Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Harry Potter groans and rakes his hands through his hair as he hears the music piping in, up through the floors of a building that never feels quite as large as he'd like it to in times like these. Times like these, of course, being New Year's Eve, when all but two members of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement have gone home or on holiday or downstairs to the annual Ministry party. Harry can't let himself leave until this report on the recent werewolf outbreak in Sussex is signed, sealed, and in his out box. And he's still got loads to do on it.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o' lang syne!
It's not that Harry works too hard, mind you, despite what everyone else says. He just doesn't like leaving a job half done, and he already took three days off for Christmas, and he's taking three more when this is done, anyway, so what's everyone complaining about? Sure, Ginny and Neville could've used a babysitter tonight, and Ron's hellbent on getting Seamus and Dean to do something unspeakable under the influence of firewhisky downstairs, but this report—it's all Harry's going to think about until it's over and done with.
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne!
"A word, Harry?"
Harry looks up and sees the only other remaining member of his department darkening his doorway. Not that Draco Malfoy can darken much of anything, really, what with the shining white blond hair and sparkling grey eyes and infectious laugh Harry hadn't heard till they were well out of school. Now he hears it often, as Draco's Junior Undersecretary and often hangs around the Auror division, collecting reports for Kingsley and telling stories about the odd sorts of people who come through the Minister's office. Harry doesn't hate Draco anymore or even dislike him. In fact, he likes Draco, likes his company, maybe even likes the way it looks when he's concentrating very hard and he begins carding his fingers through his hair. Right now, though, any distraction is an unwelcome one, no matter how fit it is.
Not that Draco Malfoy is fit. But if he was, or is, it still wouldn't matter.
"Rather busy, Malfoy, I'm sorry," says Harry, looking up and smiling apologetically.
Draco sighs theatrically. "Can we please switch to first name basis permanently now? I haven't used your surname in years, and that was during that ridiculous exhibition Quidditch match at the Ministry picnic."
"Why do we have those games, anyway?" Harry forgets about his work for a moment to remember the last time he played four years ago. He'd been 22 and rusty and nearly lost the Snitch to Draco. Nearly.
Draco shrugs gracefully. Every damn thing he does is graceful. Harry curses himself for thinking so as Draco says, "Ministry-wide unity, I suppose. What are you working on that's so important, anyway? I'm about to head down to the party and it was strongly suggested by your friends Granger and Weasley that I should drag you down with me."
"So you'll still use their surnames, then?"
Draco smiles. "You're different."
We twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine.
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot sin' auld lang syne!
Harry, who's trying extremely hard to focus on his report, keeps looking at Draco. "Different how?"
"Well, you're a dreadful workaholic, for one thing," says Draco, stepping forward and perching on the edge of Harry's desk. He fishes a flask and two highball glasses out of the pocket of his robe. Pouring a bottle of light brown liquid he's pulled from his other pocket, he continues, "And you've got this face you make, well, all the time that makes it look like you know a secret, or you have one yourself, and you're not going to give it up for anything." Draco pushes one of the glasses, now half full, toward Harry. Harry reaches for it and takes a tentative sip. It's like no liquor he's ever had.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Scotch. You've never had scotch? Do you like it?"
"It's fantastic," says Harry, all but giving up on his report. Draco Malfoy is, and always has been, really, much more interesting. "So, how else am I different, then?"
"You've never been a dick to me since we were kids, and you have every right to be—yes, even now," Draco says before Harry can protest. "You only spend time with people you really care about, and you care about me just enough to talk to me for at least a few minutes every work day, and it disgusts me, how much that means to me. And, well, I like you. I like you quite a bit, actually. And I suppose that makes you different, too."
We twa hae paidl't in the burn frae morning sun till dine.
But seas between us braid hae roar'd sin' auld lang syne!
Harry watches as Draco reaches for the report. He flips to the back page and writes over the Minister approval portion, signing it with a flourish before putting it in Harry's out box.
"I can authorize these, you know," says Draco. "Even when I haven't read them, like I just didn't. See, Harry, the workaholic factor is so maddening, because you don't need to be. You're perfect at your job without even trying."
"You like me?"
Draco laughs softly. "Still stuck on that, then? Yes. And don't make me say it again. I'm no good with this sort of thing. And I think now we have a few options here."
"Huh?"
"Well, we can forget you know that now, or at least pretend to—let's not go so far as Obliviation, because I'm fairly sure in most cases that's not entirely legal. You can think about it, and get mortified and run out of here and go straight home. Or..." Draco waves his wand toward Harry's glass and fills it with ice. "It's better cold sometimes."
"Or what?" Harry can't stop looking at Draco, who can't stop looking at the desk. He doesn't think he's ever seen Draco's guard down before, and he thinks he likes it. He likes it quite a bit. Almost as much as, well.
"Or we can finish our drinks." Draco's voice is hushed. "I can try kissing you, and you can try kissing me back, and if you like that enough, we can go down to the party, and you can kiss me again at midnight. I know for a fact this is a warning 'Auld Lang Syne,' not the real thing."
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine.
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught for auld lang syne!
"Right." Harry isn't intentionally speaking in hushed tones, but it's happening anyway. "Because Kingsley uses that modified Sonorous Charm to make the song louder and louder as it gets later and later, and then by midnight it's earsplitting and you've either jumped out the window or gone down to the party."
"Exactly." Draco smiles, almost shyly. "And you and I are the only two people here who've worked enough New Year's Eves to know that."
"I like you, too, you know," says Harry. He starts to look down into his drink but keeps his eyes fixed on Draco instead. "And you're different, too. You've got that laugh you'd never expect to come from someone so graceful. It's just so big. It fills up a room. And you're so good at telling stories, and your handwriting is so neat, and you're quite possibly the cleanest person I've ever met." Harry looks around at the disaster that is his and Ron's office. "I could use some of that, really. And, well, you didn't say anything about how I look, but I'd wager a guess that you've got the most ridiculously, revoltingly stunning eyes I've ever seen."
Draco's fighting back a grin now. "I don't know about that. Have you ever looked in a mirror?"
"What was that third option again?" Harry stands up and makes his way around the desk to where Draco is sitting, putting a hand on either side of the other man's legs.
"I try kissing you," Draco practically whispers.
"Not if I do first," says Harry, reaching for Draco's lapels, pulling him in, and pressing their lips together.
And surely ye'll be your pint' stoup, and surely I'll be mine.
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne!
"Do you really have to be good at everything, Potter?"
Harry laughs against Draco's lips. "Would you rather I be bad at this?"
Draco kisses him again before saying, "I suppose it's better than the alternative."
"So, about that party..." Harry runs his hand along Draco's jaw. His skin is as soft as Harry imagined it might be, when he imagined it, which was more often than he'd really cared to notice before this. "I'm sure it's great, and I know midnight's coming, considering how loud the soundtrack's gotten."
"Four times," says Draco. "Four times since we started, and now I'm missing my robes and my tie and I think you popped a few buttons off my shirt."
"I can buy you a new one."
"I have plenty." Another kiss. "So what you're saying is you'd rather not go to the party?"
"No, I'd rather not," says Harry. "I'd rather you take me back to yours, and we drink more of this scotch and keep up with what we're doing here till we fall asleep."
"When you say 'keep up,' does that mean just more snogging?" Harry can't read Draco's tone.
"Is that going to be a problem?" he asks.
"No. When I'm entering..." Draco seems to be choosing his words very, very carefully. "When I'm in engaging in an actual, legitimate, honest-to-God relationship, and that's not really something I've done before, then I want it to mean more. I want to start here, where we are now, and stay there till we're both ready for more."
"I like the sound of that."
"What part of it?"
Harry brushes his lips against Draco's cheek. "All of it. The relationship part, the slow-going part, the starting right where we already have part."
Draco glances at his wristwatch. "Well. We should ... let's go, alright? Before you change your mind."
"I won't. Ever. Really."
Draco scoffs, but he's smiling too widely to believe it. "Hufflepuff."
"I've been called worse."
Draco looks down at his watch again. "It's a new year, you know."
Harry slips his hand through Draco's and pulls him off the desk and toward the door before kissing him—rather spectacularly, Harry thinks—and Apparating them to a flat with an address he shouldn't already know.
"Sure feels like it to me," says Harry.