Draco stared down at his empty glass in confusion. He couldn't remember it getting so very empty, which wasn't helpful at all in his quest to get wasted and forget, at least for a little while. He stood, the world spinning violently around him. Draco tightly gripped the back of his chair until the spinning slowed to a tolerable waver and started towards the bar, crowded with a thick mass of muggles.
He was edging through a maze of people when someone abruptly stepped in front of him. Draco's glass tumbled to the ground where it was kicked and shuffled out of reach before Draco's drink-addled mind could react.
“Shit,” Draco hissed, looking from the ground where the glass had been, up to the arsehole that had run into him, the arsehole with black hair and broad shoulders and glasses-
All the blood leave Draco's face and he stumbled backwards involuntarily. The man turned, apologies dying on his lips as he eyes widened in recognition. While Draco's will to live immediately died in the face of Harry Potter.
Draco spun on his heel, shoving through the crowd with frantic desperation to reach the door. He slammed outside, gulping down the cold air. His coat was still inside, on the back of his chair but he didn't care. He couldn't be in that building anymore, not with Potter there. He could get a new jacket. He just needed to go back and sleep, for a few days. Maybe a week.
He fumbled in his pocket for his wand and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand wrap around his arm, holding him in place as firmly as a steel band.
“Malfoy?!” Potter said, pining Draco with his stupid green eyes, “What are you-?”
Draco took a step back, straining pointlessly against Potter's grip.
“I haven't seen you since the trials,” Potter went on with a frown, “No one has,” his brow furrowed, joining the frown, “Are you ok? Has anyone threatened you? I know some people can be hostile but for the most part our world has moved on.”
Draco quickly shook his head, “Let me go.” When Potter didn't relent Draco scrabbled at his hand, trying to pry Potter's fingers up.
“Is it me?” Potter asked, “I know we didn't get on before but we ought to be able to start over. We've both grown past school rivalries by now.”
Draco finally remembered he was a wizard and reached across to his pocket, trying to pull his wand out with his offhand.
Potter tsked and grabbed Draco's wrist. He changed his grip on Draco's arm so he was holding Draco by both wrists without much apparent effort.
“Cut it out, this is a muggle neighbourhood!” Potter hissed under his breath, dragging Draco to the corner of the building, “What are you doing in a muggle bar anyway?”
“Drinking,” Draco glowered, “That's what you do in bars.” He was nearly drunk enough to indulge in the petty and childish desire to slump down and drop all his weight in Potter's grip like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. But since he wasn't quite that drunk he could only think about doing it and sulk.
Auror training had apparently been fantastic for Potter making him fitter than ever. Drinking and depression had not been quite so kind to Draco Malfoy who was sporting dark circles under his eyes and the too thin from forgetting to eat or substituting drink for food look.
“Are you ok?” Potter asked again, genuine concern creasing his face.
Draco just glared at him.
“Can I help?” Potter pressed with such earnestness Draco wanted to lurch forward and break Potter's nose with his forehead but couldn't quite convince himself he had the coordination for it.
“Yes.” Draco said flatly, “Let me go. That would be very helpful.”
For a second Draco thought he had won, then Potter's face took on something akin to fierce determination, which Draco found very off-putting, and held on firmly.
“I've been looking for you,” Potter said hesitantly, adding a strange vulnerability on top of the already unbearable earnest concern.
Draco groaned, “I can't,” he gave in to his earlier desire and slumped down, but Potter just lowered himself along with Draco so they were both on their knees in the middle of the sidewalk. “I just can't,” Draco lamented.
Potter had the audacity to look sad. “Fine...” he said softly, “there's just something I have to say first and then I'll go and I won't look for you again.”
“Say it then.”
Potter took a deep breath, “I-” he swallowed hard, “-after the war I did a lot of thinking, about the world, about myself , and I realized that I actually,” Potter paused and bit his lip nervously, “I realized, I fancy you, a lot. I probably have for a while.”
Potter loosened his grip until Draco's hand slid free and curled onto on his lap.
“Why are you so awful,” Draco whined, glaring petulantly at Potter.
“I know. You hate me,” Potter said with resignation, slowly standing up and brushing off his jeans.
“I don't hate you,” Draco snapped impatiently, “I love you.” he frowned at Potter's kneecaps, “Dumbass.”
“You do?” Potter said in surprise.
“Of course I do,” Draco gestured at all of Potter, “Fucking look at you.” he went back to glaring at Potter's knees, “I can't go back to the wizarding world, you're everywhere. It's unbearable. Loathsome.”
Potter bent over, grabbing Draco's hands in his and pulling him to his feet.
“Let me go,” Draco said.
“No.” Potter said firmly, his fingers curling around Draco's palms, warm and ticklish. “You're going to come back to my flat and in the morning when you're sober you're going to tell me you love me again, properly.”
“Do I have to?” Draco pouted.
Potter nodded, “Yes, you do.”
“If I'm good can I have a kiss?” Draco asked hopefully.
One side of Potter's mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile, “Sure.”
Draco perked up, “And coffee?”
“And coffee,” Potter assured him.
“What about a danish bun?” Draco asked.
Potter rolled his eyes, “I promise, you can have whatever you want, Draco.”
“Oh,” Draco blinked, “That's a dangerous promise to make.”
“I know. But I think it will be worth it.”
Draco was aware he had a head because it felt like it was about to fall off. A groan crawled out of his throat and over his tongue which tasted like shit, so he had those as well. His stomach clenched ominously. Check. He very carefully flexed his hands, still attached, which was always good. He tried the same with his feet and then moved his arms and legs. Felt a bit like he had been run over by one of those muggle car things, but one of the smaller ones, so that could have been worse. He was pretty sure he didn't care if he had eyes. Opening them in the morning was never worth it.
He buried his head into the suspiciously soft pillow. He was halfway to falling back to sleep when his traitorous brain pointed out that suspiciously soft pillows were not normally what he enjoyed after an evening of drinking in excess. In fact, suspiciously soft pillows were nothing like the gutters, park benches or thin strange smelling pillows he was used to. This particular suspiciously soft pillow smelled fantastic, like evergreen shampoo and some sort of spicy aftershave. His stomach wasn't certain about the smell being fantastic and Draco told it to shut the fuck up. Not that it listened.
Draco turned his head out of the pillow so the smell was less of an issue and carefully cracked an eye open. It was a mistake. He groaned and closed it again.
“Are you awake?” A voice called from somewhere, coming closer. It was a familiar voice and it boded ill.
Draco pried the eye open one more time as the voice came in the room. Black hair, green eyes, stupid glasses, scar on head, Scarhead. Draco closed the eye again and evaluated the possibility that he was still dreaming or just having a very vivid hallucination. Wouldn't be the first.
“Here's a hangover potion,” the hallucination said.
Draco looked again, there was a vial in front of his face filled with the yellowish brown potion that was so appetizingly associated with hangover remedies. He hadn't had an honest to gods potion in two years.
“No.” he croaked.
Potter sighed, “Why are you so difficult?”
“I'm not difficult. You are a moron,” Draco said hoarsely.
Potter clenched his jaw in that stupid stubborn expression of his, and pulled the cork from the vial, pressing it impatiently against Draco's mouth, “Just take it, you infuriating git.”
Draco kept his mouth closed, snaking a hand up and wedging a finger into the vial.
“Do you-” Draco interrupted, “-have any idea what a hangover potion does to an alcoholic?”
“Because it starts with R and ends in I P.” Draco pulled his finger out and wiped it off unceremoniously on Potter's sheets, “Like I said- Moron.”
He closed his eyes so he didn't see whatever expression Potter made but he heard him put the cork back in the vial.
“What can I get you then?” Potter said. “You look like shit.”
“I feel like it,” Draco sniggered into the pillow and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his head.
“Can you take any other potions? I have muggle pain pills too.”
Draco mentally ran through the ingredients of a basic painkiller potion, he was dead inside, not brain dead, unlike some people.
“Pain potion,” He said.
He listened to footsteps leaving and coming back. Potter tapped his hand with a new vial. Draco opened his eyes and took in the pale blue colour, he took the vial and turned it, reading the label to make sure.
“I can read a label you know!” Potter snapped.
Draco wiggled the cork out levering himself up onto one elbow, “Sure you can, Potter.”
He only drank half the vial to be on the safe side, pushing the cork and vial back into Potter's hands and collapsing back into bed. The potion shivered through him and took all the aching lingering pain with it. Draco sighed into the soft sheets. He had forgotten how lovely potions were.
“Get up,” Potter said.
Draco considered this and decided against it.
Hands pulled his sheets away.
Draco curled in on himself in the soft and once warmer bed, pulling his knees to his chest. The lack of sheets made him vaguely more aware that he had been stripped down to his pants. He felt a surge of fear and quickly reached up, relief flooding through him when he felt the chain around his neck with its small vault key.
“Get up,” Potter repeated.
Draco opened his eyes, which at the very least no longer felt like they were being stabbed with needles, and glared up at Potter., “I'd really rather not, actually.”
“Draco,” Potter said flatly.
“Ugh,” Draco grimaced, “don't say my name. Now we're both uncomfortable.”
“Just you, actually,” Potter said, looking almost amused.
“Well that's completely unfair.”
“Do you remember anything from last night?” Potter asked.
Draco squinted up at the ceiling and concluded, “No. Job well done me. I'm guessing it must have involved you.”
Potter's brow furrowed with worry, “How often do you drink that much?”
“Every night, Potter. I have a schedule to keep.” He lifted his bare wrist and tapped it meaningfully.
“A schedule? For what?” Potter asked.
“Drinking myself to death while I'm still young and pretty.” He managed to hold a straight face for about half a second before clutching his knees in a fit of giggles.
The bed sagged as Potter sat on the edge, “That's not funny,” he said quietly.
“Which part?” Draco raised an eyebrow, “The part where I called myself pretty or the part where my life is a dumpster fire?”
“You life isn't that bad, is it?” Potter asked hesitantly.
Draco rolled his eyes, “Potter, my father is in prison until he dies, my mother had her wand snapped, I'm a war criminal, all the Malfoy assets have been seized except a trust from my grandfather and I am a pariah in the only community I have ever known. What about that screams happy-times to you?” He shook his head with a sigh, “Don't be naive.”
“I-” Potter blinked in shock, “-I didn't know.”
“Now you do,” Draco said flippantly.
Potter pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and then through the disaster that was his hair. He stood slowly and left the room looking like he had been hit by a percussion blast.
Draco snatched the blankets back up to his chin and burrowed into them, letting himself drift into a hazy half sleep. He wasn't stupid. Soon Potter would come to his senses and kick him out. So Draco was going to enjoy his soft bed for as long as he could.
Potter returned far too soon. Draco was pretty set on playing dead until he smelled coffee. He opened his eye just a crack and then all the way when he saw that Potter was carrying a tray with two mugs. He sat up and saw that the tray also contained a sugar, milk and an entire box of danish. Potter sat down on the end of the bed and put the tray between them.
Draco snatched up a raspberry danish from the box, taking a large bite out of it with a groan.
Potter had that worried expression on his face again and said, “It's fine, you know. You can have as many as you want.” He picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip, straight black.
Draco dumped milk and sugar into his cup until the coffee taste was suitably beaten into submission.
“Would you like some coffee with your milk?” Potter said.
Draco was not interested in Potter's sass, “Muggles have this thing called a latte. It's the best thing they've ever made.”
“What about indoor plumbing?” Potter said in what might be considered a friendly joking tone if Draco were stupid enough to consider the idea of Potter caring for him.
Draco raised an eyebrow, “I would rather shit in a bucket than give up lattes.”
Potter choked on his coffee and coughed himself red in the face. It was the finest entertainment Draco had ever been party to in a long time. He finished his danish and helped himself to another while Potter cleared his throat and chased it down with a few sips of coffee.
“So...” Potter cleared his throat again, “last night... you told me you loved me.”
“I did not!” Draco flinched back in offended dismay.
“You did,” Potter assured him, looking down at his coffee and toying with the handle.
“Lies,” Draco muttered, nursing substandard-actual-coffee-coffee, “I cannot imagine any scenario in which I would indulge such madness.”
“What about the scenario where I fancied you as well?” Potter looked disgustingly shy.
Draco narrowed his eyes and said warily, “I would also have never imagined that scenario because that scenario is impossible and quite frankly stupid.”
“Why is it stupid?” Potter asked and bit his lip.
Draco felt his dick twitch in interest at Potter being coy and attractive and, his mind oh-so-helpfully supplied, wearing an old sweater that slipped over one shoulder and sported several holes showing a glimpse of delicious olive skin. Draco told his mind and dick to shut up and took another bite of his danish.
“It's stupid because you are Harry-fucking-Potter and my life, as previously explained, is a dumpster fire.” The danish was excellent, it had cream cheese filling, “Are you going to kick me out?” Draco asked.
“What?” Potter's brow furrowed.
Draco rolled his eyes, “I was wondering when you're going to come to your senses and kick me out.”
The furrow deepened, “I'm not- I wasn't going to-”
“Brilliant,” Draco said briskly brushing the crumbs from his hands, “can I borrow your shower?”