Warnings: None.
Notes: Iwao, thank you so, so much for the speedy beta—and for putting up with my endless whining these past few days. You're the absolute best, I mean that! Full title for this story was See You at Eight, Potter (or, Draco Malfoy and the Impossibly Tight Jeans), but apparently ffn didn't like it :)
That Thursday, as most days since the madman's demise, found Draco lying on his bed, leafing through one of his mother's old romance novels.
It was a perfectly normal thing to do, really. After all, people weren't exactly falling over themselves to hire a former Death Eater, and a Malfoy to boot, so it wasn't as if Draco were swimming in possibilities. Not that he had actually tried looking for a job, mind—but a stone-blind Seer could have predicted he wouldn't have found one even if he'd tried.
Besides, there was nothing inherently wrong with lazing about all day if one could afford it, was there? And, thankfully, Draco still could. Hell, he could afford to laze about for the rest of his life, if he wanted to.
He'd just got to the bit where the heroine met the centaur prince for the first time, and had been pondering the benefits of skipping ahead to the ending—the writing was truly atrocious in this one, and if he had to read one more line about how the moonlight shone down on the prince's golden mane, Merlin help him, he was going to set the bloody thing aflame—when the sound of light tapping at his window startled him enough to make him drop the book.
"Oh, bollocks …" He groaned, stumbling past the foot of his four-poster. "You blasted bird—" he wrestled the window open, "—it'll take me ages to find that page again, do you hear me? Ages."
The owl hooted threateningly at him. Possibly. To be quite honest, Draco was no expert in owl talk, but this one looked like a vicious beast as it dashed in crazy circles around the room, pausing only to peck insistently at Draco's forearms.
"Well, aren't you just a nasty little winged menace," Draco snapped.
The owl hooted again, and finally flew off, leaving behind a poorly wrapped package. It contained some hideous Muggle garment, and a tiny scribbled note reading, I saw these and thought they'd look great on you. It was unsigned, and as much as he tried, Draco couldn't find a return address anywhere. But at least nothing appeared to be cursed.
"Bubbly." Draco cringed. Bubbly, really? His four-year-old self should never have been allowed to go around naming house-elves. What was Mother even thinking? "Bubbly, where are you?"
Draco tapped his foot impatiently as he waited.
Nothing happened.
"Bubbly!" he yelled. "Come here, you rat bastard!"
"The young master is being awfully vulg—"
"Will you stop calling me that? It makes me sound like an infant."
"The young master is complaining again," the house-elf muttered under his breath, then sniffed haughtily. "He could just tell Bubbly how he wants to be called instead, but no. Oh, no. He's certainly never that helpful, the young master."
Draco rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache coming, already. Trust the Ministry to take all the good elves and leave him with only the insufferable one with an attitude, who didn't even want to be freed. "Look," he started.
"Bubbly is already looking, but nothing appears to be—"
"Shut your gob, you useless—" Draco blew out air slowly through his nose and squashed the urge to run downstairs and pour himself a shot of Firewhisky—or thirty. He was not going to get drunk on account of a house-elf. "Just go fetch Mother, all right?"
"Oh, that poor boy," said Narcissa, squinting down at the small scrap of parchment. "As usual, his penmanship is utterly appalling. I've always thought Hogwarts professors ought to put more of an emphasis on calligraphy."
"Boy? What boy?" Draco asked, intrigued, but his mother ignored him in favour of continuing her rant about the state of the wizarding educational system.
"It's awfully irresponsible of them, sending all these young wizards out into the world when they barely even know how to write their own names."
"Mother—" Draco held up the horrid piece of clothing some misguided stranger had seen fit to burden him with, "—do you know who sent these?"
"My, have they been shrunk?"
"I don't think so. I think they're supposed to be that …" Impossibly tight. "Well, like that," Draco finished, for lack of a better alternative.
"I see. And you really have no idea who sent you this …" Narcissa tilted her head, staring at the trousers as if trying to find their best angle—a wasted effort, in Draco's opinion, "… this misshapen bit of fabric?"
"No," Draco replied, "but apparently you do, so how about sharing that knowledge?"
She shook her head slowly, with a thoughtful crease between her eyebrows Draco didn't like at all. "I think you should find out for yourself."
"By my—but why?" His mother had her priorities all wrong. It'd be so much easier if she just told him, so much faster. "Surely you could—"
"No, Draco," she said with an air of finality. "I've had enough of your hampered lifestyle. You've been trying to turn into a shut-in for years, and what good has it done you? At least this"—she gestured widely at the note, the trousers, the shredded Snitch-print wrapping paper littering Draco's bed—"will give you something to do with your time."
Draco rolled his eyes. "I could always just hire someone else to look into it, you realise."
"Of course, dear." Narcissa smiled. "Of course you could. Such a shame trusting others to do the job for you has never been one of your strong suits …"
Right, Draco thought. She had a point, but it wasn't as if he couldn't just ignore his curiosity altogether. Ha! He could and he would. And that would show her.
The problem was, he really, really couldn't.
Oh, he tried. He tried for the best part of two days, but the thought kept lurking at the edges of his consciousness, ambushing him whenever he let his guard down. By the end of the second day, Draco was having a hard time concentrating on anything else.
He had managed to narrow down the list of suspects to people his mother wrote to—frequently, too; why else would she recognise their handwriting? They would have to be younger than her and, apparently, male. But as it turned out, a quick search through Mother's owl post revealed she'd been writing to at least a dozen people fitting that description.
So on the morning of the third day, Draco resolved to go see Pansy. Not so much because he suspected she might be involved in this dodgy clothes-gifting business—Salazar, no, she always had better taste than that—but rather, because he hadn't the foggiest where else to start. Plus, she had always been the go-to person for gossip.
And that was how he wound up staggering out of her fireplace only to find himself staring up into the Weasel's ugly mug. In his rush to get there, Draco had completely forgotten Pansy and Weasley were now all but joined at the hip.
"What—Malfoy? What the hell—"
"As articulate as ever, I see."
"—are you doing here?"
"I'm visiting a friend, obviously," Draco said, trying to sidestep him. "You might have seen her around, as she happens to live here." Again, he tried to move past Weasley and towards the corridor; Weasley, annoying Gryffindor that he was, just wouldn't have it. "Weasel," Draco snapped. One could only be thwarted so many times before they'd start to take things personally. "Kindly get out of my way."
Weasley's face was beginning to turn an interesting shade of red—interesting, mostly, in that it rather matched his hair—when Pansy finally appeared.
"Draco, what a pleasant surprise!"
Draco wished he could say the same, but Weasley's attempts to off him with the sheer power of his glare were making him feel distinctly unwelcome. In the end, he settled for, "Pans, thank Merlin you're here."
"Will you be staying for lunch?"
Hell, no. For six years, Draco had watched Weasley inhale his lunch like he'd been raised by a pack of rabid werewolves. For six whole years, Draco had endured that. "I'm afraid I can't stay too long. Mother has been unwell recently," he lied. Six years were, as far as he was concerned, several years too many.
"Oh dear, perhaps I should pay her a—"
"No!" Pansy raised an eyebrow. She always had been a little too adept at seeing through Draco's fibs, that girl. It would have made him proud, if only it weren't so bloody inconvenient. "I mean, there's absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself. I'm sure Mother will be fine in no time, and anyway …" Merlin, he was rambling. When had he turned into a rambler? Shaking his head, Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled slip of parchment. "Anyway, I got this"—he held it out to Pansy—"a few days ago. Does the writing look familiar to you at all?"
"You mean to tell me these shapeless doodles form actual words?" She blinked. "And what does it say, allegedly?"
"Never mind that now, Pans. Focus."
"Not familiar, no." The shadow that crossed her face then, Draco was sure, had nothing to do with concern for his Mother anymore. This was about him. It was worry that he might be getting death threats again. Ugh, he should have kept that tiny bit of knowledge to himself. "What's really going on? You told me the owls had stopped after the—"
As luck would have it, Weasley, who had been quietly peering down at the note over Pansy's shoulder, chose that moment to intervene. "No," he said, his eyes widening almost comically—not that any expression of his ever qualified as anything else. "No. I can't believe he—I thought it was a bluff!"
"You thought what was a bluff?" Draco asked. But instead of answering, Weasley leaned closer to Pansy and whispered something in her ear.
"No." She gasped. "Are you serious?"
Weasley nodded grimly.
"So you think he …"
"I know he did," Weasley said, still looking for all the world like he'd just seen the face of Death staring up at him from between the badly scrawled words.
"And he's—"
"Yeah."
"—for Draco, really?"
"Boggles the mind, doesn't it?" Weasley shrugged. "What can I say? He's always had a bit of an unhealthy fixation with the gi—I mean, Malfoy here."
"I can hear you both just fine, you know?" Draco muttered. The nerve of them, speaking about him as if he weren't in the room. He expected no better from Weasley, but Pansy was his friend, damn it. Besides, she was supposed to have better manners than that.
"My, my … You're going to love this, Draco, dear."
"I'm sure I will. Just as soon as you tell me what it's all about, you cow."
Pansy didn't say anything for a short while, but her lips curled up into a knowing smile. "No, I think I'll pass. Frankly, it'll be much more fun to watch you try to find out."
Draco then turned to look questioningly at Weasley, but the irritating bastard merely hitched a shoulder and declared, "Sorry, mate. You're on your own."
"I hate you. Both of you."
"Cheer up, Ferret. I'm sure you'll figure it out, eventually." Weasley grinned broadly as he thumped Draco hard on the back—it very nearly gave Draco a stroke. Merlin, the freckles had better not be catching; he'd never been one for the Dragon Pox survivor look.
It was way past noon when Draco finally Apparated back to the Manor, still in the dark about the identity of his mysterious correspondent. He stomped up to his room in a right mood and threw every single spell that came to mind—anything, every spell that might help him trace where the maddening parcel had come from, and even some that wouldn't—at the tattered remains of the thing.
None of them worked.
On the bright side, Draco thought resignedly, he could at least rule out Longbottom. Whoever the sender was, he must have some powerful magic if he'd been able to cover his tracks this thoroughly.
It only took Draco another day—and several unsuccessful attempts to interrogate his mother—to decide he needed to recruit Granger to his cause. In hindsight, it was outrageous the thought hadn't occurred to him sooner. Who better than the brains of the Golden Trio to lend him a hand with this?
Finding out where Granger lived took some doing, but by the time Wednesday rolled around, Draco had managed to coerce Pansy into coercing Weasley into giving up Granger's address, and things were, at long last, starting to look up.
"Granger," he greeted her as soon as she opened the door. "Good. You're going to help me with research." Without further ado, Draco walked past her and into the house.
Granger's sitting room was a clean and spare space, furnished with comfortable-looking sofas in pleasant earthy tones. He was unsurprised to find bookshelves lining every wall in sight—not that Draco had ever paused to wonder what Granger's home might look like, but if he had, he would have pictured it just like this.
"Excuse me?" Granger was still standing by the door, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of disbelief on her face, and Draco was belatedly reminded she packed a fairly decent right hook.
"Granger, would you mind helping me look into something?" he amended. Surely, there was no need to beg. Granger loved researching. She practically lived for it.
"And why would I do such a thing?"
"Oh, come on. It's what you do!"
Granger rolled her eyes, but finally pushed the door shut. "What is it that needs looking into, exactly?"
"I got this package a few days ago—"
"Oh. A pair of whitewashed jeans?"
Draco raised his eyebrows. "How did you know?"
"Easy—" she ran a hand through her hair in a slightly self-conscious gesture, "—I helped him pick them out. You see, I couldn't in good faith let him—It would have been disastrous, what with his taste in clothes …"
"Merlin, not you too." Draco laughed miserably. He was beginning to feel like there was some big joke everyone else was in on, and he was the butt. "Can't you at least tell me who owled the bloody thing?"
"I …" Granger started, and then she cleared her throat and said, "Tea?"
"Your attempts to change topics are alarmingly obvious. At least put some effort into them, will you?"
"I'm sorry." To her credit, she did sound rather contrite; it was a shame Draco wasn't feeling particularly forgiving. On the other hand, he knew enough about Gryffindors and their foolish sense of honour to realise that getting cross at Granger wasn't going to do him any good. Sure, he could hex her. But it was unlikely to make her talk—very likely, however, to make her hex him back. "The thing is, I sort of promised I wouldn't tell."
"You did, didn't you?" Draco shook his head. "I just don't get it. What's with all the secrecy? What's the point, when everyone and their mother seems to know already?"
"He thinks—well, it's really a bit silly. Look, you can just ask him when you figure out who he is."
Draco sighed. "If I figure it out at all."
"You will. Trust me," Granger told him, with such conviction that Draco was, for a moment, tempted to do just that—and never mind that the odds kept looking slimmer and slimmer.
On a whim, Draco finally tried on the trousers that night. All in all, they weren't half bad. They made his legs look long and toned, and his arse looked fantastic—then again, didn't it always?
He made a note to wear them with his grey dragon hide boots.
It hit him like the Whomping Willow a week after the package first arrived. It hit him because for once Draco hadn't even been thinking about it. He'd just finished getting dressed after a quick shower when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a dark smudge moving inside the painting of an Ukrainian Ironbelly that hung above his bed—a dark smudge that definitely didn't belong in that frame.
"Professor?"
"Must I be tortured with his gruesome penmanship even in death?" Snape spat, glaring down at Draco's bedside table as if it had offended him somehow.
"I beg your pardon?" Draco followed Snape's gaze and saw it. The note. That irksome little piece of parchment. He must have left it there last night. "You know who wrote it."
"I would have thought, Mr Malfoy, with the amount of time you two spent leering at each other, you'd be able to recognise his handwriting as well."
Draco stared at Snape with his thoughts racing. Yes, there had been someone at Hogwarts who never failed to capture Draco's attention, despite hardly ever making much of an effort to do so. Someone whose taste in clothing was abysmal. Someone whose magic was strong, even if he often managed to come across as a blundering idiot. Someone who was friends with Granger and Weasley, and had kept in touch with Mother ever since the trials. It was obvious, really.
"Potter." Draco didn't mean to say that aloud, but somehow it slipped out anyway, and Snape didn't deny it. Snape just let out a loud, long-suffering sigh, and then Draco was sure.
Potter had owled the damned thing. Except, why would Potter send him a pair of Muggle jeans? Draco took a deep breath, clenching his fists by his sides. Only one way to find out, he thought.
"Bubbly!" For once, he didn't have to wait too long before the house-elf appeared with a pop. "Fetch me Harry Potter's address, will you? Mother must have it stashed somewhere."
"Bubbly is busy making a sandwich," the elf grumbled crossly. "Is the young master missing a leg?"
"No, of course—"
"Then he can fetch it himself, can't he? He doesn't need Bubbly." And just as suddenly as he had appeared, the elf was gone, leaving Draco alone in his room.
"Why, you disrespectful little imp!" Draco snarled, hurling the nearest blunt object, which turned out to be that silly centaur novel—his mother would have a right fit if she knew!—at the spot the house-elf had just vacated.
"Potter!" Draco shouted, yet again. Apparently, ten in the morning was far too early for the Saviour of the Wizarding World to be awake. "Potter, open the bloody door!"
He was about to cast Confringo at the door—and if Potter wanted to have him arrested for it, then so be it—when it finally swung open.
Potter stood there blinking sleepily at him, in nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms. The tackiest pair of Snitch-print pyjama bottoms Draco had seen in his life. Something had to be done about this obsession with Snitches, Draco realised. Potter wasn't even a Seeker anymore, for Merlin's sake. He clearly needed help—preferably, from someone not visually impaired.
"Oh, it's you." Potter yawned deeply. "Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd never come."
"What is the meaning of this?" Draco demanded, pointing at his jeans.
"You're wearing them!" Potter sounded delighted. He looked it, too, and that coy grin of his appeared to be somehow connected to Draco's chest. It seemed to pull at something there, something that left Draco feeling oddly warm, and more than a little breathless.
"Yes, I'm …" Draco hesitated. Was he smiling back at Potter, really? Why would he be smiling at the irritating prat who'd managed to send him on a wild-goose chase that had lasted an entire week? Why? "That's not the point. Why the hell did you owl me a pair of Muggle trousers?"
"Your hair's all wet."
"And yours looks like you hired Peeves to style it, but I, unlike you, know that's no proper way to greet someone." Draco rolled his eyes. "The trousers, you git. Why?"
"Didn't you get my letter?"
"Yes, I got—Potter, my face is up here." If Draco didn't know better, he'd have assumed Potter fancied him, what with the way his gaze kept straying to Draco's legs, his hips, his … But, alas, Draco did know better, and life was too short to dwell on impossibilities. "I got your letter all right. It was about as clear as a fistful of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder to the face."
"They do look great on you, though," Potter said smugly. "I knew they would."
Harry sodding Potter, Draco thought, the Boy Who Lived to become a master of the non sequitur. "Never mind that they're several sizes too small," he said instead.
"Oh, no," Potter mumbled, eyeing Draco's crotch in a most inappropriate manner. "I think they're exactly the right size."
Draco stared, ignoring the warm shiver that ran down his spine. It couldn't be, could it? He decided to test his theory by leaning against the doorframe, tilting his hips just so, just enough to make his shirt ride up a little. Potter's breath hitched and he licked his lips—actually licked his lips—as his eyes latched on to the curve of Draco's hipbone.
Salazar, Potter wanted him. Well, that was an interesting development. Not even in his wildest dreams would Draco have dared to imagine that that was what this was about.
"You've been trying to lure me here all along, haven't you?" It was actually quite Slytherin of Potter. As annoying as the whole ordeal had been, Draco was reluctantly impressed. "All this time, you've been secretly pining away like a lovesick—"
Potter snorted. "I wasn't pining, you berk, I just wanted to see you again. You sort of vanished after …" After the trials, yes. It had all been a bit too much. "And I couldn't help wondering …"
"And you missed me." This was too good to be true. Potter crossed his arms and glared silently at Draco, but Draco wasn't done with him yet. Not by a long shot. "And you seriously couldn't think of a better way to get me to come here than—" he gestured around vaguely, not sure how to call this crazy scheme of Potter's, "—putting together this whole thing?"
"Believe me, I tried. I even went to your mother's charity balls, once or twice. You were never there, though."
Draco shivered. "I hate those dances. Always full of old ladies trying to pinch my cheeks, for some reason."
"Yeah, I've noticed," Potter deadpanned. "But see, I did try. It's not my fault you're not easy to reach."
Draco shook his head in disbelief—Potter's ability to surprise knew no bounds.
"So what now?" he asked. "What were you expecting to achieve by making me come here?"
Potter ran his fingers through his hair. "To be honest I hadn't quite thought so far ahead."
"I didn't think so," said Draco. "Forethought's never been a Gryffindor trait."
Potter chuckled lightly. "So I've been told. Repeatedly."
It was just as well. Draco was going to need some time to think about this, about what to do next, because while Potter might be rather fit these days, he was still Potter. They weren't on opposite sides of a war anymore, but things had never been what one would call simple between them, and this had the potential to further complicate them.
"Well, it's been shockingly nice talking to you, Potter." Draco took a step back. "I'm sure I'll see you around."
He was getting ready to Apparate away when Potter suddenly grabbed his wrist.
"Wait," he said. "Dinner tonight, at eight?" He looked at Draco a little uncertainly. "I'll cook."
Draco grinned slowly, leaning in closer until his lips were almost brushing Potter's earlobe. "Perhaps," he whispered, and the last thing he saw before the world spun out of sight was the way Potter's eyes crinkled when he smiled. Their focus made Draco's stomach flutter; Potter really had the loveliest eyes, no wonder everyone kept talking about them.
And in that moment, Draco knew he wouldn't miss that dinner for the world.