Draco sipped his gimlet contemplatively as he watched some muggle football game on the telly behind the bar. He'd returned to this muggle bar often enough to pick up on a handful of things, and judging by the displeased sounds the other patrons were making, the preferred team was losing. Not that it had anything to do with him, but this was precisely why he returned so often. To pretend he was someone else, as he'd told Harry.

It'd been three days since their last meeting here, and in that time, he'd somehow come to think of him as Harry, rather than Saint Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Savior of the World. Something about how casually his mother had used his first name… He didn't think about it too hard. It's not like he'd spent every waking moment thinking about him, or trying not to. Of course not.

The game was going dismally, and he lost interest. He tried to imagine caring about such a muggle thing, but in the end he rotated on his barstool to survey the people in attendance. A pastime he usually enjoyed as he inserted himself into their lives in his imagination. But tonight, his eyes landed on a familiar face just as he was walking towards the bar. It took him a few steps, but his gaze inevitably found Draco, and he halted.

Draco's brow quirked curiously, because Harry was looking a right state. And seemed just as surprised to find him, again, in the same bar. A blush so enticing it should've been illegal rose to his cheeks as he glanced away, as if weighing the benefits and consequences of just turning around and running on the spot. And Draco couldn't deny this amused him as a nose-laugh shook his shoulders once. But eventually, Harry continued his approach, albeit bashfully.

"If you're about to say I look like shit again, I know," he began, tugging at the neck of his hoodie. And Draco rolled his eyes. I only said that to get a rise. He could never look anything less than absolutely fetching.

"Not at all. Casual attire suits you." Bastard, making everything you wear look like fucking couture. Harry shifted his weight uneasily before making the final stretch to the barstool beside Draco. He sideyed the brunette git as he ordered his usual drink and glanced at him.

Harry ruffled his own hair in agitation as he perceived Draco's attention.

"Why did you tell the Prophet we're friends? "

Draco snorted. "Would you rather I had told them the truth?"

The ridiculous flush in his cheeks finally drained away as his brow and mouth went slack, eyes wide.

"Fuck off," he muttered half-heartedly as he accepted his drink and threw it back in one. My lucky day, I get to see him off his arse twice!

"So," he sighed, swiveling back to face the Chudley Cannon's prize Seeker. "What is it this time?"

"None of your fucking business, Malfoy," he snarled. Ooh. Touchy. Draco wasn't deterred, though.

"We'll see about that," he muttered into his own glass as he polished it off. Thankfully, Harry didn't seem to hear him over the raucous bar patrons. He waved the bartender back over, already ready for his second drink of the night, and Draco put in his order for another gimlet at the same time. Harry seemed to decide to ignore him, so he pulled a finger across his lower lip, eyes narrowed as he studied the brunette. He could've sat anywhere.

"S-sorry about… The other night…" Harry addressed his fingers, which drew Draco's gaze down to them. And memories of that callused touch against his own stirred all manner of memories to the surface.

"I quite enjoyed it," he admitted, self-satisfied. Harry cast a scathing glare his way, but it lasted only a moment. Panic fluttered in his gaze before he returned it to his hands, and Draco saw a muscle feather in his jaw. Just then, the bartender returned with their drinks, and he wrapped his fingers around the stem of his glass, twirling it between them as he formed his next words. "Harry."

Using his first name gave the desired effect, and startled green eyes snapped up to his. And he grinned triumphantly.

"What did you call me?"

"Harry," he repeated. And was endlessly amused at the way the Seeker sputtered. "What, am I not allowed to speak your name?"

His flush returned to his cheeks as he turned back to his drink, once again throwing it back in one. Jesus Christ.

"'S weird, that's all," he muttered quietly.

As weird as your very obvious attraction to a pariah like me?

"My mother asked about you," he slid in casually as he took a sip of his new gimlet.

"Did she?" When he didn't comment further, Draco eyed him.

"Wanna come back for drinks at mine?" Harry choked on… Nothing, casting Draco a wide-eyed stare. "You can say no, but it'd be quieter, and I promise I'll keep my hands to myself."

He flashed him a smile, and was pleased to see the brunette actually considering it instead of rejecting him immediately. A delightful pink spread through his cheeks and ears as he seemed to steel himself. And gave a small, short nod.


It's easier to regret things you've done than things you didn't do, Sirius's words played on a loop through Harry's head as he allowed Draco to Apparate them both into his living room.

"There we are." He dropped Harry's hand and sauntered over to a cabinet, and he took the opportunity to drive away the sensation of those long fingers wrapped around his hand by drinking in the details of Draco's flat. "Nice and quiet, eh?"

Harry hummed noncommittally as he rotated on the spot, memorizing the layout of furniture throughout the room. He hadn't gotten a good look last time, and since he was already here, he figured he might as well familiarize himself. It was just then that a small black cat came strolling down the hall, chirping amiably.

"Ah, hello my love," Draco greeted it as it rubbed against his leg affectionately. "This is Valencia. You two didn't get to meet properly last time."

With a decanter and two glasses in one long hand, he bent at the waist to scoop the cat into his other arm, and it climbed up to stand on his shoulder. Harry's eyes went wide.

"You… Have a cat."

Draco returned to his side, setting the whiskey and glasses down on the lounge table. "It was my therapist's recommendation I get an animal, and I find dogs too high-maintenance. You're not put-off by cats, are you?"

A smile quirked the corner of Harry's lips as he extended a hand for Valencia to sniff curiously.

"No, just… Didn't expect you to have one." She took a beat to smell Harry before decidedly pushing her head into his hand, and his lips spread wider into a real smile. "Hello, Valencia."

"Make yourself at home," Draco invited as he dropped onto the couch. Harry wasn't quite ready to be in that kind of proximity to him, though, so he decided to take a turn around the room. His arms locked together over his abdomen tightly as he dragged his gaze from the man and cat on the couch.

Draco's flat was just as pristine as he'd expected, but was unshockingly lacking more personal touches. There were no photos of him, or his family or friends. No nicknacks or indications of his passions. He did have an alarming amount of art on his walls, but Harry wasn't really sure if that could be considered a hobby. And the overall theme of the color scheme was a predictable emerald and grey.

As his eyes passed over a pointless glass vase of marbles, Draco's words suddenly clicked in his head, and he whirled his frown back to the blond who was pouring them twin glasses of whiskey.

"You have a therapist?"

Draco smirked, reclining back onto the couch with his own glass as Valencia gracefully dropped into his lap and curled into a purring black ball.

"You don't? I'd think you're the one who needs it most," he suggested as he lifted the rim of his glass to his lips and took a sip.

Ruby would agree, he thought as he resumed his observation of Draco's decor. The art on his walls wasn't like hotel art. Each one was… Strange. He wondered if his room in the manor was similarly adorned.

"Actually," Draco began, unsettling Valencia as he stood with both their glasses to join Harry's side. "My mother kept it very quiet, but I was committed after the war."

Frowning, Harry accepted the glass he was offered, and Draco turned to look at the painting he'd stopped before and pocketed his hand.

"Committed?"

Draco hummed. "Spent a little over a year in St. Mungo's."

Harry froze, just watching Draco's eyes dance over the details of this particular painting with casual appreciation. He was committed to the asylum? He must've felt Harry staring, because his eyes slid back over to him, and instantly Harry's attention snapped back to the painting.

Maybe I should check in.

"Did it help?" he wondered as he took a mouthful of firewhiskey. It singed the insides of his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose at the sensation.

"What do you see?" Harry frowned, glancing back at the blond, who gestured to the painting with his chin and a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. So he turned back to it, and tried to decide on an answer.

This one was all black and grey and red. The brushstrokes were broad and harsh, but it seemed to allude to the shape of a bird. Harry was drawn to it because it was so different from all the rest – not that the rest of the art had any consistency from one to the next. But the red in this one was so startling against the green and greys of the rest of his flat, and he couldn't deny it sparked more than a few unpleasant memories.

The bird was in flight, but a ruthless red gash stretched across the canvas from its breast to the far corner, as if it were leaving a trail of blood. And one beady eye peered straight back at him from the abstract shape, as if the artist had intentionally put effort into the realism for this one detail. He swallowed.

"The price of freedom," he decided to say. And internally cringed at the nature of his answer. Draco didn't laugh at him, though. He leaned his back against the wall beside the painting, one arm tucked under the other and holding his glass aloft as he studied Harry.

"Interesting," he noted quietly as he lifted his drink up to his lips. Harry's mortifying blush wasn't going anywhere.

"Why? What do you see?"

Draco's gaze flicked down over Harry once before he pushed off the wall and faced the painting, shoulder brushing his. And he quailed internally, what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

"I see… Myself."

Harry sipped his firewhiskey, glancing sideways at the blond. He wore a bittersweet expression – tight around the eyes, but an easy smile on his lips. And Harry nearly choked on his liquor again. Draco turned to meet his eyes, rooting him to the spot.

"You're so fucking beautiful" escaped his lips before he could even recognize the thought forming. Draco smiled.

"High praise coming from you," he answered easily. And then leaned in conspiratorially. "Would you like to see more?"

Oh God yes. Harry swallowed against his growing unease and nodded. And Draco's smile twitched wider into a grin as he lifted his pocket hand to his neck, steadily undoing the buttons of his dress shirt.

Oh fuck. Oh shit. No no no no no, Harry chanted in his head as Draco's shirt was shed. But he made no move to stop him as the fabric peeled away. And then a grand expanse of pale skin was exposed to his thirsty gaze.

Draco wasn't built like Harry – his muscles were tight, subtle. Broad shoulders sloped down to a narrow waist, decorated with unassuming cords. Not an ounce of body fat. Harry's mouth watered as his gaze traveled down the length he exposed to him.

"Jesus," he whispered before he could think about it. Draco chuckled, but only shook his shirt off his last wrist and it landed on the floor. And then he was half-bare to his gaze.

Draco was a living work of art. Harry couldn't frame the experience any differently. He was a tightly wound timepiece, from the tips of his long fingers to the definition of his ribs. And Harry spent too long staring before he finally touched. His fingers ran the length of his sternum, his stomach, coming to rest at his waistband. And he wasn't done.

Those traitorous fingers slid back up his torso, tracing every indent of his muscles. They slid across his smooth chest, dimly noting the lack of hair and up to that delicate collarbone before he finally lifted his gaze back to Draco's. And as they locked eyes, he lifted his hand to press Harry's against his chest.

"Harry," he began quietly, and his stomach did another flip. "I'd like to kiss you."

Not can I kiss you, not will you let me. Harry's mouth was immediately on the blond's, pressing him back against the wall he'd been leaning on. And the hand on his left to thread through his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp.

Holy shit was the only thought he could form as he pressed against Draco's body. His lips moved in unfamiliar patterns, but he tasted like whiskey and rain and it felt so fucking good, Harry let a little moan escape. When was the last time he'd enjoyed being touched? Especially this much? He couldn't spare the mental capacity to remember, because Draco was snogging the shit out of him.

I'm not even that drunk, he noted with a hint of amusement.