Chapter Text
Of course he had known Potter would be here: Astoria was marrying Seamus Finnigan, for fuck’s sake, who, quite predictably, had invited every damn Gryffindor in his year in Hogwarts, plus some.
And that obviously included Potter.
Potter was talking to Ginny Weasley and, although Draco knew they had divorced about two years ago, seeing them together still caused something very unwelcome to stir inside Draco.
Now Potter noticed him, giving him a very short, very small and very faint smile in recognition, then quickly averting his gaze, talking to Ginny again as if Draco wasn’t there at all.
For some reason that stung even more, knowing how he didn’t even matter to Potter at all anymore.
Of course he wouldn’t.
Draco turned and made a beeline to the bar, deciding this probably was as good a day as any to get absolutely sloshed. He asked for another Firewhiskey.
“Sulking on your own.” Astoria’s words, absolutely not phrased as a question, were accompanied by a soft touch on his upper arm. Draco realised he’d become used to her touch: it had been a constant over the past fourteen years, always just there when he’d needed it.
And he realised he would miss it. Even though his and Astoria’s marriage had never been based on romantic love, it had worked, she had been able to ground him, make him see he could still redefine himself, that whatever his past had been, he could still do the right thing now.
Her confidence had made all the difference in the world.
But then she’d fallen in love with Seamus and when she had talked to Draco about it, about wanting to really be with Seamus, to live in the same house, to wake up together, he had understood.
Of course he’d understood.
So he’d decided to let her go.
And now here he was, at her wedding.
“What are you thinking?” Astoria asked and he realised he’d been too caught up in his own thoughts, not giving her the attention she deserved.
“That I’m going to miss you.” Draco’s answer was much too honest, already making him doubt his decision to drink all he wanted.
Astoria smiled at him warmly. “Me too,” she said, “I really don’t regret our arrangement. We were good together. It’s just-, I wanted-“
Draco looked at her, managing a smile that was probably still too tight. “I know.”
And the thing was: he did know. He knew exactly what it felt like to want what Astoria meant: someone who really cared, who thought you were the only person that mattered, someone to love, someone to give yourself to completely, someone who would not shy away if you did … .
Draco also knew it wasn’t something people like him got to have, though. He’d learnt that the hard way. And then he’d settled for the next best thing. Which was now taken away from him, too.
Draco felt the lump in his throat, the prickle in his eyes he really didn’t want to feel just now and he shut them for a moment, hoping that would take care of all the inconvenient tell-tale signs he wasn’t prepared to show.
Not here, at Astoria’s wedding of all places.
“And I’m glad you’re happy,” he squeezed out next. He meant it and Astoria knew. He’d been around her long enough to be able to tell that she knew.
When Seamus came up to them to collect his bride for the first dance of the evening, Astoria turned back to Draco, smiling warmly at him once more: “Try to have a nice time.” It sounded stronger than advice, almost like a plea.
Draco had another Firewhiskey, while watching them dance.
***
Draco was still at the bar - the far end of it, slightly in the shadows - leaning against it more out of necessity than out of choice by now, when he started at the sound of a large bowl of now undefinable food hitting the floor. Then laughter, energetic and joyous.
Draco would have known that laugh everywhere.
Potter.
Weasley, the male variant this time, joined in the laughter slightly reluctantly and Draco couldn’t decide whether that was, because either Weasley’d sent the bowl to its splintering doom in the first place or because Weasley would have wanted to eat everything in it, which now would obviously be completely out of the question. Perhaps it was a combination of both.
It was Granger who cleaned the mess with an efficient swish of her wand, of course.
Potter thanked her, still with that joy in his eyes, which made him look even more handsome.
Because, yes, he was handsome, annoyingly so really, he’d always been: Draco was wasted enough to let himself appreciate that, to let himself stare for a bit.
Potter seemed to actually have put some effort into the way he looked for the evening: his hair was sort of presentable, at least it didn’t seem half as messy as usual and he wore nicely pressed dress robes in a shade of dark grey that clearly set off his green eyes. Yes, he was undeniably handsome.
“You could just go there and talk to him.” It was unmistakably Luna’s light voice, although Draco hadn’t noticed her approaching.
“Yes, of course I could.” He tried to sneer, but he realised he was slurring. The two didn’t go well together.
“Yes, so why don’t you? I don’t think he would mind.” Luna had disregarded the sneering part to Draco’s answer completely.
“I think he would,” Draco just answered. He definitely wasn’t going to tell her how Potter hadn’t even wanted to see him, how he had ignored him as much as he could for the whole evening. Even just telling Luna would hurt.
And it hurt enough as it was already, thank you very much.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Luna sounded very sure, her words accompanied by her ethereal smile as if she just knew. “Just talk to him.”
“Coming?” It was Neville, Luna’s husband, who was asking her to come, addressing Draco next: “If that’s okay with you?”.
“Yes, of course it is.” Draco didn’t mind, quite the opposite, really. It would conveniently end this rather uncomfortable conversation.
“It’s just that I promised Luna to dance with her when I got here.” Neville’s voice was still apologetic and when he saw Draco’s frown, he elaborated: “I needed to harvest a batch of Fluxweed before coming here. Full moon today.”
Draco just nodded, which his head and stomach didn’t at all approve of, and Neville and Luna got to the dancefloor, Luna doing her weird, intricate dance and Neville happily joining in. They looked good together, fitting.
Of course, they did. Like almost everybody else here, almost everyone having a significant other.
Well, Draco didn’t. Not anymore.
And, of course, Harry didn’t have anyone special anymore, either, not since he and Ginny Weasley had split up, but that was different somehow. He was still so irrevocably part of the Golden Trio - as they had been called after the war - that it almost felt like Harry was in some kind of relationship anyway.
Well, at least Potter hadn’t been alone this whole evening. Draco had seen how he’d been constantly talking to people, mostly to Weasley and Granger and occasionally Ginny. And to anyone else who happened to come his way, of course.
One big happy Gryffindor family here, apparently.
The Slytherins obviously weren’t part of that, though: they were massively underrepresented at this wedding, as most of them, like Draco and Astoria, had fled the country, but, unlike Draco and Astoria, had had no wish of returning yet, not even for a wedding, the way they’d been treated after the war still not forgotten.
Most of them had declined the wedding invitation.
Draco shot a quick Tempus to see whether it would be rude to leave already.
It was. Too early.
He had another Firewhiskey.
***
Draco had actually slumped into the bar a bit when he saw yet another Weasley, one that actually came his way. It wasn’t something he was used to, so his first instinct was to find anyone else nearby that the Weasley could be coming up to. There was no one.
“Draco Malfoy, am I right?” Draco didn’t feel like nodding, so he just didn’t. People usually got his name right: his blonde hair just as much of a giveaway as the Weasley’s red. This particular Weasley didn’t ring a bell, though. He was ruggedly handsome, muscular and strong, but Draco couldn’t for the life of him put a first name to this man.
That solved itself.
“Charlie Weasley.” He stuck out his hand and Draco took it. “I was really impressed with your work on Alexandru.” Oh, that actually was a name Draco recognised. Yes, about three months ago, Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. Draco had been called in on a rather viciously wounded man who had crossed a dragon at the wrong time and the wrong place.
So this was the dragon Weasley.
“He’s my colleague,” Charlie added, coming slightly closer, “the way he was hurt, we didn’t even know whether he was going to come out of it at all, but he hardly even scarred.” Charlie sounded genuinely impressed and Draco let himself feel it. Just for a bit. His speciality was healing complex deep wounds and burns, especially when they were caused by curses, but most of his techniques worked on dragon fire induced injuries just as well. It was something he had worked really hard to become very, very good at.
“So I hear you’re going to work at St Mungo’s,” Charlie stated next. He was even closer now and Draco should probably feel crowded, but he didn’t, not exactly.
He didn’t really know what he was feeling.
“Yes, I am.” Even this very short sentence came out decidedly slurring and for some reason it made Draco feel quite uncomfortable again, like this was going to be one of those situations he might really come to regret in the morning.
“I’m glad,” Charlie’s voice sounded sincere and warm, much like he meant a lot more than what he was actually saying. “Just a pity we won’t have you back on the Continent anymore.” Here he just looked at Draco, holding his gaze a beat too long: his eyes were blue. “Alexandru told me you were quite something to look at, and completely my type. He was not wrong.”
‘He was not wrong.’ What kind of sentence was that? Why not just say he was right. It irked Draco.
Charlie was still watching him, though. Expectantly.
Oh, wait. Did he mean-? Draco noticed his brain was apparently decidedly slow, only now catching on.
Then Charlie touched his upper arm, just lightly, his hand travelling up over Draco’s shoulder to his neck.
Yes, apparently he did mean … .
Draco couldn’t help the gasp of breath escaping him when Charlie reached the sensitive spot just below Draco’s ear.
It had been so long, because even though Draco and Astoria had had an open marriage (they’d both had different needs, so to speak), it had been years since he’d last pulled someone.
This could be so easy.
Charlie’s fingers moved smoothly over the nape of his neck now and Draco let himself be pulled forward. He could smell the Firewhiskey on Charlie’s breath.
Charlie’s other hand was travelling down. “Just to be clear: I don’t do long-term, but I certainly wouldn’t mind … ,” Charlie said. It was crystal clear indeed. And quite convenient: beneficial to the both of them and no strings attached.
Draco didn’t know whether it was all the Firewhiskey he’d had, but he felt himself lean in a bit. Why wouldn’t he? It could be fun and it wasn’t like he had anyone to go home to anyway.
That’s when the elbow hit him right in the ribs. “Oh, sorry,” the man said, “didn’t see you there.” He had apparently been muscling his way to the other end of the bar through the crowd.
Charlie and Draco both noticed who it was at exactly the same time.
“Hey, Harry.” Charlie sounded jovial, not at all like someone who had just been chatting Draco up rather convincingly.
“Hey, Charlie,” Harry turned their way completely now. Of course he did. He still pointedly didn’t look at Draco, though.
So they talked, Harry and Charlie, easily, like they were old friends. Which they probably were.
Draco let himself lean into the bar once more, tuning out.
Then he got his Firewhiskey and headed for the exit. It couldn’t possibly be too early to leave anymore.
***
It must have been that last whiskey that had done it. Draco remembered having walked here, but then he’d just felt so tired and he’d allowed himself to slide down the cool, smooth wall. He would get up and go later. Fortunately he had found himself a shadowy nook, just off the cloakroom, where he’d be out of sight enough for people not to notice.
Guests had been leaving and Draco knew he should probably leave too, but his legs just didn’t seem to work anymore and his head wouldn’t stop spinning. He leant his head against the wall, which seemed to take care of the spinning a bit. It was okay like this. He was okay.
“Oh, and Harry … ,” Luna’s voice. She was disturbingly close, but somehow Draco couldn’t quite get himself to open his eyes. “I think you should take Draco.”
Well, that made him open them. Even in his current state that fucking did it.
Now Harry looked his way, Draco registered. Now, now Draco seemed at his lowest, Harry actually saw him. It hurt Draco more than it had any right to, not after all this time.
Draco closed his eyes again. Perhaps if he just gave in to sleep, he would wake up tomorrow and all of this would have gone. It was most definitely worth a shot.
“Come on,” Harry’s voice was even closer now than Luna’s had been, “Let’s get you up.” Harry sounded surprisingly warm. Then he just put his arm under Draco’s and hoisted him up, slowly, carefully, with just a tingle of his caressing magic to help.
Draco wanted to protest, to tell Harry he could make it home himself in a bit, but his muscles felt so heavy and words never formed.
He found himself leaning against Harry, his face buried in the nook of Harry’s neck. It was so familiar, so warm and inviting and he allowed himself to lean into it even more. Harry just let him, holding him up.
“We’re going to use the Floo now,” Harry warned. At least they wouldn’t Apparate, Draco thought fuzzily. He knew from experience that was a very bad idea, when he was this wasted: the mess he’d made when Astoria had Side-Alonged him when he’d been completely trashed all those years ago, still fresh enough in his mind.
And then they were there: in Grimmauld Place. Draco didn’t know why he hadn’t expected it, but they were in Harry’s house. How could he have expected anything else, though? Harry couldn’t have taken them to Draco’s flat. He didn’t even know where Draco’s London flat was. Oh heck, even Draco himself hardly knew where his London flat was. He’d just bought it, hadn’t even properly been there himself yet.
Harry had helped Draco take his robes off and now ushered him to what Draco hazily recognised as one of the many spare bedrooms Harry’s house had. It was the room he used the most, the one opposite Harry’s own bedroom.
Draco was still heavily leaning into Harry, muzzily taking in the familiar feel of him. He didn’t want to move, just wanted to keep standing close to Harry.
Of course Harry didn’t agree.
“I’m going to sit you down on the bed. Do you think you can sit, just until I take your shirt off?” Harry asked.
Draco nodded slowly enough not to upset his stomach again, fearing that saying anything was still out of the question.
So Harry eased him down carefully. The bed was so soft and Draco felt so tired all of a sudden that he almost gave in, remembering he had promised to keep sitting only just in time.
Harry sat down beside him and started unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, then took it off. He didn’t say anything, but Draco saw how his eyes lingered.
“See anything you like?” This time Draco’s words did come out, although they might not have been too easy to discern.
Harry didn’t answer the question - although Draco thought he saw him flush a bit - instead saying: “Just go to sleep.”
So Draco let himself fall onto the mattress. For a brief moment he vaguely thought about asking Harry one important question: would he like to stay, with Draco, just for now, just for tonight, just for old time’s sake? But it was no use, for as soon as Draco’s head hit the bed he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
***
Early morning light was seeping through the curtains when Draco woke up again. Well, ‘woke up’ probably didn’t exactly cover it. His head hurt like hell and opening his eyes was a whole jolly challenge in and of itself.
He managed to do so by sheer willpower, anyway, and found Harry had left a phial of hangover potion on the nightstand, which he gratefully took, feeling better almost instantly.
The relief he felt was short lived, though, because he was in Harry’s house. Harry had had to take him home, not because he had wanted to, but because Draco … .
Fuck.
Draco felt himself flush. Violently. And he was extremely happy there was no one else here to witness it.
What had he been thinking getting himself that drunk last night for fuck’s sake. Harry hadn’t even had a choice: Draco would hardly have been able to get himself anywhere in the state he’d been in and Harry … .
Draco just closed his eyes for a moment. Harry hadn’t even wanted to look at him earlier yesterday evening: he would never have taken him home if he’d actually had any say in the matter, if Draco hadn't been so bloody boozed-up he couldn’t actually stand up straight anymore, let alone Floo home.
Right.
Draco slung the blanket off of himself and got up. He found his shirt – neatly folded, which was a bit of a surprise, because Draco knew Harry didn’t normally fold anything neatly, really – on a chair and put it on, fumbling with the buttons in his haste to do them up.
He needed to leave as fast as possible.
He apparated out before he’d even thought of the wards. Luckily they were still set on letting him through.
***
It was only that evening, when Draco had been safely back in his own empty flat for a while and getting ready for bed, that he realised it was gone. For the first time in over fourteen years the necklace wasn’t around his neck.
Somehow he had lost his locket.