Author: tigersilver
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,500
Warnings: AU, EWE, Aurors Draco & Harry. UST and unsent Owls. Second chances. For the following wonderful persons, to wish them well in the New Year: subtlefire , fire_juggler , nightlo , ldydark1 and lijahlover . Hugs from Tiger!

HD 'Desirable Resolution No. One'

Draco's still got a letter he wrote in First Year. 'Dear Potter," it reads, 'excepting you're not at all dear to me, as I hate you!'

He's got one from Fourth ('Piss off, Potter. You'll get yours. See if you don't, you arse! I'll make certain you're miserable, git!'), and Sixth ('Potter, I wish to speak with meet with you. Privately. Never mind. No use.') In Seventh, he'd not written any letters to Potter at all, except in his head and well tucked in behind his increasingly opaque shield of Occlumency, but after the War was over he had. Written several, in fact, in the years spent in training and so forth.

Several; no, many—and then he'd not had the bollocks to Owl them, not wanting them to find Potter at the Burrow (that'd be purely awful) and not wanting them to find Potter not alone and have his words be read aloud before others—people who might not be sympathetic to a Malfoy confessing an all consuming pash for a Potter. For all he knew, Potter's mates still read Potter's miscellaneous mail and that wouldn't do. Not hardly. And he couldn't very well use a Ministry memo for this. No, what Draco had to say to Potter required Potter's undivided attention. And other things…besides, Draco preferred to take action. So he did, and used his connections and Potter's name (every advantage in his arsenal) to obtain that position in the Aurors.

He's kept them all, his ancient aborted correspondence with the Boy Who Lived, stashed safely in his school trunk mainly, safe from prying eyes and Death Eaters and his all-knowing mother, and just dug them out of mothballs this year…well, when Potter sees them it'll be the New Year, hopefully, but then that's Draco's one huge resolution. Life's short and can be brutal and he can't waste any more time dithering over what he should've done and could've done—and Potter's not gone forward and married the Weasel chit in the last three years, even with plenty of opportunity. And he's not likely to, now. Potter's a poufter, a homo, or at least bi-curious. But Draco's been keeping a weather eye cocked on Potter's doings over the years and if he's not grossly in error about absolutely everything, Potter's just like him—Seeking solely for the other team, as it were.

That works into Draco's resolution nicely. Potter should have some sympathy. Empathy for the boy Draco had been; understanding for the frustrated man he was now. He only has to follow through on his grand scheme and he's already set the stage for it. Has been; mending fences madly left and right, being conciliatory as all Hades to assorted sods whom he must deal with daily in order to continue his position and even advance at the same rate Potter has: sucking up, to put it bluntly. It's taken him a thousand days of concerted effort, but Draco's damn sure Potter thinks of him as a mate, now.

Perfect.

He tips the first letter through Potter's mail slot at Grimmauld Place. Number 12 was supposedly under Fidelius during the War, or so he recollects from the gossip 'round the Ministry and the exposé the Prophet printed on Potter's activities during wartime, but fortunately that's not the case now. The house is easily found, even if Potter values his privacy. Another sign that this is the right thing to do: Draco baring his all to Potter, via words. Words are damned powerful, Draco knows, and he's known how to use them since birth, practically. He's just a little rusty in the ones that are expressly designed to communicate the softer emotions.

Not that Potter leaves him feeling soft. Not by a long shot. What he wants to do to Potter-and have done to him by Potter? Well, that's all about hard and forceful and hasty. Driven and frenzied, really, and he's had a fuck of time keeping that all stuffed safely inside him for this last few years. Draco's fairly certain Potter suspects that—after the cloakroom, surely—but it behooves him to bring it out in the open. Draco's not been at all pleased with Granger's efforts to set Potter up with someone 'suitable' recently and he's not particularly fond of what he's heard whispered in the canteen about Potter's sexual proclivities with Muggles.

If Potter's taking it up the duff from some git he's met in a Muggle club, Draco's going to feel rather sorely ill-used by Fate. Here he is, and here he's been, subtly available for Potter's every physical need and desire, and Potter, Draco thinks, almost has to know that by now. He must. He'd hardly hidden it, even if Potter's somewhat deliberately obtuse—or so Draco suspects, and he now knows Potter runs deep. Not the idiot Draco used to think him, Potter.

He slides in the short—very short—but hopefully succinct single recent letter he's written that accompanies his First Year scrawl and explains it and all the others he's written, and leaves the gaily wrapped bottle of champagne on the worn-down bristly mat on the stoop. Atop a small teak box, Charmed to open only to Potter's hands. There's crystal stemware to go with, as well, so Potter can't mistake that the champers is meant to consumed with a guest. No—more than a mere guest. A lover.

Disallusions himself and retreats across the quiet Muggle street, to stand at the ready in the oasis of calm sobriety on this London New Year's Eve. He hears the fireworks popping over the Thames when Potter at last opens the door, dressed in washed-out grayish flannel pajama bottoms and with his spectacles askew, his slight form all dappled in red, green and blue light by the brilliant reflections raining down from the sky. Stifles a snort at Potter's dishabille; trust Potter to wear raggedy pjs and to not bother to toss on a robe before he opens the door. Bloody comical, that. Completely typical. And too, the git was always far too trusting and impulsive for his own good—he's not even got his wand up and he's facing a deserted street at midnight. Anyone could be outside his door, lying in wait for him.

This time—this night—it's Draco Malfoy, Potter's partner at work and semi-sort of good mate in Aurors.

But Draco's hoping that's so—that Potter's still as trusting and as devil-may-care as he ever was. And willing to entertain the notion that Draco Malfoy was perhaps not always a despicable prat and a dickweed at Hogwarts. That his venomous outburst and pranks only thinly disguised a fascination that simply won't die—hasn't yet, ten plus years later. That this relationship they've forged between them has roots set as deep as the Whomping Willow and all the brilliance of Draco's own particular constellation.

The second letter explains Draco's first one in exacting detail, and too, it provides Potter with the whys and wherefores of the plain wooden box Draco's left under the chilled Joüet bottle and the two matching pieces of engraved crystal that accompany it . 'Harry' and 'Draco', they read, '2011 and ever after'. All the remainder of his old school letters to Potter are packed in that teak box, along with the notes he's written in the aging, yellowed margins to explain himself further: what he was thinking, and feeling, when he wrote them, as far as he can remember now. All he needs Potter to know about him, written out: an instruction manual on the care and feeding of one Malfoy, Draco. His development as a human, as a man, and what he needs of Potter now.

All there, all clear as Draco can possibly make it. He's got a lot riding on this and he's been very careful not hold anything back, because Potter does know Draco, really. Should do, after all this time.

His unblinking gaze sharpened with an enhancing incantation, Draco watches carefully as Potter blinks rapidly behind his smudged specs and stares round him, puzzled. Finally, the sleepy git takes note of the green glass long-necked bottle of French bubbly, the two flutes tied together with silver ribbon, and the little Charmed box that holds snippets of all the things Draco couldn't ever bring himself to say—still can't really. But has done anyway, because he promised himself he would. Potter's owed it, just as Potter's owed Draco's fealty, by law and by inclination.

Draco snorts again, ever so quietly, or rather huffs a tiny breath of derision—at stumblefuck Potter, who's managed to clutch the two loose envelopes, the gift-wrapped bottle, the matched set of tied stemware and the Charmed box in a precarious heap in his bare arms, as well as his wand (which the arse has managed to wave very cursorily over Draco's leavings, thank Merlin, proving that he is, actually, not a bad Auror). He watches intently as Potter near falls backwards into the dimly illuminated entryway of the Black's ancient townhome and the door shuts behind him with a quiet bang.

Of course, Draco's feeling fairly put out with himself, hanging about Potter's door like some lovesick swain, entertaining remarkably mushy thoughts about forgiveness and absolution and snogging—third and fourth and fifth chances. All the chances he can grab, sod it. Draco's well aware he's a coward and a lily-livered gutless wonder over some things, and this instance would be a prime example of that. But at least he's finally gone and done it, and now Potter will be fully aware of what it is his partner wants from him, really, really, all laid out in black, white and the faded Slytherin green ink Draco used when he was a student.

Such affectation, using ink the exact colour of Potter's eyes. Draco sneers at himself. How it took him so long to realize what he was about back then still astounds his current-day self. He must've been well and truly oblivious—not to mention brainwashed—never to notice that Potter had the oddest effect on every small detail of his life. Bamboozled by circumstances and enough of a head-in-the-sand git not to want to see.

But now's different. Now Draco knows. And Potter will know, too, in a matter of minutes, which is why Draco's still loitering about Grimmauld Place. Why he's crossed the street and bounded up the steps; dropped the Disallusionment like so much lint off his shoulders. If he knows Potter (and he'd better, by now), the idiot's going to scan the contents of those two envelopes and then burst through the front door again right after, to stare dramatically up and down the street, searching for him. And Draco's planning on being right on his doorsill, eager to barge in and explain himself further. Physically. Have a hands-on go at it, basically. He might be a little rusty in some spots, but Draco's positive he can convince Potter without using any words at all—given the clear opportunity to do so.

With the door firmly shut behind Potter and the stone chill beneath his booted feet, Draco finally remembers to inhale normally. He's naught but to wait and, if he knows Potter, the door should be opening again sharpish.

At least…he really hopes it will.

'Dear Harry,' the second letter reads, 'it's been three years now that we've worked side by side at the Ministry. Last night, of course, I kissed you, if you care to recall. I expect you think I'll blame it on the copious drink or the convivial atmosphere—perhaps even mistaken identity. I imagine it left you wondering what exactly it was that possessed me for those five minutes I occupied myself with essentially eating the lips off your scarred face and sticking my fingers down your crack and all over your bits, even if it seemed you'd no objections to it. I know I would, if my co-worker suddenly snogged me silly in a cloakroom on almost no notice.

But it's not been a case of 'no notice', Harry. Not at all. This has been a long time coming; in fact, I should think it's as plain as the nose on your face, what I want from you. And that's not 'new' at all, arse. I recently rediscovered all of these old Owls and notes I'd written to you when we were still at Hogwarts—you'll see there's rather a collection of them—and read them through. They only served to heighten my conviction that I need to at least attempt this.

I'd like something more, Harry. Don't mistake me—I enjoy working with you and you do actually manage to be a decent partner, most times. I value more than I can say the friendship we've built up since the War. But it's not enough for me—not by a long shot. I want more than to be another Weasel or Granger to you—I require all of your undivided attention, Potter. Body, mind, soul—all of it. I want it. I need it. I'm fairly well foundered without it and I hate more than words can tell you what I'm overhearing about you and those Muggle blokes you're supposedly meeting up with. Makes me burn, Harry; leaves me so very angry, and I want to hurt people again—not a good thing, that, but it's what you do to me, Harry. Everything's always ten times worse, when it comes to you. Or better, depending.

So, fix it. It's in your power, Harry. I'm pretty sure you're the only one who can do so, at this point in time. I've not looked seriously at another chap for years, if ever, and I can't imagine that's likely to change. Give me a chance to court you, Harry. Romance and roses—all the wet, girly crap Granger says you like. I can do that. I can be charming as well as an uppity arse, you know. Just need a chance to show you, out in the open. And I'm counting on these letters to prove beyond any doubt I mean this. Honestly.

Two things, Harry. If you're interested, even if it's only slightly, open your door. I'm right outside it, waiting. If you're not, then I've sent another letter, this one to Dawlish, Charmed to request a transfer out of Aurors, effective immediately. New Year's here and I can't manage another day waiting on the sidelines. If I'm out of the match entirely, you need to make it very clear to me, or I can't see giving up. Been pretty constant, I'd say, these last ten years or so. Not likely to go changing my mind now, yeah?

Open the damned door, Harry. Do it now. If I know myself and you, I've been standing out here freezing my bits off for more than an hour now, hesitating and then waiting for you to read this through at least twice—probably you've finally managed to work out the symbolism of the two goblets tied together and perhaps you've even read some of my old scrawls as well. You'll be convinced I'm not lying, right? You should do, arse. I can't lie to you, Harry, except by omission and I'm done with that, now. Open the door, Harry.

Please just open the fucking door.

Draco'

TBC…