Men of Leisure, a harry potter fanfic

Title: Men of Leisure

Author: Pysche

Rating: T for language and male/male relationships.

Summary: Harry and his friends are twenty-five years old, and after nearly a decade of war he finds himself a drinking partner and friend in Draco Malfoy, though when Draco inexplicably begins shadowing him Harry's repressed feelings for his friend become harder and harder to conceal. Post-Hogwarts, Post-HBP.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is unfortunately the property of J.K. Rowling and not myself.

Consuming alcohol in the presence of Draco Malfoy had once and forever would be a mistake. Harry knew this. However, something about the impossibly blond git tended to make Harry lose his sensibilities, especially lately, as Draco could be very persistent in getting what he wanted – i.e., he pouted like a spoiled five-year-old – and for the past few months what Draco wanted usually involved dragging Harry out somewhere and attempting to drink him under the table until they both did something idiotic enough to merit an embarrassing article in the society pages of the Daily Prophet the next day.

For example, tonight featured Harry grinning like a loon as Draco preened through a story he had told at least twice already that evening, though neither of them remembered that fact and quite possibly wouldn't have minded even if they had.

"So I said, 'Blaise, a Ministry job may sound nice but who really wants all that paperwork? And getting bossed around by some lazy Muggle-lover…"

"Hey," Harry protested mildly. Draco waved him off.

"…for years until you bribe your way to the top. No thanks, I'm in… hic… independently wealthy, unlike some.' I thought he would faint! Hee…" The blond took a sip of his Firewhiskey and set it back on the table with a loud clunk, swaying as he did, and when Harry reached over to steady Draco he overbalanced and ended up grabbing the table to keep from falling himself, in the process knocking his own bottle to the floor where it promptly shattered.

"Shit," he muttered, squinting at the shards. Draco burst out laughing but didn't bother trying to help; he chose instead to cross his legs and peer down with a smirk as his friend bent to retrieve the broken bottle bits.

"There are spells for that, you know."

Harry banged the back of his head on the underside of the table.

"Really, Blaise likes to pretend like he's someone important just because he's Scrimgeour's second advisor's assistant or some such rubbish. But he and I both know that he only works because he has to. Men of leisure," Draco gestured grandly with his Firewhiskey bottle, "like myself, are in a completely different social stratum."

Harry nodded; then frowned, straightening in his seat. "Hey… I work!"

A wicked sneer spread across the blond's face. "My point exactly."

"Malfoy," Harry growled. "I'll have you know—"

"That I'm above you? I already know that."

Harry slapped his palms on the table, half rising to his feet as he glared at the other.

"Going to hit me, Potter? Let's get on with it then; it's been awhile since I've had a Muggle duel."

"Maybe I am! Maybe I'll wipe that snobby look right off your snobby face!" Harry declared, waving his fist, oblivious to the bar's wide-eyed onlookers.

Draco raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, settling back into his chair.

"That's it! That look right there!" Harry stabbed a finger toward the offending expression.

"Like I said; get on with it, Potter. I'd like to see what you intend to do," the blond drawled.

And he would have. Seen it, that is. Harry had no question about that. Unfortunately, however, it was at that point that Hermione showed up, sighed, "Honestly, you two! It's four in the morning!" and proceeded to drag Harry out of the bar by his ear and Apparate him home, lecturing him all the way. As Draco, the independently wealthy man of leisure, didn't have to be at work in four hours, he got off easy, with a cluck of the tongue reminiscent of Molly Weasley and one of Hermione's more exasperated glares, which he merely laughed at, of course.

The annoying, impossibly blond git.

When Harry dragged himself out of bed the next morning, he puttered through his morning rituals and went in to the office without bothering to look at the newspaper, since he already knew what he would find there – and that it probably wouldn't be flattering. How else would Hermione have known he needed to be hauled home from a bar at four in the morning? He was sure she had media contacts somewhere; in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she had managed to keep some of his more embarrassing – and usually Draco-related – exploits out of the papers, though usually she didn't bother. After all, in Hermione logic, Harry would learn from his public humiliation(s) and reform from his wicked ways of getting drunk with Malfoy way too often.

In all honesty, it wasn't a bad plan… aside from the fact that Harry apparently had some sort of brain defect that kept him from refusing to indulge Draco and his whims, and after all the years of tabloid rumors featuring the Boy Who Lived Harry found it hard to care about the newspapers anymore.

At any rate, by the time he reached the office Harry was marginally late, extremely tired, and moderately sick at his stomach, all of which added up to a particularly grumpy mood. He noted in passing that his assistant was missing from her desk as he pushed open the heavy oak door to his office, letting in several paper airplane memos that bumped against the frame near the ceiling. The airplanes morphed into a series of blue sheets of paper and fluttered down to his desk, momentarily obscuring the man, blond hair askew and too-big black robe sliding over a bare shoulder, asleep in Harry's desk chair.

Harry groaned. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

The figure didn't stir. Sighing, Harry set his overstuffed bag on the floor – only a few sheets of paperwork sliding out, thankfully – tossed his coat on top of it, and walked up to the chair. "Oi, Malfoy." Still nothing. "Draco." Finally, in frustration, Harry kicked his friend hard on the shin. "Oi! Get up, you lazy ass!"

Instead of jumping up and screaming obscenities like Harry had expected, Draco merely shifted and swept a hand through his hair, the fine strands immediately falling back into perfect order. "You're such a brute, Potter," he drawled, not bothering to open his eyes.

"You're in my office uninvited. And you were snoring."

"I was not. Malfoys don't snore." Draco did open his eyes at this, though mainly to readjust the twisted collar of his robe. Harry watched the bare shoulder disappear and frowned.

"What are you doing here, anyway? It's barely eight in the morning."

Draco shrugged. "Mum wasn't too pleased with the papers this morning. She seemed to think I needed a better hobby than getting pissed with you. Apparently I need something constructive to occupy my time, like a job." He grimaced and Harry snorted.

"What happened to your 'man of leisure' theory?"

"I didn't say I was actually going to get one, did I? It's not like I need the money, or Mum would even notice in the long run if I wasted my time with something like that. She'll forget all about it in a week or so; I'll just humor her until then." He waved a finger in Harry's face. "And no jokes about pleasing my Mummy or I'll have to hex you."

Harry blinked. "Er… right. So… why are you here then?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Draco waved his arms in a grand gesture. "I'm observing you. I figured if I stay out of the house for a bit it should all blow over; in the meantime I can waste some time here and tell Mum I'm your new boss or something."

"What?"

The blond leaned back and crossed his legs. "Well, get on with it Potter, we don't have all day. You peons are supposed to be hard-working." He frowned. "What exactly do you do here, anyway?"

Harry sighed.

When Harry was eleven years old, if someone had asked him if he would ever be Draco Malfoy's friend, he would have said that he would never be friends with a mean-spirited bastard who insulted his friends and made fun of his dead parents. If they had asked when Harry was sixteen, he would have answered that he could never be friends with a coward who let Death Eaters in the school and ran off with traitors like Snape.

When Harry was twenty-five, however, and Draco's aunt, friends and father quickly followed Voldemort in the long list of the dead after nine years of war, such things didn't seem to matter so much. Harry actually attended Lucius Malfoy's funeral – out of pity or desire for closure or grudging respect for the dead, whatever it was that made people go to such things – as one of the few non-family members who stood a fair distance from the sobbing widow and watched the silver coffin sink into the ground, and found himself abruptly unable to resent the proud, aristocratic family who suddenly seemed so heartbreakingly normal.

Apparently Draco had felt similarly, because after the service when he caught sight of Harry he approached him, nodded sharply, and said, "I know how it feels now."

Two weeks later an eagle owl had shown up at Harry's flat with an address and a bottle of very nice wine, and Harry and Draco spent the first of many nights together bickering and getting roaringly drunk. Six months after that, the wizarding world rarely saw Harry out of an evening without Draco Malfoy somewhere close by.

At eleven – at sixteen – Harry would never have foreseen this, but at twenty-five the world wasn't nearly so black and white, and a former enemy could quickly become an ally; an ally just as easily a cherished friend. At sixteen Harry would demand justice, retribution… but at twenty-five it was enough to argue about nothing and pretend the past didn't exist.

After all, Draco had lost people too.

"Harry." The owner of this name clenched a fist under his desk but doggedly continued reading his associate's report of vandalized Muggle toilets, which had begun belching purple goo every time someone tried to add graffiti to the stall doors. "Harry," the room's other occupant whined. Harry continued reading. Apparently the goo solidified whenever the graffiti was particularly vulgar, and could only be removed from the skin using a mixture of lemon juice and turpentine.

"Harry!"

"What?" he finally snapped, spinning to look at Draco, who sat far too close for comfort and still occupied his good chair. "What do you want?"

"I'm hungry."

"Well, I don't care."

"But Harry," the blond pouted, bottom lip jutting out in a way that made him look about twenty years younger, "I'm starving. Can't we go eat lunch?"

"Will you stop whining?"

Draco perked up. "Yes."

"Fine. We'll go to lunch. In an hour and a half when I get my lunch break."

There was silence for about thirty seconds; then Draco muttered, "I hate you, Potter," under his breath.

"Feel free to leave at any time then," Harry replied distractedly, setting aside the report on toilet vandalism and moving on to the next one.

"You know I can't!"

Harry chose not to reply to this, although the blond's ensuing frustrated sigh and continual tapping of his fingertips against the armrest of his chair proved rather harder to ignore than otherwise. "I knew Ministry jobs were nothing but stupid paperwork," Draco grumbled. "You are an Auror, right?"

"Yes, Draco," Harry – who had answered this question less than two hours ago, as well as several dozen times in the last few months – replied through gritted teeth.

"Right, then; you should be out chasing villains and ridding the world of all evil and petty vandals, not sitting around filling out forms. Why would anyone actually choose to do this?"

"I've had my share of 'chasing villains' already. I'm grateful that the world is peaceful enough for the moment for me to be able to sit in my office doing paperwork. Besides, some people have to work for a living."

"You don't." Draco – who had scooted up as close to the desk as possible to read over Harry's shoulder – propped his elbows on the desk and cradled his chin in his palms in a thoughtful sort of way. "You know, you really should quit. We could have loads of fun – you'd have so much more free time, it wouldn't matter if we stayed out late nights. And we could go on trips; you have to see my family's villa in France, it's right on the ocean… I could stay on the beach for weeks, even though I burn dreadfully… I've been meaning to get Mum to teach me that sun-blocking spell she uses…"

The blond trailed off as Harry, who had finally given the other his full attention, shook his head and smiled a little. "It sounds like you're planning a honeymoon," he teased.

Draco shrugged, apparently unaffected, and continued listing things they could do in the – unlikely – event of Harry leaving his job. "I wouldn't mind spending Christmas in Switzerland one year; I think Mum has some cousins out there and they say it's gorgeous… although there are plenty of things to do here, too. We should join one of those amateur Quidditch leagues; you and I would be the best of course, so our team would always win and we could rub it in Weasley's face that we were playing again and he's stuck doing whatever the hell he does now that he's unfortunately procreated…"

Harry shook his head again and turned back to his paperwork with a smile, resigned to spending the rest of the morning listening to Draco's chatter.

For all his flights of temper and occasional bouts of jealousy during his awkward teen years, Ronald Weasley had grown to be a surprisingly patient man. To his credit, the redheaded male had simply raised an eyebrow when Harry Apparated onto his doorstep for their usual (Hermione-enforced) Tuesday night dinner at the Weasleys' with an uninvited and obnoxiously loud-mouthed Draco Malfoy in tow. The blond smirked wickedly at Ron and pushed past him to investigate the modest home.

"I say, Potter, did you know they let the mini-Weasleys sleep in the middle of the floor? And in some kind of cage!" he called over his shoulder. Leaving Hermione to explain the concept of a playpen – and scold Draco, since he had woken one of the twins with his shouting – Harry shrugged his shoulders apologetically at Ron.

"Sorry; he's been tagging along after me since yesterday. I'm still not sure what he's on about, really; he says that he and his mum are fighting and he wants to get away from the house, but I think he's really just bored and looking for something to do."

"He must be pretty seriously bored to voluntarily come here," Ron replied, gesturing Harry inside and shutting the door behind them. "Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised; you two are practically joined at the hip nowadays, so he was bound to show up here eventually."

"We're not—" Harry protested, but Ron cut him off with a chuckle.

"S'alright, mate, I understand. I'm married now and can't stay out so much, nights, and you're always working during the days. Things can't be like they were back at school, and I'm not going to get offended if you spend your free time with someone other than me."

"Yeah… thanks," Harry responded slowly, his brow furrowing as he and Ron sat across from each other at the kitchen table, the legs of which sported numerous fingerprints and baby-sized teeth marks. "I do miss seeing you, you know. Pretty much the only time we spend together is like this," Harry gestured around the room, "not that I don't like coming over."

Ron grinned. "I'll petition for a Saturday night away." They both chuckled and the redhead changed the subject. "So, Harry, you seeing anyone? Since you broke my sister's heart, that is?"

Harry rolled his eyes. After a brief reunion between the two of them, Ginny had broken up with him, more than three years ago, and it was fairly mutual anyway. They had simply grown apart, as such things sometimes happen, and she had quickly gone back to a relationship with Dean Thomas, with whom she was quite happy; though of course Ron knew this and was simply being aggravating. "Nope, there's no one," Harry answered. "I'm not really interested in dating right now."

"Why not?" Ron asked, turning serious. "It'd be nice to see you settle down, and I'm not trying to sound like Mum or 'Mione, I swear. You haven't dated anyone in three years – what's holding you back?"

"I…"

"Harry!" Harry and Ron's heads jerked simultaneously as Draco stomped into the room, his cheeks red and bits of flyaway hair stuck to his sweaty face. "One of those things bit me! It bit me!" He collapsed into the chair on Harry's right and stuck out his left palm, which sported a semicircle of tiny teeth marks, a few spots dribbling blood.

"Oh," said Ron, a bit stupidly, "the twins are teething."

"He broke the skin!" The blond waved his bloody palm in Harry's face, making him grab Draco's wrist in frustration.

"Don't be so dramatic, Malfoy. Come on, I'll bandage you up." Harry stood and dragged the other toward the bathroom by his wrist.

"Hmm," Ron murmured to himself, watching them walk away.

It took Harry eight years to kill Voldemort. He often wondered if things would have gone faster, more smoothly, if Dumbledore had survived to help him, or if the victory – the Ministry's terminology; Harry still found it hard not to think the word murder – would have meant as much if he hadn't lost his mentor. Being 'immortal' as he was, it didn't bother Voldemort to take his time, and Harry knew some of his enemy's more decisive victories had taken many months of careful planning. Thus Harry had learned patience himself, he and Ron and Hermione taking out the Horcruxes one by one as the rest of the wizarding world tried to recover from Voldemort's endeavor of the hour and/or stay out of his way.

Meanwhile, amazingly, life went on, if not normally, then as close to it as possible. Hermione and many of Harry's other classmates went on to do their NEWTs by correspondence, since Hogwarts had been closed early on, and though many became casualties of war, the survivors found careers, married, started families, lived, confident that Harry Potter and the Powers that Be would put everything to rights, eventually.

Harry was offered any Ministry job he wanted, once Voldemort was dead. He might have protested the unfairness of this if he hadn't been sure that he could pass any test the Auror Trainee Committee would give him, with flying colors… though his superiors might not quite think so, since he had yet to be given any assignments other than reviewing paperwork.

Perhaps they were saving him for emergencies.

Though he would never have suspected he wanted it, Harry's unforeseen friendship with Draco Malfoy had felt like a breath of fresh air, as if Harry had been stifling, suffocating unknowingly until Draco showed up and brought bizarre relief. The prat was annoying, hateful, spiteful, and spoiled… but none of it was directed at Harry anymore, not really, even though half Draco's friends and family were dead and they had all been on the wrong side of the war.

Bellatrix Lestrange had hung herself in grief at her master's death. Crabbe and Goyle were killed in one of the early battles, barely six months into the war, neither of them intelligent enough to last.

Lucius Malfoy had been formally executed. Narcissa and Draco both issued official letters of apology for their involvement in the Second Voldemort War, and signed away nearly half their fortune to the Ministry of Magic to be used for post-war restoration efforts, and thus all was forgiven. Such were politics.

Draco never apologized to Harry, and Harry never asked it of him. It was enough to drink together, pretend to fight, and complain to each other about whatever was wrong with the world at the moment, though Draco tended to dominate the conversations, as he had more practice with whining (and Harry was afraid to gripe about his tedious job since he knew Draco would brag about being right).

Lately, however, he and Draco had started complaining less and actually talking more, and they no longer had to be drunk – or want to be – to seek each other out. Harry had no more excuses; they had truly become friends… and it frightened him a bit just how happy the thought made him.

"Malfoy, go away," Harry said at last. "It's ten past eleven and you're not staying the night. Go home."

"Why should I, you've got a spare bedroom," Draco replied, not moving. He had followed the other home from the Weasleys' and had been lolling on the couch for the past hour, forearm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the light. "Besides, I'm comfortable and I don't feel like getting up."

"I don't care. You've followed me about all week and I'd like some privacy now, please," Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

"You want to wank, then? That's alright, just go in the bedroom and be quiet about it. I don't mind."

"Malfoy!" Harry's face reddened in humiliation. "I do not, I just…"

"Oh, fine, don't get that god-awful Muggle underwear of yours in a twist, I'll go." Draco sat up and stretched, the long, clean lines of his torso highlighted as the loose gray robe shifted around him. "Have fun, lover." He winked at Harry and made an obscene gesture before Apparating away.

Harry sat down hard on the edge of the couch, his face still burning. "Prat… I wasn't… he's just annoying, is all…"

Draco had left a scarf lying on the coffee table. It was gray – no, silver, not like the darker, rain-cloud gray of the robe he'd been wearing that day, and looked soft to the touch. Harry picked it up, running it absently through his fingers for a while before rubbing his cheek against the wool, the obviously expensive material as soft as he'd imagined. Smiling a little, he buried his face in the cloth and inhaled deeply; it smelled faintly of Draco's cologne—

Harry dropped the scarf.

"I'm going to bed," he said to no one.

The next day, though Harry more than half expected Draco to be sitting in his desk chair when he arrived at work, he instead found his office peaceful and silent, occupied only by an impressive collection of paper airplane memos waiting for him to sort and file. Harry pretended not to be disappointed – though he didn't have to feign annoyance when his blond friend stormed into the room four hours later, flinging the door open with a mighty crash that scattered Harry's carefully stacked papers all over the floor.

Draco swung the door shut just as flamboyantly and waited until Harry rose to retrieve and reorganize his papers to sink into the other's seat and run a palm over his face. "Hellfire and Hades, Potter, it's good to see you," he sighed, and just as the dark-haired male started to feel a bit pleased with the compliment, Draco continued, "Anyone's company is a relief compared to spending the morning having brunch with my mother and Blaise Zabini."

"Hmph," said Harry, and grumbled under his breath while he sorted through the scattered papers, though he watched from the corner of his eye as Draco leaned back in the chair and raked both hands through the fine blond hair that fell just above his ears, brushing it away from his face and tilting his head back to expose the pale, smooth lines of his throat and jaw.

"Zabini thinks that just because he has a little bit of sway with the Minister and managed to win over my mother that he and I are by some means friends. As if I would ever associate myself with a vain, pompous, know-it-all…"

Harry snorted.

"…who is so obviously beneath me. Diplomatic ambassador to Italy, indeed! Everyone knows he has relatives there – he's told anyone who matters a thousand times – but I hardly believe anyone related to Zabini could possibly be that important. I have scads of French relatives; should that make me 'diplomatic ambassador' to France? He's probably lying anyhow, as usual." The blond huffed and crossed his arms, his bottom lip jutting out just a little as he scowled, causing his overall expression to remarkably resemble a young child in the midst of a temper fit.

Finally finished reassembling his papers, Harry dropped the pile onto his desk and sank into the – far less comfortable – visitor's chair across from Draco. "You sound jealous," he observed.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco sniffed, but the eyes he trained on the other were serious. "He had my mum gushing about his job and his stupid promotion more than even he was, and he's always been an awful braggart. She said she was proud of him, can you believe it? That he made his Hogwarts house and his family proud, too. And that the only thing I ever did was 'run about with Harry Potter.'"

"Well, Ron says we do spend a lot of time together…"

"Damnit, I hate Blaise! Why does everyone think a career is so bloody important, anyway? Sure, it's all fine for you, Boy Who Lived and Chosen Savior of the World, and that damned Zabini who managed to stay out of it all… but what is there for me now? I'm still a Malfoy, and after the war… after… Dad…" The blond's voice grew quiet and he stared hard at the tabletop, his hair falling into his face and obscuring his eyes.

"Draco…" Harry reached out and covered the fist the other had clenched atop the desk, and the hand under his trembled for a moment before Draco slowly pulled away.

Draco stood. "Come on, Potter, you're taking me out for a drink."

After one good look at his friend's face, Harry told his assistant he was taking the afternoon off and Apparated with Draco back to Harry's flat, where they proceeded to open a bottle of very nice wine he had been saving for just such a special occasion.

Consuming alcohol in the presence of Draco Malfoy had once and forever would be a mistake, for numerous reasons, some obvious and some secret and shameful. Harry knew this. Yet here he was, scarcely three days since the last drinking binge with his spoiled and moody blond friend, tilting back another glass of wine and watching from the corner of his eye as Draco snored away on the other end of the couch.

Draco had fallen asleep rather quickly, probably because Harry had made sure their stomachs were full before he would open the wine, in the hopes of keeping his blood alcohol level as low as possible and preventing too much of a hangover the next morning. At least, since it was still technically the middle of the day and most of the good pubs were still deserted, the two of them had stayed in instead of having some drunken faux-argument and making a scene in public.

Harry glanced over at his friend, who sprawled in a semi-upright position with his head tilted back at an awkward angle against the couch cushions, his near-white hair pillowed and tangled underneath him and his mouth slightly open to let out the occasional snuffling snore. Draco's bare feet stretched under the coffee table and his lightweight blue robe had bunched up around his neck again, revealing his collarbone and part of his shoulder.

Harry drained the rest of his wine glass. Maybe it was better when they fought.

After his brief spiel of brutal honesty in Harry's office Draco had seemed to fall into a sulk, sitting as far away from Harry as possible on the sofa and not saying much. Harry had put on some classical music – neither of them liked the new stuff very much, wizard or Muggle – and the two sat, eating leftovers from Harry's fridge and drinking wine until Draco fell asleep, though the sun still had yet to set outside. Sighing, Harry set his glass on the coffee table and, with a quick flick of his wand, rose to cover his friend with one of the blankets he had summoned from the linen closet.

Harry draped the scratchy woolen blanket over the other, careful to cover Draco's bare feet and tuck it securely around his shoulders… but there Harry lingered, scant inches from the other's face, feeling the hot puff of Draco's wine-scented breath against his own lips. "He'll get a crick in his neck sleeping like that," Harry mumbled to himself, and slid his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Draco's neck, cradling the back of his head as Harry prepared to lay him properly atop the sofa.

"Har…ry…?"

He jerked in shock. "Draco!" The other blinked up at him, eyes still hazy with sleep as Harry stuttered. "I was, er, that is… I was just… ah…"

"Harry…" Draco murmured again, closing his eyes in a slow blink before lifting his head and pressing their lips together.

He was snoring again before Harry could kiss him back.

Harry avoided the living room for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to take a nap in his room, but his thoughts were spinning so wildly that sleep was hard to come by; so he took a shower… only to have to turn the tap to cold after even more inappropriate thoughts followed him there. Damnit, this was not happening! Draco and he… he and Draco… the idea had been tickling at the base of his mind for far too long, unacknowledged. He didn't need some sleep-conditioned reflex of Draco's dredging it all up again.

That impossibly blond git was his friend. It didn't matter how soft his hair was, or how pale and clear his skin looked under those slightly too-big robes that always showed part of his shoulder…

Harry ran his palms roughly over his face in frustration. Maybe he needed to eat something.

Ron had said he needed to settle down. Harry deliberated this as he dug through his cabinets, realized he had nothing, and decided he wasn't all that hungry anyway. He poured a glass of tap water, charmed it cold, and climbed up onto one of the stools by the kitchen counter that served as his table to brood and lick his wounds. By "settling down," Ron most likely had meant having a nice, healthy relationship with someone kind, pretty, and female, and Draco Malfoy didn't exactly meet any of those requirements.

Except maybe the pretty part… damnit!

Besides, Draco was like him – he had more than enough of his own share of problems as it was. He didn't need some bloke mooning over him to add to it all. True, Harry was fairly sure Draco didn't have a girlfriend – he'd have better things to do than follow Harry around if he had, for one – but that hardly meant he wanted a boyfriend, either, much less wanted it to be Harry.

Great. Now he was thinking of himself as Draco Malfoy's boyfriend. He most definitely didn't need this, not after he had finally succeeded in repressing any of those sorts of ideas, thank you very much.

A hand on his shoulder jerked Harry out of his reverie and he all but leaped from his stool in shock, whipping his head around and nearly upending his water glass as he turned. "Wha…?"

Draco blinked at him, eyes drowsy and hair mussed from his nap. "Jumpy, aren't we?" he drawled.

"I… no, uh, that is… Draco…" And then Harry did tip over the glass, gesticulating wildly and making no sense whatsoever as he tried to explain his reaction.

"You're a freak, Potter." After briefly fishing around in his pocket for his wand, the blond vanished the spilled water and yawned. "Anyway, now that I feel thoroughly wretched after sleeping half the day, do you want to go for dinner?"

"Er, I, um, sure," Harry replied, and hurried off to change, careful to give Draco a wide berth as he passed by.

One thing that could be said about the Second Voldemort War was that it resulted in a relatively small number of fatalities, probably less than a thousand, overall, and while to those involved this felt tremendous, historians in later years would consider this quite few for a political conflict lasting nearly a decade. In his less modest moments, Harry figured that this was probably because Voldemort was too busy worrying about him to put much effort into killing Muggles.

However, as any number of casualties small or otherwise may do for war veterans, it spawned a rather morbid contest. Whenever friends would meet, for drinks, at parties, or when passing on the street while shopping for new underwear, they often greeted each other with their personal death tolls. For example, it might be common to hear, "Hello, how are you? I'd got fourteen, last I checked."

To which the response would likely be, "Is that so? Still seven, here. I'm good, by the way. Wife's been hard to handle, though; that time of the month, you know."

Well. Perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration. But people still talked about it far too much, as far as Harry was concerned. He didn't even want to think about it, much less let everyone else know how many people he had killed, and he didn't understand how so many people could discuss such a topic so callously, as if the numbers they casually compared were nothing more than just that – numbers. He supposed that it helped some people, that humor lightened the burden, etcetera, but Harry preferred to ignore such things completely rather than joke about them, as the topic caused his hands to shake rather badly and more often than not made him a little queasy.

Amazingly, after a few days with Draco Harry discovered that the other was one of the few people who behaved the same way as he. The two of them had never really discussed their respective involvement in the war, beyond comments in passing that couldn't be avoided, but Harry got the feeling that Draco regretted his actions as much as Harry regretted his own, and so neither had the desire to rehash every painful moment of their past and formally make amends.

They had a lot in common, under the surface.

Often when meeting with acquaintances, business colleagues, or old friends, Harry had a hard time avoiding the subject of death tolls and war stories, but if Draco happened to be along the blond could easily steer the conversation somewhere else, seemingly with no effort at all, for which Harry was exceedingly grateful and so began finding reasons to invite Draco to most of his social gatherings. After a while, Draco stopped waiting for an invitation and tagged along on his own.

Harry wondered at what point exactly he had fallen in love.

It was stupid… having a few things in common with someone and enjoying a person's company were no reason to have those sorts of feelings for someone, especially for another man. But… well, just the way it felt to be around him – so casual and easy, like they had spent their entire lives already trying to impress each other and had gotten tired of that phase without even noticing; and then the way Draco would look at him sometimes, with focused gray eyes that made it easy to pretend that the blond never wanted to look at anything else besides Harry; or how he could feel the imprints of Draco's fingers on his skin for hours afterward whenever the other would casually touch him… Harry couldn't explain it. Then he tried to make himself not really want it, since he knew nothing could come of such nonsense anyway, and found that it was easier to repress those one-sided emotions than he might have expected.

At least, it had been. Until Draco kissed him, that is, and unknowingly dredged everything up to the surface again.

Friday afternoon finally arrived, after an entire day of Draco lounging around Harry's office, sitting in Harry's good chair and reading over his shoulder, so that occasionally the blond's breath would puff against the sensitive bit of skin just below Harry's left ear, and the darker-haired man would have to shift away and pretend to readjust his glasses until his nerves stopped tingling and he could focus on his increasingly tedious paperwork once again. Draco had been less talkative since the afternoon the two of them spent in Harry's apartment, and Harry could tell he was brooding about something, but from the way he was acting Harry doubted the other remembered the kissing incident.

It might have been a relief, if the situation hadn't kept Harry so on edge. Every little action Draco made now had his friend practically bursting a blood vessel in his head – for example, the blond's habit of sitting too close and breathing down Harry's neck.

The clock on Harry's desk struck five with a happy little chime, signifying the end of the work day, and Draco immediately dropped his cheek onto the other's shoulder with a sigh of relief. "Oh thank god," he breathed, closing his eyes in happy obliviousness to Harry's instant blush. "I was so bored."

The blond head on his shoulder lingered longer than he expected, almost as if Draco were falling asleep against him, so after a few seconds of deliberation Harry raised a shaky hand and reached over to pet the other's hair. He combed his fingers through the fine, smooth strands, hesitantly at first, but when Draco let out a small sigh of approval he happily continued stroking his friend's hair. He had always loved looking at Draco's hair… it was so bright and perfect, so different from his own constantly scruffy black mess… and touching it was proving to be even more fun than looking…

"This is nice," Draco murmured after they had been sitting in silence for awhile, so quiet that Harry almost missed it. "Harry…"

"Hmm?"

But whatever the other would have said, Harry never knew, because just then two sharp raps sounded on his office door and it swung open, revealing a grinning freckled face as Ron Weasley stepped in, wearing beat-up old Muggle clothes and brandishing a broom. "Surprise! I – oh." The redhead stopped and stared as Draco sat abruptly upright and Harry whipped his hands away from the other's hair, raising his palms in a pacifying manner and blushing redder than ever.

"It's not what it looks like," he hastily declared.

Ron quirked an eyebrow. But all he said was, "Sure, mate," and Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief, though he winced inwardly when he glanced at Draco, who sat with his arms crossed across his chest and his narrowed gray eyes staring blankly at the floor.

"Er… So what brings you by, Ron?" Harry asked, returning his attention to the redhead and eyeing his ragged jeans and stretched-out blue sweater.

"Just keeping my promise." The grin was back in full force as Ron waved the broom in his hand animatedly. "I told Hermione it was time for a guys' night out, and I came to fetch you for a Quidditch game. We're going to Neville's, since he lives so far out in the country and has all that land, and I've talked to Seamus and Dean and they said they'd show up. Oh, and Fred and George are coming too, so you'd better wear something you don't mind wrecking. I've ended up in the mud the last three times I played with those two. Everyone will be there pretty soon so you should go ahead and get your things… um… unless you've got other plans…"

It was obvious Ron hadn't thought of that, and Harry briefly wondered if he should be offended at his friend's low opinion of his social life until he noticed the doubtful gaze Ron directed at Draco. "Oh! No! We're not… I mean, I don't have anything planned. It sounds like fun." He bit his lip, hesitating, then asked, "Draco? Do you want to come with us?"

To Harry's intense embarrassment, Ron nodded and put in, "Sure, I figured you'd come along, Malfoy. I just didn't want to get in the way if you two wanted to be alone tonight. Sorry I didn't think of it before..."

Harry's good desk chair skidded backward and slammed against the wall as Draco rose sharply to his feet. "Why would I want to be alone with him?" the blond snapped. "And no, Potter, I'd rather not intrude on your little Gryffindor reunion, if it's all the same to you." While Harry and Ron blinked at him in stupefaction, he huffed and swept out the door past both Ron and Harry's assistant, who had come from her desk to see about all the commotion.

"Draco, wait!" Harry rushed after him but he was already gone, vanished from sight down one of the countless Ministry corridors.

"Sorry, mate." Ron joined him in the hallway after a moment, giving the curious assistant a meaningful glare until she returned to her desk to collect her things instead of staring at Harry as he continued to whip his head back and forth in a fruitless attempt to catch sight of Draco. "I didn't mean to start a fight."

"It's not your fault," Harry sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, rumpling the dark mess even further. "He gets like this all the time. I probably did something again…"

"You really like him, don't you?" the redhead asked softly.

"Eh?" Harry snapped his head around to face Ron, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "That's a silly question. Of course I like him. We're friends, I like all my friends." A strangely high-pitched laugh escaped him and the dark-haired male quickly shut his mouth, surprised at the sound. "Erhm. Well, I should probably go home and get ready. See you at Neville's."

Ron's confused frown was the last thing Harry saw as he Apparated away.

"Harry!"

They had all asked where Draco was. Every single one. Harry frowned and gripped his broomstick a little tighter as he hovered in the air above Neville's muddy backyard, which was currently serving as an amateur Quidditch pitch. Every single person, even Seamus, had hardly greeted him before asking after Malfoy, the one topic Harry had hoped to avoid this evening. Was it that strange for Harry to show up without him?

"Oi, Harry!"

Well, perhaps. And Harry had invited him, after all; if Draco hadn't decided to be mad at him the blond could have come, instead of leaving him by himself to brood. Everyone would have been happy, then; even though the other ex-Gryffindors and Draco didn't quite get along, they were civil at least, and Draco wouldn't have wanted to have to force small talk with the others by himself, so he would have stuck close to Harry, maybe even clung to his arm a bit when they were done flying, and then Harry could sling an arm around Draco's shoulders in a friendly sort of way—

"Harry! Will you pay attention, for Merlin's sake?"

"What is it, Ron?" he snapped peevishly, annoyed at both his thoughts and the noisy redhead who had jerked him out of them.

Ron sighed and waved an arm. "Just look up."

"Huh? …oh." Sheepishly, Harry glanced above his head and quickly snatched the Snitch floating near his temple. It was a miracle that Dean, who was Seeking for the other side, hadn't noticed it yet.

Whistling sharply between his teeth to get the others' attention, Ron tilted his broom toward the ground and began spiraling downward. "Harry got the Snitch, guys! Let's take a break."

Amidst assorted grumbles and whoops of excitement from his friends, Harry slowly drifted to the ground and secured the Snitch back in its box without a word. This Malfoy thing was getting out of hand way too easily. They had started out as drinking buddies… in fact; Harry was almost verging on alcoholism nowadays from trying to keep it that way. Ron suspected something at the very least, and from his behavior at the Ministry it seemed more likely that he had already assumed he and Draco were together, even though Harry repeatedly denied it and Ron had apparently forgotten about their discussion that very same week about his chronically and undeniably single status. And now just because Malfoy was mad at him for some stupid reason he was so distracted he couldn't even see the Snitch when it was floating right in front of his damn face.

A hand descended on his shoulder and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. "Gah!"

Beside him, Seamus laughed, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. "Blimey, Harry, take it easy. You've been sulking all evening and now you're in another world. What's wrong, anyway?"

"He had a fight with his boyfriend," the twins chimed in unison as they practiced low-flying back flips on their broomsticks nearby.

"Wha… What?" Harry's mouth had gone very dry.

Seamus leaned closer on the hand still propped on Harry's shoulder and peered closely at his friend. When his squinting eyes were about a finger's width away from the other's nose, he asked, "Oh? I didn't know you were like that, Harry. Who're you seeing?"

"Malfoy," said one of the twins – most likely Fred, as he was wearing a white t-shirt with block letters reading, 'No, I'm George.'

"What… I am not! I mean, Malfoy is not my boyfriend!" Harry spluttered.

"That's not what Ronnie-kins said," the two redheads chimed together again, as they hung upside down on their brooms a few meters away.

Aware that he was blushing horribly, Harry whirled to face the equally red-faced Ron, in the process dislodging Seamus – who had started snickering under his breath, as if Harry couldn't hear him – from his shoulder. "Ron!"

"I didn't say that!" Ron protested. "I just… er, well I might have mentioned that I thought there was something there, but— Hey, where are you going?"

Harry didn't think he'd ever been quite so embarrassed in his life. All he'd known was that he had to get away from Seamus and Ron and the twins and all those knowing glances aimed at him whenever he just so happened to be thinking of Draco. It wasn't fair. He couldn't get away from Draco at all, whether the blond was following him around all week or just thinking about him when he wasn't there, and then his friends started with their teasing and knowing smirks, and he didn't need any of it.

Harry barely noticed when he Apparated in front of Malfoy Manor. He hadn't known where he intended to go when he left, though he wasn't all that surprised to find himself here.

He knocked on the door; a House Elf appearing almost before he'd had time to lower his hand. "Harry Potter, sir!" the elf squeaked, its eyes widening comically.

"Er… is Draco home?" he asked, feeling a bit stupid now that it got down to it.

"Blinky will tell Master that Harry Potter is wanting him!" the elf cried excitedly, and vanished with a pop.

It returned with drooping ears. "Master Draco is wanting to tell Harry Potter that he is not wanting to see him and for Harry Potter to go away, and that if Blinky asks him again he is shutting Blinky's ears in the oven."

Harry sighed. He should have expected as much. He thanked the elf, who bowed and vanished with a pop, before turning and trudging back toward the Manor's Anti-Apparition point at the front gates; though, when he reached them, he found himself unwilling to leave. He'd gone to this much trouble already; Draco should at least let him talk to him, apologize, figure out whatever the hell he'd done to tick the other off…

Scrunching his face in determination, Harry dug a spare scrap of paper from his pocket and used his wand to scribble a note:

Malfoy,

Stop being such a prat and let me in.

Not the politest of letters, but it would do. With a flick of his wand Harry's note folded itself into a paper airplane and glided toward Draco's window, where it tapped against the glass until a hand reached out and undid the latch. The hand reached out and grabbed the note, and Harry waited, holding his breath, until another paper floated lazily out the window, taking several minutes to cross the yard – until it came within a meter of Harry, at which point it quickly sped up and jabbed Harry's forehead with its sharp point.

Cursing and rubbing his forehead, he unfolded the letter and read:

Potter,

No.

P.S. You've been a prat since the moment I met you.

Harry gritted his teeth and stomped back across the yard, scribbling a new note as he headed toward Draco's window.

Look, I'm sorry ok? Whatever I did to piss you off, I'm sorry. I couldn't even have fun at the Quidditch game worrying you were mad. Now just let me in so I can talk to you!

With a frustrated wand flick from Harry the letter sped away, toward the window where Harry could now see a blond head peeking out and scowling at him. Draco grabbed it from the air, scanned it, and crumpled the paper into a ball to toss back at Harry's head. "Oh, fine," the blond called, "but I'm just letting you inside so I can hex you properly."

Draco met him at the door with arms crossed and fine blond eyebrows furrowed into a V. "Out with it then, Potter," he drawled. "Since you don't know why you're apologizing, you must have a quite good reason for coming to see me when you could be with your fellow brain-dead Gryffindors."

"We're not in school anymore, Draco."

"Just the sort of enlightened speech one would expect from a Gryffindor."

"Funny. Shut up. Look, I—"

"You come to apologize and tell me to shut up? You're lucky you're famous if those are your social skills."

"Draco!" Harry clenched his fists, fighting to rein in his temper. "Will you please just let me talk?"

Draco uncrossed his arms long enough to wave graciously – then returned to looking pissed off.

"Right then." Harry bit his lip. "Look… I know we weren't exactly mates to start off…" The other snorted at that and Harry grinned sheepishly, "but I've got to know you these last months and all and… well, you're my best friend. Well, so are Ron and Hermione but you are too, if that makes sense…"

"You rarely do," Draco put in, but Harry ignored him.

"Anyway, I figure you're mad because Ron got the wrong idea about us. I… I care about you… but I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or think it's, er, inappropriate at all... So, um, I guess we have to take what other people say with a grain of salt; laugh it off, you know… Just because Ron said something embarrassing doesn't mean it's true."

Harry was beet red and getting worried, because his speech – granted, a less than articulate one – which he'd intended to pacify Draco only seemed to make the other madder, judging from the narrowed eyes and red tint to the blond's ears. "You never want to own up to anything, do you Potter?" he snarled.

"What? I just said I care about you," Harry protested.

"You care about me 'as a friend.' After Granger and Weasley – well, Weasley and Weasley, whatever. I'm so lucky."

"You're my best friend!"

"You're the only friend I ever had." Draco turned his head, his eyes focused on something nonexistent to the far right. "And you don't even want to admit to me." He let out a loud huff through his nostrils. "I don't know why I'm even talking to you about this."

"I – that's not true!"

"It is. We're drinking buddies, old schoolmates, an associate you drag with you to uncomfortable events so you don't have to talk about the war; or sometimes, if I'm lucky, a convenient distraction from a job you hate."

"I… You're… You don't like talking about the war either…"

"No, I don't. But I was on the losing side; I'd like people to forget that. You on the other hand are running from your past, you just don't want to admit to it."

"Are you saying I'm using you?"

"Finally figured that out, did you?"

"I am not! Draco, I would never…"

"Purposely, maybe."

"I love you!" Harry blurted – then blanched and raised a palm to his mouth, as if he could take back the words.

Draco cut his eyes to the side, briefly glancing at Harry's face, before shaking his head and laughing bitterly. "Oh, Harry… You say anything that pops in your head, don't you? Just because I'm a poof doesn't mean that—"

"You're gay?" Harry gasped.

The other stared for a minute. "You didn't know? Then why are you…?" He pressed a palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Sweet Circe, Potter, you are so confusing."

"I… er… Ron and the others think you're my boyfriend…"

"And you're out to seduce me so your friends won't look stupid? How noble of you," Draco sneered acidly. "Fuck. I need a headache potion." He turned and started to walk from the room but Harry grabbed his arm.

"Wait! I thought you were mad because they assumed that and I wanted to apologize for embarrassing you and ask you to still be my friend but, um, I really do, you know, like you like that." Harry could feel the tips of his ears turning red, like Ron's did whenever someone insulted the Chudley Cannons.

"Breathe, Potter," Draco advised.

"But… well… Since you're a…a…"

"Poof? Shirt-lifter? Arse fancier?"

"Yes, that," Harry reddened a bit more, "Maybe I was wrong? Maybe you were hoping I'd say something and instead I rejected you…"

"It wouldn't be the first time you've rejected me; I'm rather used to it now," the other replied, but from his studious gaze elsewhere Harry knew he'd hit on something.

"Draco. Draco, look at me."

"Oh, what is it you pervy… hrmph!"

Harry caught the blond's lips mid-sentence in a kiss, a firm press of lips and a swipe of a tongue that sent sparks along nerve endings he'd never known he had. He wrapped his free arm around the other's neck and felt Draco whimper a little as the kiss lengthened, both of them lingering until Harry finally drew away so he could see the other's expression.

"I love you," Harry repeated.

Draco's eyelids, which had drooped to a sleepy half-lidded state during their moment of passion, snapped open and he regarded Harry for a moment. "Good," he drawled eventually, and pulled the other in for another kiss.

Monday morning at nine o'clock the door to Harry's office burst open, revealing a grinning blond who had once again come to pester him at work. "Good morning, lover," Draco drawled. "I trust you had an eventful weekend? I personally had— my God, what are you doing?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder and laughed before continuing to shrink his belongings and levitate them into his briefcase. "Good morning, Draco. To answer your question, I'm quitting."

"What… you're…" Harry had the pleasure of seeing the blond momentarily struck speechless before Draco recovered his wits and beamed. "Of course you are; it's about time you listened to me, since as you know I'm right about everything."

"Yes, yes." Harry rolled his eyes. "Well, you were right about this anyway. I'm a paper-pusher here; I'd like to do something useful."

Draco came over and sat on the corner of his desk. "Why work at all? Men of leisure…"

Harry laughed and kissed him. "I think I've heard that speech before. I still want to work; but in the meantime there's a villa in France I'd like to visit."

Draco smirked.