Chapter Text
~~~
August 1999 - Auror Trainee Dormitories
Eyes. There were far too many eyes — on him, through him. Judging and finding him wanting; waiting for him to slip. Draco pretends he doesn’t hear the voices as he makes his way to his room, but it’s not like the others are making an effort to hide it.
What’s a Death Eater doing here?
He should be in Azkaban.
You know what they say, the Malfoys are more slippery than a snake.
Robards must have lost his mind. I give him a week.
Draco has heard it all before, but the words still haunt him. Even in the quiet of his room, curled up on the floor next to the bed, he still hears the other trainees’ snide voices. Maybe they were right. What had he been thinking, signing up for Auror training? He could still quit, Draco thinks suddenly and desperately. He stands up, determined to find Robards, to tell him he’s made a mistake. That he's —
Harsh yellow light streams from the open doorway as it swings open with a loud creak. Nothing but a silhouette and yet Draco can recognise him anywhere.
“Malfoy?”
The voice makes his heart leap. If this is Draco's sign to leave, it couldn’t have been any clearer.
Because there’s no way in hell he’ll survive if his roommate is Harry Potter.
~~~
August 2009 - Blaise’s Café
SAVE THE DATE
PANSY & LUNA
We invite you to our wedding cruise to Webb Island, Antarctica!
AUG | 16 | 2009 - AUG | 22 | 2009
Two o’ clock in the afternoon
Apparition Point #4567, Port Mulgrave, North Yorkshire
(Further details attached inside)
Draco looks up from the gilded invitation to find Pansy wagging her thinly plucked eyebrows at him.
“Fab, isn’t it?”
“Are we certain that’s the word we should be using here?” Draco asks diplomatically. “Off the top of my head, there’s ‘this is fucking nuts’ and ‘you’ve both lost your marbles’. But then again this is Luna we’re talking about. The marbles were never there, were they?”
Pansy smacks him hard on the arm. “Oi, that’s my darling fiancée you’re talking about, you prick.” She pouts her scarlet lips. “But, yes, this is her idea. Something about seeing rare Antarctic Smirking Snookstacks or whatever.”
“Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”
“Good heavens, what in the hell is that?”
“Exactly.”
Pansy sighs. “Look, I’m just trying to make my lady happy. This is her one request before relinquishing all planning rights to me.” She reaches across the round, wooden table to grasp both his hands. “I can’t not give her this, darling. You know that.”
“Pansy, listen to yourself,” Draco tries. “It’s a seven-day cruise involving what, twenty people —”
“Sixty.” She smiles sweetly. “Of our closest and dearest friends.”
“Fucking hell. We’re going to Lord of the Flies each other on day two.”
Pansy’s dark eyes turn pitying. “Darling, I know you think you’re being very clever, but again, I don’t read. Except for that time they shot me for Witch Weekly and I said I did. Now that was a fab little picture, wasn’t it?”
Draco allows Pansy a few moments to recreate said shot with a croissant instead of a hardbound copy of Crime and Punishment before sniping in. “Let me see the guest list.” At Pansy’s reluctant (and highly guilty) look, he holds out his hand. “Out with it, Pansy Parkinson. Show me what you’ve done.”
Pansy rolls her eyes and gives it to him. “Ugh, you’re so annoying. I should just cross you off so you can be miserable alone.”
His eyebrow flicks up. “But then who will be your gentleman of honour? Who will tell you to your face that your makeup clashes with the flower arrangements?”
“I can think of one.” Pansy’s gaze zeroes in somewhere over Draco’s shoulder, towards the hardwood counter of the café where Blaise is supposedly hard at work when in reality, he’s napping over a basket of bread while an irritated customer tries to poke him awake.
As Blaise will tell anyone who gets tricked into listening, it’s not easy being the owner of Gothic Alley’s hottest café (in the day) cum sex club (at night).
First of all, customers often confuse their business hours. An elderly couple had once gotten an eyeful of Leather and Lace night by accident (or so they claimed) and received free Murtlap mochaccinos for their trouble.
Reliable help is also hard to find. Draco can count at least a few stray whips and ropes the night crew had forgotten to put away. But he knows better than to inform Blaise about it. A conscientious manager he is not. The last time Draco had judiciously reported several chains strewn in the men’s toilets that had twice nearly tripped him, Blaise responded by saying it added to the ‘modern industrial’ vibe of the café.
A style which Draco had taken to mean Blaise was too lazy to re-do the walls or the ceiling.
Or to provide his customers with chairs that didn’t leave their arses numb.
Draco shifts his uncomfortable wooden stool to be closer to Pansy. “I said honour, Pans, not dis.” He peruses the guest list and makes comments along the way. “See, look at this. At least seven of these people Blaise has fucked. Three he’s ghosted, two he’s led to think he’s dead, and one…” Draco stops to stare at Pansy, unable to speak over the staggering chasm of betrayal that has fractured between them.
Pansy is instantly placating. “My darling, my beloved, my oldest, fittest, sex god of a friend, please —”
“You invited him?” The list is crumpled in Draco’s white-knuckled fist.
“He’s my friend!” Pansy declares so loudly, even Blaise is woken from his coma. In the background, he can be heard fielding complaints from customers. “Tell them to be quiet? This isn’t a church, lady.”
Draco and Pansy hardly notice any of them.
“He’s my ex!” Draco shrieks back.
“It’s been six months, darling. Even seasons move on. Keep up.”
Draco leans forward to avoid prying ears. “He dumped me on our fucking anniversary, Pans,” he hisses.
And Draco was with Oliver Wood for two damned years, alright? Six months is nothing. Worst of all, after the break up, Draco didn’t even have the privilege afforded to most people of not seeing his ex’s stunning smile and even more stunning eight pack on the pages of every sports and society magazine in the country, lauding him as a “Keeper on and off the field” as well as the “most eligible bachelor in the entire League”.
Eligible his arse. What’s so eligible about a slimy bastard who breaks up with you on your bloody anniversary, not five minutes after sucking you off? Draco recalls with painful clarity the way he was coming down from his orgasm when Oliver said, “I don’t think this is working.”
At first, Draco was worried Oliver had meant his dick, but he quickly caught on once the arsehole started talking about “being in different places” and how “it feels like you’re still not opening up to me and you never will”.
What the bloody hell did any of that mean?
Simply a bunch of random words Oliver had strung along to justify breaking up with Draco, that’s what. Although Draco had been spun into a massive whirlwind of confusion, he at least had enough sense to knock Oliver’s stupid Championship trophies off the mantel before leaving through the Floo.
Given everything he’s had to endure, Draco feels he has every right to hold a grudge for as long as he wants.
“Hmm.” Pansy taps her lips. “I never really did see you two as having it.”
“What the hell is it?”
“You know —" Pansy throws her hands up. "—It. Chemistry, passion, pizzaz. Epic love, my dear, like what me and my Luna-bunny have.”
“If it lands me in a wedding in the godforsaken tundra, then you and Luna-bunny can have it,” Draco says, “and we did so have plenty of passion, thank you very much.”
Riding the high of post-match adrenaline, they’d fucked in the Puddlemere locker room. Once.
Pansy gives him a dubious look, but doesn’t pursue it in the interest of her own interests. “It’s just seven days, Draco, and the boat is massive. You’ll see him maybe once.”
“I don’t care. Uninvite him.”
“I can’t uninvite my firm’s biggest client,” Pansy says hotly. “Can’t you just put on your big boy pants for once and suck it up?” She snaps her fingers, eyes lighting up. “Oooh, how about you bring a date too?”
“Why should I —” Draco stops and grips her forearm for support. His voice is laced with horror. “Pansy, tell me no.”
“No,” Pansy says at once. A liar through and through.
Draco buries his face in his hands. “He’s bringing a date, isn’t he? Hard-launching his new less good-looking lover right in front of my cruise ship-quality shrimp cocktail. Fuck.”
“Aw, darling.” Pansy pats his hair. “We don’t know if he’s less good-looking yet.”
Draco lifts his face enough to glare at her. “You don’t know who it is?”
“No, he’s being very discreet. Apparently it’s a new thing, this fling.” She giggles. “Oh my. Am I a poet now?”
Draco ignores the question. “Bet it’s that fucking Marcus Flint. I’ve seen him sniffing around,” he mutters darkly. “Uninvite them, Pansy, or I swear I’ll —”
“But, darling, don’t you see? This is actually a brilliant opportunity for you!”
“How do you figure?”
“You get to do the same to him. Flaunt a better, fitter, more famous boyfriend right in front of his perfect face.”
Better, maybe. Fitter, sure. But more famous than the most wanted Keeper in the league? Did Draco even have the time to pull this perfect specimen?
Merlin, did he need to drop by the sex club tonight?
While Draco mulls this likelihood with increasing grimness, the little bell on the café door tinkles prettily, indicating a newcomer. Suddenly Pansy straightens, eyes alight with excitement. “Speak of the devil and he doth come,” she says breathlessly.
Draco’s well-honed survival instincts tell him to run. In their time as classmates, turned colleagues, turned roommates, he’s long learned the signs of a Potter arrival.
The hushed, almost awed, silence that falls on the room. The thrum of powerful magic seeping into Draco’s every pore. The familiar prickle in his neck that feels as real as a touch.
Draco doesn’t bother turning around, just levels a look at Pansy and says, “No”, in a firm voice. He knows that glint in her eyes. The road to hell is paved with Pansy Parkinson’s bad ideas.
“Yes, Draco,” she insists.
“I said no, you mad woman.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“What else is new?” says a deep voice from behind them. The shrill screech of a chair being dragged against wood heralds Potter’s appearance between them. He’s dressed in his usual activewear — plain, black t-shirt, and loose shorts that fall above his knees in the same colour and cotton-poly blend fabric. The combination ought to be far from eye-catching, but on Potter’s lithe, muscular form, it’s as potent as a mating call.
One that Draco, of course, is immune to.
He’s simply speaking on behalf of the simple-minded onlookers whose sighs of longing fill the room as Potter sweeps by them. Not that Potter notices. He never does, the arrogant tit.
With a face that’s eighty percent furrowed brow, Potter drops on the stool, braces his elbows on the table, and focuses all his dour attention on Draco. “You were supposed to be at the gym two hours ago.”
Draco bristles. Technically, Potter is right. He is supposed to be clocking in at nine at the gym. And technically, Potter has the right to call him out because he owns the damn place and that technically makes him Draco’s boss.
But while all of these things are technically true, Draco hasn’t accepted any morning appointments in half a year and Potter damn well knows this. He’s simply being a prick for the love of the game.
“Seamus is there.” Seamus is their newest (and only other) physical therapist and Draco has trained him for this very reason.
So he can cover Draco in the mornings, allowing him to skive off and have coffee with Pansy. Sometimes they shop. Mostly they gossip. All very important activities that contribute to society and the greater Wixen economy, but Potter has yet to come to terms with this reality.
“I do know that Seamus is there. Ask me how, Malfoy.” Potter leans close enough for Draco to smell his aftershave. A scent that's spicy and sweet and uniquely Potter. Mhmm. “Because I was there myself. Because I work there and when people work at certain places, they tend to have to be there. See where I’m going with this?”
“Perhaps you should have stayed there, Potter, since you’re such a big fan of Being There all the freaking time.”
Potter’s full lips stretch into a feral grin. “I was craving some coffee.”
“You don’t even —” Draco makes a frustrated noise when Potter grabs and downs his Flitterbloom frappuccino. “You savage! You owe me ten sickles and another ten for emotional distress! Wait till Human Resources hears about this.” Which should be a month from today since Tamsin is on stress leave. Again.
For what reason? It remains unclear.
Potter grimaces. “Ten sickles? For this sugary crap?” He wipes the cream off his lips by the back of his hand and Draco swears he hears at least a couple soft moans in the background.
Draco smacks Potter’s hand away and shoves a napkin in his ridiculously handsome face. “Oh my god, you’re a menace.”
Potter merely snickers, leaving it up to Draco to wipe the stray cream he’d somehow made worse. Pansy’s loud squeal yanks their attention.
“Oh, perfect!” she exclaims, her hands clasped together. “Look at you two! Already, you’re like an old, married couple.”
Draco snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. He holds Pansy’s gaze in an attempt to telepathically tell her to shut up. He knows where this is going; can hear the gears turning in her head and feels the pressing urge to drive a shaft into it. “No,” he says through gritted it.
“Yes.” She scooches her stool closer to Potter who looks visibly alarmed. “Now, Harry, I know it seems like Draco is being a lazy layabout who doesn’t take you seriously as a superior, but we are actually in the midst of a crisis meeting. See —” She gestures at Draco. “— our Draco here needs a date.”
Potter’s eyes drift to him in interest. Oh great. He’s not only going to laugh in their faces, but he’s going to make sure Draco never lives this down either. They’ll be seventy year old pensioners and Potter will be all, “Hey, remember that time you begged me to date you, you desperate freak?”
Fuck.
Pansy is still talking in great, embarrassing detail, “...and since Oliver is bringing a date, Draco has to bring a better one, otherwise he’s going to look really, really sad. Like those poor cats with only three legs and a little wheel, a stump for a tail, and maybe a bald patch. D’you know what I mean, Harry love?”
“Er…” Harry seems incapable of speech. Whether it’s because he’s still processing all the information about Draco’s love troubles or he’s trying to imagine Draco as the poor, beleaguered cat is anyone’s guess.
“It’s just pretend, Harry dear,” Pansy smiles like a viper. “Seven days of hand holding and calling each other noxious pet names — your choice, of course — and then Draco owes you his life. What do you say?”
Draco stares at Potter. Why isn’t he laughing yet? Merlin’s magical, bouncing tits. Why does he look like he’s actually considering it? Worse — intrigued.
Draco clears his throat. “May I just add that I have not consented to this. I’m perfectly capable of finding a —”
“I’ll do it,” Potter interrupts. He says it so casually, like he’s just agreed to picking up milk on the way home instead of pretending to be in a relationship with Draco for seven days on the wedding cruise from hell. Potter smirks at Draco when he makes a strangled noise. “What? You’ll owe me, won’t you?”
Heat scorches Draco from the inside. “I don’t need your bloody help,” he snaps, standing up so he can tower over Potter. “I can pull a perfectly fine temporary boyfriend, thank you very much.”
Potter leans back and folds his arms, causing the corded muscles to flex in what may be considered alluring to some people (not Draco). More sighs from the peanut gallery ensue. One of them possibly, definitely Blaise.
“Oh yeah?” Potter challenges. Admittedly, he’s developed quite an impressive raised eyebrow. A clear reminder that he has been spending too much time with Slytherins.
But Draco is a Slytherin himself and therefore, is not at all intimidated. He slams one palm on the table and bends low until he’s level with Potter. “Watch me,” he says. Then he straightens and heads for the door. “Oh and I’m calling in sick today,” he throws over his shoulder.
There. That’ll show them.
Circe’s nipple ring, he needs to find the tightest trousers he owns.
“Oi, you haven’t paid yet. Draco, Draco!”
Draco pretends not to hear Blaise. Bloody Potter can damn well pay for his drink.
~~~
August 2009 - 12 Grimmauld Place
Salazar’s pants. Is there no good-looking bloke left in England?
Draco isn’t asking for much. A pleasing face, a charming smile, and a fit body. That can’t be too hard, can it? But that’s what he told himself twelve hours ago before he’d scoured all ten of Witch Weekly’s Hottest Spots for The Flirty Under Thirty.
Sure, some men who’d approached him were decent, but they just weren’t…exceptional. None of them thrilled him. They weren’t Oliver level and certainly not Potter’s level, the ghastly prick. Obviously, Draco understands he’s being too picky considering this pseudo-relationship is just for the wedding, but he’ll be sharing a room with this man for seven days.
He should at least be tolerable.
In his desperation, Draco ends up at Blaise’s club.
For all of twenty minutes. Just enough time for him to realise that: A. All anyone wanted at the sex club was, well, sex and B. Draco didn’t want to have sex with someone he barely knows.
He’s been there, done that, and was decidedly not interested in going back. His relationship with Oliver had given him stability and security. Both deeply unsexy words in theory, but surprisingly very sexy to Draco in practice. Especially once he’d gotten used to it.
He finds he quite misses it actually, having someone to run to after a long day; who will listen to his woes and tell him he’s right and that everyone else is wrong obviously. If only Oliver had told him what the problem was in specific detail, rather than vague excuses, then maybe Draco could have fixed it. He never did have the chance to, given that they hadn’t talked since that night. Hadn’t even had the chance to see Oliver in person until —
Until the wedding.
Between drifting through the throng of slick, mostly naked bodies and finding a quiet alley to Apparate from, Draco entertains a mad, mad idea. What if on the cruise, he could actually talk to Oliver?
What if on the cruise, Draco could fix things between them?
And just in case it all goes tits up, Draco needs a fall back. A convenient cover. A ‘Well, I don't know where you got the idea that I want you back, Oliver. I was just taking the piss. I mean, can’t you see I have a boyfriend?’ type of excuse.
Which is why at midnight, Draco goes home to Grimmauld. Skips past the door to his room and heads straight to Potter’s where he knocks and waits patiently.
Sort of.
He bangs on the door a third time. “Merlin, Potter, what’s taking you so long? Don’t tell me you’re wanking o —”
“What the hell do you want?”
Draco nearly falls over when the door suddenly gives way before him. Potter is behind it, looking deeply disgruntled and deeply shirtless.
The broad, finely muscled torso, Draco is used to. The six pack is nothing new either, as is the dark happy trail that leads to parts unknown in Potter’s low slung golden snitch pyjama bottoms.
The obscene tent his dick is making through the fabric, however, is a fresh addition.
With the fortitude of a saint, Draco forces his eyes up. “Oh my gods. Were you actually wanking?”
Potter leans on the doorway, unashamed. “Don’t ask if you’re not going to help.”
“Ew, Potter.”
“You’re one to talk. Are you covered in glitter?” Swiftly and before Draco can react, Potter swipes the pad of his thumb against Draco’s cheek. “And is this jelly?”
Gods, Draco hopes it’s jelly. The colourful gooey stuff was shot from small canons Blaise had at the club ceiling.
“You were at the club.” Potter’s voice is flat. He stares at Draco’s tiny leather top as though it has personally wronged him and his ancestors.
“Obviously I was at the club, Potter. I’m wearing my tight trousers. Now focus.” Draco snaps his fingers. “Listen to me. I’m in.”
Potter is still scowling, eyes having narrowed onto Draco’s trousers. “In what?”
“In the plan, Potter! The master plan!”
“Did you take something? What did it look like? Tell me.” When Potter tries to reach for his eyeballs, Draco slaps him off.
“Merlin’s fucking ballsack, Potter. I’m talking about the date!” Potter freezes and Draco uses the opportunity to step closer. Thank Circe the erection’s reduced.
Well, somewhat.
Draco could still make out the outline, but it’s not Potter’s fault he’s…hefty.
Again, Draco drags his traitorous eyes away and shoots Potter a winsome smile. “You and me,” he says, sounding a bit breathless. “Faking it for England. Let’s do it.”
~~~
September 1999 - Auror Training Centre
Harry doesn’t sleep much after the war. A couple hours at most before he’s awake, sweaty, and fighting to breathe through the icy grip of a nightmare. Back at the Burrow, he’d spend the darkest parts of the night staring at the ceiling. Now at the Centre, he finds himself looking to the empty bed across the room.
There’s small comfort in knowing he isn’t the only one walking around, sleep-deprived.
Whether it’s due to morbid curiosity or singular boredom, Harry throws aside his covers and follows after Malfoy one night. He finds him in the large gymnasium through the sound of his panting breaths and rough exertions.
Harry’s steps are soundless and Malfoy doesn’t notice him, far too occupied with working through the climbing wall. He’s only halfway to the top, but already Harry sees his slender calves exposed by the department-sanctioned work shorts trembling with strain. Malfoy won’t make it, Harry observes with cold detachment. He’s too weak.
Harry is proven right a minute later when Malfoy slips and falls with a frustrated shout. Harry has his wand with him. He can break Malfoy’s fall, but he doesn’t. Instead he watches Malfoy land on the mat with a loud, painful slam, and only when he’s groaning and cursing to himself does Harry allow his footsteps to be heard.
Harry doesn’t get very close before Malfoy is scrambling to his feet. His face makes a funny spooked expression at the sight of Harry.
“P-Potter, what are you doing here?”
He isn’t going to survive Auror training, Harry knows this as surely as he knows death itself.
And yet.
A part of him is intrigued.
And the rest of him can’t help himself.
“Do you want to spar?” he asks Malfoy.
~~~
August 2009 - Port Mulgrave, North Yorkshire
The beach where they’d been told to wait by the scary tall lady in a pirate costume, real-life parrot included, is littered with a collection of bizarre characters.
There are the guests on holiday, of course. Who are somehow here by choice. Pensioners and couples, and loud, braying families that have nothing to do with the wedding. Meanwhile, for the wedding party, there’s a clear divide between each of the lovely couple’s sides. Luna’s guests are a mix of former classmates, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, with a sprinkling of the many interesting people in her work as a rare creatures researcher.
Draco’s willing to bet his entire Gringotts vault that one of her work friends is a vampire (or at least someone who drinks blood for fun), and then there’s Rolf Scamander who he’d seen surreptitiously shoving a couple loose tentacles back into his trunk.
Note to self: Steer clear of Rolf and his trunk.
Meanwhile, Pansy’s “closest and dearest” are either Slytherins from their time in school or colleagues and clients from her PR firm. All perfect-looking and shiny and utterly boring. Draco isn’t interested in any of them.
He does another scan of the beach and comes short of one Oliver Wood. Morgana’s beard. Did he go through all this trouble for nothing?
Draco’s wearing a matching couple shirt with Potter that says ‘I’m with him’ with an arrow pointing at “Him”, for fuck’s sake. On top of that, he has to constantly remind Potter to stand on his left or else the point will be lost. This level of commitment simply cannot be for naught.
“So this isn’t a prank or anything?” Ron asks for the fifth time in the past half hour. He gestures at the two of them holding hands. Draco has no doubt Hermione would be asking the same thing were she not on her wiz-mobile, cooing nonsense at the babies who they’d left at their grandparents.
“Mummy misses you too, Hugo-bear. Yes, I do. My sweet boy…” and on and on it went. Draco had no idea conversations with the little gremlins could last so long.
He loves Teddy to death and thinks he’s utter perfection, but for the first five years of the boy’s life, he’d not been an engaging conversationalist in any capacity.
Draco tips down his oversized black sunglasses to send a scathing look at Ron. “What’s so hard to believe?”
Unlike Pansy, Potter’s friends aren’t natural liars by any means. Telling them he and Potter are only faking will only compromise Draco’s Master Plan.
Also, it’s a little embarrassing.
Therefore, Draco decided it’s better to sell the lie to their faces and make sure they buy it. Draco slips a glance at Potter who also glances back. Should Draco just kiss him? Right in front of everyone? That should convince them and besides, he and Potter are bound to do it at some point anyway, might as well get it over with.
For half a heartbeat, Draco is possessed by the spirit of insanity, mayhem, and bad decisions, and he actually leans close, eyes dropping to Potter’s pillow-soft lips. He’ll play along, won’t he?
It’s not like he hasn’t kissed Draco before.
“Well, of course I believe it. I mean, it’s you two.” Ron says, interrupting the insane course of action Draco had nearly taken. Abruptly, he steps back from Potter and gives his attention to Ron.
“You two?” His voice rises. “What does that mean?”
Ron flings both arms in a wide arc. “Well, you know, there’s you and you’re, well, you —”
“Illuminating. How are you not Minister of Magic yet?” Draco remarks, but Ron fails to notice as he’s gesturing to Potter next.
“And then there’s you, mate. Merlin, how long have you been in l—”
Potter coughs. “Hermione’s calling you. Looks urgent.”
Ron instantly whirls around, his head going in several directions at once. Very reminiscent of the pirate lady’s parrot. They even share the same colouring. “Huh? Where? Mione? Honey? Where are you?”
While Ron drifts off in a haze of ginger confusion, Draco turns to Potter. “What do you think he meant?”
With the harsh midday sun glancing off Potter’s glasses, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but he looks at Draco long enough to give him chills. Then he shrugs. “Hell if I know,” he says gruffly.
Indeed.
Draco feels jittery for some reason so he grasps for a change in topic.
“Ugh, where is Oliver?” He cranes his neck to search the throng of people. “Do you see him?”
“What happened to not wanting to see him for the rest of your life?” Potter adopts a high-pitched tone. “Oh, Harry, if I ever see that oath breaking, lying motherfucker ever again, I’m going to smoke him. And if I die and he comes to my funeral, I’m counting on you to do it for me.”
Draco’s face heats up and it has nothing to do with the merciless sun. Alright, admittedly, he may have said that word for word when he’d been in the pits of his despair after the break up.
But when Draco had staggered inexplicably into Potter’s floo after getting dumped, Potter had been so unlike his usual arsehole self, listening and nodding earnestly, and handing him tissues to wipe his snot with, that Draco was lulled into spilling more than his tears that night. He’d shared his broken hopes, his fears, the devastating loneliness he was sure to come once he moved out of the flat he shared with Oliver.
When the morning came, like a dozen trolls dancing the salsa in his head, and Draco woke up on a plush divan at Grimmauld, Potter asked if he wanted to stay for a while.
Thus far, a while has lasted six months.
“First of all, I do not sound like Moaning Myrtle’s shriller younger sister, Potter, and second —” Draco jabs a finger into Potter’s firm left pec. “— I’ve changed my mind. I need to see him.”
“Why?”
“Because —” Draco stops when he hears it. The rush of murmurs and the words “Oliver” and “Wood” squealed in the same breath by the gathered people. Draco turns and there he is, several yards down close to the water.
Even among stunning celebrities, Oliver shined. Conventionally handsome with his neatly cropped brown hair and charming smile. Like a prince from a Muggle fairy tale or an underwear model from the wrinkled magazines Draco definitely doesn’t keep by his bedside. He’s athletic and well-built, but not too much to seem threatening. Gentle nature evident in the way he carries himself.
Draco has known that gentleness for himself and misses it terribly.
He’s already taken a few steps forward without realising it when Potter grabs his hand and thank goodness for it too. Because in the next moment, a tall blond bear of a person wounds himself around Oliver and kisses him. On the mouth. For an extended amount of time. Right in front of everyone.
So this is the new boyfriend then. Obviously crass. Never mind that Draco had thought to do the same thing a few minutes ago to Potter, but that was different. That would not have been real and this…well, this was. Oliver is returning it with equal ardour while Draco seethed, and seethed, and seethed. He’s probably gripping Potter too tightly, but Potter doesn’t say anything.
When they part, Draco finally sees the new boyfriend clearly and is shocked to find that he knows him. He has a beard this time and his dark blond hair is in a bun, but Draco recognises him instantly.
“Lucian Bole,” he squeals to Potter who has no visible reaction. “Oh my god, Potter. Slytherin Chaser? Started playing for Puddlemere this year? You dated him three years ago and he wouldn’t stop hounding you at the gym until you threatened to punch him in the mouth?”
Potter’s lips part open just a bit. “Oh,” is all he says. But stalkers and obsessed ex-lovers are just par for the course for the Boy Who Lived. And like all of Potter’s ill-fated relationships, this one had barely lasted a week.
Draco can’t suppress his excitement. “This is perfect. He’s probably still in love with you. You’ll be the perfect distraction.”
Potter’s brow furrows like thunder. The air around them crackles. “Distraction for what? What the hell are you up to, Malfoy?”
Draco pats him on the shoulder in what he’s learned through mimicking others is an assuring and comforting way. “Now, now, Potter. Calm your crazy magic please. I’m simply doing what I should have done months ago.” The magic is pulsing through his skin now, hot and alive. Draco tamps down the urge to shiver and smiles brightly up at Potter’s stormy face. “I’m going to get Oliver back.”
~~~
August 2009 - Camelot of the Seas
Draco Malfoy is an idiot.
Harry’s known him for eighteen out of the twenty-nine years he’s been alive and he’s thought of him in many different ways. Annoying, cruel, spoiled, clever, frivolous, stubborn, loyal, softhearted when he thinks no one is looking, but this…
This is the first time Harry’s thought of him as genuinely stupid.
He observes Malfoy as they get themselves into tiny boats that will take them to the ship anchored further away from the shore. Watches as his eyes barely stray from Oliver Fucking Wood.
Harry has respect for his former Quidditch captain. He’s a decent bloke. A fantastic player. But he’s been Oliver Fucking Wood in Harry’s mind for the past two and a half years.
Harry listens to Malfoy moan when they arrive on the ship and he spots Oliver head to his assigned room, the opposite direction of theirs. Probably Pansy’s doing in consideration of Malfoy.
Malfoy who’s apparently changed his mind and now wants Oliver Fucking Wood back.
Harry has a migraine by the time they reach their suite. He should have never agreed to Malfoy’s hare-brained plan. In fact, while he’s on the topic of stupid decisions, Harry shouldn’t have offered Malfoy a place to stay in the first place. Harry didn’t bloody want them to be roommates.
Six months ago, when Malfoy was laid on his sofa, helpless and blinking up at him with uncharacteristically soft grey eyes, looking for all the world like he needed someone to save him, Harry should have just done the first thing that had come to his mind.
He should have grabbed Malfoy’s tear-stained face and kissed him.
Now six months of enduring patience and giving Malfoy space he needs to “heal” (Hermione’s words) has come to bite him in the arse and Harry is stuck in close quarters with Malfoy while he harps on about how in love he still thinks he is with Oliver Fucking Wood for seven days.
Harry’s in a pretty shit mood. He barely notices his surroundings. Not until Malfoy stops abruptly by the doorway of the suite’s bedroom. He turns to Harry with a wry, slightly nervous smile.
“Just like old times, eh?” Malfoy says.
Harry looks beyond him and finds only one bed.
~~~