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Without discussion, they both decided Harry’s date for the DMLE holiday party would be Ginny.
Draco didn’t care. Whatever he and Harry— Potter— were, it would never involve making nice with Potter’s worshippers. To enter, he used his nearly-binned invitation, given to all Ministry employees. Draco joined the masses, wishing he were anywhere else.
Maybe not anywhere: his bed, or Potter’s, or the emergency showers in Draco’s potions lab. The list was longer, and more sordid, than Draco could delve into while trying to not hyperventilate while ordering a drink. A pack of dark looks strolled past him, and he smiled, nodded, teeth hidden.
“You made it,” said Harry, suddenly at Draco’s side, hand on Draco’s shoulder. He sounded relieved; his touch lingered too long.
The dark looks grew darker.
Draco stepped away. “Here I am.”
“Thank God. I keep having to fend off matchmaking attempts, as if I’m not already here with someone,” Harry continued. He was flushed, rosy with warmth and frustration.
“Where’s your date?” Draco sounded cold.
Harry’s brow furrowed. His hand moved from Draco’s shoulder, then lower, their fingers locking together, not quite matching up. “I thought that was obvious.”
All day, all week, Draco had walked with a thorn in his foot, from the moment Harry said, Ginny wants to go with me, while pointing at Draco’s invite. What right did Draco have to say no?
“People will—” Draco struggled for apathy. “They won’t like it.”
Harry smiled, confused, hopeful, perfect, too close to Draco. “Yeah, probably. But Ginny’s not the person I’m dating.”
Dating, Draco thought, bordering on hysterical as he reconstructed shared meals and weekends. What right? But he clung tighter at the thought of letting go.
Harry didn’t seem to notice Draco’s fingers digging in, smiling through the rest of the night.