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It’s not the worst Valentine’s Day he’s ever had, Draco thinks, as he leans against the bedframe. Potter’s barefoot, and the mattress dips and rolls under his shifting weight, and there’s just something about the whole scene: the looseness of Potter’s movement perhaps, so casual – not to mention the way Potter looks, crawling across Draco’s bed, in those old, threadbare jeans – that makes Draco’s heart stutter in his chest, his hand clench against the pillar for moral support. As Potter reaches the head of the bed, he kneels up, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. His thigh rests heavy on Draco’s pillow as he scrutinises the intricate carvings which cover the column beside him. Eventually, he clears his throat, opens his mouth, and begins hissing at Draco’s bedpost.
Which hisses right back.
Not the worst Valentine’s Day, then. Just the strangest.
“So?” says Draco. It’s far too quick, of course, his impatience laid stupidly, embarrassingly bare as he watches Potter’s toes curl deeper into the sheets. Potter brushes his hair off his forehead as he talks, and his speech – evidently unconsciously – meanders back and forth between Parseltongue and English, that strange, ominous hissing peppered with the little Potter-isms that Draco grows fonder of every day. It’s all a lot.
Yes, Draco’s impatient. He can’t help it.
“So?” he asks again.
Potter clucks his tongue at Draco, throwing him a quick exasperated glance, before returning to task. Elsewhere in the flat, a door slams, and Draco thinks back to Blaise’s earlier words (‘Oh, Potter, would you take a look? I swear, if I hear Draco complaining about those snakes keeping him awake one more time…’), and begins to wonder whether what had seemed like an offhand request might not have been quite so innocent after all.
He's still going, Potter, and Draco can see the snakes now; they’ve slithered down from their usual home beside the heavy fabric of the canopy, the grain of the wood rippling across their bodies as they move. Their little heads are bobbing up and down excitedly, curling right off the oak frame as Potter nods, and murmurs sympathetically, and tilts his own head this way and that.
“Right, yeah,” says Potter, eventually. “Got you.” He turns to Draco, his hand curling into a tight fist around the plump edge of Draco’s pillow. “Er, your house elf’s using a new polish. It’s giving them allergies.”
“Ah,” says Draco, relieved and disappointed all at once. It makes sense: Missy does like to try new products, after all. What doesn’t make sense, though, is Potter’s expression. The way he’s staring at Draco – sort of pleased, and curious, almost as though he’s never really seen Draco before – and the flush spreading steadily across the curve of his cheekbones.
“That’s all that’s bothering them, then? The polish?”
Potter coughs, eyes darting away. “Er, kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Well,” says Potter. He stops, apparently reluctant to continue, and Draco fights not to roll his eyes.
“Potter, if my – if my bed’s telling you things, I’d kindly ask that you pass the message on.”
“But –” protests Potter, and his body’s growing tense now, and he arches his feet and digs his toes deep into Draco’s mattress, and Draco’s had quite enough of all this.
“What did they say, Potter?” he growls.
“Alright, alright,” says Potter, still not looking at Draco. “They, er, they didn’t much like the guy you brought home last week. Far too much cologne, apparently. Snakes are very sensitive to smell, you know,” Potter adds, as Draco stares, rendered completely speechless. Then it gets worse, with Potter apparently mistaking Draco’s horrified silence for a desire to know more. “And the week before last? The bloke with the –” Potter gestures vaguely at his own face “– the piercings, I guess? They’re saying that the two of you were, er, how do I put it…?”
“Oh my god,” chokes out Draco, feeling faint. Blaise is dead. He is so fucking dead. Sod the Avada; Draco’s going to wring his fucking neck.
“…a little too vigorous, I suppose? And, uh, the snakes also just want me to let you know that good quality beds like this do still need regular maintenance, and that you’ll need to renew the strengthening charms next time you’re planning on…”
“Oh Merlin, please stop!” cries Draco, and finally, mercifully, Potter does. Draco swallows. “Potter,” he says, his voice a strange, desperate whisper, “Harry.”
All at once, before Potter can respond, the snakes start up again – a terrible, furious cacophony – and a feeling of inescapable dread settles in the pit of Draco’s stomach.
“Yes?” Potter says, frowning. He hisses some more, tongue moving fast and inhuman, and then – “Yep. Harry. Harry Potter.”
The snakes’ replies sound urgent to Draco, frantic even, and they’re sliding over one another, craning their horrible little necks to get closer, their hollowed-out eyes fixed on Potter’s face. And Potter’s blushing, again, pink spreading up to the tips of his ears – god, and biting his lip, and his eyes slide over to Draco, just for a second, and suddenly Draco realises exactly what they’re talking about. “Fuck, Potter, stop!” he cries, leaping up onto the mattress with arms outstretched.
“Huh.” Potter mumbles, voice low, between hisses. “My name? You’re sure?”
“Don’t listen to them!” It's Draco who's frantic now, and somehow he’s next to Potter, pressed right up against Potter actually, and the hissing is all around him, it’s filling his ears, and it’s obviously filling Potter’s, and Draco tries to grab at the little bastards, to cover their mouths, but they just squirm straight out of his grasp, and it’s no use at all.
Potter’s own hisses sound sort of breathy now, and then – “most nights?” Potter says, his voice high-pitched, and Draco moans in horror.
“Shut up, you rotten little snitches!” he yells, abandoning all pretence and throwing both arms around the bedpost in an attempt to smother them all. “Forget fucking strengthening charms,” he shrieks, “I’m going to destroy you, you little shits. I’m going to hack you into tiny snake pieces; I’m going to set you on fire…” He’s full on hysterical now, and he’s screaming at a bedpost, and worst of all, Potter’s just sat there watching. Potter’s right there, on Draco’s bed, and he knows, and right after Draco strangles Blaise, he’s going to have to go straight down to the Portkey Office and…
“Draco,” says Potter.
“… and I swear to Merlin, I’m going to buy that flatpack bed from IKEA…”
“Draco?”
“…I’m going to make you fuckers watch me put it together…”
“Draco!”
Draco’s voice dies in the air. His pulse is thundering in his ears, and his breathing’s far too loud in the confines of the four-poster as he slowly unwraps himself from the bedpost, uncovering the cluster of tiny snakes who gaze back at him, nonplussed. He gives them his best – slightly shaky – attempt at a Malfoy glare, and watches as one by one they slither back up the post.
It takes a good few minutes for Draco to calm down sufficiently, but somehow he manages, and eventually, wincing, he chances a look at Potter. To Draco’s amazement, he finds no trace of the anger or disgust he was expecting; in fact, Potter’s expression is… bemused, perhaps? And, Draco wonders, his hand tightening around the bedpost, is he imagining things, or can he sense the beginnings of a smile in the faint creases at the edge of Potter’s lips? Draco can do nothing but wait, his face heating beneath the weight of Potter’s stare, as his eyes flick across Draco’s face, down to his mouth, then his throat, and back up to meet his eyes once more.
Say something, Draco thinks wildly. He’s still mentally packing his bag, wondering just how he’ll spin this one to his mother when he Floo calls her from Timbuktu. Say something, please?
But Potter doesn’t. The minutes tick by, and Draco can hear that bastard Blaise shuffling around next door (so fucking dead), and Potter’s still not moving, and his eyes are starting to bulge slightly, and Draco thinks back to Hogwarts and all the rumours and starts to wonder if perhaps Potter’s having some kind of episode. Should he call Weasley? Fuck.
“Er,” Draco begins, delicately. “So.”
Still nothing. Draco tries to remind himself that he survived Fiendfyre, living with a mass murderer, and Pansy’s relentless and very handsy attention at the Yule Ball. He takes a deep breath.
“So, Potter. D’you have any plans tonight, or–?”
Potter throws his head back and laughs then, loud and deep and genuine, and the sound startles Draco so much that he almost nearly topples straight off the bed. Potter leans forward and grabs him by the wrist, hauling him in close.
“No. No plans.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got no plans, exactly,” repeats Harry, untucking his t-shirt with his free hand and tugging his wand out of the waistband of his jeans and jabbing it skywards. A thick cloud of fog settles over the canopy of Draco’s bed, and the snakes give a last few angry hisses as they fade out of view. Potter smiles and reaches out, his fingers curling around the nape of Draco’s neck, sliding up into his hair. His breath ghosts across Draco’s jaw as he leans in. “But I do have a few ideas, if you’re game.”