WE NEED EACH OTHER [DRARRY]

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT : THE PARTY

Saturday, 26th September

Draco's POV

I emerged from the bathroom, clad in my trademark black suit, and shut the door with a decisive click, only to find Potter staring at me as I turned.

I smirked, holding my hands wide, inviting his assessment. "Well? What do you think?"

Potter scanned me from head to toe, shook his head and sighed.

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You cannot wear that to the party," Potter firmly clarified.

I raised an eyebrow, arching it into a gesture of surprise. "And pray tell, why not?"

What does this wanker have to say about me now?

Potter hesitated, then said, "It's just too...formal."

"What do you mean? This suit is perfect," I replied, offended.

"I know you wear that suit everywhere, and for good reason— I mean—" He stumbled slightly. "It suits you very well. But it's just not a... great fit for this occasion," Potter ended, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks.

Unable to resist a good retort, I continued. "And why, may I ask, have you suddenly become the fashion Auror, Potter?"

"It's a fucking party, Malfoy. You can't wear a suit," Potter crossed his arms over his chest, looking like a ruffled owl.

I clenched my jaw. "I don't have anything else to wear, Potter." Gesturing at myself— "I didn't really pack much in my trunk."

Potter fell silent, then he pursed his lips, bright green eyes clouding in thought. "I think I might have something," he murmured.

Potter turned, walking towards his side of the room and rummaged through his trunk, occasionally throwing things onto the bed, until he finally stopped. He brought up a dark green silk shirt, a proud smile on his face.

He padded over, shirt folded over his hands.

"It's not exactly black," he mused once he was in front of me again. "It's green, which I guess still matches your entire aesthetic. I've never worn it before. I think it will suit you perfectly."

I smirked, eyeing the shirt. "You bought a shirt you don't plan to wear? That makes no sense, Potter."

Potter huffed out a breath, his hand pushing through his unruly hair, his scar flitting in and out of view before being hidden by a dark curtain of hair again.

"Just shut up and take the fucking shirt, Malfoy," he muttered.

He held out the shirt, which I reluctantly plucked from his fingers. "My, my, someone sure has a temper today,"

I had noticed that about him. After Potter's conversation with Wendy, when they had resumed working on the outline, Potter had become much more jumpy. He kept looking at me, blushing, and then when I commented about it, would get oddly defensive and prickly. Just like now, glaring at me forcefully, with something dark in his eyes, fucking forcing me to wear his shirt, the bastard.

"If it looks ridiculous, I'm going to wear the suit," I sighed, running my fingers sceptically over the silk.

"Sure, sure," Potter replied shortly, looking away from me. (See what I mean?)

I examined the shirt for another moment, and then, without another word, I turned on my heel to enter the bathroom again.

I quickly shed my black coat, taking off my white button-up before slipping on the shirt.