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Draco knocked on the mahogany door. He was shaking badly, and he couldn’t remember why he thought it was a good idea to show up on Potter’s doorstep. He drank too much - that was probably it. Blaise gave him a few shots, but everything after that was blurry. Draco couldn’t even remember the bloke he hooked up with in the club’s bathroom. John? Jared? Jacob? He was sure there was a ‘J’ in it. “Je ne peux pas croire que je fais ça,” Draco was chanting to himself. He was in absolute disbelief of his current actions. Why was he even here?
Draco was on his fifth recitation of his French mantra when the door swung open, startling Draco. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the person in front of him. “Malfoy?” Harry breathed, sleep obvious in his voice. Draco paused his chanting and smiled, mumbling a Salut as he drunkenly stumbled over the threshold. “Oh, yes, come in, Malfoy,” Harry muttered sarcastically, flattening himself against the doorframe to allow Malfoy to pass. He shut the door with his foot, looking up to the heavens with deep contempt. What the hell was Draco doing at his house, at 2 in the morning?
Harry ran his fingers through his hair, doing nothing to help his bedhead. He sighed deeply at the sight in front of him as he turned to his living room. Draco had situated himself on Potter’s couch, feet curled underneath him and fiddling with the television remote.
“What a fascinating Muggle contraption. C’est intérresant.” The remote slipped through his fingers and clattered onto the wooden coffee table. Draco started, settling back into the couch after losing interest of the fallen object.
“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?” Draco glanced up at Harry. “And how do you know where I live?!” Harry decided to overlook Draco speaking French. It threw him off too much, if he focused on the way Draco’s pink lips curled around the unfamiliar words…
The blond exhaled, effectively snapping Harry out of his thoughts. “You’re the Golden Boy. ’S not hard to get someone to give me your address.” Draco waved his hand toward the fireplace, illuminating the pile of logs behind the metal grate. “‘Specially with the right amount of money.” His eyes shot open, as if remembering something important. He focused in on Harry’s kitchen. “Can I have a glass of water? S’il te plaît?” Harry pursed his lips, realizing that Draco must have been drunk. The Malfoy I know would never have dared to touch a Muggle contraption, he thought. Or speak French to me. Harry swung open the glass cabinet, staring at the glasses. The Malfoy I knew, anyway.
A few minutes later and a murmured Merçi, Draco was sitting cross-legged on Harry’s couch, nursing a glass of cold water. Harry sat in the armchair next to the sofa, studying the Draco that was sitting on his furniture. He watched Draco twirl the ends of his bangs half-heartedly, taking a mental note of the old schoolboy habits that this adult Draco seemed to still have. He still held things with both hands, still crossed his left thumb over his right when he clasped his hands together. Draco didn’t seem that different from his former teenage self, but Harry guessed old habits die hard.
“I came to apologize.” Draco blurted, avoiding Harry’s eyes. Harry said nothing, and Draco took the silence as a cue to elaborate. “I was a git to you for seven years. Sept. And that isn’t fair. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “My feelings were hard to deal with at the time, and I took it out on you.” He took a sip of water and stilled, awaiting Potter’s response. Potter, who was frozen in his spot for several seconds, was engrossed in thinking up a witty response. He came up with nothing. Mentally cursing his lack of sarcasm, he settled for the genuine question sitting on the tip of his tongue.
“Feelings? Malfoy, what feeling other than hate did you ever harbor for me?” Harry sounded genuinely confused, and Draco couldn’t believe that out of all the people at Hogwarts, the only person who wasn’t aware of Draco’s feelings towards Potter was Potter himself. Of course Potter didn’t know. It was always him who was the exception. Him being the youngest Seeker, being the fourth entry in the Triwizard Tournament, being the only one to defeat the Dark Lord. Harry must have been so busy in school that he didn’t bother to worry about his love life.
“I didn’t hate you, you prat.” Draco slid his fingertip around the rim of the glass. Draco turned a nice shade of rosy pink, but urged himself to continue. “I, in fact, felt the exact opposite of hate towards you.” Draco laughed - a surprisingly delightful sound to Harry’s ears - and then fell silent. He opened his mouth, closing it immediately after. “God, I was so in love with you.” He mumbled, silently hoping that Harry couldn’t hear him due to the crackling logs in the fireplace. Harry turned completely red. Nope. He had heard just fine.
“W-What,” The word tumbled past Harry’s lips before he fully registered what Draco had said. There was no way the slimy ferret had liked him the way he liked Draco in school. Nothing ever worked right for Harry. Why would his crush liking him back be one of them? The blond’s grip tightened around his glass. His silver eyes raised to meet Harry’s, and they stared at each other for what seemed like hours.
“Je t’aurais toute ma vie.” Draco pasted a small, bitter smile on his face. He looked at Harry with such longing, such want, that Harry didn’t have to know French to know Draco’s feelings. Harry was feeling something himself, what with all the French that kept slipping out of the ex-Slytherin’s mouth. The really tantalizing mouth, Harry added as an afterthought.
Harry stood calmly, moving to where Draco sat on the couch. He sat next to the tall blond, their knees touching. Shifting, Harry positioned himself to face Draco, who was staring back down at his knees. Harry spoke nervously, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack embarrassingly. “I need you to say it in English, Draco.”
Draco’s head whipped up at the sound of Harry saying his name. He had never, in all his years of knowing Harry, heard the raven-haired man call him by his first name. It had a bizarre effect on Draco. It kind of made him want to give Harry his life savings, or drop to his knees and-
“I can’t understand French, sadly.” Harry spoke softly, laying a gentle hand on Draco’s thigh. He stared at Harry with an impenetrable stare, a peculiar and almost wistful look in his eyes. Harry stared back, the corners of his lips quirking up slightly.
Draco dove over to Harry, connecting their lips together in a passionate, almost bruising kiss. Harry’s hand flew upon to grab hold of Draco’s face as Draco’s tongue expertly teased Harry’s bottom lip. The blond’s fingers nimbly worked their way through Harry’s messy hair, tugging and threading through the strands as Harry pulled Draco onto his lap. Harry groaned involuntarily, sending chills through Draco’s body. Fingers were yanking shirts over heads, and neither was aware of whose fingers belonged to who.
Pulling his lips away from Harry’s for only a moment, Draco breathed heavily as he watched Harry’s eyes travel down his bare chest before rising back up to Draco’s gaze. Draco placed a soft kiss on Harry’s lips, momentarily forgetting how to breathe correctly. “It means,” Draco started to translate his sentence, but he was so preoccupied with trying to taste everything Harry had to offer that he trailed off.
Harry made a noise of curiosity, his fingers traveling down to Draco’s jean zipper as he retracted his mouth from the blond’s. He hadn’t even noticed Draco was wearing jeans. “What does it mean?”
Draco moaned frustratedly. He was trying to focus on talking, but Harry’s right hand was tracing Draco’s chest while his left was reaching agonizingly slow into the blond’s pants. “I - fuck, Harry, I…” Harry’s fingers stopped their actions, much to both Draco’s relief and dismay. The ink-haired man took his bottom lip in between his teeth, pupils dilating as he drank in the sight of Draco situated on top of Harry, leaning back with his hands in his lap and looking distressed and exasperated.
“Say my name again.”
Draco sobered up immediately at the serious, seductive tone of Harry’s voice. They locked eyes, and Draco raised his hands into Harry’s messy mop, appreciating the contrast between the dark strands and his pale fingers.
“Harry.” Draco swallowed. “I would have… I would have loved you all my life.”
Draco’s heart simultaneously broke and mended itself together from the look on Harry’s face. He looked like he had just been named the luckiest wizard in England, only to have the trophy taken away seconds after. Harry leaned in slowly, gently touching their noses together. He dragged his cheek against Draco’s, an intimate gesture that made the blond tear up. His arms wrapped around Draco’s torso in a steady, unhurried gesture, enrapturing the man on his lap in his warm embrace.
Harry pressed a slow, saccharine kiss against Draco’s lips, letting his mouth rest against the other’s for a few precious moments. He mumbled quietly against Draco, his dark eyelashes fluttering against the blond’s.
“I hope you still can.”