Inked Dragons

Undercurrent Insurrection

Draco spent a considerable amount of time contemplating his clothing for the evening. He knew he had to have a certain effect on the people coming to the house and he also knew first impressions counted, no matter how much that shouldn't be the case. There is a well-known mantra in the Magical World, and probably the Muggle World too, that a person will form a mental image of someone else in the first tenth of a second of meeting them. Of course, that first impression may not be accurate but Draco knew his history put him on a back foot. He had to ensure that people knew, immediately, that he'd changed, that he wasn't who he'd been brought up to be, that he wasn't his father, that he wasn't a dark, evil, untrustworthy person, that he wasn't conniving or, on the other hand, slobbish or thuggish or deceptive, or that he wasn't any other negative assumption they could make about him. He had to get this right, for Harry's sake.

So, he knew from the moment he went upstairs to Harry's bedroom—to their bedroom—that he couldn't wear anything that connected him with his past self or his father.

He pulled on a pair of smartish diesel-blue jeans because he knew Harry particularly liked him in them and then riffled through the wardrobe. The problem was, Draco tended to wear band t-shirts with the sleeves cut-off to show off his tattoo sleeves and Harry tended to wear black. He spied a white shirt of Harry's. It looked to be a muscle shirt and short-sleeved so it would show his tattoos. Draco pulled it on and it fit well enough; not as tight as it would be on Harry but certainly almost a tailored shirt. He didn't tuck it in. He pulled on a pair of smart boots and checked himself over in the free-standing mirror. He nodded to himself, satisfied. He knew in his heart that it was time to go clothes shopping and revamp what he had, life was changing again. There was just his hair to deal with. It was getting a bit long around his ears and at the nape of his neck and really needed a cut but there wasn't time for that now so he teased a bit of Sleakeazy through the ends to give it a more tousled look.

Today was not a day for eyeliner so he just straightened the diamond-stud earing that Harry had brought him for his birthday, squirted a bit of aftershave on his slight stubble, and stepped away from the mirror.

He would have to do as he was but he hoped Harry would approve and the others would get what he was trying to show and would take him seriously.

He did, he realised, feel happy with what he'd achieved. He felt a spark of his old Malfoy self-assurance return and it bolstered his new self. He nodded to himself again. He could this.

Of course, when he stepped through the kitchen door and saw Minerva McGonagall, his confidence immediately ebbed away. Who was he fucking kidding?

Harry glanced up as Draco appeared at the kitchen door and he smiled, feeling a familiar heat rising through his body. He really didn't know that it was possible to be so attracted to another man. They'd only had sex a couple of hours ago but Harry wanted to take Draco straight back up to their bedroom—only it would be a shame to get Draco out of those clothes so quickly because he looked divine. He sauntered over.

'You need to douse your libido,' Draco muttered into Harry's ear because Harry's eyes had darkened dramatically the moment he'd seen Draco. Draco couldn't help the warm feeling he felt as a result. There was a pride in being the one who reduced Harry Potter to this state. He was the one who could diminish Harry Potter to a quivering wreck time and time again and still have him coming back for more. Not that he was any bloody different as he looked Harry up and down in his leather trousers and his tight black t-shirt.

Harry whispered reverently, 'you look too damned gorgeous. How is that even possible?' He smiled wryly. 'You're going to cause a distraction all bloody evening.'

'Only for you, I hope.'

'Yes... well... I can't have anyone else thinking the same thoughts about you...'