Archive of Our Own

Harry fucking hates karaoke.

It’s a fact about him, innate to his being, like that his eyes are green and he’s good at flying.

It’s not just the fact that he’s a terrible singer. He hates everything about it, from the sticky floors of the bar, to the too-loud volume of the speakers, to the overly predictable song choices.

Let it be known, Harry is somewhat of a Hater, capital “H”.

That being said, he loves his friends more than he despises karaoke, so he still gets dragged to the monthly event at the Lost Siren. He always tells them no, and always ends up going anyway.

At least they have decent beer.

Tonight is worse than most. Usually he’s in a good mood until he gets there, at least, but today sucked. He’s been working on a new baklava recipe, and even after twelve straight hours of working in the kitchen, the flavor balance still eludes him. Baking his favorite thing to do, and a skill he’s proud of. He hates failing at it.

There’s practically a black cloud looming over him as he walks into the too-crowded bar. Thankfully it doesn’t take him long to find his group, loud as they are.

He grabs a beer and a couple shots from the bar, resigned to drinking away his woes tonight.

Other than some idle chitchat, the group mostly leaves him alone tonight, except for buying him a shot every time a particularly bad singer goes up to the makeshift stage. He’s thankful for the lack of questions. Even if he has to be here occasionally, he’s always a little happier just being in proximity to his friends, even if he’s not up to participating in the always boisterous chatter. They know it, too. By now, he doesn’t have to worry about offending any of them by ignoring their conversations.

He’s on his fifth shot, this time chosen by Luna, who of course picked something blue and swirly. What even is it? He can’t be arsed to find out.

He lifts the glass, taking it in one go. It tastes like a chai latte, weirdly enough. He can’t taste a drop of alcohol in it.

“What was that?” he asks, the first thing he’s said all night, other than a basic greeting and delivering a round of drinks when it was his turn.

Luna smiles warmly at him, “It’s a vitamin mix and anti-inflammatory tea. You don’t eat enough vegetables when you’re working on a new recipe.”

How she knew that he was working on a recipe, that he doesn’t eat his vegetables, or even that the bar for some reason had vitamin mix (unless she brought it herself, which is completely possible. She’s prescient like that a lot), he genuinely has no clue, but that’s the magic of Luna.

“Thank you,” he says, resolutely ignoring the way his eyes prickle with tears. Even after years of having real friends, he’s still not used to people taking care of him, and no one does it quite like Luna. He wouldn't normally react so dramatically, but everything's a bit too much today already, and of course Luna knows just what to do.

Ron will always be his best friend, and Hermione his sister in every way but blood, but Luna is something entirely else. He hesitates to call her family because family fails sometimes, but Luna has always been resolute in her kindness towards him, never doubting him even when the people closest to him gave pause.

She just pats his hand lovingly and says, “I’ll swing by the bakery tomorrow with some sprouts from my garden.”

He hates sprouts, but he’ll eat them for her.

He’s about to say as much when he hears it.

He’s not the only one who stops mid-sentence as the first line of a new song drawls out across the bar. He’s not going to need a shot for this singer.

He cranes his head around, seeking out the face of whoever is the first singer to not annoy the fuck out of him tonight.

“It’s been so very long since Lady Luck kissed you…”

Fuck.

He sees the shade of blonde hair first. He already knows.

Draco Malfoy is on stage, singing like a goddamn siren.

This is really not how he expected his night to go.

He hears Ron say, “Oh no,” from somewhere behind him.

Oh no is right.

Harry will deny it until the day he dies, but the moment his eyes land on Malfoy, his blood starts thudding embarrassingly fast through his veins. He hasn’t seen Malfoy in years. Four and a quarter to be exact.

He can’t help but let his eyes scrape across those cheekbones, now statuesque instead of -/
-*+p*+ointy, rounded out by healthy weight and age, but still defined. That’s not the only thing that’s changed, either.

His hair is slightly longer than it used to be, arranged in soft waves over his head rather than forced into perfectly straight lines by gel. He’s also taller. Harry itches to stand and find out if Malfoy’s taller than him now. It looks like he is, and though again, he’ll never admit it, to himself or anyone else, the thought doesn’t trigger a sense of petty competition - instead it causes butterflies.

“You wanna spend your chips on these rosy lips -”

He idly wonders what it would be like to -

He should not be thinking about Malfoy’s admittedly rosy lips. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like to have to pull them down to reach them with his own.

Double fuck.

“You needed a muse,” Luna says sagely. He’s really glad no one else is listening.

Her words imply something too terrifying to face yet. Needed. Past tense. As in he has one now.

Nope, absolutely not.

Except Luna is never wrong.

Not for the first time, he wishes she was just a tiny itty bit more fallible. But no, of course she can’t allow him to remain happily in denial.

He looks away from her, ignoring the horror he feels creeping in alongside the familiar prickle of obsession starting.

Why can’t he ever just be chill about Malfoy? He'd love to be able to just like or dislike him for once instead of whatever this ridiculously dramatic gut reaction is.

his time when he looks at/-* the stage, Malfoy’s eyes are on him, that same unforgettable bright grey he remembers staring down too many times.

Malfoy sings the next line, looking away as quickly as he’d caught Harry’s eye, “‘Cause you can’t help needin’ to believe in findin’ what you seek.”

Something deep in Harry’s chest rumbles with satisfaction when he sees Malfoy blush prettily after looking away. That’s something to unpack later.

Are those freckles? He did not used to have freckles, Harry would have noticed. Maybe he finally started getting some sun since he doesn’t live in an underground dungeon anymore, presumably. That would explain the healthy glow.

The song finishes, and Malfoy makes a beeline for the bar, Harry’s eyes tracking his every step, just like old times.

Well, not just like old times.

“Mate, this is such a bad idea,” Ron says, leaning close to Harry so he can hear him over the sounds of the next singer starting, the spell over the bar broken, people chattering loudly again. The way the crowd reacted, Harry could almost believe the song was literally a spell, but that wouldn’t make any sense. It’s just knee-jerk paranoia, a much more normal response for him to
a/+-*lfoy’s presence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says, his eyes still glued to Malfoy’s back as a woman Harry doesn’t recognize offers to buy the blonde a drink.

Annoyance tingles under his skin. He itches to get up and go over there, though he has no idea what he would do if he did.

Good thing he’s fine with not thinking before he acts.

“Not again,” he hears Hermione say as he rises from his seat, his feet carrying him towards the bar on autopilot.

Malfoy must have turned the woman away, because the barstool next to him is open when Harry gets there.

He only hesitates for a split second before taking the empty seat, eyes trained on the bartender as if he’s only there for a drink.

Malfoy tenses in Harry’s peripheral vision, though he doesn’t look over.

“Two of whatever it was Luna ordered,” he says when the bartender greets him.

She pours up the swirly vitamin stuff with a curious look, but says nothing. She’ll definitely be eavesdropping.

Harry slides one of the shots to his left, next to Malfoy’s hand.

The space between them crackles with electricity, neither of them acknowledging the other for a moment as if in silent agreement.

After a beat of tension-heavy silence between them, Malfoy lifts the shot, holding it out towards Harry in a quiet toast. Harry finally allows himself to look at him, clinking their glasses together before his eyes wander to Malfoy’s throat, watching at it moves with the motion of swallowing the shot.

He really shouldn’t feel his heart race at that.

Harry’s fine with being gay, but Malfoy? Did it really have to be Malfoy that caught his eye?

“No glasses?” Malfoy asks in lieu of a greeting.

Harry shrugs. “Turns out my eyes could have been fixed the whole time. It’s not even a complicated spell.”

Malfoy chuckles, his eyes meeting Harry’s with amusement Harry has only ever seen aimed at other people. “I could have told you that.”

“Probably didn’t just so you could keep calling me a speccy git,” Harry responds with an easy grin, his dark cloud dissipating with every hint of laughter in those grey eyes.

“Maybe,” Malfoy says coyly, training his eyes forward. “Was that even alcoholic?” he asks after a second, as if he’d just realized he didn't feel anything from the shot.

Harry shakes his head with an easy grin. “Vitamins. Luna says I don’t eat enough veg.”

Malfoy barks out a laugh at the unexpected answer. “Considering you somehow made a career out of treacle tarts, I’m not surprised.” So Malfoy was paying as much attention to him during all those dinners in the Great Hall when they were both claiming to not be obsessed with each other.

“My sweet tooth has only gotten worse with age,” Harry replies with a smirk.

Malfoy makes a signal to the bartender, and she returns with two glasses of wine, apparently knowing him well enough to know his order without asking.

“It’s a sweet wine,” Malfoy says when she places a glass in front of Harry as well. “Not as sickly sweet as you tend to prefer things, but it shouldn’t offend your sensibilities.”

Harry laughs at that. Finally, an insult, mild as it is. They’re almost back to familiar territory, despite the wildly different tone of it all now. He’s not sure what the tone is, or what he even wants it to be, but it’s definitely something new to them.

Maybe it’s the familiarity of having almost killed each other. Maybe it’s the knowledge that neither of them are the child soldiers they were before.

Maybe it’s the way Harry catches Draco’s eyes raking over him just as obviously as Harry’s did over him.

“It’s not the worst,” Harry says after taking an experimental sip. So it’s the best wine he’s ever had. He’s never going to admit that.

Malfoy’s eyes flash with amusement, his tongue darting out to lick the deep red wine from his lips. “I’d like to see you do better, Potter.”

There it is.

Pottah.

Something old and petty rares its head in Harry’s chest. He can’t not rise to a challenge from his favorite archnemesis.

“Next round’s on me. You might actually learn something,” he says, combing through the catalogue of wines he has in his head. It’s a subject he actually knows a lot about now after a stint with being obsessed with dessert pairings.

Malfoy hums with a tone of curious disbelief.

They sit in comfortable silence as they sip their wine, both mulling over the weird-not-weird energy between them. They don’t have to ask about each other’s jobs, or what they’ve been up to. Harry’s certain, after seeing the way Malfoy looks at him, that he’s read every line of every article about him in the papers, and listened astutely to every overheard conversation their names were mentioned in.

Harry certainly has.

So maybe the obsession never really faded.

Maybe it just changed.

There is one thing he’s dying to know, though.

He’s waiting for now, at least until after the second round, both of them going through the first glass quickly, eager to continue the competition.

“So what are the terms?” Malfoy asks, Harry’s skin flushing with all the ideas that leap to mind, most of them inappropriate for having just met again.

“We ask for half-glasses so we don’t get wasted. And we tip Rosie very well for the trouble,” at the sound of her name, the bartender attends to them immediately, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t listening in the whole time.

“I can do half-rate and half-pours for two rounds, Harry gets the last one at full pour since you already got one. Let’s do this,” she says, grinning at them both unabashedly. She’s young, barely old enough to get the license to pour their drinks, and completely unashamed at her interest in their rivalry.

Harry grins back at her as Malfoy deposits a nice chunk of change into the tip jar, eyeing Harry with unrestrained interest.

“You first,” Malfoy says.

Rosie leans towards Harry to hear his order. He leans in, whispering it to her so Malfoy doesn’t hear.

She covers the bottle with a cloth as she pours to obscure the name, setting the tasting glasses filled with pale pink wine between them.

“And yours?” she asks Draco. He leans in as Harry did. She fills another set of glasses with a tannin-rich wine that’s nearly black.

“Okay, let me know when you’re ready for the next one,” she says to them both, going to attend to the other, slightly neglected, customers.

“Tell me about it,” Draco says, swirling his glass with interest.

“It’s tart. Blended with grapefruit juice for the bitterness,” Harry says, lifting their glasses for another toast.

“Not the worst,” Malfoy says but he can’t, or chooses not to, mask his interest as he smacks his mouth quietly, savoring the flavors.

“Yours?” Harry asks simply, sniffing the wine with curiosity.

It smells extremely dry.

“It’s Italian, and pairs very well with treacle, if you must,” Malfoy says, watching Harry carefully as he takes a sip.

Harry feels the tannins coat his tongue, heavier than Malfoy’s previous choice.

“It could work,” Harry admits, as if he’s not already planning to get the name of it to add to his dessert tasting menu.

Malfoy’s lips quirk into a smug smirk. “I’ve won this round, haven’t I?”

Harry rolls his eyes. So he can’t hide his enthusiasm as well as he thought.

“Maybe,” Harry allows. “But I’ll only concede the round if you answer something.”

Malfoy’s eyes dart up to meet his. “Accepted. As long as there’s equal exchange.”

Harry nods, not bothering to worry about the consequences. Another thing he’s particularly good at.

“When did you learn to sing?” Harry asks, braced for whatever question may come after.

Malfoy tilts his head, thinking through his answer before he speaks.

“I’ve always been a superior singer. It’s a Veela trait,” he doesn’t offer any follow-up. Harry will have to bargain for more if he wants it, a tantalizing bit of information dangled in front of him. He'd thought all the gossip articles about Draco being a Veela were bunk.

Harry tries to feign disinterest at the casual remark, but he knows Draco sees right through it. “I’ve heard Veela sing. They didn’t sound like you.”

Okay, so maybe that didn’t sound casual or disinterested

Harry feels Draco’s look heavy across him, as if his gaze is something physical, actually touching him. His skin tingles at the pressure of being observed like this again.

Or maybe not again, maybe for the first time.

“If you weren't affected by the Veela at the World Cup, that's more telling about you than me,” Draco responds with a knowingly quirked eyebrow.

Oops.

He hadn't meant to reveal that bit of information. He’s managed to keep it out of the papers, so this really is the first time Malfoy is finding out about it, and he didn’t even have to spend his question on it.

Now he’s blushing, and Malfoy is smirking at him. Not fair.

“Tell me Potter,” there it is again, that ridiculous Pottah in his posh accent. Malfoy sets his empty glass beside Harry’s. When did they finish the round? “Do you really want to keep playing this little game, or do you want to skip straight to my prize?”

Harry swallows hard. “We didn’t decide on a prize, and you know that.”

Malfoy’s laugh is airy, lighter than Harry’s ever heard it, even when he’d eavesdrop on Malfoy and his friends in school, before everything.

“Judging by the way you’ve been undressing me with your eyes all night, I think you’ll be quite amenable to giving me what I want,” Harry’s mouth goes remarkably dry for having just drunk so much wine.

He’s used to insipid come-ons from strangers and fans alike (he’s a looker now that he’s got some muscle on him, and he knows it). He’s not used to actually flirting back.

“And what would that be?” Harry asks, his voice embarrassingly raspy as Malfoy slowly traces a finger across Harry’s forearm, leaving goosebumps even through the long sleeves of Harry’s shirt.

Malfoy leans in, close enough that Harry can feel his breath against his ear as he speaks, “Dessert.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Malfoy sits cross-legged on the stainless steel island as Harry bustles around the kitchen of his bakery, trying to decide what to prepare.

He’d really thought for a second that Malfoy had other plans for him for tonight, but of course nothing would ever be that straightforward with him. He enjoys the game too much, and Harry does too if he’s willing to admit it.

So when Malfoy apparated them to the bakery instead of his apartment, Harry was only mildly surprised and extremely amused.

Malfoy still looks victorious, lording over the kitchen as Harry cuts two slices of cake - almond and matcha flavored, one of Harry’s favorites, and a recipe he’s tremendously proud of.

“Have you tried any of my desserts before?” Harry asks as he spoons out two scoops of his housemade almond ice cream. Cake and ice cream belong together, he will die on that hill.

Malfoy shrugs. “I haven’t had the time to drop by,” he says.

Harry smirks. “But you knew exactly where the bakery was?”

If his shop was on Diagon, it would be an excusable detail, but “Treacle Down Bakenomics” is in a Muggle area, and it’s technically owned by Molly (Harry’s role as the true owner is secret). There’s no good reason for Malfoy to know about his job. It’s not a real secret what Harry does, but it’s only close friends who know he does more than just help out sometimes.

Malfoy asked around about him. It’s the obvious answer.

Malfoy shrugs again. “I must have read the address somewhere,” he makes the excuse, but the blush on his cheeks says he’s been here before, even if he never stepped foot in the door. Or at least done his research.

Harry’s stomach flutters at the idea that Malfoy has been keeping tabs on him, not just waiting for front page articles, but paying attention to him in a real way.

He puts the thought aside long enough to summon a bottle of a dry champagne with notes of apple from his private stash. It’s his favorite to pair with the cake, when he’s feeling celebratory about perfecting a new recipe.

He has to pour it into mugs because that’s what he has on hand, but that won’t ruin the flavor.

“Ah, the final round,” Malfoy says, eyeing the silly “Baked Out of my Mind” mug with a curious look.

Harry places one of the plates next to Malfoy’s leg, leaning on the counter next to him as he plucks two forks from a drawer.

Malfoy wastes no time, taking a bite as Harry watches him, wanting more than anything to see the moment Draco tastes it. He’s not usually so self-conscious, but this is one opinion that matters to him. If he can make his old archnemesis admit he’s a good baker, he’ll consider it a true success.

Malfoy’s eyes shutter closed as he savors the flavors that Harry spent countless hours balancing until he was satisfied. “Oh fuck,” he says with a moan, only opening his eyes when he’s swallowed.

That sound does extremely inappropriate things to Harry. “You’re doing it wrong,” Harry says with a smug smile, taking Malfoy’s fork from him to scoop up the correct ratio of ice cream to cake.

Malfoy watches him with interest, accepting the fork back when Harry’s done. “Now try it.”

Malfoy’s moan this time is somehow even worse than before, practically pornographic at this point.

“I’m only saying this because there are no witnesses, but this may be the best dessert I’ve ever had,” Malfoy says, already reaching to prepare another bite.

“And now the champagne,” Harry says, absolutely chuffed but not very good at accepting compliments. Malfoy obeys his request, humming with contentment as he takes another sip.

“If you’d ordered this for the competition, you would have won,” Malfoy concedes.

Harry huffs a laugh, preparing his own perfect bite of cake before the ice cream gets too melty.

“This was going to be for the final round. It’s too good to only have a tasting glass of,” Harry takes a sip, his lips quirking up at the familiar flavor.

He doesn’t share this champagne, normally. It’s a private thing, a rare treat. He always has it late at night, usually while still flour-covered and with a new recipe finally complete. It was a way to allow himself to celebrate his successes in a way he’d never been allowed himself to before.

He’s always followed his therapist’s advice to keep this just for him, something selfish, for once.

Sharing this with Draco feels like an instance of healthy selfishness too, something he would have denied himself in the past, for one reason or another.

No reason seems good enough to deny himself this moment now.

There’s something about having Draco here, idly kicking his feet as they dangle off the counter and a blissed out expression on his face, that just feels right.

“I am definitely coming back to buy a whole one of these,” Malfoy says chipperly.

Harry laughs at that, pushing his unfinished portion of cake and ice cream over for Malfoy to finish off.

“Or you could hang out while I’m baking and have some for free,” he counter-offers.

Again something he usually keeps to himself. No one is allowed in the kitchen while he bakes. It’s his most sacred space. Even Molly respects his zero disturbance policy, and she’s always struggled with boundaries.

But he wants to see this again, Malfoy perched on his counter like it’s a throne, making snarky comments, light in his eyes and a curious smile on his face. What did Luna call him again?

A muse.

His muse, specifically.

He can see that somehow being true, one day.

“Is that how you woo all your paramours, Potter? Ply them with sweets until they forget your lack of charm?” Malfoy’s voice has a slightly nervous tone to it that he’s trying to mask with flirtation and sarcastic insults.

Harry knows every lilt of his voice, though. He’s testing the waters. Seeing if Harry’s actually interested in him. He’s worried Harry will shut him down.

Harry lets out a loud laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. This is really happening. He’s flirting with Malfoy, and he’s not even horrified at the idea of it.

“You would be the first, actually,” Harry says, feeling more confident now that Malfoy’s made the first move. Harry walks in front of Malfoy, stepping between his legs and placing a hand on either side of his thighs, looking up into shocked grey eyes. “Is it working?”

Malfoy’s cheeks flush, his mouth popping open just slightly, his eyes glazing over with lust.

“Oh fuck, I have to go,” Malfoy says suddenly, and then he’s gone. Popped out of existence. Apparated straight from between Harry’s arms.

Harry stands back, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger at himself.

He must have misread everything.

He’d been so sure -

Fuck. He feels like a real asshole now.
____________________________________________________________________________

Malfoy lays out on Pansy’s divan dramatically, recounting his mistakes.

“I still don’t get it,” Blaise says with a frown.

“What is there to not get? I got drunk and accidentally used the thrall on him. It’s the only answer,” Malfoy says morosely.

He’s been lamenting his mistaken actions ever since he saw Harry’s eyes glaze over with lust.

“Yeah, sure, the only answer,” Pansy says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. They’ve been through this already. She doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t believe her. It just keeps going round. He’s getting tired of it. All he wants now is to wallow in his shame until he can pretend the whole night never happened.

Except.

Except, a week later, he still can’t stop thinking about it, and he’s starting to doubt that he ever will.

The worst part? He can’t stop replaying the hurt look on Potter’s face as he apparated away.

He didn’t even realize he was under Draco’s influence. Why else would he act that way?

Draco’s usually militant over his control of the thrall, as all French Veela are taught to be. Despite the fact that it can’t be used to truly control people, they still view it as immoral to influence people on purpose. The thrall can be like a drug to some.

Worse still, Draco’s is strong, unbalanced because his magical inheritance came on all at once when his father died, no one left to maintain the powerful dark magic that had been used to contain his creature blood. Draco didn’t even know he was a Veela until his mother told him belatedly.

So far it’s only complicated his life further.

The public singing is a way to practice his control. An exercise of sorts.

He puts aside guilt and embarrassment-ridden musings when he receives the letter.

“Draco, Malfoy,

I want to apologize. Obviously you only had intentions of being friends, or maybe just not enemies. I’m sorry for ruining that by coming onto you.

If you decide to come to the bakery again, I’ll have a slice waiting for you. I promise not to make it weird.

I want to be your friend, if you’ll let me.

Potter”

Fuck fuck fuck.

For a moment, he’s eleven again, staring down tiny, waif-thin Potter, this time with his hand stretched out towards Draco.

How’s he supposed to turn down that hand the way Potter did all those years ago?

It takes every ounce of courage Draco has to apparate over. He has to at least explain. It would be wrong not to.

He goes before he can lose his nerve.

It’s five minutes till close when he gets to the bakery.

Inside glass doors, he can see Ron counting up the till.

He almost chickens out. He could just write back instead of showing up like this.

But he won’t.

He’ll stare at that letter for years if he lets himself.

He needs to do this now.

He opens the door.

“We’re out of everything but the muffins,” Ron says, not looking up from the till.

“I was promised a slice of cake,” Draco says, trying to sound dismissive.

A smile spreads across Ron’s face. Unnerving. Weasley has never smiled at him before, but Draco knows from watching Harry across the Great Hall that that is definitely not his genuine smile.

It’s menacing, almost, but not aggressive. If anything, it looks more like the twins’ smile.

“About fucking time,” he says unexpectedly.

Draco opens his mouth and shuts it again.

What?

“He’s been in a strop ever since karaoke. Fix it,” he says sternly, nodding to the door Draco knows leads to the kitchen.

“I’ll try?” he offers weakly.

Ron shrugs, and goes back to counting up the till.

Here goes nothing.

He pauses just before he opens the door, taking a deep breath.

“Don’t overthink it, mate,” Ron is speaking to him like a friend, unnerving him further. “Just go in. You’ll get some baklava for the trouble.”

Malfoy nods once. “Thanks,” he says, completely unnerved by hearing Ron refer to him as “mate”.

What the fuck is his life at this point?

He opens the door.

Draco’s been imagining this for two weeks now.

Harry, smattered with flour, standing over some new creation, the same determined look in his eyes that he recognizes from the quidditch pitch.

What he didn’t imagine is that he’d sound so enraged.

In all his daydreams, he never thought that Harry would be cursing the dough he works with, dark bags under his eyes, the kind only created by consistent lack of sleep.

“Ron, you know my fucking rule about coming in the kitchen while I’m -” Harry whips around from the mixing bowl he’d been standing over, his eyes flaring with fury Draco is familiar with, but hasn’t felt directed at him in years.

Something in him breaks knowing he might be the reason for it.

Again.

Draco walks further in, feigning a confidence he knows Harry will see straight through. They’ve observed each other too much for bravado to work.

And he’s tired.

Draco’s sick of pretending. He allows himself to get within three feet of Potter. Any closer and he’d be at risk of doing something stupid. They need to talk.

“Did you come for your cake?” Harry asks with significantly less vitriol, shifting awkwardly, the practiced motion of his hands stilling over the mixer, the aggression melting into something else. It’s not the easy, friendly bordering on something else demeanor from the other night. It’s not an open door, but it’s a crack, and Draco feels an intense urge to be invited in.

“You could say that,” Draco says, not sure what else to say. It was an invitation, and he’s taking it.

“What would you say?” Harry asks, eyes trained on the delicate, nearly paper-thin dough he’s currently manipulating.

It’s a loaded question.

“I came to apologize for the other night,” Draco says honestly.

Harry’s eyebrow wrinkles with confusion. “Why would you apologize? I should have asked before -” he blushes, pressing a hand to his forehead in obvious embarrassment.

“It was the thrall,” Draco rushes out, not able to watch him suffer from unreasonable guilt for a moment longer. He should have come back the next day, would have if he’d been braver.

“What?” Harry asks, his face becoming more neutral. They’re seconds out from disaster, Draco can feel it. “You used the thrall on me?”

His voice is disbelieving, not enraged as Draco expected. Maybe there’s still time to fix this. Maybe they could be friends after all, if he does this right.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear. As soon as I realized I was affecting you, I left,” he says, his own cheeks flushing with shame.

Harry’s face contorts, running through several emotions and eventually settling on perplexed.

“Draco,” first name first name first name! Draco’s mind plays the simple use of his first name on repeat. There’s still hope. “You know I can throw off the imperius, right? And I’m fine at occlumency? Not great, but definitely fine.”

Draco’s mind blanks for a second, not accepting what Harry’s alluding to as truth yet.

“But -” Draco starts to argue, his emotions clear on his face as he tries to launch a counterargument.

Harry holds up a hand, stopping him before he’s truly started.

“I’m literally the Master of Death. That came with some buffs. I’m even less susceptible to mind control than I was during the war. Your thrall has no power over me,” he says, succinctly killing off Draco’s last brain cell.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Like from the children’s tale?” his brain is short circuiting as he speaks.

Harry grins, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter, his demeanor totally different than before. “Yeah, master of the hallows. You helped with that, actually. You defeated Dumbledore, who controlled the Elder Wand. I defeated you. That’s why Voldemort’s wand didn’t obey him. It was yours, and then mine. Never his.”

Draco’s mind reels. “Why are you telling me this?” Surely this is world-altering information. Draco could run to the papers any moment and put a target on Harry’s back bigger than when he was Undesirable #1.

Harry shrugs, because of course he’s unbothered by casually mentioning one of the greatest secrets of the wizarding world. Draco grew up with the tale and never believed it. He would be doubtful if anyone else told him this, but Potter’s luck constantly defies logic. It’s one of his insufferably useful traits.

“I doubt anyone would believe you, even if you told them,” Harry openly stares at him with narrowed eyes, dissecting his reaction. “But I don’t think you will.”

That gives Draco pause.

Why the hell is he so trusting of Draco all of a sudden? One random night of too much wine and he’s willing to divulge his greatest secrets? Assuming that’s actually his most important secret. There could be something even wilder and more unimaginable in his past for all Draco knows.

This is Potter, after all.

There’s only one way to be absolutely certain Harry’s right about being immune to the thrall, though.

He takes a deep breath, and drops his carefully practiced, meticulously controlled mental shields, trying with every fiber of his being to wrap Potter around his little finger.

The magic rolls out from him in waves, his scent gradually filling the room, all the while staring down Potter, looking for some sign of the dumbstruck look people get when he accidentally uses his powers.

“Are you doing the thing?” Harry asks, cocking his head to one side in curiosity.

Draco frowns.

“Nothing? You don’t feel anything at all?” he asks, needing absolute confirmation to be able to process this.

Harry shrugs again, “I smell cake, kind of?”

Draco’s mouth pops open in an uncouth show of surprise that he would have been chastised for as a child.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me, Potter,” Draco says, more to himself than Harry.

Harry laughs, uncouth and unrestrained as Draco’s only seen from a distance. His very presence used to deter that type of happiness. His chest warms at the thought of causing it for once.

“For once, no,” Harry’s demeanor sobers suddenly, and Draco feels the loss of his smile like the extinguishing of a fire in a chilling arctic wind.

“So I do need to apologize. I never should have hit on you like that,” Harry says, and Draco’s world comes crashing down around him.

The truth hits him like a storm breaking.

Harry hit on him.

Harry, with zero influence from the thrall, hit on him.

Malfoy is moving before he can think, his hands framing Harry’s where they grip the counter. He’s staring into shocked green eyes, close enough to count the speckles of near-black that number around his pupil like drops of oil seeping into verdant moss.

“Try it again,” Draco says, allowing himself to be unrestrained with his thrall, not trying to do anything, but just not actively stopping it either.

The oil spots in Harry’s eyes spread ever so slightly, the green turning dark, nearly foreboding.

Did he misstep?

Harry’s hands grasp at Draco’s waist, pushing him away and then against the counter, the rounded edge digging into his back roughly as Harry cages him in, leaning forward to speak so closely to Draco’s ear that he can feel the vibrations of the sound, low and quiet as it is.

“Is this what you want?”

Draco’s never been so certain of anything. This outranks “the sky is blue” and “treacle is disgusting” as a universal truth.

And then Harry pushes it all further, picking him up with tantalizing ease, depositing Draco on the counter in a mimicry of the last time they were together.

“Yes,” Draco manages to rasp out.

He leans forward, before any doubts can seep back in. If fate wants to give him what he’s never dared to dream, but would have if he could have fathomed it, so be it.

Fuck just not standing in the way, though. If Harry’s letting him, he’s going to take what he wants, even if it’s just for a night.

____________________________________________________________________________

Draco’s inner Veela is gasping for air.

He’s also gasping for air, but his version involves actual lungs, so it’s a bit more uncomfortable than spiritual anguish.

Harry pulls back from devouring Draco’s lips, the anger present again for a reason Malfoy’s mind hasn’t caught up to. Malfoy moans his frustration at the loss of contact, about to demand that Harry’s tongue return to its previous ministrations.

And then he sees him.

Ron.

Glazed-eyed, nearly zombie-like, standing open-mouthed and uncouth as always, the Weasel stands staring at them - at Draco - like he might start drooling any second.

So the thrall works on Weasel.

Gross.

Draco recoils, his hand fisting into Harry’s shirt to pull him closer, as if to make him a shield.

“Leave,” Harry commands more than says, something darker than just Harry looming behind the words. Harry’s magic lashes out like shadows, the aura imposing itself into the room until it covers Ron, his eyes clearing of Draco’s influence.

The whole Master of Death thing is starting to feel more real.

His Veela rejoices. His match is powerful beyond what he had ever allowed himself to daydream about.

Fuck.

He can’t start thinking of Harry as his match, not yet.

But then again, his Veela thinks emphatically, practically screaming it at him as Harry grips his hips possessively, pressing Draco close to him as he snarls at Ron.

“But -” Ron glances at Draco, a look in his eyes that Draco would very much like to forget.

“He’s mine,” Harry declares, his magic rolling off of him in intoxicating waves as if a spell was just cast.

This time the command echoes through the room in time with a pulse of magic. It’s not a yell, but the vibrations permeate through the room with power.

Fuck the thrall, this is real control, and not like the cheaply reproduced version that is the imperius.

Harry is demanding obedience, and if Draco could sink to his knees at the sound, he would, but Harry is currently keeping him exactly where he is.

And Draco was worried about his magic affecting Harry?

Laughable, now that he’s seen it for himself.

Ron backs out of the room slowly, his face drained of all color as Harry’s magic pushes him out, shutting the door behind him.

Draco’s never seen magic act like this. Then again, he’s never been in a room with the Master of Death.

Weirdly enough, the only thing about Draco’s opinion of Harry that changes is that he’s somehow even hotter now.

Logically, he should be at least a little apprehensive, but how can he be when that insane magical aura is wrapped around him like a blanket, pulling him into the intense scent of broom oil, treacle, and thunderstorms.

He knows that scent all too well from brewing amortentia back in sixth year.

“Apparate us to my place. You know the address,” Draco’s voice comes out a lot needier than he meant it to, but the effect it has on Harry is worth a bit of embarrassment.

Harry’s eyes lock onto his, finally looking away from the door, his seething expression turning feral of another sort. “Whatever you want, princess,” Harry says as he pulls Draco’s legs tight around his waist, pulling him off of the counter and into his arms with ease. Draco barely has time to brace himself against Potter as Harry’s magic wraps around them, closing out the light of the kitchen entirely, bathing them in still darkness.

Draco’s lungs heave, like the oxygen is being sucked out of his lungs, a cold chill setting in over his skin.

And then Harry takes a single step, as if he’s walking through an elevator door that’s just opened.

And then the shadows are gone, the magical aura retreating back to Harry. So that’s what the energy that’s always there, thrumming against his skin and in the space between them, feels like when it’s working spells.

Harry’s staring at him as the world stops spinning. It’s not like apparition. That feels like being yanked through physical space by your navel. It’s nauseating, and feels like forcing physics to abide by unnatural laws.

This mode of travel, whatever the fuck it was, feels different. It’s as if Harry took them to a place of nothingness, and then summoned a new doorway. That's what it seemed like, anyways.

He’ll ask questions later, though. For now all he can think about is the fact that Harry apparated them straight into his bedroom. He takes advantage immediately, summoning lube from the drawer.

Harry grins, the concern leaving his eyes. Maybe he thought Draco would freak out about the dark-not-dark magic display, and Draco probably will, but they can talk later.

For now, all that matters is getting one of them inside the other.

Preferably both by the end of the night.

____________________________________________________________________________

Harry hasn’t felt this pleasantly sore since he made a bet that he could catch a snitch with difficulty increased by 140% (he occasionally tests out Wheezes just for kicks). It took him 42 hours to capture it. He spent a full week after icing his muscles.

He caught the snitch, but at what cost?

He’s perfectly willing to groan his way through any amount of days necessary for the night they’ve had.

They collapsed mid-sex during round eight, their separate magics having bolstered their endurance through the night until neither could keep their bodies moving.

Harry wakes up first, accidentally extricating himself from Draco as he jolts at the presence of someone else in his bed for the first time in years.

Draco groans, curling in on himself as if in pain at the motion.

Harry immediately starts cooing over Draco softly, his magic itching to heal his wounds but too tired to do so.

“If you heal a single bruise, I will be very cross with you,” Draco says in warning, his eyes still not open.

Harry’s worried hands still themselves over Draco’s skin, where they’d been trying desperately to find the worst of it, so he’d know what poultices to get from Draco’s probably (he’s guessing) extensive medicine cabinet.

He’s a healer and potioneer, of course he should have everything Harry needs to heal him.

But Draco doesn’t want that?

Draco sighs, his eyes finally opening as he sits up with a groan, Harry attempting to support him despite Draco batting away his hands. “I’ll glamour them when we go out, but I want reminders.”

Harry’s breath goes as still as his hands.

There’s a rumble through his magic of satisfaction.

Okay, so maybe he’s kind of into the whole marking thing after all.

Now that he’s considering keeping them as a viable option, he doesn’t want his bruises gone either. He remembers every single mark Malfoy made on him, and he’ll be wanting replacement ones before these fade.

No reason to hurry it along too much.

“Just a bath, then?” Harry asks. He saw the tub Draco has in his master bathroom. It would be a shame not to make good use of it.

Draco nods, holding his hands out to Harry to be pulled up from the bed. Harry grins, scooping the taller but definitely lighter man into his arms, clambering out of bed, the sound of both of their groans echoing in the spacious room.

Sore as he is, Harry manages not to stumble on his way to the bathroom, setting Draco down on the closed toilet while Harry turns on the taps. Looking closer at the various options available, he’s certain that this was modeled after the prefect baths.

Of course, the sudsy, honey and milk-scented soap that comes out of the third tap is much higher quality than the stuff at Hogwarts.

He places Draco in the water, the man still barely awake. Harry settles in behind him, letting Draco recline against his chest as the water begins to cover them. Draco holds a droopy arm out, sleepily forming the word, “accio” as a jar of salts and two vials of oil shoot out of a cabinet and towards them.

Draco catches the jar as Harry snags the oils out of the air, amused at the grumpy look on Draco’s face as he has to open his eyes to undo the clasp on the jar. He dumps it all out at once, carelessly swirling it into the bathwater.

Harry hands him the two vials, watching him uncork and pour them in with the same dismissive flick of his wrist.

This is probably the most expensive bath that Harry has ever taken, judging by the labels on the discarded glass containers. He’s also pretty sure that Draco just used a month’s worth of product in one go.

He rolls his eyes at the absurd amount of luxury they’re basking in, but now isn’t the time for teasing Malfoy about it. He can save that for later, when they’re replenishing Draco’s stock of whatever this is, because Merlin, his aches are already softening like butter, far more comfortably than any healing potion. He would know.

Draco lays his head back against Harry’s shoulder, his eyes drifting closed again as he moans in relief, his body melting over Harry’s, reaching up to splash the soothing water against his throat.

Harry’s not good at letting himself have luxuries, but it’s easy to say yes when it also means lavishing Draco in them. So for once, he gives into what he really wants to do with his almost guilt-inducing amount of inheritance, and he summons his phone.

“What are you doing?” Draco says, rolling slightly to nestle more into Harry’s unused arm rather than the one he’s typing with.

Harry massages Draco’s side as he sends the message. “Getting breakfast,” Harry says with a smile, closing his eyes and sinking further into the water.

Draco hums happily and closes his eyes again, joining Harry for a brief nap.

____________________________________________________________________________

It turns out Harry’s idea of breakfast is basically a full (mostly dessert) buffet.

“Chocolate covered strawberries?” Draco asks, sitting up to pluck one off of the silver tray that appeared next to them with a pop. Elf magic, likely.

“It’s a fruit, it counts as breakfast,” Harry shrugs, his cheeks slightly pink for some reason. He’s probably expecting a sarcastic barb of some sort, but Draco’s too exhausted and satisfied to summon his normal cheekiness.

Draco moans at the flavor. These are fresh, likely dipped this morning. He wonders if they came from Harry’s personal kitchen. He’s certain the bakery doesn’t sell them.

He may have viewed their menu several times, just out of curiosity. Or mild obsession.

Okay, he has Potter here delivering him tub-side brunch, complete with champagne and orange juice.

Maybe it was more than just a mild obsession that led him here.

They right themselves in the tub, choosing to sit cross-legged, side-by-side as they tuck into the offerings. There’s pastries and parfaits, hand meat pies and egg tarts. Draco makes sure to sample a little of everything, knowing Harry’s eyes are on him all the while, even as he pretends to focus on his own plate.

“You know,” Draco says thoughtfully, half-dazed from the combination of the therapeutic bath and the insanely delicious food. “This is far better than breakfast in bed.”

Harry smiles. “Oh? Why so?”

Draco smiles, lifting his hand to scoop a bit of water from the tub to wipe a bit of maple syrup from the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“After this, we can rinse off and climb straight back into bed for a nap. No crumbs or jam in the sheets to ruin the experience,” he says wisely, rinsing the residual jam from his own hands as he speaks, lifting his hands as evidence.

Harry chuckles, relaxing into what is certainly still surreal circumstances for them both. “You make a fair point.”

Draco takes a sip of his mimosa, then relaxes his head against Harry’s shoulder, feeling extra clingy after the most intense night of his life (positively intense, at least).

“It was your idea, darling. Feel free to take credit. We will definitely be repeating this stroke of genius,” Draco says, planting a kiss along Potter’s dewy collarbone.

Harry’s happiness at the comment is palpable in the air between them. Maybe Draco should try being nice more often.

He can’t deny the results.

“Have you had your fill?” Harry asks, the plates levitating as if begging to move out of the way.

Draco nods, his eyelids feeling heavy again. He can probably make it through one more round, though.

“Wait -” he steals the mimosa glass from Harry’s magic’s grasp, taking a deep sip before releasing it again. “Now I’m ready. Take me to bed, assuming you’re up for the challenge, Potter.”

Harry grins, summoning a towel to wrap Draco in as he lifts him from the water, the plates floating to any available counter space not immediately in their way.

“You wish,” he responds with a lustful look in his eyes and an amused twist of his mouth.

“I do,” Draco says happily, delighting as Harry’s mouth dips down to his neck, pulling Draco’s sore skin between his teeth as he scoops him up, presumably to carry him back to bed.

____

Dating Harry is a revelation. Draco isn’t used to being spoiled.

I mean sure, he’s used to buying whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, but he’s not used to someone else treating him the way he tends to treat himself.

It’s not like Harry’s just throwing lavish gifts at him. Every single item is handpicked, carefully thought out, and painfully sentimental.

On Monday, he receives an order of coffee, perfectly made with honey and a dash of milk and an undoubtedly homemade (or bakery-made) croissant.

On Tuesday, he receives a fine silver and emerald bracelet with an inscription that says, “Always on my mind. - H”

On Wednesday, Harry takes him out to dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in muggle London, where he definitely bribes the maitre d’ for a romantic corner table.

On Thursday, Draco visits his local kebab shop for lunch and finds that he now has a standing tab on Potter’s dime.

On Friday, Draco goes home to get ready for their date and finds a new set of robes laid out on his bed, a tailoring charm already set to fit them to his body the moment he puts them on.

On Saturday, when he visits the bakery to watch Harry work his magic, Hermione confronts him.

“I need to know something, Malfoy,” still on a last-name basis, then. He’ll win her over eventually. It’s inevitable. They like too many of the same books and have a shared interest in arguing the finer points of them, or debating them when they’re feeling mutually civil, rare as the occasion may be.

Unfortunately for him, Pansy is there too. They became unlikely friends several months ago, something Draco has dreaded confronting. The idea of them being a united force is terrifying.

Pansy looks excited, but also surprised. She’s practically salivating over Hermione’s potential interrogation, but apparently has no idea what Hermione is about to ask.

“Are you Harry’s sugar baby?” She's accusatory, but he can tell she hasn’t made up her mind about him yet. She’s obviously leaving the option open that Draco might be a golddigger, but she probably doesn’t have enough evidence to decide one way or another yet. That’s how she works, generally.

Draco’s cheeks redden. He really doesn’t want to discuss this with her, of all people.

Pansy lets out a loud guffaw, as taken aback as he is but absolutely delighting in it instead of being mortified like Draco is. “You’re kidding me, right, Herms?” she says once she’s managed to stop wheezing with laughter. She makes a sinister face, which Draco knows means she’s about to spill what she considers absolutely crucial tea.

“You don’t know!” she declares, practically dancing in place as Hermione rolls her eyes.

“Out with it!” Hermione urges irritably.

“If anything, Harry is the sugar baby. Draco received several calls from his accountant this week to see if his identity was stolen,” Pansy says smugly, Draco’s cheeks blushing further. He’s certain he can’t possibly get any redder.

And then Harry and Ron walk out of the back carrying trays of baklava.

Fuck.

“Hey!” Harry says excitedly, putting the tray he’s holding in the case before kissing Draco’s cheek.

His happiness is marred when he notices how Hermione’s staring Draco down.

“This should be good,” Ron says unhelpfully, leaning his elbows on the checkout counter and putting his chin in his hands, prepared for a show.

Draco sighs.

He should have apparated straight to the kitchen. He just didn’t want to startle Harry like last time. He lost an entire batch of noodles to the floor, so it seemed more polite to come through the front door this time. It would have been worth it, in retrospect.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, an adorably concerned wrinkle just above his nose, where the bridge of his glasses used to sit.

“We were trying to ascertain who is the sugar baby in your relationship,” Hermione says with a smirk, the animosity from before replaced by intrigue and a mirror of Pansy’s smugness.

They really are a match made in Hell.

Harry’s mouth curves into a smile. “Oh, definitely me,” he says proudly, not a hint of the abashed man who nervously brought him flowers to their first “real” date. As if the whole 48 hours they spent together wasn’t official enough.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Debatable,” he says automatically, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous notion.

“Does that mean you cancel out, or are you both switches?” Ron asks astutely.

Harry and Pansy both laugh, leaving Hermione to roll her eyes this time. “Really, Ronald. Could you take this seriously? I’m looking out for Harry.”

Pansy places a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Oh please. Look at them. They’re sickeningly arse over tits for each other. Is it so hard to believe they’re both spending an offensive amount of money on each other? They’ve got the bank accounts for it,” she says with a shrug.

Ron nods sagely, in the right for once. “I saw the quidditch box Draco got Harry for the season. He’s definitely not skimping,” he provides.

Harry wraps an arm around Draco’s waist. “Not to mention the lingerie. Definitely French,” Harry says with a smirk as the other three cringe.

“Gross, I did not need to know that,” Hermione says with a groan.

“You’re the one asking too many questions, Granger,” Draco chastises her, finally feeling comfortable enough to speak again. Harry’s confidence is bleeding into him by proxy.

“Unless you want to hear about the enchanted butt plug he got me -” Harry says, again, completely unabashedly.

Meanwhile, Draco finds that he can, in fact, get redder.

“No! Oh god no, just go on your date, I’ll never ask anything ever again,” Hermione promises.

Ron snickers. “Told you so,” he says, referencing a conversation that must have happened in private.

“It really was an impressive bit of workmanship,” Pansy says idly, “I might consider getting one for myself.” That makes Hermione blush.

Whatever is going on between the two of them, Draco wants to know nothing about it.

Harry looks between the two of them in confusion, mouth opening as if to ask a question.

“No, no, nope, absolutely not. Into the kitchen, you,” Draco says, pushing Harry towards the door before he can open his mouth and ruin Draco’s semi-innocent ears forever.

Harry shrugs, allowing himself to be herded through the door.

“So tell me about this workmanship,” he hears Ron say just before it shuts behind them.

Just in time.

Barely.