HP Not Impressed
Part 1/3
Draco wasn't expecting this. He'd rather Potter had gotten him nothing than this. This monstrosity, this abomination. This insult.
This clear indication that two months of on-again, off-again shagging, snogging and flouting departmental procedure for the sake of fleshly satisfaction was exactly that—and nothing more.
And Salazar! He hoped he'd still have time to cancel the Portkey to Paris, the fine dinner awaiting them, the specially chosen Champagne and Port vintages, the 24-karat gold-sheathed chocolates commissioned from the very best kept secret chocolatier in Wizarding France. As Potter, the scoundrel, didn't deserve them.
As Potter, the ungrateful scourge on Draco's heart, clearly didn't expect them, nor want them. Not if his sole offering on Valentine's Day was this.
Draco flicked a fretful, dissatisfied fingertip at the 60 p. bag of Maltesers he'd found on his desk, buried under a mountain of other gaily presented offerings. Oh, it was red, yes, in the best tradition of the lover's holiday, and it was sweets, but the imagined taste was bitter indeed. Not even a card to go with—just a note scrawled on an elderly memo, a bold, black ink arrow aimed in the Malteser packet's general direction.
"Happy Valentine's, Malfoy," it read, mocking him. "Love and kisses, Potter."
He'd wished, he had, for so much more than this. Very reluctantly and with much understandable hesitation at first, but even so.
*
He was suitably chilly at the luncheon meeting, allowing three other Aurors to sit between them, and not glancing over at Potter, not once.
It slayed him. He'd thought—oh, but never mind what he'd thought. Obviously, they weren't on the same page, much less the same text. Not that he really believed Potter could read, much less between the lines. In fact, his love life was terribly 'much less' than he'd so fondly thought it was.
Oh, but Potter would pay for this unwitting humiliation. Draco just had to think of ways and means. But he'd start with simply ignoring the oblivious git, and go on from there.
*
"Hey, Draco!"
Potter caught him as he was scuttling back to the office cubicle Draco shared with Nott, and hailed him loud enough the entire floor could hear them. No chance, then, of continuing on by presenting a chilly cold front; not unless he wanted to earn yet more unspoken dislike from his fellows. They were of the opinion Draco was a domineering, 'my-upper-class-shite-doesn't-smell' fraud and a poser, who'd weaseled his way into the Auroring programme and established himself there only for his own ulterior purposes. The last was true, of course, but Draco's agenda wasn't solely propping up the Malfoy's flagging reputation; far from it.
"Potter," Draco returned, "You bellowed?" and kept his eyes on Potter's tie. It was loosened—in another hour, the git would be half-undressed: shirtsleeves rolled up over forearms, robes discarded, tie completely missing, shirttails pulled out of his raggedy old Muggle jeans. Temptation on the hoof, though if asked by another Auror, naturally Draco would've called Potter's dishabille disgraceful. They'd a professional working relationship to maintain, after all.
"Yes. Could hardly miss that, could you, what with the way I was shouting," Potter smiled, and any sting from his pathetic attempt at sarcasm dissipated. Draco's mouth twitched.
"No," he allowed, "but what can I do for you?" He would endeavour to do a great deal, if Potter wished it.
"Oh, yeah. Er, the singletons amongst us are heading out later, after work. You know, toss back a lager or two and celebrate our unattached state on this fine, fucking excuse for a national holiday. Want to tag along?"
Draco's eyes widened—he would not blink, he would not—but he couldn't prevent the corners of his mouth from tightening. He would not--would not—let his hurt show, either; no, not to Potter, of all people.
"Where to?" he inquired instead, and shuffled the stacks of files in his arms, as if they were the Grail and he in charge, a modern-day Percival. "The Leakey?"
"Hogsmeade, actually," Potter smiled at him yet. "There's some new joint there; does karaoke and whatnot. You game?"
"…I suppose," Draco replied, and refused to think of the Portkey, or Paris, or the extra-special chocolates. Refused, flat out. Not going there. "Later, maybe. I've enough work to clear up on Kauffman & Son's that I might be quite late, though. If at all." No, he had Owls to send, dismantling his fine, shiny plans for surprising Potter with Parisian lights and delights, dazzling him with all the things a Malfoy could offer as a matter of course.
"Oh—right, right," Potter nodded, as if he completely understood. "Yeah, me and Ron have an arrest this afternoon, too, but it should clear up right smart. So—hey, yeah. We'll see you when we see you, right? The Galumphing Gryphon, it is. Brand new place on the High Street—can't miss it."
"Of course," Draco's heart was under Potter's heel as he spun about, heading back to his cubicle. "I mean to say—if I can," Draco swallowed back bile and hoped he'd make it back to his own cubicle without vomiting up his gut, drowning as it was in the acid of disappointment. "Thanks," he said to Potter's back, as the git was half-way down the corridor already, obviously not really giving a hoot if Draco managed to join them or not.
"Hey—no problem," Potter grinned in the tilted, charming way he had, and his eyes glittered. "Catch you later, right?"
"Yes," Draco replied, wanting to scream aloud that Potter had already caught him and was torturing him about it, but Potter had met Weasel at the entrance of their office and was grinning up at him, instead.
Draco swept into his own office, and did not slam the door, though he dearly wanted to. He did blink, though, long and hard, and practiced his breathing techniques, the ones that the therapist said would help him overcome his nightmares. He wished heartily he'd wake up, and not be forced to walk about feeling so very trampled to death in public.
He was a fool, and then some, thinking Potter might...hoping Potter would. He was a fool, and of the worst sort.
*
It had been the Ministry New Year's Eve Party and he and Potter had naturally been consuming alcoholic drinks all evening, at the huge oval table the various workmates of his generation had snagged near the back of the streamer-and-balloon bedecked ballroom. A little too much alcohol, perhaps; enough to loosen Draco's tongue a bit, let him flirt. Potter had been interested, enough to invite him home, and Draco had succumbed to his own desires and gone along, still quite wary. But they'd snogged in the New Year, and then done a great deal more after that, celebrating minutes lost to regrets, and hours of pleasure yet to come—or so he'd thought.
There'd been so many things he'd thought, and all of them wrong-headed, Draco admitted, doggedly reading over the Kauffman file as he waited for Nott to return with the warrant. He'd been walking on air for days after that, thinking. They were fire and more fire in the sack, he and Potter; totally compatible, and Draco had relished the chance to finally touch him, the Golden Boy. Potter truly was, too. All his flaws—the tiny chip on one incisor, the glasses, the scattered laundry, the air of 'who, me?' innocence—were perfection, as was his Auror-honed body, and his knowledge of carnal delights, picked up elsewhere in ways Draco refused to consider too closely.
He'd just been plain old delighted, honestly, that they'd found their way to this place—Potter's bed—at last, after all those years of him following. Ducking behind circumstances, more like, and just happening to be there, and insinuating himself into Potter's life in such a way that he'd be accepted, some fine day. Oh, he'd been accepted, alright. But not, apparently, in quite the manner he'd wasted so much time hoping for.
But he'd go tonight. No reason not to, and all the reasons in the world to attend. He'd ensure that Potter, at least, wouldn't go home with anyone else, if he had to die trying. There were limits, even for him, and when and if Potter moved on, Draco would be tendering his resignation immediately.
Still, he could soldier on a bit longer. He could, even at the risk of a more public humiliation. Certainly the Weasel realized how Draco felt about his best mate; likely others did as well. Hard to hide it, really. Though he was duly thankful Potter didn't seem to see it, for all he was a speccy git.
*
The first day of Spring, Potter handed him a bedraggled Shasta daisy and a million-candlepower smile. It broke Draco's heart and nearly made him burst inappropriately into song. Draco had tentatively harbored ideas of celebrating the Equinox and the return of warm weather with some sort of official outing, or at least a nice dinner. He'd begun a garden instead, using an odd assortment of flowering plants and herbs to symbolize his sometimes flagging hopes: frail little saplings and seedlings more used to greenhouse glass than the elements. He'd quashed the undeniable urge to organize an intricate day around Potter, and had procured a boutonnière instead from the cart on the corner. That was pinned incongruously to the lapel of Potter's Muggle sports coat, and Draco was quite happy enough.
"Wow!" Potter exclaimed, when he'd pinned it on him. "Don't think I've worn one of these since the Yule Ball, Fourth Year." Draco had been delighted, though he'd stuffed his reaction back down his swallowing throat. Good to hear, that—it meant fewer romantic memories for him to compete with. "Thanks a lot, Draco, though I don't know why you'd bother."
"Well—it brightens up your antique plaid a bit, I'll say that for it," he observed dryly instead, falling back on faint sarcasm, and thrilled inwardly when Potter took his arm in weird little man-hug motion. Any touch was welcome, any time. He lived for those spontaneous moments, and took care never to admit it.
"Wanna grab lunch out or bring something back? Ron wants take-out," Potter asked him, and Draco sent his thoughts in the direction of the best to be had at a moment's notice, and bided his time for later, when there weren't so many other Aurors about. Perhaps he'd manage to get his dinner, if he played circumstances correctly.
"Out," Draco replied decisively, knowing he shouldn't, but any opportunity alone with Potter was fodder for wanks later and daydreams on the weekends when he didn't see him. There were far too many of those, times he spent ruthlessly doing, doing, doing, throwing himself bodily into any activity, as long as it tired him out. He needed to sleep, and to eat, and do all those things that kept him in tip-top shape. Potter was shagging him mainly because he looked sharp, and dressed well, and was clever to a fault. He could not afford to let himself go in any front.
"Brilliant," Potter smiled. "I know just the place—come on," and led the way off to the little Mediterranean restaurant two stops down the Tube line, the exact one Draco had scoped out a week or so before, when Potter mentioned he liked gyros and hummus.
"Right," Draco acquiesced, as they stepped smart through the sidewalk traffic. "Does the Weasel eat anything other than plain English cooking, though?" he asked for the sake of conversation. Another trick, that, seeming interested in Potter's mates.
"Oh, yes," Potter laughed. "He's a bloody Cook's Tour of culinary verve, Ron is. You'll learn he'll eat anything, as you get to know him," and Draco snorted with mirth, and had to work very hard indeed not to sing out about the future and promises of getting to know the important people in Potter's life better.
"I bet."
"Don't bother; you'd lose money. He's a sure thing, Ron is."
Spring was a fucking wonderful time of the year, it was. Draco could barely stand it, all the brilliant new growth budding and the hints of a flowering, lush summer ahead.
*
Draco refused to admit he collected Potteriana. There was no box under his bed or stash in his sock drawers. Certainly, he'd retained a few items here and there that held meaning, but he wasn't obsessed or anything. Not in an unhealthy way, at least. Adoration was very healthy; gave him an ideal to strive for, though Potter was far from that. Draco was the first to admit Potter was forgetful, often tardy and somewhat careless when it came to other's expectations. But he never forgot a promise, nor disavowed one, and he was never deliberately cruel.
If Draco was to venerate an idol, then it had better be the best available.
It was seeing him so friendly with Wood that hurt. Draco knew Potter was mates with many Hogwarts alumni, especially those who'd played Quidditch for Gryffindor. Wood frightened him, though. He'd smiling eyes, and a great figure; he was accessible and open and charming in ways Draco was not, nor would ever be.
The tickets to the United match with Portree had been purchased by the Auror department, as a way to promote good fellowship and reward them for a productive year thus far. By chance, he was seated near Potter and his little crowd, and by chance, he could overhear the banter between Wood and his on-again, off-again lover before the game.
Made Draco's teeth grind nearly to dust, it did. He concentrated on quaffing his watery concession-stand mead and not staring at Wood with daggers in his eyes. It wouldn't do, having Potter realize the extent of his jealousy.
"Hey, Draco!" Potter waved at him. Ron nodded and Thomas and the others did, too, all friendly enough at a distance. "Good to see you back!"
Draco gave a little wave in return, from his seat next to Nott, and thought positive thoughts quite deliberately. They were supposed to meet up after, he and Potter, and end up back at Potter's flat for some make-up shagging. He'd been on assignment in Bulgaria and hadn't seen Potter in two weeks.
"What're these?" he'd asked, the night before he left, when Potter pushed a few items into his hands after he'd snogged him for the last time at the flat's door.
"Oh, yeah!" Potter had actually blushed a bit. "These. Well, that one's a St. Christopher's Medal and that's a symbol of Hermes, the winged sandal one, and those are a few of those traveller's charms the ladies on Greensleeve's Way sell to the tourists. They're all harmless—don't worry. I wouldn't give you something that'd hurt you."
"Oh…thanks," Draco faltered, not knowing quite what to say to a handful of what looked like miscellaneous junk. "They're for travelling, you say?"
"Yeah—for good luck and safe journeys," Potter nodded. He'd seemed slightly embarrassed, though Draco didn't dwell on it. He was memorizing the pretty flush instead, and the way those green eyes shimmered and the endlessly mouthwatering line of Potter's neck where the coal-black mop brushed against it. He inhaled—Potter odor, bless him, freshly shagged—and tried to retain that, too. Two weeks was a fucking eternity. He'd die on the vine.
"Whatever," Potter shrugged his weird little present away. "You don't have to keep them or anything. Just thought I'd get 'em; you know, er—appease the old gods. Never go wrong with that, yeah?"
"Yeah," Draco agreed, not quite following, but wanting to. "Ah—stay safe, alright? Live up to your awful nickname, Potter, whilst I'm toiling away in foreign climes, will you? Don't want any bad news harking back at me on the grapevine and ruining my visit."
"Sure," Potter smiled, and that was Draco's sun, right there, rising. He'd take that memory out later and tell over it, let it warm him. It had done, a bit, but nothing compared to actually seeing Potter in the flesh.
In the flesh, and flirting outrageously with Wood, right under Draco's nose. He'd thought he'd managed to get those useless emotions he still toted about with him under control; he hadn't.
There'd better still be a 'later' in the offing, though, Draco swore, and the promised, much-anticipated shagging. He'd likely expire without it, at this rate. Or brutally murder Wood with a filched Snitch, or something. Bawl like an infant, perhaps, at the gruesome sight of Potter making sheep's eyes at another man when Draco was sitting right there, not a stone's throw away.
"You alright, mate?" Nott asked, nudging him with a friendly elbow. "You look a bit off, all the sudden. Feeling well?"
"Yes," Draco answered, because how could he not? "Of course. Just a mite tired from Portkeying, that's all."
*
Harry's Garden. That's what Draco called it, for want of a better name. It contained any number of plants that normally wouldn't be seen keeping company, and became progressively odder as Draco learnt more about Potter up close and personal. He'd started with rosemary, for remembrance, and rue, for all he'd missed, not befriending Potter sooner. Heart'sease and bleeding heart, both for obvious, though contradictory, reasons, and lilies, all colours and species, for Potter's beloved mother, the woman he'd inherited those amazing green eyes from. Speedwell and leafy green basil, for Potter's grace on a broom and to keep him safe, always; spearmint, fuzzy-leaved and pungent, for the underlying taste of his gorgeous mouth; aster and lavender for love; coriander for the unending ache in Draco's groin that kept him awake nights, dry-mouthed and wanting. There were forget-me-not's and maidenhair ferns, to demonstrate Draco's ardour for Potter to the world; gladiolus spires to tell of how it happened, so long ago, in the robe woman's shop, and hyacintha to speak of his jealousy, the acid that burnt through his veins when Potter carelessly flirted, as he so often seemed to. And a profusion of jonquils and fragrant roses, that spoke of devotion and yearning and hope.
Draco often spent time there, weeding and pinching off spent blooms or leggy stalks that threatened to fall over without propping. It was a tranquil corner in the greater lands of Malfoy extending 'round it, and smelt divine as spring wended its way into early summer and his association with Potter continued on.
The day after New Year's, he'd expected Potter's Owl any moment. Had refused to leave the Manor on any excuse whatsoever, expecting that. But that day ended uneventfully, as had the next, and by the third, Draco had to admit that perhaps Potter hadn't quite understood his intentions. He was offering himself up for the taking, no questions asked, and any normal Wizard would've known that, but Potter was always a special case. So Draco had bided his time patently, watching for the Weasel to be off, and Potter to be left alone in his office; had procured a cup of the coffee Potter preferred—dark, sweet, loaded with cream, and a scant dash of cinnamon—from the cart outside the Ministry; had cast a spell on his hands so they wouldn't tremble unduly and ventured finally, casually into Potter's cubicle.
"Ah—the other night, New Year's," he'd started, resting a trim hip on the absent Weasel's desk, "it was good, that." Draco prided himself on how very off-hand he was at that moment, and kept his eyes fixed on Potter's scarred forehead in the way he'd learnt served to make him appear to be both serious and sincere. Convincing.
"Oh, oh!" Potter exclaimed, lounging back in his rolling desk chair. He looked up at Draco with those memorable eyes of his, and Draco whipped up his inner gladiator. No backing down now; no balking.
"Right, yeah…" Potter nodded, and seemed a bit chuffed at the memory, thank Salazar. He nodded again, for emphasis and grinned a bit. "It was enjoyable, yes. Um, er—thanks."
He took the proffered coffee and eyed Draco carefully, with eyebrows up just enough to indicate his minor puzzlement over his co-worker's intrusion into his messy abode. Draco hadn't been so pushy prior to their shared New Year's Eve; hadn't dared, quite, afraid of frightening Potter off entirely.
"Yeah, 's'what I thought," Draco was trying very, very hard at coming across as totally laid back and unfussed, as though he routinely solicited sex from attractive co-workers. "Pretty fair, right? So, er—I wouldn't be averse to doing it again. Sometime."
Draco hadn't actually been breathing at that point, though he gave an excellent impression of it, filling his parched mouth with his own coffee to prevent himself from blurting out far too much, far too soon.
"Well, alright," Potter's quicksilver smile flashed across his face, lighting it from within, and Draco still didn't inhale or exhale. "Yeah, I guess. If, er--you want?"
"…Yeah--yes," Draco replied after a fractional pause, remembering to swallow correctly so as not to choke, and then tapping his chin with a meditative fingertip as if he were actually considering his crowded social schedule.
"Ah, perhaps this weekend?" That wasn't soon enough to suit him, by no means, but this was Potter. He'd had to be very cagey and subtle, but not too subtle, or Potter wouldn't twig.
"Yes, alright. Sounds like that'll work—Owl me, then, would you?"
Draco nodded and slid off Weasel's desk with alacrity, preparing to beat feet before Potter changed his mercurial mind and thought better of the whole plan. He'd gotten what he came for; no sense lingering.
"Yes," he'd said simply, and then as if he'd just remembered he'd need it, "your Floo address?"
"Oh, yeah—here." Potter scrawled a line on a used yellow stickum parchment scrap and handed it over, just like that. He grinned again, and Draco thought he'd swoon with a heady combination of lightheadedness and lust.
"Never thought that'd happen, did you?" Potter chuckled, and looked a bit amazed. "Me and you, shagging, I mean? I almost thought it was a dream or something like, after."
"No—er, yes, actually," Draco didn't know quite what to say to that. He'd known what he'd wanted, had truly dreamt of, had desired for year upon year, but the reality of it—even smudged with copious alcohol—had never prepared him for this kind of relentless hunger. He'd only vaguely craved before; now he required, and he'd had to escape Potter's office before Potter clued in on that salient fact and thought him some sort of aberrant stalker.
"I mean to say, it was certainly a surprise—in a good way, naturally." Draco swallowed harder—his throat was really very dry—and edged over to the doorway. "I, um, look forward to doing it again. Soon. Potter."
He'd had to vacate; he'd felt the beginnings of a full-body blush that was sure to be a dead giveaway of his discomposure.
"Oy, Draco!" Potter's voice followed him out into the corridor and Draco stopped in his tracks at the sound of his first name tripping off those lips. It'd been four days, nine hours and plus or minus ten minutes since he'd heard it for the first—and last—time. It had the power to send him to his knees right there in public and if Potter puzzled that out, Draco was dead meat.
"Hey--thanks for the coffee, mate. Nice of you to think of it."
"Yes, yes. I'll Owl you." Draco sucked in a breath finally, first in ages. Desperately, he prayed no one was witnessing his reaction: his emptied disposable coffee cup crushed by one hand clenching; the trail of dampness on the wall where his other—terribly--sweaty palm left a smear; his sharp-cut lips twisting with a manic grin of mingled exultation and fear. "Later, Po-Harry."
Sweetpea, in memory of New Year's Eve.
Viscaria: 'Will you dance with me?' he'd asked, so terribly afraid of the crushing power of Potter's reply. And now—five months after—Draco had nurtured a happiness of sorts—stock and pansies, sweet marjoram and heather, and even dandelions, sunny-bright and lion-maned—all about him, in fragile bloom. The scent of the Garden was intoxicating, as Harry was, and Draco desired only that it surround his senses for the rest of his life.
Sources for flower and herb meanings used: . and .com/tips_
*
Draco wasn't sure which was better: in Potter or around Potter. He knew he couldn't for the life of him think of Harry as merely 'Potter' when it was one of those increasingly rare times he was in that position of being in or around. Only as 'Harry' and likely he cried it out, as well, forgetting himself in the moments of take or be taken. It was only a matter of time before Potter truly noticed Draco's utter lack of poise at those moments and then Draco daren't guess where they might go after that.
Tonight was an 'in' night, and they'd Side-Alonged to Harry's flat after a quick supper at a Muggle restaurant. No Wizarding establishments for them; Auror regulations wouldn't allow it. And Potter—well, suffice to say that Potter likely didn't wish the world to know he shagged people like Malfoy, no matter how attractive. Not that Malfoys were all that reviled: Galleons still spoke a language everyone understood, and people had short memories. Draco was an Auror, too, and visibly attempting to make good on his forebear's errors. He'd been vetted and acquitted via the mechanism of the 'Great Harry Potter's Popularity', a process he liked to think of as an actual entity; his mother commended by the Ministry; his father exiled from Britain for his sins; and he the sole remaining Malfoy in Great Britain, the token converted black sheep returned the fold of the Light.
Draco was thinking of none of those things as he pushed his cock into Harry, hard and fast, the way Harry liked it. He was thinking of flowers and how he wished it would go on forever, this feeling of being consumed, and of the way they smelt together, and the heat they generated. He was feeling his balls gather sharply, and his breath shudder to a halt in his throat, clogging 'round all the words he mustn't say, and Harry's smooth flanks slipping under his damp fingertips—sweat, lube, Harry's ejaculate—and that Harry was so incredible, and that he was fathoms deep in love.
And after the moment ended, during the time of limbo where they lay partially insensate after orgasm, still touching at hip and shoulder, and Draco sometimes dared to kiss Harry's nape, he thought of how he'd like to have Harry come home to the Manor with him, and give him some real memories there to wank to, or perhaps walk one fine morning down the flagstones Draco had carefully set through Harry's namesake garden and exclaim with him over the scent and the beauty.
And when he stood at the door, very late that evening, Harry—Potter—looking up at him sleepily, Draco protesting feebly that he could see himself out, really, and that Potter mustn't bother, Draco wished for Harry to call him back for a third round—keep him there in Harry's cramped, messy bachelor's flat for an undetermined while longer, so that Draco might.
Might—what? Draco Apparated home on that haunting thought, unwilling to finish it. He'd spent too many lonely moments crying over Potter as it stood; why ask for yet more heartache? They had this, and this was enough.
He'd told himself that so often, it was practically a motto. Words to live by, as he'd once upon a time lived for revenge on this same Potter.
The next morning—a Friday, as it happened--Draco was informed he'd be off on the Euro Embassy Tour as of the following Monday. A month would be spent overseas, all in all, as it was every year, visiting various British Wizarding diplomatic enclaves and ensuring the efficacy of their wards and associated charms and spells. And Draco had been the Auror of choice for this post for the last three years, nearly from whence he started in Aurors proper as a full-fledged agent, first for his facility with foreign languages and customs, then secondly for his proper aristocratic upbringing, as the Ambassadors were always snobs, and thirdly, to get him out from underfoot of the rest of the usual lot, who didn't really like him all that much, even now. Oh, the secretaries did, and a fair portion of Admin, but the Aurors were a suspicious herd, and Draco was a Malfoy.
But this year was different, and Draco knew it, as he knew that cold, sinking feeling of dread in his gut all too well. Hermione Granger-Weasley was in charge of assignments and this particular one was a full month before schedule, and it was that way simply to remove Draco from Harry, for Harry's own good.
Always 'that foul, loathsome git Malfoy', he was, and never changing, at least to some people. And he didn't have the opportunity to wish Harry goodbye. Harry had been posted off in Scotland very early that morning, to teach a DADA seminar at Hogwarts for the remainder of the coming week, for community service.
Draco hadn't thought she'd be quite that cruel to him, but then he couldn't blame her, really. War was hell.
*
He bought presents whilst gadding about the Embassies, scads of them, trinkets and 'real' gifts, worthy of the loved one of a Malfoy. Blown glass in Venice, fine sculpture in Rome, an exceptionally accurate mechanical Muggle pocket watch in Munich. All for Harry, though he wasn't sure he'd muster up the temerity to give them, when he finally returned to English shores. He bought seeds, as well, and cuttings, bulbs and corms and tomes in foreign languages about their care and feeding, and had all that forwarded to the Manor for planting and perusing later.
And he worked his bloody arse off, pushing himself, cramming in twice as much detail work in a day as he possibly could, till gradually the time required to complete his task grew noticeably shorter. He was five days before schedule when he opened his eyes in the British Hub at Heathrow and literally starving to death for the gladsome sight of Potter, Harry.
Who met him there, oddly enough. And that was not a good thing, Draco knew, though he desperately tried to ignore his intuition. Seers, some of the Blacks, and his illustrious French forebears as well—they'd not gotten quite so powerful and wealthy by sheer luck, had they?
This night was 'special', just as Draco feared. He lay on his back and Potter—Harry—loved him, in all the ways he could. Worshipped him with his lingering mouth, and adored him with his cock, strong and sure and swift within Draco, and lauded him silently with eyes so brilliant they ensorcelled.
'Draco," Harry murmured, "Oh, Draco," and Draco knew it was over, and that he'd go back to being 'Malfoy' by morning.
Over an unexpected offer of tea, at one in the morning, Harry released him, eyes downcast and his lips still reddened from Draco's kisses.
"Look, I think—gods, this is hard, isn't it?" and Draco nearly died on behalf of Harry's fumbling efforts. He knew how to do this instinctively and he'd only ever broken up with three people. "It's just, I don't think—I don't think we're after the same sorts of things, Draco. It's probably best…"
Draco refused to make it easy. He sipped at his steaming cup and waited for the remainder of the nails to pierce through.
"For both of us, really. You see that, don't you?"
Harry seemed to really want to hear Draco's confirmation. But Draco only stared, his sullen grey gaze level, and tried to remember his flowers—Harry's flowers. What were the herbs for healing amorphous pipedreams, shattered? What potion could he mix quickly that would allow his exhausted body much-needed rest when his very soul only wanted to rail against this—drag his pleasurably achy body straight up out of Potter's kitchen chair and scream aloud his anguish? Was there a way to combine plant ingredients such that Harry would continue to desire him? Did any one of the numerous blooms in Harry's Garden contain enough poison to rid the world of Oliver Wood or whomever it was Harry was shagging in Draco's place—had been shagging, since perhaps before Draco had even gone off all those weeks ago?
"I mean to say, this is really difficult, isn't it, what with our jobs and—and stuff." Potter was fumbling, but the message was all too clear.
Draco hadn't expected 'forever'. He wasn't a numbskull and Harry had a bit of reputation, in a nice way, a 'Golden Boy' way, of being a bit of a butterfly. He flitted from one person to the next, never landing, never really damaging whoever it was that interested him or was interested, but not settling, either. 'No harm, no foul', was Potter's way. But he was inconstant, or rather, he sought some quality undefined that his various lovers or seriously heavy dates never seemed to possess. Draco hadn't ever managed to talk himself into truly believing he was any more worthy than the rest—there weren't that many; Potter was no slag—or that Harry would find him so. But he was more than good enough in bed to be worth keeping on tap, and he did go out of his way to bend himself around the rules and fall in with Potter's off-hand invites whenever they came. He wasn't clingy and he didn't demand notoriety, or gifts, or even reassurances of his own importance. Very low maintenance, considering, given his upbringing.
"I just think—I just think we'd be better off spending some time apart, Draco. I'm sure, when you have half a chance to consider it, you'll agree. We hardly ever see one another as it is, right? And we can still be mates—you know, hang out, meet up for a beer or a meal after work, right? I do like spending time with you, Draco."
There was nothing even remotely 'right' about Draco Malfoy's life, not at that moment.