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At the beginning of time is a Wednesday afternoon. A Wednesday afternoon at Harry Potter's favourite place in the world: Calefactio. As a small cafe, tucked away on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon, displaying warm orange decor, homely brown shutters, and a quaint yellow door, it is quite possibly the cutest shop around. Beautiful rich coffee, heavenly tiny cakes, and sweet, kind staff—Calefactio has it all. But this is a love story not an advertising piece, so none of this really matters (except the staff—please leave them love and tips).

What does matter is that the windows of our little cafe provide an optimal view into the flower shop across the street. A flower shop run by a reformed Death Eater and drama queen extraordinaire, namely one Draco Lucius Malfoy. Harry Potter had figured this out exactly three weeks, five days, and three hours after Wiltshire's Florentes opened. It is no wonder then, that our story starts here (though one could argue it actually started at Hogwarts, or even earlier in Madam Malkins, we shall assume our audience is familiar with the convoluted saga that is the backstory of our two lovely boys).

This Wednesday, at the start of all time, is in most ways just like all other Wednesdays that came before it. Harry wakes up early, goes for a run, shows up to auror training five minutes late, runs more laps, and works his butt off until lunch, then he walks all alone to the cafe, drinks a vanilla latte, and stares out the window intently. After lunch, he's back at the Ministry getting bored in classes and feeling jealous of all his friends who have their lives together. At night, he will go home and get ready to do it all again the next day.

Except, this Wednesday, for some reason, Luna is also at Calefactio, sitting with Harry as he drinks his coffee. As is often the case with Luna Lovegood, neither Harry nor the narrator is quite sure why, how and whence Luna has appeared from. But as he loves Luna he doesn't question her presence (neither do we). Anyhow, it's her presence that is of utmost importance here, not her unsurpassed knack for knowing when and where she is needed.

Harry sips his coffee and smiles at her. She smiles back and pulls out a journal filled with wrackspurt sketches. She starts writing something, and Harry goes back to looking out the window. Today, Draco's arranging green leaves around some red, petal-y, non-rose-like flowers (the narrator can confirm this one knows shit about flowers and that in reality, it's Acacia and carnations respectively). Draco tilts his head slightly, and the sight of his long pale neck makes Harry feel a certain kind of way. He dreams of wrapping his hands around those slim hips, of nuzzling that neck, of kissing that soft smile Draco reserves for his flowers. Draco's long silky hair is tied into a ponytail that spills softly over his shoulder and gleams gold in the sunlight. His pointy chin has softened slightly with time, but his nose and his cheekbones are as pointy as ever, and Harry loves it. He lifts his hands to stretch, and Harry sighs out loud as that reveals the long lines of his body. Oh to be able to cuddle against that on movie nights.

"You should talk to him," Luna says. Harry sputters.

"Whuhh?"

Luna looks at him patiently and places her hand atop his. "You like Draco. You should talk to Draco. I think Draco would like that too."

Harry sputters some more and then pouts. He thought he hadn’t been obvious for once in his life, but clearly, some things just aren't meant to be. "But, but, but..."

Luna absently twirls her wand, leaving trails of purple sparks everywhere. "You two were close in eighth year, no? I bet he misses talking to you." Harry frowns. They had been sort of close. But only at night, when Harry would stumble down after a nightmare to find Draco wrapped in a tartan blanket awake from his own nightmares. They had talked—shared feelings and jokes and even tears—but never in daylight. And never once off Hogwarts grounds. Even now, when Draco nodded at him in the street or across a room at a Ministry event, it felt as if there was a glass wall between them as if they were strangers and their time together had been just a dream left behind.

"We don't anymore," he says, short and sad. He wished they did.

"It only takes one person to start a conversation," says Luna with a small mysterious smile.

Harry twists his lips and looks out the window again. Draco's head's now bobbing up and down as he works, his feet shuffling in time to an imaginary beat.

"Okay," Harry decides. "Okay, yes. I am going to talk. To Draco." He breathes in deeply and puffs his chest out. "I am going to talk to Draco." He throws down an extra tip, kisses Luna's forehead, and determinedly walks out of the cafe. Luna hums happily and takes to finishing the rest of Harry's coffee.

~~

We all know Harry isn't the subtlest of men. In fact he isn't even part of the moderately subtle herd. Naturally then, Draco had also noticed Harry's routine of drinking coffee at Calefactio quite a while ago. It stands to note that as good of a view Calefactio offered into the flower shop, Wiltshire's Florentes offered an even better line of sight directly to Harry's favourite table. Especially if one stood at the bouquet display table shifted over twenty-three or so centimeters for optimal results. It also feels pertinent to mention that Draco's scheduled time to arrange display flowers just so happened to coincide with Harry's lunch break (nothing is ever a coincidence with Slytherins around).

So, on this Wednesday, when Draco noticed Harry standing in front of Wiltshire's Florentes, his heart jumped. Finally! It was happening! Potter was going to come over, talk to Draco, and fall madly in love if he wasn't already! If Draco had his way, maybe they'd even have a date by the end of the night! Resisting the urge to fix his hair or press down his robes, Draco focused very hard on shifting the bouquet back and forth on the table just so. Come on, he thought at Harry. Come in.

Bells chime at the door, and Draco angles himself just so that his best profile faces the visitor. He dithers for another second, giving Potter enough time to take in his figure, before turning around and making a show of putting his hands in his trousers and looking surprised at Potter's presence.

"Why, hello there, Potter!" he exclaims. Potter’s cheeks go pink below his green, green eyes, and he stutters back a greeting. "Been long hasn't it?" he says, his eyes taking in Potter's messy black hair, his strong capable hands, his lean strong legs. He hasn't been this close to Potter since Hogwarts, and Merlin, he'd forgotten what a heady rush it is to be able to see that beauty spot on the edge of Potter's lip.

"A year and two months," Potter blurts and then squeaks. Potter's off—it's actually been a month and twenty-eight days—but Draco will take it. Draco hums, gently takes Potter by the elbow and leads him up to the counter. "Errr... I meant yes, long, it- yes, has been. It has long been. Yes," Potter stumbles, clearly panicking.

He exhales a small laugh, and says, "Saviour, oh Saviour," delighting in the half scowl that crosses Potter's face at the moniker. Potter is so expressive; Draco loves it.

"It's Harry Potter, you wanker," Harry interrupts, grumbling, "not the Saviour."

"Not what the Prophet seems to think." Draco smirks. "And anyway, I can call you whatever I want, Saviour." Potter's scowl deepens. "So what did you come here for, Saviour?"

Potter opens his mouth and then closes it. Hmmm. Seems like the Boy Who Lived isn't the Boy Who Plans Discussions Beforehand. Draco taps his foot. "Come on, Potter."

"I errr... I..." Potter trails off. "Date. I wanted a date. I mean, I like dates. You smell like flowers. Do dates have flowers?" Potter's picked up speed, and now he's rambling like a train speeding through a tunnel. "Er, do you want to go date flower picking?...uh...I mean not that they'd be pretty. Not like you. I mean like your flowers...er...Like those ones. They're pretty." Potter's blindly pointing at the only non-flower, leaf arrangement in the store. Potter's so stupid. Draco takes pity on him and reaches up to nudge Potter's arm so that it's pointing towards the pretty Ivies in the corner.

"Yes," Draco agrees fondly. "They came in just this morning. Would you like to buy a couple of them?"

Potter just nods weakly. His face is as red as the underside of a Chinese Fireball by now. Draco is quite pleased. Nothing like getting a cute, flustered Potter boy to boost one's ego. He carefully picks up one of the more beautiful flower chains and hands it over to Potter.

"To your liking, oh Saviour?" he whispers into Potter's ears. He didn't think it was physically possible, but Potter's face becomes even redder.

"Er… yes," the man says.

"Then they're all yours!" Draco beams. "On the house!" Potter nods, clearly feeling lost. Draco decides to help him a bit more. "Don't you have auror training to go to, Potter? It's striking one soon."

Potter starts, panics, and then runs out of the shop, with a trailing thank you behind him. Draco giggles and rests his chin in his palm as he leans over the counter, watching Potter leave. That man's so cute. Such a catch. Plus he likes him. Draco! Potter likes Draco! Draco's going to have so much fun.

For a moment the thought that perhaps Potter doesn't like him flits across his mind, but Draco quickly shakes it off. He'd rather have fun now and worry later than worry now and worry later. Pansy's going to be so jealous.

~~

And that may have been the end of it; if what happened that night hadn't happened. Harry was mortified and shy, and he very well would have hidden away for the rest of eternity. But, it did happen. And the narrator can gladly say that everyone was better off because of it. (Except one poor post owl, but oh well. Needs must.)

Like always, Harry comes home to an empty house, a noisy head, and a full liquor rack. He jiggles the key out of the lock, throws his robes over the couch, and leaves his socks under the dining table. As always, the silent darkness makes his heart feel heavy; he turns on every light in the house. In those early days after leaving Hogwarts, all he needed to do was firecall someone, anyone, and he'd have company. But now it seemed as if everyone, even Ron and Hermione, was too busy for Harry. Relationships, kids, work—they'd all grown up. And left Harry behind. It was all fine by Harry though—he didn't want to be ungrateful. He just… missed them. Missed having people for himself.

Today, though, it isn't the loneliness that presses down on him. Or, at least, not only the loneliness. When he closes his eyes tonight, all he can see are grey eyes, blonde hair tips and a wicked snarky mouth. Date flowers. Gods. What a fool! He cracks open a bottle and chases his mortification down with burning alcohol. Such a fool! He's not surprised Malfoy was so eager to get rid of him Why did he get so stupid? All he had to do was ask how Malfoy was doing like a normal person! The ghost of long fine fingers presses down on his elbow, soft breathy laughter blows across his ears, and he takes another swig. Sweet, sweet Merlin. That arse clad in blue trousers. Malfoy was something else entirely. But date flowers? Really? He collapses on the couch, a half-empty firewhiskey bottle in hand and a strong desire to get sloshed in mind. It doesn't take him long.

The last thing he will remember from this night is lying passed out on the sofa, practicing a serenade to Draco on his wand. That is why, the next day he will wake up calmly (or as calmly as one can with a raging hangover). And he will get ready calmly, and collect the mail calmly, and put it away to read for later calmly, and forget to read through it very, very calmly. Unfortunately for Harry, this is also why he doesn't find out about his mistake until it's too late.

~~

"Yo, Harry!" Ron calls out from where he's organizing Harry's mantelpiece. It's Sunday morning, and Ron's helping (read: forcing) Harry to clean his apartment. Harry pops his head out of the kitchen with a questioning sound. "You didn't tell me about this! Man, George is going to be so proud."

Harry pads in, spatula in hand, and frowns. "About what, Ron?" His friend holds up a half opened letter with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Oi! Stop going through my mail!" He lunges for Ron.

"Oho!" cackles Ron as he lifts the letter out of Harry's reach. Harry curses. Damn George and damn working at the Wheezes for rubbing off on his brother. "Not so easily! You've got to explain this to me!"

"I don't even know what you want me to explain!" cries Harry, trying to scramble up Ron's tall torso.

Ron laughs gleefully. "Even better!" With his hands still over his head, he holds the letter open. "Let me read it out loud for you!"

Harry gives up and just hangs off his best friend’s arm. There was no stopping Ron now.

"It's from Madam Analstacia's Whack Shack," Ron snorts. "It's a confirmation of shipping. For something called the Autumn Gentleman's Pleasure Kit?"

"RON!" Harry squawks and tries climbing up Ron again. He'd seen that kit, yes, and he'd imagined the way Draco would look in half of those things, but a confirmation of shipping? When did he buy it? "Give it back!" Ron guffaws and tries to read what it says. "RON! I didn't order anything! I need to read it!"

Ron sighs dramatically. "Oh, Harry you're such a blushing virgin." Harry sputters in indignation. "Okay, okay, here, look we can both read it, how about that?" Finally, Ron brings the letter low enough for Harry to be able to read the first half of it.

After reading the list, Ron snorts. "Vanilla bondage kit, Harry?"

Harry thwaps him on the arm. "Shuddup," he grumbles. "It's already been longer than three days, so it's not like I can change the order now, can I?"

"This is perfect," says Ron gleefully. "This is absolute gold!"

Harry tugs on Ron's arm. "Show me the address. I didn't order this at all!"

"But addresses are no fun," Ron pouts but obliges and flips over the page. They both freeze.

"Ron," Harry whispers in horror and shakes his best friend. "Ron, I misspelt my name."

"You did," agrees Ron, stunned and equally horrified.

"Ron. Ron, that's not even my address."

"No. No, it's not."

Shite.

~~

As always is the case when there's an acute crisis in need of a solution, Ron and Harry go immediately running to Hermione.

"HERMIONE!" Harry hollers. "HERMIONE!"

Hermione and her incredibly pregnant belly are sitting at the dinner table and she starts wildly when Harry falls out of her fireplace with no warning, with Ron closely following. "Harry!" she exclaims and speed waddles over to pick him. "Ron!" Harry clings to her.

"Hermione!" Harry cries. "Hermione, fix it!"

"What seems to be the problem?" asks Hermione alarmed. Ron hauls his best friend off his wife and dumps him on a dining chair. Harry digs his hands into his hair, and incoherently hands over the letter to Hermione.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, I mean we knew you liked Draco, but I didn't know you guys were close enough to send each other sex kits?"

"We're not! It was an accident!" cries Harry, unable to calm down. "I don't even remember ordering this kit, Hermione!"

"Oh. Oh! I see," Hermione winces. "That's… not good."

"Not good indeed," agrees Ron. "You think we can track down who ordered it and when?"

"Well it's dated to Thursday," observes Hermione. "Whoever it was, ordered it Wednesday evening or sometime Thursday morning."

Wednesday... WEDNESDAY. Harry drops his head into his hands and groans, "Oh my god."

"Do you know something, Harry?" asks Hermione.

In a low, muffled voice Harry reveals, "I was drunk on Wednesday evening."

Hermione rounds on him. "Drunk?! On a working night?! Harry!"

"That's not the issue here, Hermione," Ron intercepts, coming to Harry's rescue.

"Not the issue?" Hermione screeches. "Your friend's drinking alone on a working night, and it's NOT AN ISSUE? None of this would have happened, if you'd TALKED to him about limiting his alcohol consumption and talking to us LIKE I SAID!"

"Oh my god," groans Harry again. "It was me after all. Oh, dear Merlin. How am I going to look Draco in the face now?"

"You can't do that without turning into a tomato already, Mate," Ron grimly informs Harry. "And yes, Hermione. Not the issue. We have to focus on how to do damage control now. Come on now, look at Harry." He makes his best pleading eyes and gestures towards Harry.

Hermione looks at Harry. Then she sighs. "Okay, calm down Harry. We'll come up with a plan."

Harry wails. "He ALREADY hates me, oh my god. I was so stupid last time. He's definitely not going to want to be friends with me now!"

Ron wraps an arm around Harry. "Mate," he comforts. "I don't understand why you care about that ferret, but even I can tell Malfoy doesn't hate you. Why would you think he hates you?"

Sniffling slightly Harry explains about his meeting with Malfoy on Wednesday. "... and then I pointed at a leaf! A leaf! Ron." Valiantly, Ron manages not to smile. That sounds like Harry alright. "And then he gave me flowers and practically told me to get out of his shop."

"But flowers?" Ron tries.

"Only to get me out of there," Harry cries. "Why else would he tell me that auror training was going to start soon? He wanted me out of there!"

"Mate, maybe he said that because he didn’t want you to miss your training?" Ron consoles. "I don't think he hates you."

"No, he hates me. Even if he didn't, he's REALLY going to hate me now," Harry blubbers. "He's going to think I'm weird for sending him sex toys with no context!" Ron draws his best friend closer, but he has no idea what to say.

Luckily, Hermione, who had been writing away furiously, finally sits back and says, "Alright, boys. I have a plan." They both eagerly look at her. She holds up a paper with a diagram with lots of arrows and boxes. "Step one, we contact this Madam Analstacia's Whack Shack, and try to stop it from being shipped. If that doesn't work, step two, we stalk the local owlpost offices and try to intercept Malfoy's mail from there. Simultaneously, we run step three, where Harry will make friends with Malfoy, so that in the worst-case scenario, if Malfoy gets the package, we can play it off as a prank." She claps her hands together. "What do you think?

Ron nods vigorously and smiles hopefully at Harry. "It's all fixed! See?"

Harry stares balefully at his friends. "Yes… but..." he bites his lip. "I have to talk to Malfoy?"

"You made this mess, Harry," says Hermione firmly, in her best don't-you-dare-argue-with-me voice. "You have to play a part in fixing it too. You're a big boy now."

Harry pouts.

~~

Their plans take-off during lunch break on Monday. Even Draco, who has at the moment no idea of this pinnacle of Hermione's planning genius, feels the gravity of the day when he catches Potter standing outside his shop fixing his hair and leather jacket, and nearly breaks his neck back-pedaling to double-check what his eyes saw. Potter. Potter dressed up. Potter early. Potter usually only appears half an hour after his lunch break starts, and never in anything other than his red training auror robes over his tatty jeans. And for the last few days since Draco had flirted with him, Potter hadn't shown at all. Draco had thought maybe he'd been too forward and scared Potter off, or maybe he hadn't been enough and Potter had lost interest, or maybe Harry was straight after all and it was Potter's old stalkerish tendencies flaring when he stared at Draco through Calefactio's windows. But seeing Potter here, Draco thinks, maybe Potter's just really shy and anxious. His heart threatens to beat right out his chest.

Potter's hands are clenched, and his face looks green, but his expression is determined, and it takes him only five minutes of pacing and two aborted attempts before he manages to open the door. Draco's quite proud.

Draco quickly takes off his robes, rolls up his shirt sleeves, and ensures a couple of strands of his hair fall into his eyes. Hippogriffs are dancing in his tummy, and he thanks all his tutors for teaching him how to look bored and composed even when he was anything but. The door chimes, and he looks back down at his records, pretending not to notice the other man as Harry strides right up to the front desk.

"Malfoy," Potter says gruffly.

Draco has a brief vision of that gruff voice talking all kinds of filth to him and nearly passes out. He has to physically shake his head to get his libido under control. He looks up through his blonde, nearly invisible lashes, and says, "Yes, Potter? How may I help you?"

Potter clears his throat and pauses, then clears his throat again. It's okay, Draco's patient. Potter can take however long he wants to ask Draco out. "Malfoy. How are you?"

Draco's going to cry; he's so delighted. "I am very good. How about you?"

"I am good too," Potter replies awkwardly. A silence follows. It seems like Draco is going to have to do all the work here. Okay, that's okay too. He's suddenly terribly thirsty. "So tell me how is auror training treating you?" he asks Potter, putting away his record book.

The green-eyed man wrinkles his nose adorably. "It's so tiring. And boring. Mostly tiring."

"Awwwww. Is the Saviour not happy at having to actually work for once in his life?" Draco teases.

"Hey! I did have to work in my life! Probably more than you did, you rich ponce," Potter shoots back, apparently comfortable in this familiar territory of snarking at each other.

"Of course you did," drawls Draco. "Of course you did. And I wasn't a massive git at Hogwarts"

"Yes I did," insists Potter. "And not in eighth year you weren't." Potter's defense of him, makes Draco feel off kilter as if there's a script that he's forgotten all the words too.

"Eighth year doesn’t count," Draco mumbles, simultaneously wishing Harry would keep pretending those nights in the common room didn’t happen and wishing Harry would bring them up again.

"Of course it does," chides Potter, and as if a dam has opened, he's suddenly much more talkative. "You did manage to open your flower shop," he says smiling lightly.

Draco flushes. "Yes, well. I like flowers." Draco feels a bit self-conscious as Harry's eyes rove over his entire shop.

"I like it," decides Potter, and for no reason, Draco feels like he swallowed a gallon of extra air. "It's very pretty and tasteful. Just like you-errrr-" Potter trips and it makes Draco feel a little better to get his flustered Potter back. "Your general aura. I mean. Very pureblood, kind of, er - like sophisticated. Very much like something you would like er-"

"Thank you," Draco says sincerely.

Potter looks around for another second before he turns to Draco and asks, "Walk me around?" Draco agrees nervously and leads him around to the Chrysanthemums to the right and the Camellias beside them and the Lotuses in the back. He's afraid that he'll turn into his obsessive flower scholar personality who rambles and is decidedly not sexy, but Potter keeps asking questions and he seems interested, and before Draco knows it he is rambling and happily explaining Victorian flower language and Potter's nodding along and Draco's having fun. Like real fun. Genuine non-flirty fun. He'd be lying if that doesn't make a piece of his heart irrevocably Potter's.

Eventually though, all good things must come to an end, and so does Potter's lunch break. Potter leaves with a magically protected Iris on his lapel. But before he goes, Potter turns around and says, "This was fun Malfoy. Catching up with you. We should meet up again, not during my lunch break, so we can, like, hang out."

Draco almost shrieks. Success! He did it! Potter's asked him on a date! He reigns himself in, instead, returning Potter's sentiment and deciding to meet over dinner Tuesday night. It's a bit last minute, but Draco's only disappointed that it isn't earlier. Pansy is going to lose it.

~~

We all already know the package isn't destined to be stopped. So it shouldn't be a surprise to the readers that Hermione reported back their first step had failed.

"Sorry Harry. They said they can't unship the package. It's already in the pipelines." They're all congregated in Harry's cubicle at the Ministry. Harry doesn't remember when Hermione and Ron had last been here, and secretly he can't help but feel a little grateful for that rogue box of sex toys for giving him his friends back for a short while.

Ron shoves a couple more chips in his face and twirls around on Harry's wheely chair. "That sucks mate," he says with a full mouth. "But hey! Harry made progress. Tell her Harry!"

Harry frowns. "We're just having dinner together tomorrow night."

"A date! Oh, Harry, you move quickly don't you!" Hermione exclaims. Ron nods vigorously, his eyes proud.

Harry flushes and looks away. "It's not a date, you guys. We're just catching up."

"Not a date, he says. Why, Hermione, you should've seen the way Malfoy's face lit up when Harry asked him out!"

Harry rounds on Ron. "Were you spying on me?" he gasps.

Ron sputters and flails at being caught red-handed. "No? No. I was just. You know. Getting myself some coffee..." He trails off under Harry's raised eyebrow. And then he rubs the back of his neck and admits, "... at Calefactio."

"Ron!!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says sheepishly. "But I would bet my left bollock that the ferret thinks it's a date. On such a short notice too! Why the ferret probably likes Harry back too."

"I happen to like your left bollock, Ron," grumbles Hermione. Harry gags. "Don't go around betting it."

"I didn't need to hear that. And anyway, you're jumping the gun here, guys," insists Harry, reeling his friends in. Really, they could come up with the most ridiculous things sometimes.

"Well, either way, you're going to look scrumptious," decides Hermione. "Show him what he's missing out on if he doesn't think it's a date."

"Draco's not in my league at all," mopes Harry. "Even with good clothes, Hermione. He and I, we're just not going to happen. He's just too gorgeous for me."

"Nonsense," says Ron. "You're so much better than him Harry. Come on, let's get you into a good outfit."

"Wait, but what about our plan?" Harry remembers.

"Contingency plan 2." Hermione waves her hand dismissively. "Just figure out what time Malfoy gets his post. And then we can plan to have someone there at that time to keep the post owl from reaching him. Easy."

(It was in fact not that easy. But we diverge.)

~~

Their dinner goes smashingly well. Potter shows up clad in fitted jeans that hug his butt well and a green silk shirt that makes his eyes pop. His nest of hair is for once a bit tamed and slicked back. Draco wants to push his hand through it and muss it up again. It just looks wrong when it's not messy. He has a gold watch on his right wrist and his sneakers are slightly scuffed. He looks delicious enough to eat. (Though Draco does miss that leather jacket.)

Potter patiently waits for Draco to lock up, before offering his arm for a side-along. A bit shyly, he asks, "Would you rather get take-out and eat at home, or go to a specific restaurant?"

"Well," drawls Draco. "Considering you were the one who asked me to dinner, take me to whatever your heart delights in, Potter."

"Er okay," says Potter. "Let's go to this pizza place I found a while ago with Ron, They have the best stuff ever."

Draco hums and wraps his hands around Potter's bicep. "Apparate us then, oh Saviour," he says. His hand moves up and down as he blatantly feels up Potter's arm. He's probably risking the both of them getting splinched by making Potter flustered, but Merlin and Morgana, Potter's strong.

Potter mumbles something, and they apparate into a London alleyway. The pizza place turns out to be this little hole-in the wall kind of place that Draco would never go to alone: the air smells of oregano and cheese, the tables feel a bit too greasy, the menus aren't shiny enough. As he takes his first tentative bite under Potter's hopeful gaze, he's fully prepared to pretend to love it for Harry's sake while hating it inside (and then perhaps it would become a thing and he'd have to keep up appearances forever just to keep Harry happy and then Harry would find out and be gutted and then Draco would make it up to him with sweet sweet sex sigh). But as soon as the flavour hits, all of that goes flying out of the window and the country and the entire universe. The taste, oh sweet, sweet Salazar, the pizza. The sweetness, the crispiness, the greasy saucy hit—Draco's never had the likes of it. He adores it. His face lights up and so does Potter's, and it takes them about seven minutes to clean off every bit of pizza on their table. He looks up at Potter, who's grinning just as wide as him, with a splatter of tomato sauce at the edge of his lips, and immediately they order another pie to demolish. Potter loosens up more and more, and they talk into the evening about the widest assortment of things from locking charms and weird animal sounds to post owl timings and Draco's flowers.

When they leave the pizza place, the cold wind nips Draco's cheeks and its chill seeps past his coat, but inside he's warm and alive and happy. Potter's hand bumps against his, and Draco manages to loop his arm around Potter under the guise of tripping over his feet. He feels his cheeks flush, and Potter looks away with a bashful smile, but neither of them lets go. It's well past midnight by the time they reluctantly agree to leave. Draco catches Potter look longingly at his lips, but he goes home on his first date without a goodnight kiss.

Potter's such a gentleman—Draco sighs to Pansy over the floo—so proper to not kiss Draco on their first date. Shows how romantic Potter is, Draco nods wisely, and emphasizes how Potter is in it for the long term. When did Potter become so perfect?

~~

"You didn't kiss him?" Hermione tuts at the same time Ron asks, "You didn't fuck him over the table?"

Both Hermione and Harry whip around to screech, "Ron! NO, what the fuck?"

Ron raises his hands. "Just sayin' mate. You already got him fluffy handcuffs and anal beads; I think you're past the kissing stage now."

"Ron," groans Harry.

"Are you telling me you didn't think about it?"

"RON!"

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione orders. "I'm not listening to my best friend and husband talk about fucking Draco Malfoy." Ron settles down reluctantly. "Anyway, I have decided on a new plan, boys," Hermione announces.

"It's been like a day since our last plan," Harry groans.

"New plan," Hermione insists. "Listen, you said Draco gets post at 10 am, and he lives in Diagon Alley, so his post must come through the owls housed in section 3 in the owl office because they recently decided having the same owl deliver mail meant they'd be treated better. So all we have to do is distract Draco's owl, put it in a cage, and voila! He won't get the sex toys."

Ron beams, "Sabotage! I knew there was a reason I married you!"

Harry points out, "Isn't tampering with owlpost illegal?"

"Of course it is, Harry," waves Hermione in a what-can-you-do-about-it gesture. "But the package might also be delivered any day now. Do you want to take the risk?"

"No, but—" Harry protests.

"Then it's settled," Hermione nods, ignoring the rest of what Harry says. Ron nods with her. Then she reaches into her purse, and both Harry and Ron goggle as out come stacks of books with all kinds of birds on their covers. "I went ahead and got all this beforehand. Kidnapping owls is, after all, serious business."

~~

Our three Gryffindors do in fact plan out their criminal activities very seriously—or well, more seriously than they ever did at Hogwarts. It takes them the entire Wednesday night, but they all agree that it was well worth it. Harry's love life is on the line, after all. They even come up with three (Three!) backup plans. As morning dawns, Harry feels quite sure that the package will not reach Draco. (Though, why there is a little, heavy weight in the middle of his chest at the thought of this whole fiasco, he cannot say. He doesn't want Draco to know he fancies the git, of course, he doesn't.)

Thursday is bright and sunny: perfect weather for their plans. Ironically, they might have succeeded if it was rainy—there would have been much fewer birds around. However, as that would ruin the point of this tale, we are quite lucky it wasn't so. Quite lucky indeed.

Everyone's in position: Hermione behind the owl's mail-pick-up-stop with a bird trap, Ron in front of the owlery with his broom, Harry at Wiltshire Florentes with Draco. The clock strikes nine and out hops a small unsuspecting pygmy owl. It stretches one wing out and then the other, getting ready for a day of good honest work. Then with a happy hoot and little twirl, it takes flight.

Ron struggles a bit to keep his profile low and unnoticeable as he follows the excitable creature in a mad flight hither and thither. Just as he starts getting the hang of it, the owl picks a direction and swoops down in the direction of the post pickup. Ron sends up red sparks.

On the ground, Hermione puts her owl treats in the trap and waits. In the middle of the previous night, she'd found herself a nifty little spell to put on the treat that made it irresistible to any bird in a fifteen meter radius. There was no way the trap could fail. There. She sees a small fleck speeding towards her. That must be Ron and the owl. Except. As the fleck gets bigger, a rumble starts up behind her. No, not a rumble, she corrects herself. More like a....a cacophony. Of birds. Slowly she turns around. With a sinking sensation, she realizes she forgot to factor in the sheer enormity of bird population at any time at the owlery and the menagerie across from the road. At least a dozen birds, owls and non-owls alike, dive towards her big bag of goodies. She screams. With a loud snap, the trap closes on two birds and a half, and in the ensuing ruckus and panic, it's a wonder she emerges with only two small scratches.

"RON!" she calls and waves her arms wildly as soon as she is halfway out. "GET THE PYGMY! BACK UP! PLAN B! RON! PLAN B!"

Ron, who is still about fifteen meters up in the air, ducks his head down to look at her, and nearly falls off his broom when he catches sight of his pregnant wife trying to whack a particularly enthusiastic peacock with her wand. Like a good husband, he immediately ignores her words, abandons the pygmy and dives.

"Up here!" he shouts over the squabbling birds. Hermione grabs his hand and hauls herself up. It's a tight fit between him and her and their unborn child, but he manages to wrap his arms around her belly and the broom. Then, Ron swoops up again, and the birds follow them, pecking at her bag and flying into Ron's face. "AAAAGH!" he screams and nearly upends them both.

"If you drop me, YOU'RE the one responsible for telling Molly who put her grandbaby in danger!" his wife yells. Ron panics harder and accidentally turns them upside down.

"RON!"

"I'M TRYING!" He manages to turn them upright, only to slam his head into a shop sign hanging out of a third floor window and turn them upside down again. By sheer luck, this time, Hermione's bag slips over her head and plummets to the ground below. The birds follow it down, and finally, they can both see again.

"I'm going to throw up," Hermione moans as the world spins. "I'm going to throw up our baby, Ron. Oh god, Ron, what if I go into labour early from all this stress!" Then she teeters to the left, and Ron swoops to the right to balance them, bringing them to a skidding stop five inches off a cemented roof where they both tumble off the broom. For a minute they just sit dazed.

Then Hermione giggles. "I wonder what the people below us saw?"

"Oh, Godric's pants," Ron groans. "What if George saw us?" They both cringe at the thought.

"Nothing to do but hope," says Hermione and flops down on the ground. "Say are we on top of Flourish and Blotts?"

Ron peers around and shrugs. "Dunno. Never been here before." Then he flops down right beside his wife. "I'm hungry." Hermione hums.

And here, perhaps you, just like Ron and Hermione, might make the mistake of assuming that their harrowing experience is over. It isn't. For the very next moment, a black, post owl flies over them. Hermione shudders. She was never going near birds again. Ever.

It's Ron who notices the brown square package attached to the small owl's left foot. "Hermione," he says slowly pointing to the pygmy owl perched on the roof next to them. "Is that..."

The next instant, they're both on their feet. "The net Hermione!" shouts Ron, referring to their Plan B equipment, and starts running towards the owl. Hermione waddles as fast as she can after her husband. She reaches for her bag, eyes widening a moment later when she remembers dropping it. The pygmy owl glides past them back towards the other edge. "QUICK! IT'S ESCAPING, HERMIONE!"

Hermione flails and her husband skids to a stop. They run the other way. Wait. "We're magic!" Hermione yells. "Stun it!" She slows down and clings to the railing as she tries to catch her breath. "STUN IT RON!" A red flash streaks past the owl and bounces off the walls of the neighbouring shop. Another one bounces off a boiler, before a third one hits its mark, and the drops like a stone. For a second they both just stare at the place the owl was. Then Ron hoots and rushes back over to his wife. "We did it, Mione! Mione! We saved Harry!"

"We did," she smiles. "Harry's going to be so happy. Let's go down and get the package, shall we?" Ron grins and they both get to finding a way down from the ledge they're on.

Spoiler alert: they'd in fact stunned the wrong owl. Harry was not going to be happy.

~~

While Ron and Hermione were running around Diagon, battling birds (battling the wrong birds), Harry was battling his affections for Draco. His job had been to keep a watch on Draco while they nabbed the owl, and he was doing well. Very well, in fact, Harry thought to himself as he stood outside the front door of Wiltshire Florentes. Even if he had been coming around every day for three days now, and even if he was comfortable talking to Malfoy beyond pleasantries, and he knew Malfoy didn't hate him, he couldn't bring himself to open that door knowing there was a package of sex toys possibly flying towards them that very moment. It was probably better if he didn’t go inside anyway, Harry thought balefully. He'd end up spilling the beans to Malfoy if he did.

Instead, he spins on his heel and makes his way back to Calefactio. A pumpkin spice latte would make everything feel better. He knew it would. The barista greets him with the same familiar nod and adds the usual muffin to Harry’s order. He parks himself in his favourite seat again, and peers through the window.

Malfoy isn't at the display table arranging his flowers today. Odd. Of course, there must be a dozen other things Malfoy has to do around the shop. But Harry can't help but feel the loss of the sight of Malfoy's perfect profile bending over his bouquets. Almost as if he expected Malfoy to be there doing the same task every time he saw him. How very odd. He swirls his coffee and waits for Malfoy to appear.

Today as always, the front of Wiltshire Florentes gleams in the streaming sunlight. For what the structure and walls lack in color, the flowers more than make up for it. There are vines trailing up the sides of the doors and the two windows on the second floor reflect the blue sky perfectly. Butterflies dance over the display, bees hum around the decorations, and an owl hops along the ledge with a package tied on its foot. Poor little thing, Harry thinks. It looks quite tired. He wonders if Ron and Hermione managed to catch Malfoy's owl. Probably. The owl pecks at the window and then hops impatiently from foot to foot when nobody lets it in. Such a cute little thing, Harry muses. Malfoy must be out. He was a sucker for cute pretty things; he wouldn't keep a creature like that waiting. Apparently tired of waiting, the owl glides down to the floor and pecks insistently at the door. Harry wonders if he should go over and let it in, but a little girl on the street beats him to it. The owl ducks its head and hops into the flower shop. Harry has to conceal a small smile.

Suddenly, a startled exclamation cuts through the cafe, and Harry swivels around, wand in hand, to see a transparent Russell Terrier bounding down towards him. The back of his neck prickles. Ron's patronus stops, its mouth opens, and out pours his best friend's frantic voice "Mate. Harry. I'm so sorry, we thought we caught the ow—uh you-know-what, but apparently, we stunned the wrong pygmy, and the top-secret-cargo escaped. You probably already know this by now, but in case you didn't… well good luck mate. You'll need it. Probably."

Harry's mind screeches to a halt. Owl. Cargo. Malfoy. OWL. THE OWL THAT JUST ENTERED MALFOY'S SHOP. Harry drops his coffee, stubs his toe, and dashes across the cafe, out of the door, and across the street. This time he doesn't hesitate a bit before crashing through the door.

The owl is there, sitting innocently on the counter. Harry stares at it. From across the room, the owl stares back and turns its head upside down as if it were assessing his hair as a possible nesting spot. And there, on its left foot is the subject of Harry's nightmares. He lunges. the owl squawks and hops away. Harry slams into the glass counter, just catching a vase as it falls over. The owl twitters angrily as it tries to fly up to the higher shelves. No. Harry half grabs the package halfway there and pulls with all his might. The owl pulls back, its claws dragging across Malfoy's furniture. Suddenly, both of them lose their footing and go tumbling to the ground, knocking over a couple more bouquets on their way down. The owl makes an ungodly sound right into Harry's ear. Wings beat in his face and he catches a mouthful of feathers. But he doesn't let go. Determined and successful, he thinks to himself. That's what he's going to be. He's going to DO this. For Malfoy. He manages to wrap one of his arms tightly around the package, and hangs on for dear life as talons and beaks and feathers scrabble around him. Fuck, it hurt. He can feel a little bit of blood trickling down his face already. He scrambles a bit to get a better grip on it, and the little blighter pecks wildly at his hand. If the bird thinks this can defeat Harry, it's wrong. The owl pauses for just a second and Harry seizes the moment to detach the package from the owl’s feet and scrambles up. The owl tries to dive bomb for him, but he leaps out of the way. Never before has he been more grateful for grueling auror training. The fireplace is three paces from him; the floo powder is right there next to him. Two steps, he throws in the floo powder—the owl hits his back—"190 THE STRAND" he calls—there's a beak digging viciously into his elbow as the owl leaps for the package—the fire turns green—and the bell chimes as the door opens.

"Potter?" Malfoy's voice asks incredulously from behind the shelf as the package swirls away into the flames. He did it. The owl tries to follow the package into the fire and Harry barely catches it before there is a fried owl in Malfoy's fireplace. Draco won't get the sex toys. "Potter?" Malfoy asks again, his voice closer this time. Harry turns around triumphantly and immediately both he and the owl freeze. Any elation he has over succeeding plummets straight down into horror.

Malfoy's shop is a wreck.

Harry's eyes rove over toppled vases, crushed flowers, scratched shelves, and shattered glass. By the time his eyes meet Malfoy's gaze, he can barely breathe. His gut churns; there's a tremble running all over him. Suddenly, he becomes terribly aware of the now cold coffee drenching the front of his robes, and the back of his neck heats up. Harry wishes he could vanish into thin air. Malfoy's eyes go from his face to the owl in his hands back to his face. Then they go around the shop just like Harry's had. Oh no. Harry blinks rapidly. Malfoy's never going to want to see Harry again after this. Ever. Harry understands why, but it still hurts. He blinks harder.

"I'm," he tries to say through his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry." His voice trails into a whisper, and he's horrified to feel the lump in his throat grow exponentially. "This...wasn't supposed to happen."

Malfoy's sharp gaze lands on him and the bird. "Were you fighting with my post owl?" he asks, sounding a little dazed. Harry's afraid that if he opens his mouth, he'll burst into tears. Malfoy shakes his head. "No, wait. Don't answer that." He raises his hands. There's a pause, and then Malfoy turns around as if he's had some revelation he can't bear. "You know," he says in a voice so hollow it makes Harry want to cry even more, "Auror Potter. You didn't have to pretend to befriend me to ransack my place. You know they wouldn't hear my complaints anyway." He raises a single hand to his face. Harry wants to scream. He wants to deny everything, to tell Malfoy the truth, to tell him how much Harry loves him, how far that is from the truth. But his mouth feels glued shut. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Go ahead then," Malfoy gestures to his shop. "Find anything incriminating? Think I'm up to something, Auror Potter?" His eyes are sharp, his hands clenched, his lower lip still. Suddenly, something tells Harry this is it. If Malfoy's trust breaks in this second, that's it. Harry won't ever have another chance.

"It isn't like that," Harry whispers. His lips feel parched and his head is buzzing and his voice is barely wisps of air. The perfect cover up comes to him right that instant. He shoves the bird in front of him and conjures up the most indignant voice he can. "I came here to cook lunch for you, but your owl attacked me the moment I set foot inside." The owl hoots indignantly at the blatant lies, trying again to peck him on the hand. This time Harry lets go. The owl hoots louder, plucks a tuft of hair off Harry's head (Harry shrieks just a bit) and flies off. "See?! It's violent!"

Malfoy looks suspiciously at him. "Cook? In my flower shop?"

Harry scrambles nervously. "Did I say cook? Haha, er... I meant er, to ask you to cook me. I mean to ask you to cook lunch with me." He takes in a deep breath. "Eat lunch with me and I cook." He can feel a red flush travel all across his cheeks. He hopes Malfoy buys it; Harry has never been great at lying, and ever since the stakes have gone down after the war, it seems to have only gotten worse. "I'm really sorry," he says sincerely. "I understand if you hate me. I would hate me too. I really didn't mean to knock everything over. I just got overly zealous fighting with your owl."

Malfoy still looks a little unsure, but the anger and hurt are slowly draining from his face. "Lunch? As in right now?"

Harry can feel his curls go flying as he nods wildly and then shakes his head even more wildly. "Yes! I mean no! I meant dinner! And you don't have to! I'm sorry. It was just a whim you know? I was just feeling so lonely and you're the only person I felt comfortable enough going to." Harry hates that he’s babbling. What the actual fuck was he even saying?

But it seemed like something he said struck a chord with Malfoy because the other man's face softens radically and he almost smiles. "Alright, Potter." Then he looks all over the shop and grumbles, "I swear if it was literally anyone other than you..."

~~

It takes them about half an hour to put Draco's shop to rights again. Potter apologizes profusely again and again as they work, but Draco waves it all away. Yes, it hurts to see his precious shop trashed, but he has magic for a reason. Now, Draco is no fool. He sure hasn't forgiven Potter completely—of course not. There was something Potter was trying to hide; Potter is a shite liar. But, Draco doesn't think there is a drop of malice in whatever happened today. After six years at Hogwarts as rivals and low-key mutual stalkers, a seventh on opposing sides of a war, and an eighth living in the same quarters, Draco knows ill-will and stalking in Potter's face all too well. And there was none of that today. No, the shade of Hogwarts Express that Potter had turned—it had to be something embarrassing for Potter. Something romantic. Something sexual, perhaps. So, Draco's willing to let it slide. Harry will tell him in due time, he's sure.

Potter keeps sneaking glances at him as they work silently. His eyelashes glint brown in the sunlight and his eyes are a vivid green. Draco wants to kiss him silly. When they're done, he makes a show of wrapping his scarf around Potter's neck and spelling the coffee stain on his robes dry and clean, before sending him off to auror training. Predictably, Potter gets quite flustered and almost walks into the door right after. Draco smirks and gets back to work. He can't wait for dinner.

When Draco reaches Harry's apartment that evening, he can smell the curry through the door. It smells good. Instead of knocking, he lays his hand on the door. So good. To his surprise, the door swings open soundlessly. He shakes his head. Stupid trusting Gryffindors. Of course, Potter would leave his door open. What would happen if a reporter found his apartment? Or worse yet a Dark Lord sympathizer? That's why he has me, Draco thinks. Inside, the curry smells even better. Draco follows his nose down the hall out to the living room and into the kitchen. He stops. There's Potter. Potter in a frilly apron standing over something on the stove. Potter's humming along to something under his breath and wriggling his arse to the song and he looks absolutely delectable. Potter didn't even have to cook. If he served himself up on a platter, Draco was sure he wouldn't mind.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Potter bops his head with his eyes closed and twirls around with a spatula in the air, showing off the long, lithe line of his body. Draco's mind breaks a little, and he gurgles. Just a little. Potter freezes. His green eyes are wide when he turns around. Draco watches Potter's Adam's apple move up and down as he gulps. Just a little bite, his mind insists, and Draco brutally shoves it down before straightening up and smirking.

"My, my, Potter. I didn't know we had a professional singer in the house!" he teases. Potter squawks, looking just like the owl he was wrestling in Draco's shop earlier.

"Malfoy," Potter says and then trails off when Draco steps closer under the pretense of looking into the pot on the stove. "What are you"—Draco practically cages Potter into the counter and Potter's voice stutters—"doing?"

Draco takes a deep breath in and then sighs contently right into Potter's ear. "Hmmmmmm. I love curry."

Potter flushes prettily but pushes Draco away gently. Draco lets him. (Draco would let Potter do a lot of things, but that's besides the point here.) "Curry's my favourite too," Potter says and turns around to turn the flames off. "I'm just done. Here, let me carry everything out to the dinner table." The auror flicks his hand, and Draco watches in awe as the shelves open, and crockery rolls out and flies out the door clinking merrily along the way. The pot of curry and a pot of rice follows them, and a small line of spoons brings up the rear. Wandless and wordless charms. Draco's sure there are hearts in his eyes. Potter's eyes crinkle in a smile, and he gestures Draco out the door. He obliges and follows the food out to a small glass table with candles lit up all around it. His breath catches and he glances towards Potter who is nervously waiting for Draco's reactions. If he had any doubts about Potter's affections, he had none now. "It's perfect," he proclaims and with a flourish, he settles into his chair. "Come, Potter. I'm hungry."

Potter chuckles and takes the seat across from him. A wine bottle bobs over and tips itself into two long flutes, and suddenly there's soft music playing in the background. They eat and talk and make eyes at each other (or rather Draco makes eyes and Potter blushes like an olde maiden). Draco is wooed. Then, once they've polished off every grain of curry soaked rice, they get up to get some ice cream. Clumsy as ever, Potter bangs his knee on the table, and Draco's wand falls off and rolls over to the right. They both giggle, and Draco bends over to pick it up.

But. Wait.

Halfway between him and the fireplace, in his direct line of sight, lies a box. A box with his name on it. Almost as if the universe (or Harry) purposely put it there for Draco to find. Almost like a...gift! A surprise gift! Draco squeals.

"Malfoy?"

Abandoning his wand, Draco immediately bounces towards the box. "Salazar, Potter!" he exclaims as he picks it up, failing to notice the way Harry's face pales. "A gift! For me!"

Now if there's one thing to know about Draco Malfoy, it's that he loves gifts. Gifts in any shapes or sizes, for any occasion or declaration, by friend or foe, with or without wrapping—everything goes. And a gift from Harry? It practically screamed good news! He sits down right there on the carpet and rattles the box around. It's surprisingly heavy, and nothing rattles inside. Draco tilts his head, with a wide grin on his face. "What did you get me?" he asks. "It doesn't sound like books or crockery and it doesn't look like wine." Potter looks a little peaky from nervousness, and he opens his mouth to say something. "Oho! No! Don't spoil it! I have to open it first!" He deftly slips a nail under the flap and slices it open. A dark wooden chest emerges. It's not that big but it's elegant and classy. Potter's turning red. Oooooh Draco hopes it is something romantic! A note slips out when he flips up the handle to the chest.

Draco feels like he's going to float away like a balloon. Harry loved him! Harry loved him more than the curry they just ate! Potter planned this! He beams at Potter, who for some reason still looks like he's going to throw up. "A proposition! Potter! How Slytherin of you! How well planned. I am so proud!" Potter opens his mouth again, probably to tell him to look at the actual gift. "Oh shush! I'm getting to it, Potter. Give a man some time, you know." With a loud click under his fingers, the chest opens to reveal... well. Draco has no idea what all these trinkets are. He sets it down gingerly and then picks up the orange glass sculpture nestled in the center. When he holds it up, dozens of leaves seem to shimmer and glint as light fractures inside the glass. It's long and thin and bumpy (and Draco has no idea what it's supposed to resemble), but it's possibly one of the most beautiful things he's ever been gifted with. Gently, he turns his attention to the rest of the stuff. There are vines with miniature pumpkins running throughout the lining, and a bigger piece of vine is tied into a netted structure near the corner. Two long feathers are hanging off a string of beads in the same glassy orange material as the big sculpture. Beside it are two plastic pumpkins and a weird conical leaf imitation all just a bit smaller than an egg and with little platforms underneath them. Several shiny silky pieces of cloth in a variety of reds and oranges and yellows and browns line the bottom of the chest. There are even two fluffy brown bracelets with tiny spiders hanging off of them! (Though, Draco has no clue why they won't separate. Such horrible design, he's going to have to Diffindo it later when Potter's not looking.)

"I...Potter," Draco breathes and looks up. Why is Potter looking like he's going to be walked to the gallows? This is one of the prettiest, cutest yet most baffling gifts Draco has received; even better, this is the only romantic gift Draco has ever gotten. "What is this?"

Potter seems to do a double take. "You...don't know what these are?" he asks incredulously.

"Should I?"

Potter shakes his head and then shakes it again. "No! Of course not! How silly of me to assume you would like...just..."

"But what is it? What does it do?" Draco asks impatiently.

"Well...errr...it's a thing. A muggle thing! Yes. A muggle thing. Which is...why you don't know about it! You see...it's something you give to your partner. Like an intimate partner." Potter keeps stuttering, but suddenly everything's absolutely clear to Draco.

"Oh! You mean like a courtship gift!"

"YES!" Potter exclaims and nods enthusiastically. Which makes sense because this is probably Potter's piss poor attempt at asking Draco out. This is probably what Potter was trying to make the post owl give Draco earlier! Oh, what would Potter do without him? Honestly! "A courtship gift. Exactly. Completely honorable, and given with lots of—"

Draco puts the box aside, beams at Potter and announces, "I accept, of course."

"Whuhh?" Potter blinks at him.

"The proposal. For courtship," Draco says patiently. "I will enter into a relationship with you." Potter sputters. "Of course, now that we're lovers, you shall call me Draco, and I will call you Harry." Lovers, Pott—Harry repeats under his breath. Draco ignores him. "Also, remember, we have Sunday lunches at the manor with my parents. I'll introduce you to them next week. Don't worry; they will more than be impressed with the wonderful declaration of your undying love for me." Undying love, Harry whispers furiously. Seriously, anyone would think he's shocked. "Though you should have made sure those muggles wrote your name right. I do expect to be introduced to your redhead clan, obviously. Perhaps not the same week as my parents though. That might be stressful. And we can only move in together after three months—propriety you know? You may have asked me out in a muggle manner, but I expect to be courted like any dignified wizard. And and and..."

~~

As we would expect, the moment that Mal-Draco's out of the door, Harry dives for the floo. Ron answers within seconds (almost as if he were waiting for it, hmmm).

"Harry! Mate! Come right through!" Ron says cheerily. He steps out into a warm cosy sitting room and settles onto the sofas right beside Hermione.

"Hello, Harry!" Hermione beams.

Harry says glumly. "Hiya, Mione."

Ron frowns as he hands Harry a glass of muggle whiskey. "What's wrong mate? You kept the ferret from having his sex toys. This is a night for a celebration innit?" Harry groans and takes a long swig.

"Did dinner not go well?" asks Hermione, her brow furrowing. "Did you fuck up?"

"Do I ge—need to beat him up?" Ron asks a little too enthusiastically and slams his fist against an open palm. "Did he insult your parents? Break your heart? Be a gitty ferret?"

"No, Ron. No hitting Malfoy," Harry says firmly. Ron pouts. Harry takes a long swig of alcohol, and then blurts, "We're dating." Hermione exclaims joyously and Ron thumps Harry on the back. But when Harry just mopes silently, they both look at each other and then at their best friend again.

"Harry," Hermione says carefully. "You do want to date Malfoy right?"

Harry nods with a grimace.

"What's the problem then mate?" Ron gently puts a large warm hand over Harry's shoulder. "What's got you down?"

Harry puts his glass down, leans forward on his knees and puts his face in his hands. "efoudaoysninksisamuggacoushigif." Harry mumbles.

"What?"

"He found the toys and thought they're a muggle courtship gift," Harry groans. They gape at him. Then Ron sniggers and Hermione slaps him on the arm.

"Sorry, sorry," Ron chokes out in between full body shakes. Hermione purses her lips but then turns to Harry.

"Why would Malfoy think that? It's a bit outlandish isn't it?"

"I-err," mumbles Harry. "I might have told him that when he saw his name on the package."

"What?!"

"Well, I forgot to put the box away when he came over for dinner, and then he saw his name on it and asked me what I got him for a gift." His voice gets more and more frantic as he progresses through his rant. "Then I panicked and I told him they were a muggle thing for someone's partner and then he was like, like an intimate partner and I said yeah, like you were courting someone and then he assumed it was a declaration of my undying love for him and I was too weak to explain the truth so we're dating now but it's based on a lie and oh Merlin he told me to call him by his first name but then we were boyfriends already and OH MY GOSH Malfoy's going to KILL me!" By now Ron's alternating between crying and shaking, and Hermione too is biting her lips as if she's trying hard not to react. Harry's neck gets uncomfortably warm, and he sinks lower in his seat to hide his face behind his knees. "What am I going to do?" he moans pitifully. "I can't dig myself out of this!"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione says her bottom lip caught between her teeth and an apologetic smile on her face. "Come here." She wraps her arms around his shoulders and awkwardly drags him as close as she can. Ron too joins the hug from the other side to make a hug-Harry-sandwich (as soon as he stops laughing of course.) Harry's muscles lose their tension slowly and he relaxes into his best friends' embrace. They sit like that for a while. Then Harry sighs. "But what should I do?" he asks.

"He doesn't have to know does he?" Ron points out, his mouth moving over Harry's hair. "As long as nobody tells him they're sex toys, he'll keep thinking they're courtship gifts."

"So all you have to do is not tell him," Hermione hums. "He never has to know."

"Yeah," Harry says, a strange feeling at the back of his throat. He thinks of the open, happy expression on Mal-Draco's face when he'd thought Harry bought him a proper courtship gift. He thinks of the honest trusting way Draco laid himself bare on their nights out. He thinks of the twinkle in Draco's gray eyes, of his sweet small smile, of his lush lips. He holds his friends tighter. "Yeah. He doesn't have to know."

~~

"PANSY! PANSY! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED!" Draco barrels through her house, pushing past all the house elves as he looks for her. "PANSY!"

"Calm down, darling," she says as she steps out from her mother's old parlour. "You say that at least three times a day you know. It has lost quite a bit of its novelty." She has a cup of tea in her hands and a shawl around her shoulders.

"But you really won't believe it this time, Pansy!" Draco insists. He waits until she's taken a sip before saying, "Potter asked me to be his boyfriend!"

Pansy nearly spits out her tea. "What?" she asks weakly. "I thought you were joking about the Potter coming around everyday and taking you out to romantic dinners, thing. Ow! Don't hit me. It was a completely reasonable assumption considering your histories!"

Draco harrumphs. "Well. It's true. And now Potter and I are dating. Look he was so romantic, he even got me a courtship gift and a small love note!"

Pansy leans forward excitedly. "Let's see it then."

"It's some kind of muggle courtship ritual gift, Potter told me," Draco says proudly as he produces the box that Potter gave him. "Look there are a lot of small little trinkets." He opens it for Pansy and delicately pulls each one out and puts it on the table. Then he wrinkles his nose. "Potter bought it from some Analstacia lady with a Whack Shack. No clue who would name their daughter or their shack that, but I suppose that's beside the point." Pansy chokes and starts turning purple.

"Pans?" He asks worriedly.

She takes a couple of gasping breaths and then leans over to look at the box closely. "He gave you those?" she asks in a wobbly voice.

"Yes," Draco beams. "Pretty aren't they all?"

Suddenly, Pansy chortles. "Oh Potter got you that! He did, he did!"

Draco feels a bit put out. "What?" he snaps. "You don't think Potter could get me gifts?" Sticking his nose in the air, he sniffs loudly for emphasis. "Well, newsflash Pans, Harry gave me these...these glass sculptures and miniature baubles and these fluffy feathery things to signify his great undying muggle love for me."

Pansy's red in the face by now, and Draco just wants to shake her. "Oh, oh, oh," she gasps between short sharp gasps of giggles. "Potter's undying muggle love."

"His great undying muggle love," Draco corrects her, his glare melting into a sigh as he caressed the orange plastic in his palm.

For reasons, this sets Pansy off even more, and she practically guffaws. "I'm sure," she gets out, "that Harry's love for you," another round of giggles, "is very big."

"Yes, it is," he says firmly. "And I am going to put these in a vase near the shop door, so Potter can know that his affections are just as greatly returned."

Pansy chokes again and does a poor imitation of a dying fish flopping about. "Oh, darling! I'm sure that's not necessary! Potter doesn't like publicity, does he? I don't think he'll appreciate that. Plus what if some muggleborn got jealous, and stole it away from you? It does seem like it's quite precious, doesn't it? It probably is very dear on the market too! You know Potter would pull all the stops to seduce you. Who wouldn't after all? What if you knock it over or accidentally put it in mud or or or—"

Draco turns a baleful eye at her. "You're just jealous," he accuses her midsentence as he lovingly tucks his baubles back into the bubbly wrapping paper.

"Ah, no, Draco, you do remember what you were like in Hogwarts, don't you?" Pansy says sweetly, the tears from her laughing spell quivering at the corners of her eyes. "Potter this, Potter that. I was just appreciating what Hogwarts Draco would have thought of this right now."

Draco humphs but slightly mollified lets it go. "Hmmm, you are right, Pans. I'll just put this out on the table in my room, so only Potter can see it. He'll like that, don't you think?"

"Oh he will," Pansy assures him with a wicked smirk. "He will be thrilled."

~~

The narrator wants to take a pause here and point out how not thrilled Harry is when he finds his sex toys displayed in the middle of Draco's center table. Harry had resolved to put the whole Pleasure Kit for Draco debacle behind him; that chapter of his life was over. (Except, hello, no chance—this narrator still lives and breathes.) So, when Harry walks into Draco's apartment for their first date together, the poor unsuspecting man is absolutely not prepared to deal with Draco's decoration. Harry freezes—mind, body, soul—and his eyes zero onto the dildo proudly bobbing in a vase hovering above Draco's center table.

In Draco's defense, the whole set-up is really quite beautiful. The vase is tall, elegant, and classy, and within it, a tasteful assortment of autumnal flowers and leaves complement the glass dildo. A string of glass beads wraps around the neck of the vase, and shiny silk and pumpkin vines net cover the rest of the vase. Strategically placed magical orbs shine light into the piece, scattering thousands of tiny rainbow segments across the room.

Unfortunately, Harry isn't a man of refined tastes, and all he can see is the dildo. And well the anal beads. And the pumpkin vibrators inside the magic orbs. And the bondage silks and rope. Well at least the cock rings and the butt plugs aren't here, he thinks faintly, as Draco finishes locking the front door behind him. Then he steps forward, and a conical leaf stuck to the front comes into sight. Oh. Harry wants to faint. He can't, he can't, he just cannot.

Draco turns around and bounces happily when he sees Harry gaping at the vase. "Oh oh oh! Do you like it? I set it all up myself!" He drags Harry closer to the table and chatters away about all the creative ways he's used Harry's gifts. "... and I know I didn't put in those rubber rings, but really Harry, even I have limits to what I will display on the table," he apologizes near the end. Harry sucks in a breath. Draco knows what the cock rings are and he still wants me? Oh! Oh, that was wonderful! Harry could come clean about the rest of the toys too and not lose Draco. But then Draco continues with an adorable little frown, "I'm so sorry, Harry. I will adore everything you give me; I promise! Everything but those rings—they were just so ugly!" Harry is going to cry. Draco glances up at Harry through his lashes shyly as if to gauge his reaction, and his face drops "Oh," he says, sounding gutted. "You look like you're going to cry. You don't like it." Oh shit. Oh no, Harry does not want to upset Draco!

"I do! I love it," he exclaims, very very loudly. He wraps himself tightly around his boyfriend, and hides his face in the crook of Draco's neck. (A good thing Harry did that; after all, it is the only way he'll be able to get away with lying so blatantly.) "I love it so so much, Draco! I am going to cry, but only because this is so… so good. You're literally the sweetest boyfriend I've ever had." Slowly Draco hugs him back.

"I'm the only boyfriend you've had, you idiot," Draco smiles into Harry's sweater.

"You don't know that," Harry says petulantly.

"I went to Hogwarts with you for seven years, Harry," Draco laughs. "I think I would know who you've dated. And you know, you're not the only one in this relationship who can stalk people. In fact, I am a better stalker than you."

Harry pouts. "Are not."

"Oh yes," Draco says gleefully. "Seriously, Harry, did you think lunches at Calefactio were subtle?" Harry sputters, and Draco tweaks Harry’s nose. "I know everything," he says with his nose in the air. "Always." Everything in Harry softens. For all of Draco's posturing, he knows how insecure and soft Draco is inside. He draws Draco even closer, and a sudden bout of protectiveness flows through him. He feels so full, so tender, so in love. He would do anything for Draco.

"I suppose you do," he murmurs into Draco's hair, and then pulls back to give Draco a deep lingering kiss. And Harry's not lying; Draco is always right. After all, if it were left up to Harry, would they ever have gotten together? Then the orange dildo bobs violently in the periphery of Harry's vision. Well, he amends mentally, Draco's always right about everything except sex toys. But because he's a Good boyfriend (and because there is the pesky problem of Harry not wanting to tell Draco about the sex toys), he doesn't say that. He does move their kissing to the bedroom, though, and if he has motives other than sex, well, Draco doesn't know that either.

~~

Perhaps, you may think, this is it. This tale of how Harry and Draco got into a relationship. Perhaps this is how it ends: in Draco's apartment, under decorative sex toys, next to two boys learning to navigate each other. Perhaps this is where it starts, the story of the rest of their lives—of how Harry will always return from lunch with flowers tucked into his hair, of how Draco will start becoming a fixture in the future Head Auror's office, of how they will end up adopting three children and two cats, of how they will grow old together and become that sweet old couple on the block who everyone envies.

Almost.

You see, no relationship can stand long if its foundation has even one pillar of lies, no matter how superficial the lie is. Especially if the one keeping these lies is one Harry Potter, defeater of Dark Lords, Saviour of the Wizarding World, and class A terrible liar. For Draco and Harry, this pillar was orange and glassy and funny, but it was a pillar with lies nonetheless. And the toppling of this pillar is the last missing scene from this tale.

It happened on a Saturday afternoon, exactly four weeks and four days after the Wednesday that started it all. The sun is soft, the winds cool, the trees almost bare. It's one of the last weekends before autumn dawns and winter creeps in. Draco had been insisting on calling his friends over to officially introduce Harry as his boyfriend, and this was the afternoon which they’d settled on.

Draco just popped off with Zabini to get some more wine which means Harry's left alone. With Parkinson. (And with the hovering glass dildo showcase, which Harry stubbornly refuses to acknowledge.) Harry looks around the room nervously, unsure of how to interact with Parkinson without Draco acting as a buffer between them.

“Good weather isn’t it?” he asks politely. He doesn’t exactly like Parkinson (she did try to hand him over to the Dark Lord and all), but for Draco’s sake, he’s at least going to try to be civil.

Parkinson, however, seems to have no such compunctions. She ignores his small talk in favour of looking meaningfully at the vase above the both of them. “So, Potter,” she drawls smirking nastily, “I heard you gave Draco muggle courtship gifts. I wonder what they are?”

Harry flushes, and unwillingly his eyes stray upwards. His lips and throat suddenly feel incredibly dry, and he can feel sweat gathering in the dip of his spine.

“I… er…” What the fuck does even one say in this kind of situation? Harry sure as hell doesn’t know.

Parkinson’s smile could cut stone. “Draco may not recognize a glass dildo when he sees one,” she says conversationally, “but I do.” Harry goes cold. She wouldn’t… would she? Parkinson must have read his face because she purses her lips and says harshly, “No, I won’t tell Draco.” Harry opens his mouth in relief. “Not for your sake. For his and for mine.” She shakes her head. “Morgana knows why he likes you, but he does. I don’t want to be the one who tells him his boyfriend is a fucking liar.”

“Hey!” Harry protests. “I didn’t do it on purpose! It just… happened…” Parkinson just gives him a look like he’s worth less than gum stuck on her heels, and for the first time, Harry recognizes the hot, shameful feeling squirming inside him as guilt. It’s not that big of a deal. Really. It’s just a dildo. (And vibrators and fancy rope and anal beads and fluffy handcuffs and silk ties.)

“What are you going to do when Draco calls Narcissa over to visit and brings out the dildo to show her?” Parkinson asks harshly. “Do you think Narcissa is going to be fooled with your pathetic pity-me-I’m-the-saviour act? Do you think she’s going to let the fact that you lied to her son to win his favour, slip?”

Harry pales dramatically. “It wasn’t… It wasn’t like…” he stutters. Then an epiphany goes off in his head. “I’ll knock it over!” he gasps, feeling like a genius. “It’ll shatter, and then I’ll pretend to be sorry, and then… ”

Parkinson groans and cuts him off mid-sentence. “Stop lying, Potter. Just tell the fucking truth. You’re a bloody Gryffindor, for magic’s sake. Lying and hiding things isn’t going to win you any favours. How much more are you going to twist yourself up to keep Draco from knowing? ”

Harry’s mind stops, and for a moment he thinks of a tiny cupboard in a muggle suburb, of disapproving and unloving adult faces, of trying to hide away every little mistake he made in hopes of getting food (or even a pat on the head) that night. Who’s going to love you, boy? He shakes his head. A strange lump rises in his throat. “I… I don’t know…” he whispers. “I…” Parkinson shakes her head again, but before she says anything, the kitchen door opens, and in comes Draco, beaming and half-carrying, half-dropping at least five tall bottles of wine. Zabini follows with a tray of an assortment of fritters, crisps and bruschetta floating beside them.

“Draco!” Pansy gasps, mockingly scandalized. “Surely we can’t drink that much wine! For lunch that too!”

“Oh shut it you wench,” Draco laughs. “You alone could finish all of this for breakfast.”

“Touché,” she giggles, and it’s as if the conversation with Harry never happened. But in Harry’s head—her words, the guilt, the strangeness—they all linger.

Later, as everything is winding down after lunch, Harry excuses himself to the loo. When he returns, only Parkinson and Draco are in the living room. He hears his name and pauses right outside the entrance.

“... just don’t understand why you like it so much, Draco?”

“Because it’s a courtship gift, Pans.”

Parkinson looks at Harry surreptitiously. Then she says, “But still. I’ve never seen you get this way about a gift before.”

Draco sighs. “I… Just its Harry, you know. It’s just the fact that Harry planned it so perfectly to ask me out. For me! He did it for me!” Draco looks down. “After the war, I didn’t think anyone would ever do anything like that for me. Even before the war, it’s always just been my parents, and you and Blaise.” He sighs. “I know I’m not the easiest person to like. But Harry… For Harry to give me a gift… A gift chosen specifically for me, not just a formal flower arrangement or a crockery set or jewellery… Pans, you know how it is in pureblood traditions.” Harry can’t see Draco’s eyes, but he has the strongest suspicion that they’re a bit wet. (Or perhaps it's Harry’s own eyes that are wet, and Harry’s just projecting. Or maybe it’s both.)

“But he’s not pureblood,” Parkinson points out.

“He’s a Gryffindor,” Draco says simply. “Plus he has Granger, doesn’t he? She knows enough for the both of them. He wouldn’t do something if he didn’t actually mean it.”

“But darling, what if he didn’t?” Parkinson asks gently. “What if it was something else?”

Harry doesn’t understand. Parkinson said she wouldn’t tell Draco. And then her eyes lift up and she holds his gaze meaningfully as if she’s telling him something.

“It isn’t. Something else. Harry means it,” Draco insists. “He’s been wonderful this past month.” Parkinson just inclines her head and then makes a show of noticing Harry standing at the entrance.

“Hello, Potter.” She smiles. Draco whips around.

“Harry!” he gasps. “You’re back!”

“Oh, he just showed up darling. I was watching the door, I know.” As she reassures Draco that Harry didn’t overhear their conversation, her eyes stay steady on his. “Isn’t that right, Potter?”

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. Parkinson nods at him. And then Harry understands. She meant for him to overhear their conversation. Parkinson isn’t trying to tell Draco; she’s trying to guilt Harry into telling Draco himself. It’s working.

Zabini ducks out of the kitchen with the last of the crisps in their mouth, and Parkinson stands and brushes her skirt. “Well, toodles now darling. We’ll head out.” Zabini tilts their head and then reaches out a hand towards Harry before they leave. “Remember Potter. You hurt Draco, I hurt you.” Harry approves. He shakes the hand. “Understood, Zabini.” Then after a beat, he adds. “Same here.”

“Oh you two honestly,” Draco beams. “Stop being so sappy. I’ll hurt the both of you myself if the situation calls for it.”

As they watch Draco’s friends leave, Harry wraps an arm around Draco’s waist and leans in. Just say the fucking truth, Parkinson had said.

“Walk me home?” he asks Draco softly.

Draco turns his head into Harry’s hair. “We do have a floo you know,” he says amused.

“Walk,” Harry insists. He’s going to tell Draco on the walk. His heart flutters wildly. He’s going to do this, and it’s going to be alright.

“Alright,” laughs Draco.

They bundle up (or rather bundle each other up) and head out. The sun is close to setting, and all the critters and nightlife are stirring. A comfortable silence settles between them. Harry keeps stealing glances at his boyfriend as they walk. The golden sunlight streaming in from behind them makes Draco look like an angel complete with a halo and shining skin. He catches Draco peeking back at him, and they both smile into their scarves. Then a hand takes Harry’s and squeezes. Harry looks at Draco who is already looking at him. Harry squeezes back. Tell him. Harry looks away towards the park to the right. Tell him. Tell him. Harry breathes in and breathes out. Tell him. He opens his mouth to do exactly that.

“Thanks, Harry,” Draco says, softly.

“For what?” he says instead. Tell him.

Draco blinks sweetly at him and smiles. “For today. For the past month. For everything.” Draco pulls closer and lays his head on Harry’s shoulder. “For being so wonderful.”

“You too,” Harry says. Tell him. Hey Draco, Harry wants to say, I’ve got something to tell you. He’s going to say it. He is.

Then Draco flips his head up to look at Harry. “You know, Pansy asked me why I liked your gift so much.”

Harry’s throat goes dry. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“What did you say?”

“Because it’s the start of our relationship,” Draco smiles. “And because you bought it with me in mind.” Draco goes on to chatter about what he was telling Pansy, and a bit more. Harry listens. And even when Draco is done, he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. They reach Harry’s doorstep, and Harry unlocks the door.

“See you tomorrow then?” Draco asks. Tell him.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He feels a bit sick and guilty and pathetic. “See you.”

He walks inside, and immediately fire-calls Hermione. She would know what to do.

~~

Draco realizes he's forgotten his good night kiss about a minute into the street. He gasps and turns right back. From the distance, it's clear Harry hasn't bothered getting up and closing the front door yet. What a heathen, Draco thinks fondly. As he approaches, he can hear everything that's going on. "I don’t know how to do this, Hermione," Harry is groaning, and Draco's steps falter. He knows he shouldn't eavesdrop, but damn it, he's curious.

Peering around the door frame, he can see Harry on the couch with his face buried in his palms. Granger's crouching in front of Draco's boyfriend with her hand on his shoulder. Huh. It’s barely been a minute since Draco left, and she’s already here comforting Harry? Draco's heart clenches. This is...not good. Was Harry struggling with something? Was something going on? Why didn't Draco know about whatever was making Harry look like that?

"The longer you leave it, the more it's going to hurt, Harry. For both of you. You just go for it," Granger is saying.

Harry shakes his head and whines, "But he's going to be so heartbroken, Hermione, he is. Those stupid things mean the world to him, how am I going to tell Draco that they weren't for him? That I lied to him?"

Draco's breath stops, and before he knows what he's doing, he's pushed through the door, and right into the faces of two horrified Gryffindors. "What weren't for me?" he says, cutting right through something Hermione was saying. "What did you lie to me about?"

All the colour drains from both the Gryffindor's faces. "Draco," pleads Harry, getting up and reaching towards him. "I know how this sounds, but trust me, it's not..."

"What did you lie to me about, Potter?" Draco insists, his voice rising in volume and pitch. Harry looks so guilty. Oh Merlin, this was where Harry revealed he didn't love Draco at all, isn't it?

"I… the gifts, Draco, they weren't meant..." Harry tries. "Crap, this is coming out all wrong, Draco, it's not, we're still..." But Draco's stopped listening.

With ears ringing, his mouth moves and out comes: "But they had my name on them." Harry touches his elbow and his mouth moves. Draco flinches back, and his breaths come shallower and shallower. "I thought… I thought they were a... a courtship..." he trails off in a small tinny voice Draco hates. And then he realizes. "Merlin," he exhales. "Merlin, I didn't even wait for you to explain." Harry's eyes are wide and he's shaking his head wildly trying to get a word in, but Draco doesn't let him. He doesn't even notice. "I just… I just assumed. Stupid. Stupid. Oh Merlin, you probably just went along with me as I manhandled you into a relationship." He pushes Harry away from him. "I'm so… I'm so sorry, I'm so," he gasps.

"Draco, no wait! You've got it all wrong!" Potter tries to hug Draco, but Draco stumbles backward, and then scrambles for the door. He can't breathe, he can't think, he can't be here. He can't—he has to go. The door crashes into the wall as he shoves past it. "Draco!" Potter calls after him. Draco practically flies back down the staircase. He can feel the broken shards of his heart pouring out of every bit of him, trailing on the ground, getting crushed under Potter's feet once again. "Draco wait!" Potter hollers behind him. "Draco!" Blindly, Draco crosses the street, and almost crashes into the wall in front of the park. From this angle, he can almost see the tree under which they'd had their first picnic. His slight pause lets Potter finally catch up to him and he feels his elbow being caught in long fingers and tugged into a solid chest.

"Draco please, let me explain," Potter pleads, but Draco pulls away.

"I get it, Potter," he says and his voice shakes slightly. He turns away from Potter. "It was my fault. I was the one who assumed it was a gift, a token of your affection."

"Draco," Potter says. "Draco listen."

Draco ignores him. "You don't have to stay or try to explain or… or anything. I understand." He pulls his jacket tighter. "I do."

"Draco," Potter whispers.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. "Just..." he chokes slightly, "don't drag it out for me, Potter. If you're going to leave, just leave. Please. Don't make this harder for me." After a pause, unable to stop himself, he adds in a small voice, "I liked you, you know. A lot."

The cold evening wind nips at Draco's cheekbones, and embarrassingly, his eyes water slightly. Muffled sounds of children playing blend in with the rising evening sounds of the trees' denizens overhead. He runs his eyes over the cracked pavement and tries hard to keep breathing evenly (a shudder or two creep in anyways). Potter shuffles behind him, probably preparing to leave. Probably preparing to confirm that it was all just a misunderstanding. Probably apologetic but finally free of Draco's expectations.

Suddenly strong arms wind around his middle and tan fingers grasp his wrists. Draco's heart stops beating. A warm chest plasters itself along his back, and a chin drops onto his right shoulder.

"Draco," Potter says, his dark hair tickling Draco's ear. Their cheeks brush slightly, and Draco can feel Potter's lashes flutter. "My dearest Draco," Potter says again, but this time the hands on Draco's arms turn him around to face Potter. Draco cannot breathe. Sunlight turns Potter's eyes greener than the summer foliage and deeper than Peruvian rainforests. When he speaks, his lips turn each vowel into a caress, and his eyes flicker over Draco's face as if he were memorizing it. "That wasn't for you, no. But this..." A rough hand covers Draco's and then draws it up to the solid chest underneath Potter's robe. Draco breathes in softly. Potter's eyes glint in the setting sun. "This is all yours." Potter's low voice seeps into Draco's bones and rattles his heart. Draco's not sure he's ever going to be the same again. "Say, Draco Lucius Malfoy," Potter whispers, his hand brushing hair out of Draco's eyes. "Will you do me the honour," his hand slips up to Draco's cheek, "of being my boyfriend?"

A small traitorous tear slips out the corner of Draco's eyes. "Potter?" he says, lips trembling, chest full, ears buzzing.

"Say yes," Potter whispers, leaning forward to put their heads together.

Draco is trembling all over now. He turns his mouth over into Potter's hand. "Yes," he murmurs and kisses Potter's palm. "Yes." He lifts his head, and his lips meet Potter's.

"I really like you too, Draco," Harry whispers into his mouth when they part. "One may even say that I love you." There's little Draco can do after that, except kiss Harry again. And again. And again and again and again for the rest of their long, healthy lives.

Behind them, the sun dips below the horizon and the street lamps flicker on. Everything's perfect.

Except.

"Harry?" Rustling and then louder. "Harry?"

"Hmm?" Harry replies sleepily.

"You never did explain to me what that orange thing did."

"Go to sleep Draco," Harry groans and hides deeper in his blankets. He was too gay for this, Merlin.

"But Harry..." Draco whines.

"No."

Draco pouts. "I want a divorce."

"We aren't even married yet, you nut."

"Stop distracting me! Potter! Tell me!"

"Sleep!"

"Potteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!!!"