Work Text:
Reasons I ___e Draco Malfoy:
- His pointy face
- His body
- The way he always puts his feet in my lap when we watch a movie
- His sense of humor
- His shit everywhere
- How much he talks when he's excited about something
- How he dresses
- How he cooks
- How he sings in the shower
- How dramatic he is
- How he makes me feel
The worst part was Draco thought it had been going well. He had moved in with Harry about a year ago, after a fairly drunk conversation at one of Luna’s strange, wonderful potlucks had resulted in Harry telling Draco he was horribly lonely at Grimmauld Place and Draco revealing that his landlord kept hiking up his rent and snooping through his things as penance for his Death Eater past.
"Move in with me," Harry had said, and Draco had agreed and then they'd both burst out laughing.
The next morning, though, it hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. Draco had moved in the following week. He'd been nervous, of course. There was a big difference between seeing your school-nemesis-turned-war-enemy-turned-friend-of-a-friend at your common friend's occasional potlucks, and actually living with your nemesis/enemy/sort-of-acquaintance. Draco was reasonably certain that Harry wasn't going to AK him in the shower, but they still had all that history between them, the weight of it. He was nervous in the bathroom for the first two weeks.
But it had all been shockingly normal. Better: it had been shockingly good. Harry brought home takeout on Wednesdays. Draco cooked on Fridays and they watched movies together over bowls of whatever ice cream had been on sale at the market down the street. Harry listened to Draco rant about his shit boss at the potions shop, and Draco listened to Harry rant about his shit boss at the Ministry, and they teased each other mercilessly for any number of small, inconsequential, and marvelously mundane things.
And if, somewhere along the way, in between ice cream and curries and long, lazy weekend mornings, Draco had developed a small crush on Harry – well, that was fine, normal even, probably, and no one's business but his own.
Crush notwithstanding, it was all very good in a way Draco’s life hadn't been in a very long time, maybe hadn't ever been before.
Which made the list so much worse.
+++
Draco clearly wasn't meant to see it.
He wasn't even meant to be in Harry's room – it was just that he couldn't find his newest potions catalog and he remembered giving it to Harry to look at the animals section but he didn't remember Harry giving it back, the bastard, and so he was pawing through a pile of overcoats checking the pockets and something crumpled. He thought it was a shop receipt, took it out to throw away, but his eye snagged on his own name at the top of a page:
Reasons I ____e Draco Malfoy
The page was torn at the top where it had been ripped from a notepad, cutting out most of the third word. The handwriting was unquestionably Harry’s, though: rushed and slanting forward as if his thoughts were moving so fast that the pen couldn't keep up.
Draco could read the rest of it easily, could make out every word.
He read it again. His pointy face. His body. Draco felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. The way he always puts his feet in my lap when we watch a movie. His sense of humor.
(My shit everywhere, what a fucking hypocrite.)
How much he talks when he’s excited about something. How he makes me feel.
It was the moment in a movie when the camera plays back a scene from another character's perspective. What had seemed perfect from the original perspective was revealed to be flawed. What had seemed sweet, right, enjoyable even, was revealed to be awkward, cringe-worthy, stupid.
Draco had thought Harry liked his cooking.
But there was only one word that would fit in the torn space at the top of the page and that ended with "e:"
Reasons I Hate Draco Malfoy
+++
Draco tucked the list back into Harry’s pocket and resolved to put it out of his head. So Harry hated him. Disappointing, but not really surprising. The surprise had been that he didn't hate Draco – and now that was all sorted out, it had all been a lie, or a trick, or the hatred had intensified after Draco moved in.
Come to think of it, the majority of things on the list were things Harry would have only known about after living with Draco for a while. He wouldn’t have let Draco move in if he'd truly hated him to begin with, right?
Unless he just felt sorry for you said nasty voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Pansy Parkinson. Saint Potter always did love to play the martyr. Taking in a former Death Eater being scammed by his landlord despite hating everything about him would certainly fit the bill.
No, Draco told himself and the Pansy in his head firmly. Part of being a former Death Eater was learning to be extremely aware of how others felt about you at all times. He would have known if Harry had hated him a year ago, at least. And Harry had been acting a little strange lately. A little cagey, sometimes, when Draco suggested an impromptu dinner out together. A little too quick to laugh at some of Draco's jokes.
Draco had written it off as work stress – Hany really did have a shit boss at the Ministry – but now he saw it for what it was: Harry’s hatred of Draco, growing steadily. He was probably gearing up to tell Draco he had to move out of Grimmauld Place, had probably written the list to remind himself of all the reasons why, in case he lost his nerve. If Draco were a good person, he would take the hint and move out.
Draco was not a good person. Draco loved living at Grimmauld Place: paying absurdly low rent in the center of London, knowing that if he got jumped on the way home someone would know. The room that he had made his own. The dinners Harry sometimes hosted for his friends that he let Draco sit in on.
He didn't want to give that up, any of it.
So, he resolved to do what he did best: be a manipulative little shit until he got what he wanted.
+++
Draco started with the easy ones. There wasn't much he could do about his pointy face, unfortunately, or his body. But that night just so happened to be Friday night, which meant Draco had a plethora of other options.
He started with bringing home takeout instead of cooking a shepherd's pie like he'd planned. (How he cooks). When Harry got home, Draco heard him go to the kitchen first before finding Draco in the den.
"Hullo," he said, eyebrows raised. "You're not cooking?"
Was that relief in his eyes? Draco couldn’t tell. He shrugged carelessly. "Didn’t feel like it," he said, turning back to his book. "Got takeout from that chicken place you like."
"Nando's? Wicked, "said Harry with a grin. Draco allowed himself a small smile.
So far, so good.
+++
All through the first half of the movie, Harry kept shooting Draco swift, covert looks.
Draco pretended not to notice as he primly ate his chicken and kept his feet on his own side of the couch.
"You look a little cramped over there," Harry said casually at one point." Want to stretch your legs out at all?"
"I'm fine over here," Draco responded. He shot a glance at Harry a few minutes later. The other man was watching the movie, but his brow was as furrowed as if Tom Hanks’s character was about to shut down his small independent bookstore in New York.
+++
Draco took a quiet shower the next morning (how he sings in the shower) and tidied away all of his shower supplies into the cabinet for perhaps the first time since he had moved in (his shit everywhere).
Getting dressed was difficult (How he dresses). Draco wished Harry had been more specific on that one. Was the main problem style, or color? Were all his shirts bad, or could he salvage a few if he paired them with different trousers?
In the end, he settled on a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and an oversized green jumper that Harry had given him for his birthday several months ago. If Harry had picked it out, he had to at least like it a little bit, right? The whole ensemble made Draco feel like he was going to the dining hall of an extremely low-class American university, but needs must. At least it was Saturday, and no one else would see him in such a hideous outfit.
Harry did a spit-take when Draco walked into the kitchen, which was not something Draco had thought actually happened outside of movies. He did his best to ignore Potter's eyes on him as he crossed to the cabinet and withdrew a bowl.
"There's orange juice in your lap," he said helpfully when he turned back around. Harry jerked but made no move to remedy the situation. His eyes were round as saucers.
"I got you that," he said accusingly. Draco nodded.
"You did," he replied, pouring himself some cereal. Ten points to Gryffindor, he almost said, but bit it off at the last moment. (His sense of humor.)
"You said it looked like something someone would wear in an insane asylum and that you wouldn't be caught dead in it," Harry exclaimed, orange juice still dripping from the table onto his knees. "That's a direct quote."
"I can be a bit dramatic at times, "Draco said coolly, then immediately regretted it. Harry just looked at him with bewildered eyes before turning back to his sopping eggs.
+++
And so it went, for several weeks. Draco cleaned up all his books and other belongings from where they'd been strewn across the den and the kitchen and the hall table, tidying them neatly into his room.
He refrained from making jokes, even when Harry told him about a man who had come to the Ministry Post Office asking for the fiercest bird for his important mail, only to then try to steal said owl for an illegal raptor fighting ring and wind up with a face full of furious owl that he needed the help of several Post employees to get off.
"Let's just say, he may be re-thinking his choice of hobby," Harry said gleefully, and looked to Draco.
Draco smiled and refrained from saying anything. The furrow in Harry's brow got deeper.
+++
Nearly a month after he'd found the list, Draco came home nearly vibrating with excitement. His boss at the potions shop had finally cleared him to work with some of the more volatile ingredients, and Draco had solved a mystery of a potion that had been giving the whole staff headaches for weeks. He was horribly, arrogantly, proud of himself.
Harry glanced up from his spot on the couch and grinned as Draco entered the den. "You look happy," he said, setting aside the owl puzzle he'd been fiddling with. "Jester get spit on by an enchanted cauldron again?"
"Better, if you can believe it," Draco said, throwing himself into an armchair with a flourish. "I-"
He stopped. A month ago, he would have told Harry everything: every detail about the potion, what made it so challenging, each progression and set back and blaze of inspiration that had led to this day. But...
(How much he talks when he's excited about something)
Draco swallowed hard. "I solved a problem at work today." He closed his mouth with effort and bent to withdraw a book from the bag at his feet, assuming that would be the end of that.
There was a long moment of silence.
"And?" Harry said accusingly. Draco looked up in surprise.
Harry was glaring at him. Harry hadn't glared at him in years, not like that. Draco felt his face grow cold. He swallowed again. "And what, Harry?" he asked, reasonably, but Harry just glared harder.
"There's no way that's all you have to say about that," he said firmly. "You solved a problem at work and all you say is, ‘I solved a problem at work?’" he jabbed a finger at Draco accusingly. "You love talking about yourself and your work victories!"
"Not always, "Draco said defensively. Harry scoffed, derisively. "Well, maybe I don't anymore," Draco said, loudly. "Maybe I'm trying something new!"
"You've been trying out an awful lot of new things recently, Draco,” Harry said, his voice going low and dangerous. "Did you know, it's been weeks since you put your disgusting feet in my lap?"
"I would think you would appreciate that," Draco said, straining to keep his voice even. It was difficult, though, as the anger built up inside him. He'd been doing everything he could, changing everything he could control on Harry’s list, and it still wasn't enough. He still wasn't enough (or maybe he was still too much). "I know not everyone likes having someone's feet in their lap."
"Since when have you cared what I like?" Harry yelled, and okay, Draco should've seen that coming but it still hurt. "You’ve been so fucking considerate lately, it’s driving me insane: never singing, only bringing home my favorite food – fuck, Draco," Harry said, flinging his arms wide. "There is none of your shit anywhere in this house, why –"
Harry broke off so suddenly it was like someone had muted him. Draco watched his mouth fall open. His face visibly paled. "Oh my god," he whispered. "You read my list."
Draco's stomach did a complicated swoop. "What list?" he tried, but it wasn't a good lie. Where was that Slytherin deceitfulness when you needed it?
Harry was still looking at him like Draco had just told him he was actually an owl murderer. "You read my list and you’re – you're changing things about yourself to be – to be the opposite."
Draco looked at the floor. He didn't need to respond. Harry had figured it out – and wasn't it galling to have one's nefarious plot figured out by Harry Potter, of all people – except Draco couldn't even muster up the energy to be offended. He just felt sad.
"Why, Draco?" Harry said. His voice was small.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut. "Because I want to stay friends," he said in a rush. He kept his eyes shut. He didn't want to see Harry realizing how pathetic he was. "I really like being your friend, and living here is – is wonderful, and not just because the rent is so much lower than the going rate."
Harry didn't laugh. My sense of humor, Draco thought miserably. He shook his head once, quickly.
"I didn't want lose you, to lose what we had." He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, Draco," Harry said quietly. "I’m sorry. Fuck." His voice sounded muffled. Draco risked a glance up. Harry had buried his face in his hands. "I understand you – you want to stay friends. I don't want to lose you either. I might need some – some time, though."
Draco clenched his hands into fists, dug his nails into his palms. "Of course. I can move out this weekend.”
"No, "Harry said quickly. “Draco, come on. You don’t have to move out.”
Draco felt sick. “Saint Potter,” he drawled, trying desperately to ignore how his voice broke at the end. “Always the martyr.” He shook his head again. “You shouldn’t have to live with someone you hate.”
“I don’t hate you, Draco,” Harry said. He laughed, wetly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Draco scoffed, letting the anger out, just a little bit. “The list was pretty clear,” he said shortly.
Harry clenched his teeth. “That fucking list – wait.” Harry glanced up at Draco. He looked confused. “You think I hate you?”
Draco shrugged. He didn’t want to respond to that.
Harry shook his head as if trying to clear it. “What did the list say?”
Draco didn’t know the list by heart. He did not know the list by heart.
“His pointy face,” he began dully. “His body. The way he always puts his feet in my lap when we watch a movie. His sense of humor. His shit everywhere. How much he talks when he's excited about some –”
“Oh my god,” Harry said, and ran out of the room.
Draco was still sitting in the den trying to figure out what had just happened when Harry ran back into the room. Literally ran. He was slightly breathless, clutching a piece of paper in one hand, and a notepad in the other.
“My god, Potter, do you remember you’re a wizard?” Draco said before he could stop himself. “You could have accio-ed them, for the love of Merlin.”
“Shut up,” Harry said absently. “Draco. Look.”
And he laid the piece of paper tenderly back onto the notepad where he had ripped it out before, and shoved the whole thing at Draco’s chest.
Draco looked.
Then he looked again.
The missing letters were back in their rightful place.
They did not say “hate.”
“You. You love? Me?” Draco said faintly.
Harry was watching him with eyes as round as saucers. “Yes,” he said quietly, firmly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“And these – these are the reasons you – you love me?”
Draco felt like he had been dropped, suddenly, into an entirely different universe. Harry was nodding.
“Yes,” he said again, simply.
“My cooking?”
“Yes, Draco.”
“How dramatic I can be?”
“Yes.” Harry was smiling now, a small but growing thing. Draco had no idea what his own face was doing, couldn’t even begin to guess.
“But I leave my shit everywhere,” Draco said reasonably. Harry nodded. “And my sense of humor is –”
“The worst,” Harry said, at the same time as Draco said, “– so far above your intellect.”
Harry laughed, delighted. He took the notepad away. Draco watched him set it, very carefully, on a small end table.
“You like my body?” Draco whispered. Harry was turning back toward him, a light in his eyes.
“Yes,” Harry whispered.
“And...and how I make you feel?”
In answer, Harry slid himself very carefully onto Draco’s lap. Reverently placed his hands on Draco’s cheeks.
“Draco. Yes.”
Draco was very nearly breathless, but he had one more question.
“How do I make you feel?
“Let me show you,” Harry said quietly.
And he did.