Draco is awoken on Sunday morning by his phone buzzing. He groans and rolls over to scoop it up from his nightstand.

U up? reads the text from Boy Wonder. Draco blinks the sleep out of his eyes and stares at it. Then he checks the time. It's definitely morning. The sunlight streaming through the small gap Draco has left in the curtains confirms it, so it's not the kind of U up? text that Draco's used to getting. He wonders if Potter knows what he's implying.

No, he types back. Txting u in my sleep. Then he snaps his phone shut and rolls onto his side, pulling the blankets up and over his head. The wine from last night has gone to his head in the form of a pounding headache and the small light from the window is not helping matters.

Do u have the same headache I did? Draco scowls at his phone. It is bright under the covers and he regrets not leaving it on his bedside table.

Go away.

A moment later, there's a knock at the door.

"Go away," Draco says aloud. He tries to yell it, but it comes out as a sort of croak. Potter does not go away and instead opens the door and walks into the room. Draco groans and pulls the covers away from one eye. Potter looks disgustingly put together. He's not even in pajamas, but rather has on jeans and that maroon jumper with the H on it that he'd loaned Draco. Draco scowls and pulls the covers back over his head, hiding Potter from sight.

Potter walks over to the bed and sits down. Draco knows this only because the bed sinks under his weight.

"Go away," Draco says again. Perhaps the third time will be the charm.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Draco hears Potter sigh and a second later, the covers are pulled back from his head and he's confronted by a concerned looking Harry.

"Drink this," he says. He holds out a flask and Draco scrunches up his face as he peers at it.

"What is it?" he asks eventually.

"Hangover cure."

"Bullshit."

"Don't believe me? Try it." Draco disentangles one of his hands from the blankets, and reaches out to take the flask.

"You'd better not be poisoning me."

"Draco," Harry says. "If I'd wanted to poison you, I would have done it days ago."

"Reassuring," he says, then tips the flask back. He's not sure what he had expected, but it's not what hits his tongue. The potion is thin and tastes like apple juice. He drains the entire flask and then hands it back to Potter. He continues to scowl at the other man, even as the headache starts to recede from behind his eyes.

"Better?" Harry asks after a minute has passed, and even though Draco doesn't respond, Harry smiles at him as though he has. Draco's not sure how he'd figured out that the potion had taken effect. He had been quite sure his glare had stayed just as baleful, but he nods all the same.

"Thank you," he says. "What brought on this fit of kindness?"

"Figured you probably felt as shit as I did," Potter says with a shrug. "And as the biohazard suits arrived, I thought you might want to get some work done on the house today." Draco sits up immediately.

"Do you mean to say we can get rid of that awful woman?" Harry's face breaks into a grin.

"That's exactly what I mean." Draco punches the air in excitement.

"But first," he says. "Coffee."

"I, uh," Potter looks down at his hands, with which he is fiddling with the empty flask. "Along with the biohazard suits, I also got you some tea." He looks up at Draco through his lashes.

"Oh, Merlin, I could kiss you," Draco's mouth says before Draco's brain tells him it would be a bad thing to say. Harry flushes and Draco fights to keep the panic out of his eyes. Did he actually just say that out loud?

"Right," Potter says. He pushes himself off of the bed and back to a standing position. "I guess I'll see you in the kitchen then?" Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak again and Potter hurries out of the room.

…

"How did you know Earl Grey was my favorite?" Draco asks, staring down at the little tin of tea in the kitchen. Draco had showered and put on proper clothes before coming downstairs. The shower had helped wash away some of his embarrassment.

"I didn't," Potter says. "I, uh, actually ordered a selection." He points in the direction of the pantry. Draco, intrigued, goes over to investigate and is shocked to find that an entire shelf has been cleared off and filled with twenty odd varieties of tea. There's English Breakfast and Darjeeling, Green and Oolong, not to mention ones with names like Marco Polo that Draco doesn't recognize. Draco's oddly touched. Potter's clearly gone out of his way to make sure he's happy. He walks back over to the table.

"I got this one out because it sounded fancy," Harry says.

"What are you trying to say?" Draco asks, a teasing note in his voice.

"That you're fancy. And you like nice things."

"True," Draco says. "I believe that's why you hired me."

"Something like that." Draco catches Potter's eye, and try as he might, he can't help the small smile that he gives the other man. Damn him.

"Thank you," Draco says once the kettle has boiled. He watches the tea steep, hovering his face over it and inhaling its warm, citrusy aroma. He feels better even just smelling it.

"Well, it was this or buy an espresso machine."

"And this was cheaper?"

"Actually no," Harry says. "But it didn't require me learning new skills."

"Mm, you were afraid I would mock you mercilessly." Draco nods.

"Yes, that."

"I'm offended you would think I would do that."

"Are you?"

"No," Draco says, grinning. "You're right. I would have been insufferable." He checks his watch, sees that the tea has steeped for long enough and takes the teabag out.

"So you would say insults are your love language then?" Potter asks. He's leaning back against the countertop, casually sipping his coffee. Draco had been about to take a sip of his tea, but he's glad he'd been more cautious as he is quite sure he would have spit it out all over the table had he had any in his mouth when Harry had spoken. As it is, he turns his head to stare at Potter. Potter's got his coffee mug covering his mouth but he flicks his eyes briefly to Draco and Draco can swear he sees the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.

"Yes, and that's why I was such a dick to you in school." Draco is immensely pleased when Potter spits his coffee all down his front. Because really, it's not that far off the truth. He'd pushed Potter away because he'd been terrified of the way his eyes would track Potter across a room, particularly after all of the things his father'd had to say about boys who liked boys.

Harry puts his coffee mug down and walks over to where the napkins are kept. He pulls one out and starts dabbing at his jumper.

"So you're saying," Harry says once he looks up again. "That those 'Potter Stinks' badges were a token of your devotion? Like a bouquet of flowers, perhaps?"

"Oh yes. My very public love letter to you." He finally manages to take a sip of his tea. It's toasty warm, the slightest bit bitter, and nicely floral.

"Good thing I kept some then." And now it's Draco turn to spit his hot, caffeinated beverage all over himself.

"Why?" Draco asks. "Why on earth would you save those?" Potter shrugs.

"I don't know, to be honest. They ended up in my school trunk and just, kind of, stayed there." Draco lifts his eyebrow and stares at Potter incredulously. "I might keep one in my desk drawer just to remind me to stay humble." Draco laughs and Harry catches his eye again. "Or I did," he amends. "When I still had a job."

"Why'd you quit?" Draco asks. Harry sighs.

"I was tired of seeing the worst of society," he says. Now that Draco has his tea, Potter pulls out one of the chairs and sits down. Draco pulls out the one opposite.

"And now here I am." Draco gives a rueful laugh.

"You're not the worst of society. I mean the drug dealers, the arsonists, the murderers—"

"—I was—"

"—You didn't kill Dumbledore." Harry says this so firmly that Draco's taken aback. He's not sure how Harry even knew that was what he was going to say.

"But I tried to." They've already gone over this and Draco doesn't want to talk about it again. Potter, though, appears to have other ideas.

"Did you? I always thought your attempts were rather—"

"—Do we have to talk about this?"

"What? Uh, no I guess not." Potter frowns down at his coffee mug. "I was just trying to say that I don't think you were nearly as bad as you seem to think you were." Draco says nothing, only scowls. "Or else, why would you have cried all the time?" Harry's smirking at him now and Draco screws up his face in irritation.

"I should never have told you about the crying," he says.

"I sort of already knew about the crying," Potter says. Draco's eyes flick up to him and Potter squirms under the look Draco gives him. "Moaning Myrtle may have mentioned it."

"She was my only real friend that year," Draco says, trying and failing to keep the whine out of his voice. "And even she ratted me out."

"She hardly ratted you out, Draco. She said someone had been crying in her toilets. I only put it together years later." Draco continues to glare but Harry just shrugs. "I probably should have cried more that year. It would have been healthier than just obsessing over you." Potter is giving him an out in the conversation and Draco's going to take it, and use it to lighten the mood.

"And I was like 'why are you so obsessed with me?'" he says. He hopes Potter gets the reference. It's one of the few muggle movies he's seen and it's oh so quotable.

"'One time Draco Malfoy punched me in the face,'" Potter says clutching his hands to his chest and staring beatifically at the ceiling. "'It was awesome.'"

"Oh, screw you, I'm not Regina."

"You quoted her first."

"'It's not my fault you're, like, in love with me, or something,'" Draco shoots back. Harry regards him cooly over the lip of his mug and smirks, and Merlin, it's not fair. Because Draco's the one who's getting obsessed (again) with Harry, not the other way around.

"It's one hundred percent your fault," Harry says. And what is Draco supposed to say to that?

…

The biohazard suits are, Draco is sorry to say, an absolute nightmare. He feels like a giant, malcoordinated penguin in his. And the mask makes it so that he feels like he can hardly breathe. But if this is what it takes to do magic, he'll do it.

Potter comes out of his bedroom in his own biohazard suit and it's all Draco can do not to laugh. But he doesn't laugh because he must look exactly the same: like a strange, ghost gnome.

"Shall we?" Potter asks, his voice muffled by his mask. Draco nods and they make their way awkwardly down the stairs.

"Where are our wands?" Draco asks once they're in the entrance hall.

"I'll go get them."

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not that—" Potter starts to say. His eyes are wide behind his goggles.

"—It's fine, I get it." Draco waves Potter away. He turns to the curtains that hide Walburga and pulls them open.

"Oh Salazar," the painting screeches. "What are you wearing? What kind of self respecting Black Heir are you? Wearing that get up?" Draco glares at her, hands on hips. The only conversation he'd had with Walburga had resulted in her trying to convince him to murder Harry and take over the house, to which he had politely and firmly declined.

"One that's going to get rid of you," Draco says. She can't see his smile behind his mask, but it's scathing.

"You can't," she sniffs, a self satisfied smirk on her face. "I made sure I would stay here forever. This house is my house and I shan't let anyone besmirch it with their filth."

"Oh," Draco says. "But I can and I will. And then Potter says he's going to burn you. How do you like the sound of that?"

"You can't," she says again. "You can't do that. I'll be here forever." But there's fear in her eyes now. Strangely, Draco doesn't feel the satisfaction he'd anticipated. He turns his head away, not wanting to look at her any more.

"Here you go," Potter says, pressing Draco's wand into his hands. "Have at it." Draco is surprised at how much better he feels having his wand in his hand, even as a shiver of fear goes down his back. Potter had said they would be safe in the suits, but what if they're not?

He takes a deep breath and raises his wand. It takes him a moment to get the control he needs, but once he does, he starts making large, precise gouges in the wall.

"Can you hold it up with a hovering charm?" Draco asks as sweat starts to drip down the side of his face. He sees Potter raise his own wand out of the corner of his eye and hears,

"Wingardium Leviosa."

As Draco continues his work, the section of wall that holds the painting starts to come loose. A few more gouges and it's out. Harry carefully levitates it forward and then lowers it to the floor. Draco nods at him and then sets about repairing the damage to the wall. He replicates the woodwork first, then repairs the electrical wiring. He's glad Potter had mentioned the wiring, or he wouldn't have thought to look for it. Then he patches up the plaster, and finally geminios the wallpaper, faded and old as it is. By the time he's done, the only indication that Walburga Black's painting had been on the wall at all are the curtains that still hang over where she was. With another flick of his wand, Draco takes those down as well.

Then he stands back to admire his handiwork while Harry vanishes the screaming painting.

…

Later, when they've both changed out of their biohazard suits, Draco turns to Harry.

"Well, alright then," Draco says. "Down on one knee with you." Potter frowns at him and Draco smirks.

"Sorry, what?" They're in the kitchen, staring into the cold pantry, trying to decide what to have for lunch.

"You said if I got her down, you'd marry me. Please get on with your proposal." Harry's face goes through several emotions — surprise, then the appearance of actively trying to remember something, followed by bemused acceptance.

"Fine," he says. He shuts the door of the cold pantry and then he kneels down in front of Draco, much to Draco's delight: he hadn't thought Potter would actually play along. "Draco — hang on I don't know your middle name."

"Lucius, after my father."

"Well, that just won't do," Harry says, still looking up at Draco from the floor. Draco motions for him to stand up, but Potter shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"You should have a better middle name."

"What do you mean, Harry James Potter, who might I add is also named after his father?"

"You never talk about him," Potter says. "You talk about your mother all the time, but—"

"—He's dead," Draco says flatly.

"Yeah, and you never talk about him. That tells me your relationship with him wasn't great."

"This is a really shit proposal," Draco says, if just to distract Potter from the fact that he's right.

"Right of course," Potter says, nodding seriously. "Draco Narcissus Malfoy, will you marry me?" He reaches up as if to take one of Draco's hands but Draco just stares at him.

"You changed my middle name to my mother's name?" he asks.

"I thought it might be more fitting."

"Potter, you're insane." The corner of Harry's mouth lifts in a smirk.

"I'm looking for a yes or a no, Malfoy," he says. He's staring up at Draco with his eyes wide and inquisitive. Draco purses his lips.

"Get up," he says.

"So that's a no then?" Potter asks.

"Yes."

"It's a yes!" Harry surges to his feet.

"No, it's not," Draco protests, batting Harry away as Harry tries to hug him.

"You're confusing," Potter says, dropping his arms.

"And you're impossible."

"Impossibly cute," Harry counters.

"You tell yourself that," Draco says while Potter has the audacity to wink at him. Merlin, but it was easier when their banter had been fighting rather than flirting.