“What about this?”
Potter held a shapeless piece of clothing in front of his chest, looking all too pleased with himself for Draco’s liking.
“Are you colourblind, Potter?” Draco snapped. He offered his hand to the seriously fashion challenged man and asked, “Do you know what this colour is?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s red,” said Potter, an insolent smile lingering on his lips as he handed the piece of clothing to Draco.
“Red? This is red to you?” Draco muttered, unamused.
He refused to let Potter’s smile distract him and started folding the tunic in practiced gestures. “This is vermilion. You would know that if you had paid any attention, whatsoever, to what I’ve been trying to teach you for the last three years,” he mumbled between his teeth. “Vermilion, also known as china red or cinnabar, is the colour of the Lancashire Quidditch team, not to be confused with the blood-red Wigtown Wanderers. Vermilion is the Bertie Bott’s cinnamon flavour, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? Vermilion is only the fucking colour of Gryffindor, but sure. Go ahead and call it red, who cares?”
As he finished his muttered diatribe, Draco smoothed the fabric.
Potter, the impertinent twat, was rubbing his neck, showing off canines and dimples. “Okay, vermilion, got it. What’s wrong with vermilion?”
Draco snorted. “Nothing is wrong with vermilion, Potter. What is wrong, though, is you trying to match it with the pine trousers we’ve already agreed on.” He pointed the trousers, folded neatly on the fitting room’s stool. He narrowed his eyes and asked, detaching the syllables as if talking to a particularly slow Skrewt, “And do we remember why we did that?”
Potter rolled his eyes and recited, “Because green is my colour and linen is a comfortable yet quality fabric that says ‘I am having a good time but won’t hesitate to trash you if necessary’, which is precisely what I want to convey at this casual meeting.”
“Precisely,” Draco punctuated with a sharp nod. “And unless you wish to look like a Christmas tree, which I have no doubt is your aesthetic, you don’t want to match this trousers with this tunic.”
He ignored Potter’s giggle and placed the tunic, properly folded, on top of the closest rack.
“Now, try again.”
Draco leaned against the frame of a full length mirror and let Potter go about the shop on his own. The man moved with a kind of litheness only hours of Quidditch practice could build. His movements were precise and neat, and Draco could see the muscles roll under the thin sleeves of his t-shirt. If Draco hadn’t known better, he would have thought the man was wearing this hideous muggle band t-shirt to piss him off.
Sometimes, when Draco found himself staring at Potter’s shape, he felt a flutter of gratitude in his stomach. If it wasn’t for Potter, he probably wouldn’t be here.
Potter was his biggest client, and the first. If anything, he was the reason Draco had started his business. After Potter had spoken to his trial wearing that jumper with those trousers, Draco had naturally felt the urge to do something nice in return. The man had saved him from Azkaban, and Draco couldn’t, in good conscious, let him go about wearing the same oversized hand-me-downs he had worn the first time they met. When Draco had given a few appropriate advices, Potter insisted on dragging him along to shop for a job interview. After Draco, at great cost of tears, blood, and hair, had managed to make him look like the twenty year old he was, Potter beamed.
“You’re good, Malfoy,” He said.
“Of course I am.” Draco raised his chin. The pride tasted like an old friend he didn’t know he’d missed. “Unlike some of us, I received an education.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “What I mean is, you could do this, y’know. For a living.”
The man had been there when they seized the Manor. When everything Draco had ever loved was torn from his hands. When they took the ancestral books, the relics that had been handed from generation to generation, the fragile alembics from the potions lab. Hell, they had even taken the portraits. Potter knew the reparations had left Draco with little more than enough to pay a small rent for a few months.
“I could help, you know,” Potter insisted. “Help you build up a name, and things. If you want to, of course.”
And Potter hadn’t lied. He had called him more often than really necessary, asking for outfits, first for job interviews, then business meetings, charity galas and even fancy-dress parties. He refused the preferential prices Draco set for him and had spread the word, vouching for him at all sorts of events.
If there was one thing that Draco’s parents had taught him, one thing that hadn’t been lost in the disastrous trials, it was how to “dress to impress”. And, if working to earn a living meant that he got to admire Potter’s arse and shoulders in well fitted clothes, he wasn’t going to put up a fight.
“Okay, I think I’ve found something,” Potter said with a lopsided smile that made his left dimple show. That was one thing Draco had learned after the trials, the existence of Potter’s dimples. It was as though Potter took pleasure in taunting him with them. As if Draco’s life wasn’t complicated enough.
Draco waved his hand. “Proceed.”
In a quick motion, Potter unfolded a dark olive shirt that he held in front of him. “It’s not linen, but the label says it’s imp coton, so I think the message is the same?”
Draco nodded. The design was good, loose around the shoulders and fitted around the waist, it would work perfectly on Potter’s sculpted features. And the color would bring out his eyes, which was always a good thing. The shirt was perfect, except that… “Green on green, Potter?” He scolded, gesturing to the trousers, again.
“Oh, I know, don’t worry! I’m not about to make a... Camaïeu?” Potter asked, his face breaking into a grin.
Draco nodded in encouragement and didn’t answer. This was something else he had noticed; whenever Potter was smiling, teeth bared like that, he had a nasty habit of saying stupid things. Better to remain silent, just in case.
Potter took a pair of light grey trousers out of Merlin knows where—if Draco hadn’t been focused on his teeth, maybe he would have known, too—and smoothed it on the top of the shirt. “It’s not quite the same as the one you took, but it’s linen, too. And it’s got pockets on the back, and you said it was a good thing. What do you think?”
Draco nodded slowly and took a step forward, reaching for the trousers. The fabric was soft and thin, it would probably do wonders to his arse.
“Good call, Potter. I guess the Boy Wonder’s luck is as impressive as they say.” Draco let go of the piece of clothing and invited him toward the fitting room.
“I knew you’d like it,” Potter said when passing before Draco and mumbled, “Fucking Slytherin colours, aren’t they?” The prat disappeared behind the dark curtain of the fitting room, leaving Draco to swallow a snarky retort.
Potter’s feet were visible under the curtain and Draco wondered vaguely why he needed to remove his socks, of all things. But, since it was a regular occurrence, he didn’t say anything. With a frown, Draco watched the curtain wave, as if Potter had stumbled into it. Was he fighting a bloody dragon in there? He seemed to be, if the grunt that came out was any indication. Draco was slightly concerned about the treatment he made the clothes suffer, but what worried him the most was that, from the outside, it didn’t appear like Potter was dressing at all.
He tore his eyes from the scene, horrified, and walked a few steps towards the counter. He needed visibility. It wouldn’t do his image any good if people thought he was treating himself to some sort of decadent activities in the fitting rooms with Harry Potter.
“How are you, Lynda?” He asked the shop’s manager conversationally.
The fifty something woman smiled and gave him a warm look. “Oh, don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. How are you doing?”
“I’m alright, it’s been a busy month, as you know.” Draco replied.
Almost as much as The Boy Who Lived to Destroy Fitting Rooms, the woman had been a great help in Draco’s success. She had introduced him to several créateurs and she made a point of presenting him the new collections first hand. More often than not, she let him go about the shop unsupervised and she never failed to hand out his professional card to every new customer. In return of such gratuitous generosity, Draco tried to bring her as much clients as possible.
He grinned. “I think we’re almost done,” he said.
“I can see that,” she nodded and smiled broadly. “Look at this cutie pie!”
Draco followed her gaze and saw that Potter was out of the fitting room. Draco left his spot by the counter and took the time to admire his work.
Cutie pie wasn’t the expression he would have chosen to describe the picture he made. The outfit was well fitted and showed off Potter’s solid frame. Standing straight with his hands on the hips, Potter exuded confidence. He was smiling widely and Draco couldn’t help but notice the faint flush on his cheeks. His eyes were shining an electric green, made lighter by the shade of the shirt, and his hair was even more tousled than usual. Merlin help him, it did look like Potter had wanked in the fitting room.
At the thought, Draco felt his blood rush, inconveniently, to his bits. He shook his head to clear the naughty image from his mind as he closed the distance between his client and himself.
“So? Do you like it?” Potter asked expectantly.
“The outfit is all right, Potter. It’s almost a shame it’s wasted on you,” Draco said in his practiced drawl.
The bloke grinned as if Draco had given him a compliment and the breath stuck in his throat.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to wear the sleeves, though, you duffer,” Draco said and closed the distance between them. “I don’t even know why I try with you,” he muttered.
Draco took his time to fold the sleeves up Potter’s elbow. Not because he wanted to feel Potter’s breath on his cheeks for as long as possible—no, that would be crazy!— but because linen was a delicate fabric that deserved to be treated with patience and respect. And if his fingers brushed against the soft skin of Potter’s forearm from time to time, well, it was purely accidental.
“There you go. Presentable, at least.”
When Draco looked up eventually, he found Potter staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite place. His cheeks were an endearing shade of pink and he was chewing lightly his bottom lip. Merlin, but Draco wanted to bite this lip.
“Thank you, Draco.”
Coming back to his senses, Draco swallowed and stepped back. He blinked a couple of times before saying, “Alright, now let’s see if I can find something to hide that unsightly face of yours.”
“The best-looking Bachelor of Wizarding London, my arse!”
Spying on Potter’s love life through the gossip section of Witch Weekly wasn’t exactly what Draco had planned on doing this morning but, in his defense, the article was seven pages long. Draco couldn’t, for the life of him, focus on the fashion pages when Potter was winking at him, looking rather well-shagged, on the coated paper of the magazine.
“Of course he’s dressing better than ever; I’m his personal stylist, you moron.”
Draco was plenty aware the “Man Who Lived” was handsome. He could recognise the outfits in the pictures (most of them had been his doing) and a warm sort of satisfaction settled in his gut when he saw that Potter hadn’t mismatched them, much.
Draco kept on reading. Really, he didn’t care for Potter’s weekly schedule, but since someone had bothered researching, he could as well offer a bit of his time. It was not as if he was snowed under with assignments, anyway.
Now, the next assumption was ridiculous. Suddenly—because he was disappearing every Friday night, was suspiciously dressing better and better, had been seen leaving Coquelicot with sumptuous bouquets of various flowers several times, and refused to answer any question about his love life—Potter was in a relationship?
That was foolish and the reporter’s superior would hear about it. There was no way Potter was seeing someone. Draco would know about it, right?
Except that he wouldn’t. He and Potter never talked about their personal lives and, if the Prophet hadn’t indulged in a fifteen page article about Potter’s sexuality a couple of years ago, Draco wouldn’t even know he batted for both teams.
And he couldn’t deny the evidence.
“So then, you’re seeing someone, Potter?” He asked the next picture with a bitter taste on his tongue.
Picture-Potter was laughing, a slight blush on his cheeks, exhibiting dimples as if oblivious of the consequences it could have on the readers. He was holding a beautiful bouquets of blue roses. Eleven roses. Draco couldn’t explain why, but his heart ached.
“And flowers, Potter, really? It’s preposterous and old fashioned, you should know that.”
Draco threw the magazine to the farest corner of his office.
He needed coffee. No, he needed firewhiskey. No. He needed coffee, spiked with firewhiskey. Merlin, he wanted this day to end, so that he could go to bed and hide under the covers until the end of the year.
Draco jerked his head and frowned. He wasn’t expecting any clients for at least two hours.
He removed his reading glasses and folded them, then rose to his feet. He smoothed the fabric of his waistcoat, and checked in the mirror that his ponytail was still immaculate. Satisfied, he called, “Come in.”
It was Potter. Of course it was Potter. Always showing up at the wrong time, as though Draco had the ability to summon him by thought. It wouldn’t have been the first time it happened.
Visibly oblivious to Draco’s anger, aimed in his direction, Potter flashed him a grin and stepped inside his office, closing the door behind him. “Hullo, Malfoy,” he said in a cheerful tone. “The front door was open so I let myself in.”
After a necessary recovery time—it was always a bit of a shock to meet Potter unprepared— Draco said, “Good morning, Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The man’s grin widened as he handed Draco a steaming paper cup. Draco raised a teasing eyebrow and Potter’s face slowly turned a lovely shade of pink.
“Vanilla macchiato. It’s for you,” he mumbled.
Draco refrained from asking how Potter knew his favourite drink—it must be common knowledge at this point. The bitter, invitingly warm aroma of the coffee made his heart race for some reason but he ignored the jolt of electricity that ran through his spine as his fingers brushed Potter’s when the cup changed hands.
“You’re welcome,” Potter said as he walked passed Draco and threw himself in the visitor’s armchair in front of his desk.
“I’m infinitely grateful for the coffee, Scarhead,” Draco said, feigning politeness. He gestured towards the seat Potter had already taken and added, “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Potter chuckled and Draco shook his head on his way to his own chair. He sat down after he vanished an old cup of coffee with a swift flick of his finger and put the steaming cup on the coaster. Potter’s impossibly green eyes met Draco’s above his glasses, making his heart skip a beat. Draco made a mental note to make an appointment to see the cardiac specialist in St-Mungo’s and ignored the weird feeling. He took the reading glasses from the desk and put them on, in what he expected to be a professional gesture.
“What do you want this time, Potter?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “As you know, I am busy, please make it quick.”
Potter giggled, for no reason, and Draco wondered if he wasn’t under the influence of one of Weasley’s hilarity charms.
“Sorry,” the prat cleared his throat. “I’d like to make an appointment. Two, actually.”
“Couldn’t you Floo call?” Draco frowned and added mentally Did you need to come in town? Do you have someone else you want to visit, after me?
“No, I wanted—” Potter waved a shifty hand. “My Floo is under repair at the moment.”
Draco adjusted his glasses and glared at Potter. “Very well, let me check my schedule.”
He made a show of taking his datebook out of the upper drawer of his desk and checking through the pages. They both knew he was always available when it came to Potter’s sessions, but there was nothing wrong in keeping appearances.
Draco arched an eyebrow in a silent question.
“Oh, right,” Potter said, fidgeting, “It’s for the Remembrall Fundraiser. Would you– Would you help me find an outfit?”
“Sure. When is it?” Draco asked, waving his quill.
“In a month and a half, and there’s no theme this time.”
Draco nodded curtly. “Madame Passepoil is booked for the next two weeks, but a client of mine cancelled. Would this Thursday, six pm, work for you?”
“Yeah, it’s perfect!” Potter’s face broke into a grin.
“Excellent.” Draco scratched Mrs Miller’s appointment and wrote ‘Scarhead, Remembrall, 6 pm, no theme’ at Thursday’s section. He looked up to see Potter chewing his nails and raised an eyebrow. “You mentioned a second appointment?”
“Oh! Er—” Potter stammered. “Business meeting at the end of the month. The Spain subsidiary, I have to present the new Nimbus.”
“How many persons?” he asked, browsing through his datebook.
“Just the salespersons, I don’t know, twenty?”
“Alright,” Draco nodded sharply and stopped to an empty spot. “Is Saturday, the thirty-first, five pm, okay for you?” Draco asked in what he hopped was a professional tone.
“The one in two weeks?” Potter asked.
“That exact one,” Draco nodded.
Potter’s eyes widened and a slight frown creased his forehead. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
“Very good.” Draco said and wrote the appointment down the book.
“And I was thinking,” Potter hurried to add as Draco closed his book. “Maybe we could go to that Muggle shop again? I liked the suits there.”
Draco agreed, “I’m surprised you’re able to produce ideas at all, let alone decent ones, Potter. Good for you!” He opened the book again and added ‘I want what you have.’
When Potter laughed in response—a bright, loud and endearing laugh—Draco distinctly heard his heart crack.
“Brilliant!” Potter said, looking as if Draco had announced there will be two Christmases this year.
“Was there something else?”
Potter opened his mouth and closed it a few times, as if attempting to impersonate an especially ugly Grindylow. Then he said eventually, “Nope, that’s all.”
“It’s settled, then.” Draco frowned and waved towards the door. “You can go.”
That was when Potter had risen and turned to the door that Draco remembered the magazine, probably still open on the faulty pages, ready to betray him at any moment.
“Wait, wait,” he exclaimed.
Potter stopped on the spot and turned slowly. His cheeks were pink and he had a foolish smile on the lips, making Draco’s heart race once again.
“Your collar is misput,” he jumped to his feet and hurried to close the distance.
“Yes. I wouldn’t want anyone being seen poorly attired leaving my office. It’s not good for the business.”
Purposefully ignoring Potter’s stare, Draco lifted his hands towards the man’s neck. For some reason, the bloke had thought that wearing silk on a weekday was the do thing, but Draco wasn’t one to complain. He had always loved touching silk. And the fact that this silk was warm from Potter’s very neck added somewhat to his pleasure. At some point, Draco’s fingers slipped, and he wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for Potter’s jerk. He had a skin the softness of silk. Except that it was immensely hotter, and touching silk had never caused to Draco’s blood to rush into inappropriate places.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t removed his hand. All he knew was that, under his fingertips, Potter’s blood was rushing. All he knew was that, millimetres from his other hand was Potter’s stubble, and he was craving to know if it was as rough as his neck was soft. All he knew was that Potter’s mouth was inches from his own, and if he hadn’t gone crazy yet, he would swear that he could feel Potter’s breath on his own lips.
He couldn’t even hear the tiny voice yelling that he shouldn’t do it, because of the deafening bump-bump of his heart resonating in his eardrums.
He had just to…
Draco looked up and met Potter’s somehow half-closed eyes behind the hideous round glasses.
He cleared his throat and took a step back.
“We’ll need to have these glasses fixed at some point,” he said. And he was proud of himself, because he was pretty sure his voice had sounded firm and confident. Everything he didn’t feel like, right now.
Potter blinked a few times before croaking, “Oh, sure. Yeah.”
Draco opened the door, the cold metal of the doorknob a welcome contrast to the warm of Potter’s skin from moments before, and waved Potter out. Once the footsteps weren’t audible anymore in the long corridor of the shared building, Draco closed the door, and leaned against it. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to calm down in deep, long breaths.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the magazine taunting him.
He vanished the magazine with a flick of his hand, traded the thin framed spectacles with the warm cup on his desk and threw himself in the same armchair Potter had occupied. He took a sip of the sweet mixture and, closing his eyes, he cleared his mind. He refused to think of what Potter was playing at.
As irritated as Draco had felt during the three days since he had last seen Potter, it was hard to maintain a pretence of anger when the man was jumping and laughing around, excited like a kid visiting Zonko for the first time.
“Oh!” Potter exclaimed for the thousandth time since they had entered the boutique, two hours earlier. “Look at this! Do you think I’d look good in it?”
“Yes, you,” Draco started, and paused, lost in Potter’s wide smile. Never had Draco seen him in this state of excitement while shopping. As contagious as Potter’s mood was, Draco couldn’t suppress a pang of jealousy as he wondered what was making Potter so happy. “You’d look handsome in pretty much everything in here, Potter,” he said, waving an annoyed hand. “It’s Madame Passepoil’s magic.”
Potter beamed and Draco’s heart stopped a few beats.
“But, actually, you don’t want to wear this to the fundraiser. It’s too close to what you were wearing to the Ministry Yule ball. People remember these kinds of things,” Draco explained.
Potter nodded and put the outfit back on the rack.
Fifteen minutes later, he was trying on a full seven-pieces set of robes in his favourite colour. Draco secretly hoped Potter wouldn’t like this one, because they had already put three outfits aside and at this rhythm they wouldn’t be out of the store before the actual date of the gala.
Potter usually wasn’t that picky when choosing formal outfits. His tactic generally consisted in buying the first one he tried, and that was the reason Draco always took his time before making Potter try anything on. Draco wondered what made this occasion special to Potter, and ignored the funny twist his stomach made. After all, Potter hadn’t mentioned the necessity to match outfits with a mysterious date, so it had to be a good sign.
“It’s so soft!” Potter exclaimed from behind the curtain of the fitting room.
“It’s elf-silk, you moron, what did you expect?” Draco rolled his eyes for the sole profit of Margaux Passepoil who was gazing at him with a smile on her lips.
Draco imagined Potter had shrugged his answer—shrugs composed half of the man’s replies, somehow—and resumed his shameless foot watching.
When Potter opened the curtain, Draco had to hold his jaw tight to prevent it from dropping onto the floor. The man was stunning. The modern cut of the waistcoat did wonders to his chest, and Draco felt the urge to pull on the thin golden chain running across his stomach. The dark red trousers did look incredibly soft and Draco could only regret the cloak hid the man’s arse, because that was a sight he would have killed to see right now.
“So? How do I look?” Potter asked, biting his lip and staring at Draco with an impenetrable look.
Draco bit his lip hard. “You look fine,” he lied in a cold tone.
Potter nodded slowly, his gaze lost in the distance. “Okay, one last.”
“Potter,” Draco complained. “You already have put four outfits aside. They are all immaculate and all say ‘I am the Saviour of the Wizarding World but haven’t forgotten how to have fun’ to the perfection. What more do you need?”
“I just—” Potter stammered, “I just want to try the blue one. It’s the last, I promise. If I don’t like it I’ll take this one.” He pointed to the very first he had tried on, to Draco’s irritation.
“I thought you didn’t like the buttons on the blue one,” he replied in his best drawl.
Potter’s eyes shifted to his right and he shrugged. “You never know until you try, right?”
Draco let out a throat noise he wasn’t proud of and fetched the dark blue set of robes that would have been his first choice if the prat hadn’t discarded it right away.
“The last one, Potter, I don’t have all night,” Draco warned as he handed the hanger.
When Potter’s knuckles brushed his own, Draco let out a inaudible whine. It was time this session ended.
There was nothing more excruciating than watching Potter try on formal robes, and Draco always dreaded those sessions. For each new outfit he put on, Draco couldn’t help but imagine which set of formal dresses he would pick from his own closet if they were to present together to the mundane event. They would look bloody stunning together, as far as he was concerned.
And Draco knew—he knew—he wasn’t being professional when his thoughts wandered on Potter that way, but he couldn’t help it. There was more to his attraction, it always had been. There was something that made his stomach flutter every time Potter laughed at something he said. Something that made his chest ache when Potter looked upset. Something that made him want to squeeze the man tight and never let go. To snuggle at night against his warmth, to whisper things into his ear, to wake up next to him.
And Draco was doomed, he knew he was. Because Potter was a client, and even if he weren’t, he was Potter, and Draco didn’t stand a single chance, he never had.
All he had ever managed when Potter was around was making a fool of himself. So, naturally, when Potter called him for help from behind the curtain, Draco did something really stupid. Something he would regret later.
“What is it, Potter?” Draco smirked playfully, once he closed the curtain behind him. “Forgot how to shut your flies?”
“Aha, very funny,” Potter answered. He had put the trousers and the shirt on, but the dark waistcoat was hanging open and he looked rather dishevelled, even in Potter’s standards. “No I—” He stammered, “All these bloody buttons are killing me.”
It shouldn’t have made Draco’s blood flush to inappropriate places. It shouldn’t. But Draco was only human and Potter was standing close to him, his clothes half undone. And the fitting room was small. Very small. And it was getting hotter and hotter by the second. There was limits to one’s control, even Draco’s.
“Well?” Potter asked, making Draco start.
Draco shook his head and cleared his mind. He was a professional, for Salazar’s sake!
“Sorry I was trying not to laugh at you,” Draco managed to say with a composed face.
Potter chuckled and the sound echoed in Draco’s ears for a long moment.
He took a step forward.
“These are old style buttons,” Draco started as he reached for the two hanging sides of the waistcoat. “They are numbered seventeen because this kind of robes is traditionally offered to young men when they become of age,” he started to tie them from the bottom. “Of course, the designs have evolved throughout the years, so that it never get old fashioned,” he said as he drew his path through the row of buttons on by one. “The one you’re wearing is a typical Bettany design, and this,” he said and traced the thin silvery chain with his fingertip, “is Madame Passepoil’s trademark.”
Draco didn’t know why he had started babbling. Perhaps it was to distract himself from the task at hand. Perhaps sharing such a private and small place with Potter was getting onto his nerves. Perhaps it was the ambient heat that had made him lose his mind. Perhaps it was to elicit Potter’s sharp breath every time his fingers brushed against the thin shirt. Perhaps it was the flushed look on Potter’s face. Perhaps all of it.
On second thought, there was something even more excruciating than watching Potter trying on formal robes and it was helping Potter try on formal robes. His hands were shaking and it made the actual task of tying the buttons incredibly long and difficult. Potter himself was getting agitated, and Draco wondered if he was made nervous by Draco’s proximity.
When, after a fashion, Draco managed to complete the task, Potter stopped breathing. Draco could tell, because he had been focused on the irregular movement of his chest for the last few minutes.
He had no idea what the proper etiquette was after one had finished tying one’s impossibly attractive client’s buttons in an impossibly confined, and steaming hot, space. One thing he was sure, though, having an erection wasn’t part of it.
When Potter put a firm hand on his forearm, Draco’s eyes widened and he let out a gasp.
All of a sudden, those forest-y eyes were looking at him—through him. His slightly crooked glasses were fogged up, and Draco was positive his heart stopped the moment they locked gazes. Potter was devouring Draco with his eyes as if he was a fucking treacle tart and all of the blood definitely left Draco’s brain.
Someone moaned—and fuck, Draco hoped it wasn’t him.
Potter’s lips were slightly open and red, as if he was still biting them seconds ago. A small, pink, tongue ran tentatively along Potter’s lips.
Draco wondered what it would be like to bite that tongue. He wanted to lick that tongue. He wanted that tongue on him, everywhere. Anywhere.
Merlin, Draco needed out. He needed to get out before he could embarrass himself any further.
He stepped back as far as the tiny fitting room allowed and said, in a husky tone, “Alright. You can do the rest on your own.”
Before he realised it, he had pulled the curtain open and jumped into the refreshing air of the shop. He let out a shaky breath and went to sit on the couturier’s stool.
Once his breathing rhythm was back to normal, he cursed himself mentally; He could have spelled the buttons. Bloody hell, why hadn’t he thought of spelling them?
After—Draco was sure—longer than strictly necessary to put on the formal cloak, Potter shuffled out of the fitting room, looking endearingly flushed. Merlin, was the man actively trying to kill him?
“So?” Potter asked in a lower tone of voice than usual, making Draco shiver all over.
Draco hummed appreciatively. Fuck, he had never found Potter more attractive. His heart tightened.
“Do you like me?”
Draco’s blood stopped. “What?”
“I said, do you like my outfit?” Potter asked, frowning.
“Oh, yeah, it’s nice. You should buy get this one, in my opinion,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his.
An indecipherable look lingered on Potter’s face as he ruffled his hair.
“So, which one are you buying?” Draco asked, ignoring the sound of his pulse, loud in his ears.
“Oh, I think I’ll take this one,” Potter replied, a crooked smile on his lips.
“Very well. I’ll let you take care of—” Draco waved towards the whole form of Potter and continued. “—this, while I get everything sorted with Madame Passepoil. I will see you in nine days.”
“—and it’s yet another beautiful goal by McKinnon! She’s on fire tonight, I tell you what!”
Cheers erupted around the terraces, and Draco cheerfully joined the enthusiasm of his fellow Puddlemere supporters.
It had been a while since the last time he went to see a match with Blaise, and the final Canon–Puddlemere match of the season had seemed like the perfect opportunity to meet with his friend on a Saturday night. That, and any distraction would be more than welcome to keep his mind off of his new obsession. Not that he had big hope on the matter.
Ever since the fitting room incident, Draco’s brain had been the site of a furious battle. The opposing forces; the logical, sensitive party and its vicious, seductive twin.
One side—the one that spoke loudly and reminded Draco of McGonagall—argued that the Saviour of the Wizarding World could not possibly be interested in him that way. After all, not long ago, Potter despised him. But on the other hand... He didn’t really hate Potter anymore, did he?
Not to forget that mysterious flower person. The Prophet made sure Draco missed none of Potter’s purchases. Lilacs last week and irises this Sunday. Draco couldn’t help the tightening of his chest every time his mind fluttered on that ground. But, now that he thought of it... Potter did bring him his favourite coffee. It must count for something, mysterious flower person be damned!
Additionally, Potter was a client, and a Gryffindor on top of that, and Draco was pretty sure there was some line in the Gryffindor handbook that explicitly forbade any sort of relationship under a working agreement. But… There was no denying Potter was acting oddly around Draco.
All the sidelong looks Draco had caught, all the times Potter’s fingers lingered just a tad too long on his, probably weren’t what the handbook recommended. He outright refused to think of what it meant about his own feelings, but the hopeful voice in his head was getting harder and harder to ignore.
Of course, it didn’t help at all that whenever he tried to clear his mind, he could hear Potter’s warm, gleeful laugh.
He was shoulder deep in the popcorn bucket—he had taken note to owl the inventor of such delicious treats as soon as he would be home—when Blaise elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“What is it, Zabini?” Draco asked, irritated.
“Look,” Blaise pointed towards the other side of the pitch. “Isn’t that Potter?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. He could, indeed, see a spectacled black-haired man among the Canon supporters. The man was wearing a horrible orange scarf.
“It’s him, right? With the scarf,” Blaise said, joyfully. “Never figured him for a Cannons supporter.”
“Give me that,” Draco demanded as he tore the Omnioculars from Blaise’s hands.
Draco set the device at full zoom and searched through the crowd.
“The moron, as if the Cannons stood any chance,” Blaise chuckled.
It was Potter, on the other side of the pitch, wearing a Muggle suit with that awful tiger scarf—as if no one had ever taken the time to teach him the basics of colour matching. The prat was laughing and, through the Omnioculars, Draco could see the shadows of his dimples. Unable to suppress a wide smile, he felt hot all over.
Draco’s grin, however, fell short as he noticed the man at Potter’s left.
He was apparently the reason for Potter’s laughter and, try as Draco might, he could find no trace of Potter’s usual pride. Nope, not a lion in sight. Only the handsome stranger, who had an arm around Potter’s shoulders and didn’t seem interested in the match in the slightest.
“Fuck!” Draco spat and shoved the Omnioculars back to Blaise.
“What did I do to deserve someone as thick as you?” Draco muttered. “Probably something in another life, because surely, whatever I’ve done in this life isn’t reason enough to have to deal with you and your stupidity.”
Potter frowned and adjusted his horrid glasses. “What’s the matter, Malfoy? That was mean, even for you.”
Draco’s jaw contracted on its own. “The matter, Potter, is you closing all the buttons of your jacket once again, even though I keep telling you the lowest one must be left undone. And as if that wasn’t enough, the sleeves of your shirt are all wrong, again. They have to stick out from the jacket; I don’t know in what language you expect me to tell you. Fashion is an art, you can’t just show up and decide all on your own. There are rules.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Potter said, as he pulled out the cuff of his sleeves at last. “You’ve been all moody the entire meeting, you’ve barely talked to me, and the only things you said were meant to be hurtful. Spill it, Malfoy.”
Draco didn’t answer. There was nothing wrong. If Potter wanted to appear on every Foxy Goblin publication, waving to the paparazzi, looking flushed and fucking happy as he left someone’s fladt, he had every right. If he wanted to bring handsome strangers to Quidditch matches and laugh whilst they have their arm around his shoulders, Draco was perfectly fine with it.
“Is it something I said?”
“It’s nothing, Potter. Turn around.” Draco adjusted the string of the grey waistcoat at the small of Potter’s back in a quick motion.
“Something I did?” Potter asked over his shoulder.
“Or rather someone,” Draco muttered to himself. He took the black and silver belt that was hanging on his shoulder and gave it to Potter, who started to pass it through the loops of the trousers. Louder this time, he said “You can do whatever the fuck you want Potter. Everything is fine.”
“I said it was nothing, now shut the fuck up.”
Draco handed the irritating prat the Richelieus they had chosen and stared as he bent to put them on.
He could remember the first time he had escorted Potter to this very Muggle shop, as though it was yesterday.
“Not everyone is you, Draco! I can’t go round wearing a waistcoat!” Potter said.
That day, for the first of numerous times, Draco’s chest tightened at the sight of Potter . Of course, he looked incredible in the grey, three-piece suit they had chosen, but the look on his face had been priceless. It made Draco felt like he was important, like he was worthy of admiration. It had filled Draco’s heart with warmth, and the feeling hadn’t left him after that. Come to think of it, it was probably the day Draco should have put an end to it. It would have saved him time and pain.
“It’s perfect,” Draco spat when Potter had finished dressing up. “Your ‘clients’ will be over the moon,” he grumbled.
“Huh? What d’you—”
Draco didn’t bother listening. He was already busy negotiating his usual ten percent discount with the man at the counter.
Once Potter had paid the bill, Draco took his leave. “I’m so glad you could take time out of your busy social schedule to make it to our appointment, Potter. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, handing him the bags.
Potter grabbed his hand. “What—What are you talking about?”
Draco froze at the warm fingers and felt his jaw tense.
Then, understanding flashed behind the glasses, and if Draco hadn’t been so pissed off, he would have appreciated Potter’s comical expression. “You haven’t been reading the papers, have you? Merlin’s knickers, you have! You know they’re complete rubbish, right?”
Draco yanked his hand free and rubbed his wrist. “What I do with my time is none of your business, Potter.”
“Draco, I— I don’t—” Potter stammered, menthe-à-l’eau eyes wide open. “I’m not seeing anyone. The flowers were for Molly, and I‘m not visiting random flats every week, the Prophet made that up. I’m not seeing anyone.”
Ignoring the funny twist his stomach made, and deciding he would not think about what could possibly motivate Potter to tell him that, Draco shrugged. He tried to maintain his composure face and raised an eyebrow in what he assumed was a failed attempt at indifference. “Whatever, Potter.”
Then, he left Potter on the spot and walked resolutely towards the front door.
“Wait. Draco, wait!” Potter called.
Draco stopped, groaning, and slowly turned to face the man, his hand already on the door knob.
“Do you—Have you managed to fit me in for the glasses thing?” Potter asked, pointing stupidly to his spectacles.
“Yes. Tuesday, 3 pm,” Draco snapped and opened the door.
“Alright and—I’d like– Do we see each other for the gala? I mean, for the fitting.” Potter stammered, his cheeks looking pinker and pinker as he rubbed his neck.
Draco shook his head and said curtly. “Madame Passepoil will do the last adjustments.”
“Do y—Okay. Fine. See you Tuesday.”
It was not fine.
Groaning in frustration, Draco thrust his head under the spray of the shower.
Potter spent so much of the Occulus Reparo: The best glasses in Wizarding Britain session invading Draco’s space, touching him at every occasion, fucking whispering in his ear, that Draco had ended up wondering whether they were having a glasses fitting session or a bloody date.
When he closed his eyes, Draco could still see Potter’s smirk when he had asked if Draco found him attractive. It was the purest and sexiest smile Draco had ever seen and he had been tempted to show Potter how attracted he was.
In the heat of the moment, Draco hadn’t thought much of the question. After all, Potter regularly asked how Draco found him during the fittings. But now that he was alone with the scalding hiss of the water for his only company, a horrifying thought occurred to him. What if Potter knew?
The weird looks, the blushes, the increasing stammering. All of this would make perfect sense if he had grown embarrassed by Draco’s fondness. But that was stupid. If Potter knew, he would have called their arrangement a stop as soon as he had known.
But, if Potter didn’t know, what was he playing at? Was that how he acted with his friends? Did they become friends, somewhat, during those three years without Draco noticing? Surely you had to inform the other party when you became friends with someone. And Draco most definitely had not been informed.
And anyway, Draco could barely handle a professional relationship with Potter without making a fool of himself. Frankly, he was lucky Potter didn’t ask why Draco preferred the round frames, earlier that day. If they were to go to the Three Broomsticks—or Fortescue, or Madam Puddifoot, or whatever friends did these days—he would be busted before their drinks even arrived. No, Potter and Draco weren’t friends and would never be.
So, if Potter didn’t know about Draco’s feelings, and if he wasn’t acting out of friendship, what the fuck was he playing at? And why had he felt the need to deny the articles in the Prophet the other day?
The only reasonable explanation that came to Draco’s mind was absurd. He dismissed the disturbing thought as he turned off the streaming flow of the shower. Lost in his thoughts, he had the vapour invade the cubicle. Absent-mindedly, he drew a pattern in the misty glass of the walls, and before he knew it, he had written Potter’s full name, and his own, intertwined in fancy curves.
He frowned and wiped it away with the side of his hand.
“Fucking Potter!” He said to the flask of shower gel.
Draco’s erection had hardly flagged since Potter had closed his hand around his wrist earlier at the shop, and if anything, the heat of the shower had accentuated it. He groaned in surrender and coated his fingers with the apple-scented gel.
Massaging the soft curls of his pubic hair, he closed his eyes and conjured his favourite fantasy.
Potter’s hands tentatively reached for him from behind and, before he knew it, they were on his chest, tickling, stroking, teasing. When Potter’s strong fingers closed around his erect nipples, Draco shivered.
He could almost feel Potter’s warmth on his back.
Shuddering as the torturous bubbles ran down his groin, Draco let out an imploring whimper. Potter’s hands left his chest and ran over his stomach, making the muscles tense. The touch of the palm finally closing around Draco’s length sent jolts of relief through his whole body.
Lost in the sensations, Draco let himself fall apart under the delicious back and forth of Potter’s expert fingers. Eager to meet the solid shape behind him, he arched his lower back and a moan escaped his throat when he felt the heavy presence between his cheeks.
A deep groan echoed in his mind as he leaned into the touch.
Stilling the regular movement of his wrist in favour of lower pleasures, Draco spread his legs. As he played with his bollocks, he heard Potter whisper in his ear, sending shivers all the way through his spine.
He could hear, feel, Potter’s breath in his neck when one, then two tentative fingers breached him, sliding in without resistance.
Potter was in him, groaning and moaning Draco’s name, lost in his own pleasure. Draco saw stars at every thrust and felt his legs shake as Potter entered him again and again, his hand still delightfully working his length.
I love you, Potter’s imaginary husky voice said, and Draco came in delicious, life-draining jolts with Harry’s name on his lips.
Draco was done.
He was done with Mrs. Nester and her stupid requests. Done of the bleaks walls of his office, of his chair that was actively trying to break his ribs. Done of the incompetent barista Le café d’en bas had hired. But most of all, he was done mooning over a man he would never have.
Witch Weekly had a field day exploring the potential dates Potter could bring to the fundraiser in this week's issue and, shocker, Draco did not feature among the seven aspirants. He should have laughed at the article—because really, some of the newspaper’s assumptions were risible— but instead, his stupid throat shrunk and his fucking lacrimal gland betrayed him.
His unrequited feelings in the direction of Potter were getting ridiculous, and Draco made the decision to get rid of them, one way or another. As his mind ventured towards the idea of an anti-love Potion, he heard a soft knock on the door. He gulped down the last of his coffee, grimaced at the bitterness on his tongue and rose to open the door.
His heart dropped when he found himself face to face with Potter, of all people. The man was beaming as if the sole sight of Draco made his day brighter, and the spontaneous reaction of Draco’s body made him feel very tired, all of a sudden.
“Potter. What do you want?” He snarled.
“Hullo to you too, Malfoy!” said Potter gleefully, as he walked past Draco and into the office.
Draco rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him.
Potter was facing him, dimples all over his stupid smiling face. He looked like something straight out of Draco’s dreams. His nose was slightly wrinkled, as always when he was amused—a piece of information Draco could have very well done without—and his eyes shone a stunning shade of emerald behind the brand new glasses.
Draco crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
“Oh,” Potter said, as if remembering Draco’s question. “I just wanted to show you this.” He shook a shopping bag Draco hadn’t noticed. “Madame Passepoil finished early, and I thought maybe you’d like to see the result.”
Draco waved an irritated hand. “As much as I appreciate you coming to my office unannounced to present me my own work, which I already know is immaculate, I am fairly busy, so if you could hurry up…”
Draco would have loved to say he was glad to see Potter’s smile fall, but his whole being disagreed.
“Please,” he invited softly, before swearing loudly, in his head. What was wrong with him? He just decided he would try and move on, for fuck’s sake!
Oblivious, Potter grinned and took the outfit out of the elegant bag in a fluid motion. As Potter explained the numerous alterations Madame Passepoil had done, holding the robes up to his chest and talking all too fast for Draco’s liking. He found himself staring at Potter’s lips.
“—and, that way, I’ll wear my dragonhide boots. Not the red ones, I was thinking, but the last pair we bought.”
“Huhu,” Draco answered for the umpteenth time.
This time, though, Potter seemed to take the hint and stopped talking. He shoved the outfit back into the bag—causing Draco a minor heart-attack in the process—then rubbed his hands on the denim of his jeans.
They stood there, facing one another, for longer than was strictly comfortable before Potter broke the silence. “Also, youfreeturdaythird.”
“What?” Draco asked, before reaching for his hair self-consciously.
“I wanted to ask—” Potter cleared his throat. “—if you were free Saturday the third.”
Draco frowned. Never before had Potter asked for an appointment that ahead of time. “Let me check,” he said, reaching for the notebook in the drawer of his desk. The page of the third of May was blank. “I am free. What is it for?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve read this week’s Witch, but they’re not entirely wrong about something. I don’t have a date yet,” Potter babbled, getting redder and redder. “And I was sort of hoping that—I don’t know, it could be a first date or something.”
Draco snorted. He had no intention whatsoever to help Potter hook up with someone. But there was nothing he could refuse to the man who was looking at him with big, expectant eyes. “Sure,” he said reluctantly.
“Brilliant!” Potter said, beaming as if Draco had invented hair potions.
Draco bent over his desk and wrote down Potter’s appointment. “I guess you’ll want matching outfits?
“Oh, yeah, matching outfits would be awesome,” Potter said a little too high-pitched for Draco’s eardrums.
“Wonderful,” Draco said, letting the last syllable linger on his tongue.
He closed the notebook and straightened up.
Potter was smiling cheekily, dimple-y, and Draco could swear some sort of humming sound was coming from him.
“Brilliant!” Potter repeated.
Draco raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged and said, “I’m really glad you could make it,” before lifting his hand to his neck.
Draco nodded and said, in his most professional tone, “It’s my pleasure.”
Potter was biting his lip, nervously rubbing his neck now, and Draco wondered what kind of internal debate he was witnessing before remembering that he didn’t care.
“And I’ll also probably need a couple more outfits for work, in the meantime,” Potter went on quickly before adding; “If it’s not weird.”
“Why would it be weird, Potter? That’s literally my job,” Draco answered.
“I know—it’s just—if we—nevermind. If you’re cool, I’m cool,” Potter said.
Giving up on understanding Potter’s indecipherable babbling, Draco rolled his eyes and waved Potter through the door.
Except Potter didn’t move. He was looking at Draco, still biting his bloody lip. His glasses were askew and he was staring a little below Draco’s eyes.
And then, to Draco’s astonishment, he took a step forward, reducing the space between them, and Draco realised that Potter had been staring at his mouth this whole time.
Draco dropped his hand and let out a shaky breath.
The jade eyes darted to his lips, flashing a bright shade Draco wasn’t even sure existed.
Draco felt his whole body stiffen. The blood throbbing in his ears was screaming Potter’s name.
“Potter, what are you—” Draco started, but the end of his question was lost as Potter took another step forward.
Draco could smell the rich scent of Potter’s cologne now, mixed with something a little more masculine, something a little more Harry. Draco’s head started spinning.
Potter’s hand was brushing against Draco’s, and an alarm went off in his head.
Potter’s chest was moving unevenly, inches from Draco’s own erratic chest. Potter’s face was impossibly close to Draco’s, and his eyes were still fixed his mouth.
Draco self-consciously wet his lips with a flick of his tongue and he heard Potter gasp.
Then, before he could ask what in Merlin’s pants was going on, Potter’s lips crashed to his and Draco’s world stopped.
It wasn’t that much of a kiss, what with Potter’s teeth moving dangerously close to his and Draco frozen on the spot. But he still found himself leaning into it and felt disappointed when Potter broke apart.
Draco’s breath was short as he looked, astonished, Potter’s cheeks cover in red.
“I’m sorry! That was—Sorry I—I’ll owl you, okay?”
And Potter had Disapparated before Draco even had the time to close his gaping mouth.
Draco stared at the crumpled piece of parchment.
What’s up? Harry. it said.
Not hello, not goodbye, no explanation for that out of the blue kiss that left Draco unsure of his own name. And, to think, the twat waited two fucking days to owl that!
Not wanting to waste proper parchment when Potter clearly hadn’t bothered, Draco wrote his reply on the blank side of the letter—if one could call this three inch by three inch bit of worn parchment a letter.
It was probably what Potter considered the polite way to deal with Draco after the disastrous lips-on-lips incident. If the look on Potter’s face, the fact that he Disapparated away before Draco could say anything and the utter silence since then were any clues, Potter considered that kiss a mistake. He possibly even felt guilty for it. He probably wanted to check that he and Draco were on the same page.
Which they were. They totally were.
Same as usual, he wrote. How do you do? What can I do for you?
There, perfect, he thought as he finished appending his signature to the bottom. It was the right degree of formality and politeness that would let Potter know everything could go back to normal and that the kissing–incident was long forgotten.
He attached the missive to the owl’s outstretched leg, gave him a stroke on the beak and sent him back to the sender. Then, he set about sorting out his files, ignoring the feeling that hadn’t left him for the last two days and kept making him want to scream.
Soon, the reply arrived.
I am brilliant, thank you!
I wanted to know if I could stop by and talk for a bit?
No wonder the twat never owled. His handwriting was barely readable, he had even left several stains over the worn parchment.
Draco frowned, humming thoughtfully. The fact that Potter had actually asked before showing up hadn’t escaped his notice. He concluded that Potter must be nervous after the incident, which wasn’t surprising.
Draco took his quill and wrote his reply on the back of Potter’s note.
I’m away from the office. What do you want?
It wasn’t technically a lie, Draco thought as he glanced at his watch. He was already late for this afternoon appointment.
He sent the owl back to Potter, and left his office without waiting for the reply.
When he came back after a particularly long session with his second to biggest client, he found the tiny owl patiently waiting for him on his desk.
“How long have you been out here, huh?” Draco asked softly, stroking the bird’s neck. He conjured a bowl of water, gave it to the owl, and slowly untied the new letter.
I’m thinking of a proper first date before the gala, maybe on Saturday, what do you think? And maybe you could help me pick an outfit.
Draco snorted loudly, making the owl jump. He cast a vanishing spell on the water that spilled out of the bowl and rolled his eyes.
Now what, Draco was supposed to give Potter advice for his first date with that random person? Draco’s chest tightened at the thought and he wondered, one more time, what the fuck Potter was playing at. Maybe he had been under a Confundus charm.
He choked back his tears and wrote his reply, ignoring the owl that flew onto his shoulder and was gently nipping at his ear.
That’s perfect. I have an opening Friday at 9, will that work for you?
The answer came in no time at all and was even shorter than the previous.
Great! I can’t wait!
It was unsigned, but the prat’s handwriting was unmistakable. There was yet another stain after the last word. If Draco squinted a little, he could almost imagine it was heart shaped.
He crumpled the piece of parchment before setting it on fire.
It was hard. It was harder than Draco had imagined.
But Draco was a damn good professional and he would not let his feelings get in the way of his job.
“For the thousandth time, Potter, if you don’t tell me what this date is about, I will have trouble helping you find the right outfit,” Draco grumbled.
“And I told you, it’s a surprise,” Potter answered, grinning.
Draco rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous, it was not as if Draco was about to go and tell everything to Potter’s date. It was not Hogwarts anymore, not to mention he had better things to do. And he didn’t know who the bloody date was, anyway.
“What about this? Do you like it?” Potter asked, handing a grey embroidered waistcoat to Draco.
“I do, Potter, and it would look fantastic on you,” Draco said, before slapping himself mentally. Fantastic, now? What the fuck was wrong with him? Ignoring Potter’s stunning smile, Draco continued, “But it may not suit every situation. Waistcoats are not the most comfortable, as I’m sure you know.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Potter said,winking.
Draco groaned and did his best to keep his snarky comments to himself, as Potter went about the shop, picking a shirt, trousers, and a belt.
“What about shoes?” Potter asked the shoe rack, rubbing his freshly shaved chin—not that Draco had noticed.
“Well,” deadpanned Draco, “You definitely want to wear some. I’ve heard that’s the done thing nowadays.”
Potter exploded into laughter and Draco should have felt self conscious about the noise he was making in a respectful establishment, but he found himself smiling stupidly instead.
“I mean,” Potter said once he had recovered his calm. “Should I get new ones?”
Draco sighed. “Depends, Potter. You have plenty of nice shoes, but your date may be impressed by the effort.”
“Oh, I definitely wouldn’t want to disappoint my date,” laughed Potter before bloody winking, again.
Potter handed the clothes to Draco and as he rummaged through the racks, Draco wondered how this had become his life.
A few moments later, Potter emerged with two pairs of shoes, one in each hand, and a smile larger than Draco’s wand. “Which ones?” He asked cheekily.
“How would I know?” Draco asked, rolling his eyes. “These.” He pointed towards the Oxfords in Potter’s right hand. “Would be perfect for a dinner in a fine restaurant. While these,” Draco pointed the pair of brown derbies. “Would be more fitted for a picnic, for example. But you see! I can’t do my job, since you won’t tell me.”
“Hu-hu, digging for clues, aren’t we?”
Perplexed, Draco answered in the form of a frown.
Potter put the derbies back on the rack and walked towards the fitting room. “But don’t you dare make assumptions, okay?” He exclaimed, waving the shoes.
Draco let out a throat sound that was definitely not worthy of a gentleman, but he was beyond caring at this point.
As Potter fought against the clothes behind the curtain, Draco busied himself with looking at the Nouvelle Collection of bow ties, trying not to think of Potter’s naked arse a few feet away.
He was studying a Potter-green one when Potter startled him by speaking directly into his ear.
“You would look bloody stunning with that,” Potter said.
Draco felt his ears heat up and cursed himself for not noticing Potter’s arrival.
“But,” Potter added. “I’m not sure it would go with my outfit. You should go for this one instead,” he said, pointing to another bow.
Draco frowned and put the bow back onto the rack before asking. “Why in Merlin’s name would I—”
“And anyway,” Potter interrupted. “I’m not taking you to that posh a restaurant,” he laughed.
As Potter turned on the spot, showing Draco the outfit, realisation dawned on him.
One after another, Potter’s enigmatic sentences started to make sense.
“What? What did I say?” Potter asked in a worried tone.
By the time Draco recovered his voice, Potter had gone an endearing shade of red and had started biting his lip nervously.
“Taking me?” Draco asked. “To a restaurant? You and me?”
It was Potter’s turn to gawp. “Well, if you’ve changed your mind we can—”
Draco didn’t let him finish his sentence. He closed the distance between them and threw his arms around Potter’s neck.
“I haven’t,” he said and kissed him.
Potter’s lips, surprised at first, then enthusiastically inviting, felt like honey. Draco’s throat made an embarrassing sound but he couldn’t bring himself to care, because Potter’s warm hand had fallen to the small of his back, pulling him closer. When Draco slid his fingers through the soft nest on Potter’s head, he moaned and the sound echoed right through Draco’s groin.
When they finally broke apart, panting, Draco felt his ears heat up.
“Now that was a kiss,” Potter said, grinning.
“Was it? Let’s try again, just to be sure.”
“Are you sure that’s what they have in mind?”
Harry was standing in the entrance of the fitting room, looking down at the Muggle suit he had tried on.
“Now, who’s the expert?” Draco teased, and moved closer to fix the fall of Harry’s jacket. “This is perfect.”
“I’m just saying,” Harry replied, brushing Draco’s hand with his fingers as he pulled on the hem of the jacket. “I’d rather we wear robes.”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten the dress code? Hermione would kill me,” he said, before narrowing his eyes in worry. “Or worse; she’d punch me in the face, again.”
Harry laughed brightly and slipped a hand behind Draco’s neck, pulling him to a kiss. “No, she won’t. She’ll be too busy saying I do and making sure Ron is behaving to even notice us.”
Draco snorted, before kissing Harry on the cheek. “There will be photographs. She will notice. And this nose won’t survive a third visit to St-Mungo’s,” he warned.
“Fair enough,” Harry said after a bit, smiling. “It’s just that I don’t feel comfortable going to a Wizard wedding in a suit. But maybe it’s this one. I really liked the Saint-Laurent; it seemed more suited to a wedding. I liked the design, you know? More modern. And I’m sure we can affix a wand holder into the sleeve,” he said in a fast pace. “Look at this! Merlin’s beard, Italian cuts are ridiculous!” he said, pulling on the sleeve. “And seriously, you’d think—”
Draco crashed his lips to Harry’s, shutting him up. Taking advantage of Harry’s enthusiastic response, Draco leaned in, lining up their groins. As Harry let out a moan, Draco pulled on his hair and ran his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip.
“Wha—” Harry gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm, nothing,” Draco hummed around Harry’s lip. “You’re hot when you talk fashion.”
“Draco, there are people here,” Harry whined when Draco closed his lips around his earlobe.
“No there aren’t,” Draco whispered in his ear.
“No there aren’t,” Harry repeated before capturing Draco’s mouth with his.
As Draco’s hand wandered down Harry’s torso, undoing the buttons of his jacket, Harry let out a shaky breath against Draco’s lips, “Fuck, well done Draco, now I want you. I hope you’re proud.”
Draco chuckled and teased, “Hmm, what are we going to do about it, huh?”
Harry’s eyes were smouldering as he slid a firm hand around Draco’s waist and pulled him into the fitting room.
“Oh, I see,” Draco said, following him and pulling the curtain shut after them. “Too eager to Apparate,” he drawled as he helped him out of his jacket and waistcoat.
Draco felt hot all over as Harry unbuttoned the top of his shirt and crashed his mouth on the skin of his shoulder.
Draco had the presence of mind to cast a Muffliato with a flick of his hand, before working Harry’s flies open. Then, he shoved the trousers and the pants down Harry’s legs and bit back a groan. “You know,” he started, nibbling at Harry’s ear.
Harry moaned and Draco turned him around, pinning him, chest flat against the thin wall.
“I’m thinking,” he breathed into Harry’s neck, and grinned as he felt Harry shiver under the touch.
As Draco drew a path of wet kisses down his neck, Harry arched his lower back and groaned.
“You could wear nothing at all,” he breathed into Harry’s ear. “For the wedding. It should fit that bloody dress code.”
Harry giggled and Draco dropped onto his knees.
Draco placed a firm palm on each of Harry’s cheeks and pressed his mouth against the furled hole. As he worked Harry open with the flat of his tongue, teasing and sucking, Harry made a succession of mewling breaths that went straight to Draco’s groin.
Draco mentally thanked Merlin for Muffliato Charms.
“Oh God, Draco, stop,” Harry cried not long after Draco had slipped a second finger in, stroking the sensitive ball of nerves as he continued to play his tongue along the loosened rim of muscle.
Draco removed his fingers with a pop and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before rising to his feet.
“I’m ready, fuck me,” Harry said in a husky vice, reaching blindly for Draco’s flies behind him. “Fucking now,” he added, whining.
Draco made a quick work of his flies and cast a lubrication charm before coating his length.
“Ever so needy,” he said as he lined up.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry gasped as Draco entered him in one slow motion.
Once settled, Draco let out a low groan from the back of his throat and dug his fingers into his boyfriend’s hips. Overwhelmed by the sensation of Harry around him, Draco forced himself to count backwards from twenty, in mermish, to prevent from coming straight away.
”You can move now,” Harry breathed after an excruciatingly long moment.
Draco let go of his grip on Harry’s hip and reached for his erection. When he shuddered under the touch, Draco clenched his teeth.
Lost in Harry’s warmth, he started to move, each stroke shooting waves of raw delight through his spine.
“Fuck, I love you,” Draco whispered, more to himself than anything.
Harry groaned, before hitting the wall with his fist. “Hn—Draco, yes!”
Draco’s name in Harry’s mouth had went right to his guts, sending jolts of pleasure on its path. Still running his fingers along his length, Draco slid his other hand under Harry’s open shirt and when Harry’s fingers intertwined with his own, Draco bit back a moan.
“Fuck Draco, yes right here!” Harry cried, making Draco lose what little control he had left.
Falling apart, he started rutting desperately, whispering nonsense in Harry’s ear.
“I love you,” Harry groaned, clenching around him.
Draco saw stars as he let the pleasure take him.
After limbs were untangled, cleansing charms cast, hair put back into place and suit neatly folded, they Disapparated to their living room.
“One thing is certain, though,” Harry said, putting his own clothes back on. “We won’t have something as stupid as a ‘Muggle chic, Magical twist’ dress code at our wedding.”
Draco blinked several times. “Our Wedding?”
Harry flashed him a stunning grin. “If you’ll have me, of course.”
After a short recovery time, Draco pulled Harry by the waist. Then he said, punctuating his words with random kisses on Harry’s face, “That is—the worst—proposal—I’ve ever heard of.”
Breaking apart after a few minutes, Harry asked cheekily, “Is that a yes?”
“Of course, you prat,” Draco said and started to undo the buttons of Harry’s shirt for the second time.