Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N: This is a fic I wrote because I didn't want to read another fic where Harry and Draco are "perfect for each other" or whatever because they aren't.
WARNINGS: This is an Epilogue compliant fic that takes place BEFORE the epilogue where Draco has a short affair with Harry. There ARE mentions of Astoria and his relationship with Astoria.
x.x.x
Draco sat at the bar swishing his drink paying absolutely no attention to the other patrons of the place. Located in Muggle London, this was definitely a place one would least expect to find a person of his status. It was also the only part of London where the Prophet was least likely to poke its head, and thus was the preferred meeting place of his companion for the night.
Late, but Draco did not expect any less. It would be a miracle in his eyes if the great Harry Potter would deem himself less important enough to actually show up on time for once. And yet Draco waited. The same way he waited the night before, and the night before that, for the last week and a half. And every night, without fail, he would show up, no matter how late. It was an affair that would turn his father in his grave had Lucius been dead.
Draco knew why he was here doing what he was doing, but he couldn't figure out why Potter was there letting him.
A man sat down next to him and asked to buy him a drink, the third since he sat down, but Draco just shook his head. If that Potter didn't get here soon, he'd leave. Or so he's told himself the other two times as well. The man continued to try making small talk even while Draco blatantly ignored him.
He was prepared to stand up and leave when he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.
"You're late, Potter." he says without turning.
"Sorry. Got held up again…"
Potter tossed the bartender a couple Muggle bills that Draco has never bothered to learn the name or worth of to cover Draco's tab.
"Alright, Let's go."
As he stood to go, Draco heard the other man yell, "Shit! You could have told me you were with someone!"
How did one explain that that they weren't together?
.x.x.
They say parents know best; Draco absolutely loathed that saying, almost as much as when they turn out right. Parents always knew exactly what it was you needed even when you haven't quite figured it out yet yourself.
Astoria Greengrass was never the type of girl Draco would have gone for, especially not while he'd been at school. She never flattered him with useless praises or went along with his childish whims. She stood on her own, determined. She was exactly what he needed. Yet had it not been for his parents, he would never have given her a chance, nor would she have ever given him one. When he first found out about the arranged marriage between he and Astoria, he'd thrown a fit, absolutely sure they wouldn't get along. After he met her, he wasn't sure why they'd never spoken before. She was right for him, he knew. Perfect.
She was beautiful.
.x.x.
No one in their right mind would ever think Potter beautiful. His fingers were thick, his hands callused and rough. His hair was always a mess whether it was before or after they had sex. The scar on his head was always an eyesore and reminder. Those glasses would always be lame, He may no longer wear clothes twenty sizes too big for him, yet what he did wear was never much better.
Kissing Potter was nothing like kissing Astoria. There was nothing sweet or right about it. It was always hot, always desperate, and never gentle.
They were completely wrong for each other.
.x.x.
Sex was a messy business. There was always too much sweat and too much bodily fluids. With Potter, though, it was even messier.
Rushed. Rough. And messy. They were words that described Potter and words that described sex with Potter.
There was never time to stop, never time to admire, never time to think. It's sex first, second, and third. It's sex last. There was only one rule between them—no marks. Everything else was understood.
When they touched, something else took over.
.x.x.
Time with Astoria meant tea, dinner, or shopping. Sometimes it meant sex, but that was never first and never last. There was cuddling afterwards, because it was what she liked; and in the morning, breakfast, because that was what he liked. No one cooked like she could. It was all gourmets to him, even if it were just eggs and toast.
They would talk; she would scold. Draco Malfoy didn't fall in love. Things like that didn't happen. But if they ever did, it would be with Astoria.
.x.x.
Nothing about their bodies fit together. They were both too tall, too thin, and too lanky. Their limbs tangled together awkwardly. There'd be a jab here and a jab there and nothing was ever comfortable. But none of it was ever supposed to be comfortable. If it was, it would never have been with Potter. And it would never have worked out.
The touch of his hands around his cock or on his skin, the taste of him in his mouth, the feel of him buried inside left him breathless, desperate, wanting.
Unsatisfied.
Guilty.
He never thought of Astoria while they're together, but he always did afterwards.
.x.x.
He thought of sex with him and sex with her. He knew his every grunt, her every mew. He knew which spot would leave him whimpering, her withering. He knew her sweetness, his bitterness. She was soft; he was hard. Two years with him, five years with her, and nothing ever added up.
In the end, there wasn't really a choice.
Because in the end, she was the one he loved.
.x.x.
"We're getting married," he said when Potter finally showed up.
"When?" he asked. Casual. Nonchalant.
"Next June," Draco said.
He just nodded. It was understood. No other words needed.
.x.x.
Fourteen years later they stood facing each other across a platform. Potter had his three kids and he had Scorpius. There's a nod.
He waved his son off and took his wife's hand as they left King's Cross.