is intact in its entirety, and the walls are coming along nicely, even if the masonry is a bit unfinished yet. It’s apparent that Potter’s not going about his work in any sort of order that would make sense to Draco; so many things look to be unfinished for no apparent reason.
The place is absolutely freezing, though, and Draco sincerely hopes Potter has plans of changing the wallpapers in every room he’s had the absolute displeasure of looking into. Especially in the living room.
“I have fucked muggles, though,” Potter says suddenly, halting whatever movement Draco’s body was in. Whatever action he was about to perform. “In case you were planning on accusing me of being prejudiced again.”
Draco must have been in the process of doing something. Something to do with magic, surely. And the house.
Ah yes, the mapping charms. The kitchen mapping charms. Right.
“If I give you back the badge of progressiveness, will you stop talking?”
Potter does not appear to have heard Draco, as he continues to do whatever it is that he’s doing that involves taking a sharp, thin, stick-like object to the corners of the windows. Which, does Potter really need to work in the same room as Draco? Surely he could be focusing on any number of the unfinished tasks in the other rooms.
“Fucked, been fucked, stuff like that,” Potter goes on, as if he’s talking about the weather.
When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me.
“Do tell me less,” Draco grits out.
Except that Draco can’t quite let it go, and Potter doesn’t seem to be going away.
“So the great Harry Potter likes to switch,” he says when his mapping charms fade out too soon for the third time in a row, and he hasn’t stopped thinking about sex and Potter and sex with Potter for what feels like an eternity.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
It’s the way Potter is audibly flustered with embarrassment that gets Draco back in control of his own faculties. The implications are definitely worth mulling over. Later, of course. Possibly that same night.
Or right after he gets home.
“The Boy Who Lived, hero to all, sometimes saves the world, sometimes takes it up the arse,” he muses relaxedly, in the present. “How scandalous.”
It elicits a laugh out of Potter. “Shut up.”
The mapping charms are back to being typically steady after that.
***
Potter takes it too far on yet another Sunday, somewhere in February, when Draco’s visiting the cottage to finish analysing the wards.
Potter has added some of his own on top of the decades old thread-bare ones, as per Draco’s suggestion the day before, so that Draco can get a feel of them and use that to extrapolate further. They’ve not discussed it, but it’s clear that Draco will be doing the casting, which complicates the structure of the charm a bit more as it still makes sense to tie the charm to Potter’s magic, rather than Draco’s own. Considering it is Potter’s house.
They are in the living room, and Potter is evidently planning to change the wallpapers at least in that room, thankfully. He’s using some sort of scraping tool and a strongly smelling chemical to remove the existing ones, and is being annoyingly secretive about what he plans to do with the walls afterwards. Draco can only hope that he has better taste than his parents did, back in the 70s or 80s. It would be quite difficult not to, Draco thinks, though when has that ever stopped a Potter?
“So when’s the last time you had sex?”
Draco’s so startled his runes dim a little, stopping in their movement. He absolutely refuses to look at Potter. Maybe he heard wrong. He must have heard wrong. There’s no way Potter asked what Draco thinks he just asked. “Excuse me?”
“As per my reckoning, and at least lately, you spend all your time with me or at the pub, you don’t date,” Potter lists off as if the discussion is not, categorically, absurd. “When’s the last time you had sex?”
And what the hell is Draco supposed to say to that?
“Why, are you offering?” is what ends up coming out of his mouth. There must be something in that wallpaper-removing chemical. Or maybe it’s that he’s getting very familiar with the house’s magic, with two generations of Potters, and it’s rubbing off on him. What a horrible thought.
“Would you accept?”
Or maybe it’s just the presence of Potter that is rendering Draco’s mind, once again, into something with an impractically high viscosity. Honey, perhaps. Or treacle. Tar. Poor quality motor oil during high frost.
Why is he focusing on sticky substances?
“Would I accept to fuck you?” Draco finally asks, going for incredulous and succeeding so poorly it comes off quite rude.
Draco hasn’t turned to look at Potter, still, so he has no idea how his words land, but the air feels charged. The magic feels volatile. He does not dare a glance, either, and instead goes back to strengthening his diagnostics.
It takes a while to get back to his task, and he’s had barely a moment the length of an entire calm breathing cycle when Potter speaks.
“So you prefer topping, then?”
It’s casual, the tone, in complete contradiction to the way Potter’s wards pulse. Wards that Draco has only just been able to tap into. Wards that remind Draco of a raging forest fire, except the forest is a rainforest and the fire is the colour of northern lights.
Wards that seem to be begging for his attention, that he loan his own magic to complete them, because Potter’s accidentally left them a bit open. A bit bleeding, and Draco wants so much just cover the wound with his icy magic and see if that stokes or pacifies the fire that would be so easy, so lovely, to also just let burn him down until he's rendered to nothing but free radicals and oxygen and whatever it is that keep fire alive. He’d barely have to do anything, just give in to the chain reaction that’s as good as asking for him to do so. Easy as breathing, and the reward it’s promising is such a temptation.
Primarily, the wards feel intoxicating, because it’s the very essence of Potter, and Draco is so very far removed from control.
“Yes,” he breathes out, straining to stay in the moment.
“Yes to which question?” Potter asks, carefully.
“Yes, Potter,” whatever you want, everything, please let me take you to bed and look at you when you come, I’ll give you anything, please, “I prefer topping,” Draco says instead with gritted teeth. It’s not enough. It’s as good as a lie. It hurts. Why does it hurt? “Mostly.”
“Nice.”
And what the fuck does that mean? Except Draco knows, well, he can guess, or at least want, is already projecting his own feelings at it, and he needs to detach from the wards this very moment.
“Nice?” he asks, mockingly, when he’s back to being just Draco.
“I mean, great,” Potter says hastily. “Good for you. Whatever.”
Draco feels secure enough to turn and look at him, but Potter’s back is turned to him. His ears seem a bit darker than usual, and he might be a bit more frantic when he scratches at the wall, but that’s the extent of it.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve heard.”
It’s later in the day, when Draco opens the pub, that he realizes it’s Valentine’s day, and isn’t that just so very lovely. And he can’t quite get the memory of Potter’s wards out of his mind.
That night he dreams of northern lights and the Room of Requirement and Floo powder and, bizarrely, what he thinks is the Fangorn forest, and in the morning he finally loses his battle against not pleasuring himself to the memories of Potter and his magic.
***
If wizards could get heart attacks, Draco would certainly get one at the mere sight of Potter when he walks into the pub a few days later.
“What are you doing?” he demands when Potter casually leans against the bar stool that’s as good as his personal piece of pub furniture. How very dare he do anything casually, dressed like that?
“Nothing?” Potter says, evidently going for innocent, but the façade is completely ruined by the grin that his flushed cheeks seem to force out of him. It honestly makes everything worse, in that perfectly, beautifully torturous way that seems to be Potter’s very unique talent. At least in relation to Draco.
“You’re practically naked,” he states, trying and failing not to look at the tiny shorts and the barely-there tank top that Potter’s wearing as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to wear. In February.
“Does it bother you?”
The collar bones are particularly distracting. The dip at their junction. The dusting of chest hair that’s scattered above the inappropriately low-hanging neckline. Honestly, Potter’s nipples are almost peeking out. And the thighs. Good grief. At least the fucking thighs are now hidden from Draco’s immediate view, what with Potter sitting down and Draco having retreated to the liquor shelves at the back wall. The mere memory of them, of the way they flexed and tensed as Potter walked in, is bound to inspire quite a few wanks. And he’d just barely gotten in control of the magic-inspired ones.
But why on earth would any of it bother Draco?
“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, affronted.
“The opposite, actually,” Potter grins, and the way it affects Draco’s blood flow quite literally has to be magically enhanced.
Draco manages a scoff. “It’s the middle of winter.”
Potter just shrugs, nonchalantly. “It’s almost spring.”
“It’s February, Potter. It dropped several degrees below freezing last night,” and so what if Draco’s directing his sexual frustration into the more petulant kind of frustration? It’s safer, if otherwise not much different. “My snowdrops wilted,” he adds, as if he honestly even cares about that.
“Oh no, not the snowdrops,” Potter mocks, but it’s quite good natured.
Draco rolls his eyes, unbecoming as it is, and invents something important to do in the kitchen.
“I might have had a magical accident at the house this morning,” Potter adds when Draco comes back to the bar. “With the permanent heating charms.”
Draco can’t not snort. “You don’t say.”
It calls Potter’s grin back. Glorious grin. Please stay forever, grin.
“I’ll find a counter charm, eventually.”
“Please do.”
***
It’s almost the end of February, when Draco feels confident that he’s got the charm ready.
Well, felt. He thought he just needed to check a few more things with the existing wards before he could do the actual casting at the cottage, which is starting to look more and more like something a person might live in. Potter seems to have opted out on the wallpapers all together, instead painting the downstairs walls with deep greens and blues. It’s quite cozy. Surprisingly tasteful.
The heating charms are horrible, though, way excessive. Draco’s been sweating from merely existing inside the house, let alone casting diagnostics after diagnostics and tapping into the fucking fiery wards that Potter’s still not fixed. It’s all getting a bit on his nerves, not in the least because Potter doesn’t seem affected by the heat at all. It’s as if the man enjoys wearing tiny clothes in front of Draco. The slight sheen to his skin is entirely distracting, too.
“So, how far along are you, with the Tourist Banishing Charm?” Potter asks, for what feels like a billionth time that day but probably is, at max, the second time in as many hours. It still gets to Draco’s nerves.
“I could have it done faster if you’d stop bothering me every five minutes,” Draco snaps, quite harshly, and doesn’t necessarily feel too bad about it. “And put on some clothes. You’re distracting my work, prancing around like that.”
Potter raises his brows, looking unimpressed. “I’m not even doing anything.”
“Do you want this spell done or not? I could just leave, you know.”
“Right.”
Draco feels a bit bad about it, then. “I apologize. The heat’s getting to me.”
Potter gives a tentative smile and turns to leave the room. “Don’t worry about it.”
Another hour or so later, Draco finds Potter upstairs, in that room. It’s completely changed, and looks as if nothing uncouth could ever have happened there. The walls are another pleasant shade of green, quite soft and calm, and match well with the dark wood floor.
Potter has turned the room into an office of sorts, though Draco isn’t quite sure what kind of office has floor-pillows instead of a table, or who would rather lie on the floor to write letters. Potter, evidently. Possibly also Luna. Actually, definitely also Luna.
The windowsill is lined up with at least a dozen lava lamps, and though Draco finds them horribly tacky, and didn’t know people could even still get those, they sort of suit the whole vibe of the room.
“The spell’s done,” Draco says. “It’s in effect.”
Potter jerks as if he hadn’t noticed Draco coming in, ink bottle tipping and spilling all over the letter and the floor.
“Yeah?” he says distractedly, as he hurries to vanish the mess. The letter vanishes, too, and Potter frowns. It’s quite sweet. “So you’re leaving?”
Draco nods. “I’ll take the memorial sign on my way out, and make the necessary additions, before anyone starts missing it.”
“Do you need help with that?”
Draco has to smirk, because, honestly. “I’ll quite literally just float the sign over and cast a charm I personally invented at it. It’s not overly complicated.”
Which, fine, maybe Draco is oversimplifying it a little bit. He did just spend several hours fine-tuning a charm he thought was ready to cast before he arrived. Not to mention that he hasn’t told Potter, nor does he ever plan to, that he’s about to slightly alter the charm intended for the memorial in a way that’s never been used before – and might also be a tiny bit too close to mass manipulation to be considered strictly legal. Though if he does it right, he won’t even know he’d done it himself, so he’s not too worried.
Besides, he’s pretty sure Potter will back him up on it, if ever need be. Still, better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
“Oh,” Harry says, in what couldn’t possibly be disappointment. ”Guess this is it, then?”
Draco suddenly feels very awkward, which, no. He doesn’t ever feel awkward. Malfoys do not feel awkward.
“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he says with what he hopes looks like a convincingly confident smirk.
Based on Potter’s expression, it doesn’t. That, or he’s done the wrong thing, somehow.
“Yeah.”
***
It’s not until a Saturday in mid-March that Draco sees Potter again.
“I can’t think of anything more to add to the house,” Potter says as he takes his usual seat, as if he hasn’t been absent from it for the past two weeks. “I think it’s done.”
“I’d congratulate you, if I wasn’t aware of the risk of you becoming even more insufferable than at present,” Draco says as he hands over the usual unprompted glass of water, as if he hasn’t been double-checking the seat multiple times a day for the past two weeks.
Potter grins freely, and Merlin, if Draco doesn’t ache with how much he’s missed it. He’d known he’d got it bad, and definitely couldn’t deny it anymore after that day at the cottage, with the wards. He just hadn’t quite known how bad.
“Ha ha,” Potter says sarcastically. “Consider me congratulated.”
The smirk Draco manages must look at least a little bit fond. What a horror.
“Consider yourself welcome.”
“So I guess I could just move in,” Potter says when he’s finishing his bowl of bean stew.
Yes, that stew. Yes, with the bread. It’s been incredibly difficult not to stare. Regardless, Draco has mostly managed it. Even if Potter’s also wearing that horrendous sweater, too, and his hair has been unusually messy, and he’s smiled at Draco, pleased, every time their eyes have met. Even if he’s laughed at Draco’s stupid barbs and let slip small details of himself, as if they’re friends.
“That would be the next logical step, yes,” Draco says, unaffected. Thankfully.
“I have a ton of stuff, though,” Potter laments. It’s a bit suspicious. “Books, mostly.”
Draco narrows his eyes. “Are you fishing for help?”
Ah, the grin. Anything’s worth that grin. It lights up better part of the Hollow. Potter must not have been grinning like that, or been in town, these past two weeks. Surely Draco would have felt it, when it’s that bright.
“Would you?”
“I might be persuaded.”
And the grin turns to that very specific shade of smugly victorious that’s very rare on him. Draco could get addicted to it.
“See you at ten?”
Draco has, possibly, already gotten addicted to it.
“Yes.”
***
“Your house is surprisingly decent,” Draco says when they’ve floated in the last of the boxes. Potter truly wasn’t lying about the number of books, and Draco’s suddenly reminded of when he claimed to have been studying Ancient Runes, back in, what, November?
“I see you finally got the permanent heating charms right.”
Which is true, the temperature in the living room is quite perfect. Draco imagines that they adjust to each person’s perceived ideal, as they should, because he’s still wearing his jacket while Potter seems quite comfortable in his t-shirt.
Though of course there’s always the option that Potter permanently damaged his sensory system when he was trying to figure out the charms.
“Such high praise. Careful before you activate a kink.”
It sounds… inviting, is what it sounds like.
And maybe Draco’s projecting, again, but he’s getting tired of not knowing. Of longing.
“Oh?”
Draco is pretty sure Potter’s breath hitches. He looks almost flustered. Could he possibly?
“If I were to congratulate you on your choices in picking the colour schemes?” Draco asks, watching Potter like a hawk, so as not to miss a single signal.
Potter visibly swallows. It’s quite thrilling, but not nearly clear enough.
“That’d be nice,” is the somewhat breathy response.
Draco can feel his smirk widening, which seems to have a downright delicious effect. He takes his coat off, carefully folding it on the nearest living chair – green, velvet, because Potter is just that tacky.
“Or if I were to comment on your craftmanship with the parquet?” he asks when he’s got his complete focus back on Potter, taking a step closer.
Potter’s breathing is definitely picking up. Oh, to be able to feel his heartbeat. Draco’s cock is reacting with such interest.
“I’d like that,” is accompanied with a delightful shiver.
Draco takes another step closer, and they’re sharing the same air. He wants to touch Potter so bad the ache in his body transcends to his soul. It’s nigh unbearable.
“And what, pray tell,” he asks in a calm tone, despite his racing heart, “would happen if I were to test out the sturdiness,” he leans on the shelf lightly, openly adjusting his half-hard cock, “of these excellent-looking bookshelves?”
Potter swallows again, and it’s not the same as the first time. It will never be the same again.
“I might,” says Harry, because of course it’s Harry, how could it possibly be Potter when Draco’s clearly going to take that next step, “thank you for it?”
If Draco would venture a guess, the smirk on his lips has transformed into a vision of pure devotion. He’s so far past caring about it he could say it’s actually staring right back at him again. And it’s so undeniable, he’d devote the entire rest of his life to making Harry look at him like this.
“I bet you’d do that perfectly.”
Harry actually shudders. What a perfect, enticing, freeing shudder.
“Yeah?”
It’s enough for Draco to tip over the edge of indecision. With two fast strides, he has Harry pinned against the shelves by the wrists. The soft whimper that falls from Harry’s lips is intoxicating. Draco absolutely has to know what it tastes like.
But not yet.
They’re almost equally tall, with Draco having perhaps two inches on Harry, and it’s this barely-there difference in height that gives Draco perfect perspective. Up this close, the green in Harry’s eyes is like looking directly into Floo flames. Like watching the northern lights dance across the night sky. How Harry’s wards felt like. What the centre and the edge of the universe must be.
“How did you attach the shelves to the wall, Harry?”
The eyes flutter shut.
“I screwed them in, the muggle way, and then used a permanent sticking charm to be certain.”
And while that is, technically, what Draco asked, it’s not what he asked for.
“Look at me when you speak, love,” he says softly, the term of endearment slipping out by its own volition.
Draco has no possible way of knowing whether Harry’s following shiver is due to that, or the command, or both. He thrives not to rest until he finds out. Endless repetition, perhaps, for statistical accuracy.
It takes a while, but eventually Harry gets his eyes back open, and voices something close enough to screws and charms.
Draco smiles approvingly. “Very good.”
The look on Harry’s heated face turns pleading, and oh, Draco’s certain to comply. Just not quite yet. Hush, love, let me take care of you the way you deserve.
“And the end pieces?” Draco asks in a light tone as he moves Harry’s hands to curl around said end pieces; what an excellent choice in design, by the way. As if made for this very use. “How are they joined to the shelves?”
Harry is practically quivering as Draco slowly retracts his hands, smoothing his fingers against Harry’s wrists soothingly before running the tips along the forearms, towards the neck that’s been teasing Draco for months.
“Nails,” comes the just barely audible whisper.
“Did you now? With a hammer and everything?”
Harry nods, staring wildly at Draco. One could drown into those eyes, and thank them for the opportunity. Draco would have thought it impossible for anything to resemble a fire and an ocean at the same time, yet somehow Harry’s eyes hold the secrets to the most contradictory of metaphors. And ok, so maybe Draco could pour his heart into words in this universe, too.
“How splendid,” he says, quietly, stroking Harry’s cheek. “And do you think they’ll hold?”
When Harry doesn’t say anything, just shivers, eyes threatening to fall shut again, Draco takes a step back.
“Answer me.”
And oh, it’s definitely the command. Or, well, it’s still possible for the answer being both. Endless repetition, indeed.
Harry breathes in like he’s never had air before in his life. The words seem to be wrenched out of him. “They should.”
Draco narrows his eyes, as if in displeased. As if. Draco would risk life and limb to take care of Harry, when he’s looking at him like this, and nothing he says or does could displease Draco.
“Should?”
Harry shakes his head frantically. “Will.”
It’s so heady, the way Harry is grabbing at the wooden beams, knuckles white and arms trembling. He’s looking at Draco desperately, like his life depends on his mercy, and Draco can’t quite take it any longer, he has to get his hands back on that perfect skin. Immediately.
So he does exactly that, burying one of his hands, finally, into Harry’s unruly hair and using the other to pull at Harry’s hips.
“Well done, Harry,” he whispers, lips ghosting over the shell of Harry’s ear.
“Please,” comes an honest-to-god whine, and Draco thinks he could actually come from just hearing that sound. It’s the best sound he’s heard in his life. He wants to hear it again immediately.
“Please what, love?” he asks, quietly, running his lips over Harry’s cheekbone.
And evidently, both is the right answer. The way Harry responds to Draco’s words might be the death of him, and if so, what a sweet way to go.
“Please touch me,” Harry whispers, and Draco chuckles.
Yes, he could tease Harry about so many things, in this very moment, oh so many, and he’d enjoy every microsecond of it, they both would, on so many levels. But he understands what Harry means, and right now, that’s more important.
“Impatient, aren’t you?” because, okay, perhaps Draco can’t quite help himself. Not entirely. A snake might shed his skin, but the scales remain.
“As you wish.”
***
“You weren’t kidding about the praise kink, were you?” Draco comments, when they’re coming down from their high, limbs tangled on the pillows Draco’s pretty sure were Luna’s idea in the first place. As were the lamps, in fact. The whole room alludes to Luna in a way that makes Draco quite sure Harry must have consciously made it into a shrine for her. Or at least let her make all the design choices.
It’s worked out quite nicely for Draco, so he’s not complaining. “Impeccable work on the shelves, by the way.”
Harry grins, and now that Draco can, he devours it with his lips. It’s quite addictive.
“I don’t know how to respond to that without incriminating myself,” Harry says when they break apart. Draco’s almost forgotten what they were talking about. “And thank you.”
Draco smirks at him, partly because he now knows how it affects Harry, but also because that’s just who he is. Which, well. What a circular statement, actually.
“I think in America they plead the fifth, though it kind of defeats the purpose here.”
Harry laughs, beautifully. It makes Draco smile, and it’s bound to be disgustingly sweet and doting, but as recently discovered, he’s not in the habit of caring about that anymore. He’ll deal with Pansy’s ridicule when that bridge is done burning.
“No need to be so complacent,” Harry jibes, “as if you didn’t immediately jump at the opportunity to exploit it.”
It must be the previous thought of Pansy that makes Draco’s certainly well buried, aristocratic theatrics do a show of themselves. “Exploit?” he drawls as if severely offended, and cocks a disgusted eyebrow. “How crass.”
Harry’s laughter is worth at least a thousand performances. It makes Draco’s heart feel the size of several hectares.
“What’d you call it, then?” Harry asks, eyes crinkling. “Enlighten me, O proper one.“
Draco simply has to steal another kiss after that. As a method of chastisement, of course.
“Employed it in a way that benefitted us both?”
“I feel employed all right.”
The way Harry wiggles his brows should cause second-hand embarrassment. It should make Draco get up and leave. It should, at the bare minimum, not make his cock stir again, as if it has forgotten the refractory period it’s come up with by its very self.
“Keep grinning like that and I’ll show you employed,” Draco says severely, but a grin threatens his lips.
“Yeah?” and the grin only widens. “Will you have me beg?”
It’s enough to have Draco rolling properly on top of Harry again, snaking his hands to hold him close as Harry’s arms curl around his back.
“Wouldn’t dream otherwise, love,” he whispers, peppering kisses to Harry’s forehead. “You do that so perfectly.”
The little gasp that escapes Harry’s lips is entirely delicious. Physically, emotionally, psychologically.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, Harry.”