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“Merlin, please be joking,” Pansy says flatly when she sees him and it takes more effort than it ought to keep her palm off her face. Draco can tell because she’s gone a bit twitchy about the eyes and that one corner of her mouth won’t stop pulling in. Any second now, she’s going to accuse him of thinking with his Firewhisky again, he can all but hear it.
Instead of pointing out she’s gone twitchy again, he lifts a brow mildly in challenge. “Joking? No. Why would I be?”
That’s enough to snap her back to rights; her chin juts stubborn and her eyes narrow, no hint of twitch anymore. “That is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever seen you in, Draco, and please recall that I have seen you in your all-together.”
Draco’s been reasonably sure this plan is good but if it’s making Pansy hiss like that already, it’s got to be brilliant. Still, he scowls at her implication. “And what’s wrong with me in my all-together?”
It doesn’t sound as indignant as it should, perhaps, but he has had a fair bit of Firewhisky tonight. For courage, mostly, but also because it’s delicious.
He suspects without it, this night’s going to feel interminable.
“Fine,” she sniffs. “Your Quidditch knickers, then. Really, it’s not like I’ve a shortage of terrible things you’ve worn in your time.”
“My Quidditch knickers are charming and kitsch, I’ll have you know, and I am delightful in my all-together.” He pulls a sour look at her and tries to square his shoulders in proper affront. Forgets for a moment why moving his shoulders just now is a bad idea and finds himself stymied by the very thing that’s set her off.
Pansy rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you are,” she drawls blandly and to set her off again, Draco muses aloud,
“I bet Potter would enjoy me in my all-together.”
As expected, Pansy’s back to twitchy again. “Is that what this is about? Potter? Because we have been over this, darling, and I really don’t think you’re going to get anywhere there.”
Draco’s heard Pansy’s theories about Potter and his closet and how they’ve at least a decade yet before he even knows he’s in one, let alone thinking about ways to come out, and while ordinarily Draco appreciates Pansy’s relentless bolstering of his ego, tonight he is resolved.
“That is your opinion,” he says in lieu of reassuring her for the umpteenth time that yes, actually, he is aware of the challenges involved. The sound she makes then can only be a non-verbal it’s your funeral. Under the circumstances, he appreciates her acquiescence.
By the silent accord born of too many years spent living in each other’s pockets, they turn their attentions back to the Great Hall, the swarms of poorly-costumed wizards attempting eye contact or better with witches clearly holding out for better. Draco thinks if he watches long enough, he’ll see the whole of Hufflepuff’s boys dorms shot down.
But if he does that, amusing though it sounds, he’ll miss his chance tonight and Merlin knows when he’ll get another one this good.
Simple, then, but still so hard, to turn his attention to spotting Potter in the crowd.
Who knows how long later, Pansy says, “Can you at least blame it on the Firewhisky if and when it all goes tits up on you?”
From almost anyone else, he might take that as a personal attack because if nothing else, it assumes failure from someone who’s already done far too much of that for one lifetime, thanks. From her, though, in that tone of voice, he takes it for what it is: the kind concern of someone who’s already had to live with him through the rest, who’s stuck by him though his name’s been mud and who’s spent more nights dissecting his Potter Problem over ice cream and under privacy spells in the Common Room.
So for her, he finds a direct look as Firewhisky-free as he can manage. “If needs be,” he confirms. The softness in her eyes isn’t un-Pansy, only just not anything she ever shows to anyone who isn’t him. It makes him wish he could promise her this will be the last time he tries.
If he thought she might believe it, he’d try anyway.
He lets her look him over, considering his costume as though she’s weighing the merits of his scheme, but he doesn’t explain the epiphany that makes this a sensible thing to wear. He’s had so many plans to catch Potter’s eye these past few months and they’ve all gone so terribly, though he has been meticulous and elaborate, and it’s only just recently occurred to him that’s been his trouble.
Potter is many things but he’s never been as complicated as all that. Not when it comes to who he chooses to associate with, anyway; Potter is distinctly direct.
And if Draco wants to catch Potter’s attention long enough to make his point, Draco suspects he’ll need to be direct, as well. So much easier in theory than in practice, he’s found, because Draco’s been raised on an appreciation for subtle workings and the finer points of achieving one’s ends through judicious action toward long-range goals. For all he’s seen machinations explode vividly in the faces of people he holds very dear to him, Draco still finds it so challenging to be blatant.
It makes the chance of failure that much more terrifying, really, but he is running out of options. If he means to appeal to Potter in a meaningful way, he’ll need to do it in a way Potter will understand.
Draco doesn’t say any of that to Pansy, though, because they aren’t alone at the moment and a privacy spell at the edge of the Great Hall during a school-run soiree is like asking a slew of faculty to come rushing over, making a scene. Instead, he just lets her stare.
When she finally nods at him, slight and tentative, he thinks maybe a lifelong friendship doesn’t need words or Legilimency to make itself understood.
“Best of luck with it, then,” she murmurs, a decidedly smirkish curve to her lips. “You should head over before the next wave of his fan club descends.”
She tips her head in the direction of the refreshment table, where Potter’s Weasley seems to be having some sort of moment at the sweets and where Draco can only just make out the slump of Potter’s shoulders in the passable robes beside him.
“Thanks,” he manages, voice too thick to his own ears, and she nods again, lets her mouth curve in that corner, a wry smile bright with affection. People can say what they’d like about Pansy Parkinson but he thinks she’ll always be the best witch he knows.
He’s only a step or so away when he hears her say, “Oh, and Draco?” He looks over his shoulder, only half-turns back because now that he’s taken his first steps into this plan, he wants to get on with it before his courage fails. “The wings are a nice touch.”
And because that’s both true enough and not at all what she means, he spares a quick, bright smile for her, boyish and crooked and hopelessly fond, before she flicks her fingers idly to urge him on his way.
::
Potter’s occupied with his own drink and side-eyeing the room when Draco makes his approach, which might be for the best, because the closer Draco gets now, the more his stomach flutters uncomfortably at the risk. For all he’s joked with Pansy that what he really ought to do with Potter is catch him somewhere and snog him senseless, he’s been shot down often enough to be statistically significant.
So he’s not particularly keen on doing it again, especially not in a packed hall while he’s wearing wings.
He wants to purr seductively, “Hullo, Potter,” in Potter’s ear, up close to Potter’s back so he can smell Potter properly, so he can feel Potter’s heat, but he thinks that might end poorly, and not just because Potter’s unlikely to understand Draco’s affection for his last name. Eventually he’ll have to explain that what he’s wanked to in his own bed at night has been Potter, the git who’s driven him spare for years and not the Harry he’s heard cooed by every schoolgirl with a crush, but that doesn’t seem like the wisest of conversation openers.
Instead, Draco steals a moment to breathe deep for composure before he says, “Hello, Harry.”
Potter turns sharp, looks less hunted than relieved when he sees who it is. Draco appreciates that. “Malfoy?” Potter blurts, and for as gratifying as it is to hear that Potter might indeed understand Draco’s kink for last names, the surprise in Potter’s tone is irksome. “And did you call me Harry?” Potter’s gaze rakes down him, gets to maybe mid-chest before it jolts back up. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
Not for the first time, Draco wishes he could trust himself to go through with the snogging-senseless plan. The only thing stopping him is the certain knowledge that he’d want to die of shame. He’s never been quite sure what it is, but something about Potter makes Draco feel fragile, open and vulnerable and strangely secure. It’s not that he wants or expects Potter to save him so much as it’s that he suspects Potter will expect him to save himself.
Draco likes to tell himself that’s Potter having faith in him not to fail, though he allows that might just be himself projecting. For someone so terrible at obfuscation ordinarily, Potter can be difficult to read.
“Well, it is your name,” Draco says carefully. Remembers the unlikelihood Potter will understand yet about Potter. Takes a deep breath and dives in. “And I would like you to call me Draco.” The eye contact is careful and deliberate; he’s not sure Potter notices. “What with you being my mate and all.”
Potter’s gaze slips over him, passes too quickly back towards the crowd. “Ah, okay,” Potter mumbles and Draco wonders if Potter has some sort of cognitive problem. Draco is, after all, at a fancy-dress in wings. From nearly anyone else, it might be an insult but from Potter, Draco decides it proof he’s still too subtle. Draco doesn’t think it’s deliberate, though he allows the possibility. Then, like a bloody gift of a thing, Potter turns back slightly, blinks at him and licks his lips. “What?” Potter’s voice lowers. “I’m not your friend!” Draco could quite happily lick the line forming between Potter’s brows. “Did you want to be friends?”
“No,” Draco says, and he wants to smile, wants to really let himself enjoy Potter’s confusion. Now that he’s not taking it personally, the depth of Potter’s denial is enchanting. Because Potter still looks a bit baffled by the whole thing, Draco shakes his head. Hesitates, because who knows how much less subtle Potter needs him to be? Draco wants to be so much more than friends with Potter but that’s not all he wants and there’s a sort of madcap genius in this sort of gormless honesty. “Well, yes,” he waivers; Potter’s still staring at him, still twitching-frowning-lost. “But that’s not the point.” It takes effort not to laugh at himself, how obvious he’s being. “You’re my mate.”
Potter makes a delirious sound. Draco repeats himself, ever-tempted by hysterical laughter threatening if he gives the situation thought. Potter makes the sound again, and Draco gets blunter.
Leave it to Potter to bring him this low. “I’m a Veela,” he says carefully, holding Potter’s stare. “And you’re my mate.”
Come on, he thinks, you know this one, you’ve passed this O.W.L. Draco’s thought this out carefully, what he needs Potter to spot here, all the things this particular declaration says for him. Draco can’t explain what he wants without being tragically Hufflepuff about the whole thing but Veela mating is more than just random snogs in corridors and a grope in the showers.
He can’t always read Potter but in this, he can, so he sees all of it passing over Potter’s face. Potter’s lips part softly and his eyes narrow; there are four places on his face alone Draco wants to suck. Then the edge of Potter’s mouth quirks a little, tugs up in a corner in a smile he won’t spread, and Potter takes up the challenge.
“You’re not,” Potter fires back. “And I’m not.” He nods and everything, resolute.
Draco can’t help smiling back, turning to show off his wings and his arse. They both look fantastic, he’s checked out the view. No sense wearing wings that don’t flatter him, is there? “I am,” Draco purrs. “See, I have wings. And I have blond hair and I’m oh-so-beautiful.” He needs to turn back then, see what Potter makes of it. “I am absolutely a Veela.”
Potter is…stubborn. “You’re dressed as a Veela, yes,” Potter says slowly. “But you’re not one. How much have you had?”
Potter reaches out for Draco’s glass as though there’s some chance this really is all Firewhisky. Draco bats his hand away and flutters his lashes, finds a coy edge of saccharine just for Potter. They’ve never done anything easily, have they, so why start now? “I’m a Veela and you’re my mate.” Draco allows himself a moment of sweet victory at the way Potter’s still looking over him, trying to take all of him in. “And I’d like very much if you could fuck me now.”
In retrospect, he’s surprised Potter doesn’t sputter, because that seems like the appropriate next step to him, but maybe Potter’s as tired of playing this game as he is, because Potter only nods and watches him measuringly.
He’s nodding still when he takes Draco’s hand.
All things considered, that’s gone swimmingly, he thinks, so naturally, that’s when the Weasel chooses to make his appearance.
“Hey, Harry?” “Hi, Ron,” Potter says, and Draco doesn’t think he’s imagining the groan as Potter turns. The bright smile Potter finds is wonderfully false, brittle and impatient and utterly calculated. Draco adores it. “I’m just going to go fuck Draco for a bit. I’ll be back soon.”
This, he thinks helplessly, this is how he’s come to be standing in the Great Hall in bloody wings and a costume, declaring himself to the maddest, most maddening prick he knows.
“Not too soon,” Draco murmurs, enchanted by the thought. He doesn’t mean to wink, not really, but there’s a dust mote near his eye and Potter staring at him like he’s only still just finding the plot, catching on and agreeing for the first time in Draco’s memory.
When Potter laughs, he sounds victorious. Weasley sounds like he means to swallow his own tongue.
“What did you just say?” Weasley prompts warily; caution never sits well on the Gryffindors Draco knows best but it’s rarely this encouraging.
Potter repeats it, steadier this time, and Draco’s so busy wrangling his own flush of relief that he’s inclined to overlook the spastic twitch of Potter’s eye.
Weasley explodes, equally spastic—Merlin save the Gryffindors from their own body language—but all he gets out verbally is a chalk-dust “Why?” Weasley has a head for strategy, though, and enough time spent with both of them to work it all out; it’s clear as day he knows, for all he’s clinging to denial.
Draco has half a mind to point out Potter’s closet makes it highly unlikely Weasley’s ever going to have him as the happy brother-in-law but even now that seems presumptuous.
Potter, because he’s Potter and so deliciously forthright when he chooses, tackles it head-on. Draco resolves that some things are best said between friends and leaves them to it, settles back in place to watch. If he’ll be forcibly socializing with Weasley—and with any luck, he’ll have to be—he thinks it best he has some sort of observation to fall back upon.
Potter gives him talking points issued directly. Weasley gives back common sense and the obvious. Draco finds it reassuring. Then Potter says with pristine patience, “No, Ron. Look, he has wings,” and Draco is swamped by the realization that this is Potter, buying in, that this is everything he’s ever whinged about to Pansy and better because it’s happening, and Draco can’t even mind Weasley’s twitches when Potter brings up Draco’s hair and how beautiful and stuff he is.
Clearly, Draco’s going to have to show Potter his appreciation later, Draco’s going to have to get creative—quite possibly with wings—and that line of thought’s so incredibly encouraging, Draco nods despite himself, bobs his head at nothing until Potter takes his hand.
“Okay then,” Potter chirps, “Must dash,” and the flex of his fingers, the heat of his palm, is enough to distract Draco through what passes for Gryffindorish pleasantries.
Then they’re off, bound for the doors and the corridors beyond, in search of time and space where they can be alone, and Potter’s hand feels steadier in his as they move until the first of the odd looks seems to register. It’s slight, the nervousness in Potter’s hand, but Draco’s always done best with subtleties and this one’s easy enough to handle: Draco tightens his fingers and squeezes silent reassurance, and when Potter looks back at him uncertainly, Draco raises his brows mildly, grins a shared secret.
The smile he gets back is worth all those nights of rejection, Potter missing his point and wandering off obliviously; it might well be worth the wings at a public fancy dress.
The look he shares with Pansy as they’ve nearly reached the door says she’s baffled and pleased for him, quite probably proud, and as Potter tugs Draco out into the hall, Draco’s last thought before he gives Potter all his attention is that Pansy’s probably already tracking Longbottom down.
Because if Draco can sack up and go after his Gryffindor, so can she.
Then it’s him and Potter and Hogwarts in the moonlight, looking for a place a temporary Veela might lose his wings.
::
It comes up afterward, every now and then. Sometimes it’s a joke from Weasley, who’s still somewhat baffled by the whole affair but who’s grown relatively accommodating, really. Relatively. Sometimes it’s Pansy poking at him for fun, asking after those wings or the ickle Veela babies she swears they’re going to have. Sometimes it’s an actual Veela from the pseudo-in-laws that come with Harry, Fleur’s endless amusement at Draco’s choice in making his big declaration or her pretty children thinking Uncle Draco really is like them.
Mostly, though, especially as the years pass and it’s all part of the strangeness that marks their lives, mostly it’s Harry while they’re laying quietly in bed, trading lazy kisses and sharing soft sounds, touching each other with the bittersweet reverence they didn’t have at 17. It’s not an all-the-time thing, not even when they’re stealing moments like this one, but sometimes Draco swears he hears Harry call him mate.
~ f ~