Harry hated these things. If it wasn't for Draco, he'd have sent Kingsley some lame excuse and apologised profusely, but Kingsley would have understood. Twelve years of being flouted and paraded as the golden boy, the chosen one, poster boy for the Auror department, has disenchanted this sort of evening for him. Has only further soured his relationship with public opinion. But looking across the ballroom from the open bar where he is nursing his elf wine, he could see his husband of four years thriving in his element. He threw that million-watt grin at just about everybody. Wealthy widows, foreign dignitaries, department heads, members of the Wizengamot. Even managing to laugh off the Pureblood fathers still trying to get him into a marriage contract with their daughters.
That laugh. Harry could watch Draco throw his head back like that for the entire night, but it is so much better to hear it up close. Downing the rest of his wine, he grabs two tumblers of firewhisky from a passing waiter and attempts to make his way over to his delectable husband.
Unfortunately, he's grabbed by no less than five different ministers. Asking for the latest update on a particular case they saw in the Prophet that "looked frightfully terrifying, Mr Potter. However do you do it, Mr Potter?" Pointing him towards Belgium's Senior Minister for Law Enforcement to "tell them about that new technique, Mr Potter. The one that you deployed just brilliantly on the Falstone case." Wanting to introduce him sometime to their nephew or more obscure relation who is "just such a fan Mr Potter. He's wanted to be an Auror for so long, Mr Potter. Could you possibly take him on for some insight days, Mr Potter." Never mind the dangers that would come from having an untrained, awestruck teenager waltzing around the Auror department.
But, by far the worst are the enquiries about his speech. Because there must always be that pressure. He can't just be left alone to enjoy one evening as Harry Malfoy-Potter, dancing, laughing and drinking with his husband. The expectation to always be on. Always be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Vanquished. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. Twice. And, with each question and expectation, there always follows this mad sense of guilt at the disappointment written clearly across their faces when he says that no, he won't be taking to the stage tonight.
Draco sees his husband waylaid once again, this time by that terrible woman from DIMC who always asks after his father and tells him that Lucius would be so proud to see his son hobnobbing at the Ministry, doing wonders for the Malfoy name. He had tried to tell her, "actually, ma'am, it's Malfoy-Potter now and I'm only here escorting my husband" but she'd waved him off saying, "yes, exactly my boy. Wonders for the Malfoy name."
He had noticed Harry start to make his way towards him about half an hour ago with two glasses in his hands, smirking to himself because he knew that his husband couldn't just sit and watch him laugh from a distance. Now, both glasses had been drunk by Harry and he was clearly becoming more agitated the more people kept speaking to him and touching him.
He desperately needed to reach Harry now. He was here to support his husband but that had gone downhill the moment Harry had lost sight of him amongst the crowds of adoring witches and wizards. There was no way Draco would have ever set foot or even been invited into this ballroom had it not been for Harry.
Draco hates the way people look at him still, whether it's because of his wealth, his past or his family. His old family that is, because the only family that matters to him now is the raven-haired wizard with blazing green eyes, dressed in one of Pansy's gorgeous midnight blue, form fitting designs. But not even his husband's name and position could stop the whispers Draco has heard at many of these events. The horrid rumours about their relationship, their marriage, their sex life. He hates them but will never pass them onto Harry. Never. The worst thing about them is the expectation that he's still the old Draco Malfoy. The assumption that he hasn't changed and never will. He loves his husband and always will, as evidenced by his putting up with the brown noses and gossips at the Ministry.
However, there is one place where none of that matters, where there's never any expectations on either of them. Right at this moment, all their friends are there at Pansy's, who is currently throwing a party to rival this stuffy Ministry affair. Their friends who love them through and despite everything, having escaped the Ministry's party by either wisely declining, having not accepted that life draining promotion, or having not been sucked into the Ministry in the first place.
Even for Harry, a Slytherin party is actually fun, because he doesn't have to worry about the attention and expectation being on him. For Harry, well, the Slytherins have never been awed by him. Besides Draco, of course.
At Pansy's party he will still be Potter. He is Draco's husband, never the centre of attention because that would be Pansy Parkinson. A woman who would scratch a man's eyes out if they ever challenged that.
Reaching his stressed husband, Draco wraps an arm tightly around his waist and feels Harry relax into his side, letting the tension he's been harbouring flow out of him in a long sigh.
"Come on, love," Draco whispers, placing a soft kiss on Harry's head. "Let's get out of here."