Chapter Text
Draco sat in the Three Broomsticks, anxiety mounting steadily in his chest. He had come about an hour early, hoping that talking with Rosmerta and Greg might ease some of the tension, but not even their familiar conversation could distract Draco from the fact that he was going to have to apologise to Harry tonight.
He’d invited all their friends as a sort of buffer, idly hoping they’d provide some distraction, perhaps even selfishly hoping that they wouldn’t get along. But Draco knew he couldn’t keep doing this—this thing with Potter—until he’d come out with everything, laid it all on the table for Harry to see, and judge, and understand. And maybe he’d never want to talk to Draco again. And maybe that was for the best.
Or maybe he’d appreciate the honesty. And maybe he’d want to see him again…and again…and again…
The pub door swung open and Draco jumped, turning toward the sound with a forced expression of boredom on his face. He’d be damned if he let Harry think he could sneak up on him a second time. But the man striding into the pub was only Blaise, looking frightfully out of place in his elegant dinner suit.
“Draco,” he said smoothly, straightening the shimmering green vest. It seemed he’d come from one of his mother’s endless soirées.
“Blaise,” Draco replied with less enthusiasm than usual. “I assume you’ll be leaving early?” he added, eyeing his friend’s vest, which emitted a faint glow.
Blaise gave him a sideways look. “Have to make appearances. I’ve dipped out of an important event for this.” There was an unspoken ‘I hope it’s worth it’, which Draco elected to ignore.
“Another one?”
Blaise huffed. “This one’s especially important. The Emperor of Russia is in attendance, and Mother is determined to make a…good impression.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’d have thought she’d want you out of the way then.”
“Don’t be preposterous, he’s not interested in her.”
“Oh?” Draco glanced doubtfully at his friend. Ms. Zabini’s inclination toward wealthy bachelors wasn’t exactly a secret.
“No, in fact,” Blaise said smoothly. “If he were interested in anyone, it’d be me.”
Draco’s mouth fell open. “Pardon?”
Blaise gave a long-suffering sigh, nodding at Rosmerta to bring over some drinks. “Manners, Draco,” he muttered, and Draco hastily shut his mouth. “If you must know, I’ve been courting Petrov for the past month or so.”
Draco gaped again. “Petrov?”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “Yes, Petrov. The Emperor of Russia. Magical, of course,” he added as if Draco wasn’t aware.
“You call him Petrov?”
“Per his request,” Blaise said, as Rosmerta arrived with a glass. “Just a butterbeer for now, Ros, thanks.”
“Sure thing, love,” she said warmly, filling up his glass in front of them. “How’s Petrov?” she added and set the butterbeer on the bar.
Draco spluttered. “You know about this?!”
They both ignored him. “He’s probably fending off Mother now,” Blaise confided, some displeasure seeping into his tone. “She does get rather attached to my suitors. Especially the rich ones.”
“I hope you hid your baby pictures,” Rosmerta said with a chuckle.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Blaise threw her a rakish wink. “I burnt all those after she showed them to my first boyfriend.”
Rosmerta snorted. “And when was that?”
“Ah, third year, I think—over the summer.”
“You had a boyfriend in third year!?” Draco exclaimed. “Who? When? How?”
Blaise turned a rather baleful eye on his friend. “Draco, must you shout? I’ve left a rather dashing Russian to be here for you.”
At the reminder, Draco flushed. He had practically begged Blaise to come tonight.
A slight smirk appeared on Blaise’s lips. “So, this is the night you seduce Potter at last, is it? You needed me and Pans as wingmen?”
Draco’s blush deepened. “No,” he rushed to say. “I’m not seducing him. I’m…well, I think I’m going to…apologise, in fact.”
Blaise snorted, the only person Draco knew who could do it gracefully. “He’s rubbed off on you. Have you accepted his apology yet, by chance?”
“Ah, well, no,” Draco had to admit. “I…it hasn’t come up, as of late.”
Blaise raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Not to give away all my advice for free…but he might be waiting for that. I would be. If I were him.” Blaise took a dainty sip of butterbeer. “Not that I’m anything like him,” he added in afterthought.
Rosmerta cleared her throat. “You might want to think up a game plan quick, dear.” She nodded towards the window. “He’s early.”
Draco paled. Harry was indeed walking quickly to the door of the pub and—much to Draco’s relief—had his friends Weasley and Granger in tow. At least he came with a buffer.
As they approached, however, Draco noticed there were actually…several more people behind the Golden Trio. He saw a flash of long red hair… Was that the Weaselette? Did Harry really bring his ex? And who was the man beside her? From a distance, he looked like a second Potter. And another girl, blonde and wandering. Lovegood? Then two more behind them. Merlin, Harry, this isn’t a party.
“Oh good,” Blaise murmured, “this night won’t be half as ghastly with Luna around.”
“With—?” Draco spluttered, turning to face him. “Are you acquainted?”
“Of course,” Blaise scoffed, giving Draco a haughty look. “She’s a delight at soirées.”
Draco bit back the questions that sprang to his lips and merely groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. Blaise was trying to get a rise out of him, that was all. Best to let be. “Well then,” Draco sighed, standing to face the door with unaccustomed boldness. “Time to socialise.”
“My pleasure,” Blaise quipped, and they both braced for impact as the door swung open.
Harry stumbled through first, holding the door for his entourage as he looked around and met Draco’s eyes. Harry’s smile was so blinding Draco barely noticed the crowd following him in. It was only when they’d all entered, and Hermione nudged Harry’s arm to remind him to let the door close, that Draco took in the horde. There was Ron and Hermione, of course—as Draco had expected—but also the Weaselette not-quite-glaring at him, and Looney Lovegood at her side, gazing about in wonder.
The man next to them—the one that looked like Harry at a distance—turned out to be Longbottom, much taller and fitter than Draco remembered. In fact…he was much fitter. The years had treated him kindly. A glance to Draco’s left confirmed that Blaise had also noticed this transformation, looking Longbottom up and down none-too-subtly.
How would Petrov feel? Draco thought, but kept the comment to himself. Blaise was doing him a favour, after all.
“So, are you buyin’?” came a distinctly Irish voice from the group, and that’s when Draco recognised Harry’s other classmates: Finnegan, the one who’d just spoken, looking brazen and confrontational, and Thomas, who looked uncomfortable to be there.
It took Draco a moment to realise Finnegan had been addressing him. “Er,” he began, slightly startled, “I suppose…”
“Good,” Finnegan said shortly and took a seat at the bar as far from Draco as possible. Thomas shrugged as if to say ‘What can you do?’ and followed suit.
“Did you know,” Lovegood offered, drifting towards Draco. “There’s an awful lot of Wrackspurts in your ears.”
Blaise snorted. “Hello, Lovey,” he greeted, far warmer than usual.
“Bini!” Lovegood exclaimed with a wide grin. “Harry didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
“Only briefly,” Blaise confessed. “I’m supposed to be having dinner with Petrov right now.”
“Oh, how is he? Did he take my advice about the radishes?” she asked, suddenly serious.
“Indeed, he did.” Blaise took Lovegood’s arm, leading them away as they gossiped. “To an alarming extent, in fact. I’m beginning to smell it on my clothes…”
“Hi,” a new voice cut in, and Draco returned his attention to the one person he did care to talk to tonight.
Harry stood before him, hair astray and glasses askew, a small smile on his lips.
“Hi,” Draco parroted, inexcusably tongue-tied. All he could do was stare into Harry’s green eyes.
The moment must’ve dragged on because at some point Weasley muttered, “Bloody hell, Hermione, I can’t watch this,” and there was a sound like he’d been elbowed in the gut. Flushing pink, Draco broke his staring contest to look at their remaining companions and offered a sheepish smile.
“Hello, Hermione,” Draco managed through his embarrassment. “Ron.”
“Malf—Draco,” Ron replied, nodding stiffly, just as Hermione said, “Nice to see you again, Draco.”
Silence followed that statement, as they all questioned its veracity.
“Likewise,” Draco said, which was followed by another bout of quiet.
Not for the first time in Draco’s life, Pansy saved the day. “Oh look, it’s the bookworm and the keeper,” she said, appearing from nowhere and linking arms with the startled couple. “We have much to discuss. Besides, we’re practically in-laws now, and family comes first.”
With that, she led the two baffled Gryffindors away, who despite their confusion seemed quite happy to see her. Lavender threw a soft smile at Harry and Draco before trailing behind her girlfriend as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Well,” Harry said as the two were left alone. “Shall we—?”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” a sharp voice cut in. “Or would that be redundant?”
Beside them, two more intruders had popped into existence: the Weaselette, who hadn’t stopped glaring, and Neville Longbottom. It was the former who spoke, but the latter was the one looking expectantly at Draco as if awaiting a response.
Draco swallowed. These two had him on edge for two very different reasons. The Weaselette was just scary, full-stop. She’d lost her brother in the Battle of Hogwarts, something he felt adjacently responsible for. And she was Harry’s ex, a significant one at that. Draco had hoped they’d never have to meet, though that was admittedly improbable if he kept hanging around Harry.
Longbottom, however, scared him most of all. He wasn’t angry, at least not on the surface, and that only made Draco sweat. It was Draco’s own aunt who’d tortured this boy’s parents to insanity—she’d bragged about it often enough. But the reality of it never hit harder than when he saw Longbottom fighting in that final battle, on opposite sides from him. It never burned a hole in his heart until he walked those few metres to Voldemort’s side while Longbottom announced his loyalty to the crowd. He’d never felt the shame as deeply as when he was faced with the hero Neville had become.
Draco was just a bully. And his biggest victim had surpassed him in every way.
Harry cleared his throat, a guilty look on his face as he met the girl’s eyes. “Sorry, yes. Er, Ginny, this is Draco. Draco, Ginny. And Neville.”
“Call me Weasel,” the redhead said, holding out her hand.
Draco fumbled in his haste to shake it. “I, ah, don’t think I will.”
She raised her eyebrows, crushing his hand in her iron grasp. Draco nearly fell to the ground; all that Quidditch she played had really paid off. “Even if I ask nicely?”
“Ginny…” It was Harry who spoke, but only when Longbottom touched her shoulder did she relent.
“What?” she said, letting the blond go. “It’s only a little teasing. He doesn’t mind.”
Draco massaged his hand behind his back. “Not at all,” he agreed, putting on a friendly smile.
Harry frowned.
“I hear you live amongst muggles now.”
Draco looked at Longbottom in shock. “Well…yes, I do.”
The black-haired man merely nodded.
“He works in a bookstore,” Harry supplied, and threw a smug glance at Draco like he’d been a very good dog. “Pro bono.”
Ginny cut in. “Oh, how nice that you don’t need an income.”
Before Harry could stop her, Neville took the stage. “I did think you might end up working with books. You were always in the library.”
All three gaped at him, Draco most of all.
“Now that you mention it,” Harry said after a stunned moment, “it makes complete sense.”
“Well, when he wasn’t busy with—”
“Yes, Ginny,” Harry growled, “we know.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Draco decided it should fall on him to break it. “You’re very…observant,” he said, aiming for a compliment but tripping into a fact instead.
Neville gave an accommodating smile. “Harry said you’d changed,” he added bluntly. “I didn’t quite believe it till now.”
Draco became a fish, mouth opening and closing several times before giving up entirely.
“He has,” Harry said, giving Ginny a firm look. She sniffed and averted her eyes.
“Well,” Neville continued, surpassing Draco even in the social sphere, “good on you.”
The feeble “thanks” that tumbled from Draco’s lips did so of its own accord. He couldn’t stop it or strengthen it for the life of him.
“Yes,” Ginny said, voice still sharp but far less targeted. “Good for you.”
And with that, the two of them took their leave, joining Finnegan and Thomas in the corner. Draco had to pick his jaw off the floor before he could face Harry again.
“Ah,” Draco began, “perhaps we could—”
“Want any drinks, Draco?”
Where were all these people coming from!?
“Thanks but no, Greg,” he said, whirling on his friend with little patience. “We’re having a private chat!”
Greg raised his eyebrows along with his hands. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a hint of sass in his tone.
Draco let his anger out on a sigh. “No, sorry, I just meant…” He took a breath. “Harry, say hi to Greg.”
From behind him came a little “Hi.”
Greg nodded back, then met Draco’s eyes and said in the loudest whisper ever heard, “Let me know if you need a room.”
“Goodbye, Greg!” Draco growled and stomped off to a far-off table without waiting for Harry to follow. What a mistake this was! Even his own friends were against him.
Harry took a bit longer to catch up. “I ordered us butterbeers,” he said in way of explanation and sat across from him.
Draco could die. Instead, he put on a brave face and nodded. “For the best, I suppose, what with your alcohol tolerance.”
Harry let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Never,” Draco agreed, finding a small smile on his face.
They mirrored each other’s smiles for a beat until Draco opened his mouth. “Potter, I asked you here because—”
“Can I say something?” Potter interrupted, as if he’d learnt no manners his whole life.
Draco, who’d been working up his courage all night, let it go with a whooshing sigh. “Yes, alright,” he said, annoyance riding on his words. “Talk away.”
“Great,” Harry said, beaming. “I want to…apologise.”