Chapter Text
A knot of tension had settled in the crook of Draco’s neck, but he was too comfortable to risk moving. Exhaling a relaxed sigh, he settled into his reclined position against the warmth at his back.
Wait.
Why was he sleeping sitting up? If he were in his bed, he’d be prone, and there wouldn’t be a light weight draped around his shoulder.
In an effort to reconstruct last night, he circled back to the fragments of his memories. He hadn’t brought a wizard home. Had he? No. He hadn’t even left his flat.
Double wait.
It couldn’t be morning. He’d been up since dawn, having gotten up early—not that he hadn’t already been restless in bed—to help wrangle Violet and Lily, Pansy and Harry’s twin hellions.
Draco stiffened.
He was at the Potters’ home. And there had been one other person babysitting with him.
Ron fucking Weasley.
Draco’s eyes shot open, the midday light filtering through the curtains into the living room at Grimauld Place.
With Hermione on assignment with Theo in Ukraine, and Ginny and Blaise at their Italian villa for a Zabini family get together, he and Weasley became the only option to step in and help out when Harry and Pansy had some business to attend to on Diagon, a task made nearly impossible by the twins.
But Pansy didn’t trust Weasley to watch them alone. And Harry didn’t trust Draco to watch them alone. Not that he blamed either of their friends. He wouldn’t have trusted him or Weasley either. At almost two years old, Violet and Lily were more than a handful. Hence, the joint responsibility.
Taut muscles flexed and a sleepy groan vibrated against Draco’s back, hot breath fanning across his ear and down the cords of his neck.
“What the fuck?”
Draco bolted off the couch, swiveling to face Weasley. Though a little unsteady on his feet, he righted himself, skating a hand over his undercut. “My question exactly.”
Weasley’s bleary blue-eyed gaze blinked, his freckled cheeks flushing. “We bloody fell asleep. How could you let this happen?”
“Me?” He reared back. “Your sodding arm was around me!”
“Well, you were the one laying on my chest!”
Draco scoffed. “I probably toppled over after nodding off. Hardly damning proof. You were the one holding me against your side.”
“That’s probably because I needed some place for my arm so you wouldn’t squash it,” he shot back.
Their eyes locked in an awkward, silent standoff, the air crackling with discomfort. They slept. Nothing more. So what?
Ron’s eyes bulged, and he asked, “Where are the girls?”
“Bollocks. Hopefully, still napping.” Draco spun, headed for the stairs, and took them two at a time.
“Shit.” Weasley’s heavy footfalls followed behind. “Pansy’s going to Avada us.”
“If Pansy doesn’t succeed, Potter will finish the job.”
Once they reached the girls’ nursery, all was quiet in the hallway. Draco glanced over his shoulder, tapping his index finger to his closed lips, before peeking inside the room. They were still sound asleep in their cribs.
Draco heaved a sigh of relief and silently closed the door. Gesturing for Weasley to head back downstairs, he took light steps so as not to wake the twins. Weasley’s broad shoulders took up the narrow stairwell as he descended. Not that Draco noticed the width of his shoulders, just that he took up too much space.
When they reached the living room Weasley dragged a hand down his ginger bearded jaw. “How long were we out?”
Draco checked his watch. “A little over an hour.”
“Well, that’s a bloody relief.” Dropping back onto the couch, his toned legs spread, taking up more space. “Feels like a lot longer.”
Gone was Weasley’s lanky frame from their Hogwarts days, replaced by arms nearly as large as Draco’s calves. Be coming a chaser for the Falmouth Falcons put Weasley through a bloody full-being transfiguration. Turning his insecurities into confidence and his volatile moods channeled to give way to an unflappable air—not that Draco appreciated any of that. Just that he’d noticed the change. Weasley was still a bumbling fool.
Though if Draco was being honest, his little transformation began in eighth year. Along with fucking Longbottom and Potter. And of all sodding blokes, Finnegan, but Draco would never fess up to that one. Somehow between the war and their return to Hogwarts, they’d all gone and swapped bodies with ridiculously fit wizards. Pity for Draco, they all fancied witches.
“We speak of that nap to no one,” Draco said.
“That goes without saying.” Weasley lifted his head from the back of the sofa and snorted. “As if I’d want anyone to think I fancy you.”
Draco’s lip curled as a scowl creased his brow. “I barely tolerate you. And when I do, I only do it for Pansy’s sake.”
“I don’t even fancy blokes.” Jaw tightening, Weasley narrowed his stare and shrugged. Shrugged like, so there.
Recoiling, Draco sneered. “And just because I do, doesn’t mean any tosser with a prick will do.”
Dismissing the moment with a roll of his eyes and a soft snort, Weasley fixed Draco with a resolute stare. “So, deal? Forget this ever happened.”
“And never tell a fucking soul. I don’t even know what we’re talking about. This was nothing.”
“Nothing,” Weasley confirmed.
Even if it was the most restful sleep Draco had had in years. Only sleeping an hour and he felt like he’d had a full night’s rest.
They were saved from further embarrassment by Harry and Pansy walking through the front door.
“How did everything go?” Pansy asked, setting a shopping sack down by the couch.
“Great,” Weasley said as Draco responded with a clipped, “Perfect.”
***
Everything was terrible, and Draco wanted to hex everyone who looked at him walking the halls of the DMLE.
He had hardly slept in days. Nightmare after nightmare. Restless night after restless night. He’d even flooed home for lunch two days in a row to try and catch a brief nap. Again, useless.
He’d give anything just to have an hour of blissful oblivion. If the Sleeping Draught didn’t intensify his nightmares, he’d resort to that. And he didn’t have the ingredients needed to brew Dreamless Sleep. If he hadn’t found enough sleep by the weekend, he’d resort to the apothecary in Diagon.
All he could think about was that blasted nap on Pansy’s couch. How had he drifted off, only to wake up tucked under Weasley’s arm? Who’d fallen asleep first? Who’d made the first move? Had Weasley wrapped his arm around Draco, and he simply leaned into it? Or had Draco slumped against him, and Weasley’d then moved his arm to better accommodate him?
The last Draco knew, they hadn’t been sitting that close. They’d each put one of the girls down in their cribs and had settled onto the couch. And then it grew a bit hazy.
Their friendship was less a bond and more a truce, dictated by their intertwined social circles. So, they’d gotten to talking about quidditch and shared a begrudged laugh or two. Then Weasley flipped on the telly to some ridiculous show with six thirty-somethings failing at life.
Who was Draco kidding? He related to them more than he cared to admit. Sure, he had a career, but he wasn’t married much to his parents’ dismay. He hadn’t been in a real relationship in years. And those muggle friends at least managed to deal with their struggles with humor.
He digressed. When Weasley first turned on the telly…he had angled himself with his arm along the back of the couch. So, did that mean Draco leaned in? Godsdammit he hoped not.
But what did it matter? It was just a nap. Sleep between two people who hung out in the same friend group.
And yes, okay. Draco had observed Weasley’s gradual progression from gangly to rugged. With his tighter fit trousers and form-fitting shirts. And that full manicured beard that molded his cut jawline. But he was all brute force and zero finesse.
It made sense though, didn’t it? When they were closer to thirty than teens enduring another year at Hogwarts, it didn’t make sense to still see Weasley as a hot-tempered idiot. He wasn’t the same. In the same way that Draco was no longer a bigoted arsehole. They’d changed. They all had.
Fucking fine. Weasley was fit. That didn’t mean Draco fancied him, just that he was a man who appreciated another man’s appearance. Even if that man happened to be a Weasley. A Weasley who was very much straight. So, even if Draco did fancy him, it wouldn't matter. And what was the harm in really enjoying a nap with him? It was probably his muscular chest. His pecs were like a pillow. Firm, yet cradling. And that sinewy bicep that hugged Draco so protectively.
Merlin’s saggy tits. He was not doing this. Ronald Weasley was an obnoxious, lazy oaf. Who fancied women.
End of.
***
Faced with the choice between the Leaky Cauldron with friends and another battle with insomnia, Draco chose the pub. Reluctantly. The prospect of an encounter with Weasley was the most dreaded scenario imaginable. But he hoped a few firewhiskys would muddle his brain enough to find some form of sleep. Even if it meant a death-wishing hangover come morning.
A low, warm hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the pub. Draco’s former unease of entering a space like the Leaky faded long ago, now filled with a strange sense of belonging.
Potter and Pansy were already seated in a circular booth near the back, a spot less likely to garner attention. A flash of red hair flipped Draco’s stomach until the female form registered. Weaslette. He inwardly slapped himself. She held a couple pitchers of butterbeer, sliding into the booth beside Longbottom.
As Draco drew closer, the untamed curls of Granger came into focus under the dim lighting as Theo dipped in, nipping at her neck. She turned catching his lips in a playful kiss as she smiled. Oh, to be newly engaged. Took them long enough.
Unfortunately for Granger, during eighth year, she’d been instrumental in helping Draco realize he definitely did not fancy witches. Though Nott was all too willing to swoop in and pick up the pieces.
They were an impossible patchwork of Slytherins and Gryffindors. Though not so impossible anymore, he supposed. This was a regular Friday night of winding down.
“So. The tiny tyrants granted you a brief reprieve?” I asked once I reached the table’s edge.
Potter smiled. “Molly offered to watch the twins so we could come out. After missing last Friday, this week demanded a little adult time.”
Draco would’ve thought they’d engage in a different sort of adult time given the chance. If it were an option for him, he’d have taken a good shag over the Leaky any day.
“I’m going to grab a drink. Does anyone need a top off?”
Pansy fluttered her fingers. “I’ll take another dry martini.”
“Sure thing, Pans.”
On his way to the bar, he passed Blaise and Lovegood, their drinks in hand.
“Oh, Draco,” Lovegood greeted with a gentle smile. “I felt you on your way. I’d offer you nargle repellent, but I fear your exhaustion is much more deeply rooted.”
He suppressed a snort. “Thanks, Luna.”
Blaise clapped his shoulder. “Good to see you, mate. Luna’s not wrong, though. Maybe you should’ve stayed home to catch a wink instead of coming out.”
“A stroke of genius, Zabini,” he said dryly. “Truly.”
“Always here to help.” With a smirk, he guided Lovegood to the booth.
After ordering, Hannah spun to collect the necessary bottles, and a towering presence sidled up beside Draco. He stiffened. A shift in the air clued him into the identity of the new arrival.
“You look like you’ve been clobbered by the Whomping Willow.”
Draco didn’t appreciate the fact that Weasley looked refreshed and well-rested. With the top two buttons undone, the fabric of his navy blue Henley outlined the taut muscles of his torso. A cheeky grin curled the edge of his mouth.
“You’re being rather dramatic. I’ve just hardly slept in five days. Unlike you, I actually have important matters to attend to.”
Why did Draco want to drift closer to him? To feel the sturdiness of his frame. The heat of his touch.
“Godric. You haven’t slept all week?” His tongue swiped across his lower lip as he leaned on the bartop, and Draco shook the thought from his mind. “Well, that explains the source of those bags under your bloodshot eyes.”
“Fuck off, Weasley.” His eyes rolled. “I’m far too tired to think of a proper insult.”
Hannah passed off the tumbler of firewhisky and cocktail glass for Pansy with an empathetic smile, as if overhearing their conversation.
Draco was not seeking sympathy. He just wanted to get lost in the ruckus of his friends and drink himself into a stupor, though not an ideal distraction. At least it was better than getting plastered alone at home, which felt far too pathetic.
Turning for the booth, he paused when Weasley said, “I’m man enough to admit that was a pretty quality nap.”
Draco’s head whipped in his direction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie.” Ron turned and leaned his back against the bar. “You obviously haven’t slept much since that nap.”
With a purposeful step closer, Draco lowered his voice. “I thought we agreed to never speak of that again.”
Weasley unleashed a carefree smile. “Relax. I didn’t use a Sonorus on the entire Leaky.”
“That’s beside the point,” he hissed, stare darting around the other patrons, but no one was paying them any mind.
“Hey, if anyone has the right to feel ashamed, it’s me.” Draco’s stare narrowed until Weasley continued, “I can sleep on a cloud of Devil’s Snare thorns, if comfortable enough. You’d clearly only fall asleep under the most perfect of conditions. And it’s been said I have a rather comfortable chest. I think it’s the pecs.” The low lighting didn’t hide the subtle movements of Weasley’s pectoral muscles beneath his shirt. As if the shadows were highlighting the play of his flexing.
What in Merlin’s name was going on? Weasley was taking the piss. Messing with Draco, surely.
“Are you sloshed?”
He laughed and flagged Hannah down with a toss of his hand. “I’ve not had anything to drink yet, but I bet you need more than one.”
Unbeknownst to Weasley, that statement held an unnerving amount of truth.
Throughout the rest of the evening, his blue gaze drifted to Draco with a casual but steady ease. He had always found the ginger rather transparent, but tonight he was an enigma. Easy but reserved smiles. Intent, almost taunting, but inscrutable gazes.
Was there a purpose for his watchful eye? Waiting for Draco to pass out from overconsumption so he could prank him with a prick drawn on the side of his face? Did he intend to get under his skin, to unsettle Draco? To gain the upper hand in whatever hypothetical conflict they were locked in after that damn nap?
Well, it was bloody working. Fuck. Draco couldn’t follow a single conversation, too trapped in the internal spiraling debate.
At one point, Weasley’s thumb languidly traced the rim on one side of his glass. Draco was mesmerized, imagining that same thumb grazing the slit of his cock head.
Salazar.
Dragging a rough hand down his face, Draco groaned and swept his stare across the pub. Anything to avoid Weasley and his sodding thumb and piercing gaze.
With their circle of friends paired up, they were the only two without a match. Most of the time Weasley brought a companion, a fanatic broom babe who never returned for more than a single appearance. Draco made a habit of flying solo, but on occasion wouldn’t leave alone.
That night concluded with them both unattached, parting with nonchalant flicks of the wrist, leaving the evening’s unspoken intimacy unaddressed.