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The Leaky Cauldron, Thursday Evening
“You’re thinking about him again.”
Harry blinked. The Firewhisky in his glass had gone warm. “I’m not.”
Ron gave him the look - the one that said I’ve known you since we were eleven, you lying sod. “You’ve been stirring that same drink for twenty minutes. Your face does this thing. Like you’ve just bitten into a lemon that owes you money.”
“That’s my normal face.”
“Exactly.”
They were tucked into a corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron, which was blessedly quiet for a Thursday. Someone had left a copy of Witch Weekly on the table; the cover story was “Draco Malfoy: Recluse or Renovation?” with a blurry photo of Draco scowling at a potions catalogue. Harry had turned it face-down twice. Ron had turned it back over three times.
“I’m not thinking about him,” Harry said, and finished his drink in one burning swallow.
Ron leaned back, arms crossed. “Right. So when I said ‘get horizontal with a stranger’ five minutes ago, you immediately imagined a tall, pointy blonde with trust issues?”
“That’s half the blondes in London.”
“And the other half?”
“Not him.”
Ron’s grin was slow and wicked. “So you did imagine him.”
Harry threw a napkin at his head.
An hour later - and three more Firewhiskies deeper - Harry’s tie was loose, his hair was a disaster, and Ron had somehow convinced him that Muggles had invented something called a nightclub which was apparently just a dark room with loud music where people pressed against each other legally.
“No wands,” Ron shouted over the pub’s din, already pulling on his coat. “No Ministry. No ‘Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World.’ Just you, me, bad decisions, and bass.”
“That’s six things.”
“I’m drunk, not a mathematician.”
They stumbled into the London night, shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging in the cold. Somewhere between Charing Cross and a neon-lit alley, Harry stopped worrying about Draco Malfoy.
Well. Mostly.
The club was called Velvet Rope, which Ron thought was hilarious (“It’s a rope. Made of velvet. Muggles, Harry. Incredible.”). The bouncer was a mountain in sunglasses at midnight. He looked at Harry’s scar, which was unfortunately visible thanks to his messy fringe, and said, “You famous or summat?”
“He’s a war hero,” Ron said proudly. “Twice over.”
“Which war?”
“Last one, of course.”
The bouncer let them in mostly to stop Ron from explaining further.
Inside, the world turned purple and gold. The bass was a second heartbeat, punching up through the floor. Bodies moved in slow motion under spinning lights. The air smelled like vanilla, liquor, expensive perfume, and something sweeter Harry couldn’t name.
Ron grabbed Harry’s wrist and towed him toward the bar.
The bar itself was a long slab of black marble, backlit in rose gold. The bartender - a sharp-eyed woman with a shaved head and multiple ear piercings - didn’t blink at Harry’s scar or Ron’s height.
“Two shots of tequila,” Ron shouted. “And two of whatever makes you forget you’re thirty.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” Harry said.
“You’ve got thirty-year-old knees, mate.”
The shots arrived. They drank them. Then another round, because Ron ordered “two more for courage” and Harry was too far gone to argue.
Harry leaned against the bar, surveying the crowd. Most of the dancers were Muggles, lost in their own worlds. A few witches and wizards had found their way here too - he could tell by the way they held their drinks (two hands, careful not to wave) and the occasional flash of a self-tying shoelace.
And then… “Ron.”
“Mm?”
“Two o’clock.”
Ron turned. Squinted. Whistled low.
Near the VIP section, leaning against a mirrored wall, were two blondes.
The first was dark-haired-blonde, almost honey, with a sharp bob and an even sharper smile. She wore leather trousers and a cropped jumper. She was talking to - laughing with - a second woman.
The second woman was platinum. Almost white-blonde. Her hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders. She wore a simple black slip dress and no visible jewelry except for a thin silver chain around her ankle. She wasn’t laughing. She was watching the crowd like she was cataloguing everyone’s weaknesses.
Harry’s chest did something strange.
Not because she looked like him. She didn’t. Not really. She was all long lines and cool elegance, and Draco Malfoy was all sharp edges and simmering rage. This woman looked… calm. Controlled. Like she’d never thrown a hex at Harry in a bathroom.
“I call the brunette,” Ron said, already straightening his shirt. “You can have the ice queen.”
“I’m not-”
“Harry. For once in your life. Shut up and come with me.”
Ron grabbed two fresh drinks from the bar - gin and tonics, heavy on the lime - and marched toward the VIP wall like he was walking into battle. Harry followed, because he always followed Ron into bad ideas.
They reached the two blondes just as the shorter one - honey, sharp bob, smile like a blade - looked up from her phone. Her gaze swept over Ron once, twice, then landed on Harry with something close to recognition.
Shit, Harry thought. She knows who I am.
But before Harry could brace for the usual “Oh my God, you’re Harry Potter” routine, Ron stepped forward, cleared his throat like he was about to give a speech at a wedding, and said:
“So. Two blondes walk into a bar. You’d think one of them would’ve seen me coming.”
Silence.
The honey-blonde stared.
The platinum-blonde didn’t even blink.
Harry wanted the floor to open.
Then the honey-blonde tilted her head, very slowly, and said: “That’s not a pickup line. That’s a confession of poor spatial awareness.”
Ron went pink. “Right. Yeah. I panicked. I had a better one in the loo. Something about… angles? And reflections? It made sense at the time.”
The honey-blonde laughed - a short, sharp, delighted sound. “You’re Ron Weasley.”
“I am,” Ron admitted. “Unfortunately.”
“I’m Pansy.” She extended her hand. “And I’ve decided I like you. The bar is very low tonight, but still. Congratulations.”
Ron shook her hand, dazed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
And just like that, the ice cracked.
Harry watched Ron stumble into something that looked suspiciously like flirting, then turned to the platinum-blonde - who was already watching him. No smile. Just… waiting.
Up close, she was even more striking. High cheekbones. Pale, flawless skin. A mouth painted the color of crushed berries. And her eyes… Grey.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
“You’re staring,” she said. Not accusatory. Amused, maybe. Her voice was low, a little rough around the edges, like she’d been shouting over music or hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.
“Sorry,” Harry said. “You just - you remind me of someone.”
“An ex?”
“An ex-enemy.”
Her smile was slow and dangerous. “Even better.”
She took the gin and tonic from his hand - the one he’d been holding for Ron - and took a long sip. Her throat moved. Harry watched. He shouldn’t have watched.
“I’m Dahlia,” she said, handing the glass back. “And you’re Harry Potter. The boy who lived. Twice over.”
“Just Harry,” he said, because he was nearly thirty and still hated that title.
“Just Harry.” She tilted her head. “Do you always go to nightclubs with your best friend and stare at strange women like they’ve hexed you?”
“Only on Thursdays.”
She laughed. It was soft and sharp at the same time, like breaking glass. “Come on, Just Harry. Let’s get another drink. You look like you need to forget something.”
Harry should have asked her name again. Should have looked closer at the way she held her shoulders - too squared, like a soldier out of uniform. Should have noticed that she never once looked away from him, even when the crowd jostled them.
Instead, he followed her to the bar.
They sat on two stools at the far end of the bar, away from the crowd. The bartender brought them something blue that tasted like summer and regret.
“So,” Dahlia said, crossing her legs. The slit in her dress slid open. Harry very determinedly looked at her face. “What does Harry Potter do when he’s not drinking bad tequila and following strange blondes?”
“I’m an Auror.”
“Boring.”
“Excuse me?”
“Boring,” she repeated, swirling her drink. “You catch dark wizards. Save the day. Go home alone. Repeat.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “When’s the last time someone surprised you?”
Harry thought about it. “This morning. My toast popped up with a smiley face on it.”
“That’s not surprising. That’s a malfunctioning charm.”
“You’d be surprised how often those two overlap.”
Dahlia laughed again. Harry liked the sound more than he should.
“What about you?” he asked. “What does Dahlia do?”
“This and that.” She waved a hand. “I consult. For people who need discretion. Potions, mostly. Some curse-breaking. The kind of work that doesn’t leave a paper trail.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“Illegal… fun… depends who you ask, really.”
Harry grinned despite himself. She was sharp. Too sharp. And there was something under her words - a rhythm that felt rehearsed, like she was used to saying just enough and no more.
“You’re not from London,” he said.
“What gave it away?”
“The way you said ‘consult.’ Like it tastes bad.”
She set her drink down. Leaned closer. Her perfume was cedar and something metallic - rain on fresh-cut grass. “Maybe I’m not from anywhere. Maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe you’re drunk and imagining me.”
“I’m definitely drunk,” Harry admitted.
“Good.” Her hand landed on his knee. Light. Testing. “Then you won’t remember this tomorrow.”
“Remember what?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked at him - grey eyes bright under the pink club lights - and Harry felt the world tilt.
Harry looked over her shoulder. Ron and Pansy had migrated to a high-top table near the speakers. Pansy was whispering something in Ron's ear. Ron's ears were crimson. His hands were on her waist. They were about thirty seconds from devouring each other in public.
"Should we…?" Harry gestured vaguely.
"Give them privacy?" Dahlia followed his gaze. "Absolutely not. This is the most entertainment I've had all year."
"You need better hobbies."
"You need to stop watching your best friend snog and start paying attention to me."
Harry's head snapped back to her.
She was smiling. Small. Real. A little bit scared, if he was reading her right - which he wasn't sure he was, because she was very good at this.
"You're nervous," he said.
"I'm cold." She rubbed her bare arms. "This dress was a mistake."
Harry didn't think. He shrugged off his jacket - an old leather thing Hermione said made him look like he was having a midlife crisis - and draped it over her shoulders.
Dahlia froze.
The jacket swallowed her. The sleeves hung past her fingers. She looked down at herself, then up at him, and something in her grey eyes cracked open.
"That's…" She stopped. Swallowed. "You didn't have to do that."
"You said you were cold."
"I was lying."
"I know."
The music shifted. Slower. Heavier. A baseline that vibrated up through the floor and settled low in Harry's gut.
Dahlia pulled the jacket tighter. Inhaled. His scent - laundry soap, broomstick oil, something woody - would be on that jacket now. He watched her notice.
“Dance with me, Potter.”
“You said Just Harry.”
“I lied.”
He took her hand.
Her fingers were cold. Long. Deliberate.
And as she pulled him toward the dance floor, Harry thought - just for a second - that her grip felt exactly like someone…
But he was drunk. And she was blonde. He liked blondes. And the music was too loud for thinking.
So he followed.
All he could feel was her hand in his, and the bass in his chest, and the terrible, thrilling certainty that he was about to make a very bad decision.
The bodies parted around them like water. Dahlia moved like she'd been born in the dark - hips in slow motion, arms rising, head tipping back. Harry watched her for a stupid, breathless second before remembering he was supposed to participate.
He wasn't a good dancer. He knew this. Hermione had told him once that he moved like a scarecrow having a seizure. But Dahlia didn't seem to care.
She stepped into his space. Not touching. Almost touching. The velvet of her dress brushed his shirt. Her perfume wrapped around him.
"You're staring again," she murmured.
"You're worth staring at."
That startled a real laugh out of her. She ducked her head, and for just a second, she looked younger. Less armored. Human.
"Flattery," she said. "From Harry Potter. I'll add it to my diary."
"You keep a diary?"
"I keep several. One for world domination. One for recipes. One for times the Savior of the Wizarding World was unexpectedly charming."
Harry's hands found her waist. Lightly. Asking permission.
She gave it by stepping closer.
Now they were touching. Her front against his. Her small breasts pressed to his chest. Her hips cradled between his thighs. The music thrummed through both of them.
Harry's breath caught.
"Okay?" she asked softly.
"Okay," he lied.
Because nothing about this was okay. This was the opposite of okay. This was a fever dream. This was a mistake he could feel in his teeth.
He didn't pull away.
Dahlia wrapped her arms around his neck. Her fingers toyed with the hair at his nape. Her grey eyes - grey, like storm clouds, like ash, like a boy he'd hated and wanted and never understood - held his.
"Tell me something true," she whispered.
"You first."
She swayed against him. The slit in her dress slid open. Harry's hand dropped to her bare thigh without permission from his brain.
She didn't flinch.
"I'm not supposed to be here," she said.
"Here? The club?"
"Here. With you."
Harry's thumb moved in a small, unconscious circle against her skin. "Then why are you?"
She looked at him for a long, terrible, beautiful moment.
"Because I'm very tired of doing what I'm supposed to do."
The song swelled. Someone bumped into them from behind. Dahlia laughed - low and warm - and pulled Harry closer.
Somewhere across the floor, Ron whooped. Pansy's sharp laugh followed.
Harry ignored them.
"Another truth," he said, lips near her ear. "You smell like broomstick oil."
She went rigid in his arms. Only for a second. Then she relaxed, melted, laughed against his throat.
"That's my perfume," she said. "Custom. Very expensive."
"Hm." Harry pulled back just enough to look at her. "And the callus on your right palm? From writing? Or flying?"
Dahlia's smile didn't waver. But her eyes did.
"You're very observant for a drunk man."
"You're very mysterious for a woman who won't tell me her last name."
They stared at each other. The music pounded. The lights spun.
And Dahlia - whoever she was - rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to the corner of Harry's mouth.
Not a kiss. Almost a kiss. A promise of one.
"Dance with me," she said again, softer this time. "Stop solving me for one hour. Just be here."
Harry's heart was a caged bird.
"One hour," he agreed.
She smiled.
And they danced.
Three songs bled into four. Harry stopped counting.
Dahlia's body fit against his like she'd been designed for it - which was impossible, obviously, except that her hip bones slotted exactly where his hands wanted to rest, and the top of her head brushed his chin when she leaned in, and when she breathed, her ribs expanded against his chest in a rhythm that felt rehearsed.
"You're a good dancer," she said, mouth near his collar.
"You're a liar."
"Maybe." Her fingers traced the back of his neck. "But you're better than you think. You stop thinking and just… move. It's nice."
"Nice," Harry repeated, incredulous.
"Would you prefer devastating? Life-altering? I'm saving those for later."
Harry laughed into her hair. She smelled like cedar and something sweeter underneath. And underneath that - broomstick oil. He pushed the thought away.
The current song had a slow, grinding beat. Dahlia turned in his arms, back to his chest, and pulled his hands around her waist. Her spine pressed to his front. Her head fell back against his shoulder.
Harry's breath stuttered.
She guided his hands higher - just below her ribs - and swayed. The velvet of her dress whispered under his palms. Her heart was beating fast. He could feel it.
"Like this," she murmured.
"Like what?"
"Like you're not afraid of me."
Harry tightened his grip. Turned his face into her hair. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"Why?"
She didn't answer. She just danced.
Dahlia turned again. Faced him. Her arms looped around his neck. Her grey eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide.
Harry's gaze drifted. He couldn't help it.
Her hair was gorgeous. Long, platinum blonde, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. It looked impossibly soft. A few strands had escaped to frame her face, and Harry had the strangest urge to tuck them behind her ear.
He also noticed - because he was a red-blooded man and not dead - that the velvet dress was doing something spectacular for her collarbone. And her waist. And the way the slit fell open when she moved.
Focus, he told himself. You're being very obvious.
"You're staring again," she murmured.
"You're worth staring at."
She laughed and rose onto her toes.
Harry met her halfway.
The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Her lips were warm and tasted like gin and cinnamon. She kissed like she was learning him - the shape of his mouth, the hitch in his breath, the way his hands trembled against her waist.
Harry made a sound. Something small and helpless.
His hand slid into her hair. Her hair. Real hair. It was cool and silky between his fingers, and the way she shivered when he tugged gently told him everything he needed to know about how much she liked having it pulled.
She kissed him harder. Her teeth grazed his lower lip. Her nails scraped the back of his neck. Harry groaned and pulled her closer.
God, she was beautiful. Not in spite of the angles of her jaw or the sharpness of her nose - because of them. There was something almost severe about her face, something aristocratic and cold, but her mouth was soft and her body was warm and she was kissing him like she'd been starving.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
Her lipstick was smeared. Harry's thumb was on her jaw. Her cheeks were flushed.
"Okay," she whispered. "That was…"
"Incredible," Harry finished. He was staring at her mouth. He couldn't stop. "You're… wow."
Dahlia blinked. Then laughed - a real laugh, surprised and delighted. "Wow?"
"I'm a writer at heart."
"You're a menace." But she was smiling. A real smile. One that reached her eyes and made her look younger. Made her look almost vulnerable. "I haven't done that in a long time."
"Kissed someone?"
"Wanted to."
Harry's chest ached. He touched her face - just touched it, like she was something precious. His thumb traced her cheekbone. The curve of it was sharp. Familiar.
Why does she feel familiar?
"I should tell you something," she said quietly.
"Later." Harry's hand slid to the back of her neck. "Tell me later."
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper.
She made a sound against his mouth - a soft, desperate little noise - and fisted her hands in his shirt.
Harry decided he wanted to hear that sound forever.
But eventually, they had to breathe.
Dahlia pulled back first. Her grey eyes were bright. Her lipstick was mostly gone now, transferred to Harry's mouth and chin. She looked ruined and regal all at once.
"Harry," she said.
"Yeah?"
"I need to tell you something. And you're going to be angry."
Harry's hands were still on her waist. "Try me."
She took a breath. Let it out. Then she reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear - a nervous gesture, not a performative one.
“My name isn’t Dahlia.”
Harry’s hands stayed exactly where they were, warm and steady on her waist. The velvet was still hot from the dance floor.
“Okay,” he said, voice low, careful, like he was handling something fragile and explosive at the same time.
Dahlia’s grey eyes flicked up to his, searching. “It’s Draco.”
The music kept pounding. Lights still spun purple and gold across the crowd. But for Harry the whole world narrowed to the space between them.
Draco.
The name hit like a Bludger to the ribs - not painful, just… sudden. His brain short-circuited for half a second, every memory of sharp cheekbones and sneering insults colliding violently with the soft platinum waves brushing his knuckles, the smeared berry lipstick, the way those same grey eyes were now wide and terrified instead of cold and cutting.
“Oh,” Harry breathed, barely audible over the bass.
Draco - because it was Draco, of course it was, how had he not seen it sooner? - tensed under his palms, shoulders squaring like he was bracing for a hex.
“Draco Malfoy,” he added, voice cracking just slightly on the last syllable, the elegant Dahlia mask slipping away to reveal the boy who used to call him Scarhead. Except this version was trembling, dressed in black velvet that clung to every long, lean line, lipstick smudged from Harry’s own mouth, looking like he might bolt if Harry so much as frowned.
Harry didn’t frown.
He let the shock settle, let it burn through him… and then something warmer, brighter, undeniably hungry rose right behind it.
“You’re beautiful,” Harry said, the words slipping out raw and honest before he could dress them up.
Draco froze completely. His lips parted - that same mouth Harry had just been kissing like it was oxygen - and for once the sharp-tongued Slytherin had nothing ready. “What?”
“I said you’re beautiful.” Harry’s thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles over the velvet at Draco’s hips, feeling the way the other man shivered under the touch. “I meant it five minutes ago when I thought you were Dahlia. I mean it even more now.”
Draco’s breath hitched. “You’re supposed to be angry. Or disgusted. Or -”
“I’m surprised,” Harry cut in gently, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. His voice dropped, intimate, just for the two of them. “I’m a little blindsided. My brain is doing cartwheels trying to catch up. But angry?”
He shook his head, a small, wondering smile tugging at his lips. “No. And I’m definitely not disgusted.”
His gaze dragged deliberately down the long line of Draco’s throat, the delicate silver chain at his ankle, the way the dress hugged his waist, then back up to those storm-grey eyes.
“Fuck, Draco… you’re exactly my type, apparently. News to me too.”
Draco made a soft, broken sound - half laugh, half sob - and his hands came up to fist in Harry’s shirt like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“You’re serious,” he whispered, voice raw.
“I’m very serious.” Harry slid one hand up to cup the back of Draco’s neck, thumb brushing just under his ear. “Although I do have one question.”
Draco’s laugh was shaky, disbelieving. “Merlin, you’re exhausting.”
Harry grinned, wide and stupid and helplessly charmed. “Is Dahlia your drag name, or…?”
Draco let out a startled laugh - brittle and real and absolutely unguarded. "No. Dahlia's just - she's just me. In a dress. With better eyebrows."
"Your eyebrows are fine."
"My eyebrows are feral. Dahlia has them under control."
Harry grinned. It was stupid and wide and probably made him look insane. He didn't care. "Can I kiss you again?"
"You already did."
"Can I do it again?"
Draco looked at him for a long, terrible, beautiful moment. Then he grabbed Harry by the shirtfront and pulled him down.
The kiss was different this time. Less careful. Less performative. Draco kissed like a man who'd been holding his breath for fifteen years. Harry kissed back like he'd finally found something worth drowning for.
When they broke apart, Harry was laughing. Actually laughing.
"Ron is going to lose his mind," he said.
"Pansy already knows."
"Of course she does."
Draco's hands were still fisted in Harry's shirt. His knuckles were white. "You're really not leaving?"
Harry pressed his forehead to Draco's. Breathed him in - cedar and rain and broomstick oil and something that was just Draco.
"I'm really not," he said. "But I do have a second question."
"Merlin, you're exhausting."
"Are you wearing your own knickers, or did you borrow Pansy's?"
Draco shoved him. Harry caught his wrist and pulled him back.
"Later," Harry said, grinning. "Tell me later."
Draco Malfoy - in a black velvet dress, smeared red lipstick, and his own impossibly long platinum hair - rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw his own skull.
Then he smiled.
And Harry's heart did something stupid and irreversible.
Draco's flat was nothing like Harry expected.
No dark wood. No silver and green. No family crests lurking in shadowed corners.
Instead: white walls, exposed brick, soft grey sofas. Books stacked on every surface - potions texts next to Muggle novels, a worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray on the coffee table. Plants hung from the ceiling in macrame holders. A record player sat on a low console, vinyl sleeves fanned out beneath it.
Harry turned in a slow circle. "This is…"
"Not what you pictured?"
"I pictured dungeons. Maybe a torture cellar."
Draco snorted. He was already in the kitchen, which was open to the living room - white marble countertops, copper pans, a bowl of lemons on the island. "The torture cellar is in the basement. I only use it on Tuesdays."
"Good to know."
Harry wandered to the bookshelves. A photograph caught his eye - black and white, slightly crooked. Draco and Pansy at what looked like a Muggle beach. Draco was laughing, hair whipping across his face, dress billowing. Pansy was giving the camera two fingers.
"You two are close," Harry said.
"She's the only person who knows everything." Draco's voice was softer now. "Every version of me. She stayed when no one else did."
Harry turned. Draco was leaning against the kitchen island, wine bottle in hand, watching him. The overhead light caught the planes of his face - the sharp cheekbones, the long pale throat, the smeared lipstick he hadn't bothered to fix.
"You're beautiful," Harry said again. Because it was true. Because he could.
Draco's cheeks flushed. He looked away, busying himself with the corkscrew. "You're drunk."
"A little. Not that drunk."
"You'll regret this in the morning."
"Maybe." Harry walked toward the kitchen. "But I don't think so."
Draco's hands stilled on the corkscrew. His knuckles were white.
"Stop," he said quietly.
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Draco looked up. His grey eyes were dark. "Like I'm something you want to keep."
Harry reached out. Covered Draco's hands with his own. Gently pried the corkscrew free.
"Maybe I do," Harry said. "Want to keep you. Is that so hard to believe?"
Draco's laugh was brittle. "You hated me for seven years."
"I was a child. So were you."
Draco pulled his hands free. Stepped back. "That doesn't erase…"
"No. It doesn't." Harry set the corkscrew down. "But I'm not interested in the accounting of wrongs, Draco. I'm interested in you. Right now. In this kitchen. In a dress I can't stop staring at."
Draco's mouth opened. Closed. His hand drifted to his own hair - nervous, tucking it behind his ear.
"You really like the dress," he said. Not a question.
"I really like you." Harry stepped closer. Not touching. Almost. "The dress is just fabric. You're…" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't have the words yet. Give me time."
Draco stared at him for a long, still moment.
Then he turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out a second corkscrew.
"You're impossible," he said. "And I'm opening this wine now. Sit on the couch. Don't touch anything expensive."
Harry grinned. "How will I know what's expensive?"
"You'll know."
The wine was red. Deep and dark and a little bit sweet. Draco poured two glasses, carried them to the couch, and sat at the far end - knees tucked under him, dress pooling on the cushions.
Harry sat on the other end. Close enough to touch. Far enough to pretend he wasn't counting Draco's breaths.
"Tell me something," Draco said, swirling his wine. "Something real."
"You first."
"I always go first. It's exhausting."
"Then stop being interesting."
Draco laughed - a real laugh, low and warm. It changed his whole face. Made him look younger. Softer.
"Fine," Draco said. "Something real." He stared into his wine. "I started wearing dresses when I was twenty-two. I was living alone in a flat above a bookshop in Edinburgh. No one knew where I was. I'd ordered takeaway and the delivery person thought I was a woman. Called me 'miss.' And I…" He stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't correct them. And then I couldn't stop thinking about it. Why that felt right."
Harry didn't speak. Didn't move. Just listened.
"I bought my first dress the next week. Cheap thing from a charity shop. It was ugly. Terrible color. But when I put it on, I looked in the mirror and saw myself for the first time since I was eleven." Draco's voice cracked. "That sounds dramatic."
"No," Harry said quietly. "It sounds true."
Draco looked at him. Searching.
"You're not going to say something about how clothes don't define you?"
"Clothes don't define you. But feeling like yourself does." Harry set his wine down. Turned toward Draco fully. "Does anyone else know? Besides Pansy?"
"My mother. She buys me dresses for Christmas now. Wraps them in silver paper." A small, aching smile. "She's never asked why. Just sends the right size."
Harry's chest ached. "That's…"
"Don't. Don't say it's sweet. It's the bare minimum."
"Lily Potter died when I was one. The bare minimum would have been life-changing." Harry held Draco's gaze. "It's okay to be grateful for small mercies, Draco. It doesn't mean you're weak."
Draco's eyes were bright. He looked away quickly, blinking.
"You said you had questions," he said, changing the subject. "Ask them."
Harry considered. "Do you prefer Draco? Or Dahlia?"
"Draco. Usually. Dahlia is for…" He gestured at himself. The dress. The hair. "For nights when I want to feel soft. But I'm still Draco. Underneath."
"Does it change…" Harry stopped. Rethought. "Are you a man who wears dresses? Or something else?"
Draco was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't have a word for it. I just know that 'he' feels fine and 'she' feels like a secret I'm not ready to keep forever. But I'm not-" He pressed his lips together. "I'm not a woman. I just like being pretty sometimes. Is that allowed?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. That's allowed."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Draco stared at him. Then down at his wine. Then back at Harry.
"You're very calm about this."
"I've seen a lot of strange things. A pretty blonde in a dress isn't high on the list."
"Pretty."
"You heard me."
Draco's cheeks flushed again. He took a long drink of wine.
"Your turn," he said. "Something real."
Harry thought about it. The truth sat in his chest, heavy and warm.
"I've thought about you," he said. "Over the years. More than I should."
Draco's hand froze on his wine glass. "What kind of thoughts?"
"Not-" Harry laughed, embarrassed. "Not revenge thoughts. Not ‘I want to hex him’ thoughts. Just… wondering. Where you were. If you were okay. If you'd found something worth living for."
Draco set his wine down carefully. "Why?"
"Because you were seventeen, and you looked like you were drowning, and no one helped you. And I've never forgiven myself for that."
The silence stretched. A train rumbled somewhere in the distance. The plants swayed gently in a draft Harry couldn't feel.
"You're not responsible for me," Draco said.
"I know."
"You're not my savior."
"I know that too."
"Then why-"
"Because I wanted to." Harry leaned forward. "I wanted to help you. And I didn't. And every time I saw your name in the paper, I felt like I'd left someone behind in a burning building."
Draco's breath was shallow now. His hands were trembling.
"That's a lot," he whispered.
"I know."
"For a first date."
Harry smiled. Small. Real. "Is this a date?"
Draco looked at him - really looked - and something in his expression cracked open.
"If you want it to be," he said.
Harry reached across the couch. Took Draco's hand. Brought it to his lips. Pressed a kiss to the palm.
"I want it to be," Harry said.
Draco made a sound. Soft. Wrecked.
Then he moved.
He climbed into Harry's lap like he belonged there - velvet dress rucked up around his thighs, long hair falling around them both like a curtain. His hands cupped Harry's face. His grey eyes were dark and wet and fierce.
"I'm going to kiss you now," Draco said. "And then I'm going to ask you to stay. And I need you to say yes."
"I'll say yes."
"You don't even know what I'm asking."
"Yes, I do."
Draco kissed him.
It was different from the club. Slower. Tender in a way that hurt. Draco tasted like wine and want and something Harry couldn't name - something that felt like the beginning of a very long fall.
Harry's hands found Draco's waist. The velvet was hot under his palms. He slid his fingers up, over Draco's ribs, feeling each breath.
Draco sighed into his mouth. Melted against him.
"This is insane," Draco murmured against Harry's lips.
"Probably."
"You're supposed to hate me."
"I was wrong."
"You're still drunk."
"A little." Harry pulled back just enough to look at him. Draco's lipstick was completely gone now. His mouth was pink and swollen. His hair was a mess. He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.
"Stay," Draco whispered.
"I'm already here."
"For the night. For…" Draco swallowed. "For as long as you want."
Harry traced Draco's cheekbone. His jaw. The line of his throat.
"I want," Harry said slowly, "to learn everything about you. I want to know what you look like when you wake up. I want to know what makes you laugh. I want to know why you read Dorian Gray twice."
"It's a good book."
"It's about a man who sells his soul to stay beautiful."
Draco's eyes flickered. "Maybe I like the warning."
"Maybe you like the tragedy."
"Maybe I like both."
Harry smiled. "See? I'm already learning."
Draco kissed him again. Lighter this time. Almost sweet.
"You really are impossible," Draco said against his mouth.
"You like it."
"I hate it."
"Liar."
"Liar," Draco agreed.
And then Harry was standing - lifting Draco easily, one arm under his thighs, the other around his waist. Draco yelped, grabbing Harry's shoulders.
"What are you?"
"You said there was a bed."
"For later. For if you're good."
"I'm not good. Remember?"
Draco stared at him. Then laughed - bright and surprised and absolutely unguarded.
"The bedroom," Draco said, pointing. "Down the hall. Second door on the left."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir."
"Darling, then."
Draco's breath caught. His arms tightened around Harry's neck.
"Second door on the left," he repeated. Softer this time.
Harry carried him down the hall.
The bedroom was dim - fairy lights strung across the headboard, candles on the windowsill that lit themselves when Draco waved a hand. The sheets were dark grey. The pillows were piled high.
Harry set Draco down gently on the edge of the bed, but he didn’t step back. The fairy lights painted soft silver across Draco’s skin, turning the smeared remnants of red lipstick into something almost obscene. The black velvet dress had ridden high on his thighs during the carry, and Harry couldn’t stop staring at the lace edge of whatever he was wearing underneath.
“Last chance,” Harry murmured, voice rough. “To change your mind.”
Draco looked up at him, chest rising fast, platinum hair spilling over one shoulder. “I don’t want to change my mind. I’ve been changing it for fifteen years. I’m done.”
Harry sank to his knees between Draco’s legs without another word.
Not because he had to.
Because he needed to.
His hands slid up the smooth skin of Draco’s calves, slow and deliberate, thumbs pressing into the muscle until they reached the hem of the dress. He paused there, looking up.
“Can I?”
Draco’s breath hitched. He nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”
Harry pushed the velvet up, inch by torturous inch. The fabric whispered against pale thighs, revealing more and more until the dress pooled at Draco’s hips. Underneath was delicate black lace — barely there, expensive, clearly chosen with care. The front was already straining.
“Look at you,” Harry breathed, voice reverent. He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then higher, right at the edge of the lace. “So fucking pretty for me. All dressed up like you were waiting to be unwrapped.”
Draco made a soft, embarrassed sound and tried to close his legs, but Harry’s shoulders kept them open.
“Harry—”
“Shh. Let me look.” Harry hooked two fingers under the lace waistband and tugged it down just enough to free him. Draco’s cock sprang up, flushed and leaking at the tip. Harry’s mouth watered. “Merlin, Draco… you’re gorgeous everywhere.”
He didn’t give Draco time to overthink it. He leaned forward and licked a slow stripe from base to tip, savoring the sharp gasp that tore out of the other man. When he closed his lips around the head and sucked gently, Draco’s hands flew to his hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.
“Fuck… Potter!”
Harry pulled off just long enough to smirk up at him. “Still calling me Potter when my mouth is on your cock? Naughty girl.”
Draco’s whole body jolted at the word. His cheeks burned crimson, but his cock twitched hard against Harry’s tongue.
“I’m not- ah- I’m not a-”
“You’re wearing lace and letting me kneel between your legs,” Harry murmured, voice low and teasing, before taking him deeper. He worked him with slow, wet pulls, one hand stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach, the other sliding up to pinch a nipple through the thin fabric still bunched at Draco’s chest. “You look like the prettiest little thing I’ve ever had on my tongue. So be good and take it.”
Draco whimpered - actually whimpered - and his hips bucked. Harry let him, humming approval around his length, letting the vibration do half the work.
When Draco started trembling, thighs shaking around Harry’s ears, Harry pulled off with a wet pop and rose to his feet. He stripped his own shirt off in one smooth motion, then reached for the rest of the dress still tangled around Draco’s ribs.
“Arms up, darling.”
Draco obeyed without thinking, dazed and flushed and so beautifully undone. Harry pulled the velvet over his head and tossed it aside like it was sacred. Now Draco sat completely bare except for the thin silver ankle chain that still glinted in the fairy lights.
Harry drank him in - narrow waist, sharp hipbones, the long elegant lines of his body that looked almost delicate in the soft glow. The platinum hair spilled messily over his shoulders, framing a face that was equal parts aristocratic and wrecked.
“On your back,” Harry said, voice dropping into that low, commanding tone he rarely used. “Legs open for me.”
Draco’s eyes darkened. He scooted back on the bed, spreading his thighs like an offering. Harry climbed over him, caging him in with his arms, and kissed him slow and deep, grinding down so Draco could feel exactly how hard he was through his trousers.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” Harry growled against his mouth. “Walking around in that dress, dancing like sin, letting me think I was losing my mind over a stranger… and all along it was you. My pretty, secret little blonde.”
Draco moaned into the kiss, nails digging into Harry’s shoulders. “Shut up and fuck me.”
Harry chuckled darkly. “Bossy even when you’re desperate. That’s cute.” He reached between them, slicking his fingers with lube he’d spotted on the bedside table (thank Merlin for prepared Slytherins). “But tonight you’re going to let me take my time. I want to feel every inch of you falling apart.”
He worked one finger in slowly, then two, curling just right until Draco was arching off the bed, panting Harry’s name like a prayer. Every time Draco tried to hide his face or bite back a sound, Harry would lean down and whisper filth against his ear: “That’s it… such a good girl for me. Taking my fingers so well. Bet you look even prettier when you come.”
When Draco was shaking and begging - actual begging - Harry finally pushed inside him in one long, careful thrust. They both groaned. Draco was tight, scorching, perfect.
Harry set a slow, deep rhythm, one hand braced beside Draco’s head, the other pinning his wrist to the mattress. Every thrust pushed little broken sounds out of Draco’s throat.
“Look at me,” Harry ordered softly.
Draco’s grey eyes fluttered open, glassy and desperate.
“There you are,” Harry murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “My beautiful Draco. My Dahlia. Both of you. All of you.”
Draco came first with a shattered cry, clenching around Harry so tightly it dragged him over the edge right after. Harry buried his face in that long platinum hair and rode it out, whispering praise against Draco’s damp skin until they both went boneless.
They stayed like that for a long time - Harry still inside him, Draco’s legs wrapped loosely around his waist, fingers carding through messy black hair.
Eventually Harry pressed a lazy kiss to Draco’s collarbone and murmured, “Still think I’ll regret this in the morning?”
Draco’s laugh was breathless and wrecked. “If you do, I’m hexing you.”
“Fair.” Harry nuzzled closer. “But I don’t think I will.”
After a few minutes, Draco shifted beneath him, a small, wicked smile curling his lips despite how wrecked he looked.
“Harry,” he whispered, voice husky. “I want… I want to ride you.”
Harry’s spent cock twitched inside him at the words. He pulled back just enough to meet those grey eyes, surprised and instantly turned on all over again. “Yeah? You sure?”
Draco nodded, cheeks still flushed. “I want to feel you. Want to take you how I want.” He bit his lip, suddenly a little shy again. “Please?”
Harry groaned low in his throat and rolled them carefully so he was on his back, pulling Draco with him. “Fuck, yes. Come here, pretty girl.”
Draco straddled him without hesitation, knees bracketing Harry’s hips. His long platinum hair fell like a curtain around them both as he reached back, guiding Harry’s quickly-hardening cock back to his entrance. He was still slick and open from the first round, so when he sank down slowly, taking every inch in one smooth glide, they both moaned loud enough to echo off the walls.
“Oh Merlin…” Draco’s head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands braced on Harry’s chest as he started to move - experimental rolls of his hips at first, then bolder, deeper strokes. “You feel so good like this.”
Harry’s hands flew to Draco’s waist, gripping tight, thumbs stroking over those sharp hipbones. He couldn’t stop staring - at the way Draco’s cock bounced against his stomach with every rise and fall, at the flush spreading down his chest, at how fucking regal he looked riding him like he owned every second of it.
“That’s it, baby,” Harry rasped, voice wrecked. “Ride me. Use me. You’re so fucking beautiful up there - look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it.”
Draco’s pace quickened, hips snapping harder, little gasps and whimpers spilling out with every downward thrust. His hair was a wild mess now, sticking to his damp skin.
Harry’s palm cracked sharply against Draco’s left asscheek - not too hard, just enough to sting and make the pale skin bloom pink.
Draco jolted, a shocked little cry escaping him, and clenched tight around Harry’s cock.
“Fuck - Harry!”
Harry grinned up at him, dark and delighted, and delivered another firm smack to the other cheek, watching the way Draco’s whole body shuddered and his cock leaked against Harry’s stomach.
“Naughty girl,” Harry growled, voice low and rough. “Riding me so greedily, making all those pretty sounds. You like that? Like getting spanked while you fuck yourself on my cock?”
Draco’s face was scarlet, but he didn’t stop moving - if anything he rode harder, chasing the burn. “Y-yes - Merlin, do it again-”
Harry obliged happily. His hand came down in a steady rhythm - sharp, stinging swats that matched the snap of Draco’s hips. Each smack made Draco gasp and clench, the pale skin of his ass turning a lovely rosy pink under Harry’s palm.
“Look at you,” Harry praised between spanks, voice thick with lust. “So pretty when you’re getting punished. Taking my cock and my hand like such a good little slut for me. You’re dripping all over me, baby. You love this, don’t you?”
Draco nodded frantically, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of his eyes as he slammed down harder, hair flying. “Yes- fuck- harder, please-”
Harry gave him one last, sharper smack right where his ass met his thigh, then grabbed both cheeks and spread him wide, thrusting up to meet every desperate roll of Draco’s hips.
“Come on, pretty girl,” Harry ordered, eyes locked on Draco’s flushed, wrecked face. “Ride me until you come. Let me feel you fall apart while your ass is still burning from my hand.”
Draco came with a broken sob, spilling hot and messy over Harry’s stomach, clenching rhythmically around him. The tight heat and the sight of that pink, spanked ass sent Harry tumbling over right after him, hips bucking up hard as he filled Draco deep.
They collapsed together - Draco slumping forward onto Harry’s chest, both of them panting, sweaty, and thoroughly ruined. Harry’s hands stroked soothingly over the warm, stinging skin of Draco’s ass, gentle now, rubbing the heat in slow circles.
“You okay?” Harry whispered, pressing lazy kisses to Draco’s temple and the top of his head.
Draco hummed, nuzzling into Harry’s neck, voice sleepy and sated and just a little shy. “Better than okay. I… I really liked that.”
Harry smiled against his hair, still gently petting the reddened skin. “Good. Because I plan on turning this pretty ass pink every time you get bossy and decide to ride me.”
Draco let out a soft, embarrassed laugh and hid his face in Harry’s shoulder, biting him lightly on the collarbone. “Shut up, Potter.”
“Make me.”
Draco bit harder - but he was smiling.
They were in the kitchen.
Draco had found a silk robe - deep emerald, because of course - and was standing at the stove, attempting to make eggs. His hair was piled into a messy bun on top of his head. Harry was sitting on a barstool in nothing but his boxers and the happiest smile he'd worn in years.
"You're staring again," Draco said without turning around.
"You have flour on your neck."
"I have flour on my neck because someone distracted me while I was reaching for the salt."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said something."
Harry was about to reply - probably something about Draco's arse in that robe - when his phone buzzed on the counter.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
Draco glanced over his shoulder. "Someone wants you."
"Ron." Harry sighed, reaching for the phone. "Probably wants to tell me about the jacuzzi in graphic detail."
He unlocked the screen.
There were forty-seven messages from Ron Weasley.
The first few were from last night, timestamped around 1 AM:
Ron (1:03 AM): mate her flat is INSANE
Ron (1:03 AM): theres a ROOM just for shoes
Ron (1:04 AM): i put my foot in a shoe and she called me a himbo and i think that was flirting??
Ron (1:15 AM): jacuzzi achieved
Ron (1:16 AM): pansy has opinions about my freckles. Strong opinions. Good ones i think.
Then a gap. Then:
Ron (2:30 AM): wait whered you go
Ron (2:31 AM): harry
Ron (2:31 AM): HARRY
Ron (2:32 AM): i lost you at the club
Ron (2:32 AM): did you go home
Ron (2:33 AM): did you go home with tall blonde
Ron (2:33 AM): please tell me you went home with tall blonde
Ron (2:34 AM): she had GREAT legs harry
Ron (2:34 AM): i saw them when she walked to the bar
Ron (2:35 AM): respectfully
Another gap. Then the tone shifted.
Ron (8:14 AM): okay im up
Ron (8:14 AM): pansy is still asleep
Ron (8:14 AM): she has a knife under her pillow harry
Ron (8:15 AM): i think i like her
Ron (8:16 AM): anyway ARE YOU ALIVE
Ron (8:17 AM): i checked the floo network. you didnt go home.
Ron (8:17 AM): KREACHER said and i quote "Master Harry not returned"
Ron (8:18 AM): SO WHERE ARE YOU
Ron (8:20 AM): are you DEAD in a DITCH
Ron (8:20 AM): if youre dead in a ditch im going to be so annoyed
Ron (8:21 AM): i just met a girl with a knife under her pillow i dont have TIME to mourn you
Ron (8:25 AM): wait
Ron (8:25 AM) waiT
Ron (8:26 AM) W A I T
Ron (8:27 AM) 🤯🤯🤯
Ron (8:28 AM): is that why you didnt come home
Ron (8:28 AM): did you?
Ron (8:29 AM): did you!?!??
Ron (8:30 AM): HARRY POTTER DID YOU GO HOME WITH THE TALL BLONDE?
Ron (8:31 AM): OH MY GOD
Ron (8:31 AM): YOU DID
Ron (8:32 AM): YOU ABSOLUTE LEGEND
Ron (8:32 AM): TALL BLONDE GAME?? AFTER ALL THESE YEARS??
Ron (8:33 AM): was she good?
Ron (8:33 AM): wait dont answer that
Ron (8:33 AM): actually no answer it
Ron (8:34 AM): but like. vaguely. i need to know if i should be impressed or concerned
Ron (8:35 AM): harry
Ron (8:35 AM): harry this is a lot of texts please just send me a thumbs up so i know youre not murdered
Ron (8:36 AM): thumbs up. one emoji. thats all i ask.
Ron (8:37 AM): i will send an owl to your location if you dont respond
Ron (8:37 AM): i will FIND you
Harry was crying with laughter.
He had slid off the barstool and was now sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, tears streaming down his face. His phone shook in his hand.
Draco had turned off the stove. He was standing over Harry, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"I'm going to assume," Draco said dryly, "that Ronald is having a normal one."
Harry couldn't breathe. He held up the phone.
Draco took it. Scrolled.
His expression shifted from mild annoyance to horror to reluctant amusement to - when he reached the thumbs up plea - a snort he clearly tried to suppress.
"He threatened to send an owl," Draco said.
"He'll do it."
"To a location he doesn't know."
"He'll figure it out. He's like a bloodhound. A very tall, very ginger bloodhound who eats too much and has no sense of boundaries."
Draco looked down at Harry - still on the floor, still half-naked, still grinning like an idiot - and something soft passed over his face.
"You're going to tell him," Draco said. Not a question.
"Eventually."
"What does 'eventually' mean?"
Harry reached up and tugged Draco down by the robe. Draco landed in his lap with an undignified oof, silk pooling around them both.
"Eventually," Harry said, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, "means after I figure out what this is. So I can tell him the truth. Not gossip."
Draco searched his face. "You don't even know what this is yet."
"I know I don't want to share it until I have to." Harry pressed a kiss to Draco's collarbone - right over the love-bite. "Is that okay?"
Draco's throat moved. "That's… surprisingly mature."
"I have my moments."
"Rare ones."
"Shut up and help me answer him."
They composed the text together, Draco's chin hooked over Harry's shoulder, both of them staring at the screen.
Harry (8:43 AM): 👍
Three seconds later:
Ron (8:43 AM): THATS IT???
Ron (8:43 AM): A THUMBS UP???
Ron (8:44 AM): HARRY
Ron (8:44 AM): wait
Ron (8:44 AM): is that a good thumbs up or a i cant talk because the tall blonde is listening thumbs up
Ron (8:45 AM): blink twice if youre in danger
Harry laughed again. Draco snatched the phone.
Harry (8:45 AM): This is the tall blonde. He's not in danger. Stop texting.
Ron (8:46 AM): okay
Ron (8:46 AM): okay okay okay
Ron (8:46 AM): cool cool cool cool cool
Ron (8:47 AM): so do you have a NAME tall blonde or do i just call you The Legs
Draco stared at the screen. Harry wheezed.
“Fuck it.” he said with a smile as he typed a response.
Harry (8:47 AM): Draco says if you call him The Legs he'll hex your kneecaps off.
Ron (8:48 AM): DRACO
Ron (8:48 AM): DRACO??
Ron (8:48 AM): DRACO MALFOY DRACO????
Ron (8:49 AM): THE DRACO
Ron (8:49 AM): HARRY WHAT THE FUCK
Ron (8:50 AM): i need to sit down
Ron (8:50 AM): im already sitting down
Ron (8:50 AM): i need to lie down
Ron (8:51 AM): pansy just read this over my shoulder and laughed so hard she fell off the bed
Ron (8:51 AM): she said "told you so"
Ron (8:51 AM): WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
Ron (8:52 AM): harry
Ron (8:52 AM): harry are you dating draco malfoy
Ron (8:53 AM): in a DRESS????
Ron (8:53 AM): last nights blonde was DRACO MALFOY IN A DRESS????
Ron (8:54 AM): his LEGS harry
Ron (8:54 AM): i complimented his LEGS
Ron (8:55 AM): im never going to recover from this
Draco was laughing now. Genuine, surprised, helpless laughter. He dropped the phone on Harry's chest and buried his face in Harry's neck.
"Your friends are insane," Draco said, muffled.
"Our friends, apparently. Pansy's in on this."
"Pansy's been in on this for years. She's been trying to get me to talk to you since eighth year."
Harry's hands stilled on Draco's back. "What?"
Draco pulled back. His cheeks were pink. "She said - and I quote - 'You're both miserable and pretty. Just fuck and get it over with.'"
"That's… surprisingly insightful."
"She's a nightmare."
"Well, apparently you're dating her new boyfriend's best friend."
Draco blinked. "I'm not - we're not - this is one night, Potter."
"Is it?" Harry tilted his head. "Because you just helped me text MY best friend. And you're sitting in my lap in a very nice robe. And you made me eggs." He nodded toward the stove. "Burnt eggs, but still. Effort."
"They're not burnt. They're crispy."
"They're charcoal, Draco."
The corner of Draco's mouth twitched. "You're still here."
"I told you. Not going anywhere."
Draco was quiet for a moment. Then he picked up Harry's phone, typed something, and handed it back.
Harry (8:58 AM): Ron. Tell Pansy I said thank you for the dress recommendation. And stop thinking about my legs.
Ron (8:58 AM): I WASNT THINKING ABOUT THEM
Ron (8:58 AM): I WAS OBSERVING
Ron (8:58 AM): THERE'S A DIFFERENCE
Ron (8:59 AM): also harry
Ron (8:59 AM): seriously
Ron (8:59 AM): youre okay?
Harry's chest warmed. He typed back:
Harry (8:59 AM): Yeah, mate. I'm really okay.
Ron (9:00 AM): okay
Ron (9:00 AM): then tell malfoy his eggs are burning
Draco lunged for the stove.
Harry caught him around the waist and pulled him back, laughing.
"Let them burn," Harry said against Draco's ear. "I'll eat anything you make."
"You're a menace."
"You like it."
Draco stopped struggling. Leaned back against Harry's chest.
"I do," he said quietly. "That's the problem."
Harry pressed a kiss to his temple. "Doesn't feel like a problem from where I'm sitting."
Draco turned his head. Grey eyes met green.
"One night at a time," Draco said.
"One night at a time," Harry agreed.
The eggs burned. Neither of them cared.
They ended up in the shower together because Draco declared the kitchen "unsalvageable" and Harry pointed out they were both sticky and should probably wash off the night before.
The shower was large - marble, rainfall head, a little bench in the corner that Harry definitely didn't stare at for too long.
Draco stood under the water first, head tilted back, hair darkening from silver to wet platinum. Water streamed down his chest, his stomach, the sharp lines of his hips.
Harry watched from the edge of the spray.
"You're doing it again," Draco said without opening his eyes.
"Can't help it."
"Help it."
"No."
Draco opened his eyes. The water made his lashes spiky. He looked like a painting - something old and expensive and full of longing.
"Come here," he said.
Harry stepped into the spray.
Draco's hands found his shoulders. Harry's found Draco's waist. The water was hot. The world was small.
They didn't have sex again. Not yet.
But Harry washed Draco's hair - slowly, carefully, working the shampoo through the tangles. Draco closed his eyes and let him. When Harry's fingers scraped gently against his scalp, Draco made a sound so soft and vulnerable that Harry had to kiss him. Just once. Just because.
"You're good at this," Draco murmured.
"I've had practice. Long hair. Ginny used to let me-" Harry stopped. "Sorry. That was weird to say."
Draco laughed. "You're washing Draco Malfoy's hair and talking about Ginny Weasley. Yes. That's weird."
"I'll stop talking."
"Please."
Harry grinned. Kept washing.
When Draco finally opened his eyes again, there was something different in them. Less guarded. More there.
"Thank you," Draco said quietly.
"For what?"
"For staying. For not running. For…" He gestured vaguely at himself. At the shower. At all of it. "For this."
Harry pulled him into a gentle kiss. Water ran between their lips.
"Thank you," Harry said against his mouth, "for letting me."
They stood at the front door an hour later. Harry was dressed - borrowed sweats that were too short in the ankle, a jumper that smelled like Draco. His own clothes were in a bag by his feet.
"So," Harry said.
"So."
"Tonight?"
Draco nodded. "Tonight. Seven? I'll cook. Properly this time."
"I'll bring wine."
"You said that already."
"I'll bring good wine."
Draco's smile was small but real. "You'd better."
Harry leaned in. Kissed him. Soft and short - a promise, not a goodbye.
"I'll see you soon," Harry said.
"Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You're a Potter. You're constitutionally incapable of being on time."
Harry laughed. Picked up his bag. Opened the door.
The morning air was cool and bright. A taxi idled at the end of the street, summoned by a wave of Draco's wand.
Harry took one step outside. Then turned back.
"Hey, Draco?"
Draco was leaning against the doorframe, robe pulled tight, hair still damp. "What?"
"Dahlia." Harry tested the name. Smiled. "I like her. But I like you more."
Draco's cheeks flushed. He looked away, then back, then away again.
"Seven o'clock," he said. "Don't be late."
"I won't."
Harry walked to the taxi. Climbed in. Watched Draco through the rear window until the townhouse disappeared around a corner.
His phone buzzed.
Ron (9:45 AM): so
Ron (9:45 AM): did you kiss him goodbye
Ron (9:46 AM): like a normal person
Ron (9:46 AM): or did you do that weird forehead touch thing you do
Harry grinned.
Harry (9:47 AM): Weird forehead touch thing.
Ron (9:47 AM): called it.
Ron (9:47 AM): also pansy wants to know if youre free for dinner saturday. double date. she says and i quote "i need to see malfoy flustered in public."
Harry looked at the message. Thought about Draco in a velvet dress. Draco in his kitchen. Draco in the shower, eyes closed, letting Harry wash his hair.
Harry (9:48 AM): Tell her we'll think about it.
Ron (9:48 AM): "we"
Ron (9:48 AM): WE
Ron (9:48 AM): harry
Ron (9:48 AM): HARRY
Harry pocketed his phone. Leaned his head against the taxi window.
He was smiling so wide his face hurt.
Six days later.
Harry's flat was a mess.
Not because he was messy - well, not only because he was messy - but because he'd spent the last hour pulling every jumper out of his wardrobe and throwing them on the bed.
"It's just Draco," he muttered to himself. "You've seen him naked. You don't need the perfect jumper."
He picked up a third jumper. Put it down. Picked up the first one again.
His phone buzzed.
Ron (6:42 PM): stop panicking
Ron (6:42 PM): youve literally already slept together MULTIPLE TIMES
Ron (6:42 PM): just wear the black one. the one that makes your shoulders look good.
Harry looked down at the black jumper. Then at his phone.
Harry (6:43 PM): How do you know what I'm doing
Ron (6:43 PM): because i know you. also pansy said draco is doing the same thing with his hair. apparently he's washed it three times.
Harry laughed. Pulled the black jumper over his head.
Harry (6:44 PM): Tell Pansy I said good luck.
Ron (6:44 PM): she says "he doesn't need luck. he's got legs."
Ron (6:44 PM): i dont know if she means you or draco
Ron (6:44 PM): i dont want to know
Harry grabbed his keys. Checked his reflection. Decided his hair was a lost cause.
That same evening, Pansy Parkinson's flat smelled like garlic and chaos.
She'd pushed two tables together in her dining room - all white linen and mismatched candles and far too many wine glasses. A pot bubbled on the stove. Ron was stationed at the counter, tasked with tearing bread into pieces, which he was doing with the solemn focus of a man diffusing a bomb.
"How's the bread situation?" Pansy called from the stove.
"The bread is... breading," Ron said. "Is that a word?"
"It is now."
The doorbell rang.
Pansy wiped her hands on her apron. Ron straightened his shirt. They looked at each other.
"Ready?" Pansy asked.
"I met his legs before I met his face," Ron said. "I'm never going to be ready."
Pansy grinned. Opened the door.
Harry and Draco stood on the doorstep.
Harry had gone with the black jumper. His hair was, predictably, a disaster. He was holding a bottle of wine in each hand - one red, one white - and looked like he was about to face a firing squad.
Draco stood beside him. Sage green silk dress, cut on the bias, falling to mid-thigh. Long sleeves, low back. A simple gold necklace. Hair loose and shining. He looked cool, composed, and absolutely terrified behind the eyes.
"Pansy," Draco said smoothly. "You look adequate."
"You look like you're about to vomit," Pansy replied, pulling him into a hug. "Welcome. Both of you. Get inside before the neighbors start taking pictures."
They stepped in. Ron appeared in the hallway, bread bowl in hand, and froze.
"Hi," Ron said.
"Hello, Weasley," Draco said.
"You're... wearing a dress."
"Observant."
"It's green."
"It is."
"His eyes are-" Ron stopped. Looked at Harry. Looked at Draco. Looked at the dress again. "Oh, you're good."
Draco's mouth twitched. "I know."
Harry groaned. "Can we please sit down before someone says something about legs?"
"I wasn't going to-"
"You were thinking it, Ron."
"...fair."
Dinner was chaos.
Pansy had made something Italian and complicated that involved three types of mushrooms. Ron kept refilling everyone's wine. Draco, to Harry's endless fascination, was nice. Not performative nice. Not Malfoy-polite-with-a-knife-hidden-behind-his-back nice. Just... nice. He asked Ron about his work. He complimented Pansy's candles. He laughed - actually laughed - when Ron accidentally launched a piece of bread across the table.
Harry couldn't stop staring.
"You're doing it again," Draco murmured, low enough that only Harry could hear.
"You're wearing my color."
Draco's cheeks flushed. "I told you. Coincidence."
"Liar."
"Shut up."
Across the table, Ron and Pansy were having a whispered conversation that involved a lot of pointing and grinning.
"I can hear you," Draco said without looking up.
"Good," Pansy replied. "Then you know we're placing bets on how long until you two move in together."
Harry choked on his wine.
Draco went pink to the ears. "We've been on one date."
"Technically two," Ron said. "If you count the club."
"That wasn't a date."
"You went home with him."
"That's not-" Draco stopped. Looked at Harry. "Is that a date?"
"I don't know," Harry said. "Was it?"
"You woke up in my bed."
"And then I made you breakfast."
"The eggs were burnt."
"You still ate them."
Pansy leaned back in her chair, smug as a cat with a canary. "So that's a yes on the moving-in bet, then. I'm taking six months."
"Eight months," Ron countered. "Harry's emotionally constipated."
"Hey."
"You are, mate. It's okay. We love you anyway."
Draco laughed - a real laugh, head tipped back, hair sliding over his shoulders. Harry's chest did something warm and terrifying.
"Three months," Draco said.
Everyone stared at him.
"What?"
"You just bet on your own relationship," Pansy said.
"I'm a Slytherin. We play to win."
Ron burst out laughing. Pansy followed. Harry just looked at Draco - pink-cheeked, wine-drunk, devastating in sage green - and thought, Oh. I'm going to marry him.
He didn't say that.
He said, "Pass the bread," and kicked Draco under the table.
Draco kicked him back. Smiled. Small and real and his.
Later, after the dishes were spelled clean and Ron had fallen asleep on Pansy's couch, Harry and Draco stood in the hallway, putting on their coats.
"Tonight was..." Draco started.
"Good?" Harry offered.
"Yeah." Draco's voice was soft. "Good."
They looked at each other. The hallway light was dim. Pansy's terrible art hung crooked on the walls. Somewhere down the hall, Ron snored.
"Same time next week?" Harry asked.
"Pansy will kill us if we don't."
"I meant…" Harry stepped closer. Tucked a strand of platinum hair behind Draco's ear. "Us. Alone. My place. I'll cook."
"You can't cook."
"I'll order something."
"That's not cooking."
"It's effort, Draco."
Draco's smile was slow and warm. "Fine. Your place. Saturday. I'll bring wine."
"You always bring wine."
"Someone has to."
Harry kissed him. Soft. Sweet. A promise.
"Saturday," Harry said against his lips.
"Saturday," Draco agreed.
They walked out into the cold, hand in hand, and neither of them looked back.