"I don't know if this is something that would interest you," Potter says to Draco as they're both making sandwiches for lunch on Friday. They've fallen into a sort of routine over the past few days: Potter makes coffee for them and then Draco works on plans for the house, while Potter mostly hides away in the sitting room, or the library if Draco's not in there, until Draco finds him and peppers him with questions. They make lunch and Draco goes back to work while Potter hides again. Then Potter makes dinner and they finish a bottle of wine while they eat before going to their respective bedrooms for the night.

Draco looks up from the piece of bread he's buttering as Potter continues talking, "But there's a new television show coming on the BBC tomorrow night and I was wondering if you might want to watch it?"

"You have a television?" Draco could have sworn he'd been in every room in this house multiple times now, and he yet hasn't seen any large cubes with antennae sticking out of the top of them.

"Malfoy, I have multiple robot vacuums. Of course I have a television."

"Sorry," Draco says. "But I've only ever seen them turned off and I'm dreadfully curious."

"I'm sorry," Potter says, not sounding the least bit sorry. "But are you telling me you've never been to Harrods?"

"What's Harrods got to do with anything?"

"They have televisions."

"Do they?"

"Yes." Potter puts down the knife and the peanut butter container he's holding, and stares at Draco. "What else did you think the bright moving pictures were?"

"Secret wizarding photographs."

"You're an idiot."

"And you're mean." But he says it with a smile.

…

Potter shows him the television after lunch.

"But it's flat," Draco protests. "They're supposed to be boxy."

"Are you thinking of televisions from the nineties?" Potter asks. "Because we have flat screens now."

"Clearly." Draco stares at it. It's an unremarkable thing. Potter keeps it hidden in a cabinet when it's not in use, which explains why Draco hadn't seen it before. It's just a black rectangle with some raised buttons on it. "How does it work?"

"Well, you turn it on," Potter starts to say.

"Yes, yes, but how?" Potter beckons Draco over to him and shows him the remote. It looks enough like a phone that Draco's not too intimidated by it. He watches carefully as Potter takes him through the controls, nodding to show that he understands. He's distracted for a moment when he realizes how close they are, how he's leaning over Potter's shoulder to watch Potter's hands. But he gathers himself together and concentrates on the actions rather than the man. Barely.

"And that's about it," Potter says when he's done.

"But there are so many channels," Draco says. He has to say something. "When did that happen?"

"Oh Merlin," Potter says. "They really need to update the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts, don't they?"

"I didn't take Muggle Studies," Draco says. He hadn't taken it. He'd learned all of this second hand, from listening to the Ravenclaws in the library— which, well that would still be the Hogwarts curriculum then, wouldn't it? He reluctantly moves away from Potter and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Perhaps you should have," Potter says with a shrug. "Personally, I think it should have been mandatory. There's so much that wizards don't know about muggles that it's almost unsurprising there's so much animosity towards them." Draco doesn't know what to say to that, so he just stares at his feet. "Well, anyway. This is the television. Feel free to use it." Draco nods. Is it his imagination or does Potter look about as flustered as Draco feels? It can't be. Can it?

Before he can let himself worry about it, he bids Potter goodbye and hurries off to the library. There's work to be done. There's always work to be done.

…

The library has fast become Draco's favorite room in the house. Mainly because it is full of books, but also because it is filled with comfortable furniture for reading said books on. Draco is a big fan of the sofa that sits in front of the fireplace. He outfits it with a blanket that he finds in one of the various linen closets and it becomes his go to working spot.

The only problem Draco has found, is that the library won't allow him to bring any food or drinks inside. He'd learnt this the hard way, as he'd tried to carry a fresh cup of coffee into the room on Tuesday afternoon. The cup had stopped at the lintel of the door, as if held there by an invisible barrier, even as Draco had continued to move forward. He had very nearly dropped it.

"What the—?" he'd asked, staring down at it. But the room had provided no answers. So he'd carried his coffee up to the sitting room and had drunk it there, staring out at the garden in the middle of the square instead.

The next time he'd tried, it had been with a plate of biscuits. The plate had made it into the room, but the biscuits had flown off at the door and fallen pitifully to the floor, where insult had been added to injury as Draco had then stepped on them. Frustrating hadn't even begun to cover it. He'd nearly chucked the plate at the wall in frustration.

Padfoot, meanwhile, had roared to life and trundled its way over to suck up the crumbs. And while Potter had said the robot vacuums were not sentient, Draco's not so sure. They always seem to know where the messes are in the house. In fact, he thinks that might be why Moony had gone into his room the second day — to vacuum up any dust left by Draco's moving in. Which, now that he's been here almost a week and the house is starting to feel like home, really does feel like he'd moved in. Blast.

He banishes these thoughts by jotting down some notes on refreshing one of the ensuite bathrooms on the third floor.

…

"What's this?" Draco asks, staring at the glass Potter is proffering. It's a clear rocks glass with one large ice cube, a sparkling clear liquid and a lime inside of it. Draco caps his fountain pen and lays it down in the spine of his notebook. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's five o'clock.

"Gin and tonic."

"Trying to liquor me up?" Draco asks. He closes his notebook and leans back in his chair. He accepts the drink and takes a small sip.

"Ah, you saw through my incredibly cunning plan," Potter says, and then has the audacity to wink. Draco's breath catches in his throat for a moment. Is Potter flirting with him? No, it can't be. "I just figured it was the end of the week. Why not have a cocktail?"

"Are we going to make this a regular thing?"

"We could do."

"Drinks on the rooftop?" Draco suggests.

"Oh, that's a good idea. Let's abscond to there." Draco nods and stands up.

"Abscond? I'm surprised you even know that word, Potter."

"I went to the same school as you did, Malfoy. I know just as much as you do."

"Do you?"

"More, probably. Because I also went to muggle primary school."

"What's that got to do with anything?" They're climbing the stairs on their way up to the roof. Potter is ahead and Draco's now realizing that his eyes are at the same level as Potter's arse. He tries to look up, past it, to the back of Potter's head, but somehow his eyes keep getting dragged back down. It does not help that the jeans Potter is wearing fit him perfectly, leaving little to the imagination.

"Well it means I've learned maths, and geography, and things," Potter says. Draco's about to argue back that he knows about those things too, but he figures there's no reason to make an argument out of it, so he just makes a vague noise of agreement and leaves it at that.

Draco is breathing hard as they reach the top of the stairs up to the roof. He watches as Potter pushes open the door to the roof and then they make their way out into the cool evening air. A gust of wind ruffles Potter's hair and Draco can't help but stare. He looks so good in golden hour light. Which, really, it's not fair. Potter looks so good all the time. Whereas Draco's too pale, and too scrawny, and his hair's too flat.

"Are we sure the rooftop's a good idea?" Potter asks as he sees Draco shiver.

"It's a bit," Draco pauses to search for the right word. "Brisk." A grin flashes across Potter's face and he jerks his head back in the direction of the door. Draco nods and they make their way back inside.

…

The alcohol has gone straight to Draco's head. He's feeling pleasantly tipsy, and it appears that Potter is too. He's sprawled in one of the armchairs in the sitting room and he looks relaxed for perhaps the first time since Draco had arrived. Draco had chosen to sit on the sofa, so that he could stretch his feet out in front of him — shoes off, of course.

"This is much better than staying outside," Draco says. "It was far too cold. I'm not sure what I was thinking."

"I wasn't either," Potter says. "Thinking that is."

"In my head I figured there would be warming charms," Draco admits. "Of course, forgetting that we can't do magic right now."

"Mm," Potter says. "It's such a pity about that. I've been told my warming charms are quite something." Draco just stares at him. How is he supposed to respond to that? He takes a sip of his drink and his teeth bump into ice. He's getting down to the dregs of it now and isn't sure whether they're going to have a second round, or if he should nurse this one. He sighs and puts his glass down on the side table.

"What's for dinner?" he asks instead. Potter shrugs.

"Care to burn some pasta for us?" he asks.

"I'd rather we have something more edible."

"Fair." Potter nods. "I thought I might heat up a Sainsbury's ready meal." Draco isn't quite sure what that is, so he just nods and says that sounds good. "It's not fancy," Potter continues. "But I don't want to think about cooking right now. I'd rather get drunk and not think about anything for a bit."

"I can get behind this plan." Draco picks up his gin and tonic and drains the last of it.

"You want another?" Potter asks, looking over at him.

"What else do you have?"

"Not a gin and tonic fan?" Potter raises an eyebrow.

"Not what I said," Draco says, smirking. "May I make you a drink? Pansy says I make a mean old fashioned."

"You mean you have skills that aren't just looking at expensive things and spending other people's money on them?"

"I'll have you know I have many skills, Potter," Draco snaps, even as he's amused by Potter's description of his job. "Mixology is only one of them."

"Oh?" Potter's gaze is challenging.

"I am also skilled in ballroom dancing, tailoring and bookbinding."

"Bookbinding?"

"By hand," Draco adds. "None of this wave your wand and you have a book nonsense."

"What on earth possessed you to learn that?"

"I happen to like books." Draco sticks his nose in the air. "And I wanted to learn how they were made."

"Well, if you'd like to show off your mixology skills, we'd best head back to the kitchen."

"You're telling me that you don't have a wet bar in your sitting room?"

"Can you see one in here?"

"Well, no." Draco sits up straight, suddenly all business again. "But would you want one in here? That's something we can do." He looks around for his notebook. He could have sworn he'd left it in here earlier?

"I don't know," Potter says, staring down into his glass. "Do you think it would add to the resale value?" Draco breathes in sharply and then pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks at Potter again, Potter is still lounging, but the anxious set is back in his shoulders.

"What do you want this room to be like?" Draco asks. "And by that I mean, what do you want it to be used for? Do you want people to spend a lot of time here? Is this a place where people can relax? Or is it more formal? Perhaps just for hosting guests?"

"I don't know," Potter says. "I'm not staying, so what does it matter?" Draco holds in a frustrated sigh.

"Pretend for a moment that you are." Potter frowns. "Humor me."

"I suppose I would want it to be a place where I could relax on my own, but also a place where people might congregate," Potter says after a long, seemingly thought filled, pause.

"Good," Draco says. "That's helpful. So, would a wet bar be a thing you might want to have?"

"Yes," Potter says, a bit more decisively this time.

"Then let's do it."

"Ok. But for now," Potter says, unfolding himself from the chair. "Let's go get another drink." Draco nods and as he does, he remembers where he put his notebook.

"I'll be right down," he says. "I'm just going to stop by the library for a moment to jot down what we just discussed." Really what he wants is a moment to collect himself before he goes downstairs. Because Potter's been staring at him so intently with those lovely green eyes of his and Draco's feeling rather hot under the collar. Potter nods and walks out of the room, leaving Draco to trail behind him.

…

"Right then," Draco says, striding into the kitchen. "Old fashioneds." Potter nods. He's sitting in one of the chairs at the table, playing with the lime in his gin and tonic glass.

"Where's the alcohol?"

"Small pantry."

"Merlin, Potter. I think you have more pantries than we do."

"Really?'

"I'm not one hundred percent sure," Draco admits. "The house elves don't let me in the kitchen much."

"Right," Potter says, looking up and flashing Draco a grin. "Because you start fires."

"That was one time." But Potter's laughing and the sound is going straight to the butterflies in Draco's stomach. To distract himself, Draco wanders around the kitchen trying to find the 'small' pantry. Potter finally takes pity on him and points towards the correct one. When Draco opens the door to it, he finds that it's not so much a pantry as a liquor cabinet. Perfect.

"So ideally," he says. "You would want all of this in a nice little bar upstairs." He pulls out the bourbon and some bitters. "Along with some glassware." Potter nods.

"That would be nice," he says.

"Then we'll make it happen," Draco says before turning his attention to making drinks. He rolls up his sleeves without thinking, and it's only as he's measuring out the bourbon that he realizes Potter is staring at his left forearm. Fuck. Well, it was bound to happen eventually. Draco sighs and puts down the jigger. He pulls his left sleeve up to his elbow and proffers his arm towards Potter.

"You might as well get a good look at it," he says. Potter jumps, clearly ashamed at having been caught staring. "It's okay. Look all you want."

"It's—"

"—Different? Yeah."

"I was going to say beautiful."

"Well, that was rather the point." Draco traces a hand over the flowers and swirls and hearts that are inked on the skull part of his Mark. He'd gotten the idea when he and Theo had visited Mexico and seen calaveras being sold at the outdoor markets there. The party hat on the snake had been a rather later addition, inked on after an evening out drinking with Pansy because they'd both thought it would be hilarious. Which, in fairness, it is.

Draco looks down, concentrating on measuring out the bourbon. He starts as Potter walks up beside him. He puts down the jigger and holds his breath as Potter reaches out a hand and traces along one of the curlicues at the top of the skull. His finger is surprisingly cold and Draco shivers at the touch.

"Sorry," Potter says.

"It's okay," Draco says. "Just unexpected."

"I just— it's gorgeous."

"Thanks." Draco can feel the flush work its way up his neck to his face and his ears burn with it. Potter steps away a moment and Draco gets back to mixing the drinks, trying to pretend for all the world like Potter's quiet acceptance of his Mark isn't everything.

…

"You know what we should do?" Draco asks, several drinks later. He's leaning slightly sideways on the kitchen table, despite the fact that he's sitting down. They've eaten dinner — two Sainsbury's Chicken Kievs that Potter had heated up in the oven, paired with a salad that he had put together while Draco was mixing their third round of cocktails and tossed right before they were ready to eat.

"What's that?" Potter asks. He's still upright, but there's a glassiness to his eyes.

"We should have a dance party."

"Draco, there are only two of us."

"Ooh," Draco says and he's not unconvinced that he's slurring. "You called me Draco."

"Well that's your name, isn't it?" Potter asks, but he looks distinctly red in the face as he says it.

"Yeah," Draco admits. "But normally you're more formal with me."

"Why are we so formal?" Potter asks. And really it's a good question. Draco's feeling more and more like he wants to get into Potter's trousers — these feeling more freely admitted, he's sure, thanks to the alcohol in his bloodstream — and it's hard to do that when you're mentally holding the other person at an arm's-length.

"Really, that's a good question," Draco says, nodding. "I think it's just habit."

"We could be informal," Potter —Harry?— suggests.

"I don't know if we know each other well enough to be informal," Draco says.

"Would a dance party help this?"

"Possibly. There's only one real way to find out."

"And that's by doing it?"

"Precisely." Draco stands up with conviction and only sways a little bit. "To the… wait. Where is there music in this house?"

"Sitting room?"

"That's so far," Draco complains.

"Do you need me to carry you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. But I'm taking this whisky with me."

"Can't dance while sober?"

"Something like that."

And that's how Draco Malfoy finds himself dancing with abandon to muggle music with the savior of the wizarding world.

Well it means, they're just jealous
They'll never do the things
That they wish that they could do so well