Chapter Text
Draco enjoys outlines. At the end of the war, when his buzzing thoughts grew too loud, he would map out the events leading up to the end on a timeline, over and over again, until he could minimize the memories that flooded his brain with fear. It’s become useful, in a way. He's more methodical, more capable of stepping back to see the bigger picture. Mostly, it means he takes point on event organization now.
This charity event is in full swing, full of politicians and war heroes, anyone with deep pockets and big family names. All guests gather in a beautiful ballroom that spills out into a balcony patio overlooking the gardens. Draco is watching from his place by the door to ensure everything unfolds according to schedule. With his mother standing next to him, they cordially greet the late stragglers. Smile and wave, shake and smile some more.
Had this been a year ago, they would not have had as many guests, let alone gatecrashers and late goers. They wouldn’t have been able to state definitively when the doors would close, because anybody was better than nobody.
Already, Draco is riding the high of success and the night's just started. The rush of directing caterers and decorators has Draco feeling magnanimous in a way he hasn’t since the less fretful years of school.
Draco put his manic energy into his current activity. He shakes hands and smiles and laughs. It’s a performance he never thought he would get to stage in his adulthood. He'd looked forward to as a boy, watching when his parents did so with awe; he had thought it a sacrifice ripped from him and taken as his penance. Draco would say he is lucky to be able to do this, but it isn’t luck that brought him here.
The real sacrifice was in the making. He spent every moment of the past half-decade to earn this, to re-establish any of what his family once had. All of the donations, the charity work, and the necessary changes he’s had to make to fit into a world that didn’t want him came together for this moment.
The most notable of his direct action arrives with a crack.
While Granger is the first to arrive of her group, alongside Ron Weasley, there’s a harried look about her, as if she had finished getting ready in a hurry. She drags Weasley through the open doors of Malfoy Manor by the tight grip she has on Weasley’s hand, their fingers intertwined. “Sorry, Malfoy! I cannot believe I’m late.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Granger, we were up far too late last night setting up for me to need to rake you over the coals for showing up half an hour later than you said. I wouldn’t have started anything until you arrived.”
“See, I told you, Malfoy told you. You’re just letting your nerves get to you,” Weasley says from behind her. They make a striking couple, her pale purple dress matching the accents in Weasley’s surprisingly fitting dress robes. Draco knows it’s not fair to expect the same from Weasley’s attire as he’d worn in school, but he keeps unkindness like a creature comfort.
Granger sighs, not bothering to respond to the look Weasley and Draco exchange, which is a newer development between them, and focusing instead on Draco’s mother. “Mrs. Malfoy, I hope you’re feeling well,” she says politely, though she makes no move to take Narcissa’s hand as would be traditional.
“Thank you, Ms. Granger. I hope you've been well. You and Draco have done a wonderful job,” Narcissa replies just as pleasantly as she had the other guests. She nods in Weasley’s direction. “Quite the clever companion you have.”
Weasley smiles tightly and nods back. “She’s got her moments.”
Granger elbows Weasley in the ribs and gives Draco a half-hug and cheek kiss combo. As she starts her scan of the crowd, undoubtedly running through the same mental checklist as Draco's, Weasley eyes Draco for a moment before holding out his hand to shake. Draco supposes he should be gratified that Weasley doesn’t grimace this time when Draco takes it.
“Not going to kiss you, mate, but thanks for the invite.” Weasley gives Granger a weighted, accusatory look.
“I didn’t not invite you, Ron,” Granger says tiredly, as if this has come up more than once. “I just assumed you knew.”
“A week, ‘Mione. That’s how much warning you gave me. If Wallard didn’t want to impress me and Harry so badly, there’s no way I'd have made it at all, and then you would've had to cancel your debut.” Weasley takes her arm as they walk away, and Draco ignores the immediate spike in his blood pressure at the sound of that name.
I’ll find you, Granger mouths back at Draco before rising to Weasley’s bait. “I would not have canceled just because you don’t pay attention to the home calendar. Harry knew it was tonight and asked off. Besides, you know how important this is–”
Draco stops eavesdropping and brings his attention to his next guest, a cousin of a Wizengamot member and his wife, and the guest after that, similarly connected, until the faces blur together. His script is perfect, and his posture stays open and gracious. He tries not to think about anything at all, not the way Weasley had said me and Harry. Not the way Granger had implied–
As if Potter would ever actually deign to come to one of these fundraisers. He shakes himself, realizing he’s thinking about it again, and shoves it down before his brain starts picking out what he could say or do, just in case he does show up this time. Before he crafts the script for how it will go between him and the man who nearly killed him. The man who's saved his life, more than once.
Oh, hello, Potter, don’t you look well? Please, make yourself at home, and don’t worry! The rest of the Manor bears no resemblance to what it was when you were brought here, practically blinded by that stinging hex–
Draco stops thinking about it. He doesn’t let himself get that far. He almost regrets stopping himself the moment one of the last few stragglers roams in right before doors are meant to close, as if they’d heavily debated coming so well that they almost talked themself out of it.
Wherever Potter is coming from is having terrible weather, and water drips from the ends of his hair and down the sides of his face. His outer robe is soaked through, and he quickly takes care of the worst of the dripping before stepping over the threshold.
Draco’s hand is in someone else’s for a moment, and Draco’s script takes back over. He’s in the middle of a confident two-pump-and-release that he accompanies with a smile he hopes is charming, but the moment he looks back, just to check, it’s straight into Potter’s green eyes, the water now cleared from the lenses of his glasses.
Potter turns away to give Draco’s mother a warm grasp of her hand, and Draco doesn't understand for a moment that he's been ignored. From beside him, Narcissa sighs as if relieved, visibly far more pleased than she had been speaking with Granger and Weasley.
“Harry, I’m so glad you could make it,” she says so genuinely that Draco’s permanent smile drops. “You had me worried when you didn’t respond to my last owl.”
“You owl him,” Draco repeats under his breath, raising an eyebrow. Narcissa gives Draco an unreadable, blank look. Potter emotes far more than Draco’s mother, but the circumstances are so outlandish that Draco can parse Potter's expression about as well as hers, which is to say not at bloody all. They turn back to each other, both deciding Draco’s breach of conduct deserves no commentary. Draco can’t help but clarify, “You invited him. Harry Potter. And he said yes?”
“Right,” Potter cuts in quickly, focused on Narcissa. Her hand is still held in his, and he squeezes it before letting go. “Thank you for that, by the way. If it had been up to Hermione, I probably would have struggled to find some poor sod to cover me tonight like Ron."
The kicker is it's genuine praise. Potter even produces that damned half-smile that reaches his eyes. Draco knows it from school, of course, and from the shadows of their new post-War reality where Draco and Potter don’t speak. It never makes it into any of the Prophet photos, but Draco's caught the telltale beginnings of it towards the very end of a photo loop once. Draco didn’t read that article, and that edition had quickly found its way into the bin.
Potter finally turns to Draco, and Draco squares his shoulders. He nods once, just a dip of his head. “Potter.”
Potter’s smile goes tight, losing a little of the charm. “Malfoy.”
There’s nothing more to say. Draco can’t bring himself to scrounge up anything, and with one last nod for Narcissa, Potter blessedly leaves.
Draco is suddenly amazingly grateful he will have to spend the rest of the night schmoozing with guests for the sake of the cause and will have no reason to interact with Potter again, whatsoever.
Or, at least, he had meant for that to be the end of his interactions with Potter.
But Potter is obnoxiously bad at schmoozing, and his anxiety follows him around like a cloud, especially when interacting with Draco’s hopefully paying guests. The party is moving through the night like a play unfolding before his very eyes, with the sole exception of Potter’s scowling face emerging from the edges whenever Draco catches sight of him in his periphery.
So he does what he has to. Draco may not be a good person, but he is a wonderful host. He takes it upon himself to deliver a glass of boozy amber to Potter’s camped corner, tellingly close to the entrance. Potter side-eyes him, but he takes the glass to give it a cautious sniff.
“It’s not poisoned, Potter, please. Surely you’ve realized I have no intention of harming you by now,” Draco snips with a careful lightness that he hopes conveys the reminder Draco knows where Potter sleeps; murdering him in public would hardly be the most prudent.
“I was trying to decide what poison you brought me, actually." Potter raises a thoughtful eyebrow. “Contemplate how you’d kill me often?”
“I’m far too busy, and I’d have more luck puzzling out how to stop a natural disaster, I suspect,” Draco says. He takes a sip of his scotch and winces at the taste. The scotch is by design. Draco can’t risk drinking something he actually enjoys if he wants to keep his wits about him, and the drink is needed for socializing. No one trusts a host who won't drink their own booze.
Potter seems to be contemplating something similar, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Eventually, Potter takes a sip. He hums in surprise. "This isn’t all that bad.”
To Draco’s horror, Potter throws the rest of the scotch back. “Merlin, that’s expensive scotch, Potter, not a shot in a bar.”
Potter snorts. “You don’t seem to be enjoying sipping yours.”
So Draco presses his own glass of liquid courage into Potter’s soft, dark hands. Potter takes it with far less suspicion. The next one, Potter still doesn’t flinch despite Draco having switched them both to the far less dangerous champagne option.
Draco regrets his overture of peace when Potter begins to follow him around the room, clucking when the bottom of his glass is empty. At least Potter stops scowling, which makes Draco’s schmoozing easier. He lets Draco introduce him, his prize guest in a sea of well-known, well off prized guests, and when they move from one circle to the next, Draco rewards him with a new glass.
Part of Draco considers reminding Potter the bar is open, but Draco can’t deny the servers seem to be specifically focused on ensuring Draco's glass never runs dry. He’s signing the checks at the end of the night. Draco might have picked the same strategy in Potter’s shoes, though Potter is more willing to lose his faculties in public than Draco ever could be, if the papers are to be believed.
He’s not sure what enchantment was cast over the champagne at the beginning of the night, because he finds that six glasses in Potter doesn’t seem to have a problem with smiling at all anymore. He takes people’s hands and nods during the introductions he visibly absorbs nothing from; he doesn’t even seem to have a problem with smiling at Draco when Draco leans in to disclose the most recent and pearl-clutching gossip every time they approach someone new.
Draco keeps track of the drinks, and the guests, and the schedule, but all the time in between is rife with his and Potter's attempts at conversation.
“His daughter’s a squib–” Draco starts, leaning in a little closer than he's dared. Earlier, he’d directed Potter towards their next target by tapping the back of his hand, and he can still feel the residual heat from the contact. Their shoulders brush on accident, except it might not be an accident at all.
“So?” Potter demands tightly and jerks back, his voice little too loud to not draw attention. Draco wraps his hand around Potter’s wrist and squeezes in rebuke, and he pretends it is a thoughtless, toothless gesture between budding acquaintances.
“If you’d let me finish, you'd know I was only going to explain that she’s quite the famous musician in the Muggle world. You might have heard of her,” Draco continues, close enough that his lips brush the ridge of Potter’s ear. Potter shivers, and Draco feels it like an echo. He takes a step back, for all that the good that does.
“Alright, then. Who is she?” Potter challenges, raising an eyebrow.
“I hardly want to tell you now." Draco takes a hefty sip of the champagne and realizes he might have lost count of drink number he’s on. He's been too busy keeping up with how many Potter guzzles down to remember his own limitations.
“You don’t actually know, do you?” Potter asks, but it comes out far less accusatory. Draco scowls, and Potter laughs, open-mouthed and boisterous. It's a drunk's laugh, but Potter's face morphs with the explosion of it. When Draco elbows him, he ducks his head into Draco’s shoulder, taking advantage of its convenient placement of far too close to him.
Granger’s head has whipped around at the sound of the guffaw of an absolute oaf, and Draco gives her a jaunty wave, patting Potter’s shoulder to show how well they're getting along. Friendly, Draco tries to say with his smile, and she frowns harder, squinting as if she’s trying to read their minds from across the room.
Draco nudges Potter into the direction of a possible sponsor, and Potter allows Draco to lead him across the room while Granger watches.
The night's good decision making plummets until Granger is shooting them confused and annoyed looks. Draco might have been matching Potter drink-for-drink. Caterers and partygoers spin on without him, Granger fielding when Draco drops the ball. He’s lost the bloody plot, and in his optimistic haze of alcohol, the unfolding of the future before him looks recklessly unbound.
The auction goes off without a hitch, but Draco’s not there to see it. After Potter catches sight of Granger’s dirty looks, those big green eyes level Draco like a bomb. “There’s a garden your mother’s mentioned in a few of her letters.”
Draco doesn’t think too hard about Potter’s tone, and he can’t think about the implications of letters. He certainly can’t be blamed, because Harry bloody Potter has asked to see his mother’s gardens. He's a good host, and a good host provides.
He sneaks Potter down the secret stairs that lead to the garden storage and greenhouse the moment Granger’s attention is stolen away; it’s surprisingly easy. Most of the guests are as tipsy as Draco is, and he hopes they spend far too much money, even if he isn't there to see it happen.
The gardens are just outside the small structure of glass that keeps the more sensitive plants protected, and the weather changing has made the windows fog something terrible. Draco can’t remember the charm to wipe it away, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Potter’s more interested in the door next to the stairs, dragging Draco inside by the hand. When had he'd taken Draco's hand?
The door reveals a large bathroom. Briskly utilitarian, the floor is a boring beige tile, and the sink is ugly and wide. Potter closes the door and leans against it, looking at Draco with hooded green eyes. This is where they've been heading since Potter tossed back Draco's glass of scotch. Potter’s tilts his jaw upward in a silent invitation as his head thuds against the door. His wide, loose smile is a thoughtless question.
Draco doesn't think before crossing the space and pressing Potter harder into the wood, and Potter laughs like Draco’s done something funny. When he kisses back, he takes initiative like he's been waiting for an excuse to all night.
Every inch of Potter is hot and wonderful against Draco, and he gives in, winding his hands into Potter’s already messy hair. Potter’s mouth tastes like the bubbly golden liquid Granger chose for the champagne. Hands grip Draco’s arse through his tailored trousers, and using the leverage of the wall behind them. Potter thrusts his hips to make Draco feel nearly every terrible inch of Potter’s cock. Something in Draco goes lax, wondering and kissed stupid, and Potter takes over.
He’s a man possessed. Potter moves from Draco’s mouth to his neck, leaving a mixture of hot kisses lined by the sharp edge of teeth, and Draco can’t think about anything anymore. One hand reaches up to stay balanced against the wall, and the other stays gripping Potter’s hair, soft and curling around his fingers in welcome. His grip goes white knuckled, and he gasps as Potter sucks a bruise.
His words stain the skin he's already marked.“Fuck, Malfoy, I could fuck you right now. Could bend you over. Gotta get those damn fitted trousers off you.”
“Why should I let you do that?” Draco asks, and Potter bites at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The liquor has taken the bulk of the sting out of it, but the sensation of Potter marking him so thoroughly makes his rushing blood hotter.
“Because I could fuck you so hard and so good, you’d never be able to visit your posh greenhouse again without thinking about it,” Potter promises in his ear, and Draco fights a whine that threatens to leave him. “Gonna rip these stupid sodding clothes off of you and–”
“Potter, I swear to Merlin, if you so much as rip a stitch," Draco starts, but Potter interrupts him with another breathless, destructive kiss. His grip on Draco becomes almost painful as he shifts them, pushing up off the wall in a taut line of muscle. Without so much as a grunt, Potter twists them, switching their places, and lifts him like Draco’s not taller and longer than him.
The wall gives Draco the support to wrap his legs around Potter’s waist, and Potter makes a noise like Draco’s pleased him. It makes Draco’s painfully hard cock twitch, and Potter is holding him, keeping them pressed together and panting into Draco’s neck between open-mouth kisses.
“What the fuck are you even doing?" Potter silences Draco with a kiss. He drags his teeth over Draco’s lip before he turns them again without flinching, despite holding all of Draco’s weight. Draco feels his whole body on fire, fear of being dropped mixing with shock. “How are you-”
Potter finally puts him down on the edge of the sink, hands immediately going to the flies of Draco’s trousers. Draco straightens himself, leaning back to give Potter better access. “Got to get these off of you, Malfoy, fuck. I can see how badly you want it. I gotta see what you look like.”
Draco loses what articulation he had to a steady stream of, “Fucking fine, yes, Potter. Merlin, whatever you want.”
Potter makes a choked off noise when he finds Draco’s not wearing any underwear. He leans forward into Draco’s space, one hand working Draco’s cock while the other reaches into Draco’s hair, pulling his head back for Potter’s scorching mouth once more. “I knew it. I could tell you weren’t wearing anything else. Those trousers were too tight. I could see everything, just like everyone else out there who kept looking at you.”
He knows for a fact that no one could see the outline of his cock through his trousers, but that Potter had been looking has Draco's hips jerking up into Potter's touch. Draco can’t help the noise that leaves him when Potter keeps spilling filth right into Draco’s ear. "I bet you wore these on purpose. Anyone could tell just looking at you.You wanted me to see you so pretty and hard for me, Malfoy.”
Draco leans his arms backwards to grip the sink for some kind of leverage and thrusts up into Potter’s hand once, twice, three times, before Potter’s hand moves away. Draco’s body loosens like a string that has been cut, but Potter simply removes their trousers the rest of the way before stepping back between Draco’s spread and shaking legs. Draco's toes cramp where they’ve shoved into the front of his expensive leather shoes to keep himself perched in Potter’s absence.
Draco takes the opportunity to look at Potter from where he’s holding himself uncomfortably against the mirror behind him, ignoring how his arms have started to shake.
Potter’s eyes are always so vibrantly green that the black pupils staring back at Draco are a shock. Potter looks almost predatory, flushed and intent. For a moment, Draco sobers as the gravity of what they’re doing and what it means sinks in.
To quiet the rising hesitancy, Draco leans forward and presses his hand against Potter’s chest, not breaking eye contact. Potter’s dress shirt is delicately thin and fitted in a way that speaks of good money dropped on it. He wishes he could rip the buttons to get at Potter’s skin underneath. He wants to know if it flushes the same way as Potter’s cheeks.
Potter keeps his hands on Draco’s hips, letting Draco feel the twitch of muscle under his palm as Potter fights to keep himself still. When Draco drops his hand lower, he hisses through clenched teeth, and a choked noise follows when Draco strokes Potter's cock through his underwear.
“You’re not supposed to wear boxers with dress robes,” Draco teases before sliding his fingers under the elastic band. The head of Potter’s cock is beaded with precome, and Draco runs his fingers over that too. “It ruins the fall.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Potter says, biting his lip as Draco's touches become more certain and firm. Draco stares, fascinated when Potter’s eyes flutter closed. “Fuck, Malfoy, I don’t think I’m going to last long enough to fuck you.”
Draco hums in assent. He moves his hand away and tugs at Potter’s waistband in a tease. He leans forward, pulling Potter in even closer, and their chests press together. It's a team effort to get Potter’s boxers pulled down low enough that he can reach between them and take them both in his hand, but the sweet relief of friction has them both clinging tighter.
Potter groans and thrusts upward, his head thunking against Draco’s collarbone, and it’s perfect, if a little dry. Draco doesn’t think that’ll be a problem for long, not with the way they’re both leaking over onto Draco’s fingers. He can’t stop himself from looking down at how Potter moves with him, his cock bumping alongside Draco's and fucking into Draco's hold.
He’s made up of distinct lines that make Draco ache with longing even as they fuck his fist in tandem, already knowing how close they are to the end. Soft swells of muscle contract and tighten, but Draco's attention gets stuck of the intimate outline of the paler parts that usually stay hidden from the world; everything about Potter is so stupidly beautiful. Draco tightens his grip, the sound of damp skin harmonizing with the harsh breath from Potter’s bitten mouth. An added twist towards the head has Potter moaning, low and throaty.
“You have no idea what you look like right now,” Draco admits, finally finding his voice. “So gorgeous, so hard and wet and fucking my hand. Just like that, Potter. Fuck, I’m so close.”
“Malfoy, fuck, your mouth,” Potter gasps, hips jerking forward, and Draco nods immediately in agreement. Potter's cock is hard and silky against his, the punishing rhythm paired with Draco's instinctive tightening.
“Later, you can. Maybe I can take you all the way down. Let you fuck my face,” Draco rambles, and that’s enough to send Potter over the edge, his fingers digging into the skin of Draco’s arse hard enough to bruise, maybe even draw blood. It shouldn’t be what sends Draco off, but it is, and Draco rides his orgasm out until Potter is gasping with how sensitive he is.
“Fuck,” Potter says eloquently, his head moving into the curve of Draco’s neck. His breath against Draco’s collarbone is making Draco shiver. Draco feels every centimeter where they touch, his nerves singing. Potter sums it up fairly well as he gasps a far more tired, “Fuck.”
Draco just nods and lets them both take a second before deciding his position is too uncomfortable to hold. When Draco nudges him, Potter moves back with a grace Draco would not have anticipated after the way Potter had held him up against a wall and then carried him to a sink.
Potter steps back to the opposite wall, taking a deep breath before cleaning himself up as much as he can. Draco gently removes himself from the sink, rolling from his tip toes that had barely touched the floor to the flats of his feet slowly. His muscles stiffen and refuse to relax until the blood rushes back to his extremities. He motions towards himself in Potter's direction with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, sure,” Potter says with a grunt, not quite looking at him. The rest is done in silence, pulling on trousers and straightening out robes, and soon enough, Draco is trying to tame his hair.
“You’re lucky your hair always makes you look like you just got shagged in public,” Draco says dryly. “I’ll be in here for another twenty minutes trying not to give those smug arseholes something to talk about. Granger will murder me in cold blood otherwise.”
Potter is suspiciously silent at that, not even a peep of protest for his best friend, and Draco turns to find him shifty and even more awkward than he'd been at the start.
Not that Draco can blame him. Five years later after the world was saved, Potter is still the focus of any party, fielding inappropriate gratitude and commentary. This is hardly the first event Draco has watched Potter skulk through, but it’s the first one that Draco has hosted. It's also the first that Draco has stolen him away, liquored him up, and now, wanked him off while Potter bruised his fingertips into Draco's sensitive skin.
“For fuck’s sake. Don’t look like I’ve proposed marriage, Potter. It’s just a drunken shag. No need to let me down gently,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes. He straightens and faces the mirror once more. There's no getting back the gelled straightness from before, but he’s straightened the fall well enough. “How's this? Have I managed ‘more tipsy than I imagined, but I’m pretending otherwise’ or am I still at drunk sex aftermath?”
Potter seems to consider his words before stepping forward, making eye contact with Draco through the mirror. There’s half a stuttered heartbeat where Draco remembers their sixth year, but the flood of adrenaline makes it impossible to not notice how hotly Potter burns.
His fingers thread through Draco’s hair, brushing the strands back from Draco’s face. His hair is far longer than he had it in school, as is tradition for the Malfoy heir. Potter touches with an unexpected softness until he uses both hands, tightening his grip slowly and watching Draco’s face in the mirror.
Draco can’t bring himself to complain about Potter ruining his work, especially not when Potter’s lips brush over his ear, followed by a tease of teeth that raises gooseflesh over Draco’s arms.
“You look like you got used hard and left wet.” Potter’s voice is weighted in a way that makes Draco think about Potter’s promises from earlier. The moment doesn't last long; Potter steps away again, releasing Draco’s unruly hair, and moves to the door. With a smirk, Potter adds, “Personally, I think it’s your best look yet.”
With that, he leaves, and Draco is alone with the realization that he might have made a huge mistake.