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The leaf pile starts small, ankle high. A sad little ant hill. Draco watches from his kitchen window, snorting into his morning coffee. The scruffy bloke who lives in the house next door has abandoned his rake and is playing tag with a fluffball that could hardly be called a dog in respectable company. The dog tears through the pile, tail tucked under, an evasive maneuver. Leaves fly hither and yon. The bloke laughs, and Draco frowns.
He doesn’t think about that dimple while addressing his correspondence all day.
The next day the leaf pile has grown. A molehill, by all accounts. Pansy clicks her tongue and sips her warm cider from the porch, eyes volleying between a tall ginger and the scruffy bloke — Harry, Mrs. Stonewall had informed him over the hedge while Draco collected the afternoon post. The fluffball barks and chases the football they’re tossing between them. Harry has to reach high overhead to catch a loftily tossed ball, and Draco chokes on his cider.
He doesn’t think about that treasure trail while he prepares for bed that night.
Two days later, the leaf pile has expanded a considerable amount. It’s as tall as Harry’s knees and as high as the chin of the young boy squealing and chasing Harry with handfuls of leaves. Pansy tops off Draco’s wine and laments the absence of the ginger. Draco hums, shaking his head as Harry picks up the boy and they spin, falling into the pile. It’s not at all endearing how the boy’s giggles blend with Harry’s.
He doesn’t think about that musical laughter while he tosses and turns into the small hours.
A week later the leaf pile is substantial. Draco hasn’t seen Harry other than to spy on him from the study windows the day before, chatting up a comely looking bloke wearing a horrid plaid shirt — a different plaid bloke from last week. This morning while making breakfast, Draco watches Harry stand in his doorway and send off the bloke.
He doesn’t think about that delicious vee-muscle disappearing beneath a sheet slung low around bare hips while he scrapes the burnt surface off his toast.
The sun stretches shadows across the yard that afternoon, and that bloody leaf pile grows bigger and bigger, as Harry, the ginger and the boy work in the yard.
Maybe it was the dash of Kahlua he poured into his morning coffee.
Maybe it was the crisp pinot gris he sipped with his salad at lunch.
Maybe it was the slug of whiskey he tossed back for happy hour. Followed by two more.
He doesn’t remember running. He doesn’t remember standing up, even. One minute he’s sitting on his porch, thinking how dare Harry look so fucking fit in a ballcap, dark hair curling up around his ears. The next… leaves, crisp and paper thin are crunching under his collar. Leaves, cold and slick, are sliding down his pants. Leaves cover his nose, their scent tasting mossy and musty on the back of his tongue.
Voices are yelling and a dog is barking. Strong hands clasp Draco’s arms and waist, hauling him out of the leaf pile.
“Bloody hell!” the ginger exclaims, cheeks flaring angry red to match his hair. “We just finished!”
“Uncka Hawwy!” the kid yells, the dog barks matching his volume. “Uncka Hawwy! I wanna jump in, too!”
Draco gazes up at Harry from the comfort of his arms still holding him steady.
“Hi,” Harry says, smiling bright and crooked. The world tilts. Draco barely feels the earth beneath his feet. “Where did you come from?”
“I would look smashing in plaid,” Draco announces.
“Indeed you would.” Harry’s eyes are emerald green, the exact match to the stone in Mother’s heirloom ring.
The boy tugs at Harry's jeans. “Gosh, your wish came twoo, Uncka Hawwy!” He smiles at Draco, eyes wide and earnest. “My Uncka Hawwy wikes you, mister neighbour man. He says you’re fit and exactly his type— ”
The ginger grabs the boy and throws him over his shoulder. “Teddy wants hot chocolate!” He ducks Teddy’s kicks and the jumping dog. “You should join us, fit neighbour man.”
Harry clears his throat, an appealing blush topping his cheeks. “Can I tempt you— ”
“Yes,” Draco answers breathily.