[Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.]
"Care to dance?"
Draco had known that it'd happen – that Harry would come up to him; that he'd have to talk to him – but he's still not prepared when he looks up from his champagne to see Harry standing there, expression a tad impassive, but his gaze soft and warm.
"You're a shit dancer, Potter," Draco says, already setting his flute of bubbly aside and making to stand up.
Harry grins. "'Cause you're the epitome of sophisticated grace?" he retorts, holding out his hand.
Draco stands, eyes swivelling down to Harry's proffered hand, calloused palm upturned, the bell-sleeve of his formal, black robes riding up his forearm to reveal that long, curved scar, from wrist to elbow, faded now but still clearly visible.
If Harry notices Draco staring, he doesn't acknowledge it. Draco takes his hand and they meander over to the clearing in the middle to join the others who are already dancing. Lovegood notices them over Blaise's shoulder and smiles serenely at Draco.
"You look really good," Harry murmurs, turning to face him.
Draco simply stares back at him as the upbeat, cheery tune smoothly slides into a slow waltz, the music almost too sweet to bear.
"You did always clean up well, yourself," Draco replies. Harry gives him another lopsided grin and steps closer. "You look good too," he adds quietly as Harry takes his hand in one of his own and slides the other around to Draco's lower back.
"I feel good," Harry murmurs, nodding. "I usually do, while you're around."
"Potter," whispers Draco, moving his feet just in time when Harry guides them in a slow circle.
"Don't, Draco, please."
"The press isn't even here, today."
Harry's arm tightens around Draco. "I know."
"Then why are you-?"
"Can't you ever just shut your fat mouth?" asks Harry exasperatedly. "It's one dance."
Draco's lips twitch. "Just the one?"
"For now," says Harry.
They spin again, perfectly timed, and in that moment, they're blissfully alone.
He's paying for his books, Harry, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wooden counter as the sales clerk counts out his change.
"Just give me my books, you can keep the change," Harry says irritably as he registers, from the corner of his eye, the man in the drab grey cloak stepping forward from the small crowd gathered outside and raising a camera.
He's just grabbed his carefully wrapped textbooks when the flash goes off, prompting another two reporters to quickly fight their way past the crowd to the forefront and raise their own clunky cameras as well.
"Fuck," Harry swears under his breath, raising his hand in a quick wave and attempting to gesture to the crowd to let him through.
"Harry Potter!"
"Mr. Potter!"
"Over here, Harry!"
"Just one smile!"
"Here, look here!"
Temper rising, Harry tries to rein in the quickly growing knot of magic growing in his belly. "Let me through, please," he grits, hauling his purchases higher where they're sliding down his flank and gesturing with his chin to the winding, cobbled street of Diagon.
"Where are your friends?"
"Did your break up with Ginevra Weasley affect your friendship with Ron Weasley?"
"Are you seeing anyone else now?"
"Are you going back to Hogwarts?"
"Is it true that you're going to train for the Auror corps this year?"
Desperately, Harry tries to elbow his way through the semicircular throng of people who have pinned him to the entrance of Flourish and Blotts.
"Get out of my way!" he bellows just as his magic spikes and the pane of glass of the display window behind him cracks and shatters. The crowd gasps and Harry turns blindly to head back into the shop, tripping over his own feet and falling forward, his purchases tumbling to the ground as he sticks out both hands to catch himself.
There's a flash of white blond hair, blindingly bright under the midmorning sun, at the exact same moment Harry's arm is ripped open, from wrist to elbow, on a jagged piece of glass in the shattered window.
"Potter," says a quiet voice in his ear as Harry's arm starts to spout blood onto the freshly displayed textbooks in the window.
A warm hand grasps his elbow and helps him up, his purchases swirling up from the ground at the wave of a wand – a familiar length of hawthorn – and Harry's head instantly starts to spin from blood loss.
"It's that Malfoy boy!"
"One of the pardoned Death Eaters!"
"Harry Potter spoke at his trial!"
"Are you friends now, Harry?"
"Has he Imperiused you?"
"Look here! Show us your arm!"
"Fuck off!" rages Harry, turning wildly on the spot and bleeding all over himself.
"Here," a pale hand takes his uninjured arm and Harry feels a warm puff of air against his temple as he's hauled closer. "Hang on."
"Malfoy?" he garbles blindly.
"I'm just trying to help, Potter." The murmured words are gently snide and quietly sympathetic.
Harry's gaze finally swivels around and comes to pause on the person beside him. Malfoy is clutching Harry's purchases with one arm, his other hand tight around Harry's uninjured arm.
"Malfoy."
Malfoy nods and draws Harry closer. "Mungo's?" he says quietly and Harry, his head swimming, just nods back.
The next day, the front page of the Prophet bears a spasmodically moving picture of them in black and white – Malfoy helping Harry up and reaching out to clutch at two bulging paper bags, while carefully nudging Harry's bleeding arm higher and taking his other arm.
"Malfoy seeks easy redemption by befriending Boy Who Lived".
Harry doesn't bother reading the article although he does spend a full ten minutes staring at Malfoy's unreadable expression in the moving picture while his bandaged arm tingles and throbs.
One dance turns into three and still, Draco doesn't pull away.
He knows he's never going to be able to willingly pull himself out of Harry's arms.
"Your hair smells different," mutters Harry and Draco blinks, leaning back a bit so he can look him in the face.
"Does it?" he drawls, the lone butterfly in his stomach multiplying into several more. "Do you mentally document how everybody smells, Potter?"
"Not everybody, no," replies Harry, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
And then all Draco can see is Harry's mouth, right there inches away, pink and slightly chapped, and he really should have been better prepared for this; he'd known Harry would be here, had thought he's ready, and yet now it feels as though anything he says might accidentally reveal what he truly wants, what his whole being aches for.
Exhaling shakily, he forces himself to look away, tremors zinging up his spine as he feels that penetrating virescent gaze stay firmly lodged on his face.
"Reckon this will last?" he asks casually, indicating where Lovegood is dancing, pristine white gown swirling around her as Blaise spins her, glowing luminous and pale in contrast to his gorgeous, nutty brown skin.
Harry doesn't answer at once and so Draco is forced to look back at him. He's still watching Draco, his gaze soft and unwavering on Draco's face.
"I like to hope for the best," Harry finally replies and Draco swallows hard.
"Yes, you're rather stupid that way," he retorts, looking away once more, chest tightening. "So are they," he says, watching Blaise gently kiss Lovegood on the forehead.
Harry's hard, warm body simply presses closer, his breath playing across Draco's face. "Lots of people are stupid together," he says softly. "It's all part of being happy."
Throat painfully dry, Draco rather desperately wants some more champagne but honestly cannot even consider plucking himself out of Harry's arms. "Are you happy, Potter?" he asks.
"Not the way I'd like to be," replies Harry, pinning Draco in place with an unblinking stare.
"Why not?"
"I'm...not stupid enough, I guess..."
It's just past four on Christmas Day and Harry feels wonderfully content as he exits Honeydukes, nibbling on one of their mousse-filled chocolate dragon eggs. Ron and Hermione are waiting for him outside The Three Broomsticks and Harry carelessly folds his new dress robes, still in their casing, over one arm.
"For Merlin's sake, that's not how one keeps their clothes crease-free," says a lilting voice and Harry blinks around to see Malfoy leaning against the snow-frosted window of Honeydukes, almost blending into the white background in his pale, pale sky-blue robes, furry white gloves and cold-pinkened cheeks, munching on a chocolate frog as he shakes his head at Harry.
Grinning, Harry pauses and makes his way over to him.
"I don't care if I have a few creases in my robes, Malfoy," he says.
"Clearly," snorts Malfoy, biting off a chocolate leg. "Are those for the Ball tonight?"
"If I go," Harry says immediately. "I haven't decided yet."
"Well, you bought new robes, that does count for something," Malfoy points out, licking a smear of chocolate off his lower lip.
Distracted for the tiniest moment, Harry stares. Then, "Hermione made me," he sighs. "I'm not a big fan of balls, to be honest."
Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at him. "Because you regularly attend fetes?"
"I've been to a ball before!" laughs Harry.
"The Yule Ball," Malfoy says, grinning as he nods. "Don't cherish the memories of that one, then?"
"Merlin, it was a nightmare," Harry says and Malfoy laughs. "I think Parvati still hasn't forgiven me for it."
"Nor Pansy me," Malfoy sighs. "It's probably why she said she's most certainly not going with me this year."
"You actually asked someone?" Harry asks thickly through a mouthful of mousse and chocolate.
"You didn't?"
"Are you mental? The press has been granted permission to be there tonight."
"Which is why you should definitely show up and bring the unlikeliest partner with you," Malfoy says, eyes glinting wickedly. "Give them something to lap up, Potter, don't be stingy."
Harry grins, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes as though keenly considering what Malfoy'd said. "You go with me, then," he challenges and Malfoy laughs, head thrown back, eyes shut.
"Imagine that," he chortles.
"I don't have to," says Harry. "I'll experience it firsthand tonight. I'll see you in the Great Hall at eight."
Malfoy sniffs and lifts his nose high, although his eyes are still sparkling with mirth. "I'll think about it, Potter."
"Git," Harry says fondly and thrusts out the rest of his dragon egg at Malfoy.
Malfoy pushes off the window and slowly takes the proffered sweet, smiling crookedly at him before taking a bite.
"See you, Malfoy," Harry says, licking his fingers clean.
Malfoy reaches out with his free hand and wipes a smear of mousse off Harry's cheek. There's a puff of smoke and a flash of light and they both turn to see a reporter hurrying away, camera held high out of reach.
"Looks like we're going to be in the papers again."
"Merlin, I can't wait for tonight, in that case."
And there they are in the Prophet the next day, a panel of pictures splashed across the front page – Malfoy wiping his cheek outside Honeydukes; the two of them garbed in formal dress robes, Harry holding out his hand for Malfoy to take; the two of them desperately stifling their laughter as they'd spun together in the Great Hall, dancing with a sort of grace Harry wouldn't have believed possible if not for the photographic proof in front of him.
"UNLIKELY ROMANCE?" shouts the front page, and seated at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables respectively, Harry and Draco exchange grins over breakfast.
The sun has nearly set now, the crisp spring air turning cool around them as the light fades outside the enormous white tent. Xenophilius Lovegood dances with his daughter under the light of hundreds of fairy lights criss-crossing overhead, their pale hair and skin shimmering. As Draco plucks up two flutes of champagne and makes his way over to where Harry stands, Blaise twirls his mother onto the dance floor.
"Did you see this coming?" he asks Harry, handing him a glass. "Blaise and Lovegood?"
"Did I think they'd actually get married? No," replies Harry. "Did I know they'd get together because of us?" He pauses, grinning. "No," he admits.
"So, we get to take full credit?" Draco laughs. "Brilliant. Maybe we can blackmail them into naming their children after us."
They're both still sniggering when Draco catches Pansy's eye across the tent. Her expression is almost identical to the one she'd worn a few years back when Harry and he had first fuelled the rumour mill – like she believes Draco is risking everything for something very meagre in return.
Draco determinedly looks away.
"How's the flat?" he asks, sipping some bubbly. "Find a new roommate yet?"
He notes the way Harry's nostrils flare, the way his lips thin, an angry frown creasing his brow for a moment before his face smooths out again.
"No," Harry says shortly and doesn't bother to say anything further.
Draco's heart flips over as he decides to prod. "Potter...?"
"I told you, I'm not getting a new roommate."
"I bet it gets lonely, though." It's the most covert way Draco can bring himself to sniff around for signs of someone else in Harry's life.
Harry's mouth tilts up on one side, gaze turning warm again as he glances at Draco and shifts so their shoulders brush. "Well, I'm not lonely right now."
"Stop," Draco breathes after a pause, the air in his lungs shuddering out of him.
"I'll never stop, Draco."
It starts one day with a single Stinging Hex to Draco's back while he's on his way to Herbology. The incident is waved away.
Three weeks later, Harry finds him in an empty corridor, bloody and bruised with a broken arm, floating in and out of consciousness, dazed under the effects of a thorough Confundus Charm.
"It's that article," Hermione says quietly, later that evening.
"For fuck's sake, 'Mione, I took him to the Ball as a joke," he hisses, a cold lump of some sort rising up his throat as the mental image of a puffy-faced Malfoy, asleep in the hospital wing, floats before his eyes.
"In front of the press," Ron reminds him. "You gave them enough to speculate."
"We were only rumoured to be lovers," Harry says desperately.
"Something you didn't deny or challenge, Harry," Hermione sighs.
"Stop justifying hate crimes," Harry snaps. "He's different now; you know he's different now."
Hermione just sighs again.
"Mate, I never thought there'd come the day when Malfoy and I would share the same space without drawing our wands," Ron tells him. "But the arsehole is tolerable now. And we actually interact with him regularly."
"Which by itself is enough to confirm suspicions," Hermione says, nodding.
Harry feels his stomach clench. "Are you telling me that this is somehow my fault? That I ought to have denied the contents of that bloody article that came out almost two months ago?!"
"Maybe you should just release a statement-" starts Hermione hesitantly.
"Oh, I will," Harry interrupts heatedly. "I'm going to release a whole bunch of statements."
When the reporter from the Prophet turns up for an interview, Harry confirms his 'relationship' with Malfoy. When Malfoy reads the article the next day, he raises a questioning eyebrow at Harry across the Great Hall.
"I gave them something to lap up," Harry says when Malfoy finds him after Potions.
"You called me your boyfriend and promised painful vengeance to the next person who might lay his hands on me," Malfoy says gently, hitching his bag higher up his shoulder, his left arm still in a sling. "If this had been anyone but you, they'd have been brought in by the DMLE."
"But it is me," Harry says recklessly, "Chosen One Who Lived or whatever."
Malfoy grins. "Are you even bent?"
"Are you?"
"I am, yes."
"Oh." Harry blinks at him for a full ten seconds. "That's convenient, I guess."
"For me, yes," Malfoy chuckles. "For you, not so much."
"Don't write me off just yet," Harry grins back, "Not with Valentine's Day around the corner. You ready for our first date?"
"You're completely bonkers, Potter," Malfoy says softly, rolling his eyes and shoving Harry's shoulder lightly before turning away. "And for Merlin's sake, warn me next time you're releasing a statement featuring me as part of your love-life."
"Let's snog over tea at Madam Puddifoot's, darling," Harry calls after him.
Malfoy laughs all the way down the corridor. Harry thinks he'd like to be the one to make Malfoy laugh a lot more often.
Pansy walks up to Draco as he watches Harry and Lovegood dance.
"Draco, what are you doing?" she asks quietly and he doesn't quite have an answer. "This might not turn out well," she warns when he doesn't reply.
"What are you asking me to do, Pans?" he murmurs. "Are you suggesting I never speak to him again? Stop all interaction with him?"
"No," she says, "because you wouldn't listen to me anyway."
"You know me."
"I don't know him, not quite."
"Well, I do," Draco says softly.
"And?"
"I miss him," admits Draco in a whisper.
"Surely you don't need me to point out the obvious way out of this," she replies exasperatedly.
"I'm scared."
"Of?"
But Draco doesn't answer her; he doesn't admit that he's scared to lose something that he doesn't even have yet.
When the rumours of him and Malfoy moving in together start doing their rounds, it's almost like having an epiphany.
"We could actually live together," he tells Malfoy one evening as they share sandwiches and cake in the Ministry cafeteria. "I hate living at Grimmauld and you hate living with your folks."
"Keep making suggestions like that and they're going to think we eloped because you knocked me up or something," Malfoy laughs.
"Git," Harry says, sniggering along helplessly. "No, listen. I don't care what they say and neither do you. And I'd like very much to move into a place that isn't steeped in Dark Magic and I'd like to do so with a roommate."
"What about Weasley?"
"Hermione and he are moving in together," Harry informs him. "They just finalised a flat last Saturday."
"So, you thought you'd try your luck with me?" Malfoy drawls, picking at a cucumber sandwich.
"Oh, shut up, you little shit, it's not like I'm trying to get in your pants."
Malfoy's eyes shine as he laughs again. "Are you forgetting that you're already in my pants? Everyone knows we're practically married, you know."
Harry looks around the cafeteria with affected curiosity. "Is the press here?" he asks, grinning when Malfoy rolls his eyes and kicks him under the table. "So, are we going to find a place together or what?"
They end up finding a perfect two-bedroom flat in less than two weeks and by the end of the month, they've moved in. The reporters who've caught a whiff of it go wild, their articles speculating everything from a hurried engagement to a spur-of-the-moment private marriage ceremony in the Bahamas.
It's endlessly amusing and so they throw a housewarming party with limited access to the press. They pose for the two reporters present and by that point are used to exchanging chaste kisses on the mouth. Harry keeps his hand around Malfoy's waist the entire time, even when they're not dancing, and they make sure to avoid eye contact seeing as it instantly resulted in a bout of helpless giggles.
Ron and Hermione don't comment but Harry catches them exchanging knowing glances on more than one occasion.
He's not brave enough to go confront them about it.
Luna and Blaise Zabini are the last to leave the party, after which Harry and Malfoy stay up chatting and unpacking the last of their boxes the whole night. It's easy and effortless and Harry slowly realises that he actually spends a lot of time thinking about Malfoy even while they're not home.
"I think I might be into blokes," he blurts to Ron one day over lunch.
Ron doesn't even blink. "Are you into Malfoy?" he asks without missing a beat.
"What?!" Harry forces out a laugh. "For fuck's sake, Ron, you know that thing with Malfoy is just to take the mickey out of all those reporters."
"I know, but Malfoy's a bloke, isn't he?" Ron says. "Are you into him, then?" he repeats.
"You're a bloke too, why aren't you asking me if I'm into you?!" retorts Harry, flustered and defensive.
Ron goes beet red and splutters a bit. "Mate, for Merlin's sake," he chokes out.
"That's what I thought," Harry bites out, chugging his tea with a huff and stomping off.
Being into blokes was one thing – being into Malfoy, a whole other.
It takes a few minutes for Draco to find Harry; he's standing outside the tent, smoking.
"You are not fucking killing yourself with those again," Draco says coldly as he walks up to him.
"Oh, go away, Mum," Harry says, but he's smiling.
"You haven't smoked in over three years," Draco says, though it sounds more like a suspicious question.
Harry shrugs. "I just felt like one tonight."
"And you just happened to be carrying those around with you?"
"'Course not. I borrowed this from Nott."
"I'm going to kill Theo," Draco mutters irritably.
"Don't see why you've got your knickers in a twist, though," Harry says coolly, flicking ash off with his thumb.
"You quit smoking."
"You used to live with me. Things change."
It's like a punch to the stomach and Draco is left reeling as he stares in shocked silence at Harry.
"I thought we decided it was for the best," he says slowly after a long beat.
"We didn't decide anything." Harry takes a long pull, letting the smoke curl out of his nose. "You decided to move out and I had no say in it."
"Fine. I thought it was for the best."
"Because we fucked?" Harry asks savagely.
Draco's stomach does another flip. "Because we complicated things," he replies, voice unsteady.
Harry nods. "Because we fucked," he repeats.
"Because we—we were only pretending to be—and... and then—"
"We fucked."
"Stop it, Potter."
"Are you ever going to acknowledge what happened?" he snaps, and Draco takes a step back.
"I—I don't see why we need to—"
"Fine," Harry cuts him off.
"I...just didn't think it would lead anywhere."
"Correction: you didn't want it to lead anywhere."
An injured pause. Then, "That's not true, Harry."
"Then why'd you move out?!" Harry snarls, not waiting for Draco to answer before tossing down his cigarette and crushing it out, roughly shoving past Draco on his way back inside.
Harry doesn't really remember what life was like before he and Malfoy moved in together; before they became friends. Appearing together in public was more a habit now than an act and if this impeded Harry from having an actual love-life, he didn't particularly care.
Malfoy was discreet about his own social life and thankfully managed to stay out of sight of the press, and Harry went only on a few half-arsed dates if and when he could be bothered.
It happened on Malfoy's 25th birthday.
It's not something he's used to, watching Malfoy dance like that under the strobe lights. Harry's never been the sort of bloke who enjoys a night out at the clubs but Malfoy had informed him – informed, not asked – that Harry would be at the club for his birthday and so Harry's at the club on his birthday.
Malfoy is sloshed in about ten minutes flat and Harry loses him in the crush of bodies that moves and gyrates as one. Malfoy is almost hypnotically graceful as he flings his arms up into the air and thrusts his hips this way and that, his face and arms sparkling with the glitter that's floating around the place.
Harry can't keep his eyes off him.
And so when a shirtless bloke with a chiselled chest and rock hard abs dances up behind Malfoy and begins grinding against him, Harry, rather tipsy by then, snaps.
It's a Muggle club but it's still laughably easy to point his wand from under his sleeve and send a sharp Stinging Hex to the bloke's groin.
Crumpling under the pain, much to Malfoy's bewilderment, the bloke disappears within seconds. Thankfully, Malfoy immediately winds his way back to Harry, sweaty and out of breath.
"The others not here yet?" he pants at Harry and Harry simply shakes his head, finishing most of his fifth beer in one enormous gulp.
Malfoy orders another neat whiskey. Harry turns and shakes his head at the bartender before plucking at Malfoy's sleeve.
"Come dance," he grunts. When Malfoy looks surprised he adds, "I think I spotted a bloke from the Prophet over in that corner."
"Where?" Malfoy says at once, craning his neck and staring over where Harry had vaguely gestured.
"Just come and dance," Harry growls and yanks Malfoy along by one elbow.
They've danced before, pressed up close and sharing the same space. They've been close before, hands tight on each other. Harry knows what Malfoy smells like by now, what his sweat smells like, what his breath smells like after a few drinks.
But it's still not the same tonight.
Harry doesn't simply hold him as they clumsily move together, both of them slightly unsteady on their feet. Instead, he grips Malfoy with possessive, bruising fingers, elbowing away anyone who happens to step into their space. He keeps his gaze steady on Malfoy's, both of them panting lightly through their mouths, eyes keen and sharp on each other.
"What's happening to you?" Malfoy murmurs when Harry shoves back a tall brunet who dances up to them and winks at Malfoy.
"Nothing. I'm just dancing."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" Harry says gruffly. "It's your birthday and the others aren't here yet so I thought I'd dance with you." He forces himself to release Malfoy and step away. "Unless you'd rather dance with someone else; go home with them perhaps?"
"Are you planning to take me home, then?" Malfoy drawls snidely, his voice barely heard over the deafening beat of the song playing.
"Yes," Harry says, gulping before adding, "because we live together, you idiot."
"Of course," Malfoy says, eyes gleaming with something that has Harry breaking out into gooseflesh. "Why else."
"Why else," Harry repeats, nodding. And then he lunges forward.
There is nothing chaste about their kiss. It's hungry and slightly dirty and Harry can hear his own low, rumbling growls that he licks into Malfoy's mouth as he sucks and nips at his lips. Dizzy and barely aware of himself, Harry yanks him even closer and the kiss deepens, both of them slanting into it, Malfoy's hands firm against his shoulder blades, Harry's hands somehow ending up cradling Malfoy's cheeks.
"For the reporter, yeah?" Malfoy gasps out when they pull away.
"Shut it," Harry practically snarls before dragging Malfoy back in by the hair.
By the time they finally part and Harry drags him out of the crowd, the rest of their party has arrived, looking around for the both of them. They all spend the evening gathered around the single booth they manage to commandeer and Harry has plenty of time to think about the kiss – and what it might turn into once they're home.
And so when they get home, well past 2AM, it's with all his senses in place that Harry drags Malfoy into his bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed, undressing him with graceless tugs and fumbling fingers.
Malfoy, for his part, never looks away, never protests – not when Harry strips him bare, not when Harry puts his mouth on him, not when Harry boldly nudges his legs open and not even when Harry presses into him on a long, slick slide.
Harry doesn't know how he'd gone all these years without this, without Malfoy beneath him, squirming with pleasure and muffling breathless moans into his shoulder. He wants to do this all day, every day, for the rest of his life.
He wants Malfoy for the rest of his life.
Draco knocks again, three sharp raps with his knuckles and waits, seething silently. He knows Harry is home – he can feel Harry's magic crackling around the door – and he knows that Harry knows it's him knocking.
Another minute goes by and Draco thumps his fist into the door. "I know you're home, you arsehole. Open up!"
He has to wait another half a minute but then Harry flings the door open and walks away without even glancing at Draco. He's barefooted and doesn't have his formal robes on anymore, pristine shirttails hanging half out his trousers, shirt unbuttoned down to his sternum. Celestina croons out of the wireless on the mantel and French windows are flung wide open, letting in a chilly breeze.
Draco stomps in and slams the door shut.
"You think I regret sleeping with you?" Draco spits. When Harry doesn't answer, instead looking away and picking up his snifter of scotch, Draco snaps his fingers haughtily. "I'm speaking to you. Do you think I regret it? Do you regret it?"
"Do you?" Harry shoots back, voice slightly hoarse. He glares up at Draco from where he's slouched on the sofa, glasses slightly lopsided, cheeks a bit ruddy.
"Fuck you, I asked first," Draco snaps, not even embarrassed at the childish retort. When Harry just snorts and looks away again, Draco takes a step forward and snaps his fingers under Harry's nose again. "Do. You. Regret. Fucking me, Potter?"
Harry swats at his hand like he would a fly. "You're not as smart as you've led us to believe you are if you don't already know the answer to that," he grits. "No, I don't regret it. I'm never going to regret it – regardless of the fact that I lost you because of what happened."
Something sharp and hard seems lodged in Draco's throat and he gulps desperately, trying to blink away the burn behind his eyelids. "You—You haven't lost me, you shit."
Harry looks up once more and Draco's stomach drops several feet when he notices the gleam of moisture in his eyes. "You left," he mumbles suddenly and Draco is unable to remember why he left at all.
"I—I thought it was..." he murmurs, turning away when his lower lip trembles. "I didn't want you to be obligated to me in any way," he finally rasps over his shoulder. "Noble arse like you; I didn't want you to think you owe me anything just because—just because."
"You just left," Harry whispers again and Draco glances at him to see him wipe away a single tear tracking down his cheek. "Didn't even ask me if I want you to leave."
"Since when have I led my life according to what you want me to do?" asks Draco sans any malice.
"Didn't even ask," he repeats. "Just left."
"I..." Draco is well and truly short of words now and can hardly stand the ache spreading across his chest.
"Why?" Harry asks, voice suddenly hard and cutting. "Why did you just leave?"
"I—I thought you might..." Draco feels himself paling as he flounders for an answer. "I didn't want you to hate me," he finally says lamely, stomach clenching when Harry lets out a mirthless snigger.
"I haven't hated you in years," says Harry, as though speaking to a particularly stupid child. "There hasn't been any hatred between us in years. But wait," Harry tilts his head, "you already know all this. You know I don't hate you, that I never could. You knew it as you walked out that door."
And then Draco just blurts out what he'd kept tamped down since he was eighteen. "I thought...I was just part of some prank you're playing on the press."
"You thought that," Harry nods, "but you knew better." When Draco simply remains silent, Harry gets to his feet, setting aside his drink. "You knew you're more than a fucking prank. You know this."
"Yes," Draco whispers, hands trembling by his sides.
"And you left anyway."
"I left," shouts Draco, visibly startling Harry, "because you let me leave!"
"How the actual fuck was I supposed to know that I'm to stop you?!"
"Why didn't you stop me?! Why did you let me leave?!"
"I thought you regret what happened!"
"Well, I don't!"
"Good, neither do I!"
"Then why are you yelling at me?!" Draco croaks, swiping a sleeve over his eyes.
"You started it!"
Draco doesn't have a retort for that but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but for the fact that Harry is kissing him again. He trembles violently within the rigid bands of Harry's arms around him and it's not only because of the bitter breeze howling through the room.
They kiss, swaying on the spot, almost as though they're dancing, neither making to pull away, both of them throwing their whole beings into it.
Later, many, many long minutes later, they huddle together on the sofa under the old patchwork quilt, the cooling sweat on both their bodies making them shiver and press closer, the wireless crackling softly, the sweet melody issuing from it stirring something in Draco's mind to the forefront.
And then, "'S the song we first danced to at the Christmas Ball," murmurs Harry into Draco's forehead. "Remember?"
~end~