Ch. 1
In which Harry is a bartender and Draco is a journalist and life spins on obliviously in its axis of regularity without its Boy Who Lived Twice.
"Come back to bed, 'Arry."
"I see that you're awake," Harry crossed his room to reach for an at least halfway presentable shirt, tossing a smile over his shoulder at the bundle of sunshine and blonde hair cuddled in bed, "Morning, baby."
"No - Harry, we agreed, nobody can ever call me 'baby'. But come to bed: I'm cold, warm me up." Came the echoing whine.
"I thought we agreed not to use Celestina Warbeck lyrics?"
"No, you just agreed that when you went on a Celestina Warbeck marathon and thought serenading me in front of the whole Hogwarts in 8th year made an ideal coming out situation." The lump wiggled around and an amused chuckle sounded. "Good times."
"Hm," Harry sprawled himself on top of the lump, "You should have seen McGonagall's face, 'baby', she was as pissed as hell. It was like fire was snorting out of her nose."
"I appreciate that description, but there's no way you're beating me," Draco Malfoy rose out of the mess of blankets, glorious and rumpled and ever, "After all, 'babe', I'm the professional journalist here."
"The snark is awake, too, " Harry flipped over next to him to kiss him, "Can I keep you here so you can't make other people fall in love with you?" He falsely batted his lashes, "A girl gets jealous."
"I have no objections," Draco sighed happily, "Make an honest witch out of me, Potter."
"...And just for that, we're both going to work, now. You know that was Celestina Warbeck, Draco."
"'Denying is all I can do, but I am still in love with you!'" For someone who just woke up, Draco Malfoy has got brilliant vocals and an admirably high voice range.
"Bar, journalism," Harry rolled his eyes, "Remember?"
Then he leaned close and whispered in Draco's ear, "'Amortentia ain't got nothin' on how much I love you, darlin'." and everything was alright with the world.