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The Dinner

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I. Apertif

It was a strange thing that happened, the way Draco felt pulled to the small wooden door, tucked beneath the staircase of a stone cottage in the small French village of Convoit.

He’d been trying to beat the sunset, walking along the cobblestone road to the Chateau where he would be staying that night, when he saw the door. Le Billet Doux, said a painted red sign hanging from the staircase. Below it, réservations non requises: ‘no reservations required.’

The smell of something warm and buttery wafted from the chimney, and while Draco had originally planned to eat up at the chateau, he suddenly decided that some local charm would be just the right thing to round out his overnight trip.

Draco stepped inside and waited by the hostess stand beside the door. The restaurant was a cozy room with low ceilings, packed with tables of different sizes and mismatched chairs. A large fireplace burned in the corner with a fat black cauldron atop it. Most of the tables were empty, though a couple of hags sipped digestifs of a ruby red cordial beside the fire, and a warlock in a cloak crouched over a tureen of soup. Most notably and loudly, was a communal table off to the side, with half a dozen witches and wizards, laughing raucously and shouting at each other in French.

The doors to the kitchen swung open, and a tiny witch hurried out, with dark olive skin and hair tucked into the tightest chignon he’d ever seen, her arms laden with baskets of bread and butter. She rushed toward the community table, but smiled at Draco, calling, “Un instant s'il vous plaît, monsieur.

Behind her, catching the door with a large hand, was the maître'd; in wool trousers and a waistcoat, his blue sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Harry Potter.

A jolt traveled the length of Draco’s body at the sight—that spark of recognition at seeing his childhood nemesis pouring wine for French villagers. But it was surely him—the same round glasses; the scar above his left eye; his hair as wild as ever, now a distinguished salt and pepper; a five or six or seven o’clock shadow masking the laugh lines that had become wrinkles on his cheeks.

He was beautiful.

Draco saw the same spark of recognition travel through Harry when he looked up to see Draco standing by the door. He looked as if he was trying to hold back a grin. Draco lifted his hand in a weak wave. Harry put the bottle down on the table, and followed the waitress to the hostess stand.

“Table for one. Une,” Draco said, addressing the small woman.

“Make that two, Emilia,” Harry said. “If that’s alright with Monsieur Malfoy.

Oh?” Emilia said with a thick French accent, turning halfway to push a menu into Harry’s chest. “You’re going to take your dinner with this gentleman and leave me to attend to the rest of the house myself? And I suppose he will be dining gratis et sans service?

“I’ll double your wages for the evening,” Harry said.

Merveilleux.” Emilia turned back to Draco with a bright smile, then motioned with the menus to follow her. “Right this way, Monsieurs.”

Emilia led them to a table in the back, tucked cozily beside a spiral staircase. Harry pulled a chair out for Draco.

“I beg your pardon, Potter,” Draco said, looking down at the proffered chair.

“Sorry,” Harry laughed, stepping back to sit in the other chair. “Force of habit. I’m used to seating my guests. Which you are. My guest.”

Draco sat down and took the menu that Emilia had dropped on his plate before rushing off to help the large table.

“You know, I never agreed to let you dine with me,” Draco said, looking at Harry over the menu.

“Oh! I—er, would you like me to leave you alone?”

Draco stared at him for a moment, watching a blush rise in his cheeks.

“I’m having you on. It’s actually strangely nice to see you,” Draco said finally, truthfully.

“It’s actually strangely nice to see you, too,” Harry said. “I think it’s been a month since I’ve heard an English accent.”

“Well, I’m glad I can provide you such a home comfort,” Draco said drily. His robes were bunched beneath his legs and behind his back, and he wondered if it would be rude to remove them now that they were already seated.

“Wine!” Harry said suddenly. “I have some reserve in the back, but Emilia doesn’t know where it is. Stay right here. I’ll be right back. I’d Summon it, but magic affects the wine. Hold on.”

There was something sweet in how earnest Harry was about Draco staying put. He seemed worried that Draco—this small connection to his home—would spook and flee if left unsupervised.

“I have nowhere to be but here.”

Harry hurried back into the kitchen, so Draco used the moment of privacy to remove his robes and hang them from the hook beside the table. He was much more comfortable in his dark grey shirt.

Harry returned with a bottle of wine and a bread basket. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, pulling a corkscrew from his pocket and opening the wine, “but I put in an order for us while I was in the kitchen.” He poured a few drops into Draco’s glass.

Draco took a sip—it was a heavenly Cabernet—and nodded to indicate it hadn’t turned. Harry filled his own glass, then Draco’s.

Harry lifted his glass. “What should we toast?”

“How about, to nearly thirty-five years of surviving one another?”

Harry barked a laugh. “Should I be worried about this wine?”

Draco cocked his head to the side. “You’re the only one who’s handled it. Which would suggest that I should be the one who’s worried.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, raising his glass higher, “I promise that I, Harry James Potter, will do everything in my power to ensure you leave this restaurant alive.”

“Cheers to that.” Draco clinked his glass against Harry’s and took another luxurious sip.

“So, erm, how did you end up here, by the way? Did you come to see me?” Harry ripped into the baguette in the basket, steam coiling between them.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Draco scoffed. He took a piece of the bread and a pat of butter. “I’m here on business. And if I recall correctly, you’re the one who had a habit of tracking me, not the other way around.”

Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically, smearing butter onto his bread. “And what business would that be?”

“I appraise antiques. Artifacts. And I broker sales for particularly interesting ones.”

“And there was a particularly interesting one here in Convoit?”

Draco sighed, remembering the frustration that coloured his trip so far. “Unfortunately, no. I had hoped it was one of the only remaining dowsing rods in existence, but it was a fake. A glorified metal detector.”

“That’s sounds… disappointing?”

Draco chuckled, distracted for a moment by bite of bread in his mouth. Warm, the butter perfectly salted. He swallowed. “A bit, yes. Though I feel that your presence is the more interesting one. How did did you end up here?”

“I think you might call it an impulse purchase.”

“You impulsively bought a bistro?”

Harry shrugged and leaned back in his chair, wine in hand.

“And are you happy—” Draco meant to ask if he was happy with his purchase, but he was cut off as Emilia placed a porcelain crock of onion soup in front of each of them, cheese crusted over the top and around the sides.


II. Le Potage

“Le Potage,” she said before turning away to attend to the other guests.

“I hope you like it,” Harry said, gesturing toward the soup. “It’s one of Philippe’s specialties. My chef, Philippe. Emilia’s father.”

“She must love that, having two fathers to boss her around.”

The colour drained from Harry’s face, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “That’s over and done with,” he sputtered defensively. “I don’t know how you knew about that, but Philippe and I aren’t together anymore. It was just a short fling. She’s not my step-daughter. And if that’s why you think I bought the restaurant—”

Draco nearly choked on the broth in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, holding his hand up to stop Harry’s ranting.

“I didn’t mean anything other than she probably sees you as a fatherly type. I didn’t even know you were gay.”

“Oh,” Harry said, a flush replacing his former pallor. “Well. I am. Mostly. Yeah.”

“Your divorce, then? That’s why you ended up running off to France to have affairs with French chefs and buying restaurants—or was it all a standard midlife crisis?”

“Those are a lot of personal questions from a bloke I haven’t seen in half a decade.”

Draco tried to remember the last time they saw each other, and his stomach tightened at the memory. Harry in all black robes, his hand on Albus’s shoulder. Albus and Harry had shared the same stoic expression: the same look of determination, the same bright green eyes. Draco had his arm wrapped tightly around his own son, feeling the sobs quaking through Scorpius’s body as Astoria’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

Scorpius and Albus had remained close—perhaps even grown closer—since Astoria’s death. But, despite the accord he and Harry cultivated—deliberately, and with great personal sacrifice—Draco and Harry hadn’t spoken since he’d left the graveyard that cold autumn afternoon.

Draco felt suddenly defensive. “I don’t suppose you’re blaming me for the five years of silence.”

“Draco,” Harry said suddenly, seriously, reaching across the table, putting his hand next to Draco’s knife, “I want to apologize.”

“What?” Draco looked up from where he was twisting the cheese from the top of his soup.

“I’ve been, I’ve been thinking about it for years. Every single time Albus mentions your son, I think about how I should reach out—how I should have reached out.”

“Potter, you don’t need to—”

“No, I do. It’s so strange that you’re here now, that you came in here, it’s almost like I willed it to happen. I’m trying to move on with my life and make things right, and we were getting somewhere, we were really about to be friends, I think, and then your wife passed, and I just—I’m so sorry, Draco, really.”

It was shocking, really, that Harry took this all so seriously. Draco was sure his apology for cursing the wench at the Three Broomsticks wasn’t half as sincere. Of course, Draco was hardly eighteen at the time, and the apology was court mandated. But still. Not writing to your nemesis-turned-child’s-friend’s-parent for a few years was hardly a criminal offense, yet Harry seemed rather tortured by it.

“You have nothing to apologize for, truly. But you are forgiven. If it helps.”

“It does,” Harry said. Draco could see tension leave his body. He’d seemed so keyed up when he saw Draco, and suddenly he was at ease. Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really want to know how I got here?”

“I’m not Rita Skeeter. I have no interest in getting you to divulge your secrets for reasons of schadenfreude or gossip. But if I’m completely honest, I’m at something of a crossroads myself. Scorpius is about to leave Hogwarts, and I’m not sure he really needs me in the way he once did. There’s something rather fascinating about seeing a peer navigate this next chapter in such a unique way.”

“You consider me a peer?”

Finished with his soup, Draco placed his spoon next to the crock. “For my entire life, you are perhaps the only person I’ve ever considered a peer.”


III. Le Plat Principal

Emilia collected their bowls, and Harry refreshed their glasses.

“I think I knew my marriage was over right after Lily left for Hogwarts. We weren’t staying together for the kids or anything. We were just so focused on them, and on our careers, and we were such a great team. We were always on the same page and we were good friends, and neither of us really seemed so bothered that the sex tapered off. Sorry, is it alright if I, erm, talk about that? About my sex life? And men?”

Draco held back a snort and smiled into his wine glass. “I’m no prude, Potter.”

Emilia arrived with two plates of steak frites—each with a small petit filet, dripping with butter, and crisp shoestring fries next to tiny glass cups of ketchup and mayonnaise.

“We cook them in duck fat, by the way, the chips,” Harry said, dipping a single chip into both of the sauces, “they’re insane.”

“Please,” Draco gestured for Harry to continue his story, slicing into his steak. It split with ease, revealing a perfectly pink medium rare.

“Anyway, things were kind of—they weren’t the same anymore with Ginny. We’d both changed a lot, in good ways, but I just felt like there was something missing once the kids were gone. And I wanted, sexually, I wanted—well, anyway. Ginny, she was up for this huge job. She’s the editor-in-chief of Quidditch Quarterly now, and she was so focused on it and when she got it she was so thrilled. Really, truly elated. Happy as she’d been when she was playing for England, really. And then about two months later, Hermione asked me to head up DMLE. Instead of being happy about the promotion, I just felt this sense of dread. I just would wake up in these cold sweats like I was back in the war. I was petrified. I signed my new contract and vomited straight into a waste-paper bin. It was awful. It took Hermione and Ron—they sat me down and they got it out of me: I hated working for the Ministry once I wasn’t in the field and... y’know. I was questioning if I even wanted to fuck women anymore.”

“Did you like it before, then?” At Harry’s look of surprise, Draco laughed and corrected himself. “I meant did you like being an Auror?”

Harry chewed a bite of steak, smiling and nodding before he swallowed. “Oh, absolutely. Being in the field, chasing leads, that moment when everything came together and we’d know we’d just stopped someone from hurting people. It was everything I’d always loved doing, ever since I was a kid. Ever since I thought your arse was involved in something nefarious and wanted to get to the bottom of it. But then, y’know, I got promoted. Head Auror. And I was in the field less and less, and doing more and more paperwork which I have no patience for, and then when I got DMLE—I mean, I was supposed to go before the Wizengamot and take an oath to uphold the international statute of secrecy for the ‘protection of wizards and muggles’, and I just thought, y’know, I don’t even give a rat’s arse about the statute. Magical law? I mean, c’mon Draco, in thirty-five years when have I ever cared about what the rules are?”

Draco’s felt a warmth in his chest, thinking of the many times he’d tried to catch Harry in an act of lawlessness, only to have his efforts backfire. He allowed himself a half smile, silently chastising his young self for hurting Harry whenever he found him amidst these investigations.

“If memory serves, Potter, never.” He took a sip of wine, letting it wash over his tongue as he thought for a moment. “Did you consider saying no, though? Staying with the Aurors instead of taking the promotion?”

“I guess I realized at that point that when I was head Auror, I was already so entrenched in the Ministry and DMLE, it didn’t make much of a difference. And listen, it’s not like it was when we were kids, y’know. Hermione has done amazing things for the government, and I really think they’re doing more good than harm these days, overall. But it’s not me. And being married to Ginny, in our empty nest, none of it felt right. I was just sort of going through the motions, do you know what I mean?”

“I think I do. I sometimes wonder—about myself, if, besides maybe the first few years when Scorpius was small and Astoria was in good health, my entire life hasn’t been just a series of going through the motions. When I was growing up, I had certain expectations on me. That I’d be a good little Pureblood, that I might become some sort of lobbyist or minister, that I’d uphold this kind of—” he waved a hand, “—dignified wizardry that was meant to be my birthright. And I spent my entire time at Hogwarts carrying on that tradition. I don’t know if I really cared about anything, besides that all-consuming envy of you.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Oh come off it, Malfoy.”

“No, I’m serious, Potter. I was intensely jealous of you, of how easily everything came to you. Professors, friends, Quidditch. I sat on a broomstick every day of my life from the age of four on and yet there you were, the youngest seeker in a century. Why do you think I was always so obsessed with seeing you get your comeuppance? And after the war, I trotted along into my arranged marriage and I was lucky, because I fell in love with my wife, and I cared for her so very deeply. But without her, I feel that I’m back to where I was. If I’m lucky I’ll see my son a few weeks a year, but the rest of the time I think I’m just sort of existing.”

“Existing, yeah. That’s exactly how it felt. Existing.”

“So what did you do? How did you end up in Convoit?”

“Where was I? Ron and Hermione, right. They staged this sort of intervention. I thought Hermione wanted to talk to me about the job, about my swearing in, and I went to my office, and there was Ron, too. So I knew something was going on. The whole thing was very—well, I’ll say there’s no one else in the world who could have gotten me to open up about all that. It call came spilling out. I thought Ron would be more upset about the marriage stuff since he’s Ginny’s brother, but he was totally supportive. Didn’t want me to hurt her by staying if I wasn’t happy. So I took a leave of absence, and Ginny and I separated, and I decided to see the world.”

“See the world, like a spoiled teenager? So it was a midlife crisis.” Draco smirked, laying his fork and knife angled off his plate, picking at the last few of his chips.

“Oi!” Harry held the wine bottle above Draco’s glass, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully an idle threat that he wouldn’t pour. Draco held his gaze.

Harry grinned after a moment, and emptied the bottle for Draco. He shook his head. “Actually, it was something that I’d never considered when I was young. Never thought that kind of thing was for me. But—well, do you know anything about Dumbledore’s life? He was supposed to take this Grande Tour with his friend Elphias Doge after Hogwarts—”

“Yes, I read Lovegood’s biography. And Skeeter’s, unfortunately.”

A strange look crossed Harry’s face, something between shock and pride. He licked his lips. “Yeah, well, I tracked down some records and I took the Tour that Dumbledore missed. And I ended up here.”


IV. Le Fromage et Le Salade

Draco had once heard that a good waiter was invisible. He couldn’t say for certain whether it was Emilia’s skill or how enraptured he was in the conversation with Harry, but at some point, their empty plates had vanished and been replaced with a small frisee salad with sliced cherry tomatoes, pieces of ventreche bacon, and a mustard-seed dressing. In the center of the table was a round wooden pallet with half a dozen different cheeses, accompanied by a second baguette, though this one was pre-sliced and baked into small toasted disks.

Draco realized, of course, there was no good way to eat frisee without looking like a buffoon, which immediately made him wonder why he cared. Certainly, saving face in front of Potter was as crucial an endeavor as ever, but now it simply wasn’t a matter of not embarrassing himself. Rather, at some point during the meal thus far, he had decided he wanted Harry to see him as desirable.

Oh, oh no.

It’s just because you found out he’s queer, he admonished himself, stuffing a forkful of greens into his mouth. You don’t have to chase every man you see. This is Potter, dammit.

He washed the salad down with the wine. “Why, though? Why Dumbledore’s path?”

Harry frowned. The first time he looked unhappy since his apology over soup. “That’s… I don’t think I’ve had enough wine for me to explain why I felt the need to finish what Dumbledore couldn’t, but—”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I brought it up first, it’s just…”

“Complicated?” Draco offered. “Which cheese do you recommend?”

“Oh!” The now familiar jovial Harry had returned at the change of subject. “All of them. I actually buy all the cheeses myself, and these ones, okay, going counterclockwise,” he prattled on, explaining the region and aging of each cheese.

There was part of Draco that wanted to scratch that itch, to pick to apart why it was that even in his pseudo-retirement, even a quarter century after the war, Harry was still reckoning his relationship with Dumbledore, but he supposed it wasn’t really his business. Not to mention, there was a bigger part of him, the part that inhabited his chest, and now his crotch, that found itself terrifically excited at seeing Harry… terrifically excited.

When Harry had finished and they each had spread a bit of Roquefort on a piece of toast, Draco said, “So you ended this great, worldwide adventure in here in Convoit. And you just… saw a For Sale sign?”

Harry laughed and nodded, wiping a crumb from his mouth with a thumb. “Essentially. I ate at that community table, and I ended up talking almost all night to the little old woman who owned the place. She was lamenting how she wanted to go to Paris to be with her great grandchildren, but she didn’t have the money and she was afraid if she sold the restaurant, someone might come along and change it. So I just said, ‘I’ll take it.’ And I promised her I’d keep it exactly the same. That was three years ago, and I think I’ve done a pretty decent job keeping it up. It’s popular enough with the locals, and, sometimes we get very, very lucky and a magical antiques broker from the UK will stop in.” Harry was looking at him, his smile soft, the firelight bouncing off his glasses, making his eyes appear to dance.

“I think I’m the lucky one this evening,” he said.


V. Digestif

“What makes you say that? Oh, two glasses of the Rémy, s'il vous plaît.” Harry looked up at Emilia as she cleared away their salad dishes and empty wine glasses. He stared back at Draco, leaning forward a bit expectantly, those deep laugh lines more apparent than ever.

“Free meal, of course,” Draco drawled. “And the conversation was not entirely unpleasant.”

Emilia returned with the cognac.

They both swirled and sipped, a silence settling between them that was simultaneously comfortable and tense. Draco felt like Harry was watching him, studying the way he drank—or at least Draco hoped he was, hoped this feeling that something profound was about to change between them was mutual.

“Where are you staying tonight?” Harry asked.

Perhaps Draco wasn’t imagining things after all. “I have a suite at the Chateau.”

“You know what’s funny, I have lived in Convoit for three years, and I’ve never set foot inside.”

Draco took a long sip of his cognac, letting it burn his throat and warm his belly. “I think it’s time we remedy that.”


VI. Le Dessert

Instead of a bill, Emilia placed a small parchment bag, sealed with a rampant lion stamped into scarlet wax and the word merci written in Harry Potter’s signature chicken scrawl.

“Those were my idea, too,” Harry said with a proud smile as the he and Draco stood from their seats.

Draco shrugged his robes back on and slipped the satchel into his pocket, beside his wand and the key to his room. Harry asked Emilia to close up, then led Draco out of the restaurant and onto the road outside.

It was dark now, the only light from a single gas street-lantern and the stars and crescent moon above, the only sound the singing crickets and their boots clicking on the ground. They walked silently toward the Chateau, the light and the village retreating behind them. Harry pulled his wand, lighting it with a whispered “Lumos,” and Draco tried to ignore the fluttering of his insides in anticipation of what lie at the end of the road.

“Feels like a Beedle tale, doesn’t it?” Draco said. “Walking along a moonlit road, seeking the solace of the castle in the distance.”

“I’ve always wondered how much truth there was in those tales.”

“I’d reckon next to none.”

“You think?” Harry said. “You don’t believe in the Elder Wand? The Cloak of Invisibility?”

“Oh, very funny, Potter. Bringing up that wretched cloak of yours. The bane of my childhood existence.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Go on, then,” Draco drawled.

“The Elder Wand is real, and you were once its master.”

Draco brought his hand to his mouth in a futile attempt to muffle his near explosive burst of laughter. “I think I need one more drink to have this kind of frank discussion about wands. Though I must say, that is quite the confident name for yours.”

Harry laughed, veering into Draco and bumping him roughly with his shoulder. “I’m serious! I was trying to share something with you. How do you think I defeated Voldemort?”

“Oh, I’ve read all the theories. Prophecy, chosen one, la la la. Please don’t tell me fairy stories figure, too.” Draco kept his shoulder pressed up against Harry’s as they continued forward, the Chateau growing larger, closer.

“Might do,” Harry smirked, shaking his head.

Le Chateau de Convoit was considerably smaller than Hogwarts, perhaps only four stories at its tallest tower, though considerably larger than the Manor. The light shining through the windows grew bright enough as they ascended the front steps that Harry was able to tuck his wand back into the pocket of his waistcoat. The doors swung open as they reached the top step to reveal an empty entrance hall, with a grand marble staircase leading up to the hotel in the west wing, and a restaurant in the east.

Harry looked around, his mouth open a bit in awe, much as they both had done that first night they’d taken the boats to over the Black Lake to the castle.

“Well,” Harry said, finally, through a lopsided grin, “I suppose I can say I’ve been to the Chateau now. Guess I’ll head back down to my—”

Draco didn’t let him finish—he grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn’t a deep kiss, merely lips against soft lips, still for a moment, then returned with warmth.

Perhaps it was the wine or the food or the cognac or the castle or Convoit itself, but Draco knew this was right—knew that Harry Potter wanted to be kissed by him, that this wasn’t a mistake or just his cock making decisions. His pull to Harry felt stronger than the pull he felt toward Le Billet Doux earlier that evening. As strong as the animosity between them since the day they met.

Harry pulled back, his lips pink, eyes glassy. “That’s a relief. I was beginning to think Scorpius had lied to Albus about your preferences.”

“Just because I prefer men, Potter, doesn’t mean I’d want anything to do with you. Glad to know your ego is just as inflated as ever.”

“I’ll show you inflated,” Harry said, and pulled Draco in for another kiss, strong this time, his mouth open against Draco’s, his hands tight against Draco’s sides. If it didn’t feel so good, he’d be almost annoyed at the fact that Harry had indeed succeeded in getting the attention of Draco’s cock, which was now half hard and straining against his tight trousers.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Draco murmured, “and we can discuss that Elder Wand of yours a bit more.”

Harry took Draco’s hand, threading their fingers together, gripping tightly as if he was, once again, wary that Draco would leave him behind. Draco worried for a moment that once they got to his room that things might become awkward, that their history would creep in and split the electricity between them.

He needn’t have, though. Once they were across the threshold, Harry pinned Draco against the door, kissing him gracelessly, running his hands up and down Draco’s chest, searching for the buttons of his robes. “Get these the fuck off,” Harry said breathlessly.

Draco pushed him back. “Slow down, Potter. There’s no rush.”

Draco caught a slightly wild look in Harry’s eyes before he dove in to kiss Draco again. “No,” Harry said against Draco’s lips, as he found the seam of his robes and began to unbutton them, “big rush. Waited too long. Years. Decades.”

Draco let his head fall against the wooden door as Harry moved lower, sucking on the pulse point at the top of his throat, working his robes open with impressive speed and dexterity.

Fuck.

As soon as Draco’s robes were open, Harry began a coordinated assault on the buttons of Draco’s shirt and the pulse point just behind his ear. Though he knew that there would be tacky little love bites to charm away in the morning—was Potter a damned vampire?—Draco allowed himself to luxuriate in a moment of being devoured. Being wanted. He heard himself gasp slightly at the feeling of Harry’s fingers on his skin, and the most embarrassing little moan escaped when Harry slid his hands under the fabric of his clothes, touching Draco’s chest and sides.

Draco thrust his hips forward, and—oh, oh—it felt amazing to have some friction against what was now a considerable erection.

“C’mere,” Draco said, bending his knees, he grabbed Harry just below the arse, and picked him up.

Harry made a shocked sound, but quickly got the idea and grabbed him by the shoulders, wrapping his lean legs tight around Draco’s hips. “Fuck, it’s hot that you can do that,” he breathed.

Draco made a gruff sound at the back of his throat and walked them to the king size bed in the center of the room, where he dropped Harry unceremoniously onto his back.

Harry grunted as bounced against the mattress.

“Strip, Potter.”

Grinning, Harry scrambled to his knees on the edge of the bed and started fussing with his own buttons, before giving up and wrestling his shirt and waistcoat over his head, where they got stuck, tangled with his glasses. “Fuck,” came Harry’s muffled voice from behind layers of fabric.

Draco, now shirtless, stepped forward to help him, pulling Harry’s clothes up and over his head, dropping them on the floor with his own discarded robes and shirt. Harry’s hair was somehow more mussed than usual, and his glasses now sat askew across his nose. Draco couldn’t help but return Harry’s pleased grin. He gently waved his hand and Harry’s glasses floated from his face to the bedside table.

“Impressive.” Harry raised his eyebrows at the feat, even as his eyes began to lose focus.

Draco had a height advantage in this position, a solid half-a-foot more than he usually had over Harry. He took Harry’s face in his hands, tilted it backwards, and pressed a kiss to each of his eyelids, finishing with a kiss on his lips.

Harry hummed softly in contentment, his eyes fluttering open.

“What do you like?” Draco asked, Harry’s head still in his hands, his thumbs stroking across Harry’s cheeks.

“Mmm. You. Inside me.”

Draco was certainly amenable to that. He kissed Harry again, long and slow, and Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, running his hands up and down Draco’s back, pulling him close so they were finally chest to chest.

Though they both sported a sprinkling of chest hair, what Draco mostly felt was skin. God, so much of Harry’s warm skin. He threaded his hands into Harry’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and pressed his hips forward, his clothed erection pressing against Harry.

Harry slid his hands between them and pulled the buckle of Draco’s belt free, then ripped open the button fly, pushing Draco’s trousers and pants down below his arse.

Draco broke the kiss on a low moan the moment his cock touched Harry’s belly. His hips bucked involuntarily upward, smearing precome across Harry’s skin. “Fuck, you feel good,” Draco murmured. They kissed again, Harry’s hands tight on Draco’s hips, Draco rutting ever so slightly against him.

Harry started kissing down Draco’s body once more, starting with his chin, his Adam’s apple, the dip in the center of his chest. He curled down and licked the head of Draco’s cock, then kissed it, sloppy and open mouthed. He let Draco’s cock slide all the way into his mouth, sucking lightly as it hit the back of his throat.

Draco’s hands were still tangled in Harry’s hair, and it took all he had not to push Harry’s head down, not to hold him in place, even as his hips continued their gentle thrusting. “Harry…” Draco knew Harry couldn’t look up from the position he was in, still kneeling on the bed, curled over Draco’s cock like he was worshipping it. Still, he wanted to see Harry’s face, to see his kiss-stung lips, his scar, his eyes, bright green as the day they met.

He reveled in a few more delicious bobs of Harry's head, so fucking wet and warm, before he tugged gently on his hair, summoning him off.

“Alright?” Harry's voice now had a grit to it.

Draco nodded and pushed lightly at Harry’s shoulders, and Harry fell back against the crisp white covers. Draco unbuttoned his trousers and was beginning to pull them off when–

“Wait.” Draco froze, and Harry wrestled a foil-wrapped condom from his front pocket, holding it up like the Golden Snitch.

“Do you always have one of those on you while you’re working?”

“I grabbed it when I got the wine. Call it a hunch?”

“That'll be five points for your cheek, Potter.” Draco pulled Harry’s trousers the rest of the way off in a quick movement.

“Or maybe it was wishful thinking,” Harry protested, scooting back on the bed.

Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and tossed it on the bed next to Harry, then stepped out of his own trousers and pants.

Draco crawled toward Harry, taking him in. His long legs. His cock, thick and straining red at the top. He had a bit of definition to his body, accentuated by the dark line of hair running under his navel, but he was still skinny, still had that seeker’s build. Draco wanted to cover him, to wrap him up in his arms and legs and keep him all for himself.

When Harry relaxed against the pillows, Draco began kissing up the inside of Harry's calf, one slow, wet kiss at a time.

Harry reached down to give his cock a slow stroke and watched Draco softly lick the softest part of his thigh. Harry's balls tightened almost imperceptibly, and he let out the softest moan.

“Gods, I want you,” Draco murmured against his thigh. He grabbed his wand with one hand and pressed Harry’s leg up with the other. “May I?”

“Please,” Harry said, breathless.

Draco murmured a cleaning spell, then guided Harry to grab behind his knees. Draco kissed around Harry’s cock, sucked lightly on the soft skin of his sac, then licked across his hole. His sweet, tight, warm hole.

Harry relaxed against the pillows, his head back, eyes closed, his mouth slightly open.

Draco continued to lick Harry’s hole, just lick and lick, he swirled his tongue around the rim, over and over again, just listening to the sound of Harry’s breathing, just reveling in being so close to him. He used his thumbs to prise open Harry’s arse cheeks, exposing his hole as wide as he could, and pressed his tongue just inside, swirling it around the rim and pressing it back in again and again and again, until Harry began to tremble.

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows, and Harry dropped his legs, letting them fall onto Draco’s shoulders. Draco kissed Harry’s knee, then pulled his legs down and climbed up to cover Harry's body with his own.

Harry grabbed Draco's head and pulled him down into a messy kiss, unconcerned by where his mouth had just been, trying to get his tongue as deep as he could into Draco's eager, open mouth. They lay like that for a while, kissing and rubbing their cocks against each other, Harry’s thighs squeezing Draco’s hips.

“Oh, fuck me,” Harry moaned finally.

Draco sat back on his heels. “Hold your hand out,” he said. He found his wand and squirted a generous amount of lube into Harry's proffered palm. “Get yourself ready.”

Draco tore open the condom and rolled it onto his straining cock while Harry sloppily rubbed lube all over his crack, letting his fingers slide inside to make himself wet.

With the condom on, Draco tried to calm his eager cock at at the sight before him, pressing down at the base. The candlelight from the wall sconces bathed Harry in a soft glow, and Draco thought if he wasn't careful, he could come from just watching Potter finger himself, before he even got a chance to get inside himself.

Harry wiped his hand on the bed, and Draco was about to make a snide comment about Harry's upbringing, his lack of manners, but he bit his tongue. He wondered, even with the joy of their good-natured ribbing, even with the sarcasm of their shared history, were some things too raw? Too far off limits?

“Alright?” Harry said, his knees wide, his hand lazily stroking his cock, just waiting for Draco to take him.

“I just want to wreck you,” Draco practically growled, diving forward to cover him. Draco kissed him, ran his teeth against Harry’s his lower lip. He felt his cock slide through Harry's slippery crack and catch against Harry's hole. He pressed forward, using his hand to hold his cock steady.

Harry arched and moaned loud and open mouthed as Draco breached him.

“Fuck, fuck you're so tight, Potter,” Draco said against his neck, thrusting slowly, all the way in.

“You're so big,” Harry panted.

“Do you like that?” Draco thrust again, hard this time, pressing Harry deep into the bed.

“Yes, fuck, yes, love your fat cock.” Harry was practically writhing now, surrounded everywhere by Draco's body, legs wrapped tight around him, fingers digging into his sides as he returned Draco's thrusts, rubbing his own leaking cock against Draco's hard stomach.

Draco fucked him, slow and smooth, trying to meet Harry’s mouth in open kisses but unable to catch it through the moans escaping Harry with each of Draco's hard thrusts. Gods, Harry liked it. He liked it so much.

Suddenly, Harry surged up, and for a moment Draco thought he was coming already, but before he could fully process what was happening, Harry had flipped them, and Draco found himself flat on his back with Harry releasing the most beautiful sigh as he sat back on Draco's cock, stroking his own without urgency.

What a gorgeous view.

Draco dug his hands into Harry’s thighs, feeling the muscles tense and relax as he slowly rode up and down Draco’s cock.

I love you, he thought.

Fuck, that wasn’t right. They’d had a bottle of wine and one conversation. They hardly knew each other.

But that wasn’t true either.

They’d known one another for three and a half decades.

They’d grown up together, seen one another at their weakest moments.

Draco remembered the second task of the triwizard tournament. How Harry, the idiot Gryffindor that he was, had attempted to save all the hostages. Draco had wondered back then, if he was down at the bottom of the Black Lake, would Harry have saved him? Or left him to rot with merpeople?

He thought about it a lot, especially during sixth and seventh year. Where was Saint Potter to save him now? Saint Potter didn’t care about the likes of Draco Malfoy. Only the Dark Lord cared. At least, that was the lie he told himself, over and over. Whenever he had to justify what he was doing, the horrifying choices he was making.

And then it happened.

Harry’s hand reaching down to him through the flames in the room of hidden things. More dangerous than the bottom of the lake, the stakes infinitely higher. And Harry had chosen him. Had thought Draco was worth saving.

Harry leaned forward, pressing his face into the joint of Draco’s neck and shoulder. “I’m close,” he breathed heavily into Draco’s skin, his lips wet.

Draco kissed his hair, the shell of his ear. “Come on me.”

Draco held Harry’s hips tight, placing his feet on the bed so he could buck up hard into Harry, matching the furious strokes of Harry’s hand over his own cock. He slid his hands back, gripped Harry’s arse cheeks wide—Gods, that tight, perfect fucking arse—fucking up and up and up into Harry.

With a deep, satisfied groan, Harry’s cock spurted ropes onto Draco’s chest, and Draco held him in place, grinding up, following him over the edge. Draco was coming and coming and coming to the sound of Harry’s voice right in his ear and his come, warm and wet between their bodies.

“Fuck,” Harry panted against Draco’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“Alright?” Draco said, catching his breath and running his hands gently over Harry’s back.

“Fuck,” was all Harry could reply. He rolled off of Draco, and threw the back of his wrist over his eyes, still struggling to catch his breath. His smile was wide, his laugh lines the deepest Draco had seen them. “Fuck.”

Draco laughed lightly, snapped off the condom and Vanished it, along with the come on his stomach. He waved his wand a final time to put out the candles in the room, so the only light that came through the window was from the moon and stars, shining just enough that Draco could still make out the contours of Harry’s face.

Eventually, they kicked the covers down, pulled them up, and rolled onto their sides, facing each other. Not touching, but both awake.

“We forgot the cherries,” Harry whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Draco whispered back. “And what cherries?”

“You have to whisper when you’re in the dark.” Harry’s voice was still low.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely. And the cherries, the little bag from the bistro. There are chocolate covered cherries. For dessert.”

Draco turned and reached backwards for his wand on the side-table. He pictured the tiny bag in his mind’s eye, remembering its exact location in his robes pocket. “Accio dessert,” he said. The bag zipped through the air and into his other hand.

“My mum used to send me chocolates at Hogwarts,” Draco said, breaking the wax seal and dropping a few cherries into Harry’s outstretched hand, “and I’d always hide them from Crabbe and Goyle so I could eat them in bed when I was feeling homesick.”

Harry had a tight-lipped smile as he chewed.

When they’d each eaten a few cherries—some with milk chocolate, some with dark—Draco performed a teeth-cleaning charm on both of them, before they finally drifted to sleep, fingers intertwined.


VII. Petit Déjeuner

The sun woke Draco up.

Harry snored gently on, lying in his stomach, his face propped on the pillow in the crook of his arm. Draco stretched his arms, then ran a finger over Harry’s spine.

Draco took a long, hot shower, and when he came out of the ensuite, a towel wrapped around his waist, there was a full continental breakfast on the small table by the window, with a steaming pot of coffee in the center.

Harry was sitting on the bed in a bathrobe, his hair as messy as ever, glasses magnifying his green eyes. He leaned lazily against the tufted headboard, clutching a porcelain teacup in one hand. “A house elf came by,” he said, smiling slightly.

“Join me for breakfast?” Draco gestured toward the table.

“I could be persuaded.” Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat down at the table while Draco found the other bathrobe in the closet, then sat down beside him.

They stared out at the green valley below while they drank coffee with cream and Harry inhaled a croissant or two.

When Draco reached across the table for jam, Harry grabbed his hand, frowning as he ran his fingers over the long thin pink scar that ran along his wrist to the inside of his elbow.

“It's not—I didn't hurt myself,” Draco said, but Harry was still staring at his arm. Draco took a deep breath. “When I was sixteen, and my father went to prison, the Dark Lord told me I'd take up my father’s place as a Death Eater. I thought I was going to take the Mark. It was a ruse, though. He gave me this instead. Told me he'd replace it if I succeeded in my… assignment.”

Harry wrapped both of his hands around Draco’s wrist now, holding it tight.

“As you can see, my mother's skills as a healer were not as impressive as Professor Snape's. But I'd take this scar over the Mark any day.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, quietly.

Draco hummed and nodded slightly in response. “And at least it's not on my face. Can't imagine how tragic that would be.”

Harry tugged his arm playfully, not letting go. “You love my scar.”

“Oh do I?”

Perfect Potter,” Harry whined, an obnoxiously accurate imitation of Draco’s childhood drawl, “with his scar and his broomstick—"

Draco cleared his throat. “Pardon me, but I believe it was my broomstick that was the subject of your adoration last night.”

Harry laughed. “Who knew you had such a dirty mind, Draco Malfoy?”

Draco used his free hand to sneak a sip of coffee. “I’m full of mysteries,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“Well, I might not be an Auror anymore,” Harry said, running his thumb against Draco’s wrist, “but I’m going to solve every damn one.”

Draco kissed him.

He tasted like coffee and croissants.

Better than any six course meal, better than any heavenly Cabernet, better than any chocolate-covered cherries.

As good as sex.

As good as love.


Fin.