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Draco Malfoy had always prided himself on two things: his impeccable tailor, and his ability to avoid social interactions that could end in anything resembling spontaneity. Any wizard of refinement, he believed, would sensibly avoid such affairs, where the rules of respectability were as likely to be disregarded as an owl with a dodgy sense of direction. Yet, as fate—or rather, an alarming number of votes cast in the name of "fun," — lead to this particular Wednesday night.
And so, Draco found himself on a pub crawl surrounded by a ragtag band of what one might have referred to as "friends".
The dim light of the pub flickered with a peculiar sense of purpose, as if it, too, were caught up in the throbbing bassline. Golden reflections danced on half-empty glasses and faces pink with a combination of exertion and a hearty enthusiasm for beverages. From this, a robust cocktail of damp humanity with just a whisper of ale for good measure wafted heavily. The floorboards beneath the writhing throng groaned in protest as hips swayed, shoulders rolled, and feet pounded with reckless disregard for rhythm and decorum.
Draco Malfoy lingered over a firewhisky that had long since lost its zest and warmth. If pressed, he might have admitted—though only to himself—that his current posture bore more resemblance to skulking than to any noble form of detachment. But self-honesty was a frightfully inconvenient pastime for a man of his reputation. He focussed instead on schooling his expression into something, he hoped resembled deliberate disinterest.
Especially when there was something, someone, who was currently being very interesting.
Harry Potter, as ever, was impossible to overlook. Beneath the low-hanging lights, his dark skin gleamed as his hands traced through unruly waves of hair. His black shirt clung to him with a devotion that bordered on indecent, outlining a chest that was unreasonably broad and a waist that had no business being quite so alluring.
Draco, though no longer the Quidditch enthusiast he once was, found himself rather appreciating its effects, especially given snug Muggle jeans Potter had so brazenly chosen to sport.
The music blared with the subtlety of a Howler in full cry, yet Harry moved like the music lived in him. He pulled at his tie to the rhythm, slow and deliberate, like he was daring the crowd to watch.
And, naturally, they did.
They roared with approval, lewd cheers and whistles echoing as Harry grinned. The man was showing off—it was all so dreadfully public and unrefined. Yet, as Harry swung his tie like some kind of spellbinding lasso, there was a certain audacity to it all. A bravado that was terribly— irritatingly —captivating.
Draco’s pulse had taken up the sort of rhythm one might expect from a Quidditch match gone terribly awry, and no matter how much he willed his gaze to wander elsewhere, it stubbornly clung to Harry’s form.It was the forearms, he supposed—those arms, inked with a black dog on one and a proud stag on the other, flexing in the most infuriatingly casual manner as Harry moved, each muscle a reminder that presently, Draco had no control over his faculties. The golden snitch tattoo peeking above Harry's collar seemed to wink at him mockingly, its delicate wings catching the light just as the curve of Harry’s neck caught Draco’s eye. A sheen of sweat, that most loathsome of things, traced its way down the muscles of Harry’s back and Draco found himself utterly transfixed.
Merlin help him, but he couldn't look away.
Draco couldn’t help but wonder if Harry truly knew how utterly entrancing he was, or if it was just the simple, cursed inevitability of Harry Potter's presence that made everything—everything—seem so undeniably… unavoidable.
Draco gave a dismissive scoff as Charlie Weasley joined Harry’s display, his broad shoulders and easy swagger a perfect match for Harry’s wild energy. The redhead was dancing with the grace of a man who’d spent far too many years contending with dragons. His shoulder pressed firmly against Harry’s, and it seemed as though the duo had become one in their audacious choreography.
Draco briefly imagined hexing them both out of existence, but quickly dismissed the idea—it was far too benevolent a thought for the moment. Instead, he rolled his eyes, though his stomach fluttered in a very un-Draco like way. One would assume that this Weasley in particular should know better than to provoke a dragon. Yet the night had a way of making fools of everyone, even Draco, watching as Harry and Charlie danced, lost in the moment.
He tore his gaze away with the kind of grim determination one reserves for moments of true internal struggle, resolving not to let his brooding show. Draco scanned the room, seeking a distraction, and found it at the bar, where Theo and Ron were locked in what could only be described as a discussion that no sensible person would willingly partake in. Theo, in his usual languid manner, was holding up two fingers and attempting, with some effort, to explain the finer points of something—or everything—to Ron, who, already several drinks ahead of his companions, looked increasingly bewildered.
"Wait," Weasel said, leaning in closer. "You're saying both the forks are salad forks? Why would you need two?"
"Because, Weasley," Theo sighed, clearly unimpressed with the redhead’s lack of etiquette, "sometimes you require a backup in case of emergencies. Honestly, how do you people survive dinner?"
Ron barked a laugh, his cheeks pink. “Oh, sure, Nott. Because we’re constantly having salad-related emergencies. It’s a miracle we’ve all made it this far.”
Draco, despite himself, snorted into his glass, thoroughly entertained. Only Theo could transform the simple matter of silverware into a life-or-death dilemma, and only Ron Weasley would laugh his way through the whole affair without taking a single word seriously. It was, in a way, quite charming which was a thought that was altogether too uncomfortable to dwell on.
“See something funny?” The youngest She-Weasel appeared at his side, her brow arched playfully.
"Just your brother proving once again that he’s best suited to comic relief,” Draco replied, nodding toward Ron and Theo.
Ginny let out a laugh, the sort of lively, mischievous sound that was bright and familiar. "He does have his moments," she agreed, her eyes twinkling. "And you’re just lucky I find your snark entertaining, Malfoy. Otherwise, I'd have to hex you."
“I’ve survived worse,” Draco said, allowing himself a faint smirk. Ginny was, in truth, the only Weasley he could tolerate for any extended period. If pressed, he might even admit to fondness, though such sentiments were best left unsaid. “Besides, your aim’s atrocious.”
Her eyes shifted, and with the precision of a seasoned Quidditch player, she followed where Draco’s attention had wandered to.
"Honestly, he’s looking pretty fit tonight, isn’t he?" she purred. "You know, Ferret, I’ve always heard Harry’s got a way of handling things," she added with the kind of tone that suggested she was about to reveal a terribly salacious secret. "And it’s not just his broomstick he knows how to handle. Those thighs…" she paused for dramatic effect, and Draco could already feel his eyes-rolling. "They’ve certainly earned their reputation."
She gave a snorting laugh that could have startled a Bowtruckle, and with a firm pat on his shoulder she left him with a look so knowingly scandalous, it practically winked.
Now, Draco—being Draco—had, in the midst of this decidedly peculiar interaction, failed entirely to notice Harry's approach. He emerged with a relaxed ease, looking for all the world like a man who had just discovered the meaning of life as he slinked into Draco's side. Harry wasn’t just looking—he was lingering, all green-eyed mischief and something softer Draco refused to name.
Draco huffed, adjusting his cufflinks, ‘"If you're going to undress me with your eyes, at least buy me a drink first."
Harry's only response was a slow, dastardly Gryffindor grin—the infuriating kind that always meant trouble and lacked any form of subtlety.
His grin was positively maddening, the sort that one could only describe as equal parts smug and infuriatingly handsome. It was the expression a man wears when he knows he’s got the upper hand—it was enough to make Draco want to throttle him and kiss him all at once.
It hit Draco then, a quiet ache lodged somewhere deep in his chest—a regret he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying. In their youth, he’d spent so much time chasing Harry’s wit with his own sharp barbs, too caught up in the game of taunting and testing to notice what he was missing. He wondered how many more of those smiles he could have seen, unhidden and effortless, if he’d chosen kindness over the easy thrill of their sparring. But the line between flirting and fighting had always been blurry between them, as it so often is with teenagers.
But that was then, and this was now, and no amount of brooding was going to undo the past. He managed to slap on his most disdainful expression, as one does when facing an oncoming disaster. It was utterly useless. Harry had him, once again.
"You know, if you glare any harder, you might just set Charlie on fire." Harry teased, gesturing towards the dancefloor. "And here I thought I was being the dramatic one."
"I prefer to enjoy my evenings without being accosted by sweaty strangers," Draco drawled, lifting his glass to his lips.
Harry leaned in closer, his grin widening. "Charlie may be sweaty, but I can assure you, he’s not a stranger."
Draco shot him a look that was meant to be scornful but ended up somewhere between bemused and mildly intrigued. He regretted it immediately upon seeing the sparkle of mischief in Harry’s eyes.
"But we all know I prefer blondes, anyway," Harry added insightfully.
Draco’s gaze flicked briefly to the floor, as if the very wood might provide him with an escape route. He looked to his left, then to his right—anywhere but at Harry, who was clearly enjoying the spectacle of Draco’s discomposure. The corners of his mouth twitched despite his best efforts, and before he could rein in the impulse, a bashful smile had found a new home on his face.
The music, naturally, changed at that exact moment, as if the universe were conspiring to push Draco’s composure to its absolute limit.
A Muggle guitar twanged loudly, drums picked up at an alarming pace, and the entire band seemed intent on making everyone dance as if they had no concept of personal dignity. And there was Harry, already bobbing his head and swaying like a man who had been born with an extra limb for dancing.
One of Harry's eyebrows quirked at him in an unspoken challenge.
“No,” Draco said firmly, as though this were a matter of life and death.
“You should,” Harry countered, his grin widening like a Kneazle eyeing a particularly juicy bird.
“I won’t,” Draco muttered, the protest half-hearted at best.
“You must,” Harry said, his voice dripping with the kind of confidence that could sell sand to a desert.
And then, just to seal the deal, he winked.
Draco sighed—the sort of resigned exasperation one feels when cornered by an overly insistent dog. He took Harry’s hand, and before he could think better of it, was being hauled onto the dance floor, his dignity trailing behind like an afterthought.
Later, Draco would, of course, blame the firewhisky.
The crowd swallowed them, the music vibrating through the floor and into their bones. Draco Malfoy had always viewed dancing with the same enthusiasm a cat reserves for a bath, but there was something decidedly different about tonight. At first, he was stiff, too aware of the press of bodies and the heat surrounding them. His eye twitched as they spun (or, more accurately, careened) across the floor. Eventually, Draco found his feet following Harry’s lead, quite willingly, too, and admired the man's ability to make even the most disastrous situation feel... endearing.
“Relax,” Harry murmured, swaying his hips lasciviously.
Draco chuckled despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
The band, bless them, played with the sort of fervour that suggested they might have been serving an ancient pact with a higher deity. Draco couldn’t help but feel that the singer, with his wild, almost supernatural energy, was weaving a spell with his voice—something invisible yet undeniably present, like the faintest trace of magic hanging in the air. The lights flickered, performing their own little waltz, casting sparks that might have been Lumos charms had one been feeling particularly generous with their imagination.
For a moment, Draco half-expected to see wisps of silvery light curling from the singer’s fingertips—he couldn’t shake the notion that the man was some sort of Siren, or, more likely, a direct descendant of Merlin himself.
“He has to be magical,” Draco murmured under his breath, unable to keep the thought from tumbling out, despite the clear evidence of Muggle instruments in use. Harry, bless his heart, said nothing—though the mischievous twinkle in his eye was enough to suggest that he agreed entirely, and possibly even enjoyed Draco’s bafflement.
And yet—Draco couldn't help but pity the vocalist—shame about the hair. That particular shoulder-length mop of dark curls was almost entirely too reminiscent of Harry’s animagus godfather for Draco’s liking.
The current of the song pulled him in, and with it, an unspoken ease that he only ever seemed to find when Harry was around. The sensation of Harry’s proximity, his warm breath against Draco’s ear, the occasional brush of his chest against Draco’s—well, it was all rather disorienting.
For years, Harry had been the one to make him feel this way—like the world could tilt a little sideways, and Draco would follow, if only to see where Harry went next.
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to dance—it was more that, in this moment, Harry was pressed so darned close that Draco couldn’t quite recall if he’d ever enjoyed being so near another human being. A dangerous thing, enjoyment. Quite insidious, really. It snuck up on him, like a rogue spell that had no business taking hold of a proper wizard. If young Draco, a more impetuous, naive creature, had witnessed this scene, he would have thrown up his hands in disgust, muttering something about being hopelessly besotted and a fool of the highest order, no doubt.
And the evidence, Draco thought, was damning.
The night rolled on, as it tends to do, in a fog of merriment and complete disregard for reason.
And oh how that sounded. Malfoy-Potter. Not a bad ring to it, really. He’d once thought such a thing would be as painful as a Blast-Ended Skrewt bite, but now? Now it was practically the best thing that had ever happened to him.
"And you have beer foam on your lip," Draco observed dryly, trying to steady himself.
Harry paused, allowing a moment of silence to hang in the air before, with all the languor of a man who knew he was being watched, he employed his tongue in the most theatrical of gestures to collect the errant foam.
Draco choked into his drink. “I married a barbarian,” he muttered, quite convinced that he was in no way flustered by the preceding spectacle. He had, after all, been married to Harry Potter for five years, and yet, every time Harry so much as flashed that infernal, teasing grin, it still managed to send a ripple of disconcerting heat through his insides. A barbarian, indeed.
From across the bar, Ginny’s voice cut through the merry chaos like a particularly sharp-edged knife. “Just fight or fuck already!” she called at them, causing an immediate eruption of laughter, followed by the sort of hearty applause one might expect at a particularly boisterous Quidditch match. Charlie, Ron and Theo, were positively hooting, no doubt delighted by the spectacle of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter —two men who, in their youth, would have found the idea of sharing a drink about as likely as a Hippogriff sitting politely at a tea party— bickering in public like the old married couple they now were.
Draco surveyed the room, where the Slytherins and Gryffindors had, over time, mingled with a most curious ease.
It was strange, really, how things had shifted so far from the rigid lines of House rivalry he had grown up with. He had once thought that the very idea of socialising with Gryffindors would be as pleasant as a Cruciatus. Yet here he was, on a night like this, laughing with Charlie, exchanging barbed comments with Ginny, and even—good Merlin—sharing a drink with Ron.
Draco Malfoy, not one for sentimentalities or self-reflection, still couldn’t help but notice, with a small, private sense of amusement, that he was far from the man who had first married Harry. Oh, he was still a prat, of course—snide remarks, lofty glares, and the occasional well-timed eye-roll were his trademarks. But something had shifted. It was subtle, like the difference between a well-mixed potion and one left to stew too long—finer, sharper, but undeniably improved.
He raised his glass, watching Harry now laughing with the unruly group. It wasn’t an extraordinary sight, but in that moment, Draco realised it was everything.
Life, in its bewildering absurdity, had turned out rather well.
The night could unfold as it wished—Draco had no complaints. He was content.