Work Text:
December 22nd
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“Oi, mate, you’re not gonna like this…” Ron sucks in a harsh breath against the neck of his bottle, and juts his chin in the direction of the bar.
In one hand, Harry lowers his phone; in the other, a fat chip slips from his fork into the gravy below, and he doesn’t even flinch. Across the bar, a certain, all too familiar blond weaves his way through the crowded pub, flagging down the bartender as he goes, and Harry slides down his chair until he’s practically horizontal, peering over the table edge.
Hermione’s head snaps from the bar, back to a rose-tinted Harry. “It might not be him, there’s plenty of tall, slim, blonde men in these kinds of places.”
One quick glance at the subtle jiggle in the backside of those thigh-hugging trousers confirms it. “Trust me,” Harry says, “It’s him.”
It’s only when Hermione’s fingers snap in front of his face that he looks back at both of them, Ron snorting as he takes another swig, Hermione resisting the urge to roll her eyes for the umpteenth time this evening.
“You realise gawping at him like that ain’t gonna make him unzip his trousers any faster.” Ron chuckles, necking another swig.
“Fuck off, I’m not gawping .” Harry swiftly clamps his jaw shut and pokes at his soggy chips. “And before you give me all that spiel again about being hung up on him, I’m absolutely not.”
“Fine,” Hermione says amusedly, “Then we’ll continue to enjoy our evening and pretend that he’s not even—”
Draco turns from the bar, eyes latching onto Harry. He looks like a shark detecting the scent of blood, or, axe body spray and cucumber shampoo, in Harry’s case. Draco surveys him, one brow lifting, and Harry, like a deer in headlights, throws his hand up with the world’s most awkward wave.
He freezes. So does Hermione’s little speech, her mouth hanging open on the last word and curling to a smirk at Harry’s predictability. Ron’s holding back laughter too, Harry can see his chest bobbing heartily from the corner of his eye, but he’s too transfixed on how the flash of silver in those eyes blink at him once, twice, unbothered and perhaps perplexed by Harry’s enthusiasm.
He weaves out of sight, and Harry’s face burns. Pressing his lips, his arm drops first, then his head, right onto the surface of the table. The tacky paper coaster sticks to his forehead, but what does it matter when his heart is crawling up his throat and attempting to make a getaway from the sheer embarrassment tearing through his skin?
Ron pats him on the shoulder, then steals a chip. “He gave you a look, didn’t he?”
The subtle movement of brunette curls on the tabletop signifies a nod.
“Please murder me.” Harry groans. “It’ll be less painful.”
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December 24th
“Merry Christmas, Scarhead.
Subtle as ever, I see.”
Harry stares down at the card in his hand, flips it over multiple times, just to be sure. On the front is a simple Santa Claus design, with the words ‘Santa’s Favourite Ho’.
He reads the elegantly quilled handwriting at least ten times over, his chest thumping a little louder each time. He won’t peg this one up on the string of cards that Ron decided was a fun idea to have trailing across their living room wall. No. This one is just for him.
December 31st
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Pansy Parkinson’s annual New Year’s shindig is honestly the last place Harry wants to spend his evening. It’s too loud, and too dark. The carpet underfoot is sticky, as is the table, and Harry dies a little inside when Zabini comes sauntering over, insisting everyone necks a ‘Blowjob Shot’. Coconut spirit with the salt-crusted rim, as if the name wasn’t bad enough.
Harry tosses his into the fake ficus beside his chair, but his grimace comes naturally.
“If you don’t strike up a conversation with the ferret by the end of the night, I’m going to wallop you into the new year.” Ron says, leaning into Harry’s field of vision which blocks the view of Draco, who’s leaning against the pool table, hands stroking up and down the cue because of course he’s doing it on purpose.
“And what exactly would I say to him?” Harry sighs, “Hi Malfoy, sorry for all the ogling. I want to bury my face between your arse cheeks?”
Ron almost chokes, wipes the beer from his chin with his wrist. “If it suits him then, by all means, go for it.”
It all builds up before midnight, louder, stuffier, everyone’s got their arm around someone's waist, waiting for the inevitable countdown where the clock hits twelve and fuck all changes.
Harry ducks out into the street, taking refuge on the step by the back doors. He salvages half a packet of fruit pastilles from his pocket and chucks one into his mouth as he stares up at the crisp, clear sky. It’s a new moon tonight, and rather fitting really. Harry only knows this because he’d listened to Luna waffling about it yesterday when he joined her for tea and crumpets.
He’s entirely misjudged the weather again, too, as he pulls his flannel shirt tight around his chest and dips his head, bracing from the biting chill. Even with it penetrating his bones, it’s still a reprieve from the ruckus inside.
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“You know, there are books in my shop that’ll give you far better advice than Reddit,” says the git that appears at his shoulder.
Harry almost lobs his phone in panic. “Stop snooping, dickhead. Christ.”
Draco laughs—beautifully, Harry might add. “I see you’re the life of the party then.”
“Could say the same about you. Why are you bothering me?”
“Am I?”
Harry just shuts his mouth and pulls his shirt even tighter around himself, pretending that he’s focused on something in the distance, only to feel himself stiffen even more when Draco sits down on the step beside him, his earthy scent—pine and woodsmoke—lingers under Harry’s nose, and the hairs on his neck prickle at the sudden warmth of another body shielding him from the breeze.
“Never really been one for New Years, myself.” Draco says, “Load of pish posh if you ask me.”
Harry huffs a smile. “All I keep thinking about is having a cup of tea and polishing off the last of the biscuits in my Christmas tin. Is that sad?”
Draco turns to him, and Harry can’t help but meet his challenging smile. “I’ve got After Eights waiting for me. The superior nibble.”
Defeatedly, Harry nods down at the ground, forcing down the goofy smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth. He grits against the gust of air, well aware that the only thing keeping him from freezing to death is the way Draco’s presence thaws through the cold. His skin might be ice, but his body burns with longing.
Draco doesn’t peel his gaze away, either, eyes flicking down Harry’s torso and back up again. “Here,” he says, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck before draping it around Harry’s. Harry watches, wordlessly, as Draco pulls it neatly into place, ensuring every part of Harry’s neck is covered. He bites his tongue subtly as he concentrates on making it sit just right, a trait of Draco’s that clearly still hasn’t changed since his school days.
Harry’s fingers tremor, and this time, it’s not from the cold. His heart thrums wildly against his ribcage, the sight of Draco’s tongue and teeth between those lips that are begging to be kissed.
He could do it right now. Pull Draco against his mouth and just kiss him. Easy. Except, the thought of it leaves him on the verge of passing out, and if collapses into Draco’s arms like a flimsy little bowtruckle, then he might as well just die right there.
Instead, he averts his gaze to Draco’s hands working the scarf. Fingers brushing over the cotton, curling at the folds. When Draco’s done, he softly pats Harry's chest, a feeling that Harry lets linger even after Draco pulls away.
“Utterly helpless, aren’t you?” Draco says, his breath curls up into the air between them.
Harry’s staring at Draco like he’s the finest after dinner treat he’s ever laid eyes on, and he knows it, and he can’t stop, and fuck it if he’s going to start pretending like he doesn’t want this to last until the next New Year’s.
Draco’s stare wavers, flitting to Harry’s parted lips, and then it’s pulled away by the eruption of fireworks a few streets over. Explosions of gold and green shower down across the jewelled sky, and they watch in wonder, the bursting of colour and light akin to the feeling inside Harry’s chest.
“Happy New Year, Harry.”
January 1st
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January 9th
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January 10th
Fanciful Folklore is a small, crooked library tucked neatly down the backstreets of Diagon Alley. It’s a quiet addition to the street, with its viridian green walls and bay windows filled with trailing plants, floating books and miniature rainbow bunting.
Harry tries to enter stealthily, but the damn jingle of the bell above the door gives him away, and lo and behold, Draco emerges from behind a bookshelf, brow arched, glasses teetering on the end of his nose.
“You’re wearing glasses.” Harry says.
“Good to know that yours work too.” Draco hums, returning to the shelves that he’s levitating books onto. “Though mine are only for reading and such.”
Harry’s brow knits. “You’ve called me four-eyes and specky since I was eleven years old, and now I find out you’re wearing glasses too—”
“Yes, because your glasses are ridiculous.” Draco says, and Harry huffs, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose, wishing that Draco’s bite didn’t do such glorious things to his insides. “Do you need something?”
“A book.”
“Go figure.”
Harry sighs, “I want to read more.”
Draco nods approvingly, then wanders over to the little desk by the window. “I have just the thing for you, going by the searches you made on your phone on New Year’s.” He pulls out a book from the rack, and passes it to Harry, a hardback titled “Help! I’m a Hopeless Romantic.” Draco’s grin widens. “To help you get over that little crush of yours.”
Harry stares at it, considers telling Draco to piss off, but takes the book anyway and tucks it under his arms. He clears his throat, peering around the tiny space, at the books piled floor to ceiling and the shelves bowing under their weight. “Got anything fictional?”
“This one’s been flying off the shelves all week, a debut from a new author.” Draco hands over a small paperback book titled ‘In The Mist Is You’, and all that graces the cover is a watercolour picture of a coastal town, with a man standing on the harbour edge, looking out across the shore. “I devoured it in a night, I think you’ll like it too.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well that’s the beauty of not knowing what’s ahead,” Draco says, their fingers brushing as Harry takes the book from his grasp. “Read it and you’ll see. Oh, and you might want to give your self-help book a glance over too, just for good measure.”
January 11th
The curtains are drawn, and he’s washed his face and lit the lavender incense that Luna gifted him for Christmas. He’s ready for an evening of literature to help him escape into another world before he drifts off to sleep. It’s a new year, and a new Harry. A Harry that takes care of himself, that reads and goes to bed at a reasonable hour.
This’ll definitely last for the rest of the year.
Three paragraphs in, Ron appears on the lock screen of his phone; a text message about something to do with the Cannons live score, but no, it can wait. He’s doing smart things. With a phone now proudly on Do Not Disturb, he turns his attention to the book.
The main character is awfully relatable, Harry thinks. A bit of an outcast, beaten down by life, misunderstood, just craving some normality.
Chapter two brings with it a vibrant description of the coastal villages of Cinque Terre, characters from various paths, their lives slowly intertwining as Harry’s eyes flicker over the pages, pulling him in with every turn of the page.
He’s never been hooked like this before. Draco must have a gift for literature for striking gold on his first recommendation, and Harry’s mind feels a thirst for all the literature he’s yet to catch up on, quietly scolding himself for taking so long to find the brilliance in reading. He owes Hermione an apology, too, for bashing her love of stories.
One more chapter, then he’ll sleep. His eyes are starting to droop anyway, but it’s fine, because this chapter is fairly predictable, a quarrel with another man, a lesson to be learnt, a plan quietly hatching, a kiss.
Harry bolts up, drops the book into his lap, then stares out ahead of him. When he looks down at the text again, he squints at it, ensuring that he’s read it right.
“—pins Antonio against the stone, wrists above his head with a moan against Pierre’s lips at the feeling of his dick being stroked—”
Harry stiffens in more ways than one, can’t resist the need to swipe a hand over his cock—now piqued with interest at the sudden visualisation of two blokes getting it on in a boathouse in coastal Italy. He runs his eyes over the text a thousand more times, and the words that resonate tingle through his skin.
“Holy fuck,” Harry utters, honing one last shred of self control to slam the book closed and place it on the nightstand. “ Merlin—” The image presented by the chapter replays in his mind, with only one solution as to how he deals with it.
“Bloody Draco.”
January 12th
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Well and truly engrossed, Harry continues to read.
Book in one hand, spoon in the other, as he tries and fails to eat his cereal. He misses his mouth frequently, spilling milk down his jumper from being too distracted by ‘the meat of his loins sizzling with the feral need to be tenderised’. Curled up in the corner of the sofa with a blanket pulled over his waist to hide the unpredictability of his curious cock.
In Harry’s mind, it's blasphemous that he must attend to duties such as work and socialising when his brain is swimming in thoughts of those sunkissed Italian men, luring each other into sacred places to revel in their misdeeds.
January 13th
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If all fictional books are like this, then Harry definitely understands now why Hermione reads so damn much.
January 14th
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January 15th
“Well, what did you think?” asks Draco, peering up from his desk with intrigue.
Harry peers around the quiet store, ensuring they’re alone before leaning in. “Did you sell me a pornographic book?”
“There may have been a sprinkling of smut in there,” Draco chuckles and throws his head back, “Well, did you enjoy it? Or did you enjoy it?” His face is doing that menacing smile again. Harry shifts on his feet, throat impossibly dry.
“It was… good.” Harry says, his neck heats up at the mere memory of the many nights he spent reminding himself just how good it was. “Is there a second book?”
“Unfortunately not,” Draco says. He gets up and wanders over to the stand by the door showcasing books celebrating LGBTQ+ fiction of the last decade. “But I have plenty more with similar taste. This one I think you’ll enjoy.” He passes the book in question to Harry, but draws it back as Harry goes to take it. “On one condition: you read the self-help book that I gave you.”
“I thought that was a joke.”
“You might be surprised how much you get out of opening it,” Draco says, with a hint of a smile that wraps itself around Harry’s wasted heart.
January 21st
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Nothing quite compares to the romance of forbidden love on the Italian coast, but Harry perseveres, packing his feelings aside as he adjusts to the new surroundings of Draco’s second recommendation.
Harry makes it four chapters in with only a hint at enemies having to cohabit a small cottage on the outskirts of Cumbria, but his mind begins switching off thanks to the addition of the glowing floor lamp and the subtle pattering of rain against his windows.
He closes the book and slides it onto the coffee table, and though he could curl up right here and drift off in a heartbeat, his eye captures the self-help book waiting idly to be opened. He glances at it for some time, before reaching over and observing the cover.
“This book built back all my self-esteem!”
“10/10. A perfect guide to navigating relationships.”
“Where was this book when I was in my twenties? A lifesaver!”
He traces his fingers across the cover, certain of the fact that he absolutely does not need any dating help whatsoever. As he opens it, he’s surprised to see that one of the chapters titled ‘How to prepare for a first date’ is marked with a post-it note, and a small piece of parchment from between the pages falls onto his lap, adorned with that all-too familiar cursive quillwork.
“Coffee, Potter?”
January 22nd
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“Ah, so you finally opened the book.” Draco says, eyeing proudly between Harry’s alarmed expression and the self-help book in his trembling hands with the note peeking out of the pages. “So, coffee, then?”
Harry quietly slips the parchment back into his pocket, places the book down on Draco’s desk, and opens his mouth to say words that get stuck in the wedge of his throat.
“If coffee isn’t your thing then I know of a lovely little place that sells tea and cake,” Draco goes on, casually, “Or we could grab smoothies, if you’re feeling audacious.”
“Coffee’s good.” Harry manages.
“Brilliant.” Draco hums. His face radiates with confidence that Harry only wishes he could obtain, eyes glinting with intention. He reaches through the stack of books at his side and begins sifting through them, oblivious to the burning red on Harry’s cheeks, or the inability to close his mouth. “Meet me here on Friday after closing. I know just the place.”
Harry nods reticently, drags his fingers through his hair, and turns on his heel, exiting the little shop whilst resisting the urge to both snog Draco right on the lips and smack his stupid smug face.
The door clicks shut, leaving Draco alone with the silence. But the bell jingles moments later, and Harry walks right back up to the desk, grabs the ‘Help! I’m a Hopeless Romantic’ book, and heads straight back out the door, too caught up in the madness of his thoughts to hear Draco’s subtle laughter.
February 12th
Ron does a celebration lap around the flat and rugby tackles Harry when he hears the news about Harry’s date with Draco, because he grew up in a house of boys, Harry assumes.
“Have you buggered him yet?”
“It’s been two dates!”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, what? I’m supposed to swipe our coffees to one side, bend him over the table and rail him?”
“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
Harry thinks on it for a moment, and has no response.
February 13th
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Harry might as well be looking at bloody hieroglyphs on this menu. Whilst Draco’s busy discussing wines with the waiter, Harry slips out his phone under the table.
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“Harry? Do you know what you’d like to order?” Draco asks.
Harry’s head snaps up. “This one,” he points at the menu, “The one with the carrots… I think.”
Draco turns to the waiter. “Recommanderiez-vous ce vin avec le canard ou le turbot?”
“Il accompagnera parfaitement le canard.” The waiter swoons with French-sounding enthusiasm, grins a little too wide at the both of them, and clears their menus. It’s far nicer than The Fiddler's Inn, that’s for sure. Harry would never see Ron dead in a place like this, perhaps that’s for the best. But the unease still sits heavily on his chest.
This isn't him at all. He’s completely out of his depth, and Draco is surely going to see right through him.
“You speak French.” Harry says. “Sexy.”
Draco dips his wine glass a little. The deep candlelight of the restaurant bathes him in a glow that leaves Harry hot under the collar.
When the food arrives, Harry swallows hard and begins poking and prodding at the gelatinous fillet of fish that is perched on a bed of sliced carrots and what he can only assume is edible moss, drizzled with a glaze resembling pond water.
The wine swims around his head, tugging at his eyelids, tilting the room every time he moves his head. Draco gets hazier in his vision. The food tastes fine but the textures are impossible to chew and he’s hot, too hot, glasses slipping down his nose, unable to find comfort in the stiff chair.
When they finally stumble outside after splitting the bill, he practically gasps at the fresh evening air hitting his face.
Draco’s hand slips onto his shoulder, “Harry? Forgive me if I’m wrong but it seemed as though you couldn’t rush out of there fast enough. Have I done something wrong?”
“What? No.” Harry shakes his head fiercely, bracing from the cold as he hunches his jacket up around his neck. He scuffs the floor and tries to find the words.
His heart aches for Draco’s affection, yet he feels unworthy of it.
Draco steps in, hands brushing over Harrys’ shoulders as he tucks a curl of dark hair behind Harry’s ear and readjusts his glasses for him. Tilting his head, Draco closes the gap between their misted lips, and Harry closes his eyes, and turns.
It’s soft against his cheek, Draco’s kiss. Hesitant, and rightly so. It wasn’t supposed to be there.
Draco draws back slowly, but Harry’s eyes remain closed, heart beating wildly and sinking to the pit of his gut.
“Thank you, for this.” Harry breathes. The disappointment on Draco’s face is devastating. All he’s ever longed for was this very moment , and he’s fucked it. “Goodnight.”
February 16th
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March 1st
Hermione shakes her head, lowering the muggle camera as Harry and Ron blink heavily from the flash. “You two look ridiculous, you know that.”
“Jealous you’re not us!” Ron grins, calling out over the booming music and high-fiving Harry without even looking. They turn to face each other, proud of the effort they’ve put into their costumes for Ron’s birthday bash. The costumes in question being a rasher of bacon, and a fried egg.
The kitchen is packed with all of their friends. Conversation is jovial, drinks are flowing, and Harry’s almost too lost in the middle of a game of peer pong when he looks up to see Draco fucking Malfoy lingering by the kitchen door.
He shakes Ron’s arm aggressively, “Why is Draco here?”
Ron throws a handful of pumpkin puffs into his mouth with a shrug, “Think he was taggin’ along with Zabini.”
“But I haven’t spoken to him since I freaked out on our date!” Harry grits his teeth, angling himself behind Ron in an attempt to be kept out of Draco’s line of sight. “And now he’s here! And I’m dressed as a sodding egg!”
“No need to get scrambled over it,” Ron’s mouth curls, suppressing the need to explode, and it’s a miracle he’s not melting from Harry’s glare.
“He’s coming over… he’s coming over … oh god… my mouth’s gone dry—”
“Here,” Ron passes him a glass of water, and Harry necks the whole thing in one gulp, the so-called water singes his oesophagus, and he chokes.
He clutches his throat and rasps, “ What was that?!”
“Pure tequila, mate.” Ron shakes his head pitifully.
“Merlinfuck—Draco! Hi—” Harry splutters some more, eyes streaming. Ron presses his lips, offers somewhat of a supportive back slap, and slips away.
Draco’s attempt at a costume comes in the form a snake, with metallic scale-like glitter over his cheeks and across his eyes, and his hair is slicked back—not the dreadful gel disaster he used to sport aged eleven, but a casual scraped back look, like he’s just stepped out of the shower and run his hands through his hair.
When Harry’s eyes aren’t burning, he can’t help roving them over the tight leather trousers and the sheer, black shirt where his rosebud nipples are absolutely visible through the fabric. Clearly, Malfoy got the memo about costumes, and did not get the memo that they were supposed to be as unflattering as possible.
“You look cracking .” Draco flashes a smirk, visibly checking Harry out, which Harry would normally be extremely esteemed by if he weren’t dressed as an egg.
His mouth’s tingling too much to form words, thank god, because the tequila's seeping into all the wrong places and Harry definitely has something to say about those nipples.
“Can we talk?”
Blinking a few times, Harry finally nods, and finds his feet stumbling in the trail of Draco, who weaves across the crowded kitchen and into the pantry, closing the door behind him. Harry backs up against the shelves, knocking a handful of limes onto the floor. Only a sliver of light through the crack in the door casts over Draco’s left side, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones, the glitter shimmers.
There’s nowhere to run now. No self-help book. No quick Google search.
“Well?” Draco says, “Say what you need to say.” Harry’s mouth hangs open, with no resolution, so Draco goes on, “Weeks of flirting, dates, taking the time to pick out books just for you.” Harry’s chest flutters at the gesture. “All I get is a kiss diverted to the cheek and no owl from you for two weeks afterwards?”
“I can explain…” Harry utters, “But, perhaps we can discuss this when I’m not… when I don’t look like…” he gestures down at the vastness of egg that encompasses his skinny frame.
“Yes, you’re a sodding egg. It’s ghastly. Moving on.”
“Fine. I freaked out. That’s it. You were right, I am a hopeless romantic, and a total disaster.” He pinches his brow, trying to look anywhere other than Draco’s piercing gaze, but the shelves of the pantry are practically squeezing them on top of each other, and he’s certain the room is shrinking. “You’re intelligent, and quick-witted. You speak French, you read novels, you drink fine wine and wear tailored clothes—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”
“You think I care about any of those things?”
Draco swoops in, forceful enough to have Harry leaning back into the shelves where boxes and jars topple over, gentle enough for him to feel the tentative pad of Draco’s fingers against his nape, the other cradling the side of his face.
“Wait,” Harry utters, Draco’s lips hover a whisper away, so close that Harry can feel the soft exhale against his cupid’s bow and the tip of Draco’s pointed nose brushing against his own. Half-lidded, his lashes flit from the stroke of Draco’s hand cupping him. “Can we wait?”
“I’m… going to murder you if you leave me hanging any longer, Potter.”
“I want this too, so badly,” barely a voice left, low and raspy, “But not here. Not inside Ron’s mouldy pantry.”
He feels Draco’s defeat right to his ribs, aches with the need to be rash, to let himself completely fall apart, in fact, he’s certain he’s going to completely unravel right this second if Draco lingers any longer.
Draco looks at him through the strands of fallen blond hair and strokes his thumb over Harry’s lips, a twitch of longing resonates from his hesitance and the way he lingers there, just a glimpse of what he craves parallel to Harry’s own desperation.
“You’d better be worth the wait, Potter.”
March 5th
It is so worth the wait.
It starts just before sunset, when Harry hears the keys turn in the door of Fanciful Folklore as he makes way down the street, before a hand slips into his pocket, fingers finding their home in the spaces between his own.
It leads them on the winding paths out from the bustling streets, where cobblestones blur into country lanes dusted pink with fallen cherry blossom, snowdrops and daffodils rising from slumber at their side.
It’s the whisper of “Harry” that turns his skin to goose flesh, has his words lodged somewhere in the back of his throat. A gaze that wanders to Harry’s parted lips, and the squeeze of a hand with no intention of letting go.
It’s looking out ahead at the lilac fields and the twinkle of lights from the villages yet to sleep. Silhouettes of trees bowing in the twilight breeze, a sky washed with coral and indigo, framing the ghostly porcelain of Draco, who takes a step or two before he’s right there, his hands snaking around Harry’s waist.
They rove over Harry’s body, into his hair, cupping his jaw. Harry let’s out a shuddering breath as they fall into each other, a soft caress of lips that nudge with hesitancy before it’s open-mouthed and starved and claiming something that should have been theirs long, long ago.
It’s the way time stops. It’s the certainty that nothing has, or ever will, compare to the urgency of needing one another like this. It’s the reassurance that this is wholly theirs, to hold onto for a lifetime. Eyes pricked with tears and exhales of ‘Draco’ that keep Harry from losing himself entirely.
Blossom floats in the air around them, and the sun slowly sets.
March 12th
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March 14th
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March 15th
Harry lies draped against the back of the sofa with Draco’s thighs wrapped around his waist, feeling the heated press of Draco’s mouth claiming his neck, jawline, earlobe.
This should feel incredible—it does feel incredible, he’s stiff as a board and drunk on the feeling entirely, so much so that he’s staring out at the wall ahead, unfocused eyes that are wide and almost concerning.
Draco must sense this too, because he sits up, flinging his hair in the process. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, no—this is good. So good.”
“You look as though you’re about to keel over.”
“I… have no idea what I’m doing. I tried to google search all of this stuff before we did it, knowing that it was going to happen, but i didn’t get a chance to, and now I have no clue—”
“You tried to research how to kiss me?”
Harry nods, feverishly. “Make-out tips… things to do and things not to do. But now we’re just doing it, and I know that I’m doing all of the not-to-do’s and I’m not doing any of the do do’s and… I’m just scared that if I don’t do any of the do’s then you’ll think I’m terrible at this…”
Draco’s jaw hangs. The clock behind them ticks loudly in the silence as he catches his breath.
Draco looks bewildered, until he erupts with laughter. “What the fuck are you waffling on about? Shut up and kiss me already you utter fool.”
April 1st
paella recipes
soft jazz ambient music
are bow ties fashionable?
April 2nd
A pair of derby shoes sit neatly at the front door next to tattered, red converse.
Two half-empty wine glasses sit atop the kitchen island between the toppled over box of paella rice, which has spilled out across the worktop, and a strewn aside Cannons t-shirt, crumpled in the haste it took to remove. And the buttons, so many buttons, that have landed in every conceivable place.
Somewhere between the doorway is a pair of trousers in a heap, a belt curled over the side of the armchair, too, not even three steps away.
The framed painting on the wall hangs askew, along with the sofa cushions that have been tossed aside and which now lay strewn across the living room floor.
There’s a snitch-print sock draping in the plant pot, another resting on the pouffe, and a black one clinging onto the edge of the wall lamp.
At the foot of the door lies a second pair of trousers in a perfect heap on the floor, as if pushed down with precision, the two foot holes unbothered by the legs that stepped out of them.
Above it, still swinging from the door handle on which it landed, a pair of black boxers.
A tapestry that trails towards the bedroom door.
April 3rd
“For Merlin’s sake! How did you manage that this time?” Hermione sighs.
She’s busy blasting the paella pan repeatedly with a scourgify charm to little prevail. It’s burnt to a crisp, along with the charred dishcloths and the scorch marks up the tiles.
Harry watches her, hiding behind his mug of tea.
“You’re banned from cooking in this kitchen. Understand? You’re going to burn the whole place down!”
Before he can answer, Draco emerges at the kitchen doorway with nothing but a half-buttoned baggy shirt, barely grazing the tops of his thighs. He slumps against the doorframe, fingers dragging through his hair despite it all falling back over his forehead anyway.
His cheeks flush a little pink, a shade or two lighter than the marks on his neck.
“Morning, all.”
May 2nd
what the actual fuck is a slippery nipple
“These drink names are getting ridiculous.” Harry mumbles, content with his virgin daiquiri and the little strawberry slice on the side of the glass.
“Dunno, but your boyfriend seems to like them.” Ron smirks, nodding over at Parkinson holding out a tray of with everyone swarming over to her like a flock of pigeons. Draco necks two back-to-back, then hits a perfect shot on the pool table.
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re dating… casually…” Harry says, hoping the glare from his phone screen will hide his glowing cheeks.
How to play pool
What are the rules for pool as a beginner
Ron just huffs, “Of course not.”
Somewhere between the endless rounds, the obnoxious chatter and the frequent, teasing glances, Parkinson raises the stakes for another round of ‘Call the Shots’ .
“If I sink this shot,” she says with a broad red-lipped smile, “Draco has to snog Potter!”
“Yup,” Ron snorts, “He’s your boyfriend now.”
“Oh god,” Harry slides down his chair, face aflame, “What are we, thirteen years old?”
Their cheers and whoops drown him out, and within a split second, the shot is made, sinking into the net, and Draco saunters over with not a care in the world for the audience that watches him.
He flashes a smile that would make Harry sink to his knees if he weren’t already seated.
“Pucker up, Potter.”
May 25th
birthday gift ideas for my boyfriend
birthday gift ideas for my gay boyfriend
birthday gift ideas for my gay boyfriend who is impossible to buy for
May 27th
www.booktracker.com > milestone! Five books read
One regular tea. One skinny, extra shot, hazelnut cappuccino with chocolate dusting. And a toasted cinnamon bun, for extra brownie points.
It’s the second time that Harry has made that order today. The first ended up all down the front of his shirt. Turns out apparating whilst holding hot drinks doesn’t end well.
So he went back, reordered, and walked the journey instead.
“Did you get my order right this time?” Draco asks, planting a kiss on Harry’s hand before slipping the paper cup from it.
Flustered by the subtle affection, Harry falters, then clears his throat. “No idea.”
Draco hums, and takes a sip. “I’m hosting the book club in fifteen minutes, want to join?” He peers inside the brown paper bag, his eyes brightening at the sight of the treat.
“Depends, are we discussing toned men in tight bathing shorts railing each other?”
“Close. It’s a tragic, modern retelling of A Midnight Summer’s Dream. ”
“I’ll pass.” Harry says, scrunching up his face, “When you’re all done here, come to mine. I’ll have a glass of wine and some dinner waiting for you, I’m thinking of tackling quesadillas tonight.”
“Granger says you’re not allowed to cook unattended anymore.” Draco says, without even looking up from the book he’s flicking through. “I agree with her.”
Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, tucking Draco’s latest book recommendation under his arm as he goes.
June 2nd
rainbow glitter eyeshadow
safe spaces at pride
pride for introverts
June 5th
florists near me
www.naughtyandspice.com/giftsforhim/sextoys
gift wrapping tutorial
June 6th
www.bowtrucklebento.co.uk
how do you use chopsticks?
When Harry’s eyes flit open again, he’s not certain how long he’s been out for.
It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes. The show on the TV has only progressed by a few scenes, and the dappled sunlight dipping out of sight is slowly draining the house of its vibrancy. The curtains nudged gently by the breeze of the open window. Harry still hasn’t quite adjusted to how light the evenings are now.
He would get up from the sofa to close the window if he could, but there’s a very warm, very content Draco wrapped around his body, blissed-out and softly sleeping after having ridden Harry’s cock for the last twenty minutes.
Harry tries to subtly reach for his wand instead, but it’s just out of his grasp on the coffee table next to the half-eaten takeaway containers and the discarded wrapping paper. His stomach growls in need of the last gyoza.
Slumping back against the cushion, his hands slope over the curves of Draco’s sweaty, naked body under the blanket. He settles on Draco’s hip, fingers stroking lazily in circles, and every few seconds, Draco’s soft exhales, deep and even, tickle the hairs on his chest.
He plants a kiss atop the crown of blond, and Draco stirs.
“Harry,” his voice is low, hoarse. He hums softly at the press of lips against him.
“Fucked you into a coma?” Harry asks, and he can feel Draco smiling too from the way his cheek grows rounder. “Would the birthday boy like another ride?”
Draco tilts to look up at Harry, eyes closing gently with the stroke of Harry’s thumb caressing his flushed cheek.
“Do you even have to ask?”
June 7th
Sleep is yet to greet him, and he can see the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains of their bedroom where Draco drifted off to just after midnight, guiding Harry in his tow.
Because wherever Draco goes, Harry follows.
June 9th
local dog adoption
national strawberry rhubarb pie day
mlm book recommendations
He sits his chin atop the rim of his glass, fighting the urge to yawn whilst the jovial conversation of their friends rallies across him at the round table.
Every few minutes, he’ll glance across to Draco, see the look on his face that is simply dying to escape back to the sanctity of a bedroom—either one is fine, and the tug of his mouth that Harry knows is saying “you’re too old for this shit too, aren’t you?”
June 14th
Draco’s plush, warm thighs straddle him. The swan-like curves of his back resting under Harry’s fingertips, and their hips roll in gentle rhythm as he pushes the unbuttoned shirt over Draco’s shoulders and trails kisses along the bow of his collarbone.
It hangs at his elbows, then drapes to the floor, and Harry’s hands smooth over the skin, recognising the dimples in the small of his back and the crease of his arse, which he nestles a thumb into, grasping for purchase in the plump handfuls of those cheeks that bounce softly around his cock.
“Harry,” Draco whispers against his skin. Shudders. Forgets how to breathe. “Harry, please… please… ”
June 22nd
Every time he thinks he can’t possibly muster another orgasm, Draco proves him wrong.
The entirety of June seems to go by in a blur of heated kisses, and eyes rolling back, and slickness of skin on skin, heated goose flesh that’s mapped with bruises of affection.
June 28th
what does falling in love feel like?
places to get keys cut near me
July 5th
Draco stares at him, with a potted plant in each hand and an expression of pure distress. “Well? Spathiphyllum or sansevieria?”
Hesitant at first, Harry peers around the greenhouse outlet, uncertain on how they even arrived here, then clocks that Draco is, in fact, asking him an actual question.
“Neither.” Harry says. “I say this with all the kindness in my heart, Draco. You absolutely do not need another houseplant.”
“It’s not for my house,” Draco’s face brightens, “It’s for yours.”
How to care for a spafifillim
How to care for a spathiffylim
How to care for spathefullym
List of houseplant names with pictures
July 8th
It feels endless, those summer evenings where the sun takes an age to dip behind the hills before it cradles the Burrow in firelight and dancing shadows, the scent of fresh cut straw from the edging fields and the last of the smoke drifting from the muggle barbeque.
Fireflies dance around them. Draco nuzzles against his neck, Harry’s stretched-out cardigan wrapped around both of them to shield from the bite of evening air, and the smell of Molly’s strawberry tartlets cling to Draco’s lips, cider too. He can smell it everytime Draco laughs at Arthur’s jokes, or when he turns into Harry for whisperings of reassurance.
July 12th
Late on Tuesday morning, a post-it note appears on the fridge.
don’t forget your appointment at 2pm today!!!
i’ll bring home fish & chips later, as long as you provide dessert
draco x x x
July 15th
do you need to watch the hobbit before watching lord of the rings
how long is lord of the rings
www.acciopizzaco.co.uk
imdb.com > orlando bloom
orlando bloom
legolas
fanfiction.net
July 19th
“You… have dimples,” Harry says, almost a whisper, and his parted lips tug sleepily. He knows this already, of course. Noticed it the first time he ever caught a glimpse of Draco’s smile. But he still reminds Draco of their existence. “Perfect dimples,” he mouths.
Draco’s head tilts weary-eyed and quiet on the other side of the pillow. The delicate caress of his knuckle brushes the bridge of Harry’s nose. He hums. “As are your freckles.” His lips meet Harry’s somewhere in the middle. “Like the constellations of you.”
July 31st
Torn-apart wrapping paper litters the bedroom floor, and the scent of carrot cake with cinnamon buttercream lingers in the air, and on his lips. He sits up on his elbows, and grins down at the utter state of Draco that emerges from underneath the covers, between his thighs; swollen lips, hair in disarray and dark eyes.
Without a word, he trails kisses up Harry’s torso, then rests his head against the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest.
“How was that?”
Breathless, wordless, all Harry can muster is a laugh as he collapses onto the pillow and strokes Draco’s hair.
“I need to give you your last gift now,” Draco crawls off and throws a dressing gown on. “It’s waiting for you in the kitchen under a silencio charm.”
Harry perks up. “What? Main gift? Silencio charm? Draco?” But Draco scurries off before he can say any more. “Draco? Why would you need to—Draco?”
A muffled voice reappears moments later from behind the door. “Close your eyes!”
“Why?”
“Just do it!”
“Fine!” Harry scrunches his face up, slides his hands over his eyes for extra measure, heart hammering against his ribcage.
“Closed?”
“Yes! Just bloody get in here!”
After an unbearable silence, the door creaks. He hears footsteps pad on the rug and stop at the side of the bed, before the mattress bows under the weight.
“Okay,” Draco exhales. Even with his eyes closed, Harry can tell he’s grinning. “Open them.”
Harry does. He blinks a few times, then a few times more, because what he’s seeing in front of him can’t possibly be there.
A puppy. A dark haired retriever, to be exact. Curled up in Draco’s arms, fast asleep.
“Is that…”
“I saw this little guy down at the shelter. He’d been dropped off as a pup and given to abusive owners. He was rescued, thank Merlin, but he still has anxiety, and just needs a loving home.”
The dog’s ears flick up, and his glassy, round eyes meet Harry’s with a curious head tilt and a subtle wag of his tail.
“Happy birthday, darling.”
To Harry, birthdays are nothing special. To Draco, they’re everything.
dog names
dog toys
local vets
dog treats
dog parks near me
www.doughnuthut.com > account > claim your free birthday doughnut!
They go for their first dog walk that afternoon, through the fields and down the winding lanes where they shared their first kiss. They take shelter under the willow tree by the duck pond, the heatwave kicking their arses, and the little pup practically dragging Harry off his feet.
Ice cream is a solution— extra toffee sauce and a chocolate wafer for Harry, who’s pulling out the ‘it’s my birthday’ card at every opportunity he can get.
And refuge comes shortly after arriving back home, out on the patio with a punnet of fresh raspberries and a glass of elderflower spritz, made from the sprigs Draco collected on their walk while the little pup chews his hippogriff squeaky toy and lazes out in the afternoon sun.
While scrolling through the 489 new photos on his phone, it pings in his hand, and it occurs to him that he’s yet to respond to any of the messages he’s received.
Neville 🐸:
Happy birthday harry! Hope its a good one, mate!
‘Mione✨:
Sounds lovely. Don’t forget to order those fluxweed roots for the pots, or Lilliana sells them down at the Trowel Shed. Let me know either way. Oh! Happy Birthday! We’ll make it extra special for you, today. Hope you and Draco behave yourselves.
Roonil Wazlib🤡:
HBD u old git. Getting close to 30 LOL. See u 2nite.
U want me to bring flamin hot doritos or cheesy ones?
nvm im bringing both
And all the dips
They converse inside the cosy space of Harry’s flat that evening. Harry curled up in the corner of the sofa, deep in discussion with Ron over the latest Kenmare Kestrels scandal whilst the puppy nuzzles himself into Harry’s side. Occasionally, Harry will peer over the back of the sofa towards the kitchen, where Draco, Pansy and Hermione are busy preparing Harry’s tapas feast.
Like a well-oiled machine, it’s almost entrancing to watch how they move as one, never once bumping into one another. Draco folds pastry and lines the baking trays. Pansy busies herself stirring pots on the stove with her wand whilst Hermione seasons and chops and garnishes. Every so often they join hands and twirl each other around the kitchen island, pulling Draco away for a quick dance before they collapse back at their stations, grinning and singing—terribly.
Theo, Neville and Blaise show up shortly after. Harry’s face aches from laughter. His stomach is on the verge of bursting, and the spread of tapas in little hand-painted ceramic dishes (gifted by Luna) is just asking to be finished. He tipped a dash of gin into his lemonade this evening, just to feel the warmth of it pool through his body, because for once, he wanted to, and it’s his birthday, and why not?
The music drifts on, and even though it’s way past the time Harry would usually be awake, he’s comfortable enough to let his head drop against Draco’s shoulder, to rest his eyes, albeit still smiling widely from the antics of his friends.
The little pup is fast asleep on his lap, he’s cradled in Draco’s embrace, and he’s certain that in this moment, the love he’s been searching for all this time, has just been realised.
August 2nd
how to tell if you’ve fallen in love
what are the different love languages
flower shops near me
August 5th
romantic dinner ideas
coq au vin recipe
how to get sauce off ceiling
wizepedia.com > scourgify not working on food stain
August 9th
hairstyles for men
is growing out a beard hot?
August 12th
how many times is it acceptable to go up for food at an all you can eat buffet?
cannons live score
www.booktracker.com > milestone! 10 books read
August 15th
is it too soon to move in with my boyfriend reddit
how to ask your boyfriend to move in with you
August 18th
anxiety feelings
August 22nd
“Do you ever think about having children?” Draco asks so casually before taking a long, overly-drawn-out sip of his cosmopolitan.
Harry, on the other hand, lowers his virgin daiquiri. “That’s… not the reason you planned this trip, was it?”
Draco chuckles and turns to him, peering over the top of his sunglasses. “Relax, darling. I've already adopted a chaotic, over-excited, needy, codependent companion in my life… and then there's the dog, too—” Harry smacks his arm. “Was simply pondering.”
A long silence sits with them for some time. Harry looks out at the view ahead of gently rolling waves and the water nudging at golden sands. There’s barely another soul around them. Harry is practically glowing under the sunrays, whilst Draco bears resemblance to a prawn, and he knows for sure that he could do with a dozen more of these vacations—just the two of them—before introducing a little one into the picture.
He’s thought about kids for years, painfully aware that he can barely look after himself, let alone another human being. He’d love to be a dad one day. Draco would make a brilliant dad, he’s sure.
“It crosses my mind from time to time,” Harry says, finally. “Do you?”
“Occasionally. Perhaps when I’m thirty.”
“That’s only two years away.”
Draco hums, takes another sip, and closes his eyes. A smile clings to him. “So it is.”
August 30th
“You do realise your suitcase won’t unpack itself,” Draco says, collapsing onto Harry’s bed with the dog nuzzling at his hip.
Harry stands idle in the doorway, dragging a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, about that—
“I mean, the flick of a wand will do it for you anyway. As long as those ghastly lime green swim shorts magic their way over to the bin.”
“Well, you see… the thing is…” Harry stares at him, open mouthed. The words feel stuck in his throat and it shouldn’t be this difficult to spit them out, not when he knows Draco like the back of his hand and he knows deep, deep down that there really isn’t anything to be worrying about, but still, his mouth feels dry and his heart is racing against his ribs. “I was thinking, what if I don’t unpack here?”
Draco’s brow furrows.
“What if… instead of unpacking my suitcase here, I unpack elsewhere…”
Draco looks at him like he’s lost the damn plot. Harry feels like he has, too.
“What if I unpack in a new house… a house where both of us live… together… with all of our belongings, and the dog… just you and me?” He practically squeaks out that last past, and grips the doorframe a little tighter to stop his legs from giving out.
Draco gets to his feet, walks over painstakingly slowly, and takes Harry’s hands in his. “You want us to live together?”
“Well, sort of, I think. Only if you want to, of course. Was just a silly idea really… but we could find our own place, somewhere that doesn’t have noisy neighbours and creaky floorboards and peeling paint… somewhere much nicer… with the huge garden and a guest room and a library, and so I just thought… maybe it would be nice to—”
He’s cut off with a kiss so fierce it almost knocks him backwards, but Draco’s arms swoop around his waist as he picks Harry up, pins him against the wall, and kisses him so deeply that it answers the question for him.
September 4th
It doesn’t take very long at all. Not with wand work doing all of the heavy lifting and packing. Draco bases himself in the kitchen, insisting that he should be the one to handle the glassware and fine china. Hermione takes care of the books, a pile that Harry assumed was small until he realised his collection of steamy romance novels had grown significantly over the last six months.
Ron blasts Foo Fighters from the small speaker—the only thing still plugged into any of the outlets, and between lyrics he cracks jokes or does guitar riffs whilst chasing the tape over the box and ripping it to shreds.
Harry can’t find it in him to sing along, though. There’s a sadness clinging to him as he watches years of his life cram into boxes, the spaces of his home slowly stripped bare. And he manages to keep it quiet for most of the day, until Ron and Hermione say their goodbyes anyway.
“You’re not okay, are you?” Draco says, placing two cups of tea down on the kitchen island next to Harry. He pushes himself up onto the counter, legs swinging below, and presses his lips to Harry’s temple.
“I’ve been in this crappy flat for ten years. I know I’ve always had the money to buy something nicer, but I crashed here straight after leaving school and it’s the first place to become my home, you know?”
Draco nods against him, lacing his fingers between Harry’s.
“I had a water balloon fight with Ron during my first four summers living here. It became a tradition of ours, every time there was a heatwave. Thank Merlin for drying spells. Then there was the time I hosted the Quidditch world cup watch party, and the Christmas where I spelled my table to twice its size to accommodate all of the Weasley’s, but it malfunctioned half-way through dinner and shrunk. Everyone’s dinner ended up on their laps. I was mortified at the time, but we all laughed.”
“Your wand work has gotten a little rusty over the years.” Draco jests.
“The first time we had sex was in that room,” Harry reminds him fondly, “And the first time I made you breakfast in bed.”
“Where half of it ended up over the floor.”
Harry tries to smile at that, but it fades just as fast. Burying his face against Draco’s shoulder, he lets the weight of it wash over him. Change is something he’s never gotten used to with ease, but with Draco at his side, it's not as scary as it once was.
“Your memories will follow you wherever you go,” Draco says, pulling Harry into him. “We’ll make plenty more.”
September 6th
knockturn marketplace > sell your unwanted goods
What is le creuset?
Why is le creuset special?
September 8th
Cooking for beginners
Easy romantic dinners to make
September 10th
The door to Fanciful Folklore jingles at Harry’s arrival. He waits by the desk for Draco to finish up with a customer, perusing the newest romance novels to make it onto this week's shelf. By the time Draco gets to him, he’s already got three paperbacks in a pile in front of him.
The Begging Game reviews no spoilers
Spicyreviews.net shows him five chilis, and immediately Harry adds it to his collection.
Draco weaves around the desk, and looks down at the ever-growing pile. “You know, if you’re that horny all you have to do is tell me. I can fulfil your needs far greater than words.”
“These books fill my time when you’re not home.”
“I see, and I fill you for the rest of it?” Draco’s brow quirks up, he bites his lip too, and Harry can almost feel Draco’s gaze roving over his body, from his twitching cock to his blazing cheeks.
He clears his throat and offers a mortified smile to the old lady glaring at both of them over the rims over her enormous, bug-eyed spectacles.
“I’ll be going now then.” Harry says, swiping the books and turning on his heel, Draco’s laughter carrying him all the way to the door.
September 12th
www.acciopizzaco.com > claim your 10th pizza for free
healthy eating recipes
September 15th
The click of the front door wakes Harry. It’s still dark in the house, heavy shadows lay across the lounge as the lamp by the bookshelf is the only one left on. He’s curled up under a blanket on the sofa, and groggily rubs his eyes as he drifts into the hallway.
Draco’s keys clatter into the bowl by the door.
“It’s half-past ten.” Harry mutters, slumping against the doorway that leads into the kitchen.
Draco exhales harshly, throws a hand back through his hair. “The literature evening ran over schedule. Then Pansy grabbed me for a couple of drinks. That’s all.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Harry crosses his arms. “That’s the third time this week you’ve missed dinner.”
Draco doesn’t have the energy to glare. His head drops back with exhaustion. It’s clear he’s biting his tongue. “It’s September, Harry. The shop is heaving with new students in need of academic resources. The book club always picks up after the summer, and I’ve just started running the classic literature course after closing hours too. Forgive me for wanting to wind down with a friend and a drink.”
“You didn’t want to do that with me?” Harry bites. He’s not even sure why he’s snapping like this. He’s tired, and agitated and lonely. On top of that, he has no idea what half of these damn books are that Draco goes on about, and can’t stand this sting of insecurity that reminds him how out of his depth he is here.
He can feel the bitterness crawling off his tongue, doesn't even want it there, but can’t stop it. It’s pointless, and useless and he’s too tired and he’s let the negative thoughts win tonight, at a cost.
“I’m going to bed.” Draco says, barging past Harry before slamming the door shut.
is it healthy to go to bed during an argument
feeling insecure
scared of losing my boyfriend
September 16th
flower shops near me
classic novels for beginner readers
how to communicate properly with partner
At 10:03am, on the small, albeit orderly desk in Fanciful Folklore sits a skinny, extra shot, hazelnut cappuccino with chocolate dusting in the decorative paper cup, underneath a warming charm. Beside it, a cinnamon bun in a brown paper bag with a post it note with untidy handwriting that reads
Do you have a book on how to make it up to your boyfriend after acting like a complete dickhead? H x
September 17th
He stirs at the shifting of bedsprings under his weight, then feels himself being guided, slowly, into Draco’s arms whilst sleep continues to claim him. The press of Draco's lips meet his skin, emitting a warmth through his body that for days he has longed to reclaim.
He says nothing, and neither does Draco. Words aren't needed. Residing in Draco's arms is enough.
September 20th
“Are you going to get bored of me one day?”
The question comes out of nowhere, and it hangs in the air. He regrets it as soon as he says it, in fear that the wound they’ve just healed will be opened once more. Even after Harry asks it, he wonders if Draco’s actually heard him, because neither of them move. His cheek lies against Draco’s chest. He can hear the gentle thrum of his heart, and in fear of the response, he nestles in closer.
“Why on earth would you ask that?” Draco finally says.
Slowly, Harry peels himself away and sits up, barely meeting the puzzlement on Draco’s face from under his lashes. “I dunno. I’m just being stupid, as per usual.”
“No, Harry—” Two fingers pad under Harry’s chin, meeting his eyes. “Do you truly feel that one day I’m just going to up and leave you?”
Harry looks down at his lap, at the floor, anywhere that isn’t the pain he’s inflicted so suddenly showing on Draco’s face. His brow knits, and he scrunches his face up as if it’ll make it any easier to align the mess of thoughts he’s swimming in.
“You’re academic, Draco,” he stutters out, piecing it all together as he speaks. “You’re an excellent cook, you dress impeccably, and you’re a gifted reader, I mean, for every one book I finish, you’ve completed five.” His throat feels tight, chest impossibly heavy. “You listen to classical music and go to poetry readings. You can name all the flowers in our garden and all the stars in the sky. And what can I do? What do I have to show for myself other than being the sodding Chosen One. I have nothing to give you other than myself, and… it’s not enough.”
It appears to take a moment for Draco to register it all, and when Harry’s finished his speech, his mouth is left feeling like sawdust, and the room feels as though it’s swaying.
“You’re right,” Draco says, looking defeated. Harry’s heart slams. “You are stupid.”
Uncertain on what to say, Harry just nods.
“Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I don’t want to date someone who’s exactly like me? Yes, I may have a taste for fine dining, but you're a master at making chilli cheese toasties and hot butterscotch with cream. It’s my favourite thing to have on a cold, rainy day and always makes me think of you.”
Harry scoffs, and shakes his head.
“I’ve adored watching you fall in love with reading, regardless of genre. I see the way your eyes light up at the end of chapters, or how you fall asleep with the book open on your chest. Merlin, the little gasps you do when you’re engrossed just sing to my heart. I know the feeling all too well.” He takes Harry’s hands in his own, and shifts closer. “I love making a complete fool of myself with you. Like when we dance around the house dreadfully to 80’s rock, or when I overdo it on the merlot at The Slither Inn and absolutely butcher Careless Whisper," he grins at the memory. It pulls a smile from Harry too. "But then I see you grinning in the crowd and singing along and I know I don’t give two tosses about who’s laughing at me, because you’re having the time of your life.”
"I am a better singer than you, that's for sure." Harry nods.
Draco plants a kiss on Harry's forehead, and strokes the hair from his eyes. “I hate that I love binge watching Real Housewives of Hogsmeade together, or that you’re continuously trying to convince me that you watch that shitty lifeguard programme for the plot and not the toned, tanned men in the ridiculous beach shorts.”
“I’m interested in… lifeguarding...” Harry mutters, not even convincing himself. He buries himself into Draco’s side now, the reassurance from Draco’s words resting easier on his mind.
“Never change, Harry Potter. You’re hopeless.”
September 29th
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Draco appears, slumped against the frame of the bathroom door. His arched brow indicates the usual - either total judgement, or an oncoming eye roll.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry says, looking at him through the reflection of the mirror. “You’ve grown fond of my beard.”
It’s clear from the tug on Draco’s mouth that he’s fully on board with the flourishing of hair around Harry’s jawline. Of course, Draco will never admit it, despite the increase in lingering, doe-eyed stares on Draco’s part since it’s arrival.
Draco peels away from the doorframe, the inevitable eye roll makes its appearance, a head shake too as Harry calls out after him, “It’s okay to be jealous! I know I’m hot as fuck!”
October 4th
“We’ve received an owl,” Harry says.
“I can see that.”
“It’s from your parents.”
“Ah.” Draco smiles. “That explains the lack of colour in your face.”
October 5th
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October 6th
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October 7th
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October 8th
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October 9th
“Well, it’s wonderful that you two have found one another. I do hope you’re staying safe,” Narcissa says.
Harry almost chokes on the unbearably strong wine he’s sipping, then, swallowed by the silence, nods hastily. “Oh yes, of course we are. Absolutely. All the time. You know, um—condoms and, er… intimacy spells and such.”
Lucius’ fork clatters against the china plates. His stare burns into Harry’s skull. Narcissa appears flustered.
Draco slowly turns to him, eyes wide, his already pale complexion now sheet white. His lips barely move as he whispers, “Harry… Mother was referring to us being queer… keeping safe from those with malicious judgement.”
This is it. This is how Harry dies. Mortified himself to death by his own stupidity. How else would he go? Possibly Lucius’ glare that he’s convinced will melt his face off like that bloke from the Raiders of the Lost Ark film they watched a few nights ago.
He’d very much like to simply expire now. The only saving grace is the momentary flicker of amusement that flashes over Narcissa’s face before she attempts to cover up by sipping her wine. Draco must see it too, because he drops his chin to his chest but he’s biting his lip to stop from laughing.
“Can we just… Obliviate this conversation, please?” Harry stutters. “Or, just… Obliviate me from existence. Either one will work fine.”
October 10th
“They’ll be laughing about it by now!”
“Your father will be plotting my murder.” Harry’s muffled voice comes from deep within the pillow he’s buried into.
“Harry, they know that you make me happy, and that’s all that matters.”
“They know I’m railing their son!” Harry whines, slumping straight back into the pillow face first, and Draco laughs so hard he clutches his chest and almost falls off the bed.
October 21st
It was inevitable really, getting caught out in the downpour during his Quidditch friendly with the boys, then insisting on snogging Draco in the rain right afterwards. He is a hopeless romantic, after all.
Unfortunately, it sends him into the week with a stinking cold. But in Harry’s mind, the kiss was worth it.
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Draco brings him a lemon tea, and counjours a fresh box of tissues too. “After work I’ll head straight to the apothecary for dittany drops. There’s soup in the fridge and I’ve gathered some more herbs from the garden to make a fresh batch tonight.”
“I’m fine,” Harry says, though it comes out nasally. He puts his phone down, cosies into the corner of the sofa, pulling the blanket to his neck and flicks through the channels on the television. “It’ll pass. It’s just a cold.”
October 23rd
“I’m dying, Harry.”
Anyone would think that Draco is perishing from the plague given the way he lies draped into the bedsheets, the back of his hand on his forehead as he sniffles and splutters relentlessly. Every two minutes, he rings the little bell that he brought home from the bookstore front desk, in need of ointment, or lozenges, or a glass of water before he ‘withers up and dies from dehydration’.
“It’s a cold,” Harry says.
“This is highly inconvenient, and not a good look for me at all.” Draco tugs the duvet up over his face, then reemerges moments later. “Please, cast a warming charm over me. My hands are too frail.”
Met with the heftiest sigh he can manage, Harry reluctantly casts the charm and watches as Draco settles into the warmth. For a moment, there’s peace, and even a rare smile on his face. But it fades just as fast, and so does Harry’s patience.
“I’m too hot now.”
“How about I knock you out instead? Then you won’t feel anything!” Harry grits, hanging by his last thread.
“Please…” Draco whimpers, “Be gentle with me… I’m poorly.”
October 27th
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November 2nd
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Harry sets the laptop up on the kitchen island and climbs onto the stool. The screen buffers for a moment, the miniature owl rolling in circles as it searches for a connection before Draco’s face appears in the small rectangular window, grinning the moment they meet.
“Hi, love. Finally managed to get this bastard thing working then?” Draco says. His voice crackles slightly through the speakers, and he’s far more pixelated than when he’s here, but it doesn’t phase Harry. Draco is only fourteen hours into his five day literature retreat in Amsterdam with Pansy and Hermione, and Harry’s already missing him far too much to care.
“This stupid laptop is ancient,” Harry sighs, fussing with his glasses in the webcam now that his tired face has appeared just beneath Draco’s. “How was the first day?”
“Wonderful. We visited a handful of antiquarian booksellers then went to a reading at the Rijksmuseum. The girls are getting freshened up for dinner now.”
“Sounds like you had a brilliant first day,” Harry says, resting his chin in his hands. He smiles longingly at his boyfriend on the screen, but his chest twinges with irrational jealousy, wishing he could share the same interests and involve himself in exciting trips. But he’s truly happy for Draco, and his friends, and simply counts down the days until he’s back here in his arms.
November 3rd
The webpage does its usual owl hoot as the connection is made, and Draco appears.
“Hey, you,” Draco says.
The sound of his voice comforts Harry in a heartbeat, and his smile fills his face. “Hi. I miss you. How was your day?”
“I miss you too. It was very pleasant, but I won’t bore you with all the artsy, literary bollocks — as you like to call it.”
Ron appears at Harry’s side, nudging into view on the small screen. “Thank Merlin for that.”
“Ah, I see your other boyfriend has replaced me during my absence,” Draco says.
“Too right!” Ron calls out, with a mouth full of pizza.
Harry grimaces teasingly. “Ron brings takeout and doesn’t ask me a million questions during the Cannons game, so… I think you’ve got a bit of competition here, love.”
Draco smirks. “Yes, but does Weasley fuck you like I do?”
Harry howls with laughter, and Ron sprays his beer over the coffee table before spluttering, “I bloody hope not!”
November 4th
(1) Ferret 8:49am: morning love. I wish you were here with me, it’s lovely here. Perhaps we can plan a city break in the new year, just the two of us.
-> Harry 8:52am: morning. I hate waking up alone in this bed. Please come home soon! I miss you in more ways than one ;)
(1) Ferret 8:58am: Is that so? Perhaps you can show me how much you miss me…
He drifts off to sleep on the sofa that evening, but wakes an hour later to the hooting sound of an incoming video call.
“Tired?” Draco asks. He must be in bed this time because the headboard and pillows are behind him, and the lighting looks dimmer than usual.
Harry rubs his eyes and slides his glasses back on. He nods, and lowers the brightness on the screen. “Long day.”
Draco hums, it’s quiet for a while. A comfortable silence. “Wish I was there to rub your feet and play with your hair, and… other things.”
“Do continue…”
Instead of answering, Draco’s teeth graze over his lip, and even on a tiny screen Harry can see the rise and fall of his bare chest, and the slow movement of his arm travelling down beneath the cut off of the camera.
Harry hitches a breath, now fully awake. Draco’s neck arches backwards, reminding Harry just how desperate he is to drag his tongue along that smooth flesh, to nip at Draco’s earlobe and whisper sweet filth until he’s begging.
Though his hand is offscreen, the subtle up and down of Draco’s arm doesn’t leave much up to the imagination. He softly mewls, breathy little exhales that send heat shooting straight to Harry’s cock, and it would be rude not to indulge in this show that Draco’s giving him, so naturally Harry’s hand dives straight under the waistband of his pyjamas, fingers curling around his leaking cock.
“Ngh—Draco—”
“That’s it, baby. Are you thinking of me?”
“Uh-huh.” Harry pants heavily, torn between taking in the sight of Draco chasing orgasm, and closing his eyes to fall deep into his memories of those very moments under his fingertips. “Thinking of your hands on me.”
“My hands?” A drunken smile blooms over Draco’s face. “Imagine me stroking your cock, sliding it into my mouth. Let it hit the back of my throat. Fill me, darling. All of you inside of me. Your tongue, your fingers, your cock.”
“I want that—” Harry pants, he’s close. “I want it. Please—please—”
“Soon, my love. Soon.”
November 5th
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A blanket drapes over Harry’s legs as he curls up on the sofa, the dog sleeping at his hip. He cast charms around the house to stop the fireworks from scaring him, then tucks into the last of the kadhai paneer that was leftover in the fridge whilst dozing off to reruns of Grand Designs.
By now, he’s familiar with the owl hoot, and he manages to perk up just enough to open his laptop screen and accept the call.
All he can muster is a one-fingered wave at the screen.
“Why are you still up?”
“Was hoping you would call,” Harry says. “Didn’t want to disturb your evening.”
Draco drags a hand back through his hair. He looks tired, too. He must’ve been reading because he’s also wearing his glasses, the round-rimmed ones that Harry adores. Quite frankly — in Harry’s opinion — Draco doesn’t wear them enough.
“We just got in. Pansy took us to a show after dinner, but I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when I’m home. How was your day?”
“No, I want to hear all about it,” Harry says, mid-yawn. He settles into the cushions and watches dreamily as Draco talks and smiles at the camera. He doesn’t take a word of it in. Too busy thinking about kissing the tip of Draco’s nose and stroking a thumb across his cheek.
Draco carries on nonetheless, his voice a quiet ambiance that lulls Harry into his thoughts as sleep slowly claims him, and while he rests, he’s oblivious to the way Draco looks at him, even when they’re miles apart.
November 18th
Straddling Draco amongst the mound of bedding, Harry leans down, and their lips brush. Draco’s sleepy smile greets him, hands travelling over Harry’s hips, to the small of his back, to his waist.
“Guess what,” Harry whispers. Draco’s head curiously tilts, bird-like. “Tu es beau.”
His face burns as he says it, because he’s probably got it all wrong and looks like a complete idiot, but then, Draco’s eyes light up, and his smile broadens, and Harry’s heart swells.
“You learned French for me?”
Harry nods, and clears his throat. “Oui, and also… um… je t’aime.”
Draco’s smile drops. Tears glaze his eyes. “You love me?” His fingers grace Harry’s warm cheek, and he kisses him, deep and slow, drawing back with their foreheads still touching, the space between their lips enough to whisper, “I love you, too.”
December 1st
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December 4th
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December 6th
Draco locks up the doors to Fanciful Folklore, and takes Harry’s arm as they stride down towards the Diagon Alley Christmas market. The carol singers can be heard even from around the corner, alongside the jingle of their bells and the rich hustle and bustle of shop-goers lining the packed cobblestone streets.
It’s a crisp night, stars visible in the sky too, which Draco points out during their walk, listing names of constellations that go straight over Harry’s head. The scent of mulled wine and spices hang in the air, which has them subconsciously drifting across to the witch ladling it out from wooden barrels into little paper goblets.
They run into Ginny and Pansy inside The Trowel Shed where Harry finds gifts for Molly and Arthur, the girls most likely doing the same, and together they agree to all meet at The Fiddler’s Inn by nine o’clock for a few drinks.
By his third mulled wine, Harry remembers why he hates the feeling of alcohol, heavy-lidded and stumbling over his feet. But Draco pulls him close to his chest and kisses him, promising virgin toffee daiquiris when they reach the pub, and that makes him feel a little bit better.
His cheeks are red-raw, his nose too, and so is Draco’s, and as lovely as the festivities are, he could easily forget about all of it and simply apparate the both of them back to their cosy house where he resides in Draco’s arms. No need for gifts or frivolities; with Draco, it feels like Christmas every day.
December 12th
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December 18th
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December 23rd
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The moment they step outside they realise just how stuffy The Slither Inn really is. The cold bites at their skin, but they’re wrapped up and it’s clear that Draco is toasty from the dozen sherries he’s thrown back.
They stop just outside of the door, well, Draco stumbles out, smiling a little too hard, getting a little too handsy. Not that Harry is complaining at all. And the moment they do, sprigs of mistletoe begin to bloom overhead, weaving intricate blossoms that hang between them.
Draco looks up at it, petal-soft lips parted in quiet wonder. But Harry just looks at him. And maybe it's the romantic gesture of the magical plant, or that they’re riding on the high of a wonderful evening with friends, or simply that it’s Christmas, but Harry snakes a hand around Draco’s back and brings their lips crashing together.
Wet and sloppy at first, with too much teeth and a hint of spice on Draco’s tongue. Draco begins giggling into it, setting Harry off too. A disaster of a kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.
“Merry Christmas, Scarhead.” Draco snorts to himself, pinching Harry’s cheeks. “Subtle as ever, I see.”
December 24th
“We’re so thrilled you could make it,” Narcissa says, guiding Draco and Harry into the parlour room. Harry takes a seat closest to the roaring fire, and eyes up the canapés on the silver trays in front of him. “Here.” She hands Harry a flute of sparkling gold liquid, then leans in and whispers, “Alcohol-free, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.” Harry beams up at her, then downs half of the glass in an attempt to aid his dry mouth.
Draco settles into the space beside him, his hand subtly stroking Harry’s. The gramophone comes to life with the soft croon of Christmas carols. The fir tree by the window is adorned with the finest antique ornaments, and the ceiling is enchanted with falling snow.
“You must bring the dog next time you visit,” Narcissa says. “We’d love to meet him, given that we’re yet to see any grandchildren.”
“Mother! ” Draco grits.
“Relax, Draco. It’s all in jest.” Lucius chimes in with a rare smile. “Besides, I’m sure Harry here has no intention of having children yet, what with all the protection he’s using.”
Narcissa’s vibrant laughter breaks through the room, Lucius’ too, and it takes Harry a moment to register that it is actually funny. It’s okay to laugh. Draco looks like he wants to sink through the floor, but his rosy cheeks look sweet on him, and Harry squeezes his hand a little tighter.
December 25th
The majority of the morning is spent tangled up in the bedsheets together, gifting each other hickeys and orgasms to start the joyous day. Blissed-out and brainless, Harry insists that there is nothing else he could possibly need after that.
Draco disagrees though, and he wanders off to the kitchen, returning shortly afterwards with two plates of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, and a glass of Buck’s Fizz. They eat cross-legged on the bed in their matching reindeer pyjamas whilst the dog is banished to the floor before he gobbles up both plates in one go.
They arrive at Ron’s just before midday. Draco naturally drifts off towards the kitchen, where Hermione is stirring the saucepans, Blaise is chopping vegetables and Luna is adding a questionable selection of her homegrown herbs and spices to the dishes. They laugh too loud and drink too much, apart from Harry, who is very content with his hot butterscotch, and he wonders why his dog has received more gifts from all of his friends than he has.
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When the feast is prepared, Harry doesn’t know where to look. Mismatched serving plates line every inch of the table, filled to the brim with carved meats, roast potatoes, glazed vegetables, stuffing, yorkshire puddings and much more.
It’s dark before they even know it, and Harry makes himself comfortable in the corner seat of the sofa with an old knitted blanket draped over his legs. His stomach is going to burst from how much he’s eaten, he can’t possibly eat another bite. Until Draco plucks a minced pie from the coffee table, and suddenly Harry follows it with his nose from the plate to Draco’s mouth, nipping at the edges of it.
Across from him, Hermione is curled up in the armchair cuddling the sleeping dog and insisting that she’s going to keep him. Pansy is draped over the two-seater with her head in Ginny’s lap, while Ginny strokes her hair and calls out answers to the Hogwarts edition of charades that they’re playing.
Harry lets his eyes rest. He thinks about the long weekend to Vienna that he’s planned for Draco, and how excited Draco was when he found out that was his gift. Well, that, and the After Eights . He thinks about the spicy book trilogy that Draco got him, and how he’s going to read them during cold, rainy January afternoons under a blanket with a steaming cup of tea.
He thinks about Draco, and his friends. The dog too, and their home, and this wonderful little life that they’re building together.
December 28th
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December 31st
The backdoor to The Slither Inn clicks shut behind Harry as he greets the silence and the crisp night air. His breath mists out in front of him, and he clutches his flannel jacket tighter around his chest.
It’s a perfect night to end the year on. Stars embellish the inky velvet sky like tiny jewels, with constellations buried deep within that, thanks to Draco, now remind him of the freckles that map his face. A part of himself that he’s only come to love as of recent months.
The door creaks, bringing the noise from inside with it, and Draco appears. “There you are. It’s almost midnight.”
Harry nods, and turns back to the sky. He’s cradled by an arm around his back, and the press of Draco’s cheek against his.
“Do you remember last year? When we sat on this step and almost…”
Harry huffs a laugh and turns into Draco, just a little, enough to catch the scent of jasmine soap against his neck.
“You were wearing those ghastly blue jeans, but they hugged your arse perfectly so I let it slide.” Draco goes on, peering up at the stars too. “Your glasses kept slipping down your nose from how hot and sweaty it was inside, and I watched you tip your shots into that plastic ficus over by the booths.”
“It tasted like paint stripper.” Harry says. “Still does.”
Draco turns to him, placing his palms on Harry’s front to ensure that his jacket really is covering his body properly. He fusses with the scarf around Harry’s neck, but knits his brow down at it. “Is this… my scarf? The one I lent you?”
Harry’s face brightens, “It suits me, right?”
Draco opens his mouth to respond, but the sudden countdown from inside the bar pulls his attention and a chorus of cheers fills the streets, drowned out by the fireworks that stream far above and shower the sky with ribbons of colour.
Draco looks up in wonder, the explosions of red and green and gold glowing over his face. His features seem softer in this light, lashes framing charcoal eyes that flicker in technicolour.
Harry leans in and kisses him.
The tip of Draco’s nose is ice cold, his cheeks too, brushed with the gentle caress of Harry’s fingers before they settle at his nape, holding on.
A spectacle of colour rains over the night sky, but Harry’s too lost in the taste of cherry spice on Draco’s lips to notice. He takes in the scent of cologne, and the feeling of Draco’s hands cupping his jaw. It feels like a promise, like Draco won’t ever let him go.
January 1st
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