Work Text:
january 12th, 2000
Draco looks around his flat with his hands on his hips. If someone had told him at the start of his banishment that he’d accumulate so much rubbish living in the muggle word, he would’ve laughed. But here he is, in a one bedroom flat that costs too much, surrounded by boxes of various muggle things. Things that he loves dearly and wouldn’t trade for the world. Things that got him through his time in exile and kept him sane.
Sighing, he looks longingly at his boxes of movies waiting to be unpacked. His wand feels as though it’s burning a hole in his pocket, but he’s almost scared to use it. Particularly, he’s unsure of using it to unpack his collection of tapes, which have become especially dear to him in his exile.
He’s been without magic, without the wizarding world, for a full year. He’s been adapting to a muggle way of life for twelve months, and to be back to his roots feels uncomfortably unfamiliar. He runs clammy hands over his jeans and grimaces as his thoughts drift to memories of his first day no longer back.
Minister Shacklebolt had passed him his hawthorn wand with a warm smile, and Draco thought he might be sick. He’d done his best to grin back and had cast a simple charm to send a ray of soft sparks sprinkling from the tip of his wand. Dust from disuse had also fluttered from the handle and Draco wrinkled his nose. Shacklebolt had nodded approvingly and clapped Draco on the shoulder. Draco’s knees buckled, and he thought he might collapse under the weight—of Shacklebolt’s enormous hand, of the expectations on him, of the suffocating feeling of being home.
He’d hurriedly thanked the Minister and made his exit, already regretting his decision to come back.
He hadn’t lasted a week in the Manor. Not only was his mother driving him mad—she couldn’t fully wrap her head around all of Draco’s muggle possessions or why he insisted on keeping them—but the Manor itself was strangling him. The memories in the walls haunted Draco day and night, and he couldn’t stand it. He packed up two nights after moving in and left.
Which is how he finds himself in this flat, alone with his belongings. He’s content.
Mostly.
He palms his wand by slipping his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He’s used it for precisely two things since he left the Manor: apparating, and charming his boxes lighter. He still carried all his boxes in by hand, though he didn’t need to. He’s bone tired from it, regardless of the charm, and the thought of unpacking everything by hand makes him want to cry.
But the thought of using magic almost feels worse, somehow.
In the end, he admits defeat and simply trods to his bedroom. He draws his wand from his pocket and tosses it onto the bedside table. He falls on top of the covers fully dressed and curls into a ball. He tosses and turns and wonders if it’d be worth it to get a new mattress. Or if he could try a spell to make his current one more comfortable.
The apartment he’d managed to snag had come fully furnished, but that doesn’t mean the furniture is comfortable. His couch in the living room is old and lumpy, and every leg of his dining room table wobbles without fail. His bed is stiff and unfamiliar, with rickety springs and an old-fashioned metal frame.
He sighs into his pillow and coughs around the mothball scent.
He’s been back in the wizarding world for less than a week, and he has no idea what he’s going to do.
In the end, he gets a job at coffee shop owned by a squib; it feels odd, but more like a happy medium than trying for a job at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley.
He takes to it quickly, which is a nice feeling.
He’d struggled when he was first banished. Not only was it hard to do even the simplest tasks without magic, but Draco had never worked a day in his life before being exiled. It was a long two months adjusting to not having a wand, let alone not having any magic at all, and to earning his wages rather than dropping by the family vault.
His first job was as a waiter, but he was dreadful at the balancing part of it and his smile scared customers. His boss had told him so. His second job was at a bookshop, but he ended up more entranced with reading the books than selling them. Thinking that maybe selling was the problem, he took a part-time job at a library after that; the Dewey Decimal System confused him too much for it to last.
Eventually, Draco had settled at a bistro, flitting between the espresso machines and manning the cash register and occasionally ducking into the back to help the cooks however he could. It was good, and it had lasted him up until his banishment ended. He’d considered staying, but it was quite a distance from his new apartment, and it seemed like more effort than it was really worth to try and keep a muggle job when most of his shopping would be done with galleons once again.
—
february 4, 2000
He’s just over three weeks into gainful employment when Harry Potter walks in. The enchanted bells above the door gasp in delighted awe, and Draco watches as Potter rolls his eyes, a faint blush on his tan cheeks. He paints quite a picture in a t-shirt and jeans, his skin oddly sun-kissed and gleaming despite the mostly dreary weather outside; his hair is an absolute disaster and he wears it back in a messy bun.
It’s all rather enchanting until his gaze falls to Draco, and he clearly stiffens.
“Moira?” Draco calls over his shoulder as he wipes his hand on his apron. “Can you switch me for a minute? I need to grab something from the back.”
Moira comes out mumbling to herself as she ties her apron behind her back. “I could’ve just grabbed it for you,” she notes. Her eyes pierce Draco, and he jerks his head toward the door as subtly as he can.
Her brown eyes widen, and she gasps softly. “Oh, go on,” she shoos him into the back. She’s well aware of his turmoil and past with Potter—they’ve gotten drunk a time or two after closing, she’s rather nice company and doesn’t treat him like an infant despite being ten years his senior—and her understanding is a relief.
Draco slips into the back and forces himself not to look back as he hears Moira strike up a conversation with Potter.
“Hello Harry, what can I getcha today?”
Draco hurries away before he can hear Potter’s order.
Moira tells him, after Potter has left, that he likes to come in every few so often without any real rhyme or reason.
“I think he must have a flat nearby or something,” she mentions as she wipes down the counters.
Draco hums noncommittally from where he’s crouched to clean out the fridge. “Bully for him.”
Moira laughs. “I’m just telling you, he’ll probably come in again. I won’t have your little school rivalry ruining my customer-barista relationship.” She grins to soften the slight cut of her words. No one seems to recognize Draco these days, so her patronage hardly suffers despite him being a former Death Eater. He knows she worries about it sometimes, all the same.
Draco stands with a scoff. “It was more than a school rivalry,” he retorts petulantly. “And he’s welcome to come as often as he likes. I will just strategically duck into the back whenever that happens.”
—
february 9th, 2000
The next time Harry Potter comes in, the bells above the door sigh as if they’re swooning, and Draco is running the shop alone.
Moira had to take her mum out for a shopping trip, and Elizabeth—a muggle-born girl who works while juggling university—was busy as well. Weekday mornings are fairly slow, so Draco had been confident he could handle it on his own.
Watching Potter approach the counter tells Draco he was terribly, terribly wrong.
“Hello,” Potter greets as he reaches the counter.
“Hello, what can I get you?” Draco asks, doing his best not to be stiff. He poises his hand at the stacks of cups, ready to grab a particular type depending on what Potter orders. Plastic for iced, paper for hot; Draco’s fingers twitch as he waits for Potter to answer.
“I didn’t know you worked for Moira.”
“It’s a recent development.” Draco’s response is smooth and crisp. When Potter simply stares at him, Draco lets his hand fall back to his side. Nothing is ever easy with Potter, is it? The git couldn’t just let Draco fly under the radar, could he?
Draco shrugs. “I like the atmosphere.” Draco supplies it on a whim, a nugget of truth reluctantly given to the Boy Who Lived (to Stare Earnestly at Draco).
Potter nods, seemingly delighted. “Same. I like the telly in the corner,” he jerks his head. The television is on silent right now, but Draco shares the sentiment. It’s one of his favorite parts about working here. “What do you recommend?” Potter’s stare tilts up to scrutinize the menu. For him, it fades from muggle to magical and back again every few seconds.
Draco startles. “Pardon?”
“Drink-wise,” Potter clarifies.
“You want me to suggest a drink for you?” Draco asks.
Potter seems to reconsider with his face still tilted toward the menu. “Or food-wise. I’m starved.” He looks back to Draco with the same grin in place, the same intense stare.
Draco blinks back. “Or a food.” He says it flatly, a question but not.
Potter is clearly amused by Draco’s bafflement. “Yes.”
“Alright.” Draco waits a moment for Potter to take it back, but when no such request is forthcoming, he looks up at the menu. “Well, we’ve got new pumpkin-chocolate chip cookies, fresh this morning. I rather enjoy those and a cinnamon latte.” He looks back at Potter and watches him nod.
“Sounds great.” Potter digs out a wallet and shells out a few galleons. “Keep the change.” Then, without waiting for Draco to respond, he ducks off and heads toward the restrooms tucked into a side hallway.
Draco stands frozen for a moment before forcing himself into action.
He scoops the coins into his palm and plugs the charges into the register. He taps a particular button that causes the wizarding change drawer to pop out. He drops the galleons into their allotted slot and listens to them clink against the plastic container. He fishes out the sickles and knuts for change and tosses them into the tip jar—charmed to always look like it’s holding muggle money—before starting on Potter’s order.
He sets about making the coffee first and casts a simple warming charm over it once it’s finished. He pops a cookie into the toaster oven on the back counter to give a freshen and heat the cookie, too; he pulls it out just as he knows the chocolate chips are starting to melt again.
By the time both items are at the end of the counter for pick-up, Potter is coming out from the restrooms. He’s still grinning, and Draco blatantly stares. Potter picks up the coffee and takes a sip, humming pleasantly. Then he takes a bite of the cookie, and makes the same sound; finally, he takes a bite of the cookie and chases it with a sip of the latte.
“Thanks—” Potter makes a show of squinting at Draco’s name tag. “Draco.”
Draco feels the blush burning his cheeks long after Potter is gone from the shop.
—
february 22nd, 2000
Draco tugs the hem of his shirt down and eyes himself in the mirror. He’s got a feeling he’ll be seeing Potter today, given that the git hasn’t been by in over a week.
Not that Draco thinks he needs to look nice for Potter. Hardly. But, Draco does like to take pride in his appearance, even if he’s traded bespoke trousers for muggle jeans and a buzzed-short hairstyle rather than the traditional Malfoy tresses. Draco runs his hands over the shaven side and fluffs the bangs hanging choppy over his forehead. He looks nice, he thinks.
He shakes himself. “You’re being ridiculous,” he tells his reflection.
Turning sharp on his feel, Draco decides to ignore the feeling in his gut. It’s probably just a bug anyway.
Draco isn’t even really surprised when Potter walks in only minutes after Moira leaves for her extended lunch break. He’s coming to accept that this is just his life now, and he’s simply along for the ride. Potter has been a nuisance in his life from the get, the universe clearly sees no reason to put an end to that now.
He nods politely to Potter as he approaches the counter. Draco busies himself with cleaning the rack of mugs in front of him, intent on finishing his task before helping Potter. They’re only used by customers that like to sit in one of the two plush chairs by the telly, which almost no one does. Draco likes them, though; they’re quaint and homely, spelled with undetectable charms to keep the drink the perfect temperature. Draco handles them with care.
Potter seems content to wait; he turns to the telly in the corner and watches with avid interest. The television is a faint buzz to Draco; it’s a movie he’s seen before and he only listens with a partial ear. As Draco finally approaches him to take his order, he catches Potter murmuring under his breath, grinning dopily all the while—
“What is it with this chick? She have beer-flavored nipples?”
“Potter.” Draco speaks easily over the low volume of the film.
He starts and turns around sheepishly. “Sorry.” He jerks his head back at the telly. “Good pick.”
Draco hums and doesn’t confirm that it was his choice. “What can I get you?” He half expects Potter to ask to surprise him again, but no such luck. Potter rattles off an order for a croissant and mocha, and then returns to watching 10 Things I Hate About You as it plays on.
It takes Draco hardly any time to get the order together, but he pauses before calling for Potter’s attention. Potter has been nice to him; not just civil but friendly. It would be rude for Draco not to be friendly in return, he thinks. It’s not something he’s very good at, mind, but he can give it a go, surely. Surely.
Draco snatches a marker off the table and scribbles along the side of Potter’s cup. He bites his lips as he writes out the words very carefully, and hopes he isn’t about to make a fool of himself.
I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?
“Potter!” He shouts, setting down the cup quick as though he’s been burned. He drops the marker back onto the counter and watches as Potter ambles over.
“Do I need to wear a name tag to get you to call me by my given name?” Potter asks as he picks up his drink; his palm covers Draco’s handwriting, and Draco is almost relieved that he doesn’t have to watch Potter read it.
“No,” Draco says. He opens his mouth but realizes he has no witty retort. Distracted by Potter still smiling back at him, Draco simply says, “Have a good day… Harry.”
The surprise on his face is worth it, even as another customer comes in. The bells tinkle like normal to inform them both it’s a muggle. Draco meets Potter’s gaze for a split second before heading back to the cash register and putting on his best smile.
“Hello, sir, how can I help you today?”
Draco is keenly aware of Potter’s eyes on him as he takes the muggle’s order. Eventually, Potter wanders toward the door while chewing on a bite of his croissant. Out the corner of his eye, as he steams some milk, Draco watches as Potter’s eyes finally catch the black scribble on the side of the cup.
Potter stops dead and chokes on his bite of pastry. He looks back at Draco, who pretends not to notice. Draco doesn’t miss the muffled laughter or the faint shake of Potter’s head. He finishes serving the muggle and by the time he looks up again, the cafe is empty.
Draco smirks to himself, and figures things aren’t shaping up to be so bad after all.
—
march 3rd, 2000
When Draco comes into the coffeeshop next, Potter is already there. He’s in one one of the plush armchairs near the telly. He looks up when Draco slips in the front door—the bells overhead titter coyly and Draco shoots them a glare. Potter nods at him with a grin, and Draco nods back before hurrying behind the counter.
He grabs his apron off the rack and ties it on quickly before clocking on in the back room. He taps his wand against the machine and listens for the telltale whirl of his timecard being punched, then pockets his wand again. When he comes back out, Potter is waiting at the counter.
“Didn’t you have a drink when I walked in?” Draco asks with a suspicious raise of his eyebrow.
“Finished it.” Potter’s answer is simple.
Draco rolls his eyes, and Moira shoots him a grin as she walks by. She’s cleaning he mug Potter was drinking from before.
“What’ll it be today, then?”
“Surprise me, I’m going to run to the loo.” Potter waits for Draco to nod back at him before taking off toward the hallway.
“Looks like you two worked it out.” Moira says as she loads freshly cooled cookies into their pastry display case.
“There was nothing to work out,” Draco tells her as he scoops ice into a plastic cup. “He’s simply not the prat he was back in school.” He tightens a lid onto Potter’s drink and reaches for a pen, and pointedly doesn’t mention that Draco himself isn’t the same prat as he was in school.
Clueless is on, which Draco knows is one of Moira’s favorites. He didn’t hear Potter quoting along today, but he thinks it’s safe to assume such a thing happened.
He stares at his handiwork, satisfied:
May I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty.
Potter comes back from the loo just as Draco sets the drink at the end of the counter. He passes along a few sickles and says, “Keep the change,” yet again. He doesn’t even take a sip first; with a knowing look in his eyes, Potter turns the cup and reads the writing on the side.
Draco doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until spots dance in his eyes.
“Good choice.” Potter tells him with a grin. He nods past Draco at Moira. “Till text time, Moira. Draco.”
The bells over the door sigh forlornly as Potter leaves. Draco restrains himself from making the same noise.
—
And so it goes, just like that.
Potter comes in, he and Draco banter, and Draco writes a movie quote on the side of Potter’s cup. Sometimes Potter will quote whatever’s playing, and sometimes Draco will pick a quote from something random, when there’s no film on that day. Sometimes Potter greets Draco with a quote, and Draco volleys back a response—
Those days are some of Draco’s favorite, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone.
Sometimes they almost, sort of make sense. Sometimes they’re—
Potter strides in quick and flushed from the early spring chill, and says, “There's someone you should talk to.”
Draco raises an eyebrow as Moira snorts behind him. Grabbing a cup to start making Potter’s usual Monday morning fair, Draco replies, “If you say Ferris Bueller, you lose a testicle.”
Potter gives a throaty chuckle. “Oh, you know him?”
Draco shakes his head and bites back the feelings of fondness. “You’d make a terrible Charlie Sheen.”
Potter, as always, looks a little startled when Draco touts off some piece of muggle trivia. He also looks impossibly delighted, which might be why Draco keeps doing it. “You’d make a perfect Jennifer Gray.”
Draco rolls his eyes and passes a hot hazelnut mocha to Potter. He takes the sickles in exchange and drops the change into the tip jar. Potter takes a sip then checks the side of the cup, as per usual.
Life moves pretty fast.
Potter winks and raises his mocha in a faux-toast. “See you Draco.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Moira hollers from the espresso machine.
Chagrined, Potter waves at her. “Sorry, see you Moira.”
Then he’s gone, and the bells jingle and sigh sweetly.
Other times, though… it’s a little more ridiculous—
“Baby talk?” That's not a saying.”
Draco looks up from doodling on a notepad to see Potter staring back, bright-eyed. Swallowing to wet his dry mouth, Draco answers. “Oh, but "baby fish mouth" is sweeping the nation? I hear them talking.”
Potter beams with something like pride. “Surprise me today, yeah?”
Draco nods and busies himself with putting together an order he hasn’t tried on Potter yet. It’s a new dark cherry roast, along with a triple chunk cupcake. It’s far too sugary for Draco’s own tastes, but one thing he’s learned over the past few weeks is that Potter has a ferocious sweet tooth. It’s sort of nice to feed such an indulgent taste, Draco finds. It has absolutely nothing to do with the pleased, almost dazed look that crosses Potter’s face when he eats some fantastic chocolate.
Potter collects his order after he stops by the loo. “Ta, Draco.”
Draco waves him off.
—
It’s April eighth when things first change.
Draco walks in a few minutes late for his shift and immediately knows something is off. The bells above don’t laugh at him like they normally do; they remain oddly silent aside from a normal jingle. Behind the counter, Moira is staying busy by putting away clean mugs and wiping down the counters. When she catches him looking, she nods to one of the plush armchairs where, predictably, Potter sits.
He’s hunched over, and Draco can tell even from a distance that his coffee is going cold in front of him. It’s in one of the paper cups for hot drinks, and Draco would bet there’s no charm keeping it hot. It’s a decidedly odd sight to see Potter looking so distraught and so quiet.
Draco starts to say something to Moira, but she waves him off and gestures more insistently to Potter.
Sighing, Draco strides to take the seat across from Potter. “What’s with today, today?”
He’s rewarded with a barely-there quirk of a smile on Potter’s lips. It’s gone as quick as it came, though.
Draco waits but Potter doesn’t say anything else. So he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Potter looks around, seeming alarmed even though the shop is empty. His mouth opens to object so Draco cuts across.
“We have a backroom, if you’d prefer.” Draco nods toward the doors that lead back into the kitchen and the tiny break room. “Or, we could walk.” He’s watching Moira over Potter’s shoulder, and she’s nodding encouragingly.
“Can we just walk?” Potter jumps on the offer. “I don’t—don’t feel like talking about it. But a walk would be nice.”
Draco nods. He stands first and extends a hand to Potter. Clearing his throat, he grandly announces, “We mustn't dwell... no, not today. We can’t.” He helps Potter to stand before continuing, “Not on Rex Manning day!”
Potter grins again and this time, it sticks around.
They end up walking aimlessly through mostly-muggle London. Draco keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his peacoat and Potter does the same with the pockets of his zip-up hoodie.
“How’ve things been?” Draco asks before wincing. “Not—not the thing you don’t want to talk about. Just. Life, in general.”
Potter looks amused, but he doesn’t tease Draco more than a gentle nudge to the ribs. “Things’ve been good. Ron and Hermione got married pretty much the minute we finished eighth year.” Potter pauses and looks guilty. He’s always had the worst poker face, and it’s almost comforting to know that hasn’t changed in the year Draco’s been away.
“Tell me about it,” Draco half-asks, half-demands, if only to do away with the guilt on Potter’s face. So, Draco didn’t get an eighth year? Draco didn’t get to finish his schooling? None of that matters now. Draco puts on a grin and asks, “Was it odd, being ancient compared to the wee little first years?”
Potter laughs and nudges him again. “I felt ancient,” he admits. “It was good. Hard, but good. I didn’t realize how much there was left to learn. Or really, how much I missed out on learning in the first place, because of Voldemort.”
Draco chokes on his inhale and covers it up with a cough. He hasn’t heard that name the entire time of his banishment. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I had to go back to school. Probably fail, miserably.”
Potter eyes him for a moment. “What was it like?” He holds Draco’s gaze for an intense, quiet moment as Draco gathers his words.
“At first, absolute hell.” Draco bites his lip, then shakes his head. “No, that’s not true. Living with V-Voldemort was hell.” He takes a moment to let the customary shiver of fear and distaste run its course down his spine before continuing. “Living without magic was simply… hard. I had no clue about muggles, or about jobs, or about cooking without magic.” Draco laughs and shakes his head again, this time riddled with self-deprecation. “It took me two months to find something I could actually make money at, and I spent the rest of the time just… trying to breathe. Trying to live, I suppose.”
He looks over when Potter has been silent for a few minutes, though their walking never halts.
“What?” Draco asks a little sharply.
Potter simply shrugs. “Did you enjoy it, at least?”
“Oh, absolutely. But only after I found films. They’re wonderful. I had a friend at the bistro I worked at who took me to the cinema. She must’ve thought I was barking mad, the way I reacted.”
That gets Potter laughing, and Draco grins.
“After that, I insisted she show me more. Rather than take me to the cinema again—once was embarrassing enough, she said—she showed me her VHS collection, and it spiraled from there.” Draco thinks to his collection at home, still only partially unpacked. “I started collecting them, as well.”
“Yeah?”
“How else would I be able to keep up with all your inane references?” Draco taunts.
The sun glints off Potter’s green eyes as he rolls them. “I want to point out, you started it.”
“Hardly! I heard you quoting along to 10 Things I Hate About You and thought it would be fun. Especially since you weren’t an absolute berk to me.” Draco’s cheeks burn at the admission, but Potter takes it in stride.
“You were a kid, during the war,” he says, like it’s so easy. “I actually had a discussion with Shacklebolt after they sentenced you.” Potter side-eyes him now, the look detached and genuine all at once. “I thought it was rather harsh.”
Draco gapes at him and finally stops walking, dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “You what?”
“I lived without magic for the first eleven years of my life, and it was rubbish. Going to that, after having had magic all your life? It’s not even something I could’ve imagined.” Potter’s speaks so earnestly. He’s stopped walking as well and faces Draco dead on. “Shacklebolt wouldn’t hear it, said it would do you some good.”
Draco gulps. “It did,” he admits, unashamed.
The mood lightens with Potter’s grin. “I can see that.”
They don’t talk about what had Potter in such a dark mood—on Rex Manning day, no less—but Potter is smiling by the time they get back to the shop, and that’s good enough for Draco.
—
And so, it carries on. Potter comes in practically every other day, entirely leading Draco to believe he has no life outside popping by Moira’s cafe and ping-ponging movie quotes with him. Some days are better than others, and some are worse. Draco strives to have a quote ready regardless of the day, and he’s gratified to know Potter does the same. There’s been a handful of times that Draco has felt off, and despite his best attempts to appear otherwise, Potter always sniffs out the bad mood and wards it off with a cheery quote of some kind.
It’s nice, and almost freakishly normal. It’s absolutely the highlight of Draco’s week, which might be a little sad to some, but not to him. It feels good to have something to look forward to besides his morning roast and nightly movie sessions. It feels good to brighten Potter’s day and have someone going slightly out of their way to brighten his.
It’s on such a day—a bad one, a gloomy one—that things change again.
—
june 1st, 2000
Draco looks up despite knowing full he looks dreadful. He grins as bright as he can at Potter and gets a concerned eyebrow raise in return. Draco starts about making Potter’s Wednesday-morning usual and Potter waits in silence. But he only waits for so long.
Cautiously, Potter asks, “Can you fly this plane and land it?”
Draco snorts despite the melancholy weighing him down. “Surely you can’t be serious,” he replies, barely able to be heard over the drone of the wireless filling the cafe. Draco hadn’t been able to decide on a film today, so he’d flicked his wand at the radio in back and allowed it to play whatever station it was already set to.
“I am serious,” Potter retorts. “And don’t call me Shirley.”
Draco rolls his eyes as he passes the drink to Potter. It’s almost more whipped cream than coffee, and Draco’s teeth hurt just from looking at the sweet concoction.
“Want to talk about it?” Potter asks without even taking a sip.
Draco jerks one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Just one of those days, I suppose.”
He doesn’t bring up the way the memories of the war still sting, or how his mother’s shallow expression haunts him, or how some part of him still misses his father. He doesn’t mention how it feels a little bitter for his birthday to be coming up in a few days. He shrugs again and steels himself against the wave of emotion. He tries for another smile, and it feels a little truer this time.
Potter nods along and brings the drink to his lips. He sips at it silently for a bit, never once looking away from Draco as he does. It would be unnerving, except Draco has sort of gotten used to Potter’s presence, and that includes his odd tendency of staring.
“Come over to mine tonight.”
Draco feels his face light up in a blush and is only mildly comforted to see Potter’s reach a similar shade of red.
“Not—I just meant—come over, we can talk. And watch movies. I’ll get takeout!” He half-shouts the last part, as if bargaining.
Draco stares at him, dumbfounded. He thinks back to the first time Draco made Potter a drink; how Potter had essentially said “surprise me” and Draco had expected him to take it back. He expects Potter to rescind the invitation now, too.
But he doesn’t.
“Alright.” Draco finds himself saying. “My shift ends at half four.”
“Brill.” Potter scrambles for the notepad and pen that sit beside the register at all times and scribbles out an address that looks vaguely familiar. “Come by straight after. Thai okay?”
Draco nods dumbfoundedly. Despite his simmering delight, he asks, “Are you sure?”
Potter looks momentarily stumped by the question. “Yes?”
Draco finally laughs. “It’s just—we haven’t… done that.”
“Right, so let’s change that. I think you’re an alright bloke, and I think you find me at least tolerable.”
Draco sniffs and shrugs exaggeratedly. Potter rolls his eyes.
“I think we’re friends, y’know. And friends watch movies at each other’s flats and eat Thai takeout.”
“And quote movies to each other, frequently.”
“Right, that too.” Potter nods triumphantly. “I’ll see you just past half four.” He slides the notepad over to Draco. “The wards will let you in just fine.”
Draco tears off the page and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. He wonders, idly, if he’ll have enough time to stop off at home and change his clothes.
Potter’s eyes glint. “You’ll come by straight after, yeah?”
Caught out, Draco nods. “Of course.”
“Brill,” Potter says again and raises his cup in a toast. “Later!”
“Later,” Draco replies faintly as Potter heads back out the door. The bells titter with laughter once again, and one even makes disgustingly vivid kissing noises in Draco’s direction. He shoots the charmed silver a glare, and only gets laughed at more in response.
Moira ushers him out of the shop a full fifteen minutes early and promises she’ll fudge his timecard. He ends up stumbling out the front of the shop still tugging on his coat and looks back at Moira inside. She waves him away with a stern look, and despite her small frame, Draco finds himself intimidated into leaving. It isn’t as though she can’t handle the shop on her own; it’s nearly closing time as it is.
He ducks into a side alley before retrieving the slip of paper from his pocket. He scrutinizes the apparition coordinates and the address scrawled above them and bites his lip. He can’t quite place why he knows the address but figures it doesn’t matter much.
He closes his eyes and palms his wand tucked into his jean pocket, and inhales as the hook-in-navel feeling tugs him away.
He lands across the street from a modest, almost nice-looking building, one that’s a bit drab and very unassuming. There are various windows lit up; Draco can’t see into all of them, but certainly a fair number. It was an odd habit he noticed of muggles when he was in exile, and it continues to baffle him.
As he approaches the aged brownstone, the ground starts to shake. The sensation brings back the memories, and for a moment he can see his child-self bounding up the steps that appear, hand-in-hand with his mother.
When he reaches the top of the doorstep, Potter already has the door open.
“You’re early.”
“Moira,” Draco explains as Potter steps back to let him in. “I told her about our plans for the night and she all but gave me the boot.”
Potter laughs as he leads Draco down the long hallway. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Her investment in our friendship is more than a little odd.”
“Nice, though.” Potter shrugs.
Draco’s gaze flits to Potter. “I suppose.”
Potter leads him down the practically never-ending hallway until finally they take a sharp left turn and somehow enter a sitting room. It’s filled with plush furniture and the fireplace has a true fire roaring; the city still has a chill running through it, even though summer heat is creeping in slowly at odd intervals. It’s comforting, both the warmth and the amber glow. Their takeout sits on the coffee table in the center of the room, and an assortment of VHS tapes are arranged on a shelf in the corner.
“Pick whatever you like, I’ll fetch us some drinks.”
Draco watches Potter duck back the way he came before hurrying across the room to the shelf of movies. He bites his bottom lip as he scans over the available titles. He drags his fingers along the spines and pauses every now and then. There’s several that he owns himself, and several more that he’s seen but doesn’t own. There’s also a lot that he hasn’t seen, many of which he wants to.
Eventually, he lands on one he’s seen, and rather enjoys; it feels like a safe pick for the evening. Something they can afford not to pay attention to, should they get to talking. Something that’s a good balance of comedy and other genres.
He gets it set up in the VCR just as Potter comes back into the room with two tall glasses of butterbeer.
“Hope this is alright, it was butterbeer or water.”
Draco nods. “That’s perfect, thanks.” He waits for the trailers to roll before walking over to the cushy couch set up parallel to the telly.
“I’m interested to see what you picked,” Potter admits as they start dishing up food.
“You’ll see in a moment.”
“Oh, I know.” Potter shrugs. “Still curious.”
“Well, it was a tough choice. Quite the collection you’ve got there. It even rivals mine.” Draco sits back and crosses one leg over the other. He balances his plate in his lap and holds his butterbeer in one hand. “I think you’ll like this one, though.”
Draco feels more than sees Potter perk up once the film starts, and he hides his grin in a sip of his drink. He finds himself quickly immersed in the film, too, until he chances a look at Potter right as the grandfather says—
“That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, "As you wish," what he meant was, "I love you."”
“Don’t your friends think it’s odd?” Draco asks suddenly.
Potter startles and his butterbeer, hardly sipped, sloshes onto his hand. He swears under his breath and sets his glass down. “Pardon?”
“Don’t your friends think this,” he gestures between them, “is odd?”
Potter stares at him as if he’s grown another head. “Er, I mean. A bit? I don’t talk about it with them too much. I didn’t know if you’d want that.”
“Merlin’s beard, Potter, they’re your best mates, I’m just—I’m just the poor sod who makes your coffee.” The thought of Potter keeping this from his friends is at once thrilling, delightful, and excruciatingly embarrassing. It isn’t as though Potter is ashamed of Draco, not at all; no, Potter is being considerate of what he thinks Draco would want.
Draco’s pounding heart almost drowns out Potter’s next words.
“And gets all my references,” Potter adds with a cheeky grin.
“Come off it. Granger grew up with muggle films.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she likes ‘em the same way. There’s some she likes, but not the way you do.”
Draco’s cheeks burn.
“It’s a compliment,” Potter adds.
“Right.” Draco swallows his nerves with a hefty gulp of butterbeer. “So, they don’t know at all?”
“Oh, they probably know everything, I just don’t talk about it with them. I mentioned I saw you at the shop, and that you seemed alright, and they know I keep going back. I’m sure they can connect the dots.”
“Dots? What dots? That’s—that’s you being a patron of Moira’s business.”
Potter aims a lazy grin his way. “They see my cups, too, sometimes. If I meet up with them after.”
Draco ‘ah’s quietly but the thought of Granger or Weasley knowing he writes movie quotes on Potter’s cups… It’s more than a little disconcerting. “And they don’t… mind?”
“Nah. Hermione thinks it’s healthy, for us to move past the war. Ron’s a little more apprehensive, but he’s coming around.”
A lot of words get tangled on Draco’s tongue. Why does it matter if Weasley comes around? Is Draco going to be expected to spend time with him and Granger, along with Potter? He certainly never signed up for such a thing, and yet it feels like a sudden inevitability. Why is Potter so eager to befriend him, doing so easily and as if they hadn’t spent all of their formative years nearly at each other’s throats.
Potter simply smiles at him, and it’s just as disarming as every time before.
Draco smiles back and lets all his unspoken words melt in his mouth. He relaxes into the couch and turns his attention back to the film—”is this a kissing book!?”—and watches Potter do the same from the corner of his eye.
They don’t end up distracted by conversation like Draco anticipated. Instead, they sit through the rest of Princess Bride in not-quite silence. They both quote a lot of the lines, and Draco marvels at doing it with someone at his side, rather than alone in his own flat.
It’s the best night Draco’s had since reentering the wizarding world.
—
It, much like the rest of Draco’s interactions with Potter, becomes a thing. Not a nightly thing, god no; not even a strictly weekly thing. Just a sometimes-thing, when they’ve both got the time. Sometimes it’s because one of them had a bad day, other times it’s because one of them had a spectacular day. There’s really no rhyme or reason to it, other than Potter will come in, they’ll decide on a flat, and the guest gets to pick the film.
They burn their way through recent releases first in some sort of unspoken agreement. Then, they work their ways backwards. They spend nights quoting movies together, seamlessly taking on roles and bickering back at one another in time to the films. And maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not, and Draco sort of lives for it.
They easily become Jerry Maguire and Dorothy Boyd, with Draco stealing Tom Cruise’s “I love you. You... you complete me. And I just…” and Potter stealing Renee Zelleweger’s “Shut up, just shut up. You had me at ‘hello.’” They laugh through it despite the film, and despite the burning in their cheeks.
Eyes trained on each other, they recite every part of Forrest’s monologue. They grin at each other and nudge each other gently when they sniffle. In perfect unison, they carefully recite, “I don't know if Momma was right or if, if it's Lieutenant Dan. I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it's both. Maybe both is happening at the same time.”
When Potter nails Goldblum’s, “life, uh… finds a way,” Draco doubles over in laughter; he gets his revenge with “It's like a new pair of underwear, at first, they're restrictive but then after a while they become a part of you,” and Potter snorts and spills his glass of firewhiskey over his rug.
Eventually, they work their way into the eighties.
—
july 10th, 2000
“I have to say, Potter, I’m inordinately excited for tonight,” Draco says as he carries a large bowl of popcorn into Potter’s sitting room. “John Hughes films are some of my favorite.”
“You’d have to be mental to think otherwise.” Potter laughs.
Draco shakes his head fondly. “What would you do if I’d said they were rubbish?”
Potter thinks it over and puts on an exaggerated, contemplative expression. “Definite ban from my place.”
Draco laughs. “You would never,” he retorts, tossing a handful of popcorn at Potter. “What’s on the gamut for today?”
Potter nods at the screen just as the movie starts.
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Come on, it’s graduation.”
Draco lets out a peal of laughter. “Excellent choice.”
They quote along with the film, like always, but despite their love of John Hughes they find themselves talking to one another more than any other time before.
“You know,” Draco starts, “I’ve always enjoyed the music in his films, quite a lot.”
“Oh definitely.” Potter nods along, raising his glass in agreement. “I’ve got a lot of the soundtracks on CD, you know.”
Draco raises an eyebrow as his mouth drops open in surprise. “They have those?”
“Yes?” Potter’s lips quirk in amusement. “They’re pretty popular. I like to listen to them as I clean or whatnot. Far better than Celestina Warbeck, that’s for bloody sure.”
Draco sets down his sweating bottle of butterbeer. “Show me,” he demands.
Potter startles. “What?”
“Show me the CDs. I didn’t know they had those. I’d seen them in passing, but I suppose once I got into my obsession with films, I didn’t bother finding anything else to occupy my time.” Draco stands and urges Potter to do the same. “C’mon, get up.”
Potter does so, and he laughs all the while. “Alright, c’mon. I keep most of ‘em in my room.”
Draco follows at his heels as Potter guides him through Grimmauld Place. They head up a creaky set of stairs and stop off on the first level, and the first door to their right.
“Sorry for the mess,” Potter warns as they slip inside. Draco stands by the bedroom door as Potter crosses the room and fiddles with a hulking stereo system. It’s blocky and big, and Draco taps his foot impatiently. “Hold your horses,” Potter scolds with a laugh.
Draco watches him rifle through the shelves of CD cases; they all glint in the light of the room, but Draco can’t make out any of their titles from the distance. He knows Potter wouldn’t mind him walking into the room further and perusing the shelves himself. For now, though, something urges him to keep his distance.
Potter spends a few moments longer clicking along until he takes a triumphant step back. The song starts off slowly, and Draco barks out a laugh.
“Love—I get so lost, sometimes.”
Draco laughs and shakes his head; he clutches at his stomach as Potter starts to sing along. He’s still catching his breath when he realizes Potter is dancing toward him, grinning all the while. Singing all the while, gentle but distinctly off-key.
“No, no,” Draco says through gasping chuckles. “Not one more step, Potter, no—!” He holds up his hands in a display of protest.
None of it stops Potter, and Draco puts up zero fight when the other man reaches for him.
“Without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside.”
Draco’s skin tingles as Potter’s hands glide over his forearms before cupping him by the elbows. Slowly, Potter tugs him into dancing as the chorus plays. They move in slow, rhythmic circles around Potter’s bedroom, and Draco’s throat is clicking as he swallows, too dry for anything else. He wants to ask, but he also doesn’t.
Potter’s hand shifts suddenly and cups Draco’s cheek softly.
“Love, I don’t like to see so much pain.”
Draco’s breathing catches in his chest and he sways on his feet. “Potter.”
“Harry.”
Draco feels even dizzier. “Harry.”
“Draco,” Harry replies with a small grin before they’re kissing.
It’s soft at first, sweet, until Harry’s tongue licks at the seam of Draco’s lips and they part for him willingly. Harry moans into the kiss and yanks Draco closer. They stumble around the room together, twisting and turning as if they’re still dancing. The kiss is messy and frantic, and Draco lets out a slightly-pained gasp when Harry finally backs him up against the dresser.
Draco knots his hands in Harry’s shirt and sighs as the kiss breaks. “Harry, what—?”
“I like you, Draco. I like your taste in movies, and I like how good you are at making coffee. I like your sense of humor and how you’ve changed, and the ways you haven’t changed at all.”
Draco blinks and realizes his eyes are shimmering. He shakes his head and Harry laughs softly. He still has a hand cupping Draco’s cheek and holds him still.
“I didn’t really mean to do it this way. I meant to ask you out on a proper date.”
Draco doesn’t even gasp this time. He’s slowly sifting through the information Harry is throwing at him. Of course he thinks Harry is attractive, and funny, and Draco likes having him in his life. As a friend and, so he thought, nothing more.
“Draco?”
“God.” Draco half-laughs, and this time when he shakes his head, Harry’s hand falls away.
Draco catches it as it falls to Harry’s side. He links their fingers. “You’re a complete plonker.”
“I’ve been told, a time or two.” Harry’s grin is cautious.
Draco leans in and kisses him softly. “I like you too.”
Harry beams.
“Oh, I want to be that complete,” Peter Gabriel continues to croon. “I want to touch the light, the heat I see in your eyes.”
—
After that, in an odd turn of events given everything else that’s happened, not much changes.
Harry still comes in, Draco still puts quotes on his drinks (though he’s finding it harder and harder to keep coming up with them), and they still have their movie nights. The only thing that really changes is the addition of snogging, and heavy petting, and more than a little frotting. It’s good, it’s more than Draco ever expected to have when he returned to the wizarding world.
Were this actually a John Hughes movie, that would be where the story ends.
Since Draco’s life is not such a film, that’s not where the story ends. Not by a long shot.
It’s all going well—not too well, mind, just well—when it goes sideways.
—
july 21st, 2000
Draco looks up when the bells chime like they always do: with a dreamy sigh and a somehow angry tinkle in Draco’s direction. The bells are jealous of him, though they aren’t sentient. Draco knows Moira’s charm is to blame; he also knows that after he and Harry started dating, she increased the strength of the charm. Not that she’ll admit to it, and not that Draco would expect her to.
There’s another sound under the chime, though, and it takes Draco a moment to register it. It’s chatter. The inane talk of friends, and Draco realizes Harry isn’t alone as he walks in. Granger and Weasley flank him on either side, and the three of them appear to be deep in conversation.
Draco looks around for Moira before remembering she’s off today; she’d told him the previous afternoon that she’d be going out of town for the day, and that she had every confidence in Draco to handle the shop on his own, and Elizabeth would be able to close up.
Now, watching the Golden Trio approach his counter, Draco feels a lot like he did the first time Harry came in. He can’t handle this; he doesn’t want to. He’s not ready.
“Hey,” Harry greets as they reach the counter. He leans on the countertop and angles his head, clearly wanting a kiss.
Draco stares back at him, then darts his gaze to Granger and Weasley. “Er.”
Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?”
Draco leans back and eventually, Harry does as well. “Hello.”
Harry tilts his head to the side. “Hey,” he says again. “I told ‘Mione you make the best hazelnut mocha, and she demanded a try.”
Draco ‘ah’s quietly. “Okay.” He doesn’t miss the perplexed look Granger and Weasley share, nor the way they aim that stare at the back of Harry’s head. “What else?”
“Draco, what’s going on?”
“Harry,” Granger cuts in. “Ron and I will wait by the telly, alright?” It’s not far, and certainly doesn’t give any sort of privacy, but Draco appreciates the sentiment. Granger doesn’t wait for a response and Weasley follows her over to the plush armchairs. The minute they aren’t as close, Draco feels the vice around his lungs tighten.
“Will you tell me what’s going on, now?” Harry murmurs.
“You’ve never brought them in before.” Draco says as he starts on the hazelnut mocha for Granger. “We’ve haven’t talked about—about me meeting them.”
Harry looks more confused than ever, and it’d be endearing if Draco’s heart wasn’t beating a panicked frenzy in his chest. “You’ve already met them.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
The trace of humor lingering on the edges of Harry’s expression evaporates. “I know. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
Draco finishes the mocha quickly and decides to just make two more; if Weasley or Harry want something else, they only have themselves to blame.
“Draco.”
“I—I never apologized, to them. I wouldn’t want to see me, if I were them.” He nods to where Granger and Weasley sit, hands linked and chatting quietly. “I wasn’t expecting them and, it’s just.” Draco flounders to explain and curses himself for not thinking to bring it up sooner.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Harry says. It’s loud enough that Granger’s gaze turns to them.
“I’m being ridiculous?” He snaps back a little too loud. He feels Granger’s worried eyes on him keenly. He drops his voice to a quieter but infinitely sharper tone. “I’m being ridiculous, because I’m worried your best mates might hate me, which they have every reason to. I’m being ridiculous because I don’t want to hash out years of dirty laundry in the middle of my job?” He levitates two of the mochas over to Weasley and Granger, then thrusts the last one at Harry. “On the house.”
Harry doesn’t take the drink; he just stares. “They don’t hate you.”
Draco looks over and Granger doesn’t even bother to pretend like she’s not eavesdropping. “I don’t know that.”
“They know we’re dating.”
Draco sighs and sets the cup down on the countertop between them. “That doesn’t mean they don’t hate me.” He continues quickly, before Harry can interrupt. “And I’m not saying I’m not willing to apologize, or talk things over, or whatever needs to be done. But I’m not doing it here, and not right now, and I would’ve appreciated a little warning.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, finally.
Harry still doesn’t reach for the mocha. “This is—Draco, you’re overreacting.”
Draco sighs again and tilts his head back. “Why can’t you just let it go, for now? We can talk about it tonight, if you want.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about! You’re being dramatic, and Ron and Hermione wanted to come see the shop, and see you, and—!”
“Bully for them!” Draco hisses. “That doesn’t mean you can just spring that on me! Not with—with our history.” Draco turns away and starts to clean things that don’t need to be cleaned, especially not by hand. It keeps his mind occupied. It keeps his eyes off Harry’s betrayed expression and off Granger’s imploring eyes.
He feels bad not explaining more thoroughly. He doesn’t really want to admit that fear—of rejection, of hatred, of disdain—curls around ribs and cuts off his breathing. He doesn’t want to admit, in the middle of his place of employment, that the fear makes him nauseous, and almost makes him wish he never reentered the wizarding world. Despite the delight he’s found in his relationship with Harry, and at his job, and in his flat, the fear threatens to tug Draco below a sea of self-doubt and drown him.
He finally looks over when he realizes Harry hasn’t spoken. He swallows a gasp when he realizes the cafe is empty. The third mocha sits untouched on the counter, though it looks like Granger and Weasley took theirs with them. Draco picks up the mocha and vanishes it.
Honestly, Harry calls him dramatic.
Draco sends an owl before he leaves the shop for the day; he uses Moira’s store owl, a sleek great-horned owl, to send a letter to Harry. It’s short and sweet (Harry- I’m sorry for earlier. Let’s talk. -Draco) and Draco knows Harry will send his own barn owl in response. If he responds. Draco busies himself with grocery shopping to stave off heading back to his flat.
Draco is incredibly disappointed when there’s no response waiting by the time he gets home.
He lets himself into his flat and puts away his groceries, and there’s still no response. He considers sending another letter with his own owl, or perhaps trying Grimmauld’s floo. In the end, he does neither of those things. He sits on his couch with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and queues up a film he’s yet to watch with Harry. He half-heartedly quotes along, too distracted by the urge to seek out Harry and apologize.
He’s a third into the film and halfway finished with his sandwich when a commotion catches his ear.
His apartment is made up of a mix of wizards, squibs, and muggles, and while the walls aren’t thin they aren’t exactly soundproof, either. He gets up and pauses the film to listen to people opening their windows, shouting, laughing at whatever’s happening outside. Draco resolves not to get involved for all of thirty seconds before he’s hurrying to his own window and hauling it open.
He chokes on his inhale and his hands slide against the windowsill.
Love I get so lost, sometimes. Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart—
Harry grins up at him and looks absolutely ridiculous.
He’s holding a muggle boombox above his head though it’s clearly enchanted with some variation of sonorous. His jeans aren’t as baggy as John Cusack’s but they’re the right color, and his t-shirt is only plain white but that doesn’t really matter. His jacket is spot on, and Draco would guess he must’ve transfigured it to get it so accurate. The sleeves bunch around his elbows and it’s so artfully done, it’s absurd.
Draco shakes his head. He leans his elbows on the window and watches as Harry stands there patiently. Other neighbors poke their heads out their windows. Some still laugh, others just take a look before slamming their windows shut. Draco doesn’t exactly blame them, but he knows if anyone really cared they’d just cast a spell to mute the boombox.
But whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are—
“Get up here, you berk!” Draco shouts over the music.
Harry beams and the music stops a few seconds later. Knowing it’s not an entirely wizarding neighborhood, Harry hurries around the side of the building rather than apparating straight to Draco’s apartment. Draco lets his window fall shut and hurries over to his door to buzz Harry up.
It takes no time at all for Harry to reach his front door, which tells Draco he apparated as soon as he was in the building. Draco opens the door seconds after Harry knocks, and for a moment they just stare. The air is tense between them and disarmingly silent with the absent of music.
“You’re still holding the boombox.” Draco nods to the bulky black box tucked under Harry’s arm.
“Course.”
Draco rolls his eyes and steps back to let Harry in. After the door falls shut, Harry sets the boombox aside on the table in the hallway. Draco keeps walking backward and Harry follows him until they end up in Draco’s living room. Wordlessly, they sit on the couch side by side.
“Hermione told me I was a berk not to give you a heads up.”
Draco smiles lightly. “I overreacted, just a bit.”
“I didn’t even think it would be an issue. Hermione and Ron have both told me they… they don’t hate you. But we never really talked about it.”
“No, we didn’t. And that’s both our faults.” Draco reaches out finally and links his fingers with Harry’s. “I was scared,” he admits. “Of them hating me, or rejecting me, or any number of things. I was scared because I didn’t know how they’d react.”
Harry frowns and nods. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” Draco sighs when Harry doesn’t look convinced. “It is, Harry. We can talk about it more over dinner, and we can make proper plans for the four of us to get together.” Draco scoots closer on the couch and leans into Harry’s personal space.
Harry’s eyes light up and he leans in as well. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Draco agrees. He kisses Harry softly, and cups Harry’s cheek as they stay pressed together. The kiss breaks and Draco murmurs, “I don’t think all those films prepared me for dating.”
Harry laughs. He shakes his head and their noses glide together in a delicate, gentle move. “It's like a big rollercoaster. Everybody likes rollercoasters, right? Blink twice if you're fine.”
Draco throws his head back and lets out a loud chuckle. “I’m fine,” he says, still shaking with laughter. “Absolutely fine.”