Chapter Text
Harry was stood on the stoop of number twelve Grimmuald Place when Draco arrived home.
Draco spotted him the moment he stepped out into the darkness beyond the grass square, where the glow of the streetlights ended and all that was left was the orange glare of the nearly set Summer sun. Harry’s arms were crossed, a look of disapproval on his face. It was hard to take him seriously when he was dressed in his pyjamas, with slippers on his feet and his hair pulled up into a loose, messy, lopsided bun.
He was swaying slightly, his cheeks flushed.
Draco wasn’t the only one who’d been drinking that evening then.
The moment that Draco was close enough, Harry uncrossed his arms and planted his hands on his hips and spoke in a harsh whisper. “You’re late home. Again."
Draco struggled not to smile. Barely twenty-years-old and yet Harry hen-pecked like the most experienced middle-aged woman. It would have been annoying if Draco wasn’t quite so fond of him.
Draco stumbled a little as he came to a stop, the tips of his toes peeking out over the curb. He rolled his eyes. “You’re not my mother,” he pointed out in a drawl that was more slurred than usual. “And I do have a key.”
Harry shushed him, glancing to the drawn curtains of the houses around them. “You promised to cook dinner tonight,” he said accusingly, still speaking in an almost growling whisper.
Draco threw his hands up in despair. “Can’t you cook dinner for yourself, Potter?”
Harry’s expression darkened. “I’m on lates this week.” Draco felt instantly guilty. “I cooked when you were last on lates!” Harry reminded him.
Draco could tell by the softness of his mouth that he wasn’t nearly as outraged as he was pretending to be though - merely very annoyed. “I forgot,” Draco admitted reluctantly. “I didn’t mean to be out this late but Blaise brought fire-whiskey and I… lost track of time. Sorry.” Harry huffed. “I can still cook,” Draco offered weakly, gesturing to the closed door at Harry’s back.
Harry scoffed. “I didn’t sit around waiting for you like your poor, neglected wife.” The word made something in Draco’s belly flutter. “I made my own dinner – no thanks to you. And then I helped myself to that bottle of Elf-wine you’ve been saving. I’m not sorry.”
Draco couldn’t help his slow grin. “You prick. Fine. I guess I deserve that.”
“Do you remember what I said would happen if you forgot it was your turn to make dinner again?” Harry said sharply.
Draco froze, then groaned. “Nooo!”
Harry hushed him harshly again. “Be quiet!”
Draco tilted his face to the sky and continued to protest in petulant whines. “No - no, I’m too drunk for this,” he begged but Harry was ignoring him, pulling his hair free and then retying it more tightly. “Potter- Harry- no. Come on!” Harry bent down to roll up his too-long pyjama bottoms to above his knees so the hems wouldn’t get caught about his heels. “Harry. Harry. Harry. No. Harry.”
“Harry yes.”
Draco all but wailed.
“Will you shut the fuck up?!”
“This is childish,” Draco protested miserably, but even so he started to roll up his sleeves.
“Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” Harry nodded down at Draco’s feet. “Shoes,” he said, stumbling a little as he kicked off his slippers.
“We’re outside!”
“So?”
“And in public!!”
“If I’m not wearing shoes, then neither are you.”
“This is stupid,” Draco said petulantly, and hoping that no one was watching them, he began to remove his shoes. “This is ridiculous. I hope you know that?”
“I told you,” Harry said lightly, setting his glasses aside, “that if you were late again, I’d kick your arse.”
Draco scoffed, stumbling a little. “That’s not what you said.” He resisted the urge to throw his shoes at Harry’s face and instead crossed the road gingerly, wincing at the occasional stone that dug into his foot.
“Don’t be pedantic.”
Hoping that Harry was secretly much drunker than he looked, Draco tried to pull a fast one by sidestepping him and reaching for the front door of Grimmuald Place, but it was his own level of intoxication that he had underestimated.
Harry caught him easily about the waist. “I don’t think so.”
“Harry,” Draco whined, his fingertips brushing the door handle for a split second before he was being dragged away.
“Shut up.” Harry spun him and pushed him forwards in the direction of the grass square.
Draco grimaced unhappily as his feet met the prickly grass; it was a good job it had been dry recently. “You’re a child,” he snapped.
Across from him, settling into a loose sparring stance, Harry flashed him a drunken grin. “Remember: keep the noise down.”