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One Minute after Midnight
“Fucking Merlin.” It comes out on a moan. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” Every uttered fuck is a gasp, pulled from Draco’s mouth by the insistent pressure of Harry’s thigh between his legs.
Draco can feel Harry’s lips (chapped and pink and delectable) turn up into a smile against his neck.
Git.
A sexy git, but a git nonetheless.
“Are we—” Draco moans again as Harry mouths his way down to Draco’s chest. Draco’s fingers twist into Harry’s curls and he tugs Harry up into another kiss. It’s too little tongue, too many teeth, but oh-so-fucking-perfect that Draco doesn’t even complain when Harry draws blood.
“Are we—bloody hell—really doing this?” Draco finally gets the words out, groaning them into Harry’s whiskey-warm mouth.
A moment passes, the clock ticks on the mantel, Harry goes perfectly still, and Draco regrets ever being born so that he could one day open his stupid mouth and ruin everything.
“D’you…” Harry takes a deep breath, his eyes roving Draco’s face. “Should we not be doing this?”
“I… I…” Draco swallows, tries to figure out what exactly he’s trying to say. A thousand, million thoughts overwhelm him, crowding over one another to the front of his mind.
I never want to stop kissing you. Why aren’t we already naked? I need you to fuck me into the next century. Please put my dick in your mouth. I might be mad. I probably love you.
But the words won’t come. Worst of all, now he looks like an idiot. Stuttering. Mouth hanging open. Cock hard as a fucking rock inside his too-tight trousers.
“I…” Harry’s head drops to Draco’s shoulder. “We can stop.”
Draco most definitely does not want that—and Draco’s cock ardently agrees. He almost chokes on the words. “Do you want to stop?”
There’s an interminable second in which Draco lives several miserable lifetimes, before Harry’s head snaps up and he says, “Fuck no.”
“Thank Salazar.”
And Harry kisses him again.
Four Hours to Midnight
Draco is dying.
Not literally, of course. Don’t be absurd.
But—metaphorically, figuratively, symbolically, etcetera, etcetera. Draco is dying in all the ways one can die, and still remain corporeal.
And Draco is close to (metaphorically) shuffling off this mortal coil thanks to Harry fucking Potter—a wanker of the highest order who has been responsible for most of Draco’s near-death experiences.
Draco should have learned his lesson by now, and yet—
He’s sat in Harry’s messy room, on Harry’s messy bed, watching Harry dig through his messy wardrobe.
Draco shouldn’t be here. He should be anywhere but here—like curled up next to the fire, nursing a cocktail and his bloody mess of a heart.
And Draco would be doing exactly that if he had only ignored Pansy and her nonstop sniping: ‘Fucking kiss him already. I can’t possibly listen to you whinge for another fucking second. Not one more fucking second—I’ll have to put stones into my pockets and walk into the fucking ocean. Honestly, Draco, I just can’t fucking do it.’ and well, you get the idea.
So when Harry had stuck his head through the Floo, unable to dress himself and begging for help, Draco had ignored his better judgment, walking straight into the fire and his current predicament.
Draco has survived plenty. His father and sixth-year (what a shit twelve months that was) and Dark Lords and an entire bloody war—but he doesn’t know that he’ll survive this.
This being Harry parading around like a goddamn wet dream—shirtless, tight black briefs visible through the open zip of his jeans, cavalier and absurdly handsome. As if Draco hasn’t suffered enough in his twenty-eight years on this wretched earth.
A question Draco has had to ponder on more than one occasion is: why is Harry Potter half-naked?
In line for the loo. Drinking coffee in the atrium. At a fundraising gala for one or another of Granger’s causes. Over pudding at the Burrow. It seems impossible for Harry to keep his clothes on.
Harry is wealthy enough, he could easily afford two, three, four, five, six, even (Merlin forbid) seven shirts, one for every day of the week. Trousers aren’t particularly hard to come by in London. Harry isn’t an Animagus, suddenly prone to wild physical transformations that would necessitate the shredding of his garments. Harry isn’t, or so Draco has been told by a loose-lipped Healer, allergic to pants.
So Draco can find no reasonable explanation for why Harry spends most of his time almost naked.
Unless Harry means to ruin Draco’s life—which is absolutely something he would do, and take great pleasure in doing.
Draco sighs and collapses back onto Harry’s pillows, covering his eyes with his hands so as to spare himself the sheer torture of Harry’s pert nipples.
“What about—”
“No.” It’s the thirty-second ‘no’ of the night. Draco doesn’t need to see whatever monstrosity of a jumper Harry is holding to know that it is terrible and everything is terrible and Harry will remain half-naked for the rest of eternity.
“Draco…” Harry whines. And if he’s whining, then he’s pouting. And if he’s pouting, then his mouth will look awfully kissable. And—
“Draco, please.” Harry’s fingers tug at Draco’s, and as Draco opens his eyes, Harry comes into sharp focus: obnoxious and smiling and beautiful and so dreadfully close that it would take less than a breath to lean up and kiss him. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”
“That much is obvious.”
Harry laughs, loud and bright, pulling Draco up. “I need you.”
Draco nearly does kiss him then.
Harry drags Draco across the room to his wardrobe, and Harry’s wardrobe is, unfortunately, full to bursting with hideous Cannons’ jerseys and lumpy Weasley jumpers and holey t-shirts in every colour imaginable.
And, more unfortunately, Harry’s wardrobe is tiny. Tiny enough that the entire length of Harry’s body, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips to his knobby knees to his hairy toes, is pressed against Draco.
“Well?”
Draco is supposed to be Harry’s friend. Draco is supposed to be helping him comb through all his dreadful clothes to find something appropriate for Pansy and Blaise’s ‘Fuck Off 2008’ New Year’s Eve party. Draco is supposed to be, and bloody well should be, rational and aloof and completely fucking normal about Harry Potter.
There are far too many supposed tos for Draco to keep track.
Because right now, and really whenever he is around Harry, Draco is incapable of doing anything. There’s nothing in his brain beyond, ‘AHHHHHHHHH.’ And that’s almost too coherent a thought.
So when Harry leans against him, wrapping their pinkies together, the heat from his one little finger warming Draco from the inside out, Draco is certain that Harry fucking Potter will be the death of him.
Six Minutes after Midnight
Kissing Draco, feeling Draco’s cock against his, hearing Draco moaning and groaning and begging… so far, 2009 is fucking awesome.
It doesn’t last long.
“Goddamn—bollocks—shit—”
Undressing Draco is torture. Harry just wants to see his arse, and as far as Harry’s concerned, that’s really not too much to ask. But Draco’s clothes, with their buttons and clasps and buckles and hooks (and Jesus fucking Christ, did Harry mention the buttons?!) are proving impossible to remove.
Draco isn’t helping—at all—seemingly content to lean against the wall, smirking (and Draco is stupidly hot when he smirks), with a hand in Harry’s hair as Harry kneels between his legs.
Harry wants to fuck him… hard.
So Harry tries again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
“For fuck’s sake.” Harry’s fingers slip on the buttons, the clasps stay clasped, and Harry is convinced that the buckles and hooks on Draco’s trousers are mocking him.
It’s all very unfair because Draco’s arse is rightthere and Harry can’t see it but for the barest outline of a plump cheek. Draco’s cock is also rightthere and straining against the immovable zip and Harry’s going to lose his mind if he has to wait even one second longer.
If Hermione were here—and thank Merlin she isn’t—she would say Harry’s stubbornness is borderline pathological.
Then again, Hermione’s always been a fan of big words and histrionics. Harry is persistent, that’s all; he’s a Gryffindor goddamnit and he won’t apologise for going after what he wants. And what he wants is Draco’s arse, because Draco’s been blessed with the best arse Harry has ever had the pleasure of ogling.
Of course, he wouldn’t say no to ogling Draco’s cock and thighs and nipples…
So when Harry fails yet again to remove Draco’s trousers, he loses his temper.
His growled, “Fuck this,” is accompanied by a wandless Evanesco.
It’s a bit much (as Harry’s magic usually is), but it gets the job done.
Draco is finally, finally, finally naked. Totally starkers. His cock standing tall from a thatch of dark blond curls, long and leaning ever so slightly left. Harry’s afraid to blink, worried he might miss even a millimetre of pale skin. And mesmerised as he is, he nearly chokes on his own tongue.
He needs Draco’s cock in his mouth. Now.
Draco smiles, fingers moving from Harry’s hair to his jaw. “You can touch me, you know—I’m not going to break.”
A shiver works its way up from Draco’s ankles, goosebumps dotting his legs, the nearly translucent hair standing on end. His skin is soft, softer than Harry ever imagined, as he slides his hands around Draco’s hips.
“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, not really believing that this isn’t a dream. “You’re gorgeous.”
And Draco cries out, knees nearly buckling as Harry sucks him down to the root.
Three Hours to Midnight
“And that, Harry, is why it’s important to never bring a grenache to a garden party.”
Harry nods. He’s got no idea why he’s nodding, but Draco has clearly made a point and it’s best for all involved to just agree.
Not that Harry could disagree, even if he wanted to—he knows fuck all about wine. Every label is more confusing than the last, and Harry normally picks the most expensive bottle and calls it a day. Draco gasped, literally gasped, clutching his figurative pearls, when Harry told him as much.
Harry leans against the nearest shelf of champagne. “So what do we bring to a ‘Fuck Off 2008’ party?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Draco takes a deep breath, Levitates six bottles off the shelf, and starts in on the importance of soil.
The importance of soil is bordering on Binns’ level of boring. Harry doesn’t give a Billywig’s arse about soil acidity in France. And if it were anyone else, Harry would fall asleep, right here in the middle of this too-posh wine shop.
But it’s not anyone else, it’s Draco—and Harry could listen to Draco talk for hours and hours (even about fucking dirt). Because when Draco’s talking, Harry has an excuse to look at his mouth. Harry loves looking at Draco’s mouth—because Harry really (like really really) wants to kiss him.
“—and it was the French who really pioneered the concept of gôut de terroir in—”
And it’s impossible not to think about kissing Draco when he speaks French, his lips wrapping seductively around the incomprehensible vowels. Harry tries to look interested, and not like he’s getting hard thinking about what Draco’s mouth would look like saying, ‘pamplemousse.’
Harry has wanted to kiss Draco for ages… ages and ages. Long enough that Ron and Hermione had to stage an intervention.
“I can’t listen to you talk about the Ferret’s ferrety mouth—it’s just—I’m having nightmares, mate.” Ron shuddered. “Nightmares about you—and—and…” He shuddered again, took a long pull off his lager.
“You know how much we love you, Harry,” Hermione said, laying her hand over his. “We just want you to be happy. But… well… it’s a bit much and we think it would be best for all involved if you would—”
“Just ask the bloody bastard out, alright?”
Easier said than done.
Harry’s been trying to figure out how to ask Draco on a date for over a fortnight, every idea loonier than the last. It’s like the Triwizard tournament all over again—only worse.
Asking for advice: Hermione told him to be direct, Ron mimed heaving into the bushes, Ginny laughed in his face, and Luna suggested jasmine, rosewater, and wanking under the full moon.
Looking in books: The Idiot Wizard’s Guide to Homosexuality and Seven Easy Steps to Not Dying Alone and So You Think You Can Date?.
He’d even gone so far as to talk to Kreacher, but Pureblood courting customs were weird and complicated and Harry definitely didn’t have the time to find water from a blessed well in order to grow seven roses to gift his beloved in the new year.
So Harry ignored everyone’s advice, got rip-roaring drunk, and wanked himself to sleep thinking about Draco’s perfectly pink mouth.
It was only when he’d woken up, eleven hours later, breath truly foul and mouth dry as a desert, every joint stiff and aching, that he’d remembered Pansy and Blaise’s New Year’s Eve party.
Draco would be there. Harry would be there. Neither of them had dates. Pansy and Blaise usually provided enough alcohol for several small cities, so Harry could rely on liquid courage, if nothing else.
And, if Draco broke Harry’s heart, then he could drink away his sorrows with five-hundred-year-old whiskey.
But first—
“And so, taking into consideration the summer weather, soil pH, acidity of the grapes, and overall uniqueness of the vintage,” Draco says, pulling down one of the bottles with a flourish. “We should bring the 1996 Tattinger Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs Brut.”
Harry takes the bottle from Draco with a smile—and tries not to come in his pants.
Eleven Minutes after Midnight
“Mmmph—ohohohoh,” Draco groans, burying his face into a pillow.
Draco, who according to Pansy and Blaise and Greg and Granger and Weasel-King is incapable of ever shutting the fuck up, has no words to describe the miracle that is Harry Potter eating arse.
“Ugggggnnnhhhh,” is his best attempt at ‘don’t stop’. Luckily, Harry understands slag-speak and pushes his tongue even deeper into Draco.
After Harry had given Draco the best blow job of his life (and most embarrassing, Draco had come in under two minutes like a frenzied virgin), he’d carried Draco upstairs, thrown him onto the bed, and proceeded to stick his tongue in Draco’s arse.
It was all very dashing, and very manly, and very, very hot.
And Draco has been rendered speechless. No. Fucking. Words. Truly, Draco can’t do anything more than keen like a Kneazle in heat as Harry rims him within an inch of his life.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuu—” Draco moans when Harry pushes in a finger alongside his tongue.
“You like that?” Harry asks, his breath cool against Draco’s feverish skin.
It’s not much, but Draco pushes his arse back as best he can, because yes, he really fucking likes that.
And Harry has utterly ruined him for anyone else.
It’s a humbling moment.
Draco has long complained about Harry’s natural ability to master any bloody skill effortlessly. It’s an insult to everyone who actually has to try—and trying is so pedestrian. But now that Draco knows, really truly knows, what Harry is capable of—
Harry pushes in two more fingers and Draco nearly rips a hole in the sheets as he writhes.
Well, Draco won’t be complaining, or walking, again anytime soon.
“I’ve been dreaming about this arse,” Harry mumbles, kissing Draco’s left cheek, then his right. “I can’t—Gods, your arse.”
It does something peculiar to Draco’s insides. A little zigzag of his heart. Harry’s been dreaming about him. Whether or not it’s only his arse is irrelevant, because Draco’s arse wouldn’t exist without Draco. Draco’s attached to his arse whether Harry likes it or not.
Though if Harry’s dedication to eating Draco’s arse is any indication, Harry likes it well enough.
“Gonna fuck you.”
“Yes,” Draco manages to grit out. “Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”
As a general rule, Draco doesn’t beg. But for Harry?
For Harry Potter, Draco will do most anything.
Two Hours to Midnight
“What is the matter with you?!”
A reasonable question, Draco thinks, given the circumstances.
Harry managed to remain fully dressed for exactly two hours and twenty-seven minutes—a record no doubt—then, for reasons known only to himself, he handed his jacket to Draco and pulled his shirt off.
“It’s freezing,” Harry says, as though that’s any sort of answer at all. As though Draco’s the idiot who isn’t naked when it’s -2°C.
“Then put your clothes back on!”
Draco is very aware of the cold. Most of his body, excepting his navel, is numb. He’s quite certain that he’ll be less several body parts once the frostbite sets in. He only agreed to walk because he was distracted by Harry’s long lashes and wasn’t paying close enough attention to what Harry was saying, or how late it was. A mistake, one he’s starting to regret more and more as he inches ever closer towards freezing to death.
Draco is also very aware of Harry’s nipples. They are a deep brown and pebbled and looking very much in need of a good suck. They’re just there. Like right fucking there. Directly in Draco’s eyeline and simply begging for attention.
Once he realises the intensity of his staring, Draco tries harder to be less aware of Harry’s nipples.
“But Draco…” Harry says, wrapping his once-pristine white shirt around a piece of rubbish and drawing Draco’s attention down to his hands.
Perhaps the cold has reached Harry’s brain, driving him mad. Perhaps Draco will have to admit him to the Janus Thickey Ward, and then they’ll never kiss, and Draco will die alone. Perhaps—
It takes Draco a moment to recognise the rubbish as a tiny, shaking, too-adorable-for-words puppy.
“We can’t just leave her here.” Harry holds the bundle tight to his chest. “She’ll die.”
Without a doubt, Draco’s face is doing something embarrassing. Harry can’t stop being the Saviour, and every bloody time he shows just how gentle his heart is, it makes Draco soft. And Draco is never soft.
Not to mention, he’s right—though Draco is loath to say so. In the seventeen years they’ve known each other, and the five years they’ve been friends, Draco has never once admitted that Harry was right about something. If he did, Harry would never let him forget it.
“But, where—”
“Mine,” Harry says, “Bella will take care of her.”
He grabs Draco’s hand, pulling him into the crushing darkness…
And straight to his bathtub.
Draco hallucinates, for one brief but exquisite moment, that Harry is in the bath, bubbles just barely covering his most important bits, hand held out to Draco, inviting him in.
The hot water rushing over his shoes dissolves this effervescent fantasy.
“The fuck—”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Harry waves his puppy-free hand, and the tap shuts off—as do the lights. “Shit,” Harry says into the darkness.
A strange breeze ruffles the hair around Draco’s ears and several things happen at once: the bathroom gets bright as the bloody sun and just as hot; several toucans appear out of thin air, flapping their wings and making more racket than Draco believed possible; and tiles fall from the ceiling one by one, transfiguring into rubber ducks once they hit the floor.
And still, Harry waves his hand around and around and around, leaving chaos in its wake.
“Will you—” Draco bats Harry’s hand away “— fucking stop that!”
“Sorry!” Harry shouts above the din.
It takes several minutes for Draco to put the bathroom to rights (most of those minutes insisting that Harry doesn’t need to help as he has done quite enough already, thank you very much).
It then takes several more minutes for them to bathe the puppy. She turns out to be a he, and he’s not brown but a deep, velvety black, and Harry insists on naming him Batman (‘For Teddy,’ is all he says).
They then spend even more minutes kissing Batman’s soft ears, petting his warm belly, and feeding him endless treats. By the time they’re done obsessing over his wee paws, Draco is so thoroughly besotted that he demands part-time custody (and cuddles).
Eventually they tuck him into bed with Bella, Harry’s very old and very sweet dog. She licks Batman’s head and he curls up under her chin, already fast asleep.
“Okay, now we can go,” Harry says, pulling on his coat and grabbing the champagne.
Draco snorts. “Pansy is going to kill us.”
“We’ve got champagne! We saved a puppy!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Draco sighs. “And you still need a shirt.”
Harry smiles crookedly, opens the lapels of his jacket—flashing his delectable nipples at Draco—gives a half-hearted shrug. “Oh well.”
And so Draco asks again, “What is the matter with you?!”
Fifteen Minutes after Midnight
Fucking Draco is even better than Harry imagined—and he’s imagined it a lot.
Draco’s arse is perfect. There’s no other word for it. Harry could spend all night just watching his cock slide in and out and in and out of Draco’s slick hole.
He’s trying to be normal about it, not lose his head completely, but Draco’s arse is so bloody tight, so bloody hot, and Harry is very much in danger of going mad.
It’s a wonder he’s lasted this long, as often as Harry’s dreamed about this—
And Harry wants to come, wants to fall over the edge into bliss and drag Draco down with him. Harry wants Draco to feel every inch of his cock, wants to watch his come drip across Draco’s rim, wants to lick his release straight from Draco and hear him beg for more—Harry wants and wants and wants.
Close, and so desperate, Harry grinds his hips against Draco’s sweet arse, pushing his cock deeper and deeper and deeper.
“Harry, oh fuck, Harry. Oh fuck.”
Draco is making the most delicious sounds, and Harry needs to see it for himself.
Harry pulls out, says, “Roll over for me, sweetheart.”
Draco falls to his back, panting, sheets billowing around his mussed hair. Harry leans down, kisses him once, twice, again. Harry runs his hands up Draco’s lean thighs, over his scarred chest, tugging gently at his nipples, and Draco groans, lets his legs fall apart.
Beautiful. Draco is so fucking beautiful and Harry feels something give way in his chest.
“Touch yourself,” Harry says, pushing his cock back in—so tight, so hot, so bloody perfect. “Come for me.”
Harry fucks into him, hard and fast, over and over, Draco’s arse clenching his cock, and a brilliant heat wraps around his spine, racing through his veins.
Draco cries out, come coating his cock, his hand, his stomach. “Fuck,” Draco moans. “Fuck me, Harry. ”
It’s his name that does it. His name, HarryHarryHarry, falling from Draco’s kiss-bitten lips.
It’s only then that Harry realises—when he should’ve realised it hours, days, months ago.
He’s arse over tit in love with Draco Malfoy.
One Hour to Midnight
They’re very late.
Very, very, very late.
Have-essentially-missed-the-party late.
Harry’s not fussed. He’s not exactly an on-time sort of lad. And he’s having far too good a time with Draco to care about much else.
And regular Draco, the Draco that Harry knows, is aggressively punctual, even sets his watch two minutes fast so he’s never late. But New Year’s Eve Draco, or perhaps slightly soused Draco, doesn’t seem at all worried about the time.
“Cow.” Draco hiccups, takes another swig from their (now open) champagne. “I hope she’s miserable.”
“Without you there? I’m sure she is.”
“Serves her right,” Draco says, sloshing champagne over Harry’s shoes. “And she calls herself my best friend.”
Pansy had thrown—literally grabbed their hair and yanked—Harry and Draco out of the Floo. Blaise was nowhere to be seen. Harry tried to explain about the puppy and the fancy champagne and the search for a proper shirt. Draco had called her a wench, flipped her the finger, and threatened to burn her and Blaise’s flat down.
And still.
She slammed the Floo shut, forcing them bodily from the fire.
Harry thought that would be the end of it, but Draco had told him, in no uncertain terms, that they would march right over there so that Draco could give Pansy a piece of his mind.
And possibly burn their flat down.
“Well, no matter,” Draco says, and he straightens his coat, pulls down his sleeves. “You’re my new best friend. Pansy can eat a bag of dicks for all I care.” Draco loops his arm through Harry’s. “And as my best friend, you get to help me figure out how to conjure a bag of dicks. Obviously McGonagall didn’t care about giving us a well-rounded education.”
“Obviously.”
They walk arm in arm, breath misting into the dark night, drinking champagne, and ignoring the singing Muggles that surround them.
It’s fucking freezing, Harry’s still without a shirt (Draco also told him, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t care if Harry died of hypothermia, “because that’ll teach you to keep your clothes on”), and they might be walking in circles.
But—
“Oh my god!”
Harry jumps, and Draco nearly wrenches Harry’s arm from its socket as he turns.
“The fuck—”
“Oh my god!” There’s an even louder shriek as she, the very drunk girl in four-inch heels, stumbles her way across the pavement, towards Harry and Draco. “You guys are soooooooooo cute. Babe—babe. Babe. Babe.”
She waves to another very drunk girl, also in sky-high heels. “C’mere. Look at these two little sweeties.”
“Awwwww.” They lean against each other, staring at Harry and Draco. “So precious.”
Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he waves uncomfortably, while Draco mutters under his breath, “Americans.”
Thankfully, after only a few awkward seconds, the crowd swallows them, leaving Harry and Draco alone again.
“Er—that was weird.”
Draco hums noncommittally. Harry hopes he’s not making it weirder.
“I mean, can you believe that… that they thought we were together?”
“Of course I can,” Draco sniffs. “We’d make a very handsome couple.”
"You think?"
"I'm clearly handsomer—" Draco tuts "—but you're not the worst looking bloke I've ever seen."
Harry smiles, letting Draco pull him around a corner.
There’s a twinge, somewhere in the vicinity of Harry’s heart. It feels a lot like ‘what if…?’.
Twenty-Two Minutes after Midnight
Everything’s a bit hazy. A bit blurry around the edges.
It’s not the champagne. Well, it’s not not the champagne. It’s also the two orgasms. And the soft sheets and warm blankets. And Harry’s gentle snoring.
They’re in bed—in Harry’s messy bed, in his messy room, his messy wardrobe spilling over the floor.
And Draco isn’t even bothered. Because he’s loose-limbed, sore-arsed, arms and legs wrapped around a sweetly sleeping Harry.
He might also be in love.
…
Okay, so he’s definitely in love, no need to get your knickers in a twist. But it’s fine because Harry’s definitely in love with him back—or at least in lust, which is the step right below love.
Everything is perfect.
Then Harry gives a particularly loud snore and Draco hits him in the head.
“You’re ruining my perfect moment.”
“Wh—who—the fuck…” Harry blinks up at Draco, runs a hand through his unruly curls.
“You were snoring.”
“You hit me,” Harry says, so affronted that Draco wonders if he thinks they’re still arch-nemeses.
“So?”
Harry somehow manages to wrap his arms around Draco even more tightly, pulling him against his chest.
“You’re a menace.” Harry kisses the top of his head. “A sexy, sexy menace.”
“For that, you’re making me breakfast in the morning.”
“Deal,” Harry yawns. “Now, sleep.”
Harry falls asleep as he says the words, and Draco closes his eyes, settling into Harry’s embrace, smiling and happy and finally, for the second time in his life, everything is perfect.
Midnight
“Wait!”
Draco can feel the bass thumping through the floor, giggles and music and chatter filtering under Pansy and Blaise’s front door, and it’s so loud that he almost doesn’t hear Harry.
“Draco, wait!”
Draco stops, one foot on the top step, one hand on the door, and turns towards Harry.
And it’s definitely Harry, but also… not Harry?
“I—uh—shit—”
It takes Draco a moment to figure out why he looks so strange.
“Um… okay, okay, okay,” Harry mutters to himself, wringing his hands.
He’s nervous. And nervousness looks so wrong on Harry that it catches Draco off guard.
“Are you alright?” Draco asks because Harry looks close to sicking up all over the stairs, and Draco absolutely abhors cleaning up vomit. If he’s got to conjure up a rubbish bin—
“I’m fine. Good. Great, even.” Harry laughs, slightly maniacally. “Everything’s grand.”
“Okay, sure” Draco says, not taking his eyes off Harry’s green-tinged face. “Not a day goes by without you telling me ‘everything’s grand.’ This is all very normal, and not at all weird.”
“What if—”
“Yes?”
“What if—” Harry shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair, curls going every which way.
“Would you just—” Draco doesn’t mean to shout, but he’s losing his patience, and he didn’t have nearly enough to begin with. “Please, for the love of Salazar, finish your fucking sentence before we both die of starvation in this dank stairwell!”
“Fine!” Harry shoots back, glaring at him. “What if we were a couple?”
The world halts on its axis, tectonic plates stand still, the second hand stops ticking forward.
The universe, as Draco has known it, no longer exists.
“What?” Draco whispers.
Harry smiles, shrugs. “What if we were a couple?”
“What?” Draco says louder this time, certain that he has misunderstood.
“Go out with me?”
10…
There’s a rushing in Draco’s ears.
9…
Harry’s smile widens, a blush stealing across his cheeks. “I’ll take you on a proper date.”
8…
Draco feels as though he’s just run a marathon, can hardly get enough oxygen into his lungs, heart beating faster and faster.
7…
Harry moves closer, reaching for Draco. “With flowers and dinner and fancy champagne.”
6…
It sounds too good to be true. Like Draco’s about to get everything he’s ever wanted.
5…
Harry takes another step up, coming chest to chest, nose to nose with Draco.
4…
A tremble starts in his knees, nearly sends them both toppling down the stairs.
3…
Harry’s fingers are gentle, lingering over his jaw, the curve of his lips, his fluttering eyelashes.
2…
“Say yes.”
1…
“Yes,” Draco says as the world once again spins, tectonic plates crash together, and the second hand ticks over into a new year. He smiles at Harry’s obvious relief. “Now, shut up and kiss me, Potter.”