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Leaning against the doorway to his kitchen, the green-eyed man closed his eyes to listen. It was at this time every night, for the past two months he’d been living in the new flat that his neighbour would come home and begin his piano playing.
At first Harry thought it had been a recording of some kind. It was flawless, and achingly beautiful. Harry had never really been one for classical music, but this was so much more than that. It was raw and flayed wide open with emotions. It wasn’t until he heard a mistake—which he hadn’t realised was a mistake until all the cursing and things being thrown against the wall—that he realised it was a live person.
It was two weeks after that when Harry learnt his neighbour was Draco Malfoy, the world renowned Pianist. Not being tuned into the whole classical music circuit, Harry had only heard the name in passing. But there were flyers and posters of him all over London. On busses, on the walls of the tube, random buildings.
Harry, of course, made it a point to google him after that and get his bio. Draco had been educated at several prestigious musical academies, and began his career at the tender age of seventeen. He’d been living in Moscow for the past six years, and had just returned after a messy divorce which the papers were overly enthusiastic with. Harry knew far too much about his neighbour now than he originally meant to.
The worst part though, was that whilst Draco was ridiculously good looking—so much it made Harry ache to look at him—he was also a right bastard. They’d met in the lifts twice.
The first time was just after Harry’s learnt all the sordid details about Draco’s wife leaving him after catching him with another man. They were riding down to the ground floor together, and eventually Draco looked at him and snapped, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Harry flushed bright red. “Sorry. It’s just…we’re neighbours. I just moved in about a month ago and…”
“Did I ask you for your biography?” Draco snapped.
Harry’s jaw clenched shut and he didn’t say another word. Draco’s eyes were narrowed on him, daring him to bring up anything that had been in the tabloids. When the lift doors open, Draco flung his jacket over his shoulder and marched out.
And that was that.
The second time they were riding up and Draco gave him a pointed stare. “I have to ask,” he said after a second.
Harry, startled, cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“D’you make your hair look that way on purpose?”
Harry blinked from behind his glasses. “Er?”
“Thought not. It’s fucking stupid though. They make hair product for a reason.”
Then the lift doors open and Harry was stood there so stunned after Draco got out, he was forced to go up two more floors before he could get back down. By the time he was able to exit, the corridor was empty and all that he could hear was the sounds of piano going up and down the painful notes.
So Harry didn’t have to like Draco Malfoy to like his music. I mean, he could appreciate whilst still thinking his neighbour was a complete twat.
A ridiculously good looking, complete twat.
Which is what found him sat on his sofa now at six with a cuppa, staring at the wall because Harry had been home now for two hours and after fifteen minutes of the usual, glorious music, had turned into something…less than. Chopsticks. Over. And over. And over.
He thought maybe Draco just got pissed and was having a laugh. Then he thought maybe Draco knew Harry was listening and trying to annoy him.
Then the second hour went by and Harry was getting concerned.
Because he was no musician but two full hours of chopsticks meant something wasn’t right.
Truth be told, Harry always had a bit of a saviour complex. Something he’d done in school and something he continued to do with his friends to this day. So it was no surprise when he dashed to his kitchen and just started loading up his arms with anything he could think of.
Because Chopsticks for now two and a half hours was not a good sign. Just. Not.
Kicking his door open, Harry waddled down the corridor loaded up with left-over chocolate cake Ginny and Luna had brought over from their last tea with Harry. And a bottle of scotch Ron had when they were watching the World Cup—neither of them actually enjoyed scotch so it just sat up in his cabinets getting dusty, but Ron assured him it was good. He got chocolate biscuits—his very last packet, and a small container of soup he planned on taking to work with him the next day but it was clear his neighbour might need it more than him.
So this in hand, Harry stopped by the door and knocked with his knee. A few more notes tinkled out before they stopped, and heavy footsteps approached. Harry took a step back and held his breath.
When the door opened, Harry was met with startled, grey eyes which immediately turned annoyed. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Chopsticks,” Harry blurted.
Draco blinked. Then blinked again. “What?”
“Chopsticks,” Harry repeated, as though saying it twice might make more sense. Then he cleared his throat and tried not to be such a fucking useless tosser. “You were playing chopsticks.”
Draco blinked at him a bit more. “You can hear me?”
Harry nodded, then shifted the things in his arms. “Listen, can you step aside so I can put all of this down?”
Draco eyed the items in Harry’s hands, refusing to budge. “What the hell is that?”
“Well, I didn’t know what you needed so…” At this point, Harry abandoned all sense of propriety and shoved Draco over with his hip, marching into the flat. His eyes scanned the room, saw a nice, marble dining table, and plonked everything down with a heavy sigh.
Draco, absolutely bemused and expression torn between contemplating murder and laughter, merely quirked an eyebrow. “Do you always talk nonsense or are you going to explain yourself before I call the authorities?”
“I’m not a stalker,” Harry said impatiently. “We share a wall.” He gestured to the wall where Draco’s sofa was sitting. “I can hear you every day.”
Draco ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Oh.”
“And normally you play your other stuff. Whatever, I don’t know classical music.” Harry waved an impatient hand. “But tonight it was chopsticks for two and a half fucking hours. Clearly something’s wrong. So I’ve brought you supplies.” At this he realised how absolutely fucking barmy his plan was as he waved a weak hand toward the loaded table.
Draco, however, approached cautiously. “Is that scotch?”
Harry nodded. “Er. And cake. And some soup. Oh and…” He dug a bottle of paracetamol out of his pocket and plonked that down as well. “Probably shouldn’t take it with the scotch, though.”
Draco snorted. “Biscuits as well. You must have loads of cavities.”
Harry didn’t answer, he was eyeing Draco carefully as this was the most amount of time he’d been allowed to look at him properly. He was excessively good looking, if not a bit on the thin side. He was very pale, in contrast to Harry’s dark skin and jet black hair, but Draco wore it well. He was dressed in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, and loose trousers. It was the most casual Harry had ever seen him. All two times.
“Okay I realise this is all a bit mental, but there has to be something wrong when your bloody famous pianist neighbour is playing chopsticks for two sodding hours,” Harry defended, his voice exasperated. “So which is it?”
Draco huffed, rolled his eyes, then picked up the biscuits and tore open the end. He took one out, then handed the packet to Harry. “My ex wife got remarried today.”
Harry blinked as he twisted the packet in his fingers. “Oh. Shit.”
Draco snorted a laugh. “Shit is right. We’ve only been divorced six weeks. Six. I took the blame for the relationship falling apart. Obviously. I mean, you read the headlines, I assume?”
“I might have looked you up,” Harry admitted.
Draco smirked. “Right. So there you go. Except how the bloody hell does she meet someone, fall in love, and get married in six fucking weeks? Of course I put a call in to a friend of a friend who tells me this bloke she’s on with now, some fucking footballer, thick-headed git called Krum…”
“Holy shit, Viktor Krum?” Harry gasped.
“If you tell me you’re a fan, I’m throwing you out on your arse right now,” Draco warned.
Harry put up his hands. “No. Not a fan. He plays for Bulgaria. I mean, being a fan would mean I’m a traitor to our country.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but his smirk softened into a smile. “So now she’s marrying this shit-weasel and come to find out they’d been fucking behind my back for a year. Now I’m not allowed to be hacked off about it because I sucked some bloke off in an alley in Blackpool so I had it coming.”
Harry watched Draco take an overly large bite of the biscuit and chew angrily. “D’you want tea?”
“Put scotch in it,” Draco said, waving his hand toward the kitchen.
Though Harry had never even spoken to Draco properly, he suddenly found himself in the blonde’s kitchen flicking on the electric kettle and rummaging round the cabinets until he found a box of tea and a couple of mugs which looked like they’d never been touched.
The whole process took five minutes. “Milk?”
“And sugar,” Draco called.
Harry found the sugar in the cabinet, and milk in the fridge. There was no pot for cream, so he mashed the tea bag against the side of the mug until it was dark enough, then added cream and took both with the sugar to the lounge were Draco was sitting.
Draco fixed his without looking at Harry.
“What’s your name?”
Harry blinked. “Oh. Fuck, I didn’t realise I just burst in here without saying it.”
Draco raised one elegant eyebrow at him. “Well obviously you know me so…”
“It’s Harry. Potter.”
Draco blinked again. “Potter as in…”
Harry groaned. “Yes, the hair products.”
Draco snorted. “You’re joking? Why the fuck does your hair look all…” He waved his hand round the top of his own, well maintained locks.
“Genetics,” Harry said with a shrug. “Can’t be arsed to spend more than ten minutes on it, really. Besides I never met my granddad. He died right before my mum and dad’s wedding.”
Draco thumbed the rim of his mug in thought. “Well let’s just say if you collected the pounds I spent on your family’s products, I probably paid your expenses for at least a decade.”
Harry couldn’t help his laugh. “That’s…well I mean it’s not the worst thing I’ve heard all day.” He eyed Draco again. “But it’s working for you.”
Draco rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, but Harry did not miss the small smirk playing at his lips. “So, Harry Potter, owner of expensive hair product companies and barmy wanker who brings his distressed neighbour chocolate biscuits, soup, and scotch. Is there anything else I should know about you?”
Harry bit down on his lower lip. “I don’t work a lot. I like to travel. I’m gay so the whole…Blackpool incident doesn’t bother me. Though cheating on your wife is a bit…” He stopped. “Though she did it as well.” He shrugged. “The only girl I ever dated is a lesbian, and we share custody of a child.”
Draco stared at him, then threw his head back and laughed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Potter.”
Harry blushed, but grinned and shrugged. “You asked.”
“I guess I did.” Draco sipped the tea, then got up and grabbed the scotch Harry had forgotten, adding a generous pour to each mug. With a nod, he sat back and gave a satisfied hum after his second drink. “That’s better.”
Harry looked at his, but didn’t touch it. “So. Is this helping?”
Draco drank more of his tea, then shrugged. “Reckon it’s not the worst thing that happened tonight.” He thumbed the rim of his mug once more, and Harry noticed just then that Draco’s eyes were fixated on his mouth. He shifted a little, and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Draco gave a small, barely noticeable shudder. “I reckon it might get better.”
Harry felt his throat tighten a bit, along with his jeans. “Yeah?”
Draco paused, then chuckled. “You know what, I’m just going to come right out and say it because I have feeling if I try to be coy and flirty, it’s going to go right over your thick head. I’m upset and horny, and you’re very cute. Would you like a shag?”
Harry looked at him, then smiled back. “You’re right. I reckon tonight could get much better.”