Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An aching, old silence had worked its way into the heart of Hogsmeade in the months following The Battle of Hogwarts.

It was a welcomed escape that gave Draco the time and safety he needed after the war. After his family's trial, he needed to leave the Manor. Hogsmeade was the only place he could think of where he felt safe enough to live. Stumbling upon an apprenticeship at a Quidditch footwear boutique had been pure luck.

It had all happened quickly and terrifyingly, but Draco now found he loved the smell and atmosphere of the tiny shop. Not only could he create something good and beautiful for once, but he could do so while contributing to society and staying out of the public eye. It was peaceful and safe—mostly.

When someone showed up looking for high-quality footwear and happened to recognize him, they only treated him like shit about forty percent of the time. Which, honestly, he couldn’t even complain about because, realistically, this was the best outcome he could have ever hoped for. Living and working alone in Hogsmeade felt like a godsend if he considered how badly everything could have turned out for him.

So, he spent his days alone, building Quidditch boots in a small workroom and occasionally serving clients who wandered off the street. Customers were infrequent, and he was the only one working more often than not, which was much to his inclination. He enjoyed crafting and learning his trade far more than dealing with people. Most people felt the same way about him.

“Hermione, can you see any dragonhide?”

Draco stopped his work. He held a wicked three-inch sewing needle in one hand while the other was saturated in leather polish, rubbing tiny circles of oil onto the edges of the dragon leather.

“I think everything in this store is dragonhide, Harry.”

Draco looked up from the pair of boots he was working on, searching for a washcloth once he realized he had customers. He cautiously peeked his head around the doorway of his workroom as he scrubbed at his hands, anxiety settling over him as he recognized the startlingly familiar voices of Granger and Potter.

He really shouldn't have been so surprised; it was bound to happen eventually. Draco sighed heavily, pushing his glasses into his hair with a semi-clean wrist and untying his leather apron.

“Hello? We could use some help?”

Yes, that was Granger. He'd know that voice anywhere.

Once he managed to collect himself, Draco stepped around the corner to find the bushy-haired Gryffindor waiting at the counter. His counter. His beautiful redwood counter.

A quick series of emotions ran over her face as recognition dawned on her, eventually settling into a politely composed expression.

“Malfoy, what are you doing here? Is Madam Sterling in?” she asked civilly, though it sounded strained. She didn't look like she'd changed in the last six months. He hadn’t seen her since the battle- not even at his parents’ trials.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her question, anxiously scrubbing his fingers with the ruddy washcloth.

“My apologies; you appear to be stuck with me for your shopping needs. Lisette is not in today.”

He leaned to the side to peer behind her, knowing she wasn’t alone. Granger didn't play Quidditch, and it sounded like someone was trying to pull down his boot displays.

He saw Potter kneeling around the shelving units, trying to pick up the boots he'd knocked over.

“Try not to hurt yourself, Potter. It's only footwear.”

Potter rolled his eyes at Malfoy’s voice, not dignifying him with a response, and wandered further into the display units until he was out of Draco's line of sight.

Draco stared at where Potter had been, mildly curious at how, despite Granger’s consistency in appearance, the man barely looked like Draco remembered him. Draco probably wouldn't have recognized him if he hadn't heard Granger address him by name. Potter's underfed and lackluster image during their Hogwarts years was long gone. Draco would even dare to use the word beefy to describe him.

The last time he had seen Harry Potter was during the Death Eater trials, where he had appeared for the Malfoy family’s hearing, spoken his defense for Narcissa and Draco, and then promptly walked out. That day, he’d still been the skinny, big-eyed boy who fought during the war. Something had changed during the past year. He now looked like one of those herculean models that pose in Quidditch magazines, the ones who had never touched a Quaffle but made the gear look spectacular just from its proximity to the model.

Draco knew that Potter had taken advantage of the opportunity given to students whose education had been interrupted by the war and returned to Hogwarts for an ‘eighth year.’ However, only a select few students had chosen to return. Most had chosen to live without the final year and to try to move on with their lives, as had Draco. Their N.E.W.T.s weren’t a priority anymore after living through a war.

The results of the Death Eater trials and his family’s hearing were eight years of house arrest for his mother and five years of wandless probation for Draco. He had gotten off light compared to his father, who was sent straight to Azkaban without room for argument.

So, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter, even if he had wanted to return for his final year. Class would have been a tad difficult without a wand. Instead, thanks to his boss, he’d finished his N.E.W.T.s via owl over the summer with an affiliate from France.

Draco was probably saved from a harsher punishment due to Potter’s involvement in their trial. But for now, he’d been free to acquire any job he could get, of which the options were limited, seeing as the Wizarding community in Britain wanted nothing to do with him.

Potter had returned to Hogwarts, of course, and Granger had followed. He briefly remembered seeing the Weasel’s acceptance into Auror training in The Prophet one morning this summer. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he did find it odd that Potter hadn’t followed his best friend.

As modest as it was, Draco liked his apprenticeship. It was peaceful and not nearly as mind-numbing as he had expected. He even interacted with some of the Wizarding world’s best (and legal) creature hunters when the shop ordered specialized materials for their products. The store’s owner, Lisette Sterling, was an immigrant from the continent. She came over from France after the war and set up shop in Hogsmeade because she had realized there was a severe lack of high-quality Quidditch footwear. Most people had just gone to Quality Quidditch Supplies, but after seeing some of Madam Sterling’s work, word of mouth quickly spread. She was even commissioned to do pieces for some of the team members of professional Quidditch teams.

Because she wasn’t around for the war and knew nothing about the intimate politics of how everything had occurred, Madam Sterling hired him on the spot as an apprentice. Now that he thought about it, it was probably because Malfoy had conducted his interview in nearly flawless French. Nevertheless, she hadn’t indicated any interest or care in what his family was forced into the previous year, and Draco was not about to question her judgment. She had a shop to run, and he was grateful for the job.

“We are looking for pleated, sheepskin-lined, calf-high Quidditch boots. Preferably made of dragonhide. Please.” Granger quoted in an offensively civil tone as though she expected Draco to act difficult.

Draco just gave her a withering look, walking past her around the counter. He stopped in the area Potter had previously occupied at the front of the store, scanning over the boot display on the wall before him. He picked a display boot from the wall, holding it out to Granger. He doubted the boot was for her, but she seemed to know what they were looking for.

“These are the ones listed on the equipment sheet you were given,” he drawled, not particularly enthusiastic.

Granger looked at it critically, frowning as she plucked it from his hand.

Everyone bought that specific style because it was the example boot on the list Hogwarts gave out. It was their top-selling boot, but far from the best. Draco would even dare say it was a poor choice. There were higher quality boots behind him on the wall, and somewhere deep inside, he hoped Granger would notice how rubbish the one in her hand was.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked up to stare at the wall behind him, searching for something else.

“Are there any others that aren’t as…”

“Complete shite? Yes, if you would follow me.”

Pleased with Granger’s request, Draco moved to a section further down the wall and plucked off two different boots for her.

“The British and Irish Quidditch League specifically designed that boot in your hand for mass release to the public. We are required to carry and supply those boots by BIQL regulation, so they’re not made in this shop like the rest of our inventory.” He walked over to one of the seating benches, setting one boot down on it while untying the laces of the other. “Unfortunately, they were designed by the Cannons’ coach, so the quality is utter rubbish.”

“Hey!” Potter cried, emerging from his hiding spot among the racks. He looked as though he were ready to pick a fight, but his attention quickly shifted to the boot Malfoy was holding. Potter moved closer to get a look at the shoe, quickly forgetting about the slander about his favorite team.

Draco rolled his eyes, unconcerned with Potter's attitude, and handed the boot to Granger.

“It’s an accurate statement by quality standards. Those boots on the list are shite. If you give a damn about Quidditch, I’d choose these instead,” he carried on, observing Granger as she looked over the new pair he’d handed her. She seemed impressed with these rather than weary like the first pair.

“Harry, maybe they aren’t doing so well in the Cup because of their equipment?” she lightly suggested, pulling the tongue of the boot back to peer inside. Potter frowned at the offense.

“Not now, Hermione. What’re those made of, Malfoy?” Potter asked Draco, who was leaning back on his heels.

“Those are made from a Hebridean Black, with solid oak heels and thestral hair laces. Inside is pleated ram’s wool and charmed to stay dry for when it downpours. Engraved into the sole is your choice of protection runes,” he listed off, waving a hand noncommittally. “I own a pair myself.”

While Potter didn’t seem overly pleased to learn that Draco owned a pair, he understood what it meant. Draco was also a seeker, and he was probably the best person to give an honest opinion on Quidditch boots.

“And the leather is hunted from dragons?” Potter added warily.

They received a lot of questions about that. People always wanted dragonhide boots but never wanted to acknowledge where the leather came from.

“They’re ethically harvested. All our hawkers possess permits for each locale they hunt in. Our shop is also registered with the proper permits for Possession for Crafting and Crafting with Endangered Creature products. We do it by the book, not on the black market. The documents are on the wall near the front if you want to cause a fuss over magical creature rights. The only dragons we tag are the ones who cause detrimental habitat destruction or participate in casual murder,” Draco drawled back, as he was too familiar with this question.

Granger looked to Potter for feedback and was far more pleased with Draco's suggested pair than the one on their equipment list.

Draco turned and put the cheaper boot back on the wall, silently stepping back while the Gryffindors spoke in hushed tones. It was best to give clients space when considering expensive purchases. Lisette had ground that into him his first week on the job.

He wandered back to the counter, grabbing his washcloth and scrubbing at his fingernails while they came to a decision.

Draco was hyper-aware of his polite behavior with Granger and Potter. He had no intention of picking a fight in this shop. Lisette trusted him enough to care for her shop when she was away; her reputation was at stake.

After surviving the war, he concluded that some things were not worth the energy. He had far more important shite to deal with, like making rent and being able to eat. The Manor's funds had been taken away, and his mother barely had enough of a nest egg to live off of, meaning Draco was officially on his own as an adult with a criminal record and no wand.

Draco listened to their bickering, noting how Potter was causing a fuss over the equipment list. But now that he was a safe distance away, Draco allowed himself to get a real eyeful of Potter.

It was simply astonishing how much Potter filled out over the summer. Who knew that staying holed up in a house for months on end could make someone that fit? The Prophet had gone mad, screaming that Potter had become a recluse because he never ventured into public after the war. Perhaps it was because he was busy turning himself into a fucking Adonis.

Draco hadn’t been surprised about hermit behavior, though. If he had had the choice, Draco would have done the same. But somehow, Potter didn’t look as thin and lanky as Draco. It was entirely disheartening.

The Chosen One now had thick, sturdy arms and an impressive shoulder-to-hip ratio that made Draco salivate. Unfortunately, most of his frame was hidden by his too-tight-yet-too-bulky school robes. Draco could tell the Gryffindor was corded with muscle, but it wasn’t fair.

His physique wasn’t the only thing that had changed, either. Potter’s hair had been tamed and cut smartly to frame his face, so now it was an artfully tousled mess that suited him perfectly. His new glasses had thick, black frames in contrast to the ugly, circular wire pair he used to wear in school. All of it was too modern and put together for Draco. Potter was too attractive to deal with.

The Weaslette was probably behind it if Draco were to guess. Why not give your boyfriend a makeover after coming back from a war? There was a sick kind of humor there.

Draco smiled wryly to himself, staring down at his leather polish-stained nails in comparison to Potter’s pristine image. He probably needed a makeover himself, but he wouldn’t be able to afford it anytime soon. Draco had no time or energy, even if he somehow managed to find the money for it somewhere.

The last time he tried to fix his appearance, he’d scarred his dark mark even deeper into his arm than it already was.

Draco didn’t know why he even bothered to scrub the leather polish off his hands; it had been months since he had been truly clean of it. But he still picked at his fingernails, pondering Potter in the boots they had chosen and knowing they would only add to his new god-like image.

“Can’t say I’d ever imagined seeing Draco Malfoy getting his hands dirty.”

Draco drew his gaze upwards to see Potter staring down at his hands in polite curiosity.

“Comes with the territory.” Draco stood up from slumping against the counter, folding his arms and looking Potter in the eye. “Well? What’ll you have?”

The idiot stared right back, and after an awkward few moments of silence, it became oddly intense. The awkward yet keen way Potter stared at him after the question was sort of concerning. Draco arched an eyebrow at their bizarre interaction.

“Are you going to buy the boots or just stare at me?” Draco asked, trying to pull a response from him.

Potter just seemed disappointed in his questioning, apparently expecting more from their interaction.

“It’s bloody weird talking to you with no insults being thrown about.”

Draco rolled his eyes, shoving his washrag into his back pocket.

“Sorry, Potter, I’m trying to run a business here. If you aren’t going to buy anything from me, you can get the hell out of my shop and stop wasting my fucking time. I have other shit to do,” he growled, his civil composure cracking.

The animosity appeared to have a calming effect on Potter instead, who began to grin at Draco’s hostility. He cockily leaned over the counter, closer to Draco, and shed his awkwardness.

“Yeah, these boots you showed us.” He dropped the boot in front of him and smirked charmingly up at Draco, shamelessly giving him a once-over from his side of the counter. “Cheers.”

Draco stared blankly in response, not expecting Potter's reaction to his hostility. It was bizarre, and Potter’s confidence was rudely attractive. Not only had he never seen Potter so self-assured and flirty before, but he’d never thought the git would act that way towards Draco. It stirred up something heated deep inside him. How dare Potter.

Malfoy cautiously reached for the boot while watching Potter, pointedly not showing any reaction to the boldness. His hormones were getting the better of him.

“Granger, could you sort Potter? There seems to be something wrong with his mouth.”

He stepped away from the counter to collect his tools from the back room, looking for a reprieve from Potter’s oddly intense gaze.

“It’s called smiling, Malfoy. You could try it occasionally,” Potter called from the front of the shop, Draco frowning as he searched for his measuring tools.

He didn’t like this hunky and self-assured Potter. Or maybe he did, just a bit too much to his liking.

Draco knew how to maneuver difficult social situations with a calm and civil façade; he’d done it hundreds of times in the past year. This was far more burdensome. He couldn’t remember the last time he had tried flirting with anyone, let alone someone interested in him. Not that Potter was interested in him. He would just have to deal with the trauma of being attracted to Potter another time.

“I know what smiling is, Potter. I only grace those who grant me basic decency, like Granger, with it.”

There was a moment of silence, but then he heard Granger try to muffle a giggle.

Draco smiled thinly. But he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t miss the banter. It was far more familiar territory than the odd civility and politeness overshadowing this escapade, even if it was just a cushier version of their former bickering.

He returned to the counter and slid his glasses back down onto his nose, bearing a metal scale in one hand and measuring tapes around his neck.

“If you could, please follow me. I need to take some measurements for the boots,” Draco stated diplomatically. Both Potter and Granger gave him a confused look.

“Why don’t you just use magic? Might be quicker,” Granger asked curiously.

Draco’s expression shuttered briefly. “They took my wand, Granger.”

Embarrassed at the mishap, she bit her lip and nudged Harry to follow him.

“Sorry, Malfoy. I forgot,” she whispered. Draco chose not to respond and turned towards his workroom instead.

Granger chose to stay behind, figuring they wouldn’t need her for this part of the transaction. Potter, meanwhile, moved around the counter and followed Draco into the back room.

Some witches and wizards were oddly uptight about exposing their bare feet to strangers, and that was the only reason they had to do boot measurements in the back room. It had never made any sense to Draco, but he followed Lisette’s example. He’d heard enough horror stories about cranky old witches to know not to question it.

Potter dropped onto the blue velvet chair by the door reserved for clients, curiously staring around the room in awe.

The shop’s workroom was overrun with hanging bolts of fabric, boxes of expensive dragon leather, spools of twine, carving and sewing tools, and more drawers than anyone could count. Miscellaneous items took up any free space in the room, making it very cramped. But the room was drenched in the smell of leather polish and woodworking, and Draco loved it. It was his solace from the stares and hatred he got whenever he had to leave it. He felt out of place having Potter in his sanctuary.

Draco pulled a request form from a drawer under the bench and grabbed a small, brown drafting quill. He knelt on the floor before Potter, scribbling in some details on the parchment before organizing his tools beside him.

“If you could remove your shoes, please.”

“Er, are you sure? It might not be the most... hygienic,” Potter muttered, apparently uncomfortable with exposing his feet to Malfoy.

Draco rolled his eyes again, grabbing the grubby laces of Potter’s trainers and not bothering to wait.

“I’ve dealt with far worse, Potter; they can’t possibly be as bad as some of the monstrosities I’ve seen.”

Draco shoved the old, ratty trainers to the side once they came off. He left Potter’s socks untouched, and annoyingly, he barely noticed any offending smell. After living in a boys’ dormitory, surviving a mansion full of decay and death, and working with footwear for a living, Draco learned very quickly to prepare for the worst. That wouldn’t be necessary with Potter.

He looked up after moving his parchment and quill, eyes rapidly flitting over the obscene tightness of Potter’s trousers. The Gryffindor sat with his legs spread wide, probably due to poor posture, but it was inadvertently causing his trousers to strain tightly against the new musculature of his thighs. It was just vulgar how tight they were. Unfortunately, his uniform shirt was a tad too long and barred Draco from seeing what could be lying beneath. Draco had a feeling Potter forgot to purchase new robes before school began.

He reached for the sizing scale but paused when Draco noticed his position before his former nemesis.

“Finally got me on my knees, eh Potter?” Draco smirked up at him, aware that he was getting scandalously close to flirting, as he took hold of Potter’s ankle and placed his foot on the scale.

Potter flushed a deep red and pushed himself far back into the chair before closing his legs, causing his trousers to strain against the sudden movement. Potter waved at the tools in Draco’s hands.

“Could you please carry on?” he coughed, awkward when faced with Draco’s brashness. Odd how the tables had turned.

Draco gave a dry smile, reaching for Potter's left foot.

“You should count yourself lucky. I’m usually rather picky with who I service,” he prattled cheekily, the sight of a flustered Potter only encouraging him.

But the Gryffindor looked astounded, incapable of handling Draco teasing him so forwardly.

“Is this how you make all your sales pitches?” he squeaked.

Draco grinned as he moved the scale to Potter’s other foot, easily carrying on with his work.

“Might as well, I work on commission.”

He could hear Granger attempting to stop herself from laughing through the cracked doorway.

Draco noted the measurements on his parchment as Potter remained speechless above him. He had found a minuscule difference in Potter’s feet. It wasn’t uncommon for people to require different-sized footwear.

“So, how did you come to work in a shoe store?” Potter asked quietly, awkwardly attempting to change the subject. He was wringing his hands and avoiding Draco’s eyes.

Draco scribbled yet more information on his order form, vaguely disappointed. He’d been enjoying his mock flirting attempts.

“Quidditch supplies, Potter. Not a glorified shoe store.”

“Right. Sorry. How’d you come about that, then?”

Draco shrugged, placing the shoe scale away in a bin and pulling the tape measure from his neck.

“No one else would hire me, and Lisette liked that I could speak French,” he muttered honestly, lifting Potter's pant leg a tad and wrapping the tape around his ankle. The man’s leg twitched at the unfamiliar touch, making Draco smile slightly.

“Oh. That’s unfortunate,” Potter mumbled, trying to be sympathetic. He wasn’t succeeding, but Draco appreciated the attempt.

“Could be worse.” Draco looked up at him, shrugging in somber camaraderie. “If you hadn’t shown up at my hearing, I’d be in Azkaban with my father.”

Potter stared at him in stunned silence, knowing it was the truth. Draco looked down at Potter’s feet in humiliation, fingers twisting around the drafting quill.

“Thank you for that.”

“Course, Malfoy. It’s alright,” Potter muttered back kindly, no longer embarrassed. It was an olive branch if Draco had ever heard one.

He leaned in to focus on his work, the remnants of shame clinging to his crouched form.

Potter watched Malfoy carry on with his work. A heavy silence settled over them, with only Draco’s quill scratching on parchment filling the air.

When Draco had finished his measurements, he sat back on his feet and double-checked his sheet for any miscalculations.

“Right, do you care for any of these numbers?” He waved the paper before Potter, who shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Not really.”

“Figured as much.” Draco stood.

He smirked when he saw the offended look on Potter’s face, moving back to the workbench and scribbling his signature on the parchment before starting on the rest of the forms.

“Granger,” he called over his shoulder absently, removing his silver-framed glasses and placing them on the workbench as he turned to see her come around the corner. Draco handed her the client’s copy of the paperwork, folding his arms and leaning on the workbench while she looked over them.

“These are for Potter’s record keeping; the deposit must be paid upfront, but the rest can be settled once the boots are completed. There will be a fitting for satisfaction, and then they are yours for the taking.” He glanced to Potter, who was trying to peer up at the papers in Granger’s hands from the velvet chair.

She scanned over them critically before nodding and handing them to Potter.

“That’s acceptable. And they’ll be like the ones out front?” She asked, and Draco tilted his head from side to side before responding.

“Somewhat, all leather is unique. And there are Potter’s monstrous feet to take into consideration.”

“You said they weren’t that bad,” Potter complained in betrayal, staring up at Draco with big eyes. Due to Potter’s musculature, it was almost comical to appear betrayed while being so robust.

Draco rolled his eyes. “If you wore trainers worth more than three Sickles, I would change my mind. Quality reflects investment. You'll understand once you wear my boots,” Draco lectured, and Granger cringed in sympathy.

“He’s right, Harry. They are quite atrocious.” She gestured to the offending trainers before continuing, “I don’t know why you haven’t gotten new ones after all that shopping you did.”

Potter huffed defensively as he pulled his trainers back on, waving his hands at himself.

“Compared to everything else, my shoes still fit. I didn’t see why I had to get new ones.”

Draco played with his measuring tape silently, noting Potter’s phrasing. He had had to get a new look because nothing fit him anymore. It was not surprising; he looked like a brick house.

“And why does nothing fit any longer?” he asked in vague curiosity, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to pry details without appearing interested.

Granger gave him a dry look while Potter glared at him from the chair. His hands flexed on his knees, his robes straining against his shoulders as he leaned forward to stand.

“Boots will be ready... er, when, do you think?” Potter stood in finality, deeming Draco's question not worthy of a response. Draco dropped his tape measure back onto the table, mildly disappointed.

“Two weeks, approximately. I’ll send an owl when they’re ready to be fitted.” Draco motioned for them to clear out, shooing them from his workroom.

As they moved to the front of the shop, Draco followed behind Potter through the small doorway. He had to close his eyes for a moment when he caught the scent of pine and sandalwood, not expecting the Gryffindor to grasp the intricacies of cologne.

He hurried behind the counter once there was an opening, getting away from Potter and his smells as quickly as possible. He ducked down to grab a quill and the remainder of the order forms from under the counter, passing them to Potter to fill out. Draco folded his arms and watched the Gryffindor, whose eyes were flickering over the broadness of his shoulders.

“Is there any way they might be done sooner than two weeks?” Granger asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend Malfoy if at all possible. Draco scoffed at the unrealistic time frame.

“No. Next time, maybe don’t do your shopping for supplies so close to open season,” he answered, taking one of the sheets from Potter and passing it over.

She pursed her lips, looking back to Potter.

“We tried. The crowds made it too difficult. It’s hard to just run to the shops these days.” She had a frustrated look on, one Draco was intimately familiar with.

He nodded back sympathetically, running a hand through his hair as he thought of the truth behind it. If Draco wanted to go to Diagon Alley, he had to wear a glamour, and since he had no wand, that meant he never went to Diagon Alley. He was confined to Muggle London if he needed anything he could not acquire in Hogsmeade.

Potter stood and handed the last of the papers over, reaching for the bag of Galleons that Granger was carrying for him. Draco processed the payment quickly but was having difficulty focusing. Potter was uncomfortably distracting.

Draco closed the safe under the counter with a heavy clank, wiping his hands on his jeans before giving the two an appraising look.

“We’ll owl as soon as they are complete. We here at Sterling Brogan thank you for your patronage and look forward to seeing you again,” he chanted in a monotonous, sarcastic tone.

Granger and Potter stared back at the change of tone and gave awkward smiles before leaving the shop.
Draco watched them go, breathing freely for the first time in who knew how long and suddenly felt quite small behind his wooden counter. He was in the process of tying his apron back on when Potter called from the door.

“Are you going to be the one to make them?” He held the door open; his robes pulled taught across his outstretched arm.

Draco nodded, shoving his hands into the apron’s front pockets anxiously.

“Only the best for the Chosen One.”

It was intended to be sarcastic, but Potter only smirked in response before walking out of the shop.
Draco peered at the door, unsure what to make of it all. Potter was awkward but somehow still confident. He wanted Draco to be rude and approved of his acidic tone. He also had gotten atrociously attractive over the summer while Draco was cemented in a tiny boot shop in Hogsmeade. Draco didn’t know what to make of the unfairness of it all.

Chapter Text

When they were walking back from Hogsmeade, Harry and Hermione’s arms were laden with shopping bags.

After a year of running from a madman, Harry had lost all his Quidditch equipment and some significant parts of his school uniform. It wasn’t surprising. And he’d been looking forward to getting new gear anyway, especially since none of his clothes fit him anymore.

After the funerals and the Death Eater trials were finished, he’d drifted through Grimmauld place like a ghost. Since then, Harry had felt a deep emptiness and misery he never knew existed. His life had revolved around fear and running and coping for so long.

But even after all the horrors had ended, it wasn’t relief that had taken their place. It was guilt.

Hermione and Ron had left for Australia to seek out her parents.

Ginny hadn’t bothered seeing him again since she had tried to find comfort in him after Fred’s funeral. It hadn’t gone spectacularly well:

Harry had shied away from her touch and hadn’t known what to do when she had started sobbing next to him on the couch. They figured out quickly that neither of them would be ready to try to continue their relationship.

The Weasleys had receded into mourning, the broken circle of their family pulling tight around each other in grief. Molly had attempted to include him, but unfortunately, he’d slipped through the cracks.

The result was a hideous, dark spell of loneliness and despair.

After three weeks, Hermione and Ron returned to the UK. Once they saw his shame, they’d swiftly put a stop to it. Hermione was the most significant driving force behind the change.

She had given an intense lecture about how years of misery and fear had already taken over their lives and how now it was finally time to move on from it. She'd had a point.

Hermione called muggle contractors (and even a decorator) to fix the house. After some quick disillusioning and hiding charms, the house was temporarily muggled enough to be suitable for the work to be done on it. Harry had just watched from the sidelines once they began, giving his input each time Hermione and the decorator asked for it.

The ending result was quite brilliant, though.

All the paintings had been moved into the far depths of the house or, if they were polite enough to Harry, had their frames repainted to fit in with the new décor. Select pieces of furniture were reupholstered, and the rest were given away to charity. His creaky floral couch was replaced with a plush leather beast he’d immediately fallen in love with. Hermione and the decorator had described the new look as rustic modern chic. There were a lot of driftwood and copper accents. Harry couldn’t care less what it was called, so long as it ended his compulsion to haunt the house like one of the Hogwarts ghosts would.

It was also nice that his kitchen wasn’t terrifying to enter anymore. Even Kreacher was pleased with the upgrade to his hovel in the kitchen cupboard.

Despite all that, the best thing to come from Hermione up-hauling his life was probably the flyer to the muggle gym down the road she’d thrown at him after sorting through his endless pile of mail. Harry wasn’t sure what to do with it, but after one morning of very little sleep and even less to do, he had dropped by the place and discovered that she might just have been onto something.

Not only was everyone in the building fifteen times more attractive than himself, but they all minded their own business, and no one recognized him.

The first time he went, a tall, blond man named Stevie, whose ridiculous shoulders nicely complemented his employee uniform, came up and introduced himself. That was how he had met his personal trainer. Nearly every day until school started again, Harry went back. It gave him purpose, it gave him a new friend, and most importantly, it made him so exhausted by the end of the day that he slept straight through the night.

However, one perk he hadn’t anticipated about the gym was seeing his body change. After being scrawny and somewhat physically pathetic all his life, Harry rather enjoyed getting stronger. It was like a symbolic “Fuck you!” to Dudley and Voldemort. He felt like he was finally taking his body back after having to share it with a psychopath for so long. It was the best kind of therapy he could have asked for.

However, the downside to this is that none of his clothes fit him anymore.

One morning getting dressed, he had embarrassingly noticed that his jeans no longer fit over his ass. It’d never occurred to him that such a simple squats routine could do so much.

He’d had to go into muggle London that day, where he found a lovely, older lady at a fancy clothing store who helped him sort out his wardrobe. Hermione had cheered at his new apparel, saying it was about time he’d done something nice for himself.

He had known he needed to get new robes and Quidditch gear before school started since nothing fit him anymore, but the crowds were suffocating, and when someone recognized him, it was a total nightmare. He and Hermione had guessed they could pop down to Hogsmeade and grab new robes after the first week back, but it had been challenging.

Being fitted for new Quidditch equipment had gotten him far too many comments from the witch taking his measurements. He was forced to smile awkwardly as a woman probably fifteen years his senior had fawned and touched him all over. It wasn’t directly inappropriate- anyone would have said she was just being polite. But Harry didn’t appreciate anything about the experience, and he still felt uncomfortable, even now, when he thought back on it.

But of course, nothing was ever easy for him, and so if it wasn’t his name and scar they were after, his new appearance gave people an excuse to approach him.

Once he was back with his fellow students, all he’d wanted was to be left alone. Even in Gryffindor, it was becoming a bit of an issue with some of the younger girls.

So, stumbling upon Malfoy in a shop in Hogsmeade had caught him off guard, but not necessarily in a bad way. Buying new shoes was good, but not being treated like a war hero or a piece of meat by the man measuring him was even better. Even if that man also happened to be Malfoy.

Hermione took it in stride, as usual, getting straight to the point with the equipment list while Harry wandered around the store, confused and mildly annoyed.

Who knew there were so many types of Quidditch boots?

Witnessing Malfoy being civil and oddly charming while discussing Quidditch boots was atrociously invigorating.

He was definitely still Malfoy, especially after Harry's goading him at the counter. And he almost found Malfoy’s reluctant derision refreshing. But it was clear that Malfoy was far calmer than he used to be. He'd adopted an appealing air of not giving a fuck, and it was savagely attractive.

And that comment about Malfoy getting on his knees for Harry. That was... quite something.

Hermione was determined not to make an issue of the experience, though, talking avidly about the new runes Professor while they walked back up the path to Hogwarts. He nodded to the conversation appropriately, distracted by thoughts of Malfoy’s hands and how ruddy and stained they’d gotten. Workman’s hands.

He’d never seen Malfoy with a hair out of place in the eight years leading up to the war. Now he had glasses that he used as a headband, wore dragonhide boots that Harry would bet he’d made himself, and had hands and arms covered in polish stains from months of work. The git probably didn’t even realize how good he looked, all scuffed up and disheveled.

But most importantly, Malfoy now wore muggle V-necks.

Harry hadn’t thought seeing Malfoy in a white V-neck with that stupid Dark Mark on display would be a sight he enjoyed enough for it to consume him, but nevertheless, here he was.

“Harry, are you even listening? You just said yes to following me up the girls’ dormitory.”

He frowned, trying to remember what she had been talking about, and shook his head.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. No. Did you notice how Malfoy didn’t hide his Dark Mark?” He waved over his shoulder down the hill, Hermione nodding at his train of thought.

“Yes, it’s shocking to see it out so brazenly. It looked a bit damaged, though. Do you think he tried to get rid of it?”

Harry frowned even deeper, trying to remember what it had looked like.

“I don’t know, didn’t get a good look.”

“He was less than a foot away, Harry. You didn’t think to get a better look?”

“I was focused on other things, alright,” he blurted, trying to avoid how he’d been staring down Malfoy’s shirt through the entire measuring process.

Harry had thought he’d gotten over the shock of being around attractive people after spending all summer at his gym—especially the men. Merlin, who knew people could even look like that? But after this recent interaction with Malfoy, it was apparent that he was not, and would never be, over beautiful people.

Hermione only smiled, hefting the bags up in her hands.

“He’s far more polite than I remember. Wonder what changed it all.”

Harry looked ahead to the castle doors, thinking about the Malfoy family’s trial. Draco hadn’t looked nearly as comfortable or at peace as he had in the boot shop. He’d looked small and terrified, sitting next to his parents while they waited for the verdict.

It was a stark transformation after half a year. But the same could be said about Harry.

He shrugged, pushing open the doors with his shoulder. “We’ve all changed.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, nodding in agreement. “Certainly true. Ron says Blaise Zabini is in Auror training with him.” Harry made a sound of interest- he had not been expecting that. He hadn’t thought about any of the Slytherins being a part of society after the war. It had just slipped his mind. “Apparently, Zabini is just as into the Cannons as Ron, so they’ve struck up a truce,” Hermione added.

Harry grinned.

“Looks like Quidditch is solving all our Slytherin problems, who’d’ve guessed.”

She nodded to the Great Hall, where lunch was ending. “Dumbledore probably would have.”

Harry smiled at the mention of the deceased Wizard, knowing it would have been true. The old codger had some of the most wistful concepts of inter-house unity.

“Well, if it gives Ron a new friend to go through training with, then I’m fine with it. I can’t take much more of his nagging to join him,” Harry complained, pausing in their trek to Gryffindor tower to shift some bags to his other hand.

Ron had been avid about them joining the force together after they had received a free pass on their N.E.W.T.s from Kingsley. It had been an honor, but Harry hadn’t felt inclined to skip training so he could go straight into chasing more bad guys. He was tired and wanted a break. He and Hermione had talked Ron down into going through with Auror training rather than skipping it, but in the end, Harry chose to re-do his last year at Hogwarts.

Harry still didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life, so finishing his N.E.W.T.s seemed like a good place to start.

Ron hadn’t let it go, though, and Harry was getting annoyed. Thinking about his N.E.W.T.s made him think about Malfoy again—Malfoy, who was perfectly content working in a boot shop in Hogsmeade. If Malfoy had wanted to do anything else in the future, he would need to complete his N.E.W.T.s; surely the Slytherin knew that? Why he hadn’t chosen to return to Hogwarts was a mystery. Maybe he wasn’t allowed anymore? Harry didn’t even know Malfoy’s final verdict; he’d fled the Wizengamot before any sentencing had even begun.

For instance, Harry truly hadn't known they'd taken Malfoy's wand.

Harry looked up as Hermione started climbing through the portrait to the Gryffindor common room, opting not to think about it all too hard. He had other things to do that were far more important than daydreaming about Malfoy.

---

Unfortunately, daydreaming about Malfoy took up much more of his time than anticipated.

Harry spaced out in classes far more than Hermione would have approved, and all of his distractions featured Malfoy:

Malfoy wearing muggle jeans.

Malfoy leaning casually against the wooden counter in his shop.

Malfoy wearing glasses.

Malfoy talking knowledgeably about quidditch boots.

Malfoy with ruddy, stained hands.

Malfoy wearing that obscene white V-neck.

Malfoy with his goddamn Dark Mark.

His favorite fantasy to daydream about was how Malfoy had knelt before him and noticed how suggestive the position was. Except in his daydream, he didn’t blush like an idiot and tell Malfoy to stop like he had in real life. Instead, Harry let the prat continue, and happy endings were had for both parties involved.

However, a slew of confusing, surprising, and concerning emotions went along with that one, and Harry was still working on processing them.

His schoolwork was beginning to suffer.

Chapter Text

Draco had put all thoughts of Potter away for the remainder of his day.

He'd finished sewing his leather samples, completed two new orders, and wiped down all the displays. Draco had successfully put it all out of his mind until he processed the shop's deposit.

Potter’s order sat on the counter, taunting him. He couldn't avoid it any longer.

Draco’s looping cursive starkly contrasted the Gryffindor’s chicken scratch on the parchment. He eyed the order suspiciously before writing a sticky note with the required materials. He knew they were running low on thestral hair, and he would have to owl Hagrid. Draco didn’t particularly enjoy walking up to the castle grounds for supplies, but at least it wasn’t snowing yet. He should have enough to finish Potter’s boots before that would be necessary, though.

He walked into the back and stuck the paper to his noticeboard over the workbench, right in the middle where he wouldn’t forget it.

He propped his hands on his hips as he glared at the order, unwavering annoyance fueling through him.

If he was going to make boots for Harry Fucking Potter, then they were going to be some of his best damn work.

And then Lisette would look over them to make sure he hadn’t fucked up because he’d still only been doing this for six months. After that, he could move on with his life and forget how fucking hulking and attractive Potter had become.

He ran his hands over his face in exhaustion, peering through his fingers at the velvet chair. He’d never be able to look at it the same again, not after admitting aloud how he’d been on his knees for Potter.

Merlin, that was humiliating.

He refused to acknowledge the parts of Potter that had tolerated Draco’s presence. Instead, he focused on the parts of Potter that hadn’t properly fit into his uniform. The fucker’s uniform shirt was just long enough to hide any impression of his cock. Draco would have bet money that the trousers had been tight enough that he would have been able to see an outline, too. That shirt was probably the biggest disappointment all day.

Draco untied his leather apron and hung it on the hook beside the workroom’s door. He shut off the lights, thinking about what he would have for supper. Draco checked the locks on the shop’s safe and jotted a quick note to Lisette for when she opened in the morning. He grabbed his coat from the hook in the back, a thick, olive-green jacket he had stumbled upon one day in a muggle shop called ‘Military Surplus.’ On his way out, he locked the front door behind him, only to hear someone calling his name from across the street.

“Mr. Malfoy, sell any dragons today?” called Old Gerald McDervish, a local at the tavern who had taken a liking to him back in July. He was determined to reside permanently on the bench across the Sterling Brogan.

Draco smiled faintly in mild amusement, waving to him and moving across the street.

“No dragons, just their hide,” he said quietly in jest while the smoke-raddled galoot puffed away on his ivory pipe.

The man shook his head, blowing smoke downwind, away from Draco. “Disappoint me every day; I haven’t seen a single dragon since you moved in, even though it's on yer sign.” He shakily waved his pipe at the Sterling Brogan’s sign, which read ‘Quality Dragonhide Footwear’ beneath the shop’s name.

Draco looked up at the sign in pride, shrugging like he did every time Gerald mentioned it.

“I’ll send one of our hawkers over next time they’re in, yeah?” he offered, knowing full well the old man wouldn’t take it.

He scoffed at Draco, waving a hand. “An bring a dragon down Hogsmeade? Are ye mad? They’d make a mess of High Street.”

Draco stepped back to make his way off.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer,” he drawled, taking another step back. “I've got to get in for supper, but I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” He waved, but Gerald ignored him and muttered about dragons as Draco walked away.

Gerald was one of the more pleasant folk in Hogsmeade. He barely knew anything that happened during the war because he’d been too busy in the pub to notice what was going on outside. But he always said hello to Draco when he passed by, which was dearly appreciated. Gerald wasn’t a friend per se, but having a friendly face to interact with every once in a while was worth the biting looks and isolation he received the rest of the time.

He turned down the next alleyway, away from the main stretch of Hogsmeade, and into a smaller residential area.

Draco only lived a short walk from the shop in a small studio flat that his mother would've shuddered at the sight of.

She would if she was ever permitted to leave the manor grounds long enough to see it.

Draco liked it, though, with his dark blue door he’d painted all by himself and his furniture pilfered from the Manor and muggle flea markets. Slowly, Draco had accumulated bits and pieces of décor here and there to make up his home. Things like a beautiful evergreen quilt from the vintage shop down the road or even the set of drawings he’d bought in Camden Market on his first covert excursion in muggle London.

He could floo or side-along for long-distance travel, but that was about the extent of his magical capabilities without a wand. He’d had to adapt his lifestyle to accommodate the stark lack of magic in his life.

Draco locked the door behind him, tossing his jacket onto the hook beside the door and looking around in pride. Every day, he came home and felt proud of his accomplishments. He had built it up from an empty, ugly box into something he cherished and felt safe in.

He’d even brought a few photographs of his parents.

So, he wasn’t the totally estranged son Narcissa claimed he was when she had a little too much sherry after dinner. Her friends would come by once a week to visit her at the Manor, but it killed him to think of Narcissa rattling around the property all alone. Occasionally, he would drop by on Friday afternoons after work for tea and dinner. That's when she would break out the sherry.

Draco figured it was fine after everything she'd been put through the last few years, and he’d gladly sit through her complaining if it made her feel a bit better about their circumstances.

On the nights he didn’t see his mother, he sat at home and read. Draco received novels by post monthly through a muggle program called a ‘book-club subscription service’ he had signed up for in an internet café in London.

Draco hadn’t felt so useless about losing his wand anymore after he had learned about muggle computers and the internet.

He had somehow managed to obtain muggle money. He had quickly learned that Wizarding Galleons were worth far more than the local Muggle currency. Compared to the frugal habits he'd developed since moving out, this luckily gave him some leeway for retaining some savings with Muggle pounds. It was a huge relief to have the option to use pounds in case of emergencies, even though it was difficult to get out of Hogsmeade and into the closest Muggle city. In the meantime, he selectively took advantage of the exchange rate for small luxuries when he was feeling particularly down.

His first major purchase was a small computer that folded in on itself, which was very convenient for storage. Draco would watch television on it with something the chap in the store called ‘Netflix,’ and he would occasionally purchase useless items he didn’t need from a website called ‘The Amazon.’

He hadn’t the faintest clue about why a shopping website was named after a jungle, but he found the oddest little things on it.

The monthly book program was his favorite, though; it brought him little bits of happiness every month.

He watched television on his little computer when he wasn't reading, which taught him more about the muggle world than expected. The steep learning curve was quite exciting, and he’d hit the ground running with all the new gadgets he had discovered. His father would have beaten him if he had known how many muggle contraptions were featured in Draco's home.

Draco’s most considerable irritation following his family’s trial was how useless he’d become without his wand. But after a few weeks, it had occurred to him that if muggles could survive without wands, so could he. This internet discovery was a goldmine of information on maneuvering his new lifestyle, one of which he’d had to become increasingly adaptable.

But interestingly enough, a part of his new computer that Draco hadn’t anticipated was the sheer amount of pornography it had access to. It had been an honest mistake- at first.

He’d only been looking for a muggle term that had stumped him in his latest book when suddenly, the screen had spontaneously erupted with moaning, busty, topless women and far more cocks than he’d been expecting to see on his quiet Tuesday night.

Draco promptly slapped the screen shut and tossed the laptop across the room.

He’d taken several minutes to collect himself while hiding in his kitchen, pondering all the sinful things muggles were doing to society. But after a while, his curiosity won over, and he collected his computer off the floor to investigate the new discovery timidly.

After discovering the male-only section of the website, he was even more pleased, having zero to no interest in women in any sexual manner.

Of course, he didn’t visit the website daily, but he never forgot about its existence.

Tonight, he had a new and particular genre in mind.

Draco dug some leftover pasta from the previous night out of the fridge, tossed it into his dearly beloved microwave, and headed straight toward his bed.

It was placed artfully under the vast bay windows overlooking the Hogsmeade borough. Every day, the windows provided a beautiful morning light under which to wake up. At night, Draco could see stars overhead through the glass. It was an exceptionally perfect place for his bed and a welcome contrast to the nightmares that were the Slytherin dorms last year.

Draco snatched the small grey laptop from his nightstand and dropped backward onto the bed, fingers carefully typing in the familiar website’s address after it turned on. Embarrassingly, he was still getting used to typing. For now, Draco slowly typed with only his index fingers until he could muster the finesse required to do it properly.

He slouched comfortably into his puffy white duvet, not bothering to change out of his work clothes. He would, undoubtedly, just be getting his current trousers dirty, so he saw no point in changing into clean ones until later.

Draco had one purpose right now: find a pornographic video of someone who resembled the offensive physique that Potter’d acquired. But not someone who looked like Potter. Not at all. That wasn’t what he was interested in.

He had no concerns about morality. He would never legitimately make a move on Potter. The man’s discomfort earlier that day had clearly shown that Gryffindor would be put off by Draco’s advancement. Nevertheless, if Draco had suddenly concluded that thick, muscular men were his new preference, then it was only appropriate for him to seek out decent inspiration.

He quickly scrolled over videos he didn’t care for, hovering over a thumbnail of a man with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a rose between his teeth.

Draco tilted his head to the side, mildly intrigued.

He opened the video, patiently watching as some upbeat muggle pop music played in the background. It clashed with the sensual vibe of the video, but it was easy to ignore.

The camera faced the side profile of a muscular man lying on a mattress garbed in grey boxer briefs and nothing else. The slow but determined rhythmic motion of a hand on a cock could be seen through the thin fabric.

Draco slouched further, eyes flitting over the man’s body as he pondered his close resemblance to Potter. It was amusing how quickly he’d found someone with the same aesthetic and physique as the Boy Wonder.

As he watched the man handle himself confidently, Draco’s hand moved to unbutton his jeans while he absently wondered if Potter would ever make a video like this.

The man in the video suddenly rolled onto his front, done with fondling himself, and instead moved on grinding his erection into the mattress. The muscles on his back flexed and rippled as he writhed against the mattress, face pressed into the pillow to hide his facial details as he shuddered through the motions.

From this new angle, only a mess of black hair with the arms of a pair of glasses sticking up though it was visible to the camera, so the man’s powerful back and perfectly sculpted ass made a clean image for Draco’s imagination to take over.

If he squinted a little, he could have easily been watching a video of Potter rutting against a mattress.

Unintentionally, he felt a jerk of lust at that thought, pushing the laptop off his lap and to the side as he yanked his shirt up his stomach and shoved the waistband of his jeans a few inches lower so he could handle himself properly.

It was nothing like the long, stretched-out night Draco had been planning.

It was quick and rough, his eyes plastered to the on-screen image of the faceless man curling himself into the mattress. Draco’s hips were grinding slowly and hard in tandem with the man in the video while his body quivered in tension.

The man's muscles also trembled, and he continued to grind through his very real chase for release, causing Draco to arch up and look away from the screen.

Draco’s mind turned to thoughts of Potter sitting above him when Draco was on his knees earlier that day. As he made an honestly pitiful attempt to think of anything but that, his mind immediately filled in the image of the grey-clothed cock of the man on his computer screen.

The combined visual of a partially naked Potter on the chair above him was what pushed him over the edge. Draco choked on his breath, caught off guard, and clenched his fist hard around the head of his cock as he came.

After breathing heavily and faintly listening to the stupid pop music in the video, Draco slapped the screen down and climbed off his bed to escape it. He pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe at the cooling mess on his stomach before tossing the shirt into the laundry bin and going to search for clean clothes. After donning proper pajamas, Draco wandered back into the kitchen for dinner.

He hadn’t noticed his microwave beeping at him while he was occupied.

Draco glowered at the cold leftover pasta, shoving it back into the machine and reheating it again. Instead of relaxing and thinking clearly per usual, Draco gazed listlessly at the rotating food beyond the glass window of his microwave. He was pondering the unhealthy way he’d just gotten off to thinking about Potter in compromising positions.

Unhealthy was the only word he could honestly associate with the whole thing. He’d been okay with it before the ordeal had begun, but now he just felt dirty.

It was a distinct point of shame when, after recalling the image of Potter wearing grey briefs with a fat erection while seated in his velvet chair, Draco’s already spent cock jerked again in interest. Draco nearly smacked himself.

He snatched his reheated pasta from the microwave. Draco dropped it onto the small mosaic patio table he had adopted from a flea market, eating it with furious contempt. He would probably stop caring about this all later, but Draco just wanted to fume it out of his system right now. Then, he could disregard this whole occurrence and get on with his life. Draco had become very good at ignoring a problem until it no longer existed.

And that’s what he needed right now: to drown himself in books and Netflix and work until he forgot it ever happened.

Chapter Text

Draco finished the Hebridean Black boots approximately two weeks after Potter ordered them. Lisette checked in on his progress whenever she was in the shop, and she was quite satisfied with them. When Draco tried the boots on to test their base stability, as he did with any boot he could fit into, he was also satisfied.

Despite all that, as he stood in the empty shop wearing the boots and staring at his reflection in the shop’s full-length mirror, a pang of disappointment went through him.

The boots were perfect, but they were a stark contrast to his own image.

His overgrown and disheveled hair made him look lanky and awkward, and his leather apron made him look unkempt. His green, half-sleeved shirt was fine, but his dark mark was stark and ugly. Draco glared at it in loathing.

It certainly didn't help Draco's self-esteem to look so messy, but he didn't have much of a choice. He didn't have the means for a haircut anytime soon, and all of his clothes were stained or somehow ruined from his work in the shop. He could have fixed his hair if he had his wand, but Draco hadn't had the heart to ask Lisette if she could help him. It was too personal a request.

He glanced over his reflection again before stepping out of the boots and back into his loafers. He had to admit they weren’t wholly atrocious; they were his old uniform shoes from Hogwarts. Draco couldn’t afford the new loafers he wanted, so he was reusing his old ones, which had luckily been in fine shape when he moved out of the Manor.

They weren’t nearly as impressive as the boots he spent all day making. His pair of Hebridean Black boots sat at the bottom of his dresser, reserved for special occasions only.

Draco picked up Potter’s boots on his way to the back of the shop. He placed them in a black glossed box with Potter’s initials taped on the top, grabbing a piece of paper from the drawer to write his pick-up notice.

Draco wouldn’t admit how long it took him to write the letter, frowning at the paper as he grew increasingly annoyed. And, if he sounded a bit snarky and threatened to resell the boots if Potter didn't come by in a few days, then no one but the two of them had to know about it. It was technically in the contract anyway.

He signed at the bottom and wax-sealed it with the shop’s insignia before tossing it into a pile of letters to be posted on the front counter. Draco chose to ignore the whole thing quite unsuccessfully and returned to his workroom to start on other orders.

Draco didn’t check the clock every ten minutes to see when Lisette would come in for the post. He definitely didn’t spend the time between clock checks obsessing over what he would wear for the next five days in case Potter came by.

---

Harry had been so wrapped up in his daydreaming and fantasies that he'd almost forgotten about returning for his new pair of boots.

He was reminded of this while having breakfast one morning when a small black owl dropped, quite loudly, into the platter of eggs Benedict across from him. She had tawny spots spattering her coat of feathers and was glaring begrudgingly at Harry over his eggs and beans.

He slowly reached for the letter she’d dropped dangerously close to his pumpkin juice, handing her a piece of toast as a gesture of goodwill while he tried to open the wax seal one-handed.

Hermione was sitting across from him, reading a muggle newspaper she had specially ordered. She ignored his new letter in favor of American politics.

Harry shooed the owl aside while he finally ripped open the letter, immediately noticing Malfoy’s signature at the bottom. Or what he assumed Malfoy’s signature must look like it, he had never seen it before. It was full of elegant curls and skill that Harry guessed his parents had trained into him.

He scanned the rest of the letter, seeing in awkward but professional terms that his boots were complete and that he had five days to come in for a fitting. Otherwise, they may be forfeited for another customer.

It made sense; they were all expensive materials involved in the crafting process.

Hermione explained how the Hebridean Black hide was challenging to come by because they lived on the highest mountains in Scotland and were only visible to the naked eye during the first twenty minutes of sunrise in the spring. They were notoriously good at camouflage, which made them so great for Quidditch boots. Harry still thought it was a bit sad, hunting them like that.

But Malfoy had said it was all properly done, and they only hunted the bad-tempered dragons. Whether or not that was true, Harry didn’t want to think about it.

Harry waved the letter at Hermione, chewing on a sausage. “Boots are done. I've got five days, or Malfoy resells them.”

Hermione barely looked up as she nodded back. “Yes, that was in the contract you never bothered to read.” She put her paper down and reached for the letter, skimming it over quickly.

“Did you see how pompous his signature is?”

He grinned.

“You saw that too? I bet it was his Mum who taught him that.”

She laughed, handing the letter back over and returning to her paper.

Harry carefully petted the grumpy, beautiful owl sitting in front of him. She reminded him of Malfoy if he were a frumpy, grey screech owl.

“No response,” he murmured to it, watching her fly off and thinking fondly of Hedwig. He hadn’t had the chance to look for a new owl this summer, and honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Her death was still much too fresh. Harry returned to his breakfast, deciding he’d see Malfoy tomorrow after he finished classes for the afternoon.

Chapter Text

The next day, Harry entered Sterling Brogen by the late afternoon.

He'd changed out of his school robes into something more casual for a quiet afternoon in Hogsmeade. Harry wanted to be as comfortable as possible, mainly because seeing the git in question made him anything but.

At least, that’s what he told himself an hour ago as Harry struggled to pick out an outfit, glaring at his reflection in Gryffindor Tower. He’d settled for a white button-down with a navy pullover and his favorite pair of dark jeans. He wasn’t freaking out about looking good in front of Malfoy. If he said it enough, he might believe the lie.

The shop looked identical to how it had two weeks before, and the sharp scent of leather polish and wood stain hit him immediately as he walked through the door.

Harry saw no one at the counter, as usual, and assumed they were probably working in the back room when no one was in. He walked cautiously up to the large wooden counter, hands shoved into his pockets. Leaning to the side, he tried to look through the workroom door.

“Er, hullo?”

He waited a moment, listening for anyone in the back.

“One moment, I’ll be right there.”

Harry recognized Malfoy’s voice and watched the doorway keenly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. A few moments later, a loud clang of metal rang out from the backroom. The blond emerged with a washcloth in hand, scrubbing idly at his fingers.

Malfoy paused in the doorway when he spotted Harry, his expression carefully blank.

“Potter. Couldn’t say I’d expected to see you so... promptly.” Malfoy’s eyes flitted quickly over Harry’s person, something he noticed.

Harry stood a little taller, pretending he wasn’t preening under Malfoy’s gaze.

“I can show up on time, occasionally.”

“Yes, occasionally. Please wait here.” Malfoy turned on his heel and disappeared into the back, leaving Harry alone in the shop again.

He licked his lips and looked around, feeling somewhat awkward. He was only supposed to be here for Quidditch boots.

Malfoy returned holding a sleek black box with the shop’s name embossed in gold lettering on the lid.

“Here they are.” Draco put the box on the counter, opening the lid to show him. Harry stepped closer to peer inside, breathing in sharply.

“Malfoy, these are brilliant.”

He pulled a boot out, certainly not expecting this kind of result. The boots looked identical to the pair he’d chosen on display, only far newer and with a clean shine to the leather. There were hints of blue marbling and the oak heels were dark and perfectly carved, with some wicked runes carved underneath. He hadn’t expected handmade boots to be this beautiful.

Harry glanced back up to him, honored.

“You made these?”

Malfoy smiled stiffly but couldn’t completely hide the look of pride.

“I did. Lisette said they are my best work yet, so you better treat them right.”

It was impressive, how he could turn anything into a lecture, eerily similar to Hermione. Harry smirked to himself, looking back at the shoes.

“Can I put them on? You said something about a fitting?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, taking the boot from his hands and putting it back into the box.

“If every boot I made were a perfect fit on the first try, I would have nothing left to apprentice for.” He put the lid beneath the box and nodded to the front of the store.

“Want to do this out here? You didn’t seem to enjoy the backroom last time.” Malfoy looked awkward.

It took Harry longer than it probably should have to realize that the awkwardness was because of the flirtatious kneeling they’d had the last time he was here- the one he’d been pathetically daydreaming about for weeks.

Harry smiled, a little less confidently than he probably wanted, but he managed.

“Nah, back room.” He felt jittery, and Malfoy looked back at him with mild surprise. “I’m feeling insecure about my feet today.”

He wanted to get Malfoy in the back room with him again, even if it was to try on boots.

Malfoy smirked at the excuse, hauling the box with him as he turned. “As if you have anything to be insecure about.”

Harry smiled brightly, flattered.

He stared at Malfoy’s back as he followed behind, the Slytherin's garnet v-neck pairing with his blond hair spectacularly. When his eyes got to Malfoy’s ass, he realized Malfoy was wearing leather trousers. The rugged leather apron's straps crisscrossed over his back, making for a pretty disarming outfit.

Harry dropped into the velvet chair by the door like he had two weeks ago, watching Malfoy set the box on the workbench and pull the boots out.

“The process is simple: you put the boots on as you would for Quidditch and tell me if they feel funny,” Malfoy explained, untying a boot with deft fingers.

Harry nodded obediently, bending over to untie his trainers.

Unfortunately, they were the same ruddy trainers as last time. He hadn’t had the chance to get new ones during their last shopping trip. They were the only part of his outfit he didn’t feel confident about.

“How do you even move with all those muscles?”

Harry glanced up from his shoes, surprised.

Malfoy seemed just as surprised as Harry, morbid embarrassment seeping through his cool façade. His grey eyes darted away, picking at the shoe box lid.

Harry kicked off his shoes, thinking carefully about how to respond while trying not to obsess over Malfoy's admission.

“You get used to it. I don’t even notice half the time, to be honest. Though, I’m a bit worried about how my seeking during Quidditch’ll be affected. And it gets in the way when I try to move through crowds or small shops, can’t fit into small spaces like I used to.” Harry played it off casually, not wanting Malfoy to feel uncomfortable at the slip-up.

He pushed the old trainers under the chair, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Just because Malfoy checked him out a couple of times doesn’t mean he wanted to be propositioned, so Harry carried on as professionally as he could.

Malfoy held the boot, tapping his finger on it in consideration. Once he'd removed his trainers, Draco handed it to Harry, remaining by the workbench and pointedly not moving any closer.

“So, you’re saying your cock got bigger too?”

Harry stilled. He was sure his brain was short-circuiting.

“Sorry?” Harry looked up.

Malfoy grinned, and boy, that was a taunting look if Harry’d ever seen one.

“Put the boot on.”

Harry only stared back in astonishment, hands following Malfoy’s commands even if his brain wasn’t fully functioning yet.

“I just figured... You say it’s hard to fit into small places now. It's a perfectly fair assumption, based on the rest of your godly physique,” Malfoy carried on, all signs of his embarrassment replaced with that cocky confidence again.

Harry yanked on the boot's laces, his brain finally catching up with what was happening.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Harry snapped hotly, holding a hand out for the other boot. “Even so, that’s not how biology works.”

Malfoy handed the next boot over, a brilliant grin plastered on his face. He shrugged quickly in response and folded his arms across the apron. Harry glanced at Malfoy’s biceps when he crossed his arms, eyes caught on the pale hair dusting the man’s forearms before forcing himself to look away.

Now wasn’t the time to admire Malfoy’s appearance, especially when he was watching Harry so closely.

Harry kicked out his newly-booted feet, and Malfoy graciously gave him a moment to return to why they were there. Harry stood up from the chair, goggling at his quidditch boots in awe again. He’d never worn anything so comfortable or fit to him exactly.

Malfoy pointed to the mirror across from the workbench, stepping aside to let Harry get a look. Harry stood next to Malfoy, admiring the boots in the reflection.

“Brilliant,” he breathed, Malfoy staring down at them in thought. All scandalous comments were gone now that they were back to business.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Malfoy asked, stepping further down the workbench to give Harry more space. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hear Malfoy use the word 'wiggle.'

Harry did as the Slytherin asked, nodding when he felt enough room for his toes to move around without constriction or pain.

“Shake your foot out. Is it loose anywhere?” Malfoy carried on.

Harry put a hand on the workbench for balance, shaking out one foot at a time and shaking his head ‘no’ when everything stayed in place. They remained perfect even when he crouched to test the leather's flexibility.

“Very nice.” He strode to the velvet chair and back. Who knew Harry would care this much about shoes? Malfoy might be influencing him a bit in terms of his taste in footwear.

He smiled when he looked back to Malfoy, standing in front of the mirror by the workbench.

“I'm as tall as you now.” He nearly laughed, Malfoy looking up at him and seeming to notice the same. The boots gave Harry a few extra inches of height, enough to rival Malfoy, who didn’t look very pleased at the new outcome.

“The one thing I always had on you, and now that’s gone too. Well played, Potter.” Malfoy sighed, shaking his head at the boots as though it were their fault.

Harry chuckled, motioning at him. “Have yourself to thank for that.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“This world is so unfair sometimes.” He muttered, Harry taking a second to appreciate the similarities in height now.

Malfoy had always had a few inches on him, but it was never something he’d cared about until now.

Harry patted a hand on the workbench, recalling how Malfoy had been so brash and vaguely flirty a few minutes ago. It caught him off guard each time he did it, but Harry liked it. Since his boots fit perfectly, he wouldn’t need to return and probably would have to leave the shop soon. It was disappointing.

“Why you wanna know if my cock got bigger, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s refractory period was impressively better than Harry’s.

He had a split second of startled surprise before Malfoy settled his expression into a smirk. Harry was jealous of how quickly he got over it, especially when it had taken several minutes to deal with such direct and vulgar comments himself.

“I live to be bested by you, Potter. It would only be fitting if it reflected in cock-length as well.”

That was a deflection and a bad one, too; now it was Harry’s turn to grin.

“I don’t think so. Try again,” Harry leered, Malfoy’s eyes slamming to Harry’s with a look akin to fresh fear.

“You wouldn’t be that cruel,” Malfoy whispered in a dangerous tone.

Somehow, Malfoy misinterpreted what happened and thought Harry was mocking him. It wasn't the response Harry was looking for, and he found himself horrified. He just wanted to flirt with the man!

Harry shook his head quickly, hands lifting as he carefully stepped closer.

“No. I wouldn’t do that to you,” he reassured, lifting a hand in hopefully a comforting way, not aggressively like Malfoy had interpreted.

The other stared blankly at him, glancing at the hand held near his arm. The wall of cold civility was back.

“What are you trying to accomplish with this then.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry huffed, removing his hand and rubbing it through his hair.

“I’m just failing to flirt with you,” he sighed loudly. “You always were better at words than I was. Even if most of them were threats, that’s something I can’t best you at, Malfoy.” Harry waved a hand around, aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him. “You’re horridly skilled at inciting fear boners out of me with just words.”

It was a stupid statement, but he wanted to see Malfoy’s ballsy confidence again. If he had to say something silly to get a reaction out of him, Harry’d do it again.

“Really,” Malfoy muttered, sounding intrigued rather than enraged. During Harry's confession, the blond slowly relaxed, leaning casually on the counter instead of at the ready.

Harry folded his arms at Malfoy and watched the other man glance to said arms, eyes trailing the straining fabric of his sleeves around Harry’s forearms. He decided to take that as a positive response.

Malfoy stepped closer, placing a hand next to Harry’s hip, leaning in close. His hair hung loosely around his shoulders, white-blond strands almost touching Harry. He was so close.

“So, not only do I scare you, but you like it? What kind of kink is that, Potter?” His egocentric confidence was back, Malfoy's storming eyes playful but still dangerous.

Harry grinned at the comment, letting himself look Malfoy up and down openly now that he wasn’t afraid of getting caught.

“The absolute balls you have with those comments scare me, and it isn’t bad. You don't scare me.” As Harry moved in, Malfoy stepped back against the bench, permitting him within his personal space. Harry could have made his move then but stopped at the last second to give Malfoy a hesitant look.

“I’m interpreting this as okay since you aren’t cussing me out like usual?” Harry inquired, asking Malfoy for permission to see how the other felt about their situation.

Malfoy snorted, eyes hovering somewhere on Harry's chest, and then his hands reached out for the fabric of Harry’s shirt and yanked him closer.

“I’ll always cuss you out, don't expect that to change any time soon.”

Malfoy pulled Harry against him with strength Harry didn’t expect, his hands greedily spreading around Harry’s back as he dragged him in for a kiss. It wasn’t tentative at all; there was absolute intent behind that kiss.

Harry heard himself groan, tilting his head down to meet Malfoy and relishing in the feel of Malfoy’s mouth against his.

Harry knew he wanted this to happen but had no idea how to get there. Not in a million years would Harry have guessed this was what would happen when he went to pick up his boots.

Malfoy was much leaner than Harry, and it made holding him easy. After a careful moment of hungry kissing, Harry boxed Malfoy against the workbench, hands on either side of him, and pressed the length of his body against the Slytherin’s.

Two brief seconds in, Harry already knew this was better than all the kisses he'd had before. The way Malfoy pulled Harry in was goddamn spectacular; he'd never anticipated enjoying the rough way men kissed so much. It was leagues better than his brief snog with Cho and the months of insecure fumbling with Ginny. He'd had one brief hand job with one of the blokes at his gym, but kissing was never introduced during that stint. Harry had always considered kissing boring, but now he finally understood what everyone was always going on about it. It wasn’t the snogging that had been his issue; it’d been the person.

Harry moved a hand from the bench to gently touch Malfoy's lower back, figuring it was fine if the Slytherin’s hands were all over him in turn. It was almost funny how quickly Malfoy had gone straight for his torso once they started kissing.

His hands pressed against the fabric of Malfoy's shirt, familiarizing himself with the lean body beneath, and he slid along the line of his trousers around Malfoy's hips. After delicately mapping Malfoy’s hips and lower back, Harry's curiosity outweighed any caution as he found the bottom of the red shirt and ran his fingers across the hot skin of Malfoy’s lower back. Harry tried to move his hand up, needing to touch as much bare skin as he could, but noticed what felt like a rope stopping his hand from going any further. Then Harry remembered Malfoy was still wearing a leather apron.

Harry briefly left Malfoy’s lips to kiss down his jawline, momentarily surprised by the drag of stubble on his lips and settling on the blond's neck as Malfoy breathed heavily into his ear. His hair smelled like leather stain and lemon, and it clung to Harry's face as he attempted to untie the apron. He refused to separate from Malfoy's body, unwilling to take any steps back in their progress.

“Fuck, Potter, what are you doing.” Malfoy gasped when Harry nipped at his neck in annoyance, shaking his head and pressing his face to Malfoy’s shoulder so he could try and focus on the feeling of the corded knot. His hair was so fucking distracting.

“This fucking apron.” Harry uselessly tugged at the knot behind Malfoy's back, and then Malfoy pushed at his arms. He first reached up and pulled off Harry’s glasses, tossing them onto the workbench behind him so they wouldn’t get in the way any longer. Then, Malfoy breathed in heavily for a second, trying to refocus.

Malfoy arched forward into Harry’s chest as he reached behind him, arms twisting back to untie the apron. Harry’s hands, now free from the apron, grabbed Malfoy's waist. With their hips pressed to each other, Harry could feel Malfoy's erection under the apron. Harry impulsively ground his hips against him, his neglected cock pressing onto the hard mound of leather between them.

Malfoy jerked under him at the sudden move, not expecting grinding to be part of the experience. One of his hands weakly grabbed Harry’s shoulder, completely forgetting about the cords. Malfoy curled into him, trembling as he shyly matched Harry's rhythm. Harry mouthed at Malfoy's neck again, tracing the line where his stubble began with his tongue. His thumbs pressed hard into the exposed skin above Malfoy's trousers, increasing the pace as they rutted against each other.

After several minutes, Harry bluntly kicked Malfoy’s legs apart, pressing between them for a better angle. But the apron still got in the way even as he tried to push his thigh between Malfoy’s, attempting to angle the blond's hips for a better angle. The fucking apron would not concede.

Harry could feel Malfoy’s hands on his back, tugging at his shirt and his nails dragging as he tried to hold on. At the same time, they ground against each other, shifting every few minutes for a better angle because of the layer of leather blocking them. He'd even tried to pull the apron to the side, but the cords bound it taught against the front of Malfoy's hips, unmoving.

Harry was pleasantly caught off guard when he kissed him again, sobbing brokenly into it.

It was swelteringly hot in the back room, but that might have just been Harry’s body temperature. He hadn’t been able to work out for a few weeks and was losing his stamina, but he always ran hot.

Harry pulled back from the kiss, much to Malfoy’s annoyance if the frustrated whine was anything to go by, leaning back to pull his navy pullover off. Malfoy quickly changed gears, eyes locking on the white button-down Harry wore underneath.

“Never cared much for the muscular type before you, Potter,” he muttered, fingers snatching onto the white button-down and tugging him close again. His fingers slipped between the buttons, searching for bare skin and dark body hair beneath.

Malfoy kissed him again while Harry thought about the admission, humming into it after a moment.

“I don't believe you,” he panted between breaths. Malfoy grinned against his lips in response. Harry liked feeling him smile through the kiss.

He ran his hands up and down Malfoy’s sides, trying to learn as much as he could about this foreign body, wanting to get his hands on Malfoy's ass but knowing the table’s edge was stopping him. Now that Harry knew he was allowed to touch him like this, he never wanted to quit.

When Malfoy yanked Harry's shirt out of the back of his jeans, Harry leaned hard into him, curling over Malfoy’s body as his hands ran under Harry’s shirt to grab his shoulders. Harry hummed low at Malfoy’s pawing, just the hint of nails prickling the edges of his shoulder blades as his hands spread wide.

Harry never thought scratching was something he might have liked. Still, he had decided it was something he'd be interested in exploring.

Harry kissed Malfoy’s neck as the Slytherin’s hands mapped his upper back, sucking faint marks into his pale skin as Harry allowed the intimate inspection of his torso.

When it felt like Malfoy had explored enough, Harry reached behind Draco to shove everything on the counter to the far side of the bench. Harry's hands moved to the back of Malfoy’s leather-clad knees, bending his knees in preparation. He heard Malfoy make a confused noise before Harry stood up, feet planted firmly in his new boots, and lifted the Slytherin onto the counter.

“Shit-” Malfoy gasped, shifting in surprise on the countertop, staring at Harry with a disheveled and flushed look from his new position.

“Of fucking course you would, Potter.” Malfoy's voice wasn’t as sharp as it could have been; he seemed distracted. His eyes were on Harry’s exposed torso, hands sliding over Harry’s bare abs with Harry's shirt hiked up unflatteringly under his arms.

“Care to help me with this?” He tugged the shirt down for a moment, Draco pouting slightly at the disappearance of his chest. Harry chuckled, undoing the top buttons of his crinkled dress shirt.

“Come on,” he chided as Malfoy shifted back against the wall and started helping him with the buttons.

There was finally a moment of peace, the two of them silently working at the buttons together in unison. When he had the chance, Harry took in Malfoy as much as possible, trying to sear this memory into his brain.

Malfoy was the very definition of debauched. His hair was ruffled from its usual pristine cascade, small strands stuck to the line of sweat tracing his hairline. Malfoy's neck was rubbed raw from Harry’s stubble, small purple marks blooming under the surface of his skin. His expression was probably Harry’s favorite part, though.

Malfoy looked open and calm, with no fear, judgment, or cold irritation in his features. His movements were slow and relaxed, peacefully unbuttoning Harry's shirt. Malfoy was quiet and content with their positions, not causing a fuss as expected.

A greedy part of Harry was desperate to see Malfoy like this any chance he could get. If he could make Malfoy this unraveled and raw, they might have a chance at something more. Maybe they weren’t doomed to be enemies for the rest of their lives. Merlin knows he’d never see Malfoy the same way after this. Harry knew he liked men before, but this wasn’t just a regular attraction. This was feeding into a hunger he’d never known existed.

Malfoy finally finished unbuttoning Harry's shirt and pushed it from his broad shoulders with a look of pride. Harry shrugged it off behind him, dropping his hands to either side of Draco’s thighs as he smirked at him.

“Bit uneven, here,” he teased, nodding to the apron Malfoy still wore.

Draco paused and glanced down, pursing his lips. He sat up slowly, now a bit taller than Harry as he sat on the counter. Malfoy arched backward against the wall, reaching behind for the apron’s cords. After a moment, he glanced down at Harry, cocking his chin at him teasingly. He was just barely out of reach for Harry to kiss him, and Malfoy knew it.

Nevertheless, Harry gladly watched him, thriving under the attention. He wanted more.

After working at the apron for a few awkward minutes, Draco stopped to kiss him again, only encouraging the affectionate undertones of the situation more. It was an easy kiss, not heated, reaffirming some unstated emotion between them.

A shameful part of Harry purred under the affection, knowing it was rare to experience Malfoy like this. He tried to avoid thinking about how it would never appear again.

While Harry daydreamed about the sweet kiss, Malfoy pulled back in irritation.

“Please do not think I’m lying, but I think it's stuck,” He grumbled, grey eyes glancing over his shoulder in frustration.

Harry stood up from where he’d been reclining between Malfoy’s thighs, pulling Draco’s hips to the counter's edge to reach behind him.

Malfoy grinned at the manhandling, draping his arms over Harry’s shoulders and exploring his back in the meantime. Harry stared down at the knot, finally getting a chance to see what was wrong. Honestly, it was a lost cause- a mess of cord that he definitely could not fix from this angle.

Harry stepped back, cold air slipping between them for the first time in what seemed like hours.

“Scissors?” Harry asked, squinting to look around the workbench without his glasses. Malfoy scoffed, gently smacking his hip at the suggestion.

“This is a custom apron and I don’t have a wand to fix it afterward, I refuse to cut it,” he scolded, but he turned to look around the workbench anyway.

“Not even for me?” Harry teased. Malfoy gave him a dry look as he searched a cubby beside the workbench, stretching across the counter.

Harry glanced at the corded muscle of Malfoy’s shoulder, the black of the apron clashing perfectly against the deep red of his shirt. After a moment, Harry playfully slapped Draco’s thigh to get his attention.

Malfoy had been leaning on his forearm when he felt the smack, looking over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow.

Harry ignored the look, instead gently pushing him down onto the tabletop. Unfortunately, Draco’s thighs remained on either side of Harry’s waist as he was held face down, shoulders pressed at an awkward angle. Hence, the position wasn't as romantic as Harry would have liked. But Harry could now see the knot behind his back.

Harry held a steady hand between Malfoy’s shoulder blades, gently holding him in down as his free hand worked at the knot.

The groundbreaking part of the new position was that Malfoy didn’t struggle and push back; he stayed completely still. It could be seen as a sign of trust. Or maybe a quiet moment before an attack? But Malfoy wasn’t stiff as though he were readying to fight. His body was relaxed, allowing himself to be pressed down under Harry's hand.

Harry stared at the back of Malfoy’s head while he worked at the knot, wondering if Malfoy trusting him could be considered a kink. It certainly didn’t discourage his urge to rut against him like a teenager, that was for sure.

He tried his best to untie the knot, but the cord wasn’t having it. Only once he felt Draco begin to squirm did he lose his patience. Harry muttered a quick spell under his breath, provoking the cords to unravel and repel away from each other. Malfoy looked over his shoulder after feeling the apron suddenly fall off him, his expression sharp.

“Was that wandless magic?” he asked curiously, almost as if a smile were creeping onto his face.

Harry was expecting Malfoy to be offended, given that the man didn’t have his own wand at the moment, but apparently not. The only reason Harry hadn’t used magic in the first place was to protect Malfoy’s feelings.

So Harry nodded in confirmation, running his hand down Malfoy’s back appreciatively as he freed him of the apron.

“Course the bloody Chosen One can do that,” Malfoy murmured, sitting back up and rolling his stiff shoulders.

Harry just shrugged, his hands running over Malfoy’s thighs and his waist greedily as the Slytherin tossed away the obstructing piece of leather.

Harry immediately looked down at the blond's crotch and groaned loudly.

“More leather, Malfoy?” He looked up to see Draco looking quite smug about his leather trousers.

“Can’t say I made it easy for you.”

“Merlin, nothing’s ever easy with you,” Harry grunted, firmly grabbing Malfoy’s hips and yanking him back to the edge of the countertop.

He pressed himself deep between Malfoy’s thighs as if nothing could hold him back any longer. Malfoy's breath hitched in surprise, rolling his hips into Harry's and splaying his hands across his bare back.

This time, Harry initiated the kiss. He nudged Malfoy’s chin with his nose, barely pausing the aggressive manhandling to gently kiss him, a brief change in pace before they went at it again. His hands slid around Malfoy’s waist, his fingers skirting under the red shirt and dragging up his back. His skin was so soft.

Harry felt the blond arch into it, silently asking for more. The touch of Malfoy's skin was hot and soft, and Harry craved it. He barely noticed the way Malfoy curled his legs around the back of Harry’s thighs, yanking him in close to resume the desperate frotting from before.

They were free from any obstacles now, and Harry did not intend to stop.

Chapter Text

Draco and Harry's kisses were open-mouthed and biting, solely driven to match the rolling rhythm of their hips.

It was devolving into a messy and desperate chase for release, and Draco clung to Potter as he was shoved across the counter with every grinding thrust.

They were pressed impossibly tight against each other, so much so that Draco could feel the sweat pooling on Potter’s skin where he clung to him, vaguely noticing the fingers beginning to tease the waistband of his trousers.

Draco keened, arching shamelessly to give him more space as Potter's hand inched down the back of his trousers.

Potter managed to flex his fingers on whatever flesh he could grasp, the tightness of Draco’s leather trousers making it difficult to reach his backside like he wanted.

It was stupid, how they’d forgotten they were in a boot shop during business hours.

Potter had buried his face in Draco’s neck, his arms around Potter’s shoulders as they thrust against each other, their heavy breathing and faint groans filling the quiet of the back room. They hadn’t heard the bell as Potter was busy devouring the spot between Draco's neck and shoulder, unlocking another new and addicting sensation that he never wanted to end. Draco had allowed Potter to pull his shirt collar down for better access, barely clinging onto the Gryffindor as he felt himself devolving into madness.

It was all very distracting: Potter’s hands, teeth, body, thrusts and lips.

Draco stilled as he heard someone call from the front of the store, unsure if he’d imagined the voice.

Then Potter shuddered against Draco and abruptly bit down on the spot he’d been kissing, brutally rutting between his thighs him as he came.

Draco grunted in pain, unprepared for teeth to sink painfully into his neck amid all the pleasure. He dug his nails into Potter’s shoulders, stiffening through the pain and waiting for it to be over. Potter immediately released him after he realized what he’d done, the look of mortification on his stupidly handsome face.

Draco may have been gasping at his throbbing collar but, he was still driven by the animalistic urge to come, and he continued weakly thrusting against Potter, ignoring the pain to the best of his ability.

Potter had slumped against him, his mass heavy and suffocating as he tried to hold himself up against the counter. At the same time, his other hand remained down Draco’s trousers, fingers hot and foreboding where the creeped lower.

“Afternoon, is anyone back there?” a voice called from the front of the store.

Potter shifted against him at the sound of someone interrupting them, finally waking up from his stupor.

Draco’s eyes shot wide at the sound of the voice, instantly panicking as he ceased all movement against Potter. He tried to push off the counter, but the Gryffindor only slowly turned his gaze to the door, remaining where he stood as if he couldn’t be bothered to get out of Draco's way. Potter intentionally kept Draco trapped on the table,.

Draco covered his own mouth to quiet his breathing while slapping at the prat's chest so he could move away.

Potter just gave him a pointed look and did not move from his spot, especially now. Draco attempted to slide past him off the counter, wincing painfully at the uncomfortable pinch of his trousers. All his movements stopped when Potter tightened the vice grip on his thigh and moved the hand that was still down the back of his trousers.

Draco glared at Potter like he was an impostor, but the idiot just smirked back.

“Sorry, Ma’am, I’m with a client at the moment. Could you come back in twenty to thirty minutes?” Potter called over his shoulder.

Draco’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

“Alright, dear. Could you put the kettle on for me while you’re at it?” she called back.

Draco kept smacking at Potter’s ridiculous arms to let him off the table. It was that moment when Potter intentionally slid his fingers into the cleft of Draco’s ass, pressing two fingers to his hole like it was a homing beacon. Draco flinched, legs jerking wide at the new feeling in an intimate place.

“God, you have balls,” Draco muttered viciously, blowing sweaty strands of blonde hair from his eyes.

“Yeah, you wanna see ‘em?” Potter whispered back, pressing deeper into the V of Draco's thighs to rub his fingers further against Draco's hole.

It was horribly intimate, and Draco could tell how firm yet gentle Potter was being with him. Even as he tried to shock him into silence, Potter was considerate of how delicate he had to be. Draco still gave his best threatening glare, failing as he trembled against his fingers' caress. It wasn’t very effective.

Potter spread his thighs wider as Draco slumped onto Potter’s chest, arching forward so Potter could reach further into him. Potter wasn't going to stop, so Draco figured he might as well give in, selfishly encouraging him.

Draco nervously glanced up, staring at the familiar green eyes and cocky grin he now wore, completely exposed and vulnerable.

He could have pushed Potter away right then, stopping all of this in an instant.

But Draco made a decision right then, lifting his face to silently invite Potter to kiss him instead.

There was a terrifying moment of surprise before his smile turned soft, leaning in to fulfill his request.
And Potter kissed him like it really meant something to him.

It was new, and it hurt, and it felt greedy. Draco attempted to ignore his creeping doubts; trying to focus on Potter’s wandering fingers, hands, and naked torso. He didn’t want to miss or forget anything that was happening.

Draco vaguely heard the bell ring as the woman left the shop, officially leaving them in the clear.

“Fucking gods,” he moaned loud and guttural like he got punched in the stomach, no longer concerned with being overheard. Draco began to move again, awkwardly rolling his hips against Potter’s thigh as the larger man bore down on him.

Potter grinned as he worked his fingers and thrust his hips with Draco at the same time. He pressed open-mouthed kisses over Draco's collar, Potter's free hand pushing off the counter.

Draco flinched when he felt Potter's knuckles against his stomach, unbuttoning the front of his leather trousers. Potter tilted Draco back to press his palm down against his naked cock, the lack of undergarments apparent.

How many hands did this prick have? It felt like Potter was consuming him.

“Shit-” Draco shuddered, trying to press up into Potter’s hand but accidentally banging his elbow against the wall when he reached for some this to grip. He hissed in pain, then immediately groaned as Potter wrapped his fingers around him.

“Merlin, Potter.”

He jerked him rough and hard, Draco’s hand scrambling against the counter before sliding into a pile of customer orders and scattering them off the edge. He curled his free arm around Potter's neck, whining loudly.

Potter had dropped his head onto Draco’s chest, watching himself jerk Draco off and somehow ignoring everything that was going on around him.

Draco dropped his head backward against the noticeboard, trying to remember how to breathe. Everything was too hot and he felt like he would scream.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Potter goaded against his stomach. However, he sounded more determined than annoyed about how long it was taking. “Want me on my knees? Want to see me swallow it? Please, this is all I've wanted for the last two weeks.”

Draco stared at Potter with wide eyes, suddenly distressed at the thought; he felt like he could come from the very idea of it, but unfortunately, his cock just wasn't getting there.

“I don’t- Circe, Potter,” he whined, and Potter finally lifted his head from Draco’s chest to look at him. The fingers down the back of Draco’s trousers pressed harder into his hole, one just barely pushing through the tender ring of muscle. Draco’s body trembled under the tentative intrusion.

“If you take any longer, I might get to come a second time,” Potter mocked, and Draco instinctively scowled at the very idea.

“How about you use that mouth for something other than pathetic threats?”

Draco hadn’t expected Potter to chuckle in response; he just needed permission to follow through with the request. To Draco's dismay, Potter moved away, removing his hand from his throbbing cock and gently pulling his hand from the back of Draco’s trousers. Draco was left splayed on the countertop, exposed and quivering.

Draco was about to snap at him when Potter grabbed the back of his calves to drag him off the counter, holding him to his bare chest. Draco was still trying to orient himself, tugging his shirt down as Potter lowered himself to the floor.
The sight of Potter dropping to his knees was, quite frankly, life-changing. As much as Draco had always envisioned feeling powerful and victorious if he'd ever stood over him like this, Draco had never felt weaker.

Even on his knees, Potter controlled and dominated everything that happened. He grabbed Draco’s hips and set to work, yanking the leather trousers down his thighs, avoiding pulling on the whisps of blond leg hair. Potter's hands went straight for his ass again, fingers flexing and pulling at his flesh like he wanted Draco to come apart. Yet, his eyes locked on the cock in front of him.

Draco didn’t particularly want to see how red and angry his own cock was, instead choosing to watch Potter's expressions, trying to ignore the hot flushing he could feel spreading down from his face and neck.
Unfortunately, he didn’t get to watch for very long because it was over nearly the second Potter got his lips on him. With his mouth over the crown of his cock, Draco saw stars.

His legs gave out and his elbows banged loudly on the counter behind him as he dropped. They caught him, nearly collapsing to the ground, and Draco shuddered through the waves of bliss on somewhat steady arms as his thighs trembled.

He had no idea if Potter even swallowed. Draco could feel the Gryffindor trying to hold him up by the waist, attempting to stop him from falling any further.

After several moments of trying to catch his breath, Draco dazedly looked down at Potter, legs shuffling under himself to stand back up.

Potter tilted his head back, one eye closed while the other looked up at him. The white mess was cast across his face and jaw. Merlin, it was quite an image.

Draco couldn’t help the weak laugh he gave, grasping onto Potter’s shoulders shakily as he held himself up. He glanced around for something to clean off with, looking to the workbench but not finding anything.

“My wash rag,” Draco mentioned quietly. Promptly, Potter held up a hand as the rag flew from around the doorway. It smacked into his palm, which he silently offered up to Draco.

Potter hadn’t said anything yet, but Draco gently wiped the best of the mess away, cleaning Potter’s eyelid as thoroughly as possible to make sure nothing got in his eye directly. He knew the Gryffindor was watching him with one green eye, but now Draco didn’t know what to say.

Thank you. Sorry, I took forever to come but also didn’t last three seconds into a blowjob? Do I ever have to see you again? Can I ever see you again? Can we do that again but not at my workplace, preferably somewhere with a bed?

“Saltier than I expected,” Potter finally commented once he put down the rag. Draco hissed as Potter took it upon himself to try and fix him back into his trousers, takin over and pulling them up while nervously glancing at Potter. The Gryffindor was steadily watching him, eyes following Draco’s hands as he fasted the buttons on his trousers.

“Thought never occurred to me, to be honest,” Draco whispered, holding a hand out to help Potter to stand. Potter smirked at the offered hand, taking it gently. He didn’t need any help; instead, he used the opportunity to twine their fingers together as he rose.

Draco noticed Potter was still wearing the boots when he was back on his feet.

“Guess the boots held up,” Draco commented, looking down at them fondly.

Potter laughed, nodding as he flexed his fingers against Draco.

“If they can get through that- ” he nodded at the desk, “I think they can get through anything.” He finished quietly, sending Draco’s skin crawling as Potter stepped in to box him against the workbench again.

“I have to put the tea on for an old lady, Potter. I don’t have time for more.” Draco changed the topic to avoid another potential episode, eyes flitting anxiously around the room to avoid looking Potter in the eye.

Potter smiled, giving him a small, sweet kiss after ignoring Draco’s attempt to shoo him off. Draco swallowed hard and allowed himself a moment to enjoy it, his head filling with loud static as he suddenl yripped his hand from Potter's.

Draco pulled back and stared at Potter hard, succumbing to a nasty and rotten instinct.

“I don’t have time for this,” he repeated louder. Potter gave him a careful look.

“Are you deflecting, or are you serious?” Potter tested, and Draco saw the hurt begin to set behind those eyes.

Draco licked his lips, turned away from Potter to the workbench, and searched through the mess. He had to move through the papers to find Potter’s glasses. Draco picked them up, turning back to give him a hesitant look.

“I'm not sure,” he answered, voice rough. Draco unfolded the glasses and lifted them to Potter’s face. He carefully placed them back on Potter's nose until the familiar green eyes peered back through the lenses.

They stared at each other silently. Potter stepped back and released Draco from the counter. But he looked uncertain, standing half-naked and vulnerable.
Something in Draco’s chest started to hurt.
“So, you want this to be a one-off or what?” Potter tried again, anxiously attempting to get clarification.

Draco glanced around the room for an answer but did not find one.

His poor, defiled workroom.

Draco didn't know how to answer, afraid that if he did, then something wicked and painful would come out instead.

When Draco didn’t respond, Potter bent over to grab his shirt off the floor.

Draco stared down at Potter's back muscles as he bent over, noticing the scratches and deep red blemishes extending over Potter’s shoulders from where Draco had clung to him.

Draco lifted a hand to his neck, gingerly petting where he knew there would be a mark from Potter biting him. It still throbbed, stinging when he prodded it.

When Potter stood, he noticed Draco holding onto his neck. He quickly stepped in and pushed his hand away, getting a better look at the injury.

“Does it hurt?” he mumbled in concern, looking worried as he touched the mark with his fingertips and pulled Draco’s shirt collar aside.

Potter leaned in to see, forgetting about the conversation they'd barely begun to have. Draco only stared at him from mere inches away, numbly allowing himself to be inspected.

“There’s a bit of blood. I’m so sorry, Draco; I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Potter whispered.

Draco blinked hard from the whiplash of hearing Potter use his first name.

“Since when do you call me by my first name?” he snapped loudly, looking at Potter in offense instead of inquiring about the probably concerning amount of blood.

The other just gave him a dry look.

“I think that changed when you came all over my face.” Potter shook his head in disbelief, nudging Draco to sit on the velvet chair.

“I’ll take care of it. You got any plasters in here?” Potter carried on.

Draco sluggishly pointed to the red box under the workbench, noticing the tenderness in Potter's voice. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Draco insecurely watched from the chair he'd been moved to, his eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Potter’s ass as he bent over.

It was enough to pull him out of his compliance and reverie.

“I can do the plasters myself, Potter.” Draco stood up, moving the bench to push him away.

He had to run his shop. He didn’t have time for whatever post-sex coddling Potter was trying to pull. He didn’t want to be soft with Potter; he didn’t want to be cared for like this.

Maybe he'd start to believe it if he thought about it enough.

Potter frowned as Draco approached, a look of confusion passing over him. “What?”

“I can do it myself; your services are not needed.” Draco closed the first aid kit with an outstretched hand, giving Potter a pointed look. The Gryffindor just stared back, bewildered at the change of tone. Draco shook his head impatiently, huffing loudly and shoving the rest of Potter’s crumpled-up clothes into his arms.

“Please put these on and leave.”

Potter finally seemed to piece together what Draco was demanding, scowling and placing his clothes on the bench.

“What happened? Why are you doing this?” he demanded, not backing down as Draco had hoped.

He pursed his lips, staring through the door to the front of the store to avoid looking Potter in the eye.

“I don’t have time for this, Potter. I have to get back to work. I said it before, and now I’m repeating it,” he snapped, moving past Potter to clean up the mess of papers scattered over the floor.

Draco could tell by Potter’s hunched position and furrowed brow that he wasn’t pleased.

“Don’t have time for what? Talking? Letting me bandage your neck?” He sounded hurt, and Draco knew deep down the expression Potter had on was probably unbearable. It was why he avoided looking at him.

Before, when Potter asked what they were doing, Draco hadn’t responded, but now he had an answer for him. Draco faced the noticeboard over his work table, expression hard and shoulders tense.

“I don’t have time for this bullshit, Potter. You wanted to know what this was, well, it’s nothing. Thank you for the happy ending; now, kindly leave.”

The silence that followed was excruciating.

Draco refused to look over his shoulder as he heard Potter pull on his clothes and leave the workroom. The clunking sound of his new boots on the wood floors was the last thing he heard as Potter walked out of the shop, the bell jingling quietly behind him.

Quite suddenly, Draco felt very alone.

He tugged his small pile of papers against his chest, staring at the table solemnly and trying to convince himself he hadn’t made a mistake.

Draco didn’t have time for relationships, friendly chatting, or being taken care of. He had to focus on his apprenticeship. He had to focus on taking care of his mother. He had to concentrate on getting home safely every night, at least until he could prove that he wasn’t a psychotic Death Eater like his father was. He didn't have the time or means to throw a variable like Potter into his life.

Draco glanced around the wrecked workroom, witnessing the evidence of their debauchery. It was strange how quickly Potter was gone; when just minutes ago, they’d been clinging to each other so desperately.

Potter had tried to stay, though- he hadn’t given up too quickly.

However, it still hurt how Potter hadn’t fought very hard to stay. After just a few scathing remarks and he was gone. Draco should have expected it, though. Maybe he was too used to Potter fighting back with him over the years.

Draco knew it wasn’t the healthiest way of judging someone’s intent. But if Potter couldn’t deal with a few quips, then he certainly wouldn’t be able to deal with the shit people would say about Draco. If the great Harry Potter and ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy were involved, he’d have to put up with so much worse.

Eventually, he spotted Potter’s forgotten trainers lying under the chair and let out a groan, covering his face with his hands. He would either have to return or throw them out, or, more frighteningly, Potter would return for them. Draco couldn’t even pretend that Potter wouldn’t because, evidently, these were the only pair of trainers the idiot owned!

Draco decided to ignore the offending trainers, picked his apron up from the floor, and cleaned the scattered papers instead. When faced with the corrupted washrag, Draco didn’t dare touch it, simply knocking it onto the floor where he could kick it into the pile of leather scraps. He would deal with it later when he didn’t feel so ashamed of his behavior.

He had all been somewhat alright until he started thinking about everythng that happened. Potter was more than content with their potential whatever, but Draco’s composure hadn't lasted more than five minutes when faced with something more.

He just bent over his workbench, head buried in his arms, utterly aware he’d fucked up something majorly important. But it would be doomed if they did get together, it would have only opened the door for something terrible to happen. Draco's only choice was to kick Potter out to protect him from himself.

They were attracted to each other, they had a quick shag, and that was it. It was that simple. Potter would have to get over it.

Draco lifted his eyes to the notice board over the counter, swearing loudly when he saw all the papers had been ripped off the wall. He tried to fix it to the best of his ability, but the damage was done. Draco just stared at the mess, feeling small and empty. He couldn't even use magic to repair it.

The evidence of their episode was everywhere. Draco couldn’t avoid this like he usually did, compartmentalizing every terrible thing that had happened in his life. Of course, it was all the more miserable because, deep down, he’d genuinely enjoyed being with Potter.

He hadn't felt that kind of happiness in years.

Draco heard the bell ring as a customer entered, jumping up when he remembered the woman from before. He grabbed his apron and rushed out front, tying the cords behind him while giving the best fake smile he could muster. The older witch, a regular who came in for her daughter’s Quidditch supplies, gave him a frightened look from the counter.

“Oh, dear. What happened to you? Are you quite alright?” she asked concernedly, and Draco hesitated before realizing what a mess he must look like. His eyes widened as he remembered the bite he’d stopped Potter from bandaging.

He slapped a hand over the mark on his neck, smiling anxiously.

“I’m fine, thank you. I just had a run-in with a kneazle behind the shop. What can I do for you today, Dorothy?”

Chapter Text

Harry was not alright.

His shameful walk back to Hogwarts was one of dismayed silence. He felt like he’d been hit with about six bludgers, but with no medical team to help repair him.

His first thought after Draco kicked him out was wondering if he'd been used. It was a valid question, and Harry certainly wasn’t in the wrong to think it. But he also knew deep down he hadn't been. There were too many instances where Malfoy’s affection had revealed itself. It had been shown through soft kisses and gentle touches, moments he would never forget. Malfoy had kissed Harry like he meant something to him, not like it was just a culmination of rising tensions. Maybe the rising tensions had been true at first, but after that woman had walked into the shop and Draco had delicately kissed Harry like he was confessing something deep and intimate... that memory was going to haunt him for a long time.

Harry decided to see Hagrid. It was still light out, and he always felt better after seeing his old friend.

Unfortunately, after thirty minutes of stilted conversation and realizing that he couldn’t precisely tell Hagrid, 'I just fucked Draco Malfoy before he kicked me out, and I don’t know how to feel about it,' he left with the vague excuse of homework.

Hagrid had told him to feel better as he left, clearly knowing something was up. But Harry only wished he knew how to put his feelings into words.

When he returned to Gryffindor Tower, Harry dropped onto the empty red couches by the fire, listlessly staring into the flames and replaying everything over and over again in his head.

Draco had been the one to kiss him first and he'd reciprocated wholeheartedly throughout the entire experience. It had taken Harry a while to make Malfoy come, but those things happened to everyone, which couldn't be why he’d rejected him. They'd even managed to have an awkward but polite conversation beforehand!

It all felt so muddled and confusing. It felt like Harry had been given a taste of an unattainable fantasy, only to be ripped away once he realized how much he wanted it.

He sunk deeper into the couch, trying to disappear into the pillows, only to wince at a sharp pain on the back of his shoulders. Harry knew Malfoy had held on pretty tight, but he wasn't sure about the extent of the damage. At the moment, the pain was just a painful reminder of Malfoy.

But Malfoy had said he didn’t have time for bullshit.

The blond's words and actions didn’t match up, though. How Malfoy could switch into his icy exterior after such an intimate moment was beyond jarring; Harry felt like he'd taken a brick to the back of the head. Even after years of being Malfoy's prime target, a small part of Harry thought maybe they'd grown out of it.

And it wasn’t even that Harry had just had the hottest experience of his life and now he was overly attached- he knew it meant something because of those fucking kisses! Harry was so sure Malfoy would have shoved him away once they were almost walked in on. While he had been a bit pointy about it, the opposite had happened. He'd given them a chance and opened up.

If Malfoy hadn’t meant the entire thing, he wouldn’t have looked at him like that, he wouldn’t have cleaned Harry off so gently, and he wouldn’t have fucking begged Harry to kiss him with those storm-grey eyes after nearly being walked in on.

There was just too much evidence.

When people returned from dinner, Harry headed to the dorms, hoping sleep was a better use of his time than anxiously going in circles.

He'd just started pulling off his button-down when some of the new dorm mates came in.

“Jeez, Harry, what bird scratched you up like that?”

He spun around at the sound, eyes wide as Brendan and Quinton walked in. Both were seventh years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team with him, so they weren't wholly unwelcome as dorm mates.

Harry was one of only six eighth-years to return to Hogwarts. That meant they had to be redistributed to new dorms with new dormmates. Harry's new dorm mates were alright so far; none of them were massive prats yet or loud snorers. They weren't Ron or the rest of his old friends, but they got on well enough to feel like Harry had some companions that didn’t consist of only Hermione.

“Sorry, what?” Harry feigned ignorance, tossing the button-up into the hamper and turning his back to them as he made his way to the trunk.

Quinton, from what Harry knew, should have been put in Ravenclaw.
The younger male came closer, ignoring Harry’s deflection as he peered over his shoulders in morbid curiosity.

“Your back, have you seen it? Your girl needs to cut her nails.”

Quinton didn’t touch Harry, but he still felt horridly exposed. His shoulders were stiff, raised up by his ears in tension.

“No, I haven’t had the chance. Is there any blood?” he asked weakly over his shoulder, trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal in order to hide his concern.

Brendan peered over his back as he dragged Quinton away, shaking his head.

“No, just some nasty scratches. Better go take a look, though.”

Harry grabbed an old Cannons shirt before heading to the loo, lights flickering on as he entered. He stopped in front of the mirror, carefully placing his Cannons shirt on the sink's rim. Slowly, Harry turned to investigate his back, stilling as he saw what Brendan and Quinton meant.

Small half-moon cuts along the top of his shoulders were the source of the pain he'd been experiencing all afternoon- he wasn’t too surprised by those. But the huge red lacerations running down up and down his back were pretty ghastly.

Harry hadn’t even noticed Malfoy being rough with him; he'd been too focused on other things. Harry had been worrying about causing considerable damage to the blond, but maybe he wasn't the only one in the wrong. Malfoy favored scratching to Harry’s biting, and they were both guilty of leaving marks on the other.

He could spot small hickies dotting his shoulders and throat, the little purple marks unfurling something deep inside him. Harry couldn’t remember any of the marks being made, but he wished he did.

“See? No consideration at all, that one. Just brutal.” Brendan walked in, motioning to Harry’s back and shaking his head.

Harry stared back at his tired reflection as Brendan went to the showers, sighing heavily at the morbid truth behind it.

“Brutal isn't even the start of it,” he muttered, leaning into the mirror to look at the deeper cuts on his shoulder again.

The huge scratches down his back would heal quickly; they looked nasty because his skin was agitated. The cuts on his shoulders and neck were deeper, small half-moon slivers of dried blood standing out starkly against his olive-toned skin. Thankfully, they weren’t dire enough to seek medical attention. There was no need to go looking for an ointment or potion from the Hospital Wing.

Merlin knows what Madam Pomfrey would say if she saw all this.

Harry glanced at the hickies again, conflicted when he realized how much he liked them. It was as if Harry was carrying memories of Malfoy on him.

They were proof of how much they wanted each other at that moment. It was carved into Harry's skin. Merlin knows, he’d left a big enough mark on Malfoy.

Harry felt ashamed of that. He never knew he’d liked biting, let alone enough to cause that much damage. His shame only increased once he realized Malfoy's bite mark was probably bad enough to scar.

Harry liked these marks, but what if Malfoy hated them? He’d certainly kicked Harry out fast enough to make it seem like he didn't want any of it. Harry’d already damaged Malfoy enough in the past, before and during the war. Now he was scarring him after, too? Despicable.

Harry yanked his worn Cannons shirt over his head and left the loo. He grabbed clean sleep pants from his trunk on the way, climbing into his bunk and shutting the curtains behind him. Usually, he didn’t care about changing in front of the others, but today, it was different. Today, he didn't want anyone to see him. Even if Quinton and Brendan had seen the cuts, Harry felt too exposed to leave the curtains open.

He squirmed out of his jeans, kicking off his briefs before noticing the blotchy stained fabric from earlier that day. He'd spelled himself clean after getting kicked out of Draco’s shop, but seeing the remaining stains was just another ugly reminder. Harry banished the stained briefs and pulled on his sleep pants, dumping his jeans outside the curtains before burying himself under the quilted blankets.

Harry felt like a wounded animal. All he wanted to do was forget what had happened that afternoon. He’d wasted weeks fantasizing about Malfoy, and somehow, it had miraculously come to fruition.

But given their history, Harry should have known it wouldn’t end well.

It was their oddly perfect chemistry that fucked him up the most. Harry couldn’t get the possibility of some relationship with Malfoy out of his head. It hurt because even though he knew they would be so good together, it’d never happen. With Malfoy shutting him down that quickly, nothing would ever happen.

Maybe Harry should have fought harder. Though his gut instinct after being called bullshit was to run away, he couldn't have stopped himself from leaving, not after putting himself out there like that. This was too painful; he was too exposed.

It was a whole-body ache, knowing he'd tasted what could have been.

Harry never even knew he’d wanted something like this. He knew he'd eventually wanted to settle down with someone who treated him like an equal and a real person, but he certainly never thought it could be Malfoy.

He still wasn't sure it could be Malfoy, but the more he shamefully considered it, the more he convinced himself it could work. They both detested the public eye; they each had their own trauma from the war, and they'd been obsessed with each other for nearly nine years. How had Harry not seen this before?

Not that he was thinking about marrying the bugger- that'd be a laugh.

But just the possibility of trying something with Malfoy, giving that tiny bit of potential a chance? Harry couldn't have it now that he had finally found someone. Harry had always wanted to live his life like an average person, to stop being seen as a hero by everyone and to be left alone—by the public and by Voldemort.

Now, he had a tiny chance of an average life after everything, possibly with a brilliant but very unexpected person. Still, he couldn’t have it. Malfoy didn't even give him the decency of a proper reason why; he just called it all bullshit and tossed him out.

Harry knew he was acting like the end of the world was upon them. He was probably being childish, but he had a serious amount of emotional whiplash from the last few hours; he didn’t know how else to behave. Harry was going through his first actual break-up as an adult.

He didn’t even know if he wanted to tell Hermione about it because it would just mean reliving everything. And if it would hurt Harry this much, he wanted to forget it ever happened in the first place.

Deep down, he knew that was a pathetic lie to make himself feel better.

Harry didn't want to forget any of it.

---

Leaving the shop that night was a relief; Draco wanted nothing but to go home and shower.

It wasn’t that he felt dirty, so much as he needed to stop feeling like he was in limbo and waiting for something dreadful to happen. A shower felt like the only way he could reset himself.

He wrapped his green jacket around himself as he trudged down High Street, mind set on properly bandaging up his neck and getting into pajamas. He craved the safety and comfort of home.

Draco had felt high-strung and anxious all day. He was miserable because of how poorly he’d handled the incident and equally terrified that Potter might return for his trainers.

He had to come back eventually; the git hadn't paid for the rest of his boots. Draco knew the likelihood of Potter returning the same day was slim, especially after their blowout. But he remained tense all afternoon, waiting for something to happen. It was exhausting.

Draco narrowly missed getting slammed into, glancing over his shoulder at the tall man sneering at him. Draco looked forward, carrying on and ignoring the incident.

He finally turned down his street and shuffled to his apartment, locking the door securely behind him before leaning heavily against it.

Draco managed to stare around the safety of his apartment, his muscles slowly unclenching and his breath coming easily for the first time in hours. No one could find him here; he was safe.

Draco gradually shrugged off his coat once he kicked his shoes to the side, pulling off his shirt and cringing at the smell of sweat. He'd been able to smell it on himself all afternoon. That was one of the consequences of rutting against someone for thirty-odd minutes in a tiny backroom with no change of clothes.

He shed the rest of his clothes on the way to the toilet, dropping them to the floor as he went. He needed to shower before he could do anything else.

Draco had held it together for the afternoon. Still, he no longer needed to hide behind a mask of civility, but he desperately didn’t want to have a breakdown in the middle of his flat.

That's what showers were for.

After tossing his leather trousers into the hamper, he flicked on the bathroom light and looked at the black-rimmed mirror above the sink. He stared at his reflection in stunned silence.

He had barely put himself together after Dorothy had left, but Draco had never gotten around to bandaging his neck.

Draco's hair was oily from dried sweat, and the skin around his jaw and neck was rubbed raw from stubble burn. It wasn't surprising; he'd been expecting the stubble burn. The part that shocked him about his appearance the most was the angry red and purple bruises surrounding an atrocious bite mark between his neck and shoulder.

Draco stepped closer to the mirror, astonished at how gruesome it looked. He leaned way over the counter, poking lightly at the teeth-shaped gashes cut into his skin. There was a thin scab slowly healing over the cuts, but leaving it exposed for so long wouldn't end well.

“Well, well…” Draco mumbled thoughtfully, somewhat impressed. No wonder Dorothy had been so surprised.

Draco stared at it in morbid curiosity for a few more seconds before working out how to deal with it. He reached beneath the sink for the muggle first-aid kit he kept on hand, locating the disinfecting ointment and comically large plasters. Draco had thought the oversized plasters were hilarious when he’d first laid eyes on them several months ago, but now understood their purpose.

He slowly opened the packaging, having minimal experience with Muggle medical products, and read the instructions before applying the healing ointment to his skin. The potential side effects of the ointment seemed vast and fairly concerning, but this was all he had available. Draco felt he didn't have much choice at the moment.

His mother always had dittany around when he lived at the manor, but Draco wasn’t permitted anything like that anymore. No wand, no potions, and very restricted floo access. He had to make do with muggle inventions. Which was fine- he wasn’t too put off by it. If these things worked on muggles, it would hopefully work on him, too.

Draco applied the clear, shiny liquid to each cut on his skin before placing the obnoxious plaster over them, staring daftly at the odd nude color the plaster tried to mimic. They wanted to convince people the plaster wasn’t there, but had the muggles even bothered to try? Or maybe muggles just couldn’t fake realism that well. Both seemed equally likely.

Nevertheless, Draco couldn't be bothered to think about that right now, turning in the mirror to glance over his body for more potential damage. Nothing but the red blemishes of stubble burn and Potter's bite mark remained as evidence, so he turned on the shower.

The water pressure in his flat wasn’t the best, but Draco had hot water, which was good enough. He was in no position to demand petty things like better water pressure.

Draco waited for the shower to heat before stepping completely under, turning his face to the onslaught and trying not to think. Once he let himself think, that’s when everything would fall apart.

He kept telling himself that pushing Potter away was for the best. Draco wasn’t comfortable with continuing or even humoring something between them. However, it didn't mean he wasn't still hurting from how much he wanted to try. If it had just been quick and dirty sex, he wouldn’t have cared- that he could deal with.

But this was different.

They’d gotten on so fucking well, and there had been so many small, intense kisses that made Draco feel like Potter valued and truly wanted him. Those hurt to think about.

And the way Potter had held his hand and kissed him so sweetly at the end? Fuck, it was disgusting how much Draco wanted that again.

Then he'd shoved Potter away and called the whole thing bullshit.

Dracco frowned into the water spray, tilting his head back and reaching around for his shampoo.

It was bullshit. They’d hated each other up until seven hours ago. They'd had a good thing going for eight or so years, but now, there was suddenly this huge unknown between them.

Draco had been content with his tiny flat and his apprenticeship with Lisette. He hadn’t needed anything else. He could ignore the looks and snide comments he got when he walked home at night, but Potter wouldn't be able to. The poor sod was so used to being loved and appreciated that he probably never knew what it was like to be scorned by the general populace.

The moment Draco thought that he knew he was wrong. The period during the war when bounties were put out on Potter’s head was a clear indication that he had, in fact, dealt with massive amounts of hate. While he hid like a coward in his rooms during the war, Draco had listened to the Death Eaters roaming Malfoy Manor, boasting about the bounties on Potter's head.

Draco had never really fallen for their pathetic attempt at conditioning, but the people who read the Prophet probably did. And that was dangerous.

Therefore, it was unfair to say that Potter couldn’t take the kind of hate Draco dealt with these days. If anything, Potter had felt it first.

Draco rinsed his hair and hissed at the sharp stinging on his neck, soap sliding under the plaster and over his raw skin.

Was that supposed to happen? He hadn’t even considered whether the plaster was waterproof; he’d just automatically assumed it because of the Wizarding bandages he'd previously used.

Draco decided to quickly finish his shower and deal with the plaster after, rushing through his usual routine to keep his mind busy.

When he checked the plaster after stepping out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and leaning over the bathroom counter, it became apparent that the muggle plaster was indeed not waterproof.

Draco swore at the box's packaging, recoiling in disgust as he peeled the soggy material off and wiped the wound with tissue paper. This time, he applied the ointment and plaster quicker, pressing his hand over the plaster afterward and feeling the heat radiate from under the unnatural plastic.

It would be fine. The bite would heal over in a few days, and then he could forget about the entire ordeal.

Draco knew he should be grateful for the memories of Potter, guiltily revisiting the memories of the day as he lay in bed wrapped in the damp towel, dinner forgotten as he curled around his laptop to watch muggle TV shows.

Once it stopped hurting to think about the memories, he would be fine.

For now, Draco just had to move on with his life and prepare for Potter to return for his trainers.

Chapter Text

For the next several days, it rained in Hogsmeade.

Draco knew the weather must be some sort of punishment for his actions. The significant lack of customers was probably due to the rain. Still, as he sat in the shop quietly working on his boot orders, it only worsened his mood.

The isolation used to be a reprieve, but now it felt like a punishment.

He hadn’t received any owls requesting Potter’s trainers, and he’d seen no sign of Potter himself to settle his debt for the boots.

Draco had spent his nights trying (and failing) to read or watch Netflix. When that hadn’t worked, he had pathetically turned to his pornography videos to forget the one-off with Potter. But again, he was unsuccessful.

The videos only made him realize he had a whole new set of kinks, most of which featured Potter. It was stupid of him to think it might work.

What he didn’t anticipate was the hell-fury that was Hermione Granger.

Perhaps he’d expected a howler from her, but not for her actual reign of terror to descend upon him the following Saturday afternoon. The loud slam of the shop’s door should have been his first indication that it wouldn’t go well.

“Malfoy, come on out. I know you're back there!”

Draco fearfully dropped the leather shears from the pattern he’d been cutting, swearing at the large gash marring the once-perfect hide.

He quickly walked away from the project and peered around the corner, observing her from behind the protective barrier of his doorway. Draco gave her a mild look from behind the wall, an eyebrow raised at Granger’s soaked appearance.

“Afternoon. Forget a simple charm with all this rain? How sloppy.”

She glared at him, grounding her hands on the counter and ignoring the remark.

“What did you do to Harry? He came in for his boots last week, and now he has said boots, but he’s lost his trainers, and he’s been in a right mood and won’t answer any of my questions!” she exclaimed hysterically.

Draco cautiously stepped into the doorway once he was confident she wouldn’t hex him on sight.

“Will you keep shouting, or should I answer?”

“Malfoy.”

“Alright, I have his trainers. The berk stormed off without them when he came for his boots,” he drawled, pulling the paper bag which contained Potter’s trainers from under the counter.

He slid them across the countertop, shrugging casually while staring at the bag ominously.

“Was going to send an owl if he didn’t turn up; he also forgot to settle the rest of his fees.”

She stared at the bag with a frown, and Draco saw her trying to piece everything together. Then she glared back up at him again, unappeased.

“What did you say to him?”

Draco raised his hands in surrender, stepping away from the accusation.

“I said nothing. Potter tried on the boots, we had a polite exchange, and then he left at my request. He was so rushed to leave that he forgot to pay." It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

She gave him a rude look.

“Draco Malfoy, I don’t believe you.”

His eyebrows raised at the use of his full name.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Granger. That’s what happened. Have you tried just asking Potter?” he continued, feigning a lack of concern.

She looked frustrated, pushing her flattened, wet hair from her face. “Yes, Harry won’t give me any kind of straight answer. When I tried asking his roommates, they just laughed at me and walked away.”

She clearly wasn’t used to Potter hiding things from her.

The roommates comment gave him pause, though. Why did they laugh? What did they know? Had Potter told them? Were they laughing at Draco?

“Why would they laugh? Nothing is funny about asking for a friend’s wellbeing. They know something. You should interrogate them further,” he encouraged rather helpfully, hoping she would leave.

She nodded, agreeing with him. “That’s what I was thinking. Maybe they pulled a prank on Harry, and now he’s upset?” Granger looked at him weakly, knowing she wasn’t on the right track.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“After living in boys’ dorms for eight years, you build up an appreciation for pranks. You take a breather and then retaliate properly; there's no time for mulling about and being sad,” he drawled, thoughtfully waving a hand in the air. “Gryffindors are far more sensitive than Slytherins, though.”

Granger shook her head in frustration, leaning on the counter and slouching forward in defeat. Draco pursed his lips, realizing his impulse to insult Gryffindors ruined a perfectly good reason for her to leave.

“So, you didn’t say anything cruel like usual?”

“All of my comments are perfectly civil, thank you very much,” Draco claimed diplomatically.

Granger looked at him in annoyance. “Malfoy.”

Draco shook his head, hair swaying around his face as he waved a hand at the back room behind him.

“Granger, I don’t know what you want me to say. He walked into the workroom, tried on his boots, had a perfectly civil exchange with me, and then a client walked in, so Potter left. That’s all.”

She stared at him with measuring eyes, stepping away from the counter. Then, promptly, she walked around the counter and headed straight into the back room.

Draco jumped up, chasing after her.

“You can’t go back there!”

“Oh, shut up. It’s just a room with boots in it,” Granger snapped over her shoulder, standing in front of the velvet chair with hands on her hips.

Draco nearly walked into her, sidestepping around Granger at the last second. He'd made sure all evidence of his and Potter’s episode had been cleaned away- he’d been checking several times over the last few days just in case Lisette had noticed anything off. But Granger was not Lisette.

Granger was worse.

There was a stiff silence as she looked around, stepping in front of the workbench and analyzing the leather shears and bottles of polish scattered about. His paperwork was refastened to the pinboard, and everything looked chaotic. It was clearly a workroom.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with this,” Draco complained, eyes anxiously scanning the room for anything he could have missed.

Granger was investigating the floor when she stilled, bending over for something under the workbench. Draco's heart jumped to his throat when he saw her pick up the washrag from the discarded pile of leather scraps.

Granger frowned at the odd crunchy texture, tentatively leaning in to smell it and gasping loudly. She flung it to the ground and threw an arm up, pointing at him wide-eyed.

“You-!”

Draco just stared back in mortified horror.

“Did you shag? I knew he was obsessing over you after we came in for those boots!” She cried out, sounding far more excited at guessing it correctly than upset over the subject.

“Pardon me?” Draco held his hands out before him, astounded at her conclusion. He could feel himself starting to sweat from the stress, the room feeling too warm.

Granger hesitated, lowering her arm and seeming a tad less confident.

“You two shagged?” she said more modestly, this time as a question.

Draco glanced down at the semen-covered rag that had dried days ago.

“Shag isn’t the term I would use. But yes, there was an… incident.” He ran a hand over his face in exhaustion, forgetting he'd been working with polish earlier that day.

He swore quietly, looking down at his hand to confirm that he'd smudged polish on his face again. Draco pulled the collar of his shirt to wipe at the smudge on his face as he tried to explain the incident to her, nearly missing Granger's gasp.

“What happened to your neck?”

Draco remained still, forgetting about the bandage and lowering his shirt. At this point, there was no point in even bothering to hide it.

“Potter has an affinity for biting?” Draco offered weakly, giving her an embarrassed look.

Granger covered her mouth with her hand, staring at his bandaged neck in eerie fascination. He could practically see her piecing it all together in her mind.

“Alright, so you two shagged, he damaged you-” she snapped her fingers, giving him a knowing look “-his dorm mates! Harry must have told them.”

“He better not have!” Draco said in a shrill tone.

Granger gave him a gentle look to comfort him. He hated it.

“They haven’t told anyone; I wouldn’t have come here if they did. Harry’s just been acting oddly depressed. Though I suppose if it hadn’t ended happily…?” she inquired, arching a brow at him knowingly.

She was terribly clever, and he didn’t appreciate being judged like this.
Draco glared at her accuracy, nodding. “It did not. I immediately requested he leave following our... conclusions.”

Granger gave him an odd look. “Why? Do you not like him? You two have always been somewhat obsessed with each other.”

Offended, he folded his arms and looked to the ceiling in disbelief.

“I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you.”

“Me neither, but my best friend is miserable,” she snapped.

After realizing she’d caught him and there was nothing he could do to stop this charade aside from play along, Draco sat firmly on the velvet chair and stared down at his hands. He hadn’t had anyone to talk to about this, and when he wasn’t miserable at home, the incident had been eating away at him during work. However, it was comforting to know Potter was also miserable, even though Draco was the reason for it all.

“He was very charming about it all, I’ll say that,” he said quietly, giving her a weary look.

Granger calmed instantly, giving a slight frown and listening intently.
Draco looked down at his stained fingernails, feeling stiff and awkward.

“I’m very grateful that he stepped in during our trial and essentially saved my life. But suppose I can save him from experiencing the kind of hate I deal with every day, the same kind of hate that would only add to the harassment he already has to put up with. In that case, I am at peace with my choices and how I’ve gone about it.”

Granger stared at him briefly before moving forward and standing over him.

“Why can’t you just tell that to him yourself? I’m sure Harry would understand,” she said quietly, understanding in her eyes.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You think Potter wouldn’t just say fuck it and ignore everything I said?”

Granger frowned when she realized he was right, sighing. “He does tend to do that.”

Draco didn’t feel like telling her exactly how right she was, glancing at the workbench and rubbing his nose delicately with a clean finger.

“He wouldn’t think it over and then accidentally tell everyone. He’d receive howlers, hate mail, and scathing looks in the hallway every day during classes. No one would want to be his partner for anything, and no one would sit with you two at dinner. Not to mention, he’d probably deal with it in the Gryffindor common room as well, and I don’t have to tell you how they feel about my kind,” he said in a tired tone. “More significantly, he might lose job prospects from being associated with an acquitted Death Eater after school.”

“You’ve thought about this then.” Granger sighed heavily, looking disappointed.

“Yes, Granger. I’ve thought about this far too much.” He smiled sadly.

She was silent, glancing over the room and, finally, at the crusty rag on the floor.

"You do like him, don't you? You wouldn't be bothering with all of this if you just wanted a quick shag out of him." She asked thoughtfully.

Draco glared unhappily at the wall, acutely aware that he'd been caught.

"Yes, Granger, I do. Thank you for making me say it out loud," he muttered sarcastically.

She nodded in mild amusement, ignoring his tone and brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

“Alright. I’ll bring Harry's trainers back, then. How much does he owe you?”

She motioned to the front of the store, and Draco rose from the chair.

He followed her out front, leaning against the counter as she fished the remaining galleons from her bag to settle the debt. Draco collected them and put them aside, relieved to move on from the vulnerable topic of feelings. As she turned to go, Granger looked over her shoulder.

“You know I’m going to tell him all of this, don’t you?”

Draco smiled dryly, propping his hip against the counter. “Granger, if you didn’t tell him, I’d be concerned for your wellbeing.”

She gave him a small smile before leaving the shop with Potter's trainers.

Draco watched her go past the window, letting go of the breath he'd been holding. That hadn’t gone as badly as he would have guessed.

Now, he had to worry about Potter possibly returning and giving him an earful, but he’d been expecting that for several days anyway.

Draco played with the edge of his shirt anxiously, knowing his mother would scold him for pulling the fabric and probably staining it even further.

It didn’t matter; everything he cared about ended up ruined anyway.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was packed. The Saturday rains had ruined anyone's plans for a lovely weekend, driving students to homework or card games.

Harry was curled up by the window, feigning progress on his potions essay and staring outside at the rain. He couldn’t see the Quidditch pitch, but the temptation to fly in the storm outside was intense.

But he didn’t expect a dripping-wet Hermione to interrupt his brooding.
Harry stared in interest as she dropped onto the bench by his feet. She held out a soggy paper bag, her hair flattened and looking exasperated.

“You went outside?” He frowned, taking the bag from her and scrunching his nose at the floppy texture.

“I had some errands to run.”

Harry sat up when he saw the trainers at the bottom of the soggy bag. He glanced at Hermione hesitantly, the expression of grave judgment giving away that she already knew everything. Harry dropped the bag onto the floor, covering his face in humiliation.

“What’d he tell you.”

“Not everything, but I found the washrag on the floor of his workroom. Also, you owe me thirty galleons.”

“Fucking hell, Hermione.” He whined.

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t say I’m not surprised. He’s a mess, too, by the way.” She fixed her damp jumper primly, looking over the busy common room in bored interest.

Harry frowned, glaring down at his blank essay in front of him. That didn’t match up.

“Why? He was the one to reject me! He has no right to be miserable.”

She gave him a daft look. “Did you stop to think maybe he was looking at the big picture?”

After receiving a confused expression in return, Hermione turned to Harry and crossed her legs, settling in.

“He said he wasn’t inclined to subject you to the public hate of being associated with him. His words.” She relayed.

That did make sense, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Harry shook his head in denial.

“But that’s my choice, isn’t it?” He shot back.

She sighed heavily. “It is, but Harry, you need to think about this. What do you even want to accomplish with this?” She pleaded, putting a hand on his ankle and shaking it. “Do you just want to shag him a few times? Do you want to go after a relationship with Malfoy? Or is this all just a new crush because you’re blinded by a bit of good sex?” She whispered, knowing anyone could overhear their conversation.

Harry gave her a blank stare, realizing she may be right.

He hadn’t thought it through that much. All he’d thought about was how good they had been together and how much he wanted to feel that compatibility again. The sex had been great, but it was their rapport that had him so hopelessly infatuated with Malfoy. He treated Harry like an equal, if just barely. His confidence in putting Harry in his place was refreshing, not to mention terrifically attractive.

Unlike Ginny, who fawned over Harry like a hopeless fan from the start of their relationship, Harry's interactions with Draco were much more memorable. Even when he insulted him, Malfoy captivated Harry with a fascination no one could compare to.

“I guess… I just want to see him be happy again.” He said honestly, earning a soft look from Hermione.

Harry sat up properly, smile widening as he remembered.

“He dropped all of his walls and the absurd posturing. He was just open and soft and honest. I can't believe I just described Draco Malfoy as soft, but it’s like he’s a completely different person. Except he's still a bit sharp and pointy, but that'll never go away. I really do kind of like it." He shrugged cooly, almost dazing off in thought, Hermione grinning.

”I’d never have thought it was possible since he's such an uptight arsehole all the time, but he really can smile and laugh and be kind.” Harry continued, thinking about how Malfoy had been so gentle about wiping his eye off with the rag. He could have been rough and annoyed about cleaning Harry up, but he hadn’t been.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic smile. “Do you care at all that people might be upset?”

He glanced over the common room at their fellow Gryffindor’s, shrugging lazily.

“Not really, we’re kind of on our own anyway,” Harry said back, Hermione nodding. They were.

Ginny hadn’t even considered returning for her final year, and none of their friends had returned to finish their N.E.W.T.s like they had. On top of that, the public was already less than friendly towards them. They saw them as celebrities and war heroes, not people.

The only ones he’d be worried about were the Weasleys.

“Do you think Ron would hate me?” Harry wondered out loud.

If there was anyone whose opinion mattered, it was Ron. Whether his friend cared if he liked men or not was a completely separate issue altogether.

Harry watched Hermione thinking it over, and her resounding shrug was promising.

“He’s quite good friends with Blaise Zabini now; I don’t see why he couldn’t eventually warm up to Draco. But we'd have to see, there's a lot of bad blood between the two of them...”

Hearing Hermione use Malfoy’s first name was appreciated, especially since Harry had been trying to think of him as Draco instead of Malfoy.

“The rest of the Weasleys would be even more difficult, with Fred still being so recent.” She murmured, Harry nodding. If they ever took to Draco, it wouldn’t be any time soon.

Harry looked out the window, considering all the points they'd discussed.
Teddy and Andromeda would be okay with it, they were already related to Draco. And he’d heard Andromeda mention how she was owling with Narcissa recently, which was a good indication of easy acceptance towards Draco in Harry's life.

As Hermione began to spell her clothes clean, someone across the room started a game of exploding snaps, which sent loud popping noises across the room.

Then Harry remembered the bite mark he’d inflicted on Draco.

“Did you manage to see if his neck was alright?” He blurted, face heating in embarrassment.

She glanced at him in amusement, spelling her trainers clean of mud.

“There’s a bandage over it if that’s what you’re asking.” She answered patiently.

“He’s not in pain?”

Hermione shook her head and finished up her spells.

“No, he seems perfectly fine. Aside from being a bit moody once I pressed him about everything, I wouldn’t have assumed anything was wrong. He's quite good at hiding his emotions.” She leaned back against the stone of the window sill, looking like she was ready to change out of her dirty clothes.

Harry nodded slowly, scratching at his arm. “I didn’t mean to do it.” He figured he should answer for why he’d damaged Draco.

Surprisingly, Hermione grinned. “What, mauling his neck? That is quite impressive.” She giggled, Harry feeling his face flush further.

“It wasn’t just me! You should see the scratches he left all over my back.” He complained, unable to help the grin that spread over his face.

She smirked, pointing up at the dorms. “Is that what Brendan and Quinton were laughing at when I asked them what was wrong with you?” She asked, Harry nodding to confirm it.

“Yeah, they were the first to mention something. It’s impressive, Hermione; I didn’t think he had nails like that.” He reached a hand up to the back of his neck. She watched the motion with amusement.

“Will they scar?”

Harry frowned and touched the scabs behind his neck.

“I don’t know,” He leaned forward and pulled his shirt collar to the side to show her. Hermione leaned in, examining the little red marks.

“They might. Don’t pick at them, or they absolutely will.” She warned playfully, far too amused at the whole situation to lecture him properly.

Harry wouldn’t tell her how he planned to pick at them just because of her idea. He wanted them to scar. Even if it was highly embarrassing, that was private. It was bad enough that Quinton and Brendon knew about the marks, but he wanted to keep them for himself for as long as he could.

“Wait, ‘Mione, did he even say if he likes me back?” Harry asked suddenly, interrupting her as she stood to leave.

Hermione smiled at him over her shoulder. “Yes, Harry. He likes you too.”

She didn’t ask any more questions, leaving Harry to himself as she went upstairs.

Hermione's acceptance and mild amusement were comforting. Harry had been stressing over the guilt of not telling Hermione about everything. Still, her method of steamrolling through his brooding was a relief. The fact that she was only mildly annoyed was nice, too. Sometimes, Harry just really appreciated her tolerance for all his rubbish. At least one of them knew how to handle this.

He curled up against the window and glanced around the room tiredly, noticing how everything just carried on as if his world hadn’t been flipped.

But Harry was hopeful about Malfoy. He finally felt as if there was something he could do to fix what had happened. Now, he just had to find a way to get Draco to talk to him.

---

But against Harry’s wishes, life picked up.

The weather cleared, and Quidditch practice went all-out to prepare for the first match of the season. Any free time Harry had was put into training.

He wasn’t Captain anymore, but that didn’t stop Alyssa, the new Gryffindor Captain, from recruiting him as her Second. It made perfect sense when he rejoined for someone else to take command. Alyssa was small and fiery, exactly what the team needed to retake the cup this year.

Harry was tired and just wanted to play Quidditch without anyone expecting miracles from him.

So, Harry both loved and hated the new Quidditch routine.

He got to fly and play nearly every day, which would have been perfect before his love life took a turn. But he had to put on Draco’s boots every day. They were exquisitely crafted, and he had no complaints. Unfortunately, the memories they held book-ended his practices with ongoing anxiety concerning Draco.

Harry had attempted owling Malfoy the morning after his conversation with Hermione but received no response. It’d been a civil letter expressing how much he liked the boots and how he would recommend the shop to everyone on his team, a perfectly acceptable opening if Malfoy had wanted it.

Harry wasn’t trying to ask Malfoy for another fuck right out of the gate, but he wanted to gauge whereabouts they were in communication terms. Apparently, they weren’t on any terms at all. It made wooing Malfoy very difficult.

So, Harry carried on with classes and Quidditch with a melancholy air, unsure how to fix things with Draco and having no time to do anything, even if he had come up with an idea.

---

The morning of Gryffindor's match with Ravenclaw was sunny and hot, oddly cheerful for late September. Both houses wanted to believe the pleasant weather was a sign in their favor, and everyone was on edge. It was the first post-war match, and everyone was eager to have their traditions upheld by coming out on top.

Sitting high above the pitch, Harry felt this was exactly where he was supposed to be. This was his priority. He just had to focus on the game; then, he would have time afterward to brood and think about how to win Malfoy over.

As focused as he would like to be on the match, it really wasn't working. But Harry was trying his best, and that's all he could do.

Harry scanned over the field with bored practice, catching the Ravenclaw’s seeker flying low on the pitch. He wasn’t sure how that would help, but he also knew that the snitch could be anywhere, so it was a perfectly viable tactic. Harry was just projecting his irritation with himself onto the other seeker.

As he held his broom loosely, one hanging by his side, Harry drifted low over the stands and gazed down at the spectators below.

Harry was scanning the Slytherin and Hufflepuff stands. A few years ago, he'd found the snitch hovering under some rafters in the Gryffindor sector. Suppose he didn’t find the snitch overhead in the open air. In that case, his next strategy was looking at the spectators and the overhead beams of the shelters. The little golden bugger could literally be anywhere, so he wasn't about to judge Ravenclaw's seeker for being down near the ground.

Harry analyzed the graying wooden frames of the Slytherin stand, daydreaming about inviting Draco to go flying sometime. He liked flying as much as Harry, which could be a safe conversation starter. Harry wasn’t coming up with ideas to fix their current situation, so he was taking inspiration from his surroundings.

Maybe it was because Malfoy was on his mind, but Harry was pulled out of his daydreaming when he thought he saw a shock of blond hair in the sea of green under him.

He hovered his broom over the stand, staring down into the myriad of colors below, forgetting about the snitch. Was Malfoy here? No, it was the middle of the week. He couldn't have been let out of work to see a Quidditch match.

It was Harry's fault for not paying attention to the game.

The bludger came from out of nowhere, clipping the underside of his broom with a spectacular crack as it shot from the pitch below him.

Harry's broom exploded into a burst of splinters between his legs, hurtling him toward the Slytherin bleachers with a cruel speed far faster than gravity would have brought him down.

He attempted to throw his arms over his head as he fell, remembering through the sheer terror that he had to protect his head.

But the impact punched the air from his lungs as he crashed dead-stop onto the exterior railing of the Slytherin stand. The loud crack of the wood ripped a sickening wheeze from Harry, his head smacking onto something that made him go blind. Harry couldn't breathe. When he tried to pull in the air, it wouldn't go anywhere, only able to emit a sound akin to a dying animal.

He felt hands tugging on his quidditch robes, but gravity won out, dragging Harry over the edge down below.

When it was over a few seconds later, Harry lay in the sand at the bottom of the Quidditch pitch's Slytherin stand. He wasn't totally convinced he was still alive.

Harry hadn't experienced this kind of pain since the last time he'd been Crucio'd, his mind a white screen of nothing, unable to see and or even realize the pain was radiating from the center of his body. Something felt like it had ripped open his insides and was churning a firebrand inside him.

Unknown to Harry, but someone had caught him with a spell before he hit the ground. Unfortunately, it didn’t save him from colliding with the wooden structure on his way down.

Harry probably would have recognized he was still alive if he hadn't felt like he'd just been cut in half. In a brief moment of cognition, Harry wondered if he could walk anymore.

Harry couldn't feel his legs beneath all the debilitating pain. A nauseating ache pulsed hot lava from the inside of his body, but nothing lower than that. There was no pain below that ball of fire in his waist. He was unable to move but he somehow managed to open his eyes, swimming under the blue sky. Harry could hear someone screaming, but he didn't know where it was coming from.

He'd tried to groan when McGonagall called his name, knowing he had to respond or they would make him go to St. Mungos.

“His hip has completely shattered. I think his back is broken-”

“There’s a lot of blood; we need to move.”

“Professor!”

“Miss Granger, did you see what happened?”

Too many voices. He was going to throw up. At least his legs were still attached.

A scream ripped from deep inside Harry when someone jostled him, lifting him with a gentle transport spell to be brought to the medical wing. His eyes flickered before everything went quiet around him.

Harry wished he could have thanked whoever had put him unconscious.

Chapter Text

What a fucking mess.

Draco stormed up the muddy hill to Hogwarts, the Quidditch game carrying on behind him as Gryffindor’s spare seeker took over for Potter.

He’d seen people fall before; Hell, he’d fallen from that height himself. But witnessing Potter’s limp body collide at full speed with the stand's railing was a new kind of nightmare.

The crowd of professors toting Potter up to the hospital wing were already far ahead of him, Draco slowly climbing up the muddy hill alone. He felt impossibly stressed for someone who had already been chronically stressed for weeks. He was concerned for Potter’s welfare. He couldn't pretend that wasn't real. But what if someone recognized him and demanded he leave? Draco wasn’t even sure he was allowed within the castle's walls.

When he'd shown up for the match, he'd been anxious about what would come from his appearance. But the Slytherin students had honestly been pleasant; he'd only earned a few odd looks from the new first years who didn’t recognize him. The older students seemed to warm to his presence, and it was the first time Draco regretted not returning to Hogwarts. He’d thought his whole house would have turned him out, but after talking to some of them before the game, he realized most of the house had banded together in times of duress. Apparently, Slytherin hadn’t been doing too well in the eyes of the world.

The few students whose parents had been involved, like Draco's, had been oddly eager to speak with him for advice. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much to give other than to keep their friends close and their heads down until the aftereffects of the war passed.

But rather than be inspired by the future generations of his house, Draco was filled with an anxious fury for Potter.

He’d been excited for the first game of the year, to get out of the shop and do something different for once. Something to distract him from the anxiety that had taken over his life. It was only vaguely distressing when he realized Gryffindor was playing, so he’d been alternating between watching Potter and the goalposts. It had been somewhat working.

Then someone screamed, and a body dropped onto them from above.

When he’d recognized the bulky frame and black hair, he knew it was Potter. Draco tried yelling at the first years to grab him, but Potter had already dropped over the edge.

That was when he pushed through the throngs of children to reach the stairs.

It was awful whenever a student fell during Quidditch, but it happened two or three times every season without fail. There was a reason it was a dangerous game; people always seemed to forget that.

But it was so fucking stupid that Potter had to be the first one of the season after the war. The idiot was supposed to be somewhat competent at Quidditch!

By the time he’d reached the pitch, they’d already cleared everything away. Draco stood in somber silence as the game carried on overhead, cheers ringing out as he stared at the splatters of blood on the sand.

Draco didn't doubt himself for a second as he spun around and headed straight for the infirmary.

Currently, he was storming up the steps to the Hospital Wing, slowing his speed once he heard people gathering in front of its doors.

Draco slowed, suddenly aware that they could not let him in.

How was he supposed to explain that they’d had a mistaken shag, and now he was horridly invested in Potter’s welfare? No one would believe that.

Draco rounded the steps, seeing several of his former Professors standing outside the door and talking amongst themselves. As he hesitantly approached, pulling his green coat tighter around his body, they all turned, a complex series of expressions varying on each of them. A few were friendly, most were hostile.

Professor Sprout was the first to collect herself. “Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing here?” She wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but her civil tone was appreciated.

“I saw Potter fall, " he answered weakly, not sounding as confident as he would have liked in front of the group of professors.

“What’s it to you? You two never got on.” The Professor who said it was new, young, with long brown hair and a sharp jaw. He looked vaguely familiar, but Draco couldn’t place him.

He hesitated, glancing at the large doors of the hospital wing and stepping back at the defensive question.

“We’ve been speaking recently.” He decided, clenching his jaw and hoping that was enough.

Sprout quickly took control of the situation, waving for Draco to come forward.

“If you’ve gotten over the childhood rivalry, it's good enough for me; I know you’re doing good for yourself in Hogsmeade. He’s got a shattered hip and some broken ribs, his right lung collapsed, and one of his vertebrae was fractured. Harry’s out for now, but Poppy’s sealed up his wounds, fixed his lung and his bones are resetting.” She steamrolled over any of the Professors who would have objected, ignoring the outcries of her colleagues and shuffling Draco through the doors against their wishes.

"Do try not to cause a fuss, though, for posterity's sake."

He’d never given much care for Sprout before, but Draco wondered if she’d always cared this much.

Draco smiled politely and thanked her before walking down the line of beds, mind swimming with the knowledge of Potter's injuries. He spotted a surprisingly small number of people surrounding the bed closest to Madam Pomfrey’s office. A privacy sheet blocked the area off from prying eyes.

Draco slowed as he approached, hearing McGonagall and Granger discussing Potter’s condition. If it was just some broken bones left after his lung was repaired, Potter should be alright; a night of skele-gro, and it’d be easily fixed. Draco had gone through the same in the past. Surely, there was nothing to worry about. But Granger sounded frustrated, and Draco saw her sitting in the visitor chair next to Potter's bed.

“He’s been overworking himself, and I might have been a driving force behind it. With Quidditch practice taking over all his spare time and the homework accumulated for N.E.W.T.s prep, he hasn’t had much time to himself.” The sound of distraught was evident in her tone.

So, if he’d been waiting for Potter to show up at the shop and confront him, that would explain why he hadn't. But a measly letter being complimentary about his boots was just hurtful. Lisette had loved the dreadful thing, even framing and hanging it over the shop's counter as if it were some review.

Draco knew Potter’s letter was an olive branch of sorts, but he hadn’t expected Potter to stop trying. However, if he was overworked and burnt out, that could also explain why he was distracted during the match.

Draco peered around the curtain, breathing in sharply when he saw Potter's prone form.

The idiot was bandaged from head to toe. His clothes had been stripped away, and he was covered with a sheet from the waist down.

Bandages were wrapped around one arm, and healing salves were placed over random spots on his chest, possibly where he'd been cut on the way down from the fall. The exposed skin was bright red and swollen, and Draco could barely recognize the prat if it weren't for his unruly hair sticking out from the bandages. Potter looked a god-awful mess.

“Draco!” Granger stood when she saw him, Malfoy glancing at her and approaching with more certainty.

“What the fuck did he do, Granger.” He seethed, fury bubbling over once he saw Potter's wrecked form.

McGonagall reared at the language. “Mr. Malfoy!”

“Sorry, Professor. But you can't exactly disagree."

She merely raised her eyebrows but did not object.

“I think he was tired and didn’t see it coming.” Granger interrupted, placing a hand next to Potter on the bed.

Draco stepped to the foot of the cot, fingers wrapping around the railing as he stared furiously at Potter's prone form.

“Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing here? I did not think Madam Sterling would let you out from work for a Quidditch match.” McGonagall politely inquired, Draco not bothering to look at the all-too-knowing Professor.

“She thinks I need to get out more.” He muttered, eyes cataloging all the bandages wrapped around Potter's body.

He looked swollen and red all over. With the amount of pain he would probably be going through if he was conscious, Draco knew putting him under was the truly merciful option.

“I suppose that is a suitable reason. Should I ask about your newfound concern for Mr. Potter?” She asked in an amused tone, Granger shifting a bit awkwardly.

“Maybe later, Professor.” She deflected.

Draco avoided looking at the old witch as much as he could, instead searching for a chair. He didn’t intend to leave anytime soon. He managed to drag one from the bed across the aisle, sitting across from Granger on Potter’s other side and facing the big idiot. When McGonagall finally left after twenty-odd minutes, it was far less awkward in the room, mostly because he didn’t feel he was being watched or had to answer for his concern for Potter.

Granger was somberly watching over Potter with him, looking exhausted from the quick evacuation from the pitch.

Draco wasn’t afraid of her any longer. She already knew everything about what had happened. Right now, Granger was his only companion in this mess.

He glanced around for other witnesses before standing closer to Potter’s bed and lifting a hand to gently push the hair back from his forehead. There was no point in pretending around Granger anymore. If Potter were to go and get himself killed, Draco might as well be honest with himself.

“You said he’s been burning himself out?” He asked softly, glancing at her in concern.

She was watching him calmly, not showing any signs of discomfort at him touching Potter so intimately.

“They’ve been pushing Quidditch practices every day to catch up for the season. And since that’s been taking up everyone’s time, Harry’s been stressing over schoolwork. He's been really set on doing well in his N.E.W.T.s. He wanted to come see you, but he hasn’t had a moment of free time,” She said quietly, giving Draco a knowing look.

Draco scowled, removing his hand from Potter’s hair at the memory.

“He sent the shop a letter, but all it mentioned was how much he liked the boots and then something about referrals to the rest of his team. Lisette framed it and put it on the bloody wall.” He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration.

Granger smiled gently at Potter's mishap, looking like she was trying not to laugh.

He leaned a hip against the cot, letting his eyes scroll over Potter’s battered body up close. After cataloging the significant wounds, he checked the potions bottles lining the bedside table, noting the familiar set of potions for broken bones and wounding. When he didn't see any options for blood regeneration, he wondered about the spatters of blood he'd seen on the sand, glancing back to Potter for bloodied bandages.

“He was bleeding before, wasn’t he?” He asked Granger, who nodded and stood up.

“It's on his back. Madam Pomfrey fixed that first thing so he could lay face up. Luckily, it was only skin deep and didn't touch his spine. The vertebrae he broke were quick to fix, too. Harry was lucky this time.” She leaned over Potter and motioned to the shoulder nearest to Draco.

He stepped in closer, leaning down over Potter’s shoulder. It was difficult to see, but a sizeable padded bandage covered the center of his back. Draco attentively glanced over Potter's corded shoulders, stilling, when he noticed the tiny half-moon scars littering the small gaps in the bandages around his neck and back. Draco glanced down at his hands and then at Potter’s marks again, hesitant. He hadn’t realized he’d drawn blood on Potter. He wasn't sure how he felt, knowing they’d both marked each other so intimately like that.

Draco sat back down in his chair, staring at Potter in suspicion.

His mark hadn’t healed at all like he wanted.

The bruises had somewhat healed, turning into a sickly off-yellow. But the cuts were taking too long to recover. Draco had continued to apply the muggle ointment and clean bandages since there was nothing else he could do, but they remained. He was sure they weren't infected, but the length of time it took them to heal concerned him. He probably should see Pomfrey about it now that he was here. But seeing Potter’s marks made him feel a little less anxious about his own and distracted him. He thought he’d been the only one cursed with evidence of the incident.

They were his punishment for rejecting Potter so cruelly.

While agonizing over his injury, Granger stood and began fussing with Potter’s blankets. Draco watched her in a daze, his chest feeling tight like something was twisting inside his rib cage.

“Why aren’t you telling me to stay away from him?” He broke the silence.

She stopped, looking at Draco in surprise. “Stay away from him? He’s the one who's chasing after you.”

Draco looked at Potter’s still form again, pent up and frustrated after holding in everything for so long.

“You haven’t yelled at me for being involved with him. At the shop, you seemed completely fine with finding out about us. Now I’ve shown up after he got hurt, and you’re not only tolerating me, but you're defending me. I don’t understand. You hated me, Granger. What that fuck changed that? Because I can’t think of a solid reason you shouldn’t hate me after everything I've done.”

She stared at him silently across Potter's sleeping body, waiting for him to finish before pursing her lips and glancing down at her friend.

“I did hate you for quite a long time.” She whispered honestly, Draco gritting his teeth at the confession.

“But then there were funerals and obituaries, and I had to go across the world to find my parents. When I came back to England, Harry was so broken it was like he was a walking corpse. That’s what the trauma and stress had done to him after a lifetime of horrors. So, instead of sitting there and being upset and depressed and angry at everything, I refused to let it ruin our lives any more than it already had.”

Draco watched her, unsettled by the inspirational speech she was giving. She shrugged tiredly, Granger pushing her hair over her shoulder and looking at Draco defensively.

“I remembered how you didn’t give Harry up that day at the manor. Even when they directly asked you if it was Harry, you said no. We got caught, but you never gave him up. We all did things we regretted. But it’s been months, and I’m sick of being angry and afraid. It’s over, and I want to move on with my life. You haven’t been discriminatory or a complete prick to me since we got back to Hogwarts, so I’m over it. I don't care anymore.”

Draco stared down at his hands. Clearly, Granger had her priorities in order and had no intention of entertaining his bullshit.

She waved a hand at Potter, propping her other hand on her hip and shaking her head.

“And Harry’s suddenly decided you’re the one for him, so I’ll get used to it. He’s already been obsessed with you for eight years; I shouldn’t even be that surprised. You care about him, too, showing up here after everything. If that isn’t a sign that you are, in fact, human, then I don't know what to say. Do you have any problems with me I should know about?”

Draco didn’t expect her to turn on him to speak, sitting up anxiously when it was his turn.

“No, but I am sorry, though. For everything.” He said in a low voice, glancing at Potter as if to beg him to wake up. This interaction was awkward, like his apology to Potter, which had been made weeks ago in the shop. Necessary but awkward. All of Draco's vulnerabilities were laid bare for Granger to see.

“And I am a tad fond of him, I suppose.” He muttered, picking at the inseam of his trousers.

Granger smiled gently, reaching for her chair.

“Thank you, Draco. I appreciate it.”

He looked at her, wondering if there was nothing else to it. After a moment, he gave her a strained smile, forcing it out of himself and slouching backward into his chair, looking back at Potter. Too much emotional exertion for one day.

Granger seemed to take the silence as a sign, settling back into her chair and watching over Potter. She thankfully left him alone after that, settling into a comfortable silence.

There was nothing they could do but wait until Potter’s bones healed and he woke up.

After several hours, Professor McGonagall returned to speak with Madam Pomfrey about Potter's progress and relay news of the Quidditch game.

The match had ended long ago, Ravenclaw winning twenty minutes after Potter had dropped. After she left with the unfortunate news, Granger summoned some textbooks and started on her readings for class.

Draco just closed his eyes and tried to pass the time.

It was strangely peaceful in the hospital wing. He'd missed Hogwarts and its archaic safety. It was easy to relax here and forget why Draco had been so stressed the last few weeks, even if the cause for his stress was battered and bruised on a cot in front of him.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at Potter again, sighing internally. He was glad the lug was okay. It was a good thing Draco had gone to the match, or he wouldn’t have known about the fall. He probably would have just carried on his life and been miserable for weeks. He hated that the fool got hurt but was relieved he'd been there to see it. Still, the image of his falling body would haunt Draco for weeks.

Even Granger being here across from him was alright. Draco no longer felt anxious about whether she was pretending to like him or not. It was the best their situation would get while Potter remained unconscious.

Eventually, a few house elves brought them dinner, which consisted of roast and potatoes. Both ate quietly while Potter remained unconscious in between them.

By the time Granger stood to go back to her common room, it was quite late, and Pomfrey had come out several times to check on Potter’s progression. Draco remained slumped in his chair, pulling his thin sweater around him from the chill of the Hospital Wing. In a pitying move, Pomfrey offered Draco a bed since Potter was the only one in the wing overnight.

Since he didn’t work till the afternoon the next day and walking back to his flat would take forever, Draco remained in his chair, politely saying thank you and ignoring her weary looks.

He just stayed there, watching Harry.

When Pomfrey retired for the evening, it was verging on midnight, and Draco was weary. He was cold and exhausted, memorizing every little scratch or bandage he could see on Potter’s body. Distraught wasn't enough to describe his mental state. He'd been distressed at first once entering the Hospital Wing, but now it had settled into a chronic state of worry and panic.

Potter just looked so deathly ill under the cold darkness. Even the lamplight from his night table didn’t help how sickly he looked.

Draco logically knew he would be alright, and there was nothing to worry about; it was just time that they needed him to heal. But it was hard not to be concerned. He'd been so flippant about the collapsed lung and shattered hip; what if it was more complicated than they anticipated? It was hard to pretend he didn't care. It was hard to face Potter when Draco had been trying to convince himself that he didn't care for weeks.

Draco was trying not to panic about how he chose to stay here, especially since he’d told the prick to fuck off. Draco was the one to reject him, but here he was. He could have gone home hours ago. Potter would still end up fine if he weren’t here. But he couldn't do it. Draco couldn't make himself leave, knowing Potter was lying here alone, beaten and battered.

Eventually, Draco got up and stood over him, staring down the big lug and sighing heavily. He pushed back some thick black hair, annoyed at how charmed he was to see it unstyled. Draco silently tugged at Potter's sheet like Granger had hours ago, folding his arms tensely after fussing with him for several minutes and not knowing what to do with himself. Some of the spots Draco could see between bandages were less swollen than when he arrived, Potter's skin returning to its less angry hue. Pomfrey had also removed some of the bandages around Potter's head now that those spots had healed, revealing the prat's familiar face.

Draco stared down at Potter's stupid stubble, sitting delicately on the cot's edge with his hands held tightly against himself. He wanted to reach out and touch him, to hold his hand or touch his arm or do something. But Potter was unconscious, and he had no right to do any of those things. He wasn't his boyfriend or partner, and he wasn't even friends with him.

Draco had no right to sit here worrying when he was the cause of all their problems.

He looked at Potter's hands resting limp on his stomach, the bandages wrapped around his sculpted torso peeking out from under the sheet. Before standing, he glanced around for any witnesses, the infirmary remaining deathly silent and cavern-like around them.

Draco carefully reached out and squeezed Potter's hand, knowing he couldn't feel it, mostly doing it for himself. Potter's hands were warm but had no strength under them, nothing like when he'd lifted Draco onto the workbench weeks ago. They were limp and swollen beneath the bandages, impossibly hot under Draco's fingers.

Draco stood and walked across the room to the empty cot Pomfrey had offered him, telling himself that if he didn't do it now, he would just sit there and stare at Potter all night. He lay on the sheets, pulling the wool blanket Pomfrey had left him around his shoulders and closing his eyes.

His body ached from sitting in that chair all afternoon. Granger had transfigured her own at the beginning, but he hadn’t had the heart to ask if she could do his as well. Not after he'd harassed her into that awkward conversation before.

Draco smelt the clinical disinfectant used to sanitize the room, the wool blanket reeking oddly of animal fur. He even thought he could hear Potter's breathing from across the room. An owl hooted gently from outside the window above him.

It was so quiet. For the first time in weeks, Draco could start to relax.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey woke Draco the following day with a cup of tea and a warning of Ron Weasley's approach.

After staring solemnly at the grand vaulted ceilings above him, thinking about how he'd stayed the night for Potter, Draco slowly shuffled back to his chair next to Potter's bed with the wool blanket around his shoulders, tea in hand.

When Draco first came by the Hospital Wing yesterday, Potter had been wrapped up in so many bandages that he barely resembled himself. This morning, after what could only have been a full-time effort in the early morning by Madam Pomfrey, Potter had more than half the bandages taken away and were now replaced with smooth, unblemished skin on large swathes of his upper body. She truly was a miracle worker.

Pomfrey checked the few remaining bandages still wrapped around Potter's torso and back; she paid special attention to his lower body. As Draco quietly watched, she hummed some song from the radio under her breath. It was comforting to have a matriarchal woman around. His mother used to be like this, too, attentive and strong. Narcissa was far more subdued and desolate these days, though.

Draco sipped his tea, politely averting his eyes as Pomfrey tended to the bandages around Potter’s lower body, checking on his bone reconstruction.

Draco was fairly aware of how devastating Potter’s physique was; he didn’t want to pray on the Gryffindor while hospitalized.

“Don’t see too many students this fit these days,” Pomfrey said quietly, Draco raising his eyebrows scandalously at the older woman. Apparently, she didn't mind.

Pomfrey smiled slimly, shaking her head at the implication.

“Not like that, dear. It’s nice to see one of my students who cares about their health, especially Mr. Potter. Heaven forbid, he needed it years ago.” She pulled the blankets back over his chest, tucking the old bandages into a basket at her feet.

Draco nodded gradually, understanding what she meant.

“You could eat a bit more, too, Draco.” She said in that familiar tone, Draco frowning at her faintly.

“Didn’t know you’d taken up mothering Death Eaters.” he drawled.

She gave him a warning look, collecting her basket. “Aquitted-Death Eater. You wouldn’t be sitting here looking so miserable about him if you were some big scary murderer. Don't push us all away, Mr. Malfoy; you still have some friends here.”

He looked up sharply, surprised by her words. She hadn’t shown much warmth towards him last night, but to be fair, he wasn’t the most kindly towards anyone these days. Draco was still on guard, expecting someone to show up and toss him out onto the front steps.

“Thank you, Poppy.” He conceded, pulling his teacup closer.

She nodded briskly and turned, moving on to her other tasks for the morning.

Once Pomfrey was gone, Draco put down his cup of tea and approached Potter's cot. He sat delicately on the edge of the mattress, needing to inspect Potter himself under the sunlight. It was an understatement to say Potter looked better this morning.

Yesterday, he'd somehow been alive, but now it was very evident the swelling around Potter's collarbones and face had gone down. For one, Draco could actually see Potter from the shoulders up since the bandages were removed.

Potter no longer had deep red blotching all over his body, and his skin had returned to its familiar, tawny tone. Draco's eyes flicked over the bandage changes Pomfrey had made, noticing the sutures and minor scratches scattered about his torso neatly healed up, albeit with quite a few new scars here and there. If Draco lifted the sheet, he could see the remaining gauze was primarily wrapped around Potter's waist and stomach, the edges of some thicker padding poking out from under his lower back. However, the bandages no longer heavily obscured his arms and neck. Draco lowered the sheet carefully, thinking about how Magic was brilliant sometimes. Potter had gone from Death's door to almost new overnight. Meanwhile, he'd been struggling with a cut on his neck for what seemed like weeks.

For a small moment, Draco allowed himself to admire Potter in his sleep. He admired the dark stubble that had come in overnight, growing over Potter's neck and jaw far more significantly than Draco's own. He hadn't even known Potter had thick enough facial hair that required him to shave each day. Draco had seen and even felt the stubble, but before now, he'd never known how thick it came in. It felt like an intimate detail of Potter's that Draco felt he shouldn't be privy to know.

After scrutinizing the improvement of Potter's health and impressive stubble, Draco slunk back to his chair to finish his cooling tea and pretend he hadn't been leering at Potter.

He ran a hand through his hair, noting the oily texture of some strands and thinking about how he would have to go home to shower before heading back to work that afternoon. Draco hadn't prepared to sleep in the Hospital Wing overnight.

Potter lay prone in a hospital bed across from him, unaware of Draco's internal struggle.

Draco managed alone for about an hour before the Hospital Wing erupted in noise. After realizing his peace with Potter was nearly over, he sank low in his chair, pulling the wool blanket tightly around his shoulders.

As Pomfrey had warned him, Weasley had arrived. And he didn’t sound pleased either.

Draco's leg bounced as they approached, vividly aware that he didn’t have a wand and Weasley was now in the Aurors. He glanced at Potter in distress, wondering if he could wake up and distract Weasley long enough so Draco could escape.

“Ron, please calm down, Harry’s fine.”

Oh, thank Merlin, Granger was here. She could protect him.

“Well, he’s not fine if he's been here overnight; why didn't anyone bother to tell me about this yesterday!”

When Weasley rounded the privacy sheet and saw Malfoy hunched over in a blanket beside his best mate, the responding silence was terrifyingly awkward. Weasley raised a hand and pointed at him; his big stupid mouth hung open.

“What the fuck is he doing here?!” Weasley cried in a spectacularly high-pitched tone, Granger grabbing his hands and stepping between them.

“Ron!”

Draco's immediate impression of Weasley was that he was wearing an Auror-in-Training uniform. Horrendously, the dark mauve complimented his obnoxious red hair. Seeing the Weasel in proper clothes that fit him was mind-boggling; the git almost looked good. But Draco would never admit that out loud.

Draco had no way of protecting himself and was invested in Potter's well-being, so making nice by being silent was in his best interests at the moment.

Draco slowly inched his chair closer to Potter as if the Gryffindor's unconscious body was supposed to protect him.

“They’re friends now. Malfoy made Harry’s Quidditch boots and they got to talking. Can you calm down, please? Madam Pomfrey will have your head if you keep yelling.” Granger scolded in a hushed tone.

Draco noticed how pleasant it was not to be the one at the end of her glare.

Weasley just frowned at her, looking at his bedridden friend and waving her off.

“Fine, is Harry alright?” He moved to the other side of Potter's cot, frowning down at Potter and trying to understand what had happened.

Draco remained still, feeling like if he moved, Weasley might lash out at him again.

“And is he alright with Malfoy so close to him?” Weasley added with a nasty glare, looking at Granger as if she were insane.

Malfoy gave him a daft look in response. If only he knew.

Granger stood at the foot of Potter's bed, clearly irritated with Weasley's reactions.

“Malfoy's been with Harry all night; I think he's fine.” She responded sarcastically in defense, her hands wrapping around the wrought iron bed frame.

Draco glared at her for revealing his shame, and Weasley reared on him again after hearing that Draco had been there all night.

“Why're you after Harry? Is there something you’re trying to pull on him?” He demanded, his voice beginning to rise again. That Weasley temper hadn’t been dampened since joining the force, then. How unfortunate.

Draco pushed some hair behind his ear modestly, eyebrows raised.

“I can genuinely say he was the one doing the pulling,” Draco responded politely without breaking a smile, and Granger scoffed in amusement.

“There’s truly nothing going on with Malfoy. Harry can explain later when he wakes up, so please calm down, Ron.”

Explain what? That they’d had a quick fuck, and now they were broken up before even starting? Draco didn’t even know how to define it himself, and he'd been the one sitting here for hours on end!

Granger gave Draco a faint look once noticing the alarm on his expression, carrying on.

“Harry’s perfectly safe, and Draco is harmless. Even Professor McGonagall doesn't mind him being here. ”

Weasley remained rigid, arms folded defensively over his chest with a final glare at Draco before looking down at Potter.

The fucker still hadn’t moved, even with all the yelling. Magically induced comas were blessedly effective.

For the next hour, Weasley started a conversation with Granger about his Auror training. He seemed set on ignoring Draco’s presence if he refused to leave. Which was fine with Draco; he didn’t want to interact with Weasley either. But after an hour of listening to Weasley’s bragging about the Aurors, Pomfrey finally returned and announced Potter was fit enough to be woken up.

He'd be free to go if he were fine after her questioning and examinations. Considering the big oaf had broken nearly every critical bone in his body he'd gotten off lucky; Pomfrey was a miracle worker in every sense in the word.

Draco quickly tensed up once he realized Potter would be conscious and might take notice of him. But before he could leave or decide what to do, Pomfrey had already started waking Potter, not waiting for Draco's cowardice to appear.

She delicately tapped her wand to Potter's temple, and the effects began to wear off, a soft blue mist sprinkling over the bed. The gentle smell of mint washed over them as everyone held their breath.

It took several moments for Potter to gradually wake up. His breathing became quicker as he returned to life, his fingers began to curl with new sensation, and his head rolled lazily against the pillow. Potter's feet shuffled gently under the blankets, several full-body movements seeming so drastic and loud compared to the stillness he'd had over the last twenty-four hours.

Draco thought it was beautiful, watching Potter wake up from a deep sleep. How many people could say they'd been witness to this?

Potter breathed in loud and deep, finally opening his eyes for the first time. His head was turned, seeing Draco first. His green eyes followed him lazily, the color of an autumn forest floor overcoming him. Draco held his breath in mild panic.

“Hi,” Potter mumbled against the pillow, voice rough and quiet.

Potter's arm slowly extended off the side of the bed, unfurling something greedy and hot inside Draco as Potter's fingers reached for his hand.

It was so innocent, silently requesting to hold his hand. Draco shakily lifted his own and allowed Potter twine their fingers together, overcome with affection for the git.

Draco didn't know what to expect when Potter woke up, but it hadn't been this. He was glad Potter was okay. It just made Draco's chest hurt, knowing he would never have the privilege to see this again.

Potter quickly became more coherent in his movements, his fingers squeezing Draco's tighter the more he woke. He'd closed his eyes again, shifting against the uncomfortable hospital sheets and tugging Draco’s hand for his attention.

“Why’d you put your clothes back on? We still have more time before class for another-”

Draco dropped his hand like it was on fire, shoving his chair back with a loud screech as he interrupted Potter's train of thought. All feelings of affection were replaced with sheer horror, Draco needing to stand up and turn away from Potter in mortification.

But Granger was gleefully grinning at the scene, having no intention of helping at all. Weasley, contrarily, looked like he would explode from embarrassment and loudly cleared his throat.

“Harry, mate, we’re all here.” He announced awkwardly, trying to pull Potter's attention from Draco.

Draco dropped back down in his chair, angrily crossing his legs and folding his arms in disbelief. Potter turned away and finally noticed Weasley, eyes slowly scanning over the faces surrounding him as if not believing he was awake.

He seemed hesitant to speak, delicately pulling his hand back from where it had been reaching off the bed toward Draco. Potter timidly looked back to Draco, staring at him in disbelief. Draco stared right back with wide, fearful eyes.

“This isn’t a dream, is it.” Potter seemed to ask him, the responding shaking of heads from his other visitors answering the question.

Pomfrey gracefully took over the situation, shooing a distressed Weasley aside to ask Potter her routine questions.

“What is the last thing you remember, Mr. Potter?” She fidgeted with the sheets on his bed.

“I was flying, and then I-I wasn’t.” He frowned, lifting his hands in front of his face to confirm they were both still attached.

Draco watched as Potter winced from the movement, attempting to shift his ridiculous torso into a more comfortable position.

“Merlin, I’m stiff,” Potter complained, rubbing his ribs weakly.

“That happens when you fall from three hundred feet, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey explained, getting straight to the point. “Is there any immediate pain I need to know about? How is your breathing? Is there any pain in your lower body?”

Potter breathed deeply to test for her questions, exhaling effortlessly and merely shrugged in response. He turned to look on the nightstand for his glasses.

“No, nothing hurts, just some overall aching. Does that mean I fell on my hip?” Potter asked carefully, pulling on his glasses. He didn't know the extent of his injuries from the previous day.

Draco felt like he should be the one to answer that question, chiming in.

“You hit the railing on the Slytherin stand. We tried to grab you before you fell, but it all happened so quickly we couldn't do anything.” He supplied, Potter looking to him again, still stunned that Draco was there.

Draco vaguely noticed Weasley frowning across him, and Granger also perked up at the new information.

“You tried to catch me?”

“Obviously not, Potter. The first years attempted to as I yelled at them.” Draco rolled his eyes, situating the blanket around himself primly to continue avoiding Potter’s gaze.

Pomfrey gave a sound of mild interest before moving on with her routine. She picked up a few bottles from the nightstand.

“Your broom shattered under you and may have left some scarring that I couldn't repair. I wish you the best of luck with those in private places.” She lectured, Potter giving her a look of alarm.

Draco's eyes slid to the blanket covering Potter's waist, eyebrows raised.

“There was a laceration on your back from the beams that caught you on the way down, and your right lung collapsed. In terms of fractures, you shattered your right hip as well as your lower back. Luckily, you were fine below the knee; those boots you wore had protection runes engraved on them. You're lucky to be alive, Mr. Potter.” She gently patted Potter’s foot, Draco straightening up in pride at the mention of his boots.

After glancing at Draco at the mention of his boots, Potter looked over himself in surprise over the grave amount of damage he’d gone through.

“No head trauma, though?” Draco asked vaguely, still giving Potter a weary look. Potter looked up sharply, a familiar glare setting on his expression.

“No, thankfully. Right as rain. Though I’d be careful what you say when you wake up in the future.” She advised mildly, and Potter had the decency to look embarrassed.

“What happened? Why’d you even get hit?” Weasley folded his arms as he chimed in, not wanting to return to the awkward topic of Potter and Draco.

No one seemed to have an answer, all looking back at Potter in interest.

Potter's eyebrows were furrowed, staring right at Draco. No matter how much Draco ignored the scrutiny, his skin quickly growing hot under the intense stare, Potter kept looking at him like he was the answer.

“I saw Malfoy.” He finally answered, sounding relieved that he remembered. Potter's fingers splayed with the blankets covering his waist. “Or, I thought I saw him. Distracted me, I guess.”

Draco pursed his lips and glared down at his feet. So, it was his fault.

“With hair like that, you could spot him from a mile away,” Weasley said unhelpfully, Granger lightly smacking his arm.

Potter said nothing as Pomfrey moved on to explain his potion regimen for the next few days. He was permitted to return to Quidditch practice after two weeks. He was not to do any strenuous activities for at least three days. Draco felt utterly humiliated as she gave him a look when she stated the strenuous activities instructions.

Draco was ready to disappear by that point. Everything inside him screamed to flee this situation; it was too much exposure. Potter was fine, but Draco had to return to his life in a few hours. It would be perfectly acceptable for him to leave now. In addition, the longer he stayed, the more likely Weasley would eventually hex him.

When Madam Pomfrey walked away with the announcement that Potter was free to go, the four of them were left alone.

Draco stood up suddenly and folded the wool blanket while the golden trio watched him, trying to hide his trembling hands.

“Now that the humiliation is over, I bid you all good day.” He said stiffly over his shoulder. Granger gave him a disappointed look but didn't move to stop him.

Potter tried to sit up, arms trembling as he pushed himself up from the bed and called for him, but Draco was already walking away. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he’d been there in the first place, but they'd all seen enough of his feelings for Potter.

Draco couldn't imagine a more humiliating fate. He'd fallen for Harry Fucking Potter, and Weasley knew. If Weasley even humored telling the Prophet, then who knew what would happen to him? Living his life in isolation was the closest thing to peace Draco could have achieved; anything willing to threaten that peace was out of the question.

Draco pushed open the heavy doors; teeth clenched hard as he projected all his frustrations in Weasley's direction. Draco had already invited the potential for exposure himself. It was idiotic to blame the Weasel for what was his own doing.

Additionally, Potter made a pass at him in front of Madam Pomfrey. If that didn’t announce to the world what had happened, he didn't know what else would.

Draco hadn't expected anyone to try to stop him from leaving, aside from Potter's attempt at yelling at him. But Draco just shrunk in on himself further in disappointment while he stalked down the steps with no one running after him. Once again, he was alone.

Chapter Text

Everything had been perfect about waking up that morning. Harry had been holding Draco’s hand, and they'd been dozing before class after sleepy morning sex. It was everything he'd dreamed of.

Then, as if drenched by a bucket of ice water, Harry was awake.

Harry was instantaneously overwhelmed, retreating further down under the blankets as his friends and Madam Pomfrey surrounded him. Then, without pause, Madam Pomfrey began interrogating him about his Quidditch accident. He struggled through the examination with the vague notion that Malfoy was nearby, just out of reach. Harry felt distressed, learning how he was lucky to be alive, while simultaneously embarrassed because this was unraveling in front of the object of his affection.

Harry knew he’d said something to Draco when he woke up, but all he got was outright fear and fury from the blond git. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd said and was afraid Ron might know almost everything before Harry could explain himself. Harry had wanted to tell Ron himself; it wasn't supposed to happen like this.

By the time Harry was given a breakdown of what had happened and a list of his former injuries, Draco was standing to leave. Harry tried to call his name, confused at why he'd been there in the first place but desperately wanting to keep him from going so quickly. He needed to talk to Ron, but Harry knew if Malfoy left, he would lose a valuable chance he'd sought for weeks.

Harry made a mistake, though. He moved too quickly after waking, and something in his lower body seized, forcing Harry back onto his cot. Malfoy walked out of the Hospital Wing.

Hermione and Ron rushed to his side, but he waved them off. Harry curled painfully on his side away from them, trying to soothe his strained muscles. He tried to coax his muscles into unclenching, trying to focus on his breathing until the pain receded. Ron moved to sit in a free chair beside the bed as Harry tugged weakly at his blankets, returning to his familiar heartache.

“So… you like Malfoy?” Ron asked carefully after a few moments of awkward silence. Hermione had moved to the background, folding a small pile of clothes she’d brought for Harry and trying to stay out of it.

Harry nodded at him, rubbing his eyes under his glasses as he remained curled under the blankets.

“Yeah. Don’t think he likes me too much now, though,” he mumbled, Ron giving him a strained look.

“I dunno. ‘Mione said he’s been here all night. And before you said that bit about taking off his clothes, he seemed to really like the hand-holding. As horrifying as it all was.”

Harry hesitated, trying to process the information Ron had just given him.

If Malfoy had been there all night, it confirmed he’d been at the match yesterday. Or, someone had owled him? No, Hermione wouldn't have. Malfoy had to have been at the game- he'd mentioned something about that before. Harry couldn't remember much of what was happening, feeling like he was swimming in a fog.

But if Malfoy stayed in the Hospital Wing with him overnight, that meant something. Right?

Harry feebly rubbed at his shoulder, the small indented scars from Malfoy’s nails running under his fingers. Harry looked over his shoulder, noticing Hermione occupying herself by spelling the lint off his clothes.

“Did Pomfrey get a look at his neck?”

She paused her fussing and looked over at Harry with a thoughtful expression.

“I don’t know. Give me a moment to ask.” She turned and searched for Madam Pomfrey, Harry addressing Ron’s confused look.

“So-” Harry pushed himself up slowly, sitting back against the wrought iron bed frame, and pulled his blankets up around his arms for warmth.

Ron folded his arms and regarded him, ready for whatever Harry was preparing to tell him. Harry still hesitated, though awkward, and tried to figure out where to start. It was important for Ron to know. He was his best friend. It would be fine. And if it wasn't fine, well. Harry was getting good at being sad.

“Malfoy and I shagged,” he started, Ron jumping in horror.

“That's a big leap from just liking him, Harry! Bloody hell, how’d that happen?”

Harry shrugged harmlessly, trying not to worry too much about his outburst of emotion.

“I'm not really sure. He got pretty fit over the Summer, and when Hermione and I went into the Quidditch Boots shop, Malfoy worked there. A few weeks later, I went to pick up the boots, and it just… I don’t know, it just happened,” he said quietly, not feeling very enthusiastic.

Ron held a hand over his mouth, trying to comprehend it.

“So, you breaking up with Ginny..?”

Harry groaned, shaking his head.

“Merlin, Ron, no. That was a mess because we were both depressed, and we weren't very keen on each other after so many months apart. It was never a promising idea in the start anyway.” Harry gave him a pleading look. “This has nothing to do with that.”

Ron nodded slowly, seeming to accept his answer. He shoved his hands in his purple Auror's trousers, setting his shoulders back.

“So, was it just a shag then? ‘cause I think he might want more,” he said in an uneasy tone, nodding in the direction Malfoy had fled.

Clearly, Ron wasn’t comfortable with the exchange, but he was trying. It was a relief that salved Harry's anxiety.

Harry shook his head, scoffing. “No, afterward, he kicked me out. Malfoy called the whole thing bullshit and didn’t have time for it. But Hermione talked to him because I'd forgotten my trainers there. In her words, he said all that shite because he didn’t want me to get brought into all the...” Harry waved a hand at Ron’s uniform, “you know, rubbish associated with former Death Eaters.”

Ron nodded, eyebrows raised in understanding.

“He’s got a point, mate. Malfoy's always been a bit of a monster to us, and now the public sees that, too. He's still on a lot of the Ministry's watch lists. ”

Harry gave him a stern look, fists balling in his lap.

“But if he’s avoiding me so I don’t get hurt, is he that bad? And why hasn't he gone to the Prophet with all the information he has on me?"

There was a pause as Ron thought about Harry's point, shrugging carelessly after a while.

“I don’t know, Harry. Suppose he is looking out for you, if that's even possible for the Ferret. Do you mind the mess that'll go along with him?” Ron asked wearily.

Harry looked away from Ron to consider his question nervously.

“I care what you and your family think. Hermione doesn’t mind. I think she kind of likes him, to be honest, but if Molly and them can’t do it, then I don’t know. It'll be tough. I haven't felt this unsure in a long time.”

Ron gave his friend a heavy look. He shuffled his feet under the chair and leaned forward on his knees.

“Hermione told you about Zabini, right?” he asked, Harry glancing over in surprise. He’d forgotten about Blaise Zabini. Merlin, if he ever met the bloke he’d have to buy him a pint.

“Yeah, she said he’s your new training partner.”

Ron nodded, seeming pretty calm about it all. “He’s a good chap. We go to the pub on Sundays.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought they got along that well.

Ron shrugged, nodding at the Hospital Wing around them. “He says Malfoy is alright once you get past all the posturing, that his father was the real problem. We already knew that, but I didn’t care much for it. Zabini claims Malfoy is doing alright for himself down in Hogsmeade, and after hearing from you and Hermione go on about how harmless he is, I think I could eventually give Malfoy a chance. Eventually.” Ron looked at Harry in sympathy. “But I honestly dunno how Mum and them would feel about it."

Harry nodded slowly; he’d figured that would have been the case. He reached out to Ron and playfully shoved his knee, wincing as the inside of his arm strained against the sharp movement.

“Thanks, this was really stressing me out.”

“We’ve dealt with his shit since first year, Harry. Just cause you want to fuck him now doesn’t really change much.” Ron rolled his eyes, pulling down the sleeve of his jacket.

“I really do,” Harry beamed, a grin plastered on his face as he shimmied against the pillow behind him.

Ron made a gagging noise, pushing back in the chair.

“What was the thing about Malfoy's neck, then?” He asked Harry wearily, unsure if he wanted to know.

“Er, apparently, I like biting. Which is new to me. But Malfoy doesn’t have a wand anymore, so Hermione and I don't think he's been able to heal by himself properly.” Harry scratched his neck absentmindedly, tilting his arm further to stretch out his upper body from the stiffness plaguing me.

Ron nodded slowly, looking uneasy after all the intimate details they’d been discussing. They didn't talk about deeply personal stuff these days; Hermione was more up for those kinds of talks with Harry. With school and Auror training, he and Ron hadn't had much chance to catch up since the Summer. A lot had changed in such little time.

Then Hermione came around the corner with a less-than-pleased Madam Pomfrey.

“What’s this I hear about Mr. Malfoy having a neck injury?”

Harry hesitated, rubbing his jaw and feeling the scrape of stubble.

“Yeah, he’s got a big cut on his neck,” he confirmed, glancing at Hermione uneasily. She still looked far too smug about the whole thing. “He doesn't have his wand, though, so I think he might be trying to use muggle methods to heal it.” Harry waved a hand in the direction Malfoy had fled.

After seeing the first aid kit in the back workroom of Malfoy's shop, well, glancing at it briefly before Draco kicked him out, Harry figured the Slytherin had been using muggle tech as a substitute for his lack of a wand. Harry was pleased that Malfoy had been open to using muggle tech, tossing aside his previous bigotry in the face of necessity. It wasn't the best reason to change his opinions, but it was a start.

Draco's wound was probably fine, but it couldn't hurt for Pomfrey to check it out. If it meant Malfoy came back, then Harry would let himself be selfish just this once.

But Madam Pomfrey did not look pleased with the knowledge that Draco had been using muggle methods to heal his would. Harry heard her cast a vicious-sounding Patronus after him, the three of them watching her storm back to her office in exasperation.

Harry paused, glancing at Hermione with a small smile.

“Does this mean he’s coming back?” he asked, cautiously hopeful.

Hermione hesitated, looking towards the doors from behind the partition.

“Perhaps, if he doesn’t want to deal with her wrath. Don’t worry, we’ll clear out before he gets here,” she replied, waving to Ron. “Come on, we still have a few hours before you need to get back, and Hagrid will be upset if you don't say hello.”

“Alright, bye, Harry! Good luck with shagging Malfoy.” Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder, not noticing the wince Harry gave him before joining Hermione. They both waved as they walked off, and Harry heard Ron begin to ask Hermione questions about what she thought of the situation.

Harry smiled to himself, grateful he'd had a chance to speak with Ron but immensely relieved his friends had cleared out in case of Draco's return.

Once the heavy silence of the Hospital Wing sunk back in, Harry finally had a moment alone. The first thing he needed to do was get a look at those splinter scars Pomfrey had mentioned. His body ached all over, and his muscles resisted most quick movements, but it didn't feel like many of the lesions were fresh.

Harry slumped back onto the pillows and tried to prop his legs up on the mattress, needing to use his hands to pull each leg up at a time. The strength required to move his own limbs was not what it had been the previous day. In addition to his muscles temporarily losing all of the strength he'd achieved during training, at least he hoped it was temporary; his limbs were fucking heavy.

Harry tented his knees, lifting the sheet to investigate how his lower body was tightly wrapped in bandages. He would never know how Pomfrey had managed the mess of wrappings, but there must be a spell for it. Harry thought he looked like a tissue paper mummy on Halloween. Or maybe the stripper version, since it was mostly just his waist and thighs that were wrapped up.

He carefully peeled back some of the bandages from his inner thigh, trying to see any of the marks Pomfrey mentioned. Luckily he didn’t feel any pain, and as he checked over his cock and balls, everything appeared to be alright. Otherwise, the cups they wore during Quidditch would be completely pointless. With that concern out of mind, Harry went back to searching for the lesions and scars, gently lifting the edges of the gauze and squinting through the darkness. It was challenging to inspect under the bedsheets, especially with the dim lighting of the Hospital Wing. Still, Harry spotted what Madam Pomfrey had been talking about.

The splinter scars between his legs were quite savage compared to what used to be tanned, unblemished skin. There were thick white lines of scar tissue slashed in random patterns all over his inner thighs. Harry was tremendously relieved he'd been asleep while they healed, and he didn't want to think about how much blood he had probably lost. His mouth ran dry as he tried to comprehend how large the lesions had been, picking under a line of bandages to try and follow the most prominent streak of scar tissue he'd found. It ran from the inside of his right knee up, diagonally across his inner thigh to the front of his right hip, narrowly missing his groin.

The scars would take some getting used to; he adjusted the bandages back into their previous spots, rubbing a hand gently over the front of his hips in sympathy.

Harry didn’t particularly grieve over having the scars; they were only an addition to the collection he'd acquired over the last few years of the war. The part he was conflicted about was how they'd happened to his body, with almost no memory of it happening. It felt nearly like he'd been violated, except that was the right feeling, either. He'd been the one to do it to himself; it was him being an idiot on the Quidditch pitch. His memory had just been suppressed to protect him from the trauma of the accident. At least, Harry thought that made the most sense anyway.

A polite cough roused Harry from investigating his lower extremities, startling him into looking up.

Malfoy was standing far into the aisle at the end of his bed, staring at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Malfoy wore a dark green henley with dark faded muggle jeans, sleeves pulled down to his wrists. The collar of his shirt was open at his neck, his blonde hair messily hanging above his shoulders, and his hands were shoved into his pockets.

He gave Harry a pretentious and unimpressed look, one that always showed up whenever Malfoy was appalled by his shenanigans. Harry was becoming intimately familiar with the expression.

Harry quickly dropped his bedsheets onto his lap, giving Malfoy an awkward grin as if he hadn’t just been confirming his balls were still there.

Draco turned to check for Madam Pomfrey before sidling closer to the foot of Harry's bed, looking at him in mild curiosity. Harry hated how the blond's effortless swagger nearly rendered him useless.

“Everything still intact, I take it?” His tone was cool and collected, grey eyes dragging over the blankets covering Harry's legs.

The tiniest hint of concern from Malfoy was enough to encourage Harry, spurring him to leer at Malfoy as he came closer.

“How ‘bout you come to check for me?” Harry asked a bit cockily, spreading his legs under the sheets, knees bending.

Draco gave him a dry smirk, marginally impressed at Harry's gall.

“I think I’m alright.” Malfoy nodded towards Pomfrey’s office, hands still in his pockets and his eyebrows mocking. “But I can call Poppy if you need some assistance?”

Harry leaned forward, lips quirking at the threat, unsure if Malfoy meant it. Then he leaned back onto his elbows, arching his back to show off his chest. Harry knew he had the other's attention when Draco's eyes followed the movement.

“The only assistance I need is for you to come over here.” Harry dared.

But when Draco easily rolled his eyes and turned away, Harry realized his flirting had failed.

“No, no. Malfoy, come back- Draco!” Harry whispered in a panicked tone, snapping his legs shut and trying to recover from displaying himself. He groaned quietly, hands reaching for his thighs as his legs spasmed in pain, resisting all of the quick movements. Of course, that didn't fucking work; what on Earth made him think it would?

And Harry couldn't even ignore how wonderful Malfoy’s mocking laugh sounded as he walked away, straining to hear his voice.

Harry leaned back down into the pillows and rubbed over his face with his hands, smiling weakly at his pathetic attempt at flirting.

Not long after Malfoy left, Madam Pomfrey rounded the privacy sheet.

“Mr. Malfoy says you’re experiencing some discomfort in your genitals.”

The tone she used was nightmarish.

Harry’s mouth hung open in horror, shaking his head while yanking the bed sheets up to his chin.

“No, no! He’s just being funny,” he hissed, noticing Malfoy grinning from behind her. Even when he was mocking him, Draco was fucking beautiful. Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever seen a smile reach his eyes like that before, his whole demeanor opening up like the sun.

Before becoming too distracted, Harry remembered why Malfoy was called back to the Hospital Wing, leaning up to point behind her.

“He’s got a neck injury; he needs your help!” he called victoriously, Malfoy’s jaw-dropping in betrayal.

Then she reared on Malfoy, her posture menacing as she turned her back to Harry. Draco recovered quickly, pointing right back at Harry.

“Potter's the one who did it to me!”

She threw up her hands, shoving Malfoy into one of the chairs next to Harry's bed.

“Sit down! I don’t care who started it or what you two get up to in your spare time,” she scolded, Malfoy frowning as he began to unbutton the remaining buttons on his henley.

Madam Pomfrey summoned a healing salve and clean bandages, requesting Draco remove his shirt so she could assess the injury. He glanced nervously at Harry, probably hoping he wouldn't have to remove his shirt, which Harry didn’t understand. They’d already seen each other naked before. Well, mostly.

Harry shoved his pillows behind him, sitting up as he watched from the bed, interested in how Pomfrey would help.

But when Malfoy pulled off his shirt, Harry understood the hesitation. It wasn’t the bandage on his neck that made him nervous- it was the webbing of white scars marring his chest.

Upon seeing them, Harry realized Malfoy hadn’t removed his shirt when they’d been together in the shop. Harry could only stare at the sectumsempra scars in growing shame, his stomach churning. He’d done that to him.

Draco, meanwhile, politely ignored him and tilted his head to the side as Pomfrey peeled off the muggle plaster on his neck. Harry leaned forward to try and get a better look at the damage he’d caused.

The redness had calmed a bit, but sickly yellow bruising now surrounded the area in the curve of Draco's neck. The red scabs looked fresh and were clearly caused by a set of teeth; their clean lines were unmistakable. If Draco bothered to deny it, any excuse would fall on deaf ears.

Harry stared with wide eyes, astonished at himself. He had no memory of biting Malfoy, let alone biting him hard enough to resemble something from a muggle vampire film.

Pomfrey didn’t seem as impressed, though, giving Harry a stern look.

“If this is your way of showing affection, at least heal it afterward,” she scolded Harry, and he pointed at Malfoy again.

“Madam Pomfrey, I tried!” he exclaimed defensively, but Malfoy turned his head to reared on Harry with a glare that threatened any forgiveness if he carried on with that sentence. Pomfrey gently turned Malfoy's head back so she could continue working. Harry submitted to the threat, resolving that he would always be in the wrong if he wanted to make any progress with the blond git.

After a few moments of quick healing, the cuts and bruising were neatly mended, and a clean white scar in the intricate pattern of teeth branding the base of Malfoy's neck above his left shoulder. Pomfrey patted Malfoy's skin with a swab of dittany, shaking her head.

“Unfortunately, it’ll scar. If you came to see me right away, it probably would have been fine, but it’s been a few days too long, dear,” she cooed, Draco nodding stiffly as he pulled his shirt back on.

“Quite alright, it's not the first time he’s scarred me,” Draco muttered irritably. It was not apparent if he intended Harry to hear him.

Harry felt his hackles rise. If Malfoy ever showed any sign of being civil enough with him to have a conversation, they would need to talk about what happened with his Sectumsempra scars.

Pomfrey wrapped up her kit as Malfoy began to look like he would flee again, slowly rising from his seat.

“Draco, can I speak with you for a minute?” Harry asked loudly.

Draco stilled, aware that Pomfrey was within earshot, and sat back down.

Pomfrey carried on with her business, not concerned with their estranged relationship. She went around the partition, stopping to look back at Harry.

"Mister Potter, you can leave if you feel up to it. Just keep in mind my advice concerning overexerting yourself," she advised, glancing at Malfoy firmly as if he were going to affect Potter's healing regimen somehow.

Malfoy scowled at her accusing glare after she left, leaving the two of them alone for the first time in weeks.

Malfoy remained in the chair he'd occupied when Harry woke up, well out of arms reach and for good reason. Harry wasn't sure he could keep his hands to himself if Draco were any closer.

But Harry didn’t want to lie down for this, so carefully, he sat up and slid his legs out from under the sheets for the first time that day, trying to sit on the edge of the bed to face Malfoy directly. By the time he managed to settle, his muscles were aching from the exertion of moving his body around. He really hoped his strength would return soon.

Harry didn’t expect Malfoy to be staring down at his crotch when he sat up, nearly cracking a smile at the other man. Harry pulled the sheet over his waist to try and keep the conversation on track, almost preening at the attention.

Malfoy lifted his eyes to Harry’s once his line of sight was interrupted, unaffected but for blown-out irises.

“Okay. We need to talk,” Harry started, gripping the cot's edge.

Malfoy lifted his chin a fraction, listening. But Harry still hesitated, trying to remember how open and honest Draco had been when they were together. This was just a protective façade he put up. It was a defense mechanism. Harry just had to get him to open up somehow.

“Hermione told me why you rejected me after she dropped by the shop.”

Draco pushed back in his chair, his posture suffering as he folded his arms. His trademark scowl returned, and he'd chosen to avoid eye contact with Harry.

“I appreciate how you’re worried for my welfare, but it’s my call to make regarding if I care about what people think,” Harry started, knowing if he stopped every time Malfoy caused a fuss, then nothing would be accomplished. He just had to steamroll ahead. “I don’t care what they think, and I never did.”

Harry stared at the floor between them rather than watch Malfoy's expressions, his hands ringing anxiously between his knees. His heart had begun beating so hard that it almost hurt.

“I care about what Hermione and Ron think because they’re my family. Hermione thinks you’re alright, and Ron said he could work on it. I don’t know if the Weasleys will ever get used to the idea of you, but I’m willing to take that risk. Your Mum is alright from what I've heard of her from Andromeda. And Teddy would probably love to have you in his life. He has so little family left that I want him to know we’re all there for him when he finally starts to grow. You included since you're his family. And I don’t care about any of my future jobs being in jeopardy because of you or the howlers; I’ve already had that kind of bollocks public before. I've had that kind of attention my whole life. So it’s not an issue for me if we-”

“Are you asking me to marry you, Potter?” Draco drawled, interrupting him.

Harry looked up at him, startled.

Malfoy was still leaning back in the chair, but now he held a relaxed posture, with one leg crossed over the other and his crossed arms loose. He'd had an expression that was new, a small smile on his lips, and soft eyes. It almost looked sad and made Harry’s heart ache.

“No, God, I’m not, Malfoy.” He spit out a laugh, shaking his head and pushing some hair back.

Draco tilted his head curiously. “Then why the big declarations?”

Harry just gave him an annoyed look.

“Because you didn’t give me the chance before you bloody kicked me out! I would have just said the same shit then. You kicked me out because you were trying to spare me from all the hate you deal with, but if you’d just given me a chance, I would have chosen to save you instead.”

The resounding silence was unnerving, bringing back the sour memories of Malfoy kicking Harry out of the shop.

Draco watched him carefully with a frail look, the definition of shattered on his expression. He delicately pushed some hair behind his ear, sitting up.

“Are you going to leave me?”

“Sorry?” Harry had to lean forward to hear him again.

The blond shifted in his chair, awkward now that he had been allowed to speak.

“Are you only going to send a bloody letter next time?” Draco asked more clearly, trying not to appear vulnerable when he very obviously was.

Harry immediately shook his head.

“No, because you didn’t like the one I sent, did you?” he asked cautiously, knowing if he said the wrong thing, Malfoy could leave. Now wasn't the time to fuck up.

Malfoy gave him a look of irritation, looking out towards the windows.

“My boss hung your letter up on the wall. It was a glowing review of our shop from 'The Great Harry Potter,'” he relayed in a mocking French accent, disgust dripping from his tone.

Harry covered his face with his hands, sighing in irritation.

“No, I just wanted to see if you were mad at me. Merlin, these people take everything I say the wrong way.”

He heard Draco chuckle, which was a good sign. Harry felt Malfoy understood what he was getting at, scooting further off the edge of the bed so he could try to get closer to him. He still fought the urge to reach out for him. Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s legs at the movement, the bandages peeking out from under the sheet Harry held over his lap.

“I won’t send you a letter next time; I’ll come in person. I won’t leave until I can make you smile at least once, and not just because I’m being an idiot,” he said honestly, Draco holding his gaze in approval.

“You're sure that you actually want me? With all my intricacies and tirades?” he asked more confidently this time.

It was an odd question, but Harry got what he meant.

“You can insult me as much as you want, and I might be a bit offended sometimes because you can get quite creative, but I’ll still be there. If you want me, you'll never be rid of me.”

Malfoy nodded in approval, visibly relieved that he was understood.

Malfoy had made a career of pushing people away. If Harry were going to stick around, he would have to convince him that he wasn't going anywhere just because of a few snide comments. The remarks were comical most of the time, anyway. Now that he’d seen who Draco was, he liked what he'd seen, and Harry had no intention of letting go.

There was a heavy silence as they sat on their admissions, no longer full of agitation and anger. Draco was watching Harry; then he pursed his lips.

“You realize what we’re talking about is far more than a one-off?”

“Yeah, but I almost lost my balls for you.” Harry motioned to the blanket covering his lap, shrugging nonchalantly.

Draco smiled slowly, eyes on the indicated lap. “How noble of you.”

Harry grinned back, rubbing his hands on his thighs. This was going surprisingly well.

“So, when people come after me with the newspapers, because they will,” Harry said, approaching the topic a little more carefully, “and when they ask me if I’m single or seeing a secret witch, and I tell them no-” He gave Draco a heavy look.

The other man gave him a tense look back. Harry glanced at Draco’s hands, which had begun to wring the bottom of his shirt.

“-No, I’m not dating a witch. In fact, the wizard I’m seeing is devastating, and he makes my knees weak. And I would like nothing more than to wake up to him every day until he wants nothing to do with me. Then they can get fucked for all I care. What would you say to that?”

Draco was staring at him, very still and tense.

“You said you weren’t asking me to marry you,” he whispered in a high-pitched tone, glancing to the rest of the room in case Madam Pomfrey was nearby.

“I’m not. That doesn’t mean I won't at some point, though.” Harry answered, grinning.

“How about we have dinner first?” Draco offered cautiously, not completely opposed to the idea. It was baby steps.

Harry sat up at the promise of dinner, nodding contentedly.

“But if I did that with the papers, how would you feel?” he circled back, needing clarification on the topic. Draco hesitated before he found his words. He looked fearful at the possibility of newspapers chasing after Harry like that, probably from his own experience with them.

“You can. But I would appreciate it if you waited a few months before declaring to the world that your fucking a former Death Eater.”

“What if I told them he was fucking me?”

Draco snorted hysterically, quickly covering his mouth to hide it.

“Potter, please.”

Something sparked deep inside Harry, determined to make Malfoy laugh like that at every chance he could.

“Alright, I’ll wait to come out about it. But if they ask about you directly, I will be honest.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you.” Malfoy had a charmed look on, arms folded across his chest, and appeared the most relaxed Harry had ever seen him. Even post-orgasm, he hadn't been this calm.

Harry rubbed at his neck, remembering the indents of Draco’s scars on him.

“You know, I wasn’t the only one to do damage.” Harry waved a pointed finger at his neck, Malfoy glancing at the motion and arching a brow.

“May I see?” He feigned interest, sitting up.

Harry nodded, remaining on the cot's edge as Malfoy stood and approached him.

The blond stepped between Harry's legs, towering over him, and Harry leaned back unintentionally, nearly dropping back onto the bed as Draco straddled one of his thighs. Arms draped around Harry's shoulders to hold him up, one hand splayed firmly between Harry's shoulders. The sudden closeness was overwhelming, and Harry felt very hot, his eyes not knowing where to look as Draco moved confidently around him.

The position was shockingly intimate compared to moments ago when they'd been discussing their relationship issues. It took everything in Harry to stay still and not press his face to Draco’s stomach, no matter how good he smelt. With the man so close, it was too tempting; however, Harry gently rested his forehead on Draco's stomach, sighing in relief when the blond didn't push him away. Harry was vaguely aware of the gentle touch of fingertips at his back, feeling drunk on the scent of leather polish and expensive cologne.

Harry felt the bandages on his back being tugged aside, the touches soft and curious.

“I noticed these when you were asleep last night,” Draco spoke over him,

Harry glanced up with hazy eyes, propping his chin on Draco's stomach. He felt heavy and relaxed for the first time since he awoke that day.

“You had all the chances in the world to heal them with magic, but they still scarred over. How odd.” Draco looked at Harry as if accusing him, but not in anger or judgment. He seemed fairly amused. Harry was guilty of doing exactly that, however.

“I wanted them to scar; they make me think of you,” Harry admitted shamelessly.

Draco hummed in response, appreciatively spreading his hands over Harry’s broad shoulders. Harry watched grey eyes slide over him, once again distracted by Harry's bare torso. Draco pushed his hands down Harry’s back, stopping above the bandages on his lower back, and gently kneaded at the cords of muscle between his shoulder blades. He probably would have been rougher, but since Harry's newly healed skin, Draco was delicate in his groping.

Harry sighed weakly as Malfoy pawed at him, perfectly content to let him do whatever he wanted right then. When he felt Malfoy’s body move away, Harry swayed since he wasn't being held up anymore and his eyes opened in confusion.

Though, Harry hadn’t been expecting Draco to mount him.

He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and came face to face with him, legs spread wide over his lap as he knelt on the edge of the mattress, Draco's hips cradled between Harry's thighs.

Harry’s hands went around Malfoy’s lower back for leverage, feet planted as firmly on the ground as they could so they didn’t fall. However, Harry didn't have the strength if they did start to lose their balance.

“I like my mark too,” he whispered against Harry’s lips, foreheads barely pressed together.

Malfoy’s silver hair hung down from his angled position above Harry, tickling Harry’s cheeks. That was the same soft sensation he'd felt back in the shop, both endearing and slightly annoying.

Harry sighed internally, trying to stay on task but overwhelmingly relieved at Draco's positive attitude. Harry had been so frightened of how badly this all could have gone. Having Malfoy on top of him, touching and teasing him, made it very difficult to believe any of this was real.

“Not that I want to scar you any more than I already have, but I think I could get really into that biting thing,” Harry admitted, overwhelmed with the lapful of Malfoy after several days of fantasizing and depressingly jerking off alone. Draco didn't need to know those details, though, but the painfully bandaged-up cock he sat on top of knew it well.

Draco merely grinned and decided that was enough talk.

Harry abruptly dropped back onto the bed when Malfoy kissed him, his core muscles finally giving out under all the strain of trying to stay up. But Harry groaned into it, thrusting his hands up the back of Draco’s shirt and reveling in touching bare skin. No goddamn apron was in the way this time.

Harry clung to Draco’s waist like a vice grip as he pressed down on him, long fingers tangled in Harry's hair as they tried to press as tightly together as they could, shakily grinding against each other for friction. It had been a long time coming, and Harry gladly let Draco take control. But the bandages wrapped around Harry's waist were not holding up against the friction of Malfoy’s jeans, and Harry's hips were flaring in pain from trying to thrust when he had no strength remaining in his body.

“No strenuous activity for three days!”

They couldn’t see her, but just hearing Pomfrey’s voice was enough to deflate them instantly.

Draco pushed off Harry, his face flushed and his lips swollen as he sat up and looked around in panic. After confirming she wasn't within sight, he rolled off Harry onto the mattress beside him and huffed loudly at their bad luck.

Harry shakily pushed himself up after collecting his bearings, glaring down at the shredded bandages attempting to hold together his swollen cock. Trying to preserve some sense of modesty, he summoned the pants Hermione had brought for him earlier. Harry shakily stood on uneven legs, turning away from Draco, and attempted to pull them on before anything else could fall out of his bandages.

Draco cheerfully watched, not bothering to hide his gaze as he checked out Harry's backside. Without warning, before his pants had been pulled up, Malfoy suddenly grabbed Harry's thighs. It frightened Harry so much that it caused him to bend over to grab the bed frame, nearly losing his balance.

Harry froze, holding onto the bed frame perilously, unsure what was happening. He felt Draco's hands spreading over the backs of his legs, searching for something. His first thought was maybe Malfoy was reaching for his ass, but his hands never wandered higher than mid-thigh.

“Is this what you were looking at when I interrupted you?” Malfoy asked from behind him, his voice serious as Harry twisted around to see.

After shifting around per Draco’s instruction, Harry saw what he meant. Another shockingly large scar ripped down the back of his left thigh, curving up between his legs towards his groin. It nearly rivaled the first one Harry had spotted earlier, which went up the front of his right leg.

“Yeah, they’re all over my thighs. There's another big one here-” Harry answered, standing straight and turning to face Malfoy, showing him the scar he'd been examining earlier. Harry pulled his pants on after giving Malfoy an eyeful, sitting on the edge of the bed and summoning his trousers.

Malfoy lay beside him, elegantly draped across the mattress with a grim expression as he considered the damage.

“Definitely not the preferred type of wood penetration,” Malfoy offered, his chin propped up on his hand while he watched Harry pull on his trousers. “They’re quite intense. Gave me a bit of a scare,” Draco shyly added, eyes on Harry’s waist as he covered up all his scars with denim.

Malfoy moved his eyes to Harry’s face, brushing some silver hair from his cheek.

“We’ll have to investigate how widespread the damage is at some point.”

Harry grinned. “I actually would appreciate that, euphemisms aside. I honestly don’t know how bad it all is. It's a miracle I still have my bollocks.”

He unfolded a black polo shirt from the pile, unsure if it even belonged to him. After pulling it on, Harry confirmed that it did not fit and was absolutely a size too small.

“God, you’re just vulgar. How could you purchase a shirt that tight?” Malfoy complained loudly from the bed, and Harry turned to see him flop onto the mattress in scandalous offense.

Harry wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but he rolled his shoulders to stretch the fabric out, wincing when he felt a sharp pain go through his back.

“I think it’s Ron’s, actually. But I don't have anything else right now, so I can’t be bothered; everything hurts too much to complain about clothes.” He carried on, flexing his fingers and knowing his entire body would be aching in protest when he went to bed. Thankfully, his legs seemed to regain some strength back, and his balance was slowly returning.

Harry felt mostly fine because of the painkillers Pomfrey had given him. No single body was meant to heal that quickly overnight. His bones might have been repaired, and his muscles stitched together, but it didn’t mean his body wouldn’t be screaming in protest for a long time. He just had to deal with an overall stiffness and delicate nature until the pain set in that night.

Draco sat up at the comment of being in pain.

“Do I have to carry your hulking body all the way up to Gryffindor Tower? I honestly don’t know if I’m capable.” Malfoy stood up from the bed, approaching Harry to look him over with a critical eye.

“If you just stare at me the whole time, then you definitely won't,” Harry mocked back, Draco giving him that unimpressed look again. Malfoy glanced at the small pile of Potter’s belongings, noticing the familiar ratty trainers under the table.

“Ah, your trainers,” Draco said thoughtfully, gently pushing in the middle of Harry's chest so he sat on the bed, reaching down for the atrocities and placing them in front of Harry's bare feet.

“I won't hesitate to get on my knees for you, Potter, but not if it’s to put those on your feet.” Draco stood, barely tolerating his shitty trainers’ very existence. Harry only smiled at the comment, pulling them on and choosing to leave the rest of his belongings. The house elves would collect the rest later and return it to his dorm.

Harry was basking in how open Draco had been about getting on his knees for him, not caring about the other comments concerning his trainers. There was no shame or embarrassment in sight on Draco's expression. Given they were by themselves at the moment, it was a start.

Draco held out his hands to help Harry stand, who in turn twined their fingers together and squeezed before Malfoy could let go.

“Now I can do this,” he announced victoriously, Draco smiling slimly in vague amusement.

“If you insist,” he sighed, tugging Harry along like it was a chore.

The thrill of holding hands only lasted for a short moment, right up until they stepped off the end of the Hospital Wing’s stairs, and Draco dropped his hand.

Harry could visibly see Draco’s walls shutter as a small group of students rushed towards the Hospital Wing from down the corridor. They were distracted by their friend, who was vomiting all over herself, but as they passed, it was an eerie reminder that Harry and Draco weren’t in protected isolation anymore.

When Draco released his hand, Harry looked at him. It wasn’t like he shoved his hand away, but he let go quick enough to hurt. He tried not to take it personally, vividly aware that Malfoy was going to have a harder time with this than he was.

“How do we go about this?” Harry asked quietly, hands shoving into his pockets rather than hanging by his side as a reminder. Draco was staring down the hall, shoulders tense as if preparing for someone else to appear.

“Do you really need help getting up to Gryffindor?” he asked in a strained tone, looking at Harry with a strained expression.

Harry could feel his hips aching in pain from moving just fifty feet down the stairs, but he just shrugged anyway. He really didn't want to force Malfoy into anything he wasn't ready for. It stung, but he knew Malfoy would be anxious about the public eye. Unfortunately, they would have to take small steps. Harry knew he was not signing up for easy domestic bliss.

“I can manage. If you come with me, people might see.”

Draco glanced Harry up and down, pursing his lips as he took in the Gryffindor's injuries. He looked back down the corridor, grey eyes measuring.

“I want to,” he forced out stubbornly. But Draco didn’t sound the least bit confident, and his answer was laced with fear.

Harry frowned, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Malfoy, really. It's fine. Take me to the stairs, and I’ll send Hermione a patronus. You don't have to come all the way.” He put a hand on Draco's back and gave Harry a weak look in return, leaning into the touch.

“I wish I could,” he mumbled, the ‘but’ hanging between them.

Harry nodded solemnly, rubbing his back comfortingly, knowing that this was the issue Malfoy had the most problems with. It was truly fine. Harry didn’t think it was such a big deal, but if this was how Malfoy felt walking through only Hogwarts, something must have made him so afraid. Harry removed his hand from Malfoy’s back, slowly urging him to keep going and walking alongside him, not touching.

To distract him, Harry changed the topic.

“So, when do I get to take you for dinner?” he asked quietly, Draco smirking beside him in reference to their earlier conversation. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets, and Harry noticed he'd tilted his head so his hair fell in his face.

“When do they allow you off school grounds? I’m not the one who is restricted by McGonagall’s word of law.”

Fair point.

“We can come and go as we please on weekends. Weeknights, I’m stuck here,” Harry clarified, looking over the familiar portraits in the corridors.

Draco frowned, bumping into his shoulder playfully. “How were you able to come to my shop that afternoon?”

“During the day, it's fine since almost everyone is stuck in class anyway. We get an alarm that sets off a stinging hex if we aren’t back in time for dinner Monday to Friday.”

He could see Draco working out the odd schedule in his head, turning around the corner and noticing students milling about between classes. It was almost lunch.

Draco cleared his throat, trying to remain calm. “Bloody rude of them to make you come back for Friday night, technically the weekend.”

Harry smiled, nodding in agreement. “Too right.”

“So, dinner Saturday night?” Malfoy offered, looking down at his feet.

Harry stumbled a bit in surprise, reaching out for the wall to catch himself and giving Malfoy a pleased look.

“This Saturday?”

Draco looked over him in concern but still nodded, aware of Harry’s delicate state.

“Yes, I was thinking of some takeaway at my flat. There’s a Thai place on High Street that’s quite good,” Draco offered, sounding more nervous once he provided specific details. It was incredibly endearing.

Harry heard someone calling his name, causing him to look away. Some Gryffindor fifth years had spotted him down the corridor.

“Take away at your flat on Saturday,” Harry repeated, Draco nodding and spotting the approaching Gryffindors anxiously. They were about to lose all sense of privacy.

“I'd really like that. Just let me get rid of them, and we'll keep going. Please don't leave.” Harry nearly begged before they were descended upon. Draco stepped out of the way when Harry was crowded against the wall by concerned lower years. Draco nodded to confirm he would wait, unsure if Harry had seen him, though.

It was a cacophony of questioning Harry's health, loudly complaining about Ravenclaw winning the match, and asking if he’d gotten any cool scars from the fall. A few of the girls asked if they could see the wounds as well and made some lewd comments about private places. It would have been amusing if they weren't such rudely invasive questions.

Draco stood away from the small crowd, eyes following Potter in the center and trying to interpret any sign of distress. But the idiot just gracefully smiled and easily deflected their questions, attempting to shoo them away without directly asking them to leave him alone. It was odd to see Potter confident and capable of handling his fans; in the past, he'd been so taken aback and stunned.

Draco could remember the awkward and shy boy from years ago who hated the limelight; now, he handled it with perfect ease. When the Gryffindors began to part so Harry could pass through, one of the girls grabbed his arm.

Draco immediately scowled, watching her paw at Harry’s muscles just as he had not even an hour ago.

The critical difference between the two was Harry ducked to pull away from her, wincing in pain and visibly uncomfortable with her touching him so inappropriately. Draco burned with anger, furious at how this clearly hadn't been the first time it had happened.

“I got to go. Off to lunch, alright?” Potter called loudly, catching Draco’s eye and nodding down the hall as he tried to slip away. Draco moved around them, glancing nervously at the group as they saw Potter motion to him. They all turned to look at Draco, a few of them glaring and some openly sneering at him.

Draco ignored the looks, walking closely alongside Potter as they left the annoying fifth years. Compared to when they left the Hospital Wing, where Draco was trying to leave considerable space between them, he now walked shoulder to shoulder with Potter.

“Always thought it was sickening how they fawned all over you,” he muttered; Harry gave him an annoyed look and shook his head.

“It’s just gotten worse. Now they actually touch me,” he grumbled back, Draco snorting.

“I saw. She always do that?”

“Yeah, there’s a whole group of them. It doesn’t matter how many times I say no. Apparently, just because I’m fit, that means they can touch me whenever they want.”

The way he said it sounded revolting. Draco looked to him, newly concerned.

“Was I one of them, that first day in the store? Please be honest.”

Harry looked over to Draco sharply, surprised at the question.

“Merlin, no, Draco. I always wanted you to touch me. Even when you scared me shitless, I still wanted you.” He grinned, Draco calming inside. He timidly smiled back, hands in his pockets. Their arms were touching, nearly walking arm in arm to touch as much as they could without obviously holding hands.

“Oh, that's a relief. I'm glad. But it's still horrid that they feel entitled enough to touch you like that, fucking rude.”

Harry just smiled at Draco's defense of him.

As they walked down the corridors, they tried to avoid the scathing looks from students who recognized Draco. Whispered insults passed their way, and louder accusations followed them.

Harry became increasingly frustrated as they walked, managing to make it to the bottom of the moving staircases by the time the halls had cleared out for lunch before saying something to Draco.

“That’s what you were talking about, then,” Harry complained, visibly upset at the comments thrown at Draco. “What would have happened if I wasn’t there?”

Draco shrugged, not bothered by the public's general distaste for him. However, he appeared more turned in on himself, shoulders hunched and standing close to the wall.

“I’d rather not think about it. Can you make it up alone?” Draco changed the topic, looking up at the stairs in familiar awe. “I still don’t think I know where Gryffindor's common room is- even after all these years.”

Harry chose not to continue complaining about the students, glancing up at the stairs.

“Fat Lady’s portrait, four up. I can manage; it’s not that far.” He reached out and touched Draco’s wrist, squeezing gently. After checking for witnesses, Draco gave him a small smile from behind the curtain of hair.

“One day, Potter.” He reached out and playfully tugged on the pocket of Harry’s trousers, starting to step away. Harry reached out and hooked a finger through one of his belt loops to get his attention, and Draco turned back.

“Just so you know, I really want to kiss you,” Harry growled in a low voice, eyes dark.

Heat flushed across his skin before Draco gave Harry a sly smile.

“Saturday, half four,” he reminded him, stealthily moving out of Potter’s grip and setting off down the corridor.

“I’ll be there!” Potter called after him down the corridor, no longer trying to be confidential.

Draco smiled at how shameless he was. It was one of Potter's better qualities.

The pure joy Draco felt leaving Hogwarts compared to the anxious misery of the previous day was unexpected but a very welcome surprise. He'd never dreamed of this kind of outcome, and while it was terrifying, Draco was slowly allowing himself to have hope. Maybe it could work, and it was okay for him to find happiness with Potter.

Chapter Text

After he left Potter in the stairwell of Hogwarts, Draco had to race back to his flat to shower and change for work. He still had to go to work today, whether his personal life had been thrown upside down or not.

Draco was torn between feeling elated and terrified about the whole situation. Potter had impressed him. His communication skills and sheer confidence during their conversations were rather refreshing compared to Draco's inability to converse eloquently about his emotions.

But the guilt and anguish Draco had resonated the last few weeks had been replaced by deep anxiety regarding their potential future.

Draco would remember the looks he got from the students at Hogwarts for a long time; they bothered him more than the glares he received on the street. Maybe it was because Hogwarts used to be his home, so it felt more personal. Hogsmeade was just a blanket hatred from strangers who knew nothing about him.

But at least he wasn’t being assaulted like Potter was. That was horrific.
Draco had very little interest in announcing to the world that they were involved. Still, when he’d seen that Gryffindor girl fawn all over Potter, he couldn’t help but feel jealous. Draco had wanted nothing more than to rip Potter out of her claws and scream at her that Potter was his. It was a selfish and potentially toxic urge, but he had it nonetheless.

It was enough to make Draco reconsider hiding their relationship. The downside: downright public hate and murder threats. The upside: no one would touch Potter anymore because they would know he was his.

Additionally, Potter had told him he wouldn’t abandon him. He was even willing to jeopardize his family for Draco. He’d mentioned bringing Andromeda and his cousin Theodore to see Draco and his mother, which meant a lot since Narcissa couldn't leave the Manor. Draco had to put faith in Potter's dedication. It was hard to trust that everything would work out, but this was one time he desperately wanted to believe that it would be alright. It was still so hard to have hope.

Draco tried to focus on being excited instead, standing naked in the loo early Saturday morning as he inspected his reflection.

Draco knew he wasn’t that impressive; the crisscross of scars quilting his chest was a dreadful sight. His new scar stood stark against his neck under the bathroom lights. Luckily, he was already atrociously pale, so the scars weren’t too dreadful. He'd become accustomed to having his body scattered with scars after the war; at least, this one had a story that Draco liked.

Draco touched his chest for the millionth time, finding it odd how all these scars were caused by Potter in opposite situations. On one occasion, he had been very adamant about hurting him. The other had been while trying to bring Draco to orgasm. Life was funny, sometimes.

He turned to look over his shoulder, staring down at his backside and trying to imagine what Potter would do to him this time. He was looking forward to being defiled by the Gryffindor again, but hopefully, they wouldn't require medical attention afterward. As Pomfrey had indicated, Draco was fairly useless at the skill these days.

Aside from being atrociously pale and far too many scars, Draco thought he wasn't much to look at—a leaner cut compared to Potter’s hunky musculature. Draco remembered when he had been attractive and well-fed with unlimited funds for the best in self-care. He remembered feeling elegant, but the war had taken all that away. Any confidence he had in his appearance was long forgotten; it simply wasn't a priority any longer. And that made moments like these terrifying.

But Draco had picked out his outfit the night before, wanting to make a good impression while considering that leather polish stains would inevitably get all over it. He’d chosen a white v-neck and a simple black leather vest over grey slacks. His white shirt had survived without stains for this long, so he would take another chance today and tie his apron as tightly as possible. Draco tied his hair back with a ribbon, huffing loudly as he stared at his reflection. Couldn't avoid it any further.

Against his wishes, Draco’s day went by slowly. Lisette was in the shop, so he was in the back working on orders while she managed customers. His work was still lagging because Draco had to poke around the corner every time he heard the bell go off. He felt like a mess, scolding himself whenever the client was not Potter.

Towards the late afternoon, Draco became absorbed in his current project. His hands aching from gripping the chisel tightly as he chipped away at the delicate pattern under the boot, tiny flecks of wood chipped off in random directions as he hammered. Draco was wearing his glasses not only to see but also as eye protection.

He’d been hammering away at the boot so loudly that he hadn’t heard Lisette call him, and he was startled when she came into the back and stood over his desk.

“Your beautiful boyfriend is here,” she advised in an amused tone, Draco standing up to stretch his back, looking over her to the door.

“He’s not my- now?” Draco glanced at the clock to confirm the time, seeing it was half-four on the dot. He stared down at his boot in disappointment- only half of his intricately stenciled pattern was complete.

Lisette sighed loudly at his lack of movement, brushing wood chips from his hair.

“Apron off. Time to go.”

He did as she commanded, heart frantically pounding with the sudden awareness of Potter being around the corner.

Lisette gave him a once over before finally approving his appearance as Draco took off his glasses, yanking off his apron before peeking around the door.

Potter was down by the boot displays, just like the first time he had searched for Quidditch boots. He appeared perfectly content, waiting for Draco as he browsed their products.

After taking a moment to gather his nerve, Draco cautiously approached him. When Potter looked up, his face split into a brilliant grin.

“You always work in outfits like that?”

Draco huffed, glancing down at his outfit. He had wanted to mock Potter’s own clothing choices. Still, the stupid fucker looked positively edible in dark wash jeans and a burgundy henley. Even a few buttons were tastefully undone- just enough to show off his collarbones. It was eerily similar to Draco's shirt during his last trip to Hogwarts.

“Contrary to our mishap, I do have to wear an apron for a reason. If I'm lucky, not all my belongings get ruined.” Draco glanced at his stained hands in mild embarrassment, but Potter grasped them so he could look back up.

“I like it; it means you take pride in your work. I'll take it that's Madam Sterling, then?” He stepped closer to place a hand on Draco’s waist, looking pointedly over his shoulder. Draco turned and looked behind him, trying not to become overwhelmed by how easily Potter had just held his hand in public. He noticed Lisette watching them in rapt interest from behind the counter.

“That’s her,” he sighed, smiling in embarrassment at her watchful gaze. She’d see right through him if he ever denied Potter being his boyfriend after this.

“Does she know who I am?” Potter whispered. Draco hesitated as he looked at the notorious letter on the wall behind the counter.

It was a valid question. Did she even know what Harry Potter looked like? Lisette had been on the continent during the war.

“I honestly don’t know, but let’s not find out.” He nudged at Potter’s abs, making a noise of exasperation at how firm they were under his hands. Potter only grinned, tugging him towards the shop’s door.

Draco hesitated once they stepped outside, feeling Potter’s hand still clasped in his hand. He no longer felt as keen as he had moments ago.

Far too many people were mulling about in the street for him to be comfortable. He instinctively pulled Potter closer to him as he froze just outside the shop doorway, a cold wash of fear securing his feet to the ground.

Potter let go of his hand, aware of his anxiety. Draco glanced down at the loss of warmth before looking back at the people around them. A few strangers had already noticed them standing together, pausing in their daily commute to stare. They’d only walked out of the store a few seconds ago; what could those people possibly want?

“There’s no way to do this without anyone seeing, right?” Draco whispered in realization, trying and failing not to sound panicked.

Once she recognized them, an older woman across the street turned to face them with a scowl. She looked like she was deciding whether or not to approach.

He turned to Potter when he didn't hear any kind of response, only to see him glaring right back at the woman, stepping towards her. Draco felt a flush of pleasure at the defensive tactic, fighting the urge to grab Potter's hand. Feeling a stroke of confidence, he bumped Potter’s hip to get him to move.

“Come on, Potter. I want Pad Thai.”

It distracted Potter enough to break his fighting posture, deliberately moving between Draco and the rest of the public as they walked. It was a small gesture, but Draco noticed it.

“The looks at Hogwarts were more distressing, if I’m honest,” Draco said quietly, Potter bumping his shoulder gently in camaraderie.

“Kids are worse than adults sometimes. How was work?”

After a moment of thinking about the question, Draco frowned.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked how my day at work was,” he replied honestly. Potter gave him a preposterous look in response.

“Really? How is that possible?”

Draco shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“I live alone. The only person aside from Lisette who I speak to on a regular basis is a drunk bloke across the street, and then occasionally my mother. The old bloke only cares about dragons, and Mother still refuses to believe I’m working at all. ‘Isn’t fit for a Malfoy to work in anything other than government,’ according to her.”

Potter nodded after a moment, seeing what he meant. “Well, I’ll be the first. How was your day at work?” he asked again, this time with purpose.

Draco smiled shyly. “It was fine. I haven’t been able to get much work in the last few days as I've been a tad distracted.”

“Oddly, I have been too. I wonder why.”

“Well, I had a Gryffindor ask me to marry him the other day-”

“I did not! Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You practically did, and the whole thing’s been distracting me terribly. I have six orders to complete and only just finished the woodworking on the first one today.”

“Would that be why you have wood chips in your hair?”

Draco quickly lifted a hand to run his fingers through his bangs, feeling the small chips catch on his fingertips.

“Lisette tried to get them before I came out,” he sighed, glancing down while he picked the pieces out of his hair. “It's down that way.” Draco nodded across the street, still leafing through his hair. Potter glanced around for anyone before turning down the road.

“I’m glad you had a good day at work,” Potter said sincerely, gently lifting a hand to pick a small leftover splinter from his hair. Draco smiled, brushing his hair behind his ear once he was satisfied.

“How’s classes? Did you re-break any bones? Any strenuous activities?” He leered at Potter’s body as they walked, originally in concern but then in admiration. The Gryffindor just shook his head, smiling at Draco’s stare.

“Classes are fine. But honestly, sleeping is the worst because my potions wear off during the night. It’s not as painful as it used to be, though. The first night was agonizing; I never knew bodies could hate healing so much. And Hermione is pleased for us, by the way. Ron, not so much, but again, he said he’ll try to work on it. Zabini is getting him to come around.” he explained briefly as they approached the Thai restaurant.

Draco led the way inside, nodding thoughtfully to Potter’s updates on his injuries and friends. He was intrigued to hear Blaise's name on the Gyffindor's lips, maybe their friends would have some overlap in the future. Pansy might be a harder sell than Blaise, however.

Draco walked up to the counter of the small storefront and smiled politely. The woman behind the counter smiled back in familiarity.

“Combo number 9?” she asked. He was proudly a regular.

Draco smirked, glancing over his shoulder at Potter. “What would you like?”

Potter was staring up at the display board, looking disorientated. “The same, I guess. There’s so much to choose from.”

Draco turned to the witch behind the counter and nodded. “Two, please.” He fished out some Galleons and felt Potter nudge him aside.

“Here, let me.”

Draco huffed. “No, I insist.”

“Draco-”

“Potter, you can pay next time. Kindly fuck off.” Draco stepped in front of him, body sliding against Potter's front to hand over the Galleons to the witch.

She watched in awkward amusement, not sure what to make of the exchange.

Draco took his pocket change and receipt from her, feeling his skin crawl as Potter's hands tugged his hips, moving him backward to the bench by the wall. Draco swallowed hard, noticing Potter's amused expression at the exchange.

“Does that mean there will be a next time?” Potter whispered, a smile tugging at his lips.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not if you’re constantly bringing it up.”

“You didn’t explicitly say no when I asked you to marry me.”

“Merlin, you have balls.” Draco pushed some free strands of hair from his face, feeling a warmth spreading over him.

Potter laughed, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. Draco looked down as Potter's jeans strained against the movement, looking straight ahead to distract himself. He didn't particularly want to get an erection in his favorite Thai restaurant.

“This means I get to see your flat?”

Draco nodded, folding his arms and thinking about how he’d frantically cleaned the place from top to bottom the previous night.

“Yes, the first person again,” he murmured thoughtfully.

Potter nodded, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Probably will be a long list of firsts,” he whispered, Draco glancing at him privately.

“Indeed. As much as I don't want to admit it, you’ve already taken a few of mine,” he whispered, thinking back to their near-shag in the shop.

Potter turned to him, too invested in the conversation to carry on with discreet side comments.

“It's the same for me, you know that?” He gave Draco a heavy look, and he found himself flattered at Harry's honesty.

For some reason, he hadn’t thought about whether Potter also lacked experience like himself. He’d just assumed Potter had done all of this already. He shrugged, looking over the artful stubble shading Potter’s jaw.

“I did not know that, no. I assumed you already knew what you were doing, what with the Weaselette and all that,” he murmured, and Potter cringed at the mention of her.

“No, that- It was all a mess. We thought we could have a proper relationship after the war, but it was immediately apparent that we couldn’t. And the sex was just… awkward? Many attempts and none of them successful,” he muttered, shaking his head. “She just expected me to know everything and didn’t help when I was confused or wasn’t doing the right thing. I’m honestly not outstanding at anything; I’m just trying to get better at being normal,” he replied honestly in a quiet tone, almost like he was upset.

Draco nodded gently and leaned against Potter’s shoulder in solidarity. He pushed some of his hair aside, thinking about those stupid false expectations.

Potter waved a hand in his lap, eyebrows raised and lowering his voice considerably. "I did have a one-off with a block at my gym, though, so I'm not completely new to the world of men."

Draco raised his own eyebrows, mildly impressed.

“Well, in that case, not to sound arrogant, but I’m fairly confident we’ll manage just fine. Our sex life is superb already, and if we can manage to collect takeaway without killing each other I think we can accomplish anything,” he whispered back with a haughty edge, primarily for comedic effect.

But Potter beamed at him, pleased at Draco’s playfulness.

It was the first time Draco had admitted they might have a chance. He’d usually deflected or responded sarcastically whenever Potter brought it up. However, after Potter's honesty about the Weaselette, he deemed it appropriate to be honest about his feelings.

Draco lifted a hand and curled his fingers in the front of Potter’s shirt, pressing his knuckles to the male’s abs again and feeling the stiff muscle underneath. He sighed heavily at how fit Potter was for the millionth time.

“You never did tell me how you got so muscley,” he complained. He was pleased with the results but baffled by how Potter could have gotten from point A to point B in such a short amount of time.

Potter hesitated before wrapping his hand around Draco’s fingers, thumb rubbing over the bony knuckles still clinging to his shirt.

“Er, yeah. After all the funerals and trials, I didn't have much of a reason to live,” he admitted bluntly. Draco had not been expecting their conversation to go in that direction, frowning.

“At first, Hermione came in and redecorated Grimmauld Place.”

“The Black family home? The one my mother grew up in?” he asked in surprise, sitting up a bit straighter as Potter nodded.

“Sirius left it to me. But it was empty and depressing after everything that had happened during the war. I kept most of the paintings and the important stuff, but it was like living in a tomb instead of a house. So, we redecorated.”

Draco understood that feeling. The Manor felt like a tomb as well. Unfortunately, his mother had no intention of changing it and probably never would. Malfoy antiquities were never to be changed.

“When she was tearing up all the furniture, Hermione gave me a flyer to a muggle fitness center down the road. It gave me a reason to get out of the house, and I actually started going. I met a bloke named Stevie, who taught me how to work out and eat properly, and I went back every day to train with him. This was just a byproduct.” He waved a hand at himself.

Draco nodded appreciatively. “And what do you mean by ‘work out’?”

Potter smiled at Draco’s naivety.

“Lift weights, push things, run for a long time—physical endurance. I can’t get it in much at Hogwarts because gyms don’t seem popular in wizarding culture, but I run around the lake in the mornings and am trying to find a way to strength train. but I can feel myself getting weaker because I’m not lifting like I can at the gym.” He put his hands on his stomach over Draco's fingers, indicating his core strength. “I don’t like not being able to exercise anymore.”

Draco hummed. He didn’t comprehend the need for that lifestyle but could also see the appeal.

“Well, if you truly enjoy it and it helps with stopping the urge to kill yourself, why not.” He supported, waving a hand. “I’m intimately familiar with the notion myself.”

Potter squeezed his hand tightly, leaning on him in understanding.

A new customer entered the shop, her back to them as she approached the counter to order.

Potter suddenly released his hand and shifted away down the bench, Draco tensing at the abrupt movement. Only then had he noticed how close they'd been sitting together.

Draco clenched his hands in his lap, feeling cold from the loss. It was the second time Potter had let go of his hand. He knew Potter just did it for him, but it still hurt each time.

It made him remember how the people in the street had seen them together after walking out of the shop. Everyone would still know something was up, even if they weren't holding hands or touching.

“There’s no way to avoid it, even if we don’t do anything,” he stated, looking at Potter weakly after he figured it out.

Potter was busy watching the new customer, who had moved to the wall adjacent to them to wait for her order. She pulled out a muggle device and began playing with it, not paying any attention to either.

Even though he watched her to make sure, Potter still seemed uncomfortable.

“Probably not. You said that when we walked out of the shop, too,” he whispered, giving Draco a faint look.

Potter knew this was important to him, but at the same time, Draco knew it was somewhat pointless. If they wanted to continue being themselves, people would see them together regardless of how they acted. Whether they were holding hands or not, the association would have an impact. It was inevitable.

Draco stared at the order counter, lips pressed in a flat line. He should have anticipated this. He’d known it would happen at some point, but having it so real in front of him this soon hurt.

“Two number 9’s!”

They both stood, far less cheerful than when they entered the shop.

Draco took the brown paper bag of food and carried it out of the shop after Potter. When he started down the wrong way, Draco kicked his foot.

“This way, you berk,” he corrected, Potter raising his eyebrows at him in mock offense and following in the other direction.

They wandered past High Street as Draco led the way to his flat, feeling passersby's eyes noticing Potter beside him.

The locals knew Draco lived in the area. Some were friendly, and some weren’t. But having Potter with him was new, and they were bound to recognize that something different was happening.

Seeing Harry Potter following Draco Malfoy into his flat was bound to cause a reaction of some sort.

Draco had chosen this activity for their first date because it was supposed to be private. Eating out in a restaurant was obvious; eating in was private. However, he’d forgotten he lived in Hogsmeade, where everyone watched each other at all hours of the day.

“Bet there will be headlines tomorrow about you following me into my flat,” Draco called over his shoulder as they went up the stairs, pausing to unlock the interior door before walking in.

“You’re probably right.” Potter sighed behind him.

Draco put the food on the kitchen counter before turning back towards him, eager to see Harry’s reaction to his home.

Potter stood in the doorway, staring around the room in curiosity. Draco looked around himself, trying to see what the place would look like to someone new.

His kitchen was small with a simple island, and his mosaic garden table sat beside the refrigerator. A plush, red sofa faced a fireplace with moving photographs on the mantle. His bed was against the far wall under a set of large windows that overlooked the street, its fluffy white duvet giving it the appealing aesthetic of comfort and safety. Carpets were scattered tastefully around the flat, a painting or two hung up on the walls. A dark chest of drawers holding his clothes was pressed against the wall near the loo, his collection of muggle books atop it. Draco’s flat wasn’t huge, but it was cozy and clean, and he was proud of it.

“I like it. Didn’t think it would be this homey for a Slytherin,” Potter said in surprise, moving about to look around. "How Hufflepuff of you."

“Shoes, Potter.”

At Draco's command, Potter dropped down to untie his boots, placing them by the door before carrying on. Draco smiled smugly, wanting to watch Potter explore but knowing their food would soon get cold.

Potter paused beside the bed while looking over his shoulder across the room.

“What’s this?” he asked oddly, a tone that made Draco put down the cutlery he’d been collecting.

He wandered over, seeing the grey laptop Potter was pointing to.

“Oh, that’s a muggle computer. I got it in London earlier this summer; it’s quite brilliant.” He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled it onto his lap as he lifted the screen, turning it on to show Potter, who leaned down and stared at the screen.

“But why do you have a laptop?” he asked curiously. Malfoy watched in growing irritation as Potter started to type on the keyboard quickly.

Apparently, Potter already knew what it was.

“For research and things. And this viewing website called Netflix. I don’t have access to Wizarding libraries anymore, so this was a necessary purchase if I didn’t want to die from pure boredom,” he described avidly, frowning as Potter pulled up a screen with thin lines crossing over it.

It wasn’t lines, though; it was a list. Draco leaned into the screen to get a closer look, unfamiliar with this website.

Meanwhile, Potter stood up from leaning over the laptop with a victorious grin plastered on his face.

“And porn. A lot of it. That’s fairly impressive, Malfoy.”

Draco dragged the laptop closer to him to hide it from Potter, glaring at it in betrayal.

“How did you do that? It’s been recording me? I thought only muggle cameras could do that?”

Potter laughed at his confusion, dropping beside him onto the bed and shaking his head. “No, no. It's just a search history. It’s mostly used if you forget a website name you want to find again.”

He watched Potter reach over to scroll through the list, his pornographic website shamefully appearing more than he would have liked.

“Watch a lot, don’t you?”

Draco nearly slapped the laptop shut on Potter's fingers, placing it back on the nightstand.

“Pardon me for being sexually frustrated for the last few weeks,” he claimed haughtily, standing to get back to preparing their food.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

It was appalling how easily Potter pulled him down. He still had strength Draco didn’t expect, turning in his grip and grabbing onto Potter’s shoulders for fear of falling as he was pulled on top of him.

Potter just smirked up at him. “I want to finish what we started in the hospital wing.”

Draco slowly smiled, knowing they’d eventually get to this but not expecting it to happen so quickly.

“Has it been three days? Up for some strenuous activity?”

“I’m always up for you.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter,” Draco snickered, straddling Potter’s thighs more comfortably and kissing him to shut him up.

Potter grinned into it, hands lifting to push the vest off him. Draco rolled his shoulders to ease it off, and Potter tossed the vest behind him. Draco pushed Potter down to the bed, growing in confidence.

They were finally alone.

Potter gladly dropped back onto the mattress, duvet fluffing around his head at the sudden movement. Draco spread himself on top of him, hands weaving into Potter’s hair as he pulled him deeper into the kiss.

Draco felt he could barely cover Potter with his body, even if he tried. And he wasn’t as firm as Draco thought all the muscles would be; it was impressive, but he had a softness.

After a moment of kissing and slowly shifting against one another, Draco felt hands sliding down his back to grab at his ass and legs, spreading for them.

Potter groaned at the movement, fingers gripping tight into the meat of his backside, and Draco pushed back into it, leaving the kiss to mouth at Potter’s neck and jaw.

“I want you on top of me.”

“Yes, that sounds great,” Potter exclaimed breathlessly under him, hands releasing their hold to roll them over.

Malfoy rolled to the side, fingers tugging on Potter’s shirt as he moved towards the center of the mattress, with Potter following him. On the way up Draco’s body, Potter stopped at his belt, pushing his shirt up to kiss and nip at his belly.

“Alright with the biting,” Draco mumbled, running his fingers through Potter’s thick black hair while he tried not to be endeared.

Then he gasped when Potter bit at the bulge of his erection, catching him off guard. Draco curled up at the sensitivity as Potter crawled back up his body to spread himself over Draco with a kiss.

He was heavy. The sheer thickness of Potter’s body was hard and cumbersome, pressing Draco into the bed like he wanted to trap him.

It was the best.

Draco squirmed, hands clinging to Potter’s back as he spread his legs under the weight. Potter's legs maneuvered so he lay between Draco's. Draco felt everything, and as lovely as the sensation was, Potter’s jeans grinding against the thin fabric of his slacks were pinching him unpleasantly. Draco reached a hand down and grabbed Potter’s belt, tugging hard to get his attention.

“Denim hurts, you shit,” he panted, feeling Potter’s warm breath of laughter against his neck.

“I take it that means you want them off?”

Draco rolled his eyes, feeling a shock of cold air seep over him as Potter sat up on his knees, taking a moment to look down at Draco.

He probably looked in a right state, flushed and breathless with his shirt half up his stomach, his slacks tented in a horridly undignified way. But Draco dropped his arms above him onto the mattress as he watched, legs shamelessly spread around Potter’s thighs.

“I always want them off,” Draco goaded as his eyes followed Potter's hands.

Potter's fingers moved swiftly over the belt, eyebrow raised at Draco as he pulled the buckle hard to the side and off in one solid move. Draco’s eyes glanced at the flex of his biceps as he removed the belt, trying to memorize as much as he could about the vision above him.

Potter tossed the belt off the bed with a clatter, getting up on his knees to unbutton his jeans.

“Oh good, I was worried you wanted me to stop,” Potter shot back, pushing the jeans down his thick thighs with a smarmy kind of confidence.

He knew he looked good. Draco was not going to deny him that.

Draco shook his head while he stared down at the tight black pants Potter wore underneath, once again distracted by the thighs he’d been dreaming about for weeks. He wanted to get his hands on them more than anything, to feel the coarse hair and strong muscles.

“That’s not a concern; please continue,” he whispered in a high tone, pushing back some hair from his eyes. Potter grinned, leaving his shirt on as he turned to kick off his jeans.

Draco breathed quietly as he watched Potter's movements. He felt hot and overwhelmed, wondering if he should also remove some clothing.

Draco wanted to take his shirt off, but he was hesitant. He clutched the bottom of his white shirt, watching Potter push up his sleeves before climbing back onto the bed after him. Potter noticed how he gripped his shirt, pausing as he leaned over him, knees slowly moving back between Draco's.

“You don’t have to,” he said gently, “they’re my fault anyway.”

Draco frowned at the remorse that laced Potter's voice.

“I don’t care that you did it. I just- no one’s ever seen them in this sort of setting, so I’m a tad nervous,” he huffed, trying to bend a leg and reach under Potter to pull off one of his socks.

Potter leaned back and pulled Draco’s other sock off while he stared down at his chest, deep in thought. Draco looked back to the V of Potter’s thighs, glaring at how the Henley now covered Potter’s crotch.

Did all his clothes have to be so fucking artfully placed?

Draco reached out to touch Potter’s thigh, feeling the coarseness of his leg hair, pausing when he felt a patch of skin lacking any hair.

Draco glanced down, noticing the large smattering of pale scars all over Potter's thighs peeking out from under his tight pants. Draco chose not to say anything, using his fingertips to tug the edge of Potter's briefs for his attention instead. Potter blinked back into focus, glancing down at the hand on his thigh before looking at Draco again.

“I don’t care anymore; we both have scars with bad memories. It simply doesn't matter anymore.” Draco said firmly, not wanting their scars to ruin this. They were past it. “You’ll just have to give me nicer memories to replace your past fuck ups.” Then Draco began tugging at the bottom of his shirt, sitting up to pull it off.

He felt Potter’s hands helping him, tossing it off the bed behind him as Draco dropped back down and stared up at Harry defiantly.

He didn’t expect Potter to touch him so quickly after he settled, breathing in sharply at the touch of foreign hands spreading over the scars on his chest. Potter shifted forward to lay between Draco’s legs settling in to examine the scars more closely.

“I honestly didn’t know what the spell did,” he whispered, Draco feeling tense when Potter leaned down to kiss his chest. Draco allowed it, lifting a hand to Potter’s hair gently. “I wish I’d never learned it.”

Potter's hands slid slowly up his chest and rubbed gentle circles into Draco's pecs and collarbones, placing small kisses along the path they took. After a deep, soothing heat had settled in Draco's chest, Potter moved a hand to his neck, lightly touching the edges of the scar.

“I like this one though.”

Draco’s body was pliant under Potter’s touch, turning his head to press his lips to Potter’s fingers.

“Shit-!” He hissed, Potter biting one of his nipples. Then, the big lug enveloped him in a kiss before Draco had a chance to cuss him out.

Draco curled around Potter, arms sliding around his neck as the Gryffindor bared down and pulled at his legs. He felt hands grabbing at the fabric on his thighs, bucking into Potter's hips as they pressed down on him.

It was too hot. Combined with Potter's trapping him, the duvet was raising the temperature obnoxiously quickly.

Draco could feel himself starting to sweat as they rutted against each other, gasping breaths the only sound in the apartment. The fabric of Potter's shirt stuck to his back under Draco's hand, moistening with sweat. Draco seethed into the kiss when Potter shifted closer to angle his hips harder.

The fabric of his boxer briefs hid nothing. The hard-line of Potter’s cock ground against him through his slacks, the thick press of his balls against Draco’s ass. It was too much but still not enough.

Draco arched against him, Potter tossing his shirt away after the heat finally overwhelmed them. He paused for a moment, leaning over Draco to catch his breath.

Potter's glasses smudged and askew, his hair at new angles Draco had never seen. Draco smiled at the sight, lifting his hand to pull the glasses off and toss them towards the nightstand.

“Forgetful,” he murmured, pushing back Potter’s hair with his free hand as he had in the hospital wing.

Draco's heart clenched when Harry pressed his face to Draco’s palm, eyes closed, and he breathed steadily, just taking a moment. He really was quite endearing.

"The blanket, can we-"
"Absolutely." Draco quickly agreed, waiting for Potter to shift away so they could push the duvet off the bed.

Once the thick, fluffy bedding had been shed, Draco dropped back onto the mattress and shuffled into the center of the bed. Potter followed, climbing over him again. He finally felt like he could breathe, no longer suffocating in the duvet.

Draco's hand slid down Potter’s bare chest, admiring his torso again as he memorized the hills and valleys of muscle underhand. Draco moved his free hand to Potter's shoulder, gently holding onto him while the other hand reached down for the bulge of fabric between Potter's thighs, wrapping his long fingers around him. Potter dropped his hands onto the mattress for leverage, breathing heavily as Draco rubbed hard around the fabric-laden cock.

Potter wasn’t as long as Draco was, but he was thicker. Not to say he was short, because that just wasn’t true either. It was all very life-changing, having Potter’s cock in his hand.

Harry pressed his face into Draco's neck, arched over him, and slowly rolled his hips into Draco’s fist as he held still for him. Draco nudged his face into Potter’s hair, removing his hand from Potter’s back to try and work open his own trousers, desperate for some release of pressure.

He hadn’t expected Potter to be watching his hands, but once the buttons came undone, there was a hand on his cock immediately, just like the last time they did this. Draco flinched in surprise, not expecting him to move so quickly and thus squeezing Potter a little too hard.

“Careful,” Potter whimpered, Draco breathing loudly in his ear as he squirmed under Potter’s hand.

“I'm trying-”

"Didn't want to wear pants today, Malfoy?"

"Seemed like such a waste since you were going to rip them off anyway."

"Merlin, you're cocky."

The loud rip of fabric interrupted their bickering, Draco jerking up at the sound and releasing Harry's cock, hands grounding on the mattress for leverage. Potter’s head hit his collarbone as Draco shot up, searching for the source of the noise.

Then the feeling of cold air on his ass hit him, and Draco realized what had just happened. His slacks had split straight down the back, and it wasn’t an accident if Potter’s shaking shoulders were any indication.

“Fucking Hell, Potter. I didn't actually mean to rip off my clothes!”

“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it,” he laughed, and Draco flinched when he felt hands rub over his exposed ass cheeks, fingers sliding under the gaps of fabric and into the cleft of his ass. Draco slapped a hand on Potter’s shoulders for grip, dropping back down onto the bed again, eyes shut tight at the bizarre feeling of fingers gently rubbing his hole. It was soft but very alien, just like it had been back at the shop. It was clear Potter was being gentle, though, not pushing in and only caressing him to familiarize Draco with the feeling.

“No. You’re the worst at repairing charms. You ruined your tie in fifth year,” Draco complained, but it came out weak and broken, heart pounding so hard he could barely hear anything.

Then Draco hissed when a flash of cold wetness spread from his bum straight to his cock, slacks be damned, even if they were barely holding on by a thread.

“You and your fucking wandless magic!”

“You were watching me in fifth year?” Potter shot back, removing his hand from coaxing Draco’s newly lubed-up erection to reach beneath him. Potter sat up on his knees, pulling Draco’s ass up into his lap and hooking his arms under Draco's legs; he was laid out fully exposed in front of him.

Potter could see and have anything he wanted right there in his lap.

Draco shook his head, not even caring how indecent he looked.

“I will not answer that.” Draco tried to reach for Potter’s arms, swallowing hard. "Now will you stop staring and actually fuck me?” he added, a bit more vulnerable than a moment ago.

“As long as you return the favor at some point,” Potter whispered roughly, staring down at Draco while he returned to slowly wanking him through the gaps in the fabric.

Draco’s trousers were destroyed. He should probably have been embarrassed by his arse hanging out the back, but the idea of Potter being too impatient to take them off was hot like the sun. Draco reached out for the waistband of Potter’s briefs, fingers curling around the elastic band and trying to pull them down with one hand. It didn’t work, slapping against Potter's flat stomach.

“Of course I will. Now show me your cock,” he seethed in a surprisingly selfish tone.

He felt, rather than heard, Harry laugh at the demand. As commanded, he removed his hands from Draco’s ass to push the elastic of his boxer briefs down his hips and under his balls, finally revealing his cock. He probably could have shifted closer, but instead, he used his new outrageous strength to move and adjust Draco’s body around him at his discretion.

With Draco positioned to his liking, Potter moved forward to press the length of his erection along the cleft of his cheeks, rolling his hips into the channel of Draco’s ass where the magically conjured lube had begun to pool.

They both shuddered at the new sensation, Draco scrabbling in his arms for another kiss. Harry pressed down harder into his body to meet the kiss, rolling his hips at a steady pace into the furrow of his ass, cock slick against his hole with each drag. The slide was just enough to tease him, the head of Potter’s erection nudging at Draco's balls each time he thrust.

There was a hand on his thigh, and then the angle changed, and the head of Potter’s cock started to catch on his rim with each thrust. Draco trembled against the new feeling and jerked against it each time before Harry finally backed off, replacing his cock with fingers.

Draco moaned brokenly as he felt them slowly press in, just barely at first. He’d only done this a few times to himself in the past, usually too embarrassed to carry on past tentative touches. But he was more than okay with Potter’s fingers, thick as they felt. They were careful and assured, not hesitant and scared like his own had been.

Draco yelped at the sudden flash of cold sliding through his ass, the muscles that had been clenching painfully tight around Potter’s fingers loosening up at a nearly concerning speed.

He glared at Potter, who at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“Sorry, didn’t mean for it to be that strong.” He muttered, though he didn’t look very sorry when he inserted three fingers without hesitation.

Draco gurgled out some gibberish at the new stretch, not regretting the spell as the pain he’d been anticipating never came, going straight through to pleasure. Potter had taken to kissing at his neck and jaw as a distraction, removing his wet fingers after riling Draco up on them and curling them around his waist, seeming pleased with his spell work even when faced with Draco's glares.

When the head of Potter’s cock pressed against him, Draco was scared for only a brief second, even though he knew the spell had worked and he didn’t have to be afraid anymore. In a moment of sheer bravery, he pushed back onto the cock, not regretting it when it effortlessly slid in with no pain.

Potter groaned loudly at the sudden movement- a sound he’d been holding back yanked out of him.

Draco held his breath, closing his eyes at the unfamiliar sensation of being so full. He began to tremble as his hands clung to the duvet. His entire world had closed in on that single point of nearly overflowing.

Potter’s hands had slid up his chest as he pressed in further, moaning deeply at the heat surrounding him. Draco grabbed his arms when he felt the press of Potter’s heavy balls against his ass, nodding mindlessly at the primal heaviness of everything on and inside of him.

“Yes, yes—move now; I’m fine,” he whined, permitting him to continue.

Harry let go of his chest to reach for the headboard at his word, pressing in slowly and tentatively.

There was a deep pressure inside him being rubbed and coaxed in a new kind of overwhelming pleasure, slow and aching and heady. Draco felt like he was being spread open and was completely fine with it. The lack of pain from Potter’s spell obliterated any worries he’d previously been nervous about.

Instead, he attempted to hold onto Potter’s sides as he fucked deep into him, the pace beginning to get harder and faster. The smell of sweat and sex was nearly as overwhelming as the sensations.

Draco could barely feel how hard his cock was from the pounding in his ass, but there was a familiar tension building inside him. He felt like he was drowning.

He dropped a hand and uselessly tugged at the fabric of his ruined slacks, wishing he could do wandless magic just this once to get rid of them.

Potter must have noticed, somehow, because he dropped a hand to where Draco had been tugging. A sharp sound of ripping cut through the sounds of their panting, and then his zipper was split in half, leaving Draco’s hips completely exposed without any fabric attaching the two pant legs. It was probably quite a ridiculous sight.

No longer caring about his trousers, Draco looked up at Potter’s chest to watch his muscles undulate and writhe as he fucked into him, trying to match the movements with his hips but having a difficult time from the angle. He cocked his hips up a fraction, making Draco shout at a new kind of pleasure erupting from the angle he'd moved into. He heard Potter encourage him, large hands grabbing his waist, and as he set on a new, slow, dragging pace to find that spot again.

Draco reached back for the headboard, encouraging the new angle and dropping his head back.

He wanted to be fucked open like this every day.

There was a sharp slap to his ass; Draco’s eyes opened wide and brought him back to the task at hand.

Then Potter jackknifed his hips into him hard, a yelp escaping his lips when Harry moved back into a grueling pace, this time in combination with that new angle.

It was over fairly quickly after that, Draco rendered useless to the pounding in his ass and coming silently under him, hands trembling as they clung to Potter’s arms. When he came, tightening around Potter’s cock inside him, the other male stiffened at the unexpected change in pressure and tripped into his orgasm.

“Shit,” Draco whispered, slowly working his hips onto his cock as he tried to extend the orgasm, Potter shakily laying down on top of him and pinning him to the bed.

Once Draco stopped moving, he felt Potter mouthing at his neck contentedly. Draco only clung to him, breathing shakily as he registered the wetness spreading from between his thighs.

He felt Potter’s hand reach between them, Draco hissing in sensitivity. The hand immediately moved away.

“Okay, good. If you didn’t come from that, then I don’t know what else I could have done,” Potter muttered in his ear. Draco snickered and slid his hands over Potter’s sweaty back.

“No, you were quite capable this time.”

After enjoying their position for a few minutes, listening to Potter’s breathing and exploring his glorious back muscles with his hands, Draco squirmed under Potter’s sweaty weight and squeezed his thighs around him.

“You’re heavy,” he mumbled, Potter pushing himself to the side at the first sign of discomfort.

Draco did not like the feeling of Potter pulling out. He made a noise of disgust at the suction, squirming out from under him to find a cloth to clean himself. Harry kicked off his briefs, which had surprisingly remained on, dropping them off the side of the bed and settling back into the pillows. Potter ran a hand through his hair as he watched Draco try to stand, amused.

For Draco, it wasn’t an easy feat trying to stand. He grabbed the nightstand for support, thighs shaking from strain, and quickly chose to sit back down instead. His thighs were not capable of holding him up at the moment.

He weakly kicked off the tattered remains of his gray slacks, staring down at them sadly before sighing. Draco turned and crawled back onto the bed, losing all determination to find something to clean himself and choosing to tolerate the sticky wetness between his thighs and ass.

Potter opened his arms as he crawled over, Draco dropping into them and rubbing a hand on the jutting hip bone of Potter’s waist.

“Veritable success,” he whispered, closing his eyes from exhaustion.

“Agreed. How’s your arse?”

"Spectacular. You should know.”

"Fine. But if you’re in pain later, you can’t get mad at me for not asking,” Potter mumbled. Draco glanced at him with an open eye to see the big lug had already shut his eyes.

He pressed closer, seeking opportunity now that he wasn’t being watched. Draco curled himself around Potter, hand sliding up the middle of his back and resting his cheek on his shoulder. They reeked of sweat and semen, but honestly, neither could be bothered.

“Hold on,” Potter mumbled, sliding his hand back down to Draco’s ass.

He was about to protest at the groping when a flash of heat went through him. Draco shuddered, not liking the new invasive magic Potter kept doing on him. After the low burning cleared inside him, Draco decided there was probably a good reason for the uncomfortable spells. They certainly saved a lot of time.

“Do I want to know where you learned all these charms?” he whispered, lying lazily in Potter’s arms. He heard Potter swallow close to his ear, his skin crawling at the sound.

“Not at all what you think. After we got back from the war, Hermione gave me this book. Said ‘if I was going to have a relationship with Ginny, then I needed to know some things.” The sound of his ex’s name was chilling, and Draco resisted the urge to pull away.

Potter carried on, rubbing at Draco's back to soothe him.

“Anyway, I never bothered with any of the spells with her because we were already done then. Eventually, I got bored and decided to go through the book. There was an entire section dedicated to anal sex for Wizards,” he whispered to him, sounding amused. “It was very enlightening.”

Draco nodded against his shoulder, feeling much better after hearing the second part of the story.

“And you brought that book to Hogwarts?” he asked curiously. Potter’s hand tightened on his waist, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“Yeah, I’ll bring it by next time.”

“Did you think you were going to need it this year?” Draco asked in a far more amused tone.

Potter grinned, eyes still shut, and pulled him closer, dragging one of Draco's legs over his hip to rub a hand up the back of his thigh. “It got mixed in with my things. I'm glad it did now, though. The look on your face when I did the first one was hilarious.”

Draco scoffed, lightly smacking at Potter’s pec. “Shove an icicle up your arse, and you’ll see what it’s like.”

Draco pulled his leg back, rolling over to turn away in posterity. Potter quickly grabbed his waist, rolling Draco onto his front and bearing his weight down on Draco to trap him again. This time, he was pinned face down into the mattress.

“How about I shove it up yours again.”

“You’re not hard enough. I don’t care if you’re the Chosen One; you aren't that miraculous,” he complained, feeling Potter grind his flaccid cock against him anyway. Instinctively, he pushed his ass back into it, unable to discourage him.

“Just give me ten, and I’ll prove you wrong,” Potter breathed against the back of his neck, Draco arching back into the chest behind him.

“How do you think you're going to fix it, hm?” he asked, fingers reaching into the sheets tentatively when he felt Potter’s hand sliding back to his ass.

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he felt a hand moving behind him and then a soft cock being pushed into Draco with careful fingers.

Draco was still open and accessible, but the Gryffindor was set on getting back inside him, whether he was hard again or not.

“Oh Merlin, you’re a dirty fucker,” Draco groaned, not offended at all by the feeling of Potter being soft inside him, squirming at the new sensation.

Draco spread his legs quickly, vaguely curious at this new feeling. He was still relaxed and pliable from before, even with the cleansing charm Potter had done only moments ago. It wasn’t about the motion of fucking this time, though; Potter was just set on being back inside him. It was unearthly hot on a dirty and primal level.

Draco pushed his hips back onto him to try and help, squeezing his ass around Potter’s flaccid prick.

“Fuck, Draco,” Potter swore from behind him, slapping a hand to his waist and not anticipating him to clench around him.

“That’s right, I’m in control here.” Draco grinned wickedly.

He arched his back up into Potter’s chest, Potter running his hands down the sides of Malfoy’s torso. There wasn’t much Potter was doing, just grinding slowly against his hips. It felt odd inside, not good or bad, just a sensation of being comfortably filled up, not stretched and hot like before. He couldn’t help but be curious about this new position, and Draco reached a hand up to touch Potter's hair behind him. He was far more coherent this time around, warm and affectionate.

“What’s it feel like?” Draco whispered over his shoulder, Potter nipping at the back of his neck possessively.

“Hot. And tight when you squeeze,” he murmured, unfocused and lost in the sensation. “Comfortable.”

Draco wondered if he could coax Potter's erection back, knowing tightness was what he would want if he were trying to get hard again. He shifted his position slightly, seeking comfort against Potter’s heavy mass.

“Pull out,” he whispered back, getting an idea.

He felt the rumble of Potter laughing against his back.

“We’re not gonna fight about that again.”

“No, you git. Trust me and pull out,” Draco huffed, Potter hesitating before complying with the demand. When he felt the slide of flesh being pulled from him, Draco clenched his muscles hard.

The sharp hiss from above him was what he'd wanted.

“Fucker.”

“Come on- again,” Draco snapped over his shoulder.

Potter was attempting to look annoyed, but it failed miserably. Fingers nudged at his rim again, coaxing his cock back in.

As Potter pulled out a second time, Draco clenched again. He seethed at the sensation of pulling against tightness. It only took a few more attempts before he could feel Potter getting hard inside him again, no longer requiring the help of fingers to push inside. Draco smiled, pressing his face into the pillow and pushing back against the workable cock.

“You're so clever,” Harry muttered, pulling Draco's hips to meet his thrusts as Potter rolled into him, Draco groaning at the stretch of his ass. “Always been clever.”

Draco let Potter bend him over and have at it, slower this round than the first time. The drag and pull of skin was sensitive, Draco crying at the gentle motions more than he had during the rough fucking before.

It was quick, Potter coming first from the tightness that kept clenching around him and Draco soon after as Harry tugged at his half-hard cock underneath them. It wasn’t as intense as the first time, but desperate and loud.

They slumped together achingly slowly, Draco humming as Potter curled around him like an octopus as he pulled back out. He’d forgotten about the cleansing spell this time, which was fine with Draco; he wanted to stretch this moment out for as long as he could.

Potter’s fingers laced through his, Draco using the Gryffindor's beefy arm as a pillow while he gazed sleepily at their hands.

“You’re not going to run away now that we’ve shagged?” Draco whispered, Potter pressing his mouth to the scar on his neck.

“Not a chance,” he murmured back, the low vibrations of his voice close to Draco’s ear. Draco nodded, pushing back into the curve of Harry’s body.

“Good. You can’t judge me for my pornographic websites, though, after that stint.”

It was so easy, Draco feeling fuzzy, comfortable, and sickeningly happy with Potter wrapped around him.

“There wasn't judgment,” Potter sounded far away, like he was beginning to fall asleep. “I was just trying to see if we were compatible.”

“Oh yes, well, I’ve never seen any videos with soft cocks before, so I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

“Now you’ve seen it for yourself. But not often, please; I’m discovering the sensitivity is awful afterward.”

Draco pushed his hips back to rub at his softening cock, Potter hissing against the motion and pushing Draco’s bum away.

“None of that; I need at least an hour,” Harry complained, Draco pressing back into his chest and hugging Potter's arm.

“Fine. Are you hungry?” he asked tentatively, knowing he was. Draco had been hungry during work a few hours ago, so this was prolonging his starvation.

“Yeah, could go for some.”

After a solid minute of no movement, Draco lifted their hands to bump Potter’s hip.

“I can’t walk, Harry.”

Potter woke immediately from his fog after hearing his name, squeezing Draco’s hand before climbing off the mattress to fetch their food.

It was flattering how quickly Potter jumped up to provide for him.

Draco rolled back into the pillows, stretching out his legs from their stiffness and watching Potter move around his kitchen stark naked. Merlin, if only the Prophet knew.

He observed Potter organize their food onto plates, seeming to already know how to use the muggle microwave and managing to find all the utensils Draco had put out. He carried over two glasses of water, placing them on the nightstand before pressing a horridly endearing kiss to Draco's lips as he returned for their food.

Draco just smiled to himself, carefully pushing himself up against the pillows to sit. He felt his arse ache at the motion, trying to shift off the pressure. He chose to put up with it when Potter brought over the food, handing Draco his plate before climbing back into bed.

“I like your kitchen.” Harry grabbed one of the pillows and put it in his lap to protect himself from the hot plate, something Malfoy copied after watching him.

“Thank you. It was a wreck when I first got here,” he said quietly, glancing around the room as he rolled noodles onto his fork. “If I wasn’t spending my paycheck on rent and food, the rest went into making it up. I’m… I’m proud of my flat,” he said timidly but proudly, feeling Potter’s eyes on him.

“I would be too, it’s very nice. I’d look forward to coming home here after work, that's for sure,” he agreed, and Draco glanced at him dryly.

“No marriage proposals because my flat is quaint.”

“That’s not what I meant, you shit. Eat your noodles.”

Draco smirked, leaning back on the pillows and eating happily. After a few minutes of silence, he reached out for the small laptop, opened it on the bed before him, and chewed his food as he slowly typed something out.

“What’re you doing?” Potter asked, curiously watching the screen and smiling at how Draco typed with only his index fingers.

“Not putting on pornography, don’t get your cock up,” Draco said back, earning a snort of laughter from Gryffindor.

“Couldn’t if I tried. Though, what are you on about?”

Draco turned the screen so they could see, settling back into the pillows.

“I found this thing called Netflix. The chap in the store set it up for me. I'll have you know, I'm quite the muggle enthusiast now.”

Potter grinned, pushing himself beside Malfoy to lean against the pillows and watch with him.

“Draco Malfoy, the muggle enthusiast,” he whispered, eyes on the screen in mild interest.

Large colors exploded on the small screen, and high-pitched, tinny music played. A blue police box flew across the screen. Draco pointed at it, quite proud of himself.

“This is called Doctor Who. It’s still quite new; it only started about forty years ago,” he smiled proudly at Harry, who was grinning in recognition of the show and trying not to laugh at Draco’s misunderstanding.

“No, no, Draco. Muggle television is not dated like Wizarding literature; forty years isn't considered new.”

The show played on as they finished eating, put their plates on the nightstand, and pulled the duvet back onto the bed to continue watching.

Potter was curled around him again, hugging Draco close while they watched. As invested as Draco was in the show, he felt too warm and comfortable in the cocoon of Potter’s arms not to fall asleep. He didn’t care that he still had dried come on his thighs or in his ass; he didn’t care that he was holding Harry's hand. At the same time, Draco fell asleep, leaving him somewhat vulnerable, and he didn’t care that people had seen them go into his flat together.

Draco felt safe, content, and loved for perhaps the first time in his adult life.

Chapter Text

A loud tapping broke through the early morning silence of the flat. Harry probably could have ignored it if it hadn't been that the infuriating tempo was just above his head.

After several minutes of trying to pretend it wasn't real, Harry lifted his head from his pillow to source the sound, squinting at the huge window above the bed. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted Draco's little owl on the other side of the glass.

She angrily pecked at the window, a rolled newspaper tied to her leg.

“Are you shitting me,” Harry muttered, leaning up to unlatch the window.

He ignored the movement beside him as he untied the roll from the owl’s leg, barely avoiding her pecking at his fingers. Thankfully, a small pot of galleons was on the sill for the morning paper, and he passed it on after collecting the newspaper. Draco’s furiously tiny owl flew off with her payment. Harry shut the window before dropping back into the inviting warmth of the pillows below.

He tossed the newspaper down at the foot of the bed, rubbing his face with his hands and glancing beside him.

Draco was stretched out alongside him, his back to Harry, and spread out over an impressively large portion of the bed. Hilariously, it left Harry with only a tiny section for himself, even though Harry obviously should be taking up more room.

He slid back under the covers to inch closer to Draco since they were no longer interrupted.

As with every morning, it was a struggle for Harry to ignore the bone-deep ache that wracked his body. It was an ugly pain he’d had to adjust to over the last few mornings due to his Quidditch accident. However, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the first night after the hospital wing, which had been so painful he'd almost been sick. Fortunately, it only reared its head in the mornings now, solely because the potions had already worn off before he woke up in the early morning hours.

But waking to stiff, aching bones was the last thing he wanted right now. Harry was desperate to enjoy this. He didn’t want a stupid hospital visit ruining his morning with Draco, especially after their night turned out better than he could have ever hoped.

He shifted forward to wrap his free arm around Draco’s waist, who made a sound of vague recognition when Harry dragged him back into him. Draco curled into the space under Harry’s arm, turning to face him while his eyes remained stubbornly closed.

Harry wouldn't have guessed that Draco would've appreciated cuddling. However, Harry knew if he ever said ‘cuddle’ aloud, Malfoy would be out from under him in a split second. So, Harry hugged him under the blankets, enjoying the feeling of having someone next to him while laying on a comfortable pillow-top mattress with an obnoxious amount of pillows. Draco's bed was ridiculously luxurious compared to his single bunk in Gryffindor Tower.

After a while of dozing, Harry felt Draco turn over to face him, the familiar line of an erection pressing against his thigh.

“You awake?”

“Your bloody owl woke me,” Harry murmured against his hair, deflecting.

Draco opened an eye to look at him, choosing not to respond and pushing further into the crook of Harry’s neck.

Harry could still feel Draco’s cock against him, but his very bone structure creaked in protest to any rigorous activity. He rubbed anxiously at Draco’s lower back, hesitating before admitting his pain. He didn’t want Malfoy to think he’d caused it, but at the same time, he had to be honest.

“My hip is killing me,” he whispered nervously, Draco snorting under him.

“My ass is killing me, try again.”

“No, Draco,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head against the blond’s hair and pushing some of it aside. “I meant my Quidditch injuries. My broken hip?” he whispered back, feeling Malfoy tilt his head up, suddenly awake.

“Oh. Right. You’re in pain?”

“Yeah. I think last night might have flared it up,” Harry whispered in amusement, though Draco didn’t look amused.

Draco sat up slowly, moving a hand to Harry’s hip and lifting the duvet to see. It looked fine on the surface; Harry knew because done the same thing the first morning. It had hurt so bad he’d needed to make sure no bones were sticking out.

“Damn,” Draco mumbled, rubbing Harry’s hip consolingly.

“In a few hours, though,” Harry tried, Draco smiling faintly and shaking his
head.

“I’m content with this.”

He lay back down, pulling Harry’s arm around him again. Harry stretched his hand out over the sheet under Draco’s head, feeling the cold metal of the laptop under his fingers. He glanced over Draco’s head, seeing it pushed under a pillow near the edge of the bed. One of them must have shoved it over at some point in the night.

He’d been distracted when Malfoy leaned up to kiss him, and all the morning breath in the world couldn’t have stopped him from pressing into it.

This was a different kiss from the other ones they'd shared. This wasn’t a ‘I’m going to fuck you now’ kiss; it was a ‘I want to wake up to you every morning for the rest of my goddamn life’ kiss.

It hurt in the best of ways because it meant something. This wasn’t just a one-night stand. This was a seal of dedication and affection.

At least, that’s what Harry would take away from it. He rubbed Draco’s side before breaking the kiss, mostly because he couldn’t continue if it evolved into something more.

“Morning to you too, love.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.”

“I’m just trying to be sweet on you. Do I have to call you ‘Malfoy’ until the end of time?”

“You called me Draco last night.”

“And you called me Harry.”

“Fuck off, I did not.”

“Absolutely did, ‘I can’t walk, Harry, you fucked me too good.’”

“I’m going to hex you, Potter.”

Harry just laughed, Draco playfully pushing away from him as Harry grabbed his wrists and pulled him back for a hard kiss, catching him off guard. It only worked for a few minutes, kissing him heatedly before Malfoy twisted out from under him and rolled off the bed. Harry couldn’t follow because of his stiff bones; only watching in glee as Draco stood far too quickly and his legs gave out from under him.

“And you still can’t walk!” Harry cackled hysterically, dropping backward into the blankets to laugh.

He caught his breath to watch Draco shakily stand, arms out for balance before cautiously approaching his chest of drawers.

“You’re lucky I need your cock, or you’d be out after that,” Draco complained, Harry just grinning from the bed.

Harry watched him bend over to pull on his sleep pants, eyes admiring Draco's beautiful pale ass before it disappeared under the pajamas. Instead, the line of Draco’s erection stood out from under the thin fabric, drawing Harry's eyes. Unable to help with said erection and vaguely disappointed at the end of their nudity, Harry rolled over to look down the side of the bed.

The mess of clothes from last night was undoubtedly impressive. But Draco’s shredded slacks took the cake. Draco wandered back to pick them up as if sensing Harry’s eyes on the former trousers.

“Your punishment is taking these to Granger for repair. I don’t trust you to fix them, and I do not have the money to get new ones.”

Harry frowned at the demands, nodding in defeat as Draco tossed them over the back of the couch. Then Draco crawled back onto the mattress, where Harry reached for him. He lay across his chest, pressing his lips to Harry’s forehead before noticing the newspaper that had awoken them.

He unrolled it, Harry looking up at it awkwardly from below while Draco hummed in curiosity.

“Told you we’d be in the paper.”

Draco folded it in half to show Harry the headline, the aggressive lettering screaming at him from the paper.

FORMER DEATH-EATER LURES HARRY POTTER INTO DEN WITH MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE!

“Your den? You live above an ice-cream parlor, for fucks sake,” Harry complained harshly, immediately angered at the accusations and unfolding it to see a picture of them standing outside Malfoy’s door last night.

The ‘mysterious package’ in Draco’s arms was their takeaway. He threw the newspaper off the side of the bed, noting Draco’s silence. Harry looked up at him, seeing the expected shuttered expression.

“It’s pathetic and stupid, and they’ll have to get used to it,” Harry said firmly, lifting his hands into Malfoy’s hair and pushing it back from his eyes.

Draco glanced down at him in response to his touch before his expression broke into a vicious scowl.

Harry's heart thumped in brief terror.

“They absolutely are stupid, you're right. And do they not even check their grammar before printing those headlines? If they're going to call me a murderer, at least have the decency to edit their accusations,” he shot back, shaking his head and moving to sit up, not noticing Harry's momentary panic.

Harry smiled shakily as he watched him sit up, relieved at Draco’s response. He'd just about had a heart attack, fearing the scowl had been for him.

“Alright then?” Harry asked, still a little nervous.

Draco nodded, leaning against his thighs and glancing toward the tossed-away paper.

“Yes. I have a feeling it'll be a regular occurrence, seeing the great Harry Potter being led into this Death Eater’s den,” he snipped sarcastically, expression full of irritation.

Harry lifted a hand and snapped the elastic band on Draco’s sleep pants, earning him a withering look.

“The great Harry Potter would like a tea or coffee."

Draco just rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss his lips briefly before pulling away. Harry leaned off the bed to press into it, attempting to make it last as long as he could before Draco gave him a private smile and moved away.

Harry watched Draco climb off the bed again, his legs far more capable of holding him up the second time. He carefully rolled towards the edge of the mattress, searching for his trousers. Amazingly, his wand was still in the back pocket, along with the coin purse Hermione had given him.

She had made a dozen of the undetectable extension charms, this one specifically for Harry once he told her about his date on Saturday. She’d insisted he bring overnight items even if he didn’t think they would be necessary. Hermione been right again. He hadn’t wanted to hope for an overnight stay, fearing it wouldn’t happen. Harry definitely knew they were going to fuck, but he wasn’t sure if Draco would kick him out after or let him stay.

Thankfully, he didn’t kick Harry out, and instead, they fell asleep watching Netflix. He felt like a muggle cliche.

He clicked the coin purse open, reaching in for his morning potions and a pair of sweatpants. A clean pair of clothes were there for the walk back to Hogwarts, but Hermione suggested comfortable lounge clothes.

Harry slowly sat up on the edge of the bed, bones creaking in protest as he uncorked the portioned potions and downed them one after another. He tossed the bottles back into the coin purse while listening to Draco clattering around in the kitchen.

Harry waited for the soothing burn to pass over his body before he tried to stand, curling his toes to stretch the muscles in his feet.

Using the nightstand to lean on while pulling on his grey sweatpants wasn't as difficult as he'd expected. They were usually what he wore on the way home from the gym, but now they were comfy pants for Sunday mornings around the common room. They hung a bit low on his hips, but they were so comfortable he didn’t particularly care if they were a bit loose.

On slow feet, Harry shuffled into the kitchen as Draco poured cups of coffee from a shiny black carafe. Harry went to the fridge to collect the milk, placing it on the small island before Draco glanced at him. The blond nearly dropped his cup of coffee, catching it at the last second before staring at Harry’s sweatpants.

“Potter, those are obscene. I’m trying to ingest something before I die from lack of fluids, so stop trying to lure me into another round,” he scolded, Harry looking down at his legs.

“What?”

“Your pajamas, Potter.”

“What about them? They’re just comfy pants, Draco.”

Malfoy was stirring milk into his coffee, shaking his head bluntly and waving a hand at his waist.

“I can see your cock in vivid detail. Please tell me you wear briefs under those when wandering around Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry felt his face heat up in horrified realization.

“N-No one’s said anything before,” he choked back, watching Draco’s face split into a slow grin.

“Harry, I don’t think they would have wanted you to stop wearing them.”

He momentarily forgot his shame once hearing his name in Draco’s voice, something warm and thrilling flushing over him. He’d never get used to hearing Draco calling him by his first name.

As he made his coffee, Harry kept glancing down at his sweatpants and trying to remember how often he’d gone around the common room without wearing briefs underneath.

“Are they that bad?” he asked weakly, looking at Draco after sipping his coffee. Draco didn’t even seem to hear him, though, eyes in rapt attention on Harry’s lap as he drank his coffee.

“Fuck, they are,” Harry groaned loudly, putting his cup down and leaning on the counter in frustration. “Merlin, I’m so daft.”

“No, just naïve,” Draco cooed, rubbing Harry’s shoulder consolingly with the back of his hand.

Harry just gave him a dry look before continuing to down his coffee.

“I’m used to them staring at me anyway. Wouldn’t have occurred to me that this was the reason.” He motioned to his waist, Draco nodding in sympathy.

“You are quite a sight for sore eyes.”

“Oh, shove it,” Harry laughed, finishing his coffee.

Harry knew what he looked like, and he loved Draco commenting on his appearance. It was far more welcome than everyone else’s unsolicited comments. It was confirmation that Draco wanted and liked him as much as Harry felt in return. He’d probably never get used to it, hearing the validation from Draco, and he never wanted him to stop. It was mind-blowing that Draco liked him back; hearing him comfortably admit his attraction and fondness for Harry was a dream come true, as cheesy as that was.

“Would you like to shove it down my throat instead?”

Harry glanced over, not fully understanding, until Malfoy dropped to his knees before him.

He felt all his blood drain south, eyes wide at seeing Malfoy suddenly on his knees. He’d seen it at the shop all those weeks ago but hadn’t thought he would get the privilege of witnessing it anytime soon.

Harry could only stand still for fear of doing something that would make Draco stop, carefully placing his coffee cup onto the counter behind him before he dropped it.

He watched as Malfoy pressed his hands against the grey cotton on his thighs, sliding up to encase his cock, Harry’s erection quickly swelling under the attention and earning a smile from Draco.

The blond leaned in and pressed his mouth to the cotton fabric, Harry gripping the counter tightly as lips slid down his shaft and grazed the base near his balls. Harry whined at the muted rubbing of Draco’s lips over the fabric, watching his long pale fingers slipping under the waistband of the sweatpants to drag them past his thighs.

“And there’s those scars,” Draco said unexpectedly, Harry opening his eyes after a delayed moment to glance down.

Now that they were in clear light and weren’t concealed by blankets or trousers, Draco could see the splinter scars. They were scattered violently in random patterns, starting around his hips and ranging down to his thighs. The two largest slashes streaked from the insides of his thighs across his hips, almost looking like someone had taken a knife to Harry.

“Are- Do they look bad?” Harry asked weakly as Draco gently touched them, searching around Harry’s hips to see the length of the damage.

Harry didn’t care too much about how they looked like himself, but if they were ugly to Draco, it would significantly impact how he felt about them. What if the new scars affected Draco's attraction to him? What if they were just a reminder of his own myriad of scars? Most of which Harry had done to him!

Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry’s question, getting back to business and curling his hand around Harry’s cock. His free hand massaged the outside of his thigh as if sensing his anxiety.

“Potter, I’m not very phased by scars these days. You're still hot like the sun; don't worry.”

Draco ended the conversation there, sliding his lips over the head of Harry’s cock and firmly stopping any lasting concern about his scars.

Harry curled over the wet heat of his mouth, hands clenched on the counter’s edge painfully as he gasped through the feeling of Draco’s lips and tongue on him. Malfoy's hand moved in tandem with his mouth, clearly not giving any fucks about the vulgar sounds of swallowing around Harry’s dick.

Harry could only watch as Malfoy let his hand go, sliding around to grab Harry’s ass and shoving his lips down to the base of Harry’s cock. The unfamiliar sensation of his throat fluttering around him pulled a surprised shout from Harry. Draco swallowed around the head of his erection, the twisted constriction of his mouth yanking Harry’s orgasm out of him quite violently. He felt Malfoy’s lips hold around him like a vice grip as he came, Harry’s thighs shaking as he desperately clung to the counter.

Draco wiped his jaw after swallowing, noticing how Harry was starting to lower himself and deftly pulling up the sweatpants before Harry slid onto the floor in front of him.

Harry collapsed against the cabinet doors, breathing shakily while he stared in awe at Draco, who merely reached for his cup of coffee and took a sip. The quick recovery Malfoy was going for was ruined by his disheveled hair and the specks of come lingering around his mouth.

Harry reached up to thumb at Draco's chin, smiling gently when he leaned into the touch.

“You’re good at that.” He gulped, looking overhead for his coffee cup before realizing he’d already finished it. Harry scrubbed at his face with his hands before looking down at Malfoy’s waist, seeing no sign of any erection for him to service back with.

“Did you not like it?” Harry asked in an exasperated tone, Draco giving him an odd look back.

“Of course I did. My other hand was down my pants, Potter.” He smirked, grinning into his coffee cup.

Harry nodded, understanding, and dropped his head back on the cabinets. He weakly reached for Draco’s hand, twisting their fingers together while Draco drank the rest of his coffee. They sat on the floor of Draco’s kitchen, holding hands and whispering about inane topics like Harry’s classes and Draco's upcoming projects at work.

Sitting on the kitchen floor with their coffee would become a Sunday morning tradition. Then they'd wander back to bed to read the morning paper between bouts of bickering and sex.

Harry didn’t mind spending nearly every weekend with him, enjoying it quite a lot. The Daily Prophet certainly didn't mind either, with lots of new drivel to spew. Just as they’d predicted, the harassment was vicious and cruel. A few supportive voices had come forward, but it wasn't common.

On Sunday mornings, when they got to hold each other and pretend like Draco's flat was all that existed in their world, who gave a flying fuck what they thought.

Harry walked out of Hogwarts as a student for the last time on June 15th the following year.

Hermione was still stuck in exams until tomorrow for her unspeakable N.E.W.T.s. but Harry was done with any responsibilities until Auror training in August. And now that he was done studying, he was on a mission.

Harry took the path down to Hogsmeade via the same route he walked every Saturday.

Last week, he’d been mad about studying for his N.E.W.T.s- he’d even scattered books all over Draco’s flat while the blond tried to help him with his Potions. It was the one N.E.W.T. Harry’s been scared of, but after today, he felt victorious. He understood what all the questions were about, and even thought he gave competent answers in response. That alone was enough for him to feel confident in his exams.

It was nearly half three, and Draco would be done work at four, which gave him approximately half an hour to reach the flat and get everything ready.

Harry steadily avoided walking past Sterling Brogan, taking the back route instead. He pulled out his keys and let himself in, locking the familiar blue door as he climbed the stairs, then locking the interior door behind him.

Harry glanced around, immediately noticing the place was in a state and cringed.

They hadn't had much time to clean up in the last two weeks due to studying. Harry had found a loophole in McGonagall’s curfew spell after classes had ended for exam season. He hadn’t slept consistently in Gryffindor Tower since, even though most of his belongings were still in his dorm room, long forgotten.

Harry just took out his wand and flung it in a circle above his head, not having time to clean the place up by hand today. Realistically, he only had twenty minutes left to put his plan into action.

The flat came to life, textbooks flying to the bookshelf over the fireplace, dishes vigorously scrubbing themselves in the sink, blankets and pillows on the floor reasserting themselves on the sofa and bed, and loose pieces of clothing dumping themselves into the hamper.

Harry walked towards the bed, standing in front of it and pondering the state of it. He went to the chest of drawers where Draco kept all his clothes, pulling out clean bedsheets. Harry knew Draco hadn’t gotten around to this in a while. He flung the flat sheet towards the bed, whipping his wand at it and watching the odd process of the mattress managing to change its sheets all by itself. He just watched as the dirty sheets flung themselves into the hamper, reminding him of that childish awe he still felt towards magic sometimes.

Harry knelt in front of the glossed black bureau that held their clothes, opening the bottom drawer containing his things.

After three months of coming by every weekend and losing several valuable articles of clothing, Draco had pulled out the bottom drawer of his bureau, dumped all his socks onto the ground, and loudly demanded Harry put his things into it.

It was touching, in his own way, since he knew Draco was probably terrified of even offering in the first place. Harry kept things like leftover pants, cologne, plain shirts, and his grey sweatpants in there for safekeeping.

Today, though, he had something else in the drawer.

Harry grinned as he pulled out the familiar leather apron, unfolding it from where he’d hidden it at the bottom of the drawer several days ago. Draco was bound to be furious when he figured out where it had gotten to, but it would be worth it.

He sat back down on the fresh bed sheets, untying his dragon-hide boots and spelling them clean of mud and all the other filth from trekking to the castle and back every other day. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t gotten around to buying new trainers and the infamous boots were his day-to-day footwear. Harry stood, shedding his trousers and pulling off his cardigan and T-shirt.

Naked, Harry delicately folded them and tucked them into his drawer.

Draco’s newest crusade was getting Harry to pick his clothes up off the floor. After letting himself go in N.E.W.T.s prep the last few weeks, he vividly understood why. It had gotten a bit out of hand.
He sat back down to pull his boots on, smirking and feeling quite clever. Why hadn’t he done this months ago? Harry grabbed Draco’s leather apron and walked to the bathroom, realizing he had no idea how to tie it on.

During the angry process of trying to do it up, Harry was reminded of fighting with the same apron back in Draco’s workroom in October. Fuck, that felt like it’d been years ago.

He had to turn and look in the mirror, trying to see how the cords were supposed to be tied over his shoulder. He briefly glanced over his reflection, seeing the familiar thick lines of scars strewn across his ass and thighs. They’d faded only a little over the past year, still standing stark and jarring against his tanned skin. Harry had come to terms with them, there was nothing he could do to change them and they were a memory of Draco.

If he hadn’t had that accident, there would have been a frighteningly high chance of them never getting together in the first place. Draco wouldn’t have stayed in the hospital wing with him, and they would never have had that relationship-defining conversation that led to their first date.

Which meant Harry chose to view them as happy scars.

He’d tied a pathetic knot with the apron’s cords, turning to get a proper look at his reflection.

Draco looked far better in it, in his opinion. But Harry still smiled at how huge his shoulders looked simply because of how low the apron hung on his chest. Malfoy would approve.

Harry left the bathroom, using his wand to quickly dust all the surfaces in the flat while he lay on the foot of the bed. Now, it was just a waiting game.

Harry watched the microwave clock in the kitchen nervously, and just after half past, he heard the door being unlocked downstairs.

He scrambled to his feet, standing in the center of the bed like an idiot. His heart began pounding because he was clad in dragonhide boots, Draco’s leather apron, and nothing else.

Draco paused once he had the door unlocked, probably wondering why the flat’s lights were on.

He had his green jacket on, hair loosely tied back, and looked utterly exhausted. But once he spotted Harry on the bed in his ridiculous outfit, he immediately transitioned from mild confusion to white-hot fury.

“You complete fuck, that’s where my apron went!” he cried, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

Harry gave him a cocky grin, sticking a leg out to strike a pose for him.

“But don’t I look good in it?”

Draco just pulled off his jacket in furious silence. He tossed it onto the coat hook and turned back to Harry, arms spread wide to indicate why he was pissed. His grey t-shirt had a huge caramel-colored polish stain across his stomach, ruining what would have once been an attractive outfit.

Harry cringed, his confidence beginning to wilt.

“I’ve finished my N.E.W.T.s and understood all the Potions questions?” He tried again, watching Draco walk to the kitchen with hunched shoulders, eyebrows raised in a look that Harry knew meant he wasn’t impressed.

And not in a comical way; it was definitely the ‘Draco’s gonna kick you out ‘cause you fucked up’ way.

“Is one of your N.E.W.T.s cleaning leather polish? We had to refill our stocks today, and since my apron went missing days ago, I had to go without it. How’d you figure that, Potter? Was your little stunt worth it? I’m going to have to call Granger again because of you.”

Ah, last names. Not good.

“No, there wasn’t a N.E.W.T for that. Potions might work, maybe, but I’ll probably just make it worse. Though you… already knew that...” he deflated, Draco glaring at him from behind the kitchen counter.

Harry just stayed in his idiotic position on the bed, deciding to stick it out.

“Aside from ruining my clothing, like you always do, what are you doing here? It’s Thursday. I have dinner with my Mother in thirty minutes,” Draco complained, reaching for one of the bottles of wine he kept stocked for his weekly dinners with Narcissa.

Harry hesitated, having forgotten the standing dinner date with his Mother. Draco, long ago, used to go on Sundays, but since Harry started coming over during the weekends, he’d moved it to Thursdays.

“Well, I’m done with my N.E.W.T.s, and I’ve already been accepted into Auror August training. You’re taking over Lisette’s shop while she’s scouting for a new location in Bristol. We’re both doing pretty good for ourselves, so how would you feel about finally marrying me?”

Draco snorted at him from across the room.

“Yeah, sure, alright. Go put your clothes back on; you’re coming to dinner now.”

Draco carried the bottle of wine to the mosaic dining table, stripping off his ruined Henley and ignoring Harry on his way to the loo. He couldn’t be bothered by Harry’s charades enough to take him seriously.

Harry frowned, watching in confusion as Draco walked past him without any other comments.

“No, wait, Draco. I’m serious. Marry me!”

“And I said yes, Potter! Did you not hear the part about putting on your clothes?” Draco called back, sounding like he was mocking him.

Harry scowled harder, not quite sure what he was doing wrong.

He jumped down off the bed with a loud thud, watching Draco primp in the vanity mirror from the doorway. He’d pulled his hair out of the tie and ran a comb through it, silver blonde hair curtaining his shoulders. The old scar on his shoulder shone under the lights as he pulled his hair to one side.

“Look, I’m serious. I got you a ring and everything.” Harry tried again, this time pleading for Draco’s attention. He pulled out the box from the apron, opening it to show Draco in the reflection.

Harry nervously watched his grey eyes glance at it, only to roll in irritation again.

“I know. I found it in your trousers last week after you fell asleep studying. Now I'm serious; go get changed. We have to leave for dinner.”

Harry stood dumbly in the door as Draco stepped past him, his world feeling like it had been thrown upside down.

“Are you actually naked? I thought you had pants on under that.”

Harry turned on his heel, hysterical.

“Yes, I’m naked- what do you mean you found it last week?!” Harry cried, Draco giving him a daft look over his shoulder.

Then he sighed heavily in disappointment, walking to the fireplace without bothering to respond to Harry’s outcry.

Draco was naked from the waist up, his hair hanging around his shoulders and his scars completely exposed. The large tattoo covering his dark mark stood bright against the canvas of his arm, the deep greens and blues of peacock feathers one of Harry’s favorite additions to Draco’s evolving appearance. But right now, Harry was too fretful about their situation to admire him.

Who was he fire-calling dressed like that at a time like this?

In his hysterics, all Harry could think about was how jealous he was that someone else would see Draco in such a state of undress.

“Draco, Darling, are you leaving soon?”

Harry tripped backward into the toilet at the sound of Narcissa’s voice, nearly slipping on the bath mat in his haste to escape.

The last thing he would have wanted was for Draco’s Mother to see him dressed like this.

They were on solid, yet delicate, terms. Harry brought her flowers every time he went to dinner or lunch, and they bonded over photos of Teddy together. He didn’t want to ruin the fragile bond he’d been cultivating by accidentally showing her his naked arse.

“Sorry, Mother. I’ll just be about forty minutes more. Harry’s decided to join us tonight.”

“He doesn’t have class today?”

“No. It was his last day for N.E.W.T.s, so there’s cause for celebration.”

“How wonderful; I’ll break out some of your father’s whisky. Harry will like that.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will. We’ll see you soon, then?”

“Absolutely. Ta, darling.”

Harry waited a solid minute in tense silence before carefully peeking around the doorway towards the fireplace.

Draco was stood in front of it, shoulders locked and glaring towards Harry with a scathing fury. That was an expression that only came out whenever Harry’d royally fucked up.

He watched in terror as Draco approached him, closing in on him like stalking prey instead of his partner. Harry bumped into the door frame as he tried to back away, eyes wide in dread.

“Where’s the ring?”

Draco stood before him, arms crossed over his chest and staring at him expectantly. After several months of dating, Harry was 98% sure Draco had learned that exact glare from Snape.

Harry fished the ring box out of the apron, shakily holding it out for him to inspect.

Draco looked down at the box with a blank expression, carefully taking it from Harry. He stared down at the ring for a few terrifying moments, then Harry watched him pull it out of the box and place it on his finger.

He held out his hand to the side, fingers splayed so they could both see it. The ring was champagne gold with a single diamond placed within the metal. It wasn’t too feminine or outrageously loud, subtle yet quite valuable like Draco. The color of the metal matched the Aurelian details of his tattoo, a minute detail Harry had been horridly insecure about when he picked it out.

Personally, Harry thought it looked perfect. It was everything he’d wanted it to be.

“I didn’t get a good look at it last week,” Draco whispered, pulling his hand comically close to his face since he didn't have his glasses on.

Draco seemed pleased with the selection though, eyes soft and no longer shaking with fury.

“You didn’t look at it when you found it?” Harry asked idiotically, forgetting he’d been in trouble not even ten minutes ago.

Draco smirked, glancing away from the ring and grabbing his arm.

“I put it back because I thought you would ask me later that night, and I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Harry felt his heart drop, knowing the night he was talking about. Draco’s birthday had been last week.

“I had planned to do it that night, really, but N.E.W.T.s were still happening, and we fell asleep at half eight-”

Draco tugged him harder towards the bed, giving him an amused look.

“This is better. Now, when it’s my birthday, I'll still get all the presents and attention for myself without sharing them with an Anniversary.” He sounded happy, kissing Harry sweetly once they stood by the bed.

Harry grinned into the kiss at Draco’s daft logic, feeling a lot better about his decision now.

“How stupid of me to try and take that from you.”

“Good, you understand. Now, what else did you prepare for me?” Draco murmured against his ear, his hands sliding to the bare globes of Harry's ass. Harry shrugged, pushing back into his hands.

“How about you see for yourself?”

“I’m not going to be looking at it, Potter. For fuck’s sake. ”

Harry grinned, turning around to allow Draco to push his shoulders down onto the bed. He spread his arms above him, bent over the mattress's edge, and instinctively spread his legs for him. Harry felt hands running from his shoulders to his ass, nails dragging hard into the meat of his back.

“As much as I would love to work you open right now, we are on a time limit.” He heard Harry pressing his face to the sheets and quirking his wrist to endlessly cast the spell.

The familiar cold flushed through his system, skin crawling at the sudden relaxation of his insides. The immediate fingers to Harry’s hole were welcome against the spell’s chilling side-effects, needily arching his hips into Draco’s fingers. After careful fingering, he felt Draco’s thighs press behind him, not wasting any time.

The clinking of metal as Draco undid his belt was loud and foreboding, Harry feeling hypersensitive in his excitement and restraining himself from rocking his hips against the mattress under him. The thighs were back, this time with the line of Draco’s naked cock pressing against his ass so teasingly.

“I love seeing you like this,”

Harry felt hands on his shoulder blades, nails digging into the muscles on his sides.

“No, you just love me.” He shot back quickly, intimately familiar with this banter, as he tightened his fingers into the sheets and tried to push back against Draco's shaft.

“You always have to get so sappy.”

“You love sappy, and you’re the one who always starts it.”

The feeling of being slammed into shocked Harry into silence, sobbing brokenly as he tried to push back to meet the thrusts. Now that the pretense was done, there was nothing to stop them; the sound of weak groans and the wet slapping were the only sounds Harry could hear, his face buried into the duvet under him.

After a few minutes of Harry shakily falling apart under him, Draco had the gall to start talking.

“So where’s your ring?”

Harry attempted to lift his head, vaguely wondering why Malfoy was trying to converse at a time like this.

“I don’t get one; only you do,” he groaned, unable to hide his disappointment.

Draco tightened his grip on his hips, thrusting for a higher angle.

“How dare you. I will not be the only one wearing a ring,” he seethed, Harry gasping at the sharp pricks of nails scratching his skin.

“Okay, okay, I’ll wear a ring. Engagement is supposed to be just one of us b-but I just have to find one,” he garbled back, his brain having a difficult time functioning at the moment due to being fucked within an inch of his life.

Knowing Draco wanted him to wear a ring was a huge relief. Harry had been quite distraught when the people at the jewelry store told him it was only customary for the recipient to wear an engagement ring. Harry had even asked if it was customary for his partner to be a man, and the older woman seemed to stick her heels in even further about the topic. Only one of them was supposed to wear a ring.

It was definitely a sore spot for Harry. He wanted to let the world know he was taken just as much as Draco did.

“I might have a substitute ring,”

Harry could hear the words above him, but Draco didn’t sound proper. At least the git was falling apart, too, during this.

“You got me a ring?” Harry’s hands reached back to touch his arm as Draco spread his ass cheeks wide, grinding in as deep inside Harry as he could reach.

“No, I didn’t. But I have a s-spare; it’s at my Mother’s house.” Draco’s voice was breaking on every other word, Harry groaning as his erection, which was trapped against the leather apron, began to leak pathetically at the friction.

“It’s at your mother’s?”

“Yes, my father’s ring. We managed to get it back when he was taken away.”

Once he realized he would be wearing Lucius Malfoy’s wedding ring, Harry tried to paw his way across the duvet.

“No, I take it back. I don’t want to get married; please don’t make me wear your father’s ring,” he whined, alarmed at the thought of wearing Malfoy Senior’s jewelry.

“Too late, I already said yes to your shitty proposal. You have to wear it.”

Harry moaned at the new pace Draco suddenly set, a hand bearing down between his shoulders and pinning him to the bed. The sound of their fucking was loud and vulgar, Harry bowing and just spreading his legs further for him, keening into the mattress as he felt the slow build-up forming inside him. As soon as Draco’s hand reached under his body to grab his cock he was done; Harry curled into the duvet and cursed loudly as he ground back onto Draco’s cock to milk his orgasm further.

He barely noticed when Draco dropped across his back, breathing heavily into Harry's ear and his hair tickled across Harry’s shoulders. Harry shifted contentedly back into his body, Draco hissing in sensitivity and pushing away from him.

“None of that right now.”

Draco carefully pulled out while Harry remained on the bed, dazed, as he went in search of a towel. When Harry finally had the energy to move, he cringed, the cold layer of come coating the inside of Draco’s apron and smearing all over his stomach. When Draco returned with a wet towel and started wiping down Harry’s back, he rolled over, looking up at him and watching Malfoy flip the apron away.

The look of disgust on Draco's face once he saw the mess coating the inside of his apron was hilarious. Harry snickered and immediately spelled the apron clean.

Draco quickly untied the apron, grabbing his hands to pull him off the bed.

After managing to stand up, Harry was surprised by the sudden hug Draco pulled him into. He smiled, wrapped his arms around his waist, and felt Draco press into the crook of his neck.

“Thank you.”

“Merlin, you’re always so awkward,” Harry whispered, endeared.

“Do you have to? I’m trying to be thoughtful.”

“I’m very proud. You’ll make a wonderful husband.”

“Don’t patronize me, of course I will. We still have to tell my Mother, though. In approximately eight minutes.”

Harry shuddered, forgetting that was part of this whole ordeal. He pinched Draco’s side, nudging him to move so he could change.

He was stopped when Draco grabbed his hand again and pulled Harry into a kiss, this time letting himself sink into it. Harry pushed back the hair from Draco’s face, cupping his jaw and giving him a heavy look.

“If we can get takeaway, we can tell your mother,” he whispered, a phase that had come up anytime they’d been anxious about their future, whether it was the public’s outcry against their relationship or the tense beginning when Harry had started to bring Draco to family gatherings.

Draco nodded, showing him that slight smile that belonged only to Harry.

“Yes, but can we tell my father is the real question,” he teased, Harry groaning loudly.

“If I have to wear his fucking ring, I’m not going to be the one telling him.”

“Fine, fine, come on. Let’s find you something to wear. I don’t think my Mother would appreciate seeing you in your naked glory nearly as much as I do.” He tugged Harry towards the bureau, grinning at the image of Harry naked except for his boots.

“Merlin, don’t even joke about that. It’s bad enough her friends have started sending me post asking for photos.”

“Those photos are mine; I’ll commit murder before any old biddies get their hands on them.”

Harry just laughed, pulling his clothes out of the bottom drawer and glancing back up at Draco as he searched for his own clothes. The new ring glinted in contrast to the black gloss of the wood. Harry knew it would be perfect for him. Even when he'd walked into that jewelry store six months ago, he knew in his gut that Draco would always be utterly perfect, no matter what ring he put on his finger.