Draco had to admit, he was a bit miffed to have been abandoned, but it wasn't wholly bad because he'd essentially been given free reign of Harry's flat. A quiet little echo of mischief wanted him to rifle through all the little nooks and crannies of his home, so after a joint-popping stretch, he ambled out of bed to indulge his curiosity.
Maximalist comes to mind, he thought idly as he surveyed the posters and nicknacks and books strewn around the bedroom. It didn't seem particularly out of order, mostly because he couldn't for the life of him discern if anything had a place it belonged. Like a particular sort of organized chaos, which Draco thought suited Harry.
The bathroom was possibly the most sparsely stocked room he'd encountered so far. With how soft the brunette's hair was, he was shocked to find not a single hair product outside of shampoo and conditioner. Other than that, toothbrush and toothpaste, a comb and hand soap, there was a simple moisturizer out on the counter, and Draco shuddered internally as he considered his lack of skincare routine.
It was a muscle memory habit at this point for him to avoid the mirror, and decided to saunter back out to the bedroom. A quick perusal of his dismal wardrobe was disheartening enough, he almost didn't check the bedside tables. Curiosity eventually won out, though, and he happened upon a starkly familiar journal with a hole stabbed through the middle. Half a smile twitched on his lips as he palmed the book, and casually flipped through it, only to find it as empty as it had ever been. That's odd. Why keep an empty journal at all? Is this supposed to be a keepsake?
Without any magical sexual instruments to pique his interest, he quickly gave up on the bedside tables and wandered out into the living room. The excessive Quidditch posters were somewhat of an eyesore, but he still found it somewhat… Endearing. Everything in his flat positively screamed Harry Potter, you'd never have guessed he was as traumatized and touch-starved as he apparently was. One photograph caught his attention on a bookshelf, littered with leaning and stacked books in no discernible pattern, and he plucked it from the shelf with care.
A couple, around their age, dancing in each others' arms in a snowy winter scene, alternately smiling at the camera and kissing. Draco felt a smile warming his face as he wondered who they were, but the more he looked, the more his heart clenched. The couple did one more spin before he really recognized the shape of that nose, the shade of those eyes. These are Harry's parents.
It was so obvious, he was taken slightly aback that he hadn't realized it immediately. James and Lily Potter. The clench around his heart extended into his gut, and he carefully replaced the photo back on the shelf. He tore his gaze away to study the rest of the photographs around the living room, wondering if he'd see any other ultimately historical figures. Every life Harry touches seems to gain notoriety. Too bad I'll end up as an unfortunate footnote if nothing else, once all is said and done.
There was a photo from the Weasley's wedding, crowded by grinning gingers and the Golden Trio, a photo of Harry in his Canons kit, beaming like a kid, a few framed postcards from the Weasley's honeymoon, another from the wedding with just the trio, one with the trio and a smattering of other Gryffindors, and… That's odd. One of them was face-down.
Not rummaging through his bedroom, or waltzing around his flat fully nude, but picking up this down-turned photo had slimy guilt slithering up Draco's spine, but he still did it. And immediately understood. None other than Sirius Black, an arm around sixteen-year-old Harry, grinned up at him from the photo. He'd picked up enough Black family gossip to know just what his family thought of the man, but seeing him smiling so easily, and Harry looking like his cheeks might rip with his own, the clenching around his insides squeezed slightly tighter.
What the fuck am I doing?
With the Cup coming so close, Thierry was riding the Canons into the ground, and Harry was almost too sore to shower after practice. He knew it'd come in handy, though, so he didn't complain. He was finally going to be stepping onto the world stage, rather than the little one-on-ones they'd been doing. After five years, he'd finally be able to test his mettle in a real tournament.
He did wish he'd gone to bed a little sooner last night, but couldn't bring himself to really regret it, even if the night had ended so… Mortifyingly. He was slightly nervous to return to his flat for fear that Draco was still there. But the ache in his muscles begged for his bed, so he inevitably returned.
Not sure what I was expecting, he mused as he Apparated into his bedroom to total silence. Maybe he was a bit relieved, maybe he was a little sore about it. Still, it'd been him who'd left the blond to wake up alone, so this was probably justified. He flopped down onto the mattress, a groan squeezing through his teeth as Draco's lingering scent filled his nose. Not long gone, then.
He was just reaching his glasses over to his bedside table when his fingers found parchment. Curiously, he replaced his specs on his face and pulled it towards him. An elegant scrawl that could only have been Draco's said a simple message:
Keyed myself into your Loq, hope you don't mind. I'll call you.
Don't forget to ward your Floo again.
-DM
"Shit," he hissed as he pulled himself from the mattress achingly. He'd left his wards down all night! Hastily, and a bit hobblingly, he threw himself from the bedroom and into the living room to set his permits back around the fireplace, safeguarding it from unwanted visitors. As Harry leaned heavily against the mantle, wand in hand, his eyes landed on another parchment out of place, propped up against a well-used candle.
No need to go getting your knickers in a twist. I had a great time.
He clicked his tongue with a grimace and crumpled the little parchment in his fist. Easy for you to say, he mused as he tossed the wadded up note into the hearth and cast a hasty Incendia at it. You weren't the one shaking and crying in my arms after I fucked you half to death.
As he resumed a very, very slow pace back up to his bedroom, he considered the situation. Seemed neither of them thought a grudge worth keeping all this time; they'd both effectively saved each others' lives and dealt (what Draco thought to be) equal damage to the other. The scales were more or less evenly weighed, but Harry couldn't help but find it ludicrously untenable that he'd been the one making all the moves.
Sure, Draco was built like nothing he'd ever seen before, and he'd been reasonably drunk the first time he'd ended up at his flat, but… One, he'd reached out to touch him first, which was unheard of in itself since he was more prone to shying away from physical contact in general; two, he'd nearly launched himself at the blond when he'd only said he'd like to kiss Harry. Had him on his knees in not point two seconds after that like he was fucking eighteen again, and thirdly, he'd invited him over! Agreed to come alone to his flat the time before that!
What the fuck is he doing to me?
Another aggrieved groan rumbled in his throat as he reached his mattress and, once more, fell down onto it. The throbbing pain in his muscles made him feel very heavy, and, resolving to moan about his situation more tomorrow, was easily fast asleep in the Draco-drenched pillows.
After Draco's spread in Just Look, his life seemed to accelerate like never before. Well, that wasn't entirely true – once the war had really taken off, months of his life had seemed to blur by. But with his potential for fashion modeling being recognized, Maureen just couldn't seem to book him enough shoots. Which kept him awfully busy in the weeks following the night he'd spent at Harry's flat.
He wasn't unaware of the impending Quidditch World Cup, either, so he predicted Harry was having just as rough a go of it as he. He'd never been to one of his matches, couldn't justify going, but for whatever reason, attending the Cup seemed important to him.
'For whatever reason,' he scoffed internally as the makeup artists fussed over his face. By now, Maureen had made Draco's distaste for mirrors known, so he thankfully didn't have to watch what they were doing to him, but the more they painted him up and pressed gems to his skin, the more grimly curious he grew.
It must've been a cruel twist of fate that he'd had that fateful encounter – three encounters – with Harry. Once would've been a fluke, twice would've been a coincidence, but by the third time, he'd said fuck it to wise decisions and had invited him over. And even though it'd been five years, even though they'd given each other enough grief in school, that infuriating little nugget of a crush he once held was wiggling its way back into his heart. A hysterical bubble of laughter coughed through his lips, disrupting the artist currently painting them.
"Sorry," he muttered as he forced his features to go slack once again.
He'd never admit it to a single soul, but Harry had driven him mad in school. Always had to be the center of attention, facing off against the Dark Lord first and second year, entering into the Triwizard in fourth, all the other shenanigans he and his friends had wrought the rest of their schooling. He supposed it came with the territory of being the Chosen One, but he'd never really acknowledged why it did his head in until after the war.
He'd been jealous. Of course he had been. Jealous of how easily glory and notoriety seemed to follow him like an Oppugno, when Draco himself had been scraping his nails to the bone just to make one singular git proud of him. A git who didn't even deserve the title father–
A comb caught in a knot in his hair, thankfully wrenching him from his line of thinking as a potion was smoothed through his hair. The sharp pain was over in an instant, a hiss sliding through his teeth, and he tried to rearrange his mental state toward something more neutral. Focus on the shoot. This is high fashion, a completely foreign territory. I'll need all my senses honed in for this one.
Once his hair and makeup were done, though, it was time for wardrobe, which meant a lot of standing still and measurements. Adjustment spells and dressing, the boredom of which nearly begged his mind back towards… Well, Harry.
Harry fucking Potter. How relieved he'd been when they'd parted ways, thinking he'd never have to think about him again. How the light caught in his eyes and made them sparkle, how his boyish awkwardness granted him an irresistible charm no one else seemed to appreciate, how he'd occasionally fall asleep in class and look so damn sweet and peaceful he'd wanted to smash his nose in. Eventually, he'd had the pleasure, but it'd only left a sour taste in his mouth; one that washed over his tongue again as he recalled the spurting blood from the boy's face.
Stop it, he chastised himself. Harry's traumatized and touch-starved, that's all. Keep it casual or you'll never get to touch him, hear him, see him in ecstasy ever again.
The thought sent a squirming maelstrom of black oil in Draco's gut. If he, at any point, thought his ridiculous infatuation with Harry was returning in any notable measure, he'd end things. He promised himself as a tunic was painstakingly lowered over his painted face.
There's no harm in just fucking. So long as that's the beginning and end of it.
