Work Text:
“You had better call me Draco,” Lord Malfoy whispers to his personal butler, Harry Potter.
If this scandalises you, gentle reader, I urge you strongly to skip this report. I fear what the impropriety might do to your poor heart. And if you are a romantic I must urge you to do the same, for this is not only scandalous but also tragic. But perhaps you already suspected that.
“Draco,” Harry replies, flushed and giddy over the privilege, the intimacy, the rebellion. Then Draco kisses him again, and Harry doesn’t say much of anything.
This was his one chance, you see? Lord Malfoy could not possibly be interested in him, not seriously. A diversion, that’s all Harry could be and he resolved to enjoy the time granted to him.
He didn’t expect to be called into His Lordships bedchamber late at night, didn’t expect to be cherished a second time, to have the precious name offered again. Convenience, Harry thought, it must be convenience—but do you beg the servant play with to call you Draco? To truly see you?
As I'm sure you’ve realised quicker than Harry, Readers, it was love. True love, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Harry does, and so ‘Sir’ became ‘Sir’—reckless infatuation tucked into that word, like there were enough letters to hold it—became ‘Draco’, finally a well-formed expression of his feelings.
Draco believes in love, too, in coy glances and bitten lips, in secretive meetings and quirked eyebrows. In the way Harry calls him Draco, now, knows him better than anyone else.
However, Draco also believes in money, and that owning it is the way to happiness. There are concessions to be made, duties to fulfil.
“You had better call me Sir,” Draco whispers to Harry.
There would be no more kisses.