Work Text:
Malfoy Manor at night was a bloody nightmare.
Everyone knows that big properties can be terrifying at night, but only a few people have experienced that feeling firsthand. They haven’t spent their childhood in a huge mansion only to return years later, as adults, after having lived through a physical and mental war within those walls.
Draco should’ve outgrown that fear; he wasn’t a child anymore. The dark couldn’t hurt him. He knew that—or at least, he thought he did. It’s not like there weren’t candles lighting the space, but they were so faint it somehow made everything worse.
Draco had discovered that surviving a war only sharpened your fears and introduced new ones. And not only that—it gave you the unsettling knowledge that the fears you had as a child, the ones you thought were stupid, were actually rational. You just felt them for the wrong reasons. But that constant alertness in your mind was there for a reason: to prepare you for whatever might come.
With his wand raised, Draco whispered Lumos, lighting up the narrow hallway in front of him.
He had a bad feeling. Goosebumps covered his arms, accompanied by a pathetic tremor in the hand holding his wand. He was gripping it so tightly he was sure his knuckles were white.
Draco reminded himself he was only going to the kitchen, nowhere particularly stained by the Dark Lord. Hard to imagine the man ever strolling in there to make himself a snack. He tried to smile, to believe it was a funny image. It wasn’t.
Unlike the Dark Lord, Draco did need to make himself a snack—or something like it. Potter’s presence in his home had his nerves completely shot, and falling asleep was proving impossible. The urge to check if his guest hadn’t left—or somehow gotten hurt—was killing him.
It would be weird for both of them if Draco started barging into Potter’s room every time anxiety got the better of him. The situation was uncomfortable enough without adding his ridiculous weakness. Potter would only be staying a few days. Hopefully, Draco would learn to control himself before the visit ended. It had only been a few hours, after all.
He opened the kitchen door nervously, but relaxed slightly upon seeing everything in place. He set his wand on the counter and rummaged through the cupboards for tea bags. He missed being able to ask a house-elf to handle those mundane tasks—it would save him the night-time anxiety attacks. Unfortunately, a thought like that would be harshly judged by someone like Granger. The last thing he needed was more resentment between him and Potter’s friends.
Everyone involved was making a great effort to get along—at the request of the savior of the wizarding world. Potter wanted them all to try and move past their differences. Clearly, he was the only one happy with the arrangement. He had explained that if he was going to stay with Draco, he’d want to be able to invite his friends—and that no one should feel forced to smile and endure.
The thing was, Draco didn’t understand the logic. Spending more time together just meant everyone had to fake it even more. Still, no one questioned him—not in front of him, at least. It would’ve been humiliating to hear Granger and Weasley complain about his mere presence, no matter how much he might agree with them.
He wasn’t so distracted that he missed the sound of footsteps approaching. Everything inside him stopped—his heartbeat, his breathing, the movement in his legs, and even his ability to call out.
The same creak at the door sounded again, but this time to announce Potter’s entrance. He tilted his head slightly in greeting. Draco mirrored him, thankful for the return of his physical—and to some extent, mental—mobility. One of these days, paranoia would kill him. Or embarrassment. He was far too dramatic for his own good. In his defense, he’d been living alone for a long time, and it had only been a few hours since his guest arrived.
Potter gave him a soft smile before speaking.
“Sorry to interrupt. I heard you leave your room and thought I’d keep you company for a bit.”
“No problem. Come in.”
Potter stepped forward hesitantly, wrinkling his nose at the counter where Draco had set his cup. “I was hoping you were making something to eat.”
“Afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, then. I can’t cook.”
“And how do you manage?” He looked genuinely curious as he asked.
Draco knew he could lie—no need to confess that he frequently visited Pansy, and that she, without needing to ask, always packed up leftovers for him to take home. But he wanted to be honest, at least a little.
“I visit my friends a lot. I rarely eat here.”
He could prepare simple things, but he wasn’t used to them, so they didn’t appeal to him in his daily life. No need to mention that—it would sound spoiled. Not his fault his parents had raised him that way. His mother probably missed the house-elves more than he did. Of course, his father in Azkaban wasn’t suffering from that particular loss, but rather… others.
“Makes sense. I’m only staying a short time, and even so I find the idea painful, given what happened within these walls,” Potter sighed and stared at Draco, his gaze filled with pity. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, every day.”
Draco shrugged, ignoring the pain the subject brought. “It’d be stupid to move. As much as I hate this place, it’s mine.”
Potter nodded, understanding.
“I suppose that’s why I found it hard to believe you gave me Grimmauld Place. It could’ve been yours too—and in my opinion, a better option.”
“Don’t think I’m doing you a favor, Potter. Under other circumstances, I’d fight to have another property in my name. But as it stands, I can barely keep this manor afloat, let alone take on another responsibility. You should be grateful for all the trouble this whole matter has caused me.”
He was hit by the irritating realization of how disappointed his parents would be to hear him speak that way. Speaking of duty with resentment, not pride. “Like it or not, this place is my inheritance, and it’s my duty to stay here and build a life.”
Potter looked at him intently. A strange mix of awe and sorrow filled those green eyes, making it impossible for Draco to look away. It would be so easy to mistake pity for affection.
“I’m glad you’re able to move on, but I don’t understand why it can’t be in the way you actually want.”
“I don’t want anything. I’m not interested in anything. It would be selfish to leave everything behind when I don’t have some greater desire to use as an excuse.”
It was a kind conversation, too kind for the two of them. They weren’t supposed to be considerate and calm together—it was a mistake.
“You’re an adult. You don’t need to justify yourself to anyone anymore.”
“I hope you apply your own logic before speaking.”
Potter laughed, shaking his head.
“At this point, you should know I’m a fraud.”
“Just a hypocrite.”
“Oh yeah?” Potter’s tone, combined with the phrase, reminded Draco of more than one fantasy he’d had over the years. He bit his lower lip nervously, trying to ignore the hopeful voice in his head insisting they were flirting.
“Yes, but don’t worry, Potter. It’s just my humble opinion.”
“Humble? That word doesn’t suit you.”
“Everything suits me, Potter. Use your imagination.”
Potter leaned against the kitchen counter, resting his elbows on it and his head slightly bent into his right hand. The fact that his entire body tilted toward Draco didn’t help the blush rising in his own cheeks. The real culprit was the smile threatening to escape from Potter’s lips.
“Are you asking me to?”
“Not at all. Everyone knows imagination can’t compete with reality.” It was too easy, far too easy to fall into this game.
“You’re not being direct enough. You’re making me ask question after question without getting anywhere.”
“Naturally, someone has to ask them. Conversations require two people.”
“But that doesn’t mean both people are on equal footing.” Idiot.
“Don’t make me laugh.” He grabbed his empty cup to give it a quick rinse—he urgently needed something to do with his hands. “I get what you’re saying, I’ve always been the clever one in our little exchanges. But that doesn’t change the fact that out there in the real world, you have power over me.”
Potter came closer, took the now-clean cup, and carefully dried it with a towel he found.
“Over everyone, really. I hate it.” What a waste—Draco hated himself for thinking that way.
“I’ll never understand you. I’d be thrilled. It’s all i ever wanted.”
“Well, we wouldn’t react to each other like we do if we weren’t so different.”
“Opposite ends—the good and the bad.”
“I didn’t say that, but it seems to bother you. Is that why you invited me to stay here while Grimmauld Place gets sorted? To feel better about yourself?” Draco knew that idiot was joking, yet the faltering smile on Potter’s face suggested the question was half-serious.
Was he really worried about that? Did he want it to be an invitation born of sympathy or affection? He couldn’t not mock him—just a little.
“I can assure you it wasn’t for late-night chats with you.”
“I don’t believe you. You seem to be enjoying this one quite a bit.”
“What makes you think that?” His mocking tone didn’t falter.
“I haven’t seen you smile in months before today.”
Draco lowered his head, blinking repeatedly as he stared at his feet. The nerve, the absolute nerve to assign himself such an important role. Did he really think Draco noticed that kind of thing? What a damn idiot. He hadn’t noticed him all those times they crossed paths. He hadn’t bothered to give him a single look. So how could he possibly know that? He couldn’t. No matter how much intensity Draco now sensed in him, contradicting the way he’d ignored him all those times.
“And you won’t see it again.”
He left, furious.
He was scared—damn terrified—that Potter was right. That his years-long obsession was something deeper. It was bad enough being gay; he didn’t need to add an impossible love to the list. Maybe they’d have to live together longer than just a few days. No one knew for sure how long it would take to sort out the Grimmauld Place paperwork. Draco had been an idiot for offering to house Potter.
No one came to knock on his door to apologize. And he was glad for that—he really was. He repeated it to himself a hundred times until he believed it, and it helped him fall asleep.
Years before the war, Draco had been a morning person. He liked to make the most of the morning and be productive—by his standards of “productive” at the time. Things had changed, and he no longer felt any interest in what the day had to offer.
So now he cherished those last few minutes in bed, resting and imagining stupid scenarios in which he had a different life. He knew he shouldn’t let himself rot away, and that’s why he visited Pansy regularly—not only for the help she offered with daily needs, but because she helped him feel alive.
That day in particular, being the second of Potter’s stay, he had planned to leave early so the man could have space and get comfortable.
He was lucky not to run into him before leaving, though he hoped he wasn’t avoiding him.
Pansy didn’t waste any time—she was nosy and wanted every single detail of Potter’s stay. She didn’t even give him the usual hug before the interrogation began the moment Draco stepped into her luxurious home. He tried to sum it all up as boringly as possible, omitting key parts of the previous night’s conversation. However, he forgot to lie about the reason for his visit.
“You’re not overwhelming Potter with your presence, Draco. It’s your house.” She rolled her eyes.
“He saved my life. Weeks later, he spoke on behalf of me and my mother at our trials. It’s the least I can do.”
“Draco, I swear I don’t know when you became so grateful. Do you realize that if this had happened a few years ago, you would’ve found a way to blame him?”
“He saved me a few years ago, remember?”
“I’m talking about the trial, idiot. When he saved you from the fire, you were furious with him—obviously that’s not the example I meant.”
“I don’t care. I don’t need you to remind me of how much of an idiot I was.”
“At least you speak in the past tense now. Your self-loathing gives me a headache.” To emphasize her point, Pansy placed the back of her hand dramatically on her forehead, tilting her head back and letting out a gasp. She looked even more ridiculous.
Draco threw a cookie at her in response. They both laughed when, instead of hitting her, it landed in her tea, spilling a bit on Pansy’s fine white tablecloth.
They spent hours joking and bickering. When Draco finally said he had to leave, his friend raised both eyebrows in outrage. That was her signal—he had to grab his things and go before she made it harder.
“You’re not leaving before cleaning that stain!” Pansy wasn’t as fast as him, but he wasn’t going to tempt fate by slowing down. Maybe it looked childish to others, maybe they looked like total idiots. He couldn’t care less.
“Make me!” He ran to the nearest fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder. “See you!”
He shouted the name of the manor, and in less than a second he was back home.
He was so rushed he almost fell flat on his face, but luckily managed to catch himself at the last moment, placing a hand on a nearby piece of furniture for balance.
It would’ve been such an absurd fall that just imagining it made him burst into real laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried.
It was a bad time for Potter to find him. A terrible time, considering he had to look completely unhinged with that ridiculous laugh out in the open.
“I was waiting for you to get here.”
“I almost fell. I couldn’t hold the laughter.” He explained quickly, offering a strange confession no one had asked for.
“I see. I’m glad you had fun.”
“Losing my balance made you think I had fun?”
“No, it was the easy laugh.” Something must’ve unsettled Potter because his face shifted from relaxed to visibly tense. “I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have implied anything.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I already forgot about it.”
“You’re not going to yell at me?”
Draco frowned, not quite angry, but definitely confused by such a poor apology.
“Comments like that are exactly why you’re apologizing in the first place.”
Potter raised his hands in surrender, eyes wide. “You’re right. I should just shut up.”
“Just think before you speak. If I learned to do it, so can you.” Potter nodded, not even arguing.
“And how did that happen?”
“I was afraid of saying the wrong thing in front of the Dark Lord. In a way, he taught me to think.”
A long silence followed. Draco stared at the floor, while he was pretty sure—though he might’ve been wrong—that Potter was staring at him. Just in case, he ran a hand through his hair to fix it a bit.
“You don’t always need to find the silver lining in things.”
The concern in Potter’s voice irritated him deeply. That tone didn’t belong to him—not when it was directed at Draco, of all people.
“Don’t worry. I don’t see the bright side in anything that happened. My last name means nothing now, and that means I don’t either.”
He hoped the harshness in his words would end the conversation. No such luck.
Potter sighed. Draco felt the warm breath at the back of his neck. The man must’ve gotten closer without him realizing. He froze.
“The world hasn’t changed yet—not completely. I don’t expect what you said about them to be a lie. I’m not naive. But if you really changed, then eventually you’ll stop seeing your name as the source of your worth.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re Harry Potter.”
“My friends could tell you the same thing. It doesn’t matter who says it. What matters is whether you believe it.”
“All that’s missing is you ending this little speech by saying you believe in me.”
Closing the space between them, Potter gripped his shoulders firmly—a bold move that sent every part of Draco into high alert. Some parts woke up more than others.
And just to finish him off completely, he brought his face close to Draco’s ear, just to whisper a sweet little confession:
“I don’t need to say anything, Draco. You told me last night that reality is better than imagination. I’ll take that to mean you want me to act on it.”
Hearing his name in Harry’s voice sent a shiver down his spine, forcing a soft gasp out of him. So quiet that, if they hadn’t been so close, it would’ve gone unnoticed. But the squeeze on his shoulders confirmed Harry hadn’t missed a thing.
“I need an answer. Do you want me to do something about it?”
Draco turned his head. He wasn’t about to let Harry make the first move. He’d rather die than be passive and boring. He licked his lips before closing the distance between them. It was gentle at first—he didn’t want to startle him. That would’ve been too humiliating.
But he needn’t have worried. Once they both settled into the feeling, Harry let go of his shoulders to cup Draco’s chin and deepen the kiss. His other arm wrapped around Draco’s waist, teasing the exposed skin with slow, deliberate touches meant to drive him wild. It worked. Draco tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair, tugging gently each time he did something he liked.
It was their second day under the same roof and they were already ruining everything. How was that even possible? Especially considering they had only seen each other the night before.
They pulled apart for air, but not fully—neither wanted to stop. They needed a pause, not an ending. Harry was the first to catch his breath, or at least enough to speak.
“You were right. You didn’t invite me for late-night chats. It was for this, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing gets past you,” Draco huffed.
“You know me so well.”
They both laughed, sarcasm and truth mixing in equal parts—enough to give this whatever-it-was a real shot.
Neither of them had to say it aloud that night. They both understood.