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Draco poked his wand at the smear of chocolate across the front of his lime green robes, then sighed, shucking them and tossing them into his locker. He fished out a fresh set and buttoned them up as he walked out of the locker room and briskly down the hallway.
Mrs Marchbanks’ door was already cracked open and Draco stepped right in. She sat upright in her hospital bed, wrapped in her best velvet dressing gown, weighty pearls hanging from her ears.
“Sorry I’m late, love. Mr Peterson again, with the pudding,” he explained as he scanned her diagnostic spells, then nodded, pleased with her vitals. The surgery had been a success. “Always with the pudding. Chocolate this time.”
“I’ll never trust a man who doesn’t like sweets,” she said with a disapproving shake of her head.
“Nor one who uses them as weapons when you try to give him his potions,” Draco agreed with a huff. He adjusted the pillows behind her head, tucking her long grey braid over her shoulder fondly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now that you’re here,” she said with a saucy grin that made her wrinkled face look ten years younger.
Mrs Marchbanks was his favourite patient. Her arthritis kept her bedridden most of the time, but it did nothing to dull her razor-sharp wit. She’d eviscerated every other Healer Trainee to step through her door, but took to Draco immediately when he threatened to steal her jewellery and shave her head in her sleep if she didn’t behave.
“Flatter me all you like, darling. Healer Lockley will never let you drink another double martini on his watch. It messes with your medication, and you know it. Plus, he’s still sore that you bribed the cleaners into stashing vodka in the spare sheets for you last time.”
“I’d settle for Mr Peterson’s pudding on Tuesday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do. Especially if it keeps it off the front of my robes. Costing me a fortune at the cleaners.”
She smiled slyly at him as he administered her potions and checked over her paperwork.
“Why are you looking like that? I don’t like when you get that mischievous look in your eye, Margaret. It does not bode well.”
“Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“You’ve never forgotten a thing in your life, you old bat. So, what is it this time?”
She sat up straighter with a wince and a grunt, lifting one hand to halt him when he hurried forward to help her. She twisted carefully, pulling from behind her pillow a cream-coloured envelope with his name on it, written in a shaky script. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Draco clicked his tongue at her, mouth twisting as he tried not to smile too broadly. He opened the envelope to find a simple card with a picture of flowers printed on the front, swaying gently in an unseen breeze. Inside, Mrs Marchbanks had signed her name and included a shiny Galleon.
“So I can still buy you a drink on your birthday,” she said with a wink.
“Flirt,” Draco chided, but his heart swelled anyway.
“Are you having a party?” she asked. “Or perhaps a night in with someone special?”
Draco’s smile wilted somewhat, but managed to keep it from slipping entirely. He didn’t want her feeling sorry for him, especially since he was quite sure Mrs Marchbanks had been treated to her fair share of parties and lavish attention when she was young and vibrant.
“I’m too busy for parties, love,” he said. “Work to be done. Difficult old women to supervise.”
In truth, Draco was fairly certain most people had forgotten his birthday this year. Pansy invited him for a drink, of course. Blaise said he might show up if he could get off work in time (“The Ministry waits for no one, Draco. Not even you. Especially not you.”) But it was fine. It wasn’t as if he expected the fanfare of his childhood birthdays. And anyways, Pony rides and party games weren’t quite to his tastes anymore.
Mother sent him flowers; an extravagant bouquet in all white that currently sat on his kitchen table. His father even signed the card, though Draco suspected Narcissa had to put the quill in his hand. “He’s proud of you,” she’d said, but Draco wasn’t so sure. Healer training and feeding ungrateful invalids pudding was probably not what Lucius Malfoy had in mind for his only son.
“You work too much, Draco,” she said ruefully, and Draco’s stomach twisted.
“That’ll be Healer Malfoy to you, soon enough.” He kissed the back of her papery hand and she patted his arm. “I’ll see you Tuesday,” he said.
Draco showered in the hospital locker room and dressed in dark trousers and a well-fitted shirt. He barely managed to avoid a run-in with Healer Edward Sellwick. It wasn’t that Draco was sore about their split, especially not since Eddie seemed more than willing to show up at Draco’s door when Draco called after one too many glasses of wine, but it was awkward having to work with him. It was even more awkward running into him just out of the communal showers in nothing but a towel.
Draco half considered inviting Eddie to join him and Pansy for a drink, as he didn’t want to go home alone on his birthday, but decided against it at the last minute, ducking between a row of lockers and slipping out the door before the Healer caught sight of him.
He went to meet Pansy at their usual haunt — a little bistro in Soho not far from Draco’s flat. It was a nice sort of place, not too posh, but the booths were real leather and the bartender, Nigel, made each cocktail custom and based on the customer’s personal taste preferences.
Draco scanned the room when he arrived, but didn’t see Pansy right away. He frowned and leaned across the bar to Nigel.
“Seen Pans?” he asked.
Nigel grinned and jerked a thumb towards the back, a room used primarily for overflow seating, which was odd because the place was practically empty.
Draco swung around the corner and face-first into a cannon blast of multicoloured confetti followed by an uproarious, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
He clutched a hand to his chest to still his thundering heart as the small crowd clapped and whooped and pulled the strings on party poppers. He turned to Pansy, who was dusting confetti from his shoulders and hair with her fingertips.
“You bitch!” he exclaimed. “You wanted me to think everyone had forgotten!”
“Of course I did, darling. It isn’t any fun to see you smile if I don’t also get to watch you suffer first.”
“It’s not like you’d let us forget, anyway,” Blaise said, throwing an arm around Draco's shoulder. “Not after last year when you scorched the date and ‘you wanker’ into my kitchen wall after I gave you your present a day late. One day, Draco!”
Draco clucked his tongue and accepted a wet kiss to his temple. “Serves you right.”
Blaise laughed and ruffled his hair, to which Draco scowled and straightened it carefully.
Everyone was there; Pansy, looking quite smug, and Blaise, off to buy a round of drinks, but also Greg and Theo. Lovegood, in ten miles of tulle skirt, was standing to the side with the girl Weasel, who had one arm around her waist and a begrudging expression on her freckled face. Granger was there too, with some of their workmates, still clad in her Healer greens. She gave him a harried, one-armed hug, apologising for her outfit and potion stains, though Draco thought them more palatable than chocolate. Everyone hugged him and slapped him on the back as Draco continued to scan the room—looking, looking.
Pansy pulled up next to him and handed him a drink. She was dressed in a tiny Alaïa number that, while barely appropriate for wear in polite company, looked rather chic,
“He’s not here?” Draco asked, his voice a low whisper in her ear.
“Sorry, pet. Granger said he was pulled away on a mission. Last she heard, he was somewhere on the continent.” Pansy shrugged.
Draco tried not to pout. It was foolish of him to hope that Potter would show up. He came round the pub near Mungo’s to see Granger every so often, while she and Draco commiserated about difficult patients and life as a Healer Trainee. And sometimes he would join Luna when she and Draco met for their Sunday trips to the flea market, where she would buy some odd tapestry, Draco sorted through interesting baubles, and Potter just ate a kebab, rolling his eyes when Draco snapped at him about getting his greasy fingers on the batiks. They weren’t really friends, not like Draco was with Granger or Lovegood. But they could have a laugh, and sometimes Draco thought he felt Potter’s eyes linger on his face a little too long. And sometimes Draco wanted to touch him, even when he didn’t have a reason to.
But Potter was also ridiculously busy, always working late hours at the DMLE, catching dark wizards and being generally heroic, which was equal parts annoying and appealing, depending on how Draco looked at it. He tried not to let it bother him that Potter didn’t show up to his party, but it did. It really did.
Even without Potter, the party was fun. Draco probably had one too many of the cocktails Nigel made for him — the ones that tasted a bit like drinking pine and chewing on flowers, that Pansy said made his breath smell like potpourri. There was cake, too. A lavishly decorated thing that Greg brought from the bakery where he worked and made to Pansy’s exact specifications, with lemon curd between moist layers of vanilla. Draco loved lemon.
There were toasts; heartfelt from Granger, humorous from Blaise, and downright embarrassing from Pansy. And then there was music and dancing. Draco nearly died laughing as Blaise spun Luna across the floor, earning a knee to the groin from the Weaslette when his hands dipped too low on her waist. As far as birthdays went, it could have been worse. Draco felt properly doted upon; his glass never dry and the seat next to him never empty.
Eventually, things wound down. Luna came over and held his hand for too long while the Weaslette punched him in the shoulder before they left together. Greg patted him on the back and Blaise hugged him way too tightly, then left with the waitress. Pansy helped him gather his gifts into a bag — small things, though all unbearably thoughtful. They heaped the coloured paper, bits of ribbon, and confetti from the poppers around one table to make the cleanup easier for Nigel.
Pansy slipped into her coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Coming?” she asked.
Draco gestured to his mostly full cocktail. “I’m going to finish this first.”
“Don’t do it, Draco,” she said with an exasperated sigh.
“Do what?”
“Call that idiot from Mungo’s. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“I’m not going to call him,” Draco said, but he thought he might call him.
“I’m sorry about…” she waved her hand at nothing. “Well, you know.”
They didn’t really talk about Draco’s crush on Potter, though she’d sat with him while he drank an entire bottle of brandy that time Potter started bringing a Quidditch player around on pub night.
“Happy birthday, you old slag,” she said and kissed his forehead. Then she left.
Draco settled himself in the corner of the room and sipped his drink slowly, the detritus of his party littered around him, the smell of sugar and freshly lit birthday candles still lingering in the air. He reconsidered calling Eddie. He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with the awkwardness that came after hooking up with his ex, anyway. And Eddie wasn’t all that good in bed. All in all, not worth the trouble.
Draco drained his drink and pushed it away, ready to gather his coat and head home alone, when he heard the door to the pub bang open. There was scuffling, some cursing, then Potter came skidding around the corner in a swirl of scarlet robes with a box under his arm.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed and dumped the box onto the table, palm smacking against his forehead.
“Quite an entrance, Potter. Pity no one is around to see it but me,” Draco said.
Potter spun to face him. “You’re still here!”
Draco shrugged, though his heart was thundering in his chest. Draco both loved and hated when Potter showed up still in his uniform. He loved it because it looked so fit on him, those lovely gold buttons up the front and the way it hugged his broad shoulders. He looked quite grown-up and official. But he also hated it because it tended to make Draco’s thought processes come to a grinding halt, his mind an endless loop of want, want, want.
“Everyone else gone?” Potter asked, glancing around the room.
“Party’s over, Potter.”
Potter sighed and dropped into the chair across from Draco and ran a hand through his already disastrous hair. “I tried to get out as soon as I could. Things got all fucked up, and the time zones were a confusing mess and—” He sighed again, and smiled a little sadly. “Sorry. Was it fun? Were you surprised?”
“It was,” Draco said. “I was.”
“Ah, good. Parkinson basically forced everyone to make an unbreakable vow so you wouldn’t find out.”
Draco chuckled. “She knows me too well. I was convinced everyone had forgotten all about it. Was resigned to a night alone. Felt terribly sorry for myself.”
Potter shook his head. “Just like a Slytherin. Always have to make you suffer before they do something nice.”
“It’s our way. A little bite makes the sugar taste sweeter.”
Potter just stared at him for a moment, eyes scanning his face, too green in the darkened room. Then he stood abruptly. “I need a drink. Can I get you another one?” He gestured to Draco’s empty glass.
He shouldn’t. He should go home. But what he said was, “If you must.”
Potter disappeared around the corner, and when he came back, it was with a whisky in one hand and another of the floral gin cocktails Draco liked in the other. His nose wrinkled. “Barkeep said that’s what you’d want. Please tell me he got it wrong.”
“I don’t need your judgement, Potter,” Draco said, taking the glass from him, their fingers brushing lightly. “It’s my birthday. Be nice.”
“I am nice! I even brought you a present!” Potter waved one hand and the pastel box flew across the room and landed in front of Draco — a flagrant use of wandless magic that Potter was prone to, and which had the tendency to cause the fronts of Draco’s trousers to grow uncomfortably tight.
Draco opened the lid of the box and peered inside curiously. Nestled amongst pastel tissue paper were two dozen French macarons, sweet-smelling and as beautifully coloured as Easter eggs.
“Where did you get these?” Draco asked, delighted, as he plucked one from the box.
“France.”
Draco frowned. “You were in France?”
“No, I was in Belgium, actually. But I remembered the last time you came back from holiday in Paris and you talked about these things for a week. I had to steal a Portkey and lie to Dawlish, but it was a quick stop.”
Draco blinked at him, macaron still held between two fingers.
“I don’t get it, to be honest,” Potter continued with a shrug. “Seems awfully fussy for a biscuit. I’ll take a good old Hobnob any day. The pink ones are rose flavoured, apparently. Though why anyone would want a biscuit that tastes like a flower, I really couldn’t say. But then again,” he gestured to Draco’s drink.
“You went to France. To get these,” Draco said, slowly. “For me.”
“Well, yeah. It’s your birthday. Doesn’t excuse me for being so late though, I reckon.”
Draco cleared his throat and tamped down on a smile. “It’s a start.” He took a bite of the biscuit and hummed. It was perfect. A little crisp on the outside, filled with smooth, sweet buttercream. Almond flavour. His favourite. “Do you want one?”
Potter ducked his chin sheepishly. “I may have already had one on the way over.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“I was hungry, okay?” He eyed the box again.
“Do you want another one?” Draco asked dryly.
“I wouldn’t say no… just not one of the pink ones this time.”
Draco snorted and pushed the box towards him. Potter peered inside, wiggling his fingers.
“What do you think the green one is?” he asked.
“Pistachio?” Draco guessed, popping the other half of the macaron in his mouth.
Potter shoved the whole biscuit in his mouth, chewed once, then grimaced.
“Tastes like tea,” he said around the mouthful.
Draco couldn’t help but laugh as Potter chewed, looking like he might be ready to spit it out onto the table.
“Matcha, probably,” Draco said.
Potter swallowed dramatically, then took a long drink of his whisky. “Blech!” he spat with his tongue out. “The flowers were one thing, but why would anyone like a biscuit that tastes like the dregs from a teacup?” He pushed the box back to Draco’s side of the table. “You can have the rest.”
“Thank you, Potter. That’s very magnanimous of you,” Draco said with a chuckle.
Potter sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked around the empty room. “So, why are you sitting here, then?” He tilted his head to one side. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Draco stiffened. “I wasn’t waiting on you, if that’s what you meant.”
Potter frowned. “It wasn’t.”
Draco chewed his lip for a moment, appraising Potter, who held his gaze, unflinching. “I wasn’t waiting on anyone,” he said at last. “Just finishing my drink. Taking a quiet moment.”
It was true after all, though he felt no need to tell Potter that the quiet moment was a rather melancholy one until Potter came stumbling in. It was difficult to carry on feeling morose when Potter was in the room, filling the space with all that magic — a near electric tension that crackled around him at all times.
Potter sat up a little straighter. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Draco said without hesitation.
Potter nodded once. He made to stand and panic flared in Draco’s chest because Potter was going to leave, and that wasn’t what Draco wanted. Not at all. Not now that he had him alone.
He reached out a hand and caught Potter by the wrist. “But I don’t mind.”
Potter looked down at the place where Draco’s fingers were wrapped around his wrist, and Draco pulled his hand back. The crease between Potter’s brows remained, but his posture eased as he relaxed back into his chair.
“You know,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve ever done this before.”
“What? Drink in a bar?”
“Well, yeah. Just us, I mean.”
Draco pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. So Potter had noticed that they’d never been alone together, not without the buffer of friends to fill the awkward silences and take the edge off the aching tension that Draco felt whenever they were in the same room. It was the sort of thing that made him want to fidget, to straighten his shirt or tug at his collar, to run fingers through his hair a thousand times. It wasn’t something Draco felt often, or ever really. But it felt a bit different now that it was just the two of them, less like an itch under the skin and more like anticipation, because there was definitely something behind Potter’s eyes, something weighty and dark and Draco felt like his heart might beat right out of his chest.
“No,” Draco said, strained around the tightness in his throat. “I suppose we haven’t.”
“It’s sort of nice, don’t you think?” He looked so sweetly hopeful it was almost pathetic. Because Draco couldn’t think of a less apt word for sitting alone in a bar with Harry Potter in full Auror uniform, sharing whisky and French cookies, than nice. Nice was a bouquet from Mother. A galleon from Mrs Marchbanks. A day in June without rain. Nice didn’t even come close.
“So long as we can keep from throttling each other,” Draco joked.
Potter smirked. “So far so good, hm?”
“Only because you brought a bribe.” Draco poked at the box of macarons.
Potter leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And how far will that bribe get me?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew bait when he saw it and Potter was about as subtle as a brick wall. “Are we bargaining now?”
“Maybe,” Potter said with a shrug that was almost too loose, too casual to be believable. “I just want to know what I’ve earned.”
Draco leaned in, curling his hands around his mostly empty glass. “That depends on what you want.”
Potter’s smirk widened. “To buy you another drink?”
“I’ve had enough.”
“To walk you home?”
Draco heaved a sigh, even as his cheeks warmed and his heart lodged itself in his throat. “I suppose you did go to France for biscuits.”
A blinding smile broke across Potter’s face — with teeth and the crinkles around his eyes and everything.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Oh, I suppose,” Draco conceded.
Draco slipped into his coat as Potter drained the last of his whisky all in one go and got to his feet. Potter picked up the small bag of gifts Pansy had packed up for him and tucked the box of macarons back under his arm. He jerked his head toward the exit, and Draco followed like a crup on a leash.
“Night, mate,” Potter called to Nigel, as the door swung open without Potter even touching it. Bloody wandless magic.
The air outside was damp, the sidewalk shining in the streetlights, though the rain had stopped. There was a touch of warmth in the air, the promise of summer, or maybe that was just the heat burning in Draco’s face. Potter made no move to hand back Draco’s parcels as they walked shoulder to shoulder. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting.
“Never had an Auror escort me home,” Draco teased, glancing at Potter out of the corner of his eye.
Potter snorted. “Yeah, a bit official, I know. I didn’t have time to change.”
Draco felt emboldened by the knowledge that Potter had rushed to his party straight from work — in Europe. He mustered his courage and reached out to tug at the lapel of his robes as they walked.
“I like it.”
Potter grinned again — the sunshine-bright one that transformed his face. It almost looked like he was blushing, a tinge of pink on the crests of his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. But that couldn’t be possible. It was probably just the lamplight reflecting off the scarlet of his uniform, or the rose-tinted glasses Draco was apparently viewing the entire world through that evening.
Draco wanted to touch him, wanted to reach out and curl his arm around Potter’s elbow. And he thought maybe, just maybe, Potter wouldn’t resist. He hoped it wasn’t just the drink, because his head was swimming slightly, but he would swear there was something there. Why else did the air between them feel magnetically charged, tugging them ever closer? But Draco kept his hands to himself and before he knew it, they were standing in front of his flat.
Potter followed him to his door. Draco expected him to step back, to say good night and disappear with nothing more than a smile over his shoulder. But he didn’t. Draco hesitated with his hand on the knob and turned, his back pressed against the door. Potter was there, in his space, too close. And then he lifted an arm to lean one elbow on the door frame and loomed over him, caging him in, even though Draco was taller than him, and by a good amount. He seemed to have slumped, knees gone weak.
“Thanks for the company, Potter,” Draco said, hyper-aware of the way his mouth moved around words now that Potter was staring at it.
“You could call me Harry.”
“I could.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you, Harry.” Something tight and painful in Draco’s chest loosened, while his mind crowed the name repeatedly: Harry, Harry, Harry.
“You could invite me inside.”
“I — I could…”
Potter — no, Harry — pulled back, uncertainty flickering across his expression. “Only if you wanted, of course.”
Draco wanted to drag him back in but didn’t dare touch. He didn’t trust his hands to behave. He bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth. “I have nothing to offer guests. Nothing to eat or drink.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Yeah, definitely not what I was looking for.”
“What are you looking for, Harry? What do you want?”
Harry’s expression softened at something he saw in Draco’s face, and Draco felt horribly exposed. It was hard not to feel that way, what with Harry so bloody close, close enough that Draco could smell the smoky whisky on his breath and the faded sandalwood of his aftershave.
“Mm, well, I was thinking about kissing you, but my hands are full. And I wasn’t sure you’d want me to. Here, I mean. In public.” He gestured towards the street behind him with a tilt of his head. The street hummed with activity still; huddled groups of people stumbling to and from the pubs and clubs, black Muggle taxis cutting around corners, one dog barking at another. “You see, sometimes people like to take my picture without my permission.”
And yeah, Draco knew that. He’d drained half the cellar while whinging to Pansy over those pictures of Harry with some nameless nobody. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be the subject of one of those photos, however, open to the scrutiny of the public that perhaps didn’t look on Draco as kindly as Harry looked at him now. But Draco definitely wanted to be kissed. So he turned the doorknob and the door swung open behind him. Harry smiled.
Once inside, Draco took the box of biscuits and the bag of gifts from Harry and set them on the table in the kitchen, next to the bouquet from his mother. And when he turned, Harry was right there. He took Draco’s face in both his hands and kissed him.
Draco shut his eyes a second too late, inhaling sharply at the first press of Harry’s lips against his own. Draco’s hands fluttered uselessly in the air for just a moment before they settled on Harry’s shoulders. He dragged them across Harry’s chest, clutching the front of his robes in his fists. Harry groaned and his fingers tightened along the sides of Draco’s face. His thumbs pressed gently into the hinge of his jaw, just beneath his cheekbones, easing his mouth open to push his tongue between Draco’s lips and oh yes.
The first brush of Potter’s tongue was like a punch to the gut and Draco gasped, fist tightening in the front of Harry’s robes. Harry’s hands, large and warm, dragged through Draco’s hair, fingertips scraping deliciously across his scalp to cup the back of his head.
Draco opened for him easily, allowing Harry to crowd against him, to plunge his tongue into his mouth, hard and deep. He had to brace himself with a hand at Harry’s neck, feeling the tendons flex beneath his palm, tension written into every line of his body. It was easy to melt against him, let himself go pliant, let Harry take as he needed and give it gladly. There was a desperation in the way Harry kissed, forceful and on knife’s edge. Draco was unsure whether he was about to be pushed down on top of the kitchen table, or if Harry was going to fling himself backwards and flee. So Draco clung to him tighter.
And when Harry did pull back, he didn’t go far, fingers still spread wide across Draco’s skull.
“This is okay, right?” he asked, breathless, eyes trained on Draco’s mouth and a fire blazing behind them. “Tell me this is okay?”
Draco blinked through the haze because he was quite certain that was the most ridiculous question he’d ever been asked.
“God, yes, it’s okay.” He nipped at Harry’s full bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth, feeling Harry go even more tense. “Very okay.”
Draco tightened the hand at Harry’s neck and reached out with the other, snaking it around his waist and drawing him closer until they were slotted together from chest to knee. Harry was pressed hard and hot against Draco’s hip and Draco couldn’t help but shift to grind into him, a desperate attempt to shatter the tension he held in his muscles.
Harry positively growled and the next thing Draco knew, Harry’s hands were gone from his hair to curl around his hips. He ran fingers, spread wide, across Draco’s arse to grip the back of his thighs, heaving him atop the table in one smooth movement. Draco immediately wrapped his thighs around Potter’s hips and flung his arms around his neck as they kissed and kissed, barely a thought as to how the table buckled beneath his weight.
Harry’s hands scrabbled at Draco’s back, yanking his shirt from his trousers to get to bare skin. Draco gasped as the heat of Potter’s palms, dry and rough, pressed against his lower back, hips rocking up against him. Harry was practically crawling over the table with him, kissing him fiercely with tongue and teeth.
It was bloody brilliant. So brilliant in fact that Draco didn’t hear the table legs creak as they scraped across the floor, skidding as Harry rutted back against him. He did, however, feel the moment the thing gave way — a grinding screech of the metal table legs against the floor followed by the swoop in his stomach as the thing tipped backwards. It all happened so fast, blindingly fast. The table crumpled, and Draco flailed for a moment, clutching at Harry’s shoulders, their mouths torn apart and then — nothing. The table stilled and Draco stared wide-eyed at Harry for a moment. He turned his head slowly to see that yes, one metal leg was bent at a horrible angle, the other three splayed wide, but the vase of white flowers and pastel biscuit box were suspended on thin air.
When Draco looked back, Harry was grimacing, his face quite red. “Yeah, you probably want to get down,” he said as he gently encouraged Draco off the edge of the table with a hand on his hip. “Not sure how long I can hold that.”
As soon as Draco was on his own two feet, the thing collapsed with a crash to the floor. Draco turned and looked at the mess, the heap of metal and wood on the floor, broken glass and flowers everywhere, the box of biscuits atop it all, mostly unharmed.
“Did you just —” Draco looked at Harry. Then back at the mess. “What did you just do?”
“Just a quick stasis spell,” Potter said with a wince. “Basic training for all Aurors, really. Gets a bit dodgy when I’m — ah — distracted.”
“You broke my table,” Draco said, still dumbfounded.
“It was your arse on it, I might point out.”
“You put it there!”
Harry blinked, mouth squished to one side. “I’ll give you that one, yeah.” He bent down and picked up the box of biscuits. “Sorry.”
Draco barked out a laugh. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He laughed long and loud with his head thrown back. He grabbed the box out of Harry’s hands and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. He flung his arms around Harry’s neck and kissed him, hard, and Harry’s look of baffled confusion melted away, his face splitting into a grin.
“My hero,” Draco said, patting his cheek once. He kissed him again, because he could, and because he wanted to. God, he really wanted to.
Harry just shook his head and grinned some more.
Draco slipped from the protective cage of his embrace but kept hold of his wrists. He tugged him towards the sitting room.
“Come on, let’s see if the sofa’s any sturdier.”
Potter looked momentarily wary. “You haven’t been shopping at Ikea or anything, have you?”
“What’s an Ikea?” Draco asked, because honestly, Potter said the most ridiculous nonsense sometimes.
“You know what? Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”
And it really didn’t matter, because Draco pushed Harry down on the sofa and crawled on top of him. Harry didn’t do much more talking after that.
*****
Later, much later, Draco and Harry were stretched out across Draco’s sofa, which did, in fact, prove to be quite sturdy. They were still half-dressed, though most of Harry’s uniform was crumpled on the floor and Draco’s trousers were ready for the bin. Draco’s legs tangled with Harry's as Harry sagged bonelessly against the armrest.
As it turned out, all the electric tension Harry carried around simply evaporated when he was properly shagged. It was a bit like pricking a balloon — he just deflated, leaving behind a man who was soft and pliant and not opposed to a cuddle.
The box of biscuits was nestled between them, and Harry poked around amongst the tissue paper. He pulled a biscuit free, only slightly cracked and caved-in on one side, and held it up. He sniffed it.
“Smells like chocolate!”
“Ugh,” Draco groaned. “You can have that one. I’ve had enough chocolate for today.”
Harry frowned at his biscuit. “I thought your cake was lemon.”
Draco thought his face might have done something funny then, but fortunately, Harry wasn’t looking at him. “How did you know that?”
“You love lemon cake. Everyone knows that,” he said simply.
Draco smiled, something small and soft, as his chest grew painfully tight. “Not everyone.”
Harry bit the biscuit. “Hey, that’s not half bad!”
Draco snorted.
“It’s no Hobnob,” Harry went on with a wobble of his head. “Doesn’t hold a candle to those chocolate dipped digestives Molly always serves at tea. But it’ll do. Do you not like chocolate?”
“Of course I like chocolate. Had a bit of a run-in with a rogue pudding this afternoon.”
Harry nodded. “Mr Peterson. Hermione mentioned him. Hates dessert. Seems suspect to me.” He shoved the rest of the biscuit in his mouth.
“I’ve been told never to trust a man who doesn’t like sweets,” Draco said, watching him eat shamelessly with a small smile on his face. “I have it on good authority.”
“And why is that? Not that I disagree.”
“They are relentlessly grumpy, I reckon.”
Harry hummed and inspected the bit of buttercream on his fingers, but before he could brush it away, Draco grabbed his hand and licked it slowly from his fingertips.
Harry’s eyes darkened, and he grinned. Draco nipped the tip of his finger and Harry made a sound in the back of his throat.
“And they’ll never understand how a little bite makes the sugar taste sweeter, right?” Harry said, one eyebrow quirked.
Draco smiled, smug. “Exactly.”
When Draco kissed him, Harry tasted chocolaty and sugar sweet and he decided maybe his birthday had turned out alright, that maybe he could forgive Harry for showing up late, so long as he brought biscuits.