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It was proving to be an excellent day for Draco. He’d told Pansy and Blaise that he was out of town so was free of their usual nonsense dragging him around to all the posh parties muggle and magical alike, so instead he’d slept in, waking long after the sun was up. Draco sat down to breakfast – a kipper splayed wide on a piece of dry sourdough toast and a cup of tea with milk and three sugars – with The Prophet in hand.
“Let’s see what the nonsense of the day is…” He parted the newspaper, eyes scanning for anything worth his time, but he barely had time to begin really reading when his doorbell rang.
He padded down the hall, tying his robe shut on the way. “Better not be Pansy,” he muttered, unlocking the door. “I told her I wouldn’t be back until Monday at the earliest… what are you doing here?”
It wasn’t Pansy standing on Draco’s stoop. It wasn’t Pansy at all, but a rather rough looking Harry Potter, his hair looked more wild than usual, bordering on unkempt and with circles under his eyes so dark it looked as if the man was wearing two eyeglass frames instead of one.
“Oh hello, Malfoy.” Harry produced a bottle of cheap fizz and cheaper orange juice. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
“Potter. So you just had these on you, was it?” Draco said with a gesture to the beverages and sneered. “Seems a little premeditated. Poor form, Potter. Come up with a better excuse next time.” Draco wasn’t displeased to see the man, but it was unexpected.
“So…” Harry gestured to the inside of Draco’s townhome.
“You want to join me for brunch? With that nasty stuff? Hardly worth the price of admission. And you’re no longer a student so I can’t charge you concession either.” He pressed his body into the doorframe with the snidest, sultriest expression he could muster, as if he were a nymph of trailing ivy guarding a portal to the realm of the fey. If Harry wanted to spoil Draco’s solitude, he’d have to earn it.
“Are you fucking going to let me in or fucking not?” Harry’s face crumpled like a bit of angry paper and his eyes darted behind him. The man might be good in a wand duel, but had little defense against verbal ribbing. It had always been such; they complemented each other in that way. And though Harry’s temper was all too familiar to Draco, this reaction seemed a bit much. But ah, Draco could see it now. There was real discomfort in Harry’s eyes, beyond their usual ribbing, and though the idea of making Harry beg in public had a distinct appeal, Draco always had a soft spot for those eyes which glittered gold on green and opened wide with pleading. Draco caved. “Alright, come on in. Welcome to Chez Malfoy.” He turned and sauntered back to the kitchen and heard Harry latch the door behind him.
“I was just making brunch. For one,” he called back to Harry.
“That’s fine, I’ll just make myself a cuppa. I’m not hungry.” Harry, not finding any bare wall, pressed himself against the China cabinet as if trying to merge into it — and for a man who claimed not to be hungry, he sure was looking at Draco’s breakfast with interest.
“Oh for heaven's sake, sit, Potter. You can have mine. Come here and sit like a normal person. You’re too used to that bloody cloak, aren’t you.” Draco took his hand and dragged him over to the table. A mere clap on the shoulder and Harry collapsed into the waiting chair. “The toast is too cold for me by now anyway. You can have it. I’ll make more.” Draco returned to the hob, using his wand to dance four more pieces of toast onto the griddle and preparing another cup of tea.
“Thanks,” Harry mumbled. He stared at the toast mournfully, eyes round and wet.
“Just in the neighborhood, was it?” Draco’s tea was now cold. Pity. “Was it for a funeral? You look dread–”
“Do you have any marmalade?” Harry interrupted, eyes still trained on the toast.
“Potter, you may be unaware, but did you know that you’re a wizard? Feel free to summon some. It’s in that yonder cupboard.”
“Accio marmalade!” Harry’s voice boomed and crackled, like a breaking storm. The noise that followed was even louder as a small jar came rocketing through the cupboard door, tearing it off one of its hinges before shattering into the table. Shards of glass mixed with sticky orange rind.
Harry sighed and raised his wand, as if to fix the damage.
“I got it,” Draco interjected before Harry could. Fortunately, he’d gotten pretty good at repairing things after the war. Including furniture.
“Reparo!” The cabinet and shattered glass knit themselves together. “I’m the host, after all. Isn’t it my job to clean up your messes?”
He gave Harry a look, watching him gingerly spread the marmalade on the cold toast, before picking up the paper again. It was all the usual nonsense: Ministry animagus registration fee scandal, the Falcons knocked the Arrows out for the cup, and two for one pints at the Leaky. And there on page three…
“Oh, Potter.”
Harry looked up from his half eaten toast and scowled at the paper
“A magical debut: About a Boy Who Lived: The Unauthorized Harry Potter Musical,” Draco read aloud.
“Draco, don’t.”
“The new musical is already generating buzz for a Torrence Oublier with showstopping numbers such as ‘The Wizard and I’, ‘Magic School Dropout’, and ‘I Schemed a Scheme.’”
“Please, I-”
Draco read on. “‘How Do You Solve a Problem like Hermione?’ She’s in this, too? Well that is a question I never could answer…”
The kettle on the stove started screaming, steam billowing dangerously. Draco barely had time to duck before the kettle ricochetted around the room, to sputter to a halt on the kitchen floor, dribbling hot water onto the hardwood. Harry buried his head in his hands.
“For fuck’s sake Potter, you’re actually upset about this silly thing.” On some level, Draco was impressed at the show of wandless magic. But also rather annoyed at the work restoring the hardwood would take. He tossed the paper to Harry. “You win this one. But, please, if you incinerate it, have the courtesy to do so over the sink.”
Harry took the paper and tapped a paragraph in the article and slid it back over to Draco who read, “The chemistry is electric between Saroj Nehru (Harry Potter) and Ingerith Garlick (Ginny Weasley). ‘Red Hair at Night, Savior’s Delight’ will bring tears to even the most cynical. Oh that is rather…" Draco looked at Harry with sudden understanding and something crept into Draco’s chest that a different man would recognize as sympathy. His brow furrowed.
“How are you and Ginny, anyway?”
Harry was silent for a long time. Draco waited. His tea couldn’t get any colder, after all.
“We’re not,” Harry finally said. He leaned back in his chair, combing his fringe as far down onto his face as he could before crossing his arms. “Not anymore.”
“Oh.” Draco, always down for a bit of sparring with Harry, put aside his barbed tongue. His heart inexplicably fluttered. “I didn’t know.”
“Not many do, yet. It’s new enough, but… final, I fear.” Harry threw up his hands. “This stupid play! Those bloodhounds from the Prophet wanting comment.”
“Ah. So you came here?”
“The last place on earth they would look for me.” This time Harry smirked. It brought Draco back to himself.
“Shall we return to the drawing room? I’ll bring your awful bubbly.” With one hand balancing juice, glasses and the still corked bottle, the other reached for Harry. “Come on, Potter.”
He led Harry to a settee, the sort meant more for decoration than lounging, and draped Harry over it before pouring drinks.
Draco handed a glass to Harry then sipped the concoction as if testing it for poison, but ended up smacking his lips. “It’s not as bad as I would’ve thought. Passable, even.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Harry smiled, a small bit of pleasure returning to his eyes. It ignited something within Draco, hidden, dormant. He sat down in the center of the settee, his back pressing into Harry’s soft belly. Draco could feel him breathing: light anxious puffs. He took another sip of his drink.
“Tell you what.” Draco patted Harry’s arm as if a benevolent schoolmistress, not that he’d ever had one of those for comparison. “I’ll get us a pair of tickets. We can hex some paparazzi, get dinner at Glimmerspoon’s, night on the town, have a good laugh and then I can bring you back here and make you forget you ever even saw it.”
“Draco?”
Draco drained his glass and set it down with soft resonance on the side table, leaving his fingers tracing light lazy patterns over Harry’s sleeve. “What do you say, Potter?”
A coward at heart, Draco couldn’t look at first, instead looking at the oil landscape above the mantel. But his other hand circled Harry’s knee and traced up his thigh until an animal sound escaped Harry’s lips followed by an “Oh fuck.”
“Indeed.” He turned toward Harry, pressing his forehead against the other man’s. Every breath he took was one Harry had exhaled and soon his own breathing was as rapid and shallow as Harry’s.
A staring match ensued: another competition to be won. Draco could feel his lips trembling with anticipation, microfractures in his will forming under the stress of holding back. But when he felt hot lips on his and a hungry tongue flick between his teeth, he knew that they both could claim victory.
“Maybe. For. Now.” Harry gasped between kisses. “We can skip the play. And just do this.”
“As you wish.” Draco smiled then pressed Harry into the couch.
In the end, Draco wasn’t so upset that his solo brunch was ruined. He let his robe fall open just a little and stared as Harry straightened himself out, silhouetted in the gold light of the afternoon filtering through the frosted windows.
“Don’t wait until the paparazzi are stalking you to return, Potter. And take the Floo next time.”