I've put on a snug pair of navy jeans and a white button down. I roll my sleeves up. Consciously. I peer at myself in the mirror. Mess up my hair. Lick my lips. And I Apparate.

My favourite bar's in the least magical place in London. Hardly ever do people stare at my left arm or chatter about me, casting sideway glances. It's dark and quiet, and there are muggle boys to flirt with. There's an old wizard who runs it, no family, hardly any gold, so I've always got my firewhiskey when I want it. And no judgment whatsoever.

The bar's more crowded today- 8 p.m. on a Saturday. I walk in, wave to some familiars and head toward my usual spot- the couch (muggle boys, I've found, don't take long when it comes to kissing)- when I see something achingly familiar. Harry Potter. He's got an envelope sitting on his thigh and a letter sprawled on the table. He's leaning forward, head bent down, reading, and his posture's open. I could sit on his lap and kiss him if I wanted. I'm thinking about the crush I had on him all throughout Hogwarts. I'm so lost, I don't see him look up. At me. He grins. Wildly.

'Malfoy! Here,' he pats on his lap. Then strikes his face an oddly confused look. His hand slides down and pats the remaining space on the couch instead. He grins again.

I cant explain why I'm walking to go sit next to him.

He's in a button down too, pale blue, all crinkled. He looks vibrant and messier than I've ever seen him. Three or four of his buttons are open, giving me almost his entire chest to stare at. Tanned, milky skin with small moles and freckles everywhere. The linen of his shirt is so light and thin I can see his nipples. That's when I notice his lips are swollen and darker and wet, and the wildness of his hair and his open shirt buttons seem to add up.

Who's Potter been kissing here?

I sit down next to him right where he patted down for me- on the couch, not his lap- and I notice I've got almost no space to myself at all. I've folded a knee on the couch and my other leg's leaning against the side of the couch, on the floor, and Potter's snaked one of his folded knees next to mine. His entire posture is inviting, alluring, promising.

I'd be drinking all of him in if it weren't for his eyes.

They're still the brilliant green I was convinced I fell in love with. At Hogwarts. It still hasn't been long; only three years since our 8th year ended.

The last time I talked to him was at a party. 8th year had tons of those. The last party. He was the only person other than me who wasn't drunk. We had the longest conversation. Seven hours of it. He told me drinking never really appealed to him.

'Draco. Hello.' He'd given me a cordial smile. His eyes were smiling more than his lips. His eyes were what gave his sobriety away- still the fierce, challenging, soft but somewhat attentive brilliant green. He did have a glass in his hand, but it was butterbeer. I laughed at that a little, and he grinned.

'Drinking's not my thing. Look at the lot of them,' he gestured over to our peers, almost all drunkenly making out and partaking unknowingly in exhibitionism, 'all so drunk they don't know who they're snogging. I appreciate the fun and frenzy and whatnot, but it's not real, is it? I'd rather just talk. Or dance.' He grinned.

'Why d'you come to these things, then?' I walked in closer to him. I could smell him. there's a point at which a person not only is in your vicinity, but is your vicinity. we were at that point. 'If not for the booze?'

'I don't really know. Besides, I'm hardly the only sober bloke here.' He smirked, and I remember thinking it should have irked me. What'd he mean by 'bloke'? did he like blokes?

'How can you be so sure I'm sober? Maybe I'm just good at passing it off.'

He leaned in, cutting nearly six inches of our distance till our elbows- both folded against the shelf on our side- were touching. 'You don't smell like it.' He took a breath and I could feel the entire weight of it.

'And you forget, I've been watching you for most of my childhood. I know you a lot better than you think.'

He smiled simply. I could feel my pulse in the center of my palm.

'I don't think I'd like it if you got drunk.'

Three years later, look where we are.

His eyes are blank and blurred and though I can still see myself in them, I'm no longer as in focus as I was back then.

He's fucking drunk.

He's grinning at me and his picks up the letter. Shoves it on my lap.

I pick it and read.

'Malfoy, d'you think I'm interesting?'

I'm taken aback completely, of course, but I don't hesitate in answering.

'You're Harry bloody Potter.' Obviously, this isn't even an ounce of what my honest answer would be. He's drunk, how's he going to notice?

He looks drunkenly disappointed. His grin falls and he pouts the slightest.

'That's not what I meant, Malfoy.' His words are so much more of a blur. His tone's been run down. This isn't the distinct, clear voice of the Boy Who Lived. But Harry's hardly a boy anymore.

'Why can't you see me for who I am?'

He looks at me, puts his hand on my thigh and takes a breath.

'I thought you would.'

I do.

I turn my attention back to the letter.

His hand runs up and down my thigh and it's so capturing I'm barely able to concentrate.

Harry,

This isn't interesting enough. I told you when we started I had commitment issues. I do like you, and there's nothing I won't miss about you. but this is where we end.

Love,

M.

'Are you done with that?'

I nod. He takes it from me, flicks his wand out and burns it.

I frown and immediately, his fingers are on my face, smoothening my eyebrows. He taps the space between my eyebrows. He's done this before, the night of the party. It still feels like an incendia to my skin.

'Who's 'M'? Weren't you doing Ginerva?'

'Ginerva?' he echoes blankly. A look of registration crosses his face, because he grins and asks, 'Ginny?'

I nod.

'Malfoy, I'm gay.' He's grinning. His hand moves from my thigh to my side, and he grips me. Pushes closer to me. 'I'm gay.' It comes out more forcefully.

'M is Michael.'

'Michael Corner?'

'he's a muggle.'

'oh.' Potter kisses muggle boys too.

This revelation has my heart in a frenzy.

He leans into me. Rests his head on my chest.

I ask him what he's doing.

He places a hand on my shoulder and trails it down lightly.

'nothing.' His whisper's undoing me but I have to tell myself he's drunk, too drunk to know who he's talking to.

He looks at me, turns his head and kisses my cheek firmly, gripping my neck. I can feel my lips violently part. He moves so he's sitting on me. Talk about making a spectacle out of himself.

He moves slightly, and my groin aches. He kisses my neck this time, and I try to push him off but he lingers just a bit more.

'That wasn't bad, was it?'

'Merlin, you're drunk. Go home. Sleep it off.'

'I don't want to sleep. I want to talk to you.'

'I'll stay quiet. You have to sleep this off'

'No. No, Malfoy, I'm big enough to think for myself.'

You've always had to be, Harry.

'What do I have to do to get you asleep?'

He smiles against my neck.

'Sleep with me. At my house.'

'Merlin, don't be a git. I can't.'

'why?'

Stupid, inebriated Potter.

'I can't sleep with you.'

'Why?'

It occurs to me we're not talking about the same thing.

'I don't know why.'

'You have to let your weight…go.' He strokes my left arm and touches the mark.

'How?'

'Come sleep with me. We'll cuddle. I could love you, Draco. I'll kiss the marks away.' He grins some more. The way he stretches my name makes me shudder.

'You cant kiss this away.'

'I'm not talking about that mark,' and he runs his hand into my shirt, tracing lines on my chest, 'I'm talking about your inside marks, silly.'

I melt.

'Yeah, yeah let's go. Can you apparate?' I don't believe myself.

'you take me.'

I'm losing like I did at Hogwarts.

With him around, all I ever do is lose.

In another minute, we're in his house. There's a hallway leading off to three different bedrooms. The living room's bursting full with pictures and medals and trophies. There's practically an entire wall of pictures with the Weasleys. Everything here is alive. Someone's done an excellent job on the designing here- his living room has all the warm colors on the card. Harry's hand is on my waist and I can see him looking at everything I look.

I have no idea what to do now.

I have no idea what he's going to do.

Kiss me? Pass out? Kiss me?

I walk toward the pictures, closer, and take my time examining them. What else could I do anyway? If, under normal circumstances, I'd been at Harry's house, I'd amuse myself by having him attempt to host me. He'd never remember the offering tea bit, or the sit down, please bit, or even the hello. He'd stare at me till I smirked and made my way inside.

I have to do all the work in our relationship. Potter's too busy staring. I've never known why.

I'm looking at several pictures of 8th year now. Harry taught half the defense lessons. I helped in potions, and Granger took over transfiguration and history of magic. I don't think Weasley did anything, but he did help Madam Hooch coach first years. His skills- or confidence, more likely- developed over the war.

There's the picture of him smiling in the midst of fifth years practicing spells at each other. He's not looking at the camera, so his smile looks more genuine.

Most of these pictures have been taken without Harry's knowledge.

Strange, I find. If I were snapping people surreptitiously, I'd keep the pictures.

My eyes are trailing down and around without really finding anything, and that's when Potter puts his hands on my sides, slowly. His front is to my back and I want to see his face and his eyes but then my gaze falls upon a picture of the party. Several pictures of the party. They're all at the corner of the wall, the least open.

There's one of us leaning against a shelf and talking. One of us sitting by the window, alone, in very dim lighting. I'm against of side of the wall and he's against the other, both our knees pulled up, a foot or so between us. I'm smiling and laughing in this picture while he says something quietly. I don't remember this. The next one's of us, only closer, and the moon's lowering- the window's fully opened now. My eyes have never looked so painless to me.

This has been a thing with me. Whenever I'm in front of a mirror, or any reflective surface really, I always look at my eyes first. And I hate the look in them. I can see the sneering, mean look I have people see. But my eyes have always looked painful to me. It was painful to stare back. It's why I always went for my hair instead. But this picture is closed up, taken from Harry's side but a couple of feet away. The moonlight kicks against my face and my hair is glowing.

Harry's hands move from my sides to my chest. He's holding me and making all the effort not to lose his balance and take me in his fall. He always takes me in his fall.

He kisses my earlobe.

I hold his arms and distance them and turn to him.

I'm taller than him. taller than him by at least 3 inches. But he's so much bigger. His shoulder are well built, so's his chest, and he's not the skinny bloke I met at Madam Malkin's.

Harry Potter is bigger than everyone. In the sense that, wherever he is, I can feel a fire burn right up in everyone around him and they're all charged- motivated or happy or excited. It's been happening for years. He's never done it to me.

He makes me happy. That's a given. when I look at him from a distance, a safe distance, and stare at him with all my might, the feeling's stuck in my throat. When I look at him chewing on the back of his quill- disgusting, I know- all I can think about is how I'd give everything to see Harry happy.

Harry was always content with what he had. But even as a first year, he always looked stressed to me. Even in his happiest moments. The weight of the world was on his skinny shoulders, and he always knew it.

He was smiling, content, satisfied, sometimes even genuinely happy- but that was all tinged with stress. Sadness. Responsibility. Recklessness.

All he's ever done to me is light me off. Knowing for 8 bloody years that he was the only person I wanted, the only one who loathed me with that intensity, knowing someday he'd probably have to duel me or kill me because I was, without a doubt, without a choice, on Voldemort's side. I've never been my best self with him. or anyone. I never could. I never had a choice. But if I did, there was no stopping me.

His walls would have nothing but pictures of me and pictures of us. I'd be the one he'd be drunk with. I'd be bloody Michael or Ginny.

If I could have been my best, he would fall for me harder than I feel for him. I can only hope he knows it.

He must know it, because he's attacking my neck and drawing moans out of me while he's blasted drunk.

I push him away and ask him where his room is.

It's not fair of me to be snogging him. Or even doing this. Whatever it is.

He's drunk and he might not want this.

He leads me to his room and sits on the bed.

There's an AC here. Huh. No cooling spells. I switch the AC on with my wand and look at him warily. He's sitting straight up, grinning, not quite looking at me.

'Go to sleep, Potter. I'll be in the next room if you need me,' I whisper. I'm hoping there are more beds here- this is Potter, I cant be sure.

He frowns. Takes his wand out.

'Aguamenti.'

And I'm soaking wet.

'What was that for?' I cast a drying charm on myself.

It came out fiercer than I wanted, because Harry's slightly cowering.

'I was pissed at you. you're a prat. You don't understand me.' He frowns even more, looks confused.

'I thought you did.' I sit beside him, draw his wand from his hands and keep it on the bedside table.

'Look, Harry, you're drunk. That's why you're kissing me. Er, that's why you tried. Go to sleep, I won't run away in the night, promise.'

He looks incredulous. 'You would run away?'

'Merlin, no. I'm just saying you should sleep.'

'Are you afraid you're taking advantage of me?' his eyes are wide.

'Sort of. Might I remind you, we've never even talked. you can't like me. You're just… drunk,' I finish lamely. Stating these things feel like insecurities. He won't remember anyway, what's the point?

'I think I've liked you since forever,' he says, and looking at me straight in the eyes, 'I was always too scared you hated me. I liked your hair and your… wit.' At that, he pulls his legs up and shifts them on my lap.

'What?'

He sneezes. Then looks at me, gestures to his shoes.

'Take them off. You pulled off my glasses when I hugged you. Can't see the laces properly.'

I pulled off his glasses?

Right.

I undo his laces and I think I keep a straight face, but there's a giddiness lapping inside my stomach.

I slip his shoes off, and then roll his black socks down.

He's written something on his ankles. I pull his jeans up and read it.

It's the club address, and the time. And my initials.

I decide not to question him till morning.

'Done. Now you sleep.'

He smiles at me and shifts his legs off and kind of falls face first into my lap. Face first. Potter. What am I to do with you?

He nudges his head around and it's attacking my groin.

His arms touch my neck and he's dragging me down because my head dips down and he kisses my neck again. And my earlobe. He bites it. Then stops.

I don't know why I don't stop him. I want this. Of course I want it. But I mustn't let it override my decency.

He shifts up again. He's a mess.

'Don't you like me?'

'I like you.'

'Then why can't you let me fuck you?' Merlin's fucking beard, I don't know why not. It doesn't matter that he's drunk.

But it does.

'Because you're drunk. If you weren't, I'd have my clothes off and you on me,' and I can't believe I've said it.

'I'd have you on me and I wouldn't let you go if you weren't drunk, alright, Potter?'

He moans softly. I think he sees me looking alarmed because he laughs. And then, he starts undoing his buttons. I don't question it.

I do what I'm good at. I pull away. Just enough so he cant try to kiss me again. For all this drunk foreplay, we've never kissed.

He slips out of his shirt, crawls over to the other side of the bed and pulls his knees up so he's lying in a knot. He looks at me and swallows. Then says, 'I'm going to sleep.'

'Okay.'

'Sleep next to me.'

Not with this again. Hes not thinking it through. He'll wake up and hex me.

'It's okay.'

'It's not. Nightmares every time. It doesn't happen when there's someone holding me. Hold me,' he adds as an afterthought.

Everything he says is blurred and I tell myself to keep thinking that because he's drunk. And I'm decent.

But he's not lying. I know about the nightmares. It slipped out accidentally at the party.

I slip out of my shoes, not bothering the socks. Unbutton just the top four buttons. I pause, glance at him, and undo the rest.

I lie next to him while he pulls the covers on himself. I reach for them, but he pulls it all his way.

I move closer to him. I try again, but he's keeping the covers on his side.

I shift and I put my head in the arch of his neck- he's inclined, he's got three pillows more than I do. He pulls the cover on me. Turns, covers me with his arms. Closes his eyes, moves a little. Runs a hand on my chest and then kisses my shoulder. He whispers goodnight.

I don't sleep for at least an hour.

I listen to his breathing, I try to feel all of him I can. I turn and face him, and kiss his lips softly.

By the time I wake up, he's changed and, from the looks of his hair, showered. I haven't been hexed.

He's sitting across the bed and staring at me like he cant help it. His hair's on his forehead, eyes attentive, and he's practically paralyzed. I cant even see him breath. I get up and search his eyes. he looks at me with an odd reverence.

'Morning, Potter.'

'Morning.' He smiles. 'Pancakes?'

We're at his kitchen- it's an open one, off the back of his living room. He's showing off flipping his pancakes and I'm watching him at the counter. He serves a few onto my plate and summons butter and syrup and sugar.

He flips some more right into his plate. I try not to look his way because what will I say? I don't know what to expect, so I really just wait for him to start. I cant help but notice he's staring.

He always has. In the Great Hall, across Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw's tables. I'd turn away just before he caught me looking. Sometimes. I'd sneer sometimes. I never smiled.

So I turn to look at him and give him the most genuine smile I've got. I don't know what I'm thinking.

He chuckles. Then smirks.

'How was my bed, Malfoy?'

'It could've been better.'

'What could I have done to make it better?'

'Me.'

This is exactly where I want this conversation to go. In the light of the morning, when he's sober and awake and completely attentive, and he's aware he wants me. In this moment, i wouldn't challenge that he does. It's in his eyes, his face, his smile and in me.

'But I did offer. You were too decent. That's your fault, isn't it?'

His smirk is killing every word I try to say.

But I manage.

'Maybe.'

He takes a bite of his pancake slowly. i can precisely the moment of his tongue lapping it up, and the curve in his lips curls up dramatically. he's even got syrup on his bottom lip. I resist the pull to lick it off.

I laugh.

'What's that for?'

'Meager attempts at seduction.'

'Meager?'

'Yes. Meager.'

He licks his lips and pushes our plates out of the vicinity. He reaches up, turns the chair I'm on so I'm fully accessible and lifts me onto the counter. He's smiling and I'm smiling.

Four fucking years, who knew.

He kisses my bottom lip and he's drawing things out of me and giving me something back at the same time. He continues sucking on my lip and works his tongue into mine. It's the ineffable kind of bliss you can't get close to narrating.

'Malfoy,' he breathes, 'Draco Malfoy.'

He's speaking against my mouth and he shudders when I whisper, 'Finally,' and take him by the back of his neck.