Draco sneaked quietly out of the lift into the hallway, and promptly stepped on a loose floorboard. It creaked and gave way, causing him to wobble dangerously on his high heels. Cursing silently in his head, he almost bit his tongue while he flailed his hands wildly to find purchase on the gleaming white walls.
Gaining his balance, Draco let out a minute sigh of relief – it wouldn't do well to give his place away after all his efforts to remain undetected – before cautiously approaching the door at the end of the corridor.
Meeting the almost tangible, intricate web of strong wards brought about a smile on Draco's face. At least that Gryffindor git is not so stupid as to believe danger is past after the war, he thought fondly before he started waving his hand in a series of complicated wrist motions to dismantle the wards.
Half an hour later, Draco's feet were aching terribly in the precariously high heels. He was perspiring and trembling with exhaustion, affection for the git long gone as he seethed at the Gryffindor's magical strength.
"Trust him to be the only fool with great powers," he muttered irritably as he directed a particularly strong spell towards the lock.
The door clicked open.
Inexplicably, Draco's heart started pounding. Frowning at himself, he swept his long hair back, Scourgified his perspiration away, patted down his clothes, and took a deep breath.
"Mr Evans?" he poked his head in around the door, and looked around Potter's penthouse for the first time.
He was greeted with a dimly lit living room and silence.
His heart leaped – it most certainly did not wilt at the lack of Potter's presence, he scolded himself – and he stepped cautiously into the penthouse.
He stood staring, jaw slightly open.
The floor-to-ceiling windows gave Draco an impressive view of Muggle London, with Big Ben chiming in the distance (eleven o'clock). A monochrome-coloured L-shaped couch faced the London eye. To his right, a cozy fire blazed, encased in old ornamental stone with carvings that yelled mastery at work. Two armchairs decked in warm red faced the fireplace with a small glass table placed in between. A chess game lay half-played. On Draco's far left, a billiard table stood proudly, decked in green with silvery-white borders. Cue sticks lined the walls, together with high-tech stereos and shelves of music CDs. Beyond, another hallway led to the rest of the penthouse. A white tiger skin lay in the centre of the space, glowing in the dim light.
A car horn sounded off in the distance, shaking Draco out of his trance. He snapped his jaw shut, tore his eyes away from the décor and scanned the living room.A murmured spell quickly reassured him that there was no one near him that could detect his presence. Expelling his breath, he stilled his heartbeats and searched the space efficiently for the things that he came for.
As Draco hobbled around the rooms, his professional eye continued to catalogue Potter's residence. It followed a clean, easy, open style, impersonal yet beautiful in its elegance. Potter's furbishing of his apartment with luxury and complementary shades of creams and browns reluctantly impressed Draco. I would never have believed him capable of such… impeccable taste.
He cast again, testing for secret compartments, glamours and other wards on the room – if it could be called that – that would signal to Draco his starting point. No such luck. He shrugged; he would just have to search his private rooms then.
Potter's bedroom was even more impressive. He had removed all partitions in the penthouse, leaving only two spaces: the bedroom and the main entrance. His four-poster bed was so enormous it was practically criminal, placed in the middle of the far wall, stretching enough to accommodate three half-giants comfortably. A mahogany desk faced the windows on his right. Directly beside him, if he peeked behind the wall to his left, he could see the full glory of Potter's walk-in wardrobe. Suits, robes and Muggle clothing lined the hangers in all colours, together with shoes and accessories of all designs and patterns. Draco could feel his feet itching to step into the haven he discovered. The glass panels to his far left led off to the bathroom of epic proportions, holding both a Jacuzzi and bathtub. Mirrors lined its interior. On the other side of the bathroom, the sliding wooden panels revealed the balcony of the penthouse, which held an Olympic-sized swimming pool as well as another white couch on a wooden platform. It overlooked Wizarding London.
Draco shook his head in disbelief. Malfoy Manor was large, luxurious, and a symbol of wealth, but it was in Wiltshire. To have a residence in London, and a penthouse with views of both Muggle and Wizarding London, however… Potter was rich. Filthy rich.
That discomforting thought once more brought Draco back to his agenda for the night. He repeated the spells in the bedroom, and was rewarded with a slight gleam of golden light at the headboard of Potter's disgusting bed. He walked briskly towards it, and prepared to crawlonto the mattress to reach the light.
Hiding an anticipatory grin at his imminent success, Draco kicked off his heels impatiently. He fully expected to attain what he wanted, slip back his heels, and exit Potter's penthouse quietly. He expected Potter to be the same dumb bespectacled wanker he was in school, which means someone incapable of catching him trespassing.
Draco did not expect to kneel on hard bone, hear a gasp, and get pushed into a lying position by a flailing, suddenly visible, incredibly drunk Harry Potter as said drunkard retaliated involuntarily, sat up, and promptly turned around to pin Draco down, blinking adorably at him.
Draco could only widen his eyes in response, both in dawning fear at being caught and alarming surprise with his thoughts, as he saw Potter's rumoured Invisibility Cloak sliding off him. Stupidly blinking, not adorably. Stupid, he thought frantically, trying to regulate his breathing and hide his nervousness.
"Parkinson?" Potter asked in a deep, husky voice. A thrill of heat went straight down to Draco's groin at Potter's voice despite the panic he felt at hearing the wrong name before he realised that yes, Potter was calling him, since yes, Pansy brewed Polyjuice for him and gave him one of her hairs to pull this mission off perfectly. At least, he didn't receive as much as begged and threatened before she rolled her eyes at him and gave in.
Fluttering his eyelids and recalling desperately Pansy's simpering, flirtatious voice, he replied. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
He saw Potter's green eyes darken, and that was all the warning he got before an impossibly warm, insistent mouth covered his lips.