The next morning, when time resets, Draco squares his jaw, prepares himself to do something he never, ever thought he'd do, and goes downstairs for breakfast, still in his pyjamas.
"Good morning, dear," his mother says, setting the paper aside and looking at him with sympathy. "Are you nervous about your speech?"
Draco sits down and spreads a napkin on his knees, summoning all his courage, while his mother pours him a cup of tea. "No," he says – and means it. "Not at all. But . . . I am nervous about telling you something, Mother."
His mother focuses all her attention on him, in the disconcerting way she sometimes has, as if nothing in the world is more important than him. "What is it, Draco?" she asks.
The words stick in Draco's throat, and although he's talked himself into this, has made himself swear he'll do it, he considers leaving it for another day. It won't make any difference if he does it tomorrow, will it? But . . . he knows that if he doesn't do it now, he'll never do it. It's fucking difficult enough today; if he puts it off, it'll be forever. He knows he can be a coward, although he chafes against that realisation. If he doesn't do it, though, he'll never know - and, oh Merlin, he wants to know. It burns in him, like it's never done before. Harry fucking fucking Potter has robbed him of his peace, and he hates him for it.
"Oh, my darling," his mother says as he dithers, caught between bravery and terror. "You're my son, and whatever it is, you know that I love you."
Draco swallows hard. "I . . . I wanted to tell you that I'm . . . that I'm gay, Mother," he says, his voice wavering, despite his best efforts to hold it steady.
His mother's eyes go very sad, and he bows his head with the hurt of disappointing her. He knows it isn't what she wants for him. True, homosexuality is far from taboo in their society, but . . . he's a pureblood. It's expected that he'll marry – and marry a woman, not a man. How else is he to continue the Malfoy line?
He knows what she's going to say – she'll tell him that he can sleep with who he likes, so long as he marries well. The thought makes him sag. This is why he's never told her before. This. It's a mistake. It's all a mistake, and even though tomorrow she won't remember it, he sodding will, and he'll carry the memory of this soul-crushing awfulness around with him forever.
She rises from her chair – he can hear her – and comes over and . . . wraps her arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Oh, my darling boy, is that all?" she says. "I just want you to be happy."
Her words fill him with wild, exploding joy. She . . . she means it. He can hear it in her voice. She means it.
He raises his head and looks into her eyes – they're wet, but very very kind. "And is the lucky man who's won your heart who I think it is?" she asks. "I wish you both joy, you know I do. I've long thought that—"
"No," he interrupts. He loves his mother, and he . . . he forgives her for prying into his secrets desires, but he does not want to hear the end of that sentence, to find out who his mother would choose for him. Not for any money. He knows, he sodding knows, and it would kill him to hear it out loud. "I'm not . . . There's no one special," he says firmly.
His mother smiles at him. "Of course, dear. Whatever you say. But when there is," she adds delicately, "then I want to know as soon as possible. He'll be very welcome here."
The thought of taking a boyfriend home is . . . There are no words to explain it. And just like that, his joy falters, and there seems to be a rock pressing down on his lungs, making it hard to breathe. "But . . . what will father say?" he asks. His mother is one thing, his father quite another.
She takes his hand and squeezes it. "Shall we find out?" she asks.
Draco nods miserably, and his mother tells him that she'll go and fetch him from his study.
Draco sits there, feeling a bit like he's awaiting execution. But . . . his mother is on his side. The thought bolsters him. Even if his father is . . . difficult, his mother is on his side. He tries to breathe deeply – in, out. In, out. In, out.
He's still not sure exactly what it was about the day before that affected him so deeply, that led him to the conclusion that he had to tell his parents about his sexuality, when he'd decided, long ago, that he never would. He didn't even spend the whole day with Potter – they shared (of course) a cup of tea after the impromptu match was over, and Potter had asked, very casually, if he'd like to come round to dinner some time later in the week, and Draco had . . .
Draco had had a daydream, about what things might be like if he said yes, and yes again, and . . .
Well. Perhaps it isn't so difficult to work out what had affected him so deeply, after all. Draco had found it extremely easy to imagine building a life with Potter . . . while, at the same time, finding it entirely impossible to imagine it ever happening in real life. He's a pureblood. He has responsibilities to his family.
So Draco had said no, very politely, and tried not to sob like a baby when Potter's face fell and he went quiet, excusing himself soon after.
Hence . . . today. Because if Draco can't use the time loop to torture himself with his parents' reactions, what can he use it for?
He can hear his mother returning, presumably with his father, and as the door to the dining room opens, he swallows, feeling a bit like he's swallowed an iceberg and it's stabbing its way down his throat and into his stomach, chilling him from the inside out. Because, it doesn't matter that this is the time loop; he's fucking terrified all over again. It doesn't matter if his father remembers his confession later. What his father feels is the way he will feel the next time, and the next time, and the time after that.
His father steps into the room, his face tense but concerned. "What is it?" he asks. "You know now's not a good time, Draco. Can't it wait?"
Draco almost decides that, yes, it can wait – until hell freezes over – when his mother says, calm but insistent, "No, Lucius. Draco has something he needs to tell you."
And he can draw it out, which will do neither of them any good, or he can just say it. So Draco just says it, his heart in his mouth. "Father, I'm gay."
His father is visibly shocked, but he doesn't flinch – he just stands there for a moment, taking it in. Then he says, "Very well. You . . . know I'll always be proud of you, son." He takes a moment, his hand reaching up to fiddle with the line of his robes at his neck and his eyes flicking upwards in thought. To Draco's wonder, he seems overcome with emotion - but not anger. Something brighter, warmer. His father pulls himself together, and his voice takes on its usual silky smooth, cool tone. "It will take some adjustments, but I expect we can make this work to the family's advantage without too much difficulty. There must be a pureblood young man or two out there who shares your proclivities. Now, we have more pressing things to concern ourselves with today, so if you'll excuse me," and he leaves, presumably in the direction of his study.
Draco's mother tops up his tea, and smiles at him, the relief stark on her face, and Draco . . . well. He's filled with such love for his parents that, for a moment, it makes him feel weak and feeble. He can't quite bring himself to wish that he'd had more faith in his parents and spoken out sooner – he thinks, if he's honest with himself, that if it wasn't for Potter, he'd be quite happy to go on pretty much as he was, not quite happy but not unhappy either. But he's still glad he's done it, so glad.
That afternoon, he gives his speech in the Lords Chamber. He can't quite bring himself to give his original speech, even though he knows his father would wish it – Potter is there, across the room, although he doesn't know that he's actually quite good friends with Draco by now – but, instead, he gives a short, heartfelt, off the cuff speech about the importance of family and love.
And, part way through the speech, he looks over at Potter, who's looking back at him as if he's never seen him before, and it dawns on him that there's only ever been one person for him - how the fuck has he not seen it before?
And Potter's a fucking half-blood, isn't he? What Draco's father would think of that, he wouldn't like to speculate; he took the revelation that Draco is gay so well, but Draco knows his father. His tolerance only goes so far.
Draco falters, caught between shock and crashing, searing disappointment, but he manages to save the speech by tearing his eyes away from Potter and focusing on something else. But . . . he can still feel Potter's eyes burning into him as he speaks, and even when he finishes, he still feels under scrutiny.
It suddenly all feels too much; too important, too significant and – more importantly – too difficult. So, as soon as there's a break, Draco slips out of the room and runs for his life. He'll miss the drinks and dinner, but he knows that his mother, at least, will understand.
^^^^^
Once Draco's back at home though, he can't sit still. The Manor is quiet, without his parents there, and the house-elves don't ever show their faces unless they're called. If Draco's honest, he's nervous around them nowadays – his father treats them better, now it's clear how dangerous they can be, and the couple that remain in the Manor have been offered their freedom but turned it down. Still . . .
He roams the house, walking through room after disused room. The house is too large for one family, it's always been so, and he feels a pang for Potter's cosy home . . . although that's tempered by his memory of Potter in his enormous living room, surrounded by empty sofas. He supposes the difference is that Potter fills those sofas, presumably on a regular basis; Potter still ends up alone in the house though, when all his friends have gone home, without even an owl to keep him company.
Oh, arsebiscuits. He's forgotten to pick up his little owl again. He rolls his eyes at himself and Apparates to the Magical Menagerie, just in time to re-buy it before the shop closes. The owl is in a huff and refuses to leave its cage, even after he's paid for it, its beak high in the air. Even when they're safely back at the manor, it won't come out; when he puts the cage on his bed and opens the door, the little fucker just hoots – the hoot sounding suspiciously like a sniff – and swivels on its perch, turning its back on him.
"Look, I'm really sorry," he says to the owl's back. "I know I need to fix this sodding time loop so I can keep you properly." The owl seems unmoved by this – probably because it can't understand English, being an owl. But . . . Draco feels his forehead wrinkle. If owls don't understand English, how do they know where to deliver parcels? He's left with the distinct impression that magical owls do understand English – perfectly well – and that this one's just ignoring him because it's pissed off, rather than because it's a dumb animal.
"I promise I won't forget you again," Draco says, feeling like a dick – but he does mean it. He feels surprisingly attached to the tiny thing, even though he hasn't given it a name. "And . . . and I'll give you a name. Sorry, I should have done it before."
The owl swivels round and gives him a baleful look.
"Yes, yes, I know," Draco says. "How about . . ." He sniggers. "Little Bastard."
The owl looks at him, unblinking, and does a very large poo. Luckily, it falls in the cage, rather than on his sheets.
Draco takes that as a hint. "Sorry, sorry," he says, still sniggering. He thinks hard. "How about . . . Pip."
The owl considers this and then hoots its assent.
"Short for Pipsqueak," Draco adds, and this time the owl deigns to come out of its cage . . . to peck him. But it seems to have forgiven him, because it hops on to his shoulder and starts to groom his hair. It's probably hinting that Draco has lice, but he decides to let it go. He did forget about it, after all.
Collecting the owl has passed a good half hour, but the rest of the evening still stretches in front of Draco, and he still can't decide what to do with himself. He pops down to the kitchen, alarming the house-elves, and has a quick snack, but it seems such a momentous day - he came out, and his parents accepted it - that he decides he should . . . celebrate in some way.
How though?
If he's going to celebrate, he needs to go out – he can't celebrate alone, after all, unless he wants to get pissed in the company of an owl. Which he doesn't. But . . . he feels disinclined to Firecall any of his old school friends to see if they're free. It would lead to an evening of reminiscences, and today he doesn't want to reminisce – to pick over the bones of old grudges and reanimate them with libations of Firewhisky. No; today he wants to remind himself he's alive, and he has possibilities, and a future – even though, for a time, that future is very much on pause.
He almost drifts away into introspection as the worry that he's permanently stuck in the time loop niggles at him – it's always there; it's just that most of the time he manages to suppress it – but Pipsqueak gives him a quick peck on the ear and he snaps out of it with an idea. He still feels uncomfortable about the night he spent after he'd been released from Muggle jail, mooning over Muggle revellers and wishing he was . . . not part of them, exactly. Just . . . wishing. Why doesn't he return to that Muggle central London hotspot and, this time, have a drink? It would be unity in action – him, a pureblood, deigning to mix with Muggles without being forced to.
As soon as he's thought it, he wishes – almost – that he hadn't, as a sensation like iced water dribbles through him, right down to his toes. He doesn't care for being out of his element, and to be out of his element and alone . . .
It's the nerves, though, that make up his mind for him. A Malfoy, scared? Of mixing with Muggles? What a ludicrous idea. So, he rises from his bed and walks to his wardrobe, riffling through it to see what might be suitable for a night on the town with non-magical company. He knows he'll stick out again in robes, and this time he wants to . . . not pretend to be Muggle, ugh, the very idea, but at least not outwardly signal that he's different.
He pulls out a pair of pale grey trousers and teams them with a pale cream shirt and silver cuff-links. It seems extremely odd not to throw a robe, or at least a cloak, over the ensemble – like he's going out in his underwear. The Muggles seem curiously staid when it comes to their clothes, and while he can't understand why wizards struggle to grasp how they dress – it seems eminently straightforward to him – he can see why his people would choose not to dress that way.
He brushes his hair and uses some Sleekeazy's to bring it to a shine, then straps on his watch and slides his wand and his wallet into his pocket, after checking he still has a quantity of Muggle currency. He doesn't need anything else; it's a warm night, and he doesn't expect he'll be gone more than a couple of hours at the most.
It's a bit of a risk, Apparating directly to the Soho district of town, where the crowds are thick and it's entirely possible he'll land on someone, but he crosses his fingers and does it anyway; the time loop has made him more reckless, he realises as he lands safely, startling a nearby group of underdressed female revellers, who think he's pushed into them on purpose. He apologises politely, which seems to defuse things, and then quickly walks off when one of them starts batting her eyelashes at him, losing himself in the crowds.
He finds himself on Old Compton Street. The pavements are narrow, and the road busy, and he finds it hard to push past groups of people drinking on the street, spilling out of the bars. Some of the restaurants have put tables and chairs on the pavement, making the walk even more of an obstacle course. Draco wonders, briefly, why he ever thought this would be fun, but tries to put himself in a more positive frame of mind. It will be fun; he's decided.
When he reaches the G-A-Y bar, he has a little wobble and thinks about going home, but he takes a very deep breath and pushes inside, smiling faintly at the enormous Muggle doormen standing either side of the purple entrance. Are they expecting trouble, or something?
Inside, the place is heaving and smells of sweat and booze. Draco tries not to wrinkle his nose and forces his way to the bar; one drink, he tells himself, and then he can go, having declared the evening a success. He'll have been out, in a Muggle bar – a Muggle bar for Muggle homosexuals, at that – and survived the experience. Just one drink.
The place is dimly lit, but in odd colours – purples and greens – and a shining silver ball casts reflections over the faces of the patrons within. It's disconcerting, and Draco blames this for why he doesn't spot Justin fucking Finch-Fletchley coming up to him until it's too late.
Justin doesn't look friendly, but he's a Hufflepuff – a Hufflepoof Draco thinks, trying not to smirk – so he's presumably not going to chuck a hex in Draco's face without provocation.
"Malfoy," Justin says, and his face does a species of contortion that Draco thinks is intended to be a friendly smile. "I haven't seen you here before."
"It's my first time," Draco replies lightly. He catches the barman's attention and is just about to order when Justin stops him.
"Let me," Justin says. "What would you like?"
"A glass of white wine," Draco says, unnerved. But it does mean he won't have to struggle with Muggle money in the semi-dark; he'd probably end up tipping either far too much or far too little.
Justin buys, and then beckons Draco over to a corner of the bar where his friends are ensconsed. To Draco's surprise, he recognises half of them – though he can't immediately think of their names. He wracks his brain and comes up with . . . Macmillan. And . . . someone else. From a year or two below them? But he smiles, because it seems politic, and they shuffle along the banquette seating to let him sit too.
"Shove up, Malfoy, so Terence can fit in as well. He's just having a slash," Justin says – loudly, because the music is loud.
'Terence' returns, and Draco is surprised to find it's Terence Higgs, from the year above. He wonders if the man still bears a grudge that Draco usurped his position as Slytherin Seeker, all those years ago. He suspects he does; he would.
"Malfoy!" Terence says, in tones of surprise, but he holds out his hand, and Draco reluctantly takes it, and suffers his own hand being pumped up and down enthusiastically. Terence's is warm and clammy, and Draco hopes he washed it thoroughly after using the bathroom.
Draco's introduced – or reintroduced – to everyone, and soon realises, to his faint disbelief, that his presence in the bar is proving a more potent calling card to these people than his name or status ever would. As if his sexual proclivities – his private proclivities – make him a more tolerable person to sit beside, despite all their shared unpleasant history.
It strikes him as ironic, too, that he thought he'd be safe from discovery, here in Muggle London, and has wound up surrounded by wizards - and some of them Slytherin. He feels, ridiculously, almost as if he's walked into a trap. Except . . . today it doesn't matter, does it, who else knows he's gay?
The thought that when the time loop ends it will matter, that he might have to hide it again from the people that matter to him, strikes him like a physical blow.
He drinks his wine too quickly, and Terence buys him another, and then another – and then he feels duty bound to reciprocate, so he does, and buying a round for everyone almost wipes him out. He thinks it's fucking expensive in here, and he's possibly just been ripped off; he still hasn't quite got the conversion rate sorted in his head, but he does have a belly full of wine, so he lets it go.
Finch-Fletchley looks disapproving, and fetches him a glass of water, and says – the tosser – "Steady on there, Malfoy," when Draco takes a sip and misses his mouth a bit. There's a wet patch on his shirt, but the bar is so hot that he barely notices, and he follows up the water with a shot of something neat and bitter that makes his head spin.
He's not sure he's having fun, exactly, but it's certainly . . . an experience.
Conversation flows, and after a certain amount of time the wine has the usual effect, and Draco rises, unsteadily, and excuses himself. The toilets are slightly unpleasant, but they're usable, so he holds his nose and gets on with it. When he staggers out, though, Terence is waiting for him by the door, and it's suddenly awkward. He has a speculative look in his eye and a slimy smile, and Draco suddenly wishes he hadn't let Terence buy him a drink – he's a Slytherin, and nothing comes without cost. Terence says, "So," and smirks, then attempts to lean in, forcing Draco to execute a swift evasive manoeuvre. He's quick on his feet, but the wine makes him unsteady, and he nearly falls over.
"Perhaps we'd best go and sit back down," Draco says pleasantly, after a passing tall dark stranger has helped steady him, with a friendly grin, and slid a card with a number on it into his shirt pocket. Terence gives him a look reminiscent of a Horntail about to flame.
Draco wobbles back to the seats at speed, taking care this time to sit somewhere he can easily escape from, but this doesn't seem to put Terence off, because he follows and leans in close, breath like a brewery, and shouts, "I say, Malfoy, how about we get out of here? I've got my own place, just around the corner. The cotton count of my sheets is so high, it has to be seen to be believed."
Finch-Fletchley raises his eyebrows, the judgemental fuck, but Draco supposes he's a judgemental fuck too, because there's no way he's going anywhere near Terence's . . . place, no matter the quality of his sheets. Also, he resents the idea that he can be bribed into a casual fuck with linen, of all things. "Thank you, but no," he says firmly – remaining polite, because a wronged Slytherin can be a dangerous enemy, even if it's a little shit like Higgs – but that means he can't leave right away, or else he risks it being taken as him changing his mind. So he has another drink, and at some point Terence lurches up and off, and in a few minutes Draco can see him on the dance floor, propositioning an unfortunate blonde boy with a face like a foot.
"He'll try it on with anyone," Finch-Fletchley says sweetly, and then turns back to his conversation with Macmillan.
Drunk though Draco is, he can tell an insult when he hears one. "So, are you dating anyone at the moment?" he asks. The second after he's said it, he knows he's fallen into Finch-Fletchley's trap.
Finch-Fletchley turns, his expression now glowing with smugness. "Yes, actually. You remember Harry, from school?"
"Oh, really?" Draco says, matching his smug, sweet tone – because, unbeknownst to Finch-Fletchley, he has the upper hand here. "Potter told me, only the other day when I went round for tea, that you two had broken up." He takes a sip of wine and enjoys watching Finch-Fletchley twitch.
Finch-Fletchley attempts to rally, opening his mouth . . . but closing it again and turning his back once more on Draco.
Tea at Potter's sounds like a nicer idea than spending more time in this stinking hellhole, Draco thinks, so, acting on impulse, he rises, says a general goodbye, and leaves, avoiding Terence on his way out, who's now in a clinch with the foot-face.
The cooler air outside hits him, and he feels drunker, if anything. It's not going to be safe to Apparate, he realises, so maybe he should go to Potter's. He can use the underground trains; how hard can it be? Potter showed him how to buy a ticket only . . . some time ago. He can't remember exactly when. So he pushes through the crowds and manages to find a tube station, staggering down the stairs and queuing up to buy a . . . What sort of ticket does he need? He punches a button at random and inserts some money, and it seems to work because the machine produces a ticket, along with some coins. He scoops them up and negotiates the ticket barrier like a pro, following the stream of people down the moving staircase and . . .
He pauses at the bottom and realises he has no idea where he's going. So he does the previously unthinkable: he asks a Muggle for help.
Forty-five minutes later, he steps out of Potter's local station feeling excessively pleased with himself. The handful of male Muggles he asked for directions were helpful, and he seems to have collected another couple of scraps of paper with scrawled telephone numbers. Not that he knows how to use a telephone, or ever wants to date a Muggle, but they didn't need to know that, did they?
The streets are quieter here, and it's getting late, but he's still buzzing, and he barely notices the hill as he weaves his way in wavy lines up it, towards Potter's house.
When he reaches it, it takes him a couple of goes to negotiate the outside stairs, but finally he reaches the top and leans on the doorbell. "Potter!" he calls through the letterbox when there's no immediate response. "Oi! Potter!"
A few minutes later, Potter opens the door, and Draco nearly falls in, clutching at him to steady himself.
Potter doesn't look pleased to see him, Draco realises, and he releases Potter and looks him up and down – Potter's wearing a baggy T-shirt and loose boxers and his feet are bare. His hair's standing almost on end, and his glasses, still held together with Spellotape, aren't quite straight.
It dawns on Draco that he's woken Potter up. It's a sobering thought, without actually being sobering – he wishes he hadn't drunk quite so much.
"Um, hullo," Potter says.
"You're blushing!" Draco crows, because it's true – Potter's going red, starting with his cheeks, but the colour's travelling, down his neck and up to his ears.
"Yes, thank you, Malfoy," Potter says, wrapping his arms around himself. He can't be cold though; Draco's boiling. He's had to undo the top few buttons of his shirt and take off his cuff-links so he can roll his sleeves up.
Draco watches the colour spread and staggers slightly; he's finding it harder than usual to remain upright. Potter puts out a hand and grabs him by the arm to steady him, which puts Draco off balance even further, forcing Potter to hug him upright.
Draco breathes in the smell of Potter's hair. "You need to change shampoos," he announces. "This one pongs."
Potter stiffens and then sighs. "Come on, Malfoy, let's get you off the doorstep."
Draco allows himself to be manhandled inside – Potter's surprisingly strong for someone at least two inches shorter than him (hah! Potter's shorter!) – and up not one but two flights of stairs, Potter making encouraging noises all the way.
Draco decides he likes it when Potter makes encouraging noises.
"I'm so glad we're friends now," he slurs, and it's only when he's said it that he remembers that while they are friends, sort of, this is the first time he's spoken one-on-one to this particular day's Harry Potter. Oh well, he thinks hazily. They must still be friends anyway, because here he is, in Potter's house again, and they're going up to . . .
"Yes, Malfoy, me too," Potter says, a bit dubiously. "Nearly there, just keep going."
"Are you taking me to bed, Potter?" Draco drawls. "Bit sudden, isn't it? You haven't even bought me dinner!" He waves a hand expressively, nearly sending them both flying down the stairs.
"Come on, Malfoy, just a few more steps," Potter says, through what sounds like gritted teeth.
"Not that I'd say no, necessarily," Draco continues chattily, his head swimming. It seems like a marvellous idea, as far as he's concerned, but he doesn't want Potter to think he's like this with all the boys. "I said no to Higgs, and I'd've said no to that turd Finch-Fletchley if he'd asked, but—"
Potter stops dead, but momentum carries Draco forwards and he staggers on through the doorway ahead of him, toeing off his shoes and collapsing gratefully on to a large four-poster covered in an eye-watering fluorescent orange quilt with matching sheets. He blinks up at the canopy of the bed – it's like being back at Hogwarts, only nicer – and wonders where Potter's got to. He turns on his side, raising his head up on his elbow, but there's no sign of him.
Soon, though, Potter appears in the doorway – and halts there, colour blooming back to life in his cheeks. He's wrapped in some sort of calf-length fluffy white bathrobe, clutching it closed tight with one hand. There's a foaming potion in a glass in the other.
For a moment, they just look at each other. Potter really is very pretty, Draco thinks muzzily, even though he's a mess. "Come here," he drawls, patting the covers next to him. "Kit off." The thought makes his entire body fizz with lust.
Potter swallows, and Draco watches his throat as his Adam's apple bobs. "How much have you had to drink, Malfoy?" he asks, sounding slightly strangled. His eyes keep darting up and down Draco's body, as if he can't quite stop himself from staring.
"Just a few glasses of wine," Draco says. He wrinkles his nose, trying to remember. "And something that tasted worse than crup piss."
Potter snorts. "If you were out with Justin and his friends, it was probably Jägermeister," he says, and walks over, perching on the bed next to Draco and primly straightening his robe with one hand. "Sit up and drink this. It'll make you feel better."
"I feel fine," Draco says, but he manages to sit up – which puts him very close to Potter, and he gets momentarily lost in his green, green eyes. "May I?" he asks, overtaken by a sudden urge, and reaches up to push Potter's black shock of hair off his forehead so he can see the famous scar up close. Potter spent a lot of time at school with his hair pushed down low to hide it.
Potter doesn't object, though his lips tighten, so Draco rubs a thumb over it. It's slightly raised and red, not flat like he would have expected, and the lightning bolt is thick and blurred, as if the scar was recently irritated.
"It flared up a lot during that final year," Potter says quietly, and he reaches up to remove Draco's hand from his face, guiding it to the glass of liquid, which is still gently fizzing. "Drink. Please."
Draco drinks. The potion slips down his throat like air, and he can almost feel it spreading through his body, fizzing into his cells until his whole body feels light and sparkling and . . . extremely sober.
He blinks, the room swimming and then coming back into focus, and he finds he's – yes, of course he is – sprawling on Potter's bed (because of course it's Potter's bed; the sheets are in Cannons orange and are probably a house-warming gift from Weasley), dressed in Muggle clothes, with his shirt unbuttoned almost halfway down, and . . . he's just propositioned Potter, hasn't he, and felt up his scar?
"What time is it?" he asks, trying not to outwardly wince.
Potter fiddles with his voluminous bathrobe. "Um, about midnight?" he says, taking back the glass and clutching it tightly.
"Oh," Draco says, and they lapse into silence. Draco can't help but think that while he had the excuse of being drunk, Potter was entirely sober. And, in this entirely sober state, Potter let him in, took him to bed and let him feel his scar. It is, basically, all Potter's fault.
"Interesting sheets," Draco says, because being sober doesn't make him less of a dick and he has appearances to keep up.
Potter narrows his eyes. "I hope you're not criticising my interior decoration, Malfoy."
"I'd be happy to criticise your tea-making skills too," Draco replies, because he's gasping for a cuppa, seriously, and if you don't ask, you don't get. Besides, things might get marginally less awkward if they remove themselves from Potter's bedroom and Potter's bed. This feels a bit like waking up in bed after the night before with an ill-chosen lover, but worse, because time he doesn't even get a shag out of it. And god he wanted – wants – a shag out of this one. He hopes Potter doesn't feel the urge to look below the level of his waist or it will be entirely obvious.
"You're not going to be sick, are you?" Potter asks suspiciously. "You've gone a funny colour."
It seems impolitic to reveal to Potter that this is the colour he goes when he's just considered quite how much he'd like to fuck him – and he'd even let Potter have a go on him, he's that keen. Potter might take it the wrong way. Merlin. He really needs a drink – and some space, away from Potter, for a minute.
"Your kitchen's downstairs, isn't it?" Draco says, sliding awkwardly off the bed and making Potter leap up and back like a startled unicorn. "Why don't you put some clothes on and I'll meet you there."
"How do you know where my—" Potter asks uncertainly, but Draco's already off, making an epic attempt to angle his crotch away from Potter as leaves the room and dashing down the stairs, buttoning his shirt back up as he goes and running his fingers through his hair to tidy it.
The kitchen is dark, and Draco casts a quick Lumos, before reaching for Potter's kettle and attempting to take it over to the sink. It's attached at the wall by a lead, which he tugs out, and when he's filled it with water he plugs the lead back in and runs his hand over the kettle, searching for a switch. Something clicks, and there's a hissing noise as the kettle starts to heat up, and Draco congratulates himself on a job well done – this Muggle stuff is a piece of piss.
He searches in Potter's cupboards for mugs and teabags, and by the time Potter re-emerges, in dark-coloured trousers and a tight black T-shirt, his feet bare, Draco's not only got his body back under control but he's also brewed up two cups of tea – one dark and appalling, and one light and sweet. Potter steps towards him, and Draco hands over the grim brew.
Potter frowns, but he takes a tentative sip and then lets out an appreciative sigh, leaning back against the kitchen work-surface. "I probably shouldn't at this time," he says, yawning, but takes another sip. Again, he looks Draco up and down helplessly, before dragging his gaze away and focusing on the French windows on the other side of the room and the darkness beyond.
"Don't sleep well?" Draco says, already knowing the answer. The bags under Potter's eyes make it obvious, even if he hadn't already had this conversation with him before.
"No," Potter says shortly. Then he snorts. "Thanks for asking."
Draco can feel himself colour up this time, but he supposes it's only fair. He has unexpectedly descended on Potter, the insomniac, at gone midnight. Although— "What are you doing in on a Friday night, anyway?" he asks. "I thought you'd be out with some of your hundreds of friends. Finch-Fletchley asked after you," he adds spitefully.
"Did he?" Potter replies with some heat, goaded into looking at him again. "I hope you told him to go and boil his head in a cauldron."
Draco is surprised into a laugh. "He doesn't seem your type, Potter," he says, taking a sip of reviving tea. "Too up himself."
"Oh?" Potter says, raising his eyebrows. "What is my type then?"
Draco falters; he doesn't think he's exactly making friends here. Besides, he's pretty up himself.
"No, go on," Potter says firmly. "You've already insulted my bedclothes, so you might as well insult my taste in . . ." He chokes a little and then finishes up his sentence, head held high: "Men."
"Orange . . . and Finch-Fletchley," Draco says, shaking his head. "Surely you can do better than that, Potter." He clicks his tongue. "I suppose at least you didn't sink as low as Higgs though."
Potter unclenches, when it becomes obvious Draco's not going to answer his question, and rolls his eyes. "Let's go and sit down, shall we, before I punch you in the eye." He leads the way up the stairs and into the same enormous living room as before, collapsing with a sigh into a sofa and tucking one foot under him.
Draco sits next to him at a polite distance, remembering that he's left his shoes in Potter's bedroom. That's going to be awkward. At least he doesn't have any holes in his socks.
"The sheets were a gift from Ron, and Justin was . . ."
Draco raises his eyebrows.
"Hermione's idea," Potter says hastily. "She set us up. He works at the Ministry with her, and I suppose she thought . . ." He shrugs. "He was all right at school, most of the time. I thought . . . I dunno what I thought." He takes a moody sip of tea. "He was always trying to show off, to tell people. I don't like it when people make a fuss. Why can't that stuff just be private, you know? At least in the beginning." He's going red again. "We only went on two dates! And I have no idea why I'm telling you this, Malfoy. You show up on my doorstep, drunk, looking like that, and try to—" he continues heatedly, before breaking off in confusion.
"Looking like what?" Draco asks mildly, taking a sip of tea, his heart doing a Tarantallegra in his chest.
Potter blushes into his mug. "Forget it," he says. "I liked your speech, earlier," he continues, changing the subject with the consummate skill of someone not very skilled.
Draco decides to let this one go. For now. "Thank you."
Potter turns to him, his expression serious all of a sudden. "Did you mean it?"
He's given so many speeches that he finds it hard to remember which, exactly, he gave today – although he does remember babbling something about family, and love, and . . . and . . .
And he remembers the way he'd felt when he'd looked at Potter and thought: this is what I want. This could be my forever.
It feels stupid now, an impossible fantasy, except Potter's looking at him again, his eyes clear and honest behind his stupid round glasses, and his brow troubled.
"Yes, of course I meant it," Draco says eventually. And, because he can't resist it: "May I?"
Potter looks confused, so Draco leans over to put down his mug on the nearby coffee table, then leans in towards Potter and pulls his glasses off his nose. He taps his wand to them, casting an Oculus Reparo, before turning back, and faltering at the expression on Potter's face.
He looks very young without his glasses, and oddly out of focus, as if it's Draco who's blind without them. But Draco can see well enough to be sure that Potter's trembling, and when he leans in, awkwardly sliding Potter's specs back on his face – as good an excuse to touch his face as any – Potter's lips part and then press shut, and he swallows convulsively.
It seems like it might be a good idea to kiss him, possibly the best idea Draco's ever had, so he doesn't take his hands away – just sits there for a moment, fingers resting lightly against Potter's cheeks, and leans in just a touch further, and . . .
For a brief moment, it seems like Potter will let him do it – is willing him to do it – but then Draco drops one hand to rest it, lightly, on Potter's knee, and Potter jerks convulsively. He's still holding his mug of tea – at least, he was. Now, he's wearing half of it.
"Fuck!" Potter says expressively, shooting up and pulling the sodden fabric away from him. "Bollocks."
Draco runs through helpful suggestions in his mind. He thinks that: "Let me get you out of those wet clothes," will not do the job – but will, instead, end up with Potter pouring the rest of the tea over his head. He feels likewise disinclined to point his wand at Potter's crotch without permission. So he says, "Can I, er, do anything to help?" and hopes Potter takes it the right way.
Potter shoots him a tight look. "I think this is a sign I should just go to bed. It's been a long day, and you must be tired too. Feel free to use the guest en suite – it's on the top floor, second door on the right."
"Oh," Draco says, taken aback. "I, uh, was hoping . . ."
Potter's face does a good line in red, as a general rule, but now it does its best job yet – his head is so brick-coloured it looks like it's about to explode. "Yes, I gathered that," he says drily. "But I, um . . ." He stands up very straight – tall and dignified, despite the wet patch. "If you think I do one-nighters, Malfoy, you don't know me at all," he says, the words a bit mashed together but perfectly intelligible. "So I'll wish you good night." And he walks out of the room, still dignified – until he's out of sight and Draco can hear him thumping up the stairs at a run, taking two steps at a time in his haste to, presumably, shut himself in his bedroom and away from the Big Bad Malfoy.
Draco feels a bit like dashing up the stairs after him and giving him a good shake. Why on earth does Potter think that he's the sort to do one-nighters? Except . . .
Draco sighs, taking a sip of tea and pensively Vanishing the stain on the carpet from Potter's tea mishap. He supposes he did turn up, completely pissed, on Potter's doorstep and proposition him, completely out of the blue. He didn't remember using the phase 'long-term relationship' at any point, just – he tries not to die at the memory – the immortal words, "Kit off."
Smooth, really smooth, Draco, he tells himself. No wonder Potter wasn't swept off his feet.
He finishes his tea and takes his mug down to the kitchen, before taking the stairs up to the top floor. He pauses outside Potter's bedroom door. It's completely silent – so silent that Draco suspects he's used a silencing charm within. What's he doing in there?
The thought of Potter stretched out on the hideous orange quilt, entirely naked and with his cock in hand, frantically jerking off, his body taut and hips raised, has Draco's lips parting and his own cock hardening in his pants. Or . . . or maybe Potter's not used a silencing spell. Maybe Potter's simply heard his footsteps, on the other side of the door, and has paused in the act – is lying there, heart pounding, even now, his cock aching in his stilled hand, ears straining for the sound of Draco continuing on and shutting the door of the guest bedroom behind him, so he can wank without being overheard.
Or maybe he's just gone to sleep.
Draco sighs, palming his crotch and feeling the swell of his erection stiffen further under his touch. He limps to the guest bedroom – his trousers are much too tight for comfort – and, before he shuts the door, pauses, listening. All is quiet.
So he simply clicks the door shut and falls on the bed, shoving his trousers and pants down his thighs in one move and taking his cock in hand. He comes, hard, just a few minutes later, to the thought of Potter, just a few doors away. And fifteen minutes later, now stretched out fully naked, he comes again, stroking himself hard and slow, breath coming hard and fast, to the thought that Potter might be in the corridor outside right now, hovering by the door and wishing he had the courage to turn the handle.
Draco certainly doesn't have the courage to do it. What if Potter's not there?
So he cleans himself up and gets into bed, promising himself that tomorrow will be the day – the day he finally clarifies, once and for all, whether Potter does like him that way. He does, Draco knows it. But . . .
He falls asleep, and dreams of flying.