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"Draco had yet another horrid wandr date last night," Blaise muses, taking a sip of his steaming tea.
Hermione drops her book in her lap and eyes her husband with a curious eye as he plops down next to her on the sofa. "Oh?"
"Some French politician. First, he was thirty minutes late."
"Oh no," Hermione groans, knowing Draco is an absolute stickler for punctuality. She stretches out, placing her feet in his lap.
"Kept correcting Draco's French," Blaise starts again, placing his cup down on the side table. "And then got so pissed he went in for a kiss, open-mouthed, mind you, and ended up connecting with Draco's cheek." Blaise's hands massage into Hermione's feet. "He said it was as if warm slugs had attacked him."
"Oh, Merlin. I should have stayed up. You always get the gossip before me."
"Oh, darling, there's more." Blaise pauses, a sly grin playing at his lips.
"Well, keep going."
"He confessed something else rather insightful."
Hermione closes her book, perking up at the promise of new gossip.
"Apparently, this man resembled your best friend."
Her brows shoot up, anticipation swirling in her chest.
"And after about two glasses of firewhisky on top of all the other alcohol he'd already consumed, the blond prat did in fact disclose that all of Potter's consistent ailments last season left a very impressionable mark on him."
"So his annoyance was feigned!"
Blaise waves one hand in the air flippantly. "Yes, yes, you were right. Draco fancies Harry."
"Gods, I love when I'm right."
"Aren't you always?" He teases with a smirk.
She kicks his chest playfully. "This means we can remove Clorinda from the list."
"How about this, you get Draco and Harry together, and you can name her anything you want."
Her hand instinctively goes to the swell of her stomach. She grins, delighted. "Blaise, have I ever lost one of your challenges?"
"One time.” Blaise lifts her hand and kisses the diamond on her left hand. His dark eyes glint with happiness as he shoots her a quick wink. “I think we both know how that ended, Mrs. Zabini.”
"It would be easier if you just gave me what I want without hassle."
"There's absolutely no fun in that."
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Harry's heart speeds to the rhythm of Hermione's finger taps—faster and faster the longer they sit in the sterile room. Harry can feel her nerves, feel the crackle of uncontrolled magic starting to creep through.
He covers his hand over hers and squeezes. The tense wrinkles on Hermione's face soften as her amber eyes meet his.
"I was thinking we could go to that Italian place on the corner after?" He asks in an attempt to keep his best friend's mind occupied.
"That sounds perfect." Hermione hums. "Actually, maybe fish and chips?"
"Anything you want."
"Oh! Or Curry?"
Harry chuckles just as the door creaks open. In the doorframe, a familiar, long-legged blond appears. His mouth dries like a desert.
Malfoy is Hermione's healer.
Draco steps into the room, eyes fixed on a chart in his perfectly large hands.
Harry hasn't seen Draco in months, but he's still the same. His cropped hair shows off his impossibly sharp jawline. His fitted trousers accentuate his round arse.
He's bloody perfect.
And impossibly unattainable.
"Finally, two people I enjoy," Draco drawls, eyes lifting from his papers. The muscles in his jaw tense when he notices that Harry is definitely not the best friend he was expecting. "Or at least one," he adds, looking to Hermione.
It shouldn't hurt—the subtle jab—but something deep in Harry's chest stings.
He and Draco have long since dropped the enemy pretenses only to sit in the 'we don't know how to be friends, but our friends are married, so we have to deal with each other' territory for years now.
It's a place Harry hates. Loathes. Despises.
Because, unfortunately, Harry has a big, ridiculous crush on Draco Malfoy.
A crush he's kept tucked away for years. A crush that has made him do absurd things like hurt himself over and over on the Quidditch pitch just to get a glimpse of the man at work and in uniform.
At first, it had been a real injury. Then, it had been pure curiosity. Harry had wanted to know more about this version of Draco Malfoy—the one Hermione loved so much. Over the past three years, Harry had injured himself no less than twenty times.
In the end, his curiosity, ergo obsession, had gotten him nowhere, except on Malfoy's shite list.
So he had stopped.
In the past six months, he had only seen Draco twice, both of which were non-injury-related social gatherings.
"Blaise was called in for emergency surgery," Hermione says with a soft smile.
Draco pulls a stool up to the examination table opposite Harry. "How's the nausea?" he asks, moving around various pieces of equipment and instruments.
"A bit better."
Harry releases Hermione's hand and folds his in his lap. "She just vomited all over the bushes outside."
"Harry," Hermione warns.
"Three times."
Hermione huffs as Draco flips through the pages of her file. "We gave you the lowest dose of nausea potion. Let's go to the next dosage and see if it helps."
"I don't—"
"Shut it. Stop being so self-sacrificing. You know I'll have Blaise sneak it in your tea."
"I'm an auror. I happen to know poisoning is a six-month stint in Azkaban."
"Please," Draco scoffs. "You sit at a desk and boss people around. When was the last time you detained anyone?"
"That's not fair, you know—"
"Yes, yes, you can have me in cuffs faster than a niffler spots gold."
Harry snorts at the repartee between the two. It's nice to see the once-enemies tease each other with no real animosity. He hasn't had many chances to see their friendship in person; between Malfoy's irregular healer shifts and Harry's Quidditch schedule, they've rarely been in the same place at the same time. It feels like something akin to her and Ron arguing in the Gryffindor common room.
Harry catches Draco's gaze. His silver eyes regard him wearily. The blond picks up a small bottle. "Shall we check on the little one?" he shifts the conversation, spreading a clear liquid over Hermione's rounded stomach.
Hermione's shaky hand grabs Harry’s, looking for an anchor. He takes it willingly. Harry really has no idea what to expect. He only jumped at the chance to accompany Hermione to an appointment in hopes he could catch a glimpse of his future niece. He's always wanted this, a family—loud, chaotic, and full of love—and even though they aren't blood, they are his family.
His pulse pounds in his ears as Draco turns on the small, screened monitor. It looks like a blob at first, nothing more than weird shadows, but as he focuses, he recognizes the smallest of fingers and toes. His grip on Hermione's hand tightens. A repetitive thump sounds through the room when Draco clicks a button on the machine.
The blond's face folds in a magnificent smile, one as bright as the summer sun, one Harry's never seen before. Harry's stomach swirls, his heart caught in his chest.
"Is that—"
"—The heartbeat," Hermione says.
"Bloody hell."
This is magic.
Hermione hits his arm. "No cursing around the baby."
Draco scoffs, no doubt thinking of Hermione's curse jar she's started since becoming pregnant, an attempt to stop her husband's filthy mouth.
"Right, sorry, Hermione. It's just that's—"
"Magic," Draco finishes.
An odd tingle shoots through Harry's spine, knowing Draco's thoughts have just mirrored his.
Harry huffs a laugh. "Yeah."
Draco moves the instrument around, the view on the monitor changing with each movement. His lips press into a thin line, eyes narrowing as he focuses on inspecting the image before him. Draco's tongue slips between his teeth just like it had in the depths of Hogwarts when he was engrossed in making an advanced potion.
"Everything looks as it should. I'll send in an order for a new potion. Anything else?"
Hermione shakes her head, sitting up, she wipes away the gel, and readjusts her shirt. She asks Draco, "You get off soon?"
"You know I do."
"Harry and I were going to grab dinner. You should join us."
Harry takes in a sharp breath, hoping it is too small for Draco to hear.
Please join us.
Of course, Draco hears, giving Harry a sideways glance, he says firmly, "I have plans."
Harry's stomach drops. Maybe he needs to bring back injuries.
"Oh, yes, that's right." Hermione pats Draco's arm, and a smirk plays at her lips. "You should cancel."
"You know I don't cancel plans without at least eighteen hours' notice. It's rude."
She rolls her eyes and huffs, "Fine."
He stands with a kiss to Hermione's curls and stops halfway out the door. "Potter, it's nice to see you've finally managed to overcome your tendencies of getting yourself injured."
"He hates me," Harry says as they leave the exam room.
"He doesn't hate you."
"You know, really, he should love me."
"Why's that?"
"I keep him busy. I probably keep him in business. What with all the injuries?"
Hermione lifts an eyebrow. "You should tell him that."
He should definitely not tell Draco that. Harry could already hear it, the sneer Draco would give while saying, 'You always did think so highly of yourself, Potter.'
Although, come to think of it, it might rile Draco up enough to at least talk to Harry.
He never talks to Harry, instead, talking at him, barking instructions and warnings, but never to him. It's never the talking Harry wants. He wants Draco to speak to him about mundane things like how his day is, or how the wisteria blooms in the spring reminds him of his mother, or how he prefers sweet pastries over savory—all things he's definitely not daydreamed about.
Gods, I'm hopeless.
"What are Malfoy's plans?" Harry asks, keeping his tone even despite the very uneven tick of his heart.
"He has his 'I'm going to give Anthony Goldstein another try’ date even though every time he gives Anthony another try, he ends up at our doorstep wasted and wallowing about how he'll never find love."
Anthony Goldstein.
Male.
His heart skips.
Harry had always wondered—mostly for selfish reasons.
He'd never seen Malfoy with a man. Actually, he'd never seen Malfoy with any partner. He only knew of one failed engagement, to a woman, years ago.
He had almost asked once, under the gaze of a pain potion, but he caught the slip before he could humiliate himself.
Harry stops his feet dead in the middle of the hallway. "Draco dates men?"
"Harry." She stops and crosses her arms. "Where on Earth have you been?"
"Mars, apparently! He's so elusive about his personal life. And he was engaged to that Greengrass girl."
"I thought you knew that was arranged."
"Definitely did not."
Hermione loops her arm around his and starts down the hallway again. "Yes, well, pureblood nonsense and all, but Draco very much dates men." She squeezes his arm twice. "Only men."
"Malfoy dates men," Harry repeats, still surprised.
"You say that as if it's earth-shattering news."
"Interesting news."
I really should bring back the injuries.
"Chinese!" Hermione blurts out.
Harry chuckles. "Yes, fine Chinese."
She leans into Harry further, resting her cheek against his leather jacket. "It's really a shame Draco couldn't join. He does this thing where he claims he hates Chinese, and then ends up stealing half my curry chips. It's quite cute to witness."
"Cute. Sure."
Gods, I want to see that.
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The quiet air looms around Harry as he waits for Hermione to answer the door. His stomach growls at the smell of food from the takeaway bag. Just twenty minutes ago, Hermione called, begging for takeaway Chinese, and now, ten minutes later, her floo is annoyingly closed, and her door is obnoxiously locked.
The doorknob jiggles.
"Why's your floo closed I—"
It's not the curly-haired witch he's expecting standing in the doorway, but Draco instead. Even in the later hour, he's dressed like a posh schoolboy in black pressed trousers and a white button-down. He's relaxed, though, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his feet covered only in socks.
Gods, he looks so domestic.
Draco scratches his neck. "Sorry, I shut it after Hermione fell asleep."
"When was that?"
"Five minutes ago."
"She called me asking for food not even twenty minutes ago."
Draco tuts. "She didn't tell me she called you. I could have gone out for food."
"It's fine." Harry waves his free hand. "I was out anyway."
Harry, determined to keep this Draco in his sights for a while longer, holds up the takeaway bag. "Can't waste perfectly good food."
He walks past Draco deeper into the house.
"We've already—"
"Then I'll eat." Harry turns, walking backward. He tilts his head toward the bag in his hand. "I heard you like curry chips," he says with a wicked grin.
As usual, Hermione is right. Watching Draco sneak curry chips to his mouth when he thinks Harry isn't watching is cute. The dance lasts a whole ten minutes before Harry puts the box of curry fries between them.
Thankfully, when Harry showed up, they had been in the middle of one of Hermione's favourite movies. So, instead of awkward small talk, Harry joins Draco, leaning against the sofa on the massive bed of blankets and pillows on the floor, eyes fixed on the telly.
"I never understood how someone so logical, so pragmatic, could love these films so much," Draco muses as the music picks up.
Harry snorts. "I'll never forget the first time I found out this was her favourite film. I came home after practice one night, and she was glued to the telly. I thought it would be some documentary on near-extinct species. Here she was singing along to a movie about teenage love. She claims it's because her parents loved it. But I don't believe her."
They reach for a crisp at the same time, fingers brushing. Harry doesn't pull away. Neither does Draco. Their hands linger, and a flush rushes to Harry's cheeks. Finally, after a few beats, Draco grabs a crisp. "It's kind of nice though, the predictability of her favourite films. There's always the happily ever after,” Harry muses, a longing ache settles in his chest.
Draco hums as he chews, and Harry swears he sees a pink tinge fall over Draco's neck and face.
Maybe he doesn't hate me.
He tests his new theory, crossing one leg over the other, as he does, his foot taps into Draco's.
Draco doesn't retreat, doesn't move. There's a quick rise and fall of his chest. "I do suppose that's the appeal."
The movie progresses, and with each scene, they drift together like a ship to shore, until their thighs are brushing and their shoulders are pressed together.
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The heat inside Harry feels like a fiery furnace. With each drink he consumes, his free, lazy, delightful state intensifies.
"One last song," Hermione pleads, resting her head on Blaise's shoulder.
After Hermione's birthday dinner, Hermione, not quite ready to go home, had insisted they go to the pub for one round of drinks. The pub they stumbled into was deep in the midst of karaoke night, Hermione's favourite night, which was how they had found themselves five rounds in (on Draco and Harry's end) and three songs deep (on Hermione and Blaise's end).
"Darling, it's late," Blaise muses.
Hermione's lip juts out. "It's my birthday."
Draco laughs, his eyes crinkling.
That exact statement is how they had ended up here in the first place. Harry wasn't complaining. He'd unlocked yet another new version of Draco—Drunk Draco—who was fun, chatty, and very, very touchy.
Throughout their round of drinks, Draco had touched thighs with Harry, had clasped Harry's back, had brushed Harry's hair out of his face (three times), and in an adorable fit of laughter had rested his head on Harry's shoulder.
Hermione hits the table. "I know. You two sing for me." She waves her finger between Harry and Draco.
"I'm not that pissed," Draco scoffs, even though Harry knows he most definitely is.
"It's my birthday." Hermione reaches out and shakes Draco's hand. "Pleaseeeee."
"Are you sure you haven't been giving her alcohol?"
"Pissed by proxy," Blaise and Harry say at the same time.
Draco quirks a brow.
"We don't know how it happens, but anytime anyone gets drunk around Hermione, she too turns into the drunk version of herself, even without alcohol. It's a marvel."
"I'm surprised you haven't witnessed it," Harry says.
"I don't make it a habit of getting pissed with Granger. I did once, and she hurt my feelings."
"Hey! I apologised." She points her finger lazily. "You're trying to distract me." Her focus moves to Harry.
"One song," Hermione repeats this time, squeezing Harry's hand. Her eyes blink slowly as her lips mutter, "Please, please, please."
She's playing an unfair game because, as always, she knows Harry will cave, and he does. "One song and then you go to bed."
Hermione claps and Blaise laughs. "That's…you know Harry can't say no to you!"
She sits up straight and wiggles her shoulders victoriously. "You know what song I want." She pauses and winks. "Stud."
"No, no absolutely not," Harry protests, knowing she wants him to sing a song from her favourite seventies musical.
Hermione boops his nose. "It's my birthday."
"No."
She pats Blaise's thigh, and within seconds, he's up and headed to the request booth. It takes only moments for the quippy rock-and-roll music to start. Harry sits unmoving, but a hand appears in front of him. He looks up to find Draco standing, head tilting toward the stage.
"Birthday girl gets what birthday girl wants," Draco says, slurping his words.
"Are you that pissed?"
"Yes. So much so, I'm hoping I forget the next three minutes when I wake up tomorrow."
The next thing Harry knows, he's on the small stage with Draco, hand clasping tightly around a microphone.
Then, Draco sings out, "I've got chills, they’re multiplying—"
From there, it's a blur of lights and sounds—Harry tries to keep time with the beat of the song as he sings. He tries not to burst out laughing as Draco harmonizes with him. Harry tries not to pull Draco in and kiss his pink lips.
He's certain now, as the song ends and Draco slings his arm around Harry, he's in love with Draco Malfoy.
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Harry opens the box of baked goods on the kitchen island. "So there are croissants, scones, but both savory and sweet, and then muffins. They were all out of the Chelsea buns—"
"—What smells?" Draco's silky voice enters the kitchen, and the state he's in nearly sends Harry to his knees.
Slung low across Draco's hips is a pair of grey track pants, something he never thought Draco would own. Worse is the fact that his upper half isn't covered with anything, and there are drops of water sliding down his chest, abs, and stomach.
Fucking hell. When does Malfoy have time to be fit? And where is his shirt? And why does he look like a sculpted marble statue?
"Potter," Draco greets with a simple nod.
"Malfoy, what—" He fumbles like an idiot. The pounding of his heart strains against his chest almost painfully.
Hermione gasps. "Oh! I forgot to mention that Draco stayed here last night after the false alarm. Blaise didn't want to leave me alone."
Draco runs a hand through his damp hair, and a few loose strands fall over his eyes. Harry knows he's staring, but he can't look away.
Every ounce of restraint battles within Harry—lips trying hard to keep shut, eyes fighting from bulging out of their sockets.
"It's a good thing you brought so many pastries. Look, I'll be right back!" Hermione yells and starts for the doorway.
"What?"
"Sorry. I swear I have to pee every twenty minutes."
She's gone before Harry can protest, and Draco is encroaching on his space before he has time to think.
"Pass me a plate?" Draco asks, pointing to the cabinet Harry's in front of.
Harry turns and opens the cabinet door too quickly and with too much force. His forehead comes in contact with the hardwood, sending a shooting pain to his forehead.
"Fuck!" Harry curses and closes his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Draco asks. He's so close his breath brushes the back of Harry's neck. The crisp scent of eucalyptus mixed with a dark, woodsy smell infiltrates Harry's nose, shrouding him in a fog, a fog of Draco. Smooth skin touches Harry's bicep.
"Harry?"
Harry.
Harry's positive his trousers are growing tight as the four-letter word—his name—echoes in his mind. He hears it every day, all day, but never like this, never from Draco.
He opens his eyes and brings his hand to his forehead to make sure he's not bleeding. "I'm fine, really."
"Let me have a look. I am a healer after all.” He says with a cheeky lilt to his voice.
Harry shifts toward Draco and lifts his hair. "See, no blood. All good." He turns back to the cabinet and fumbles getting plates, handing one to Draco with shaky hands.
"Alright, fine." He eyes Harry suspiciously, but takes the plate. "Maybe all those hospital visits had merit after all."
"What, did you think I was faking ailments?" Harry scoffs, hiding the truth in his retort.
"No, well, not entirely. I just didn't understand how a professional athlete could be so prone to injury. You're a klutz."
Only around you.
Draco picks a chocolate croissant, taking a bite before setting the rest down on his plate.
Sweet, not savory.
His daydream had been right. He wonders just how many of his fantasies of Draco might come true.
Not here.
"How's Hermione?" Harry asks, trying to focus on anything other than Draco. Harry picks up his scone and takes a bite.
"She's fine, really. Everything checked out fine, but you know how Blaise is a bit overprotective."
"Good, good. When I got the message last night, I was worried the little one would decide to come while I was up in the air."
Draco brushes his hands together, letting crumbs fall to his plate. "You were impressive last night.” His silver eyes bore into Harry's, serious and unmoving.
Harry's mouth goes dry, and not from the scone. He coughs, raising his brows at Draco.
Draco's cheeks turn red. "Hermione, of course, insisted we listen to the game," Draco explains, fumbling over his words.
Harry spots a speckle of brown on his pink bottom lip. The universe is testing him.
"Right." He nods, but knows Hermione rarely cares to watch, let alone listen to, any of Harry's games.
Draco licks his lips, and the piece of rogue chocolate still clings to his lip.
"You've got—" Harry points at his own bottom lip.
With haste, Draco attempts to wipe it away, but the chocolate hangs on. Harry fails the universe's test, and without a second thought, he thumbs Draco's lip. Draco inhales sharply, and black pupils crowd his usual slate irises.
"Shite, sorry—" Harry's hand falls.
"Darling!" A voice calls.
They jump at the voice, both taking steps back as Blaise enters the kitchen. The loud pounding in Harry's ears rumbles all over his body, not slowing.
Shite.
Harry aimlessly picks up his scone and, from the corner of his eyes, catches Draco trailing two fingers across his bottom lip.
"Where's Hermione?" Blaise asks, narrowing his focus on Harry and Draco.
"Loo!" They both shout.
Blaise's mouth drops open, but Draco interrupts. "I should go." He slides past Harry, his bare arm ghosting Harry's shirt. "Shift in an hour."
He's gone faster than the first bolt of lightning in a summer storm.
"He doesn't work today," Blaise muses with a look of intrigue thrown Harry's way.
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The warm bundle in Harry's arms squirms, scrunching her nose before falling still again. His chest swells, taking in every feature for memory. He's not sure he's loved anything more.
"I'm going to steal her," Harry says, gently running his finger over the baby's nose.
Hermione chuckles from the hospital bed, her cheeks still painted pink.
"Keep that in mind when it's three a.m. and she's screaming," Blaise quips, his arms tight around Hermione.
"Don't talk about my perfect goddaughter like that."
"She's my goddaughter, Potter," Draco tuts from a chair near the foot of Hermione's bed.
Harry doesn't have to take his eyes off the newest edition of his family to know Draco is watching him intently, and has been ever since Draco passed off the bundle. His gaze hasn't moved, hasn't faltered. Harry should feel nervous, should feel the weight of his intentional stares, but he doesn't. The reverence Harry had seen in Draco's eyes had made him fill with a warm delight that hadn't let up.
Blaise groans, "Can the two of you fight about this another time?"
"Don't worry." Hermione sets her hand on Blaise's thigh. "Harry and I have come up with the perfect plan. Draco gets to be Emilia's goddaughter every other year, and Harry gets the odd years."
Draco scoffs. "That's ridiculous."
"It's rather brilliant, really, and you shouldn't complain. Zero is technically an even, so you get the first year."
Harry finally shifts his eyes to Draco. "That was my idea, by the way!" he says with a wink.
Surprisingly, Draco's cheeks flush. "I suppose that's true." He uncrosses his legs and stands. “I’m starved.” Draco points to Hermione. "Would you like me to bring you back some food? It's horrid here."
"Would you?"
Harry comes to his feet slowly. "I'll join?"
"Yeah, alright."
Harry places Emilia in Blaise's arms and gives a quick kiss to Hermione's temple.
"Chinese!" she says, smiling.
Draco groans. The room breaks out in laughter.
Harry and Draco make it three long strides through the hallway before Harry feels Draco's fingers slip through his hand and is tugged through a door.
"Malfoy! What—"
There are warm lips on top of his before he can speak another word.
Draco's kissing him.
Draco Malfoy is kissing him—hard. The scratch of Draco's teeth against Harry's lips draws a muffled moan from his throat.
"Shite," Draco mumbles, pulling away.
Draco pales, the whites of his eyes growing. "Shite." He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry that was inappropriate."
"I'm not complaining," Harry pants, his pulse racing.
"No?"
"No. Definitely not."
Harry steps closer to Draco, slotting himself between his feet.
"I haven't been imagining this, then?"
"No."
A chuckle escapes Draco. "Thank, Merlin."
Harry pushes forward this time, in an equally frenzied kiss. Fierce, possessive, and with enough passion for Draco to lose his balance. Harry grips Draco's hips, steadying him as he slips his tongue into the blond's mouth.
Draco groans, and Harry feels a tug at the base of his neck.
"Potter," Draco pants, lacing his fingers into Harry's hair. "You might take me on a date before you accost me like that." His swollen lips move, and Harry thinks idly that they are the perfect shade of pink.
Harry brushes his lips to Draco's before pulling away. "I've heard you like curry chips."