Harry Potter stood in the middle of Diagon Alley, his hands tucked into the pockets of his bespoke leather jacket, which Hermione had insisted was far too extravagant for his tastes. But that was the thing about Harry these days: he didn’t care about extravagance. Especially when it came to Draco Malfoy.
Draco, however, was currently glaring at him from beneath his platinum fringe, his arms crossed over his chest as he stood beside a towering display of enchanted crystal goblets outside Twilfitt and Tattings.
“Potter, I do not need crystal goblets,” Draco announced, his voice as sharp and precise as ever. “Nor do I need another pair of silk pajamas, mon dieu! What is wrong with you?”
Harry smirked, stepping closer. “You deserve it, baby, you deserve it all,” he said, winking and mimicking a Muggle pop song Hermione had been humming incessantly the last time he saw her. Draco’s nostrils flared as if he were about to retort, but Harry held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t argue. Just let me spoil you for once, will you?”
“For once?” Draco repeated, his voice rising an octave. “For once? Potter, last week you bought me a beach house in Brighton! And the week before that, you charmed an entire boutique in Paris to close for a day so I could have it to myself.”
Harry grinned. “And you looked bloody fantastic in everything you tried on. Especially the green robes.”
Draco muttered something in French that Harry didn’t entirely catch, but he was fairly certain it was a mix of curses and compliments. He stepped closer again, draping an arm around Draco’s shoulders and steering him toward Flourish and Blotts.
“Books,” Harry declared. “You like books. Let’s get you some books.”
Draco sighed dramatically but allowed himself to be led. “You’re insufferable, Potter. Do you even have a limit to your lunacy?”
Harry shrugged. “Not when it comes to you.” And then he winked and grinned.
Earlier that day, Harry had been stuck in an Auror meeting, seated between Ron and a senior officer droning on about security protocols for an upcoming high-profile event. Harry’s quill hovered above his parchment, but his notes had long since devolved into doodles—a poorly drawn snitch here, a clumsy attempt at Draco’s profile there.
“Harry,” Ron hissed under his breath, nudging him with an elbow. “You’re supposed to be paying attention.”
“I am,” Harry whispered back, though his gaze was distant. He tried to focus on the discussion about perimeter wards, but his mind drifted to Draco’s sharp wit, the way his grey eyes glinted when he was amused, and the way he’d look in the new scarf Harry had bought him.
“You’re smirking like a lovesick Hufflepuff,” Ron muttered. “What’s so funny?”
Harry shook his head, biting back a grin. “Nothing. Just... thinking.”
When the meeting finally ended, Harry practically bolted from the room, ignoring Ron’s shouted “Oi! Where’s the fire?” He Apparated straight to Diagon Alley, where he knew Draco would be browsing for some unnecessary luxury he’d claim he didn’t want but secretly adored.
Back in Flourish and Blotts, Harry immediately began plucking titles off the shelves—everything from rare potion tomes to the latest editions of Witch Weekly’s Fashion Almanac.
“You’re impossible,” Draco muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile as Harry handed him a copy of Advanced Arithmancy and Its Applications. “Do you even know what this is about?”
“Not a clue,” Harry admitted. “But it’s got a shiny cover, and you’re into that sort of thing.”
Draco’s laugh was soft, but it made Harry’s chest swell with pride. He leaned closer, brushing his lips against Draco’s ear. “Let me spoil you, Draco. You deserve it.”
Draco turned, his grey eyes glittering with a mix of exasperation and affection. “You’re ridiculous. But fine. One book.”
Harry arched a brow. “Try twenty.”
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry silenced him with a quick kiss, right there in the middle of the shop. A few witches and wizards gawked, but Harry didn’t care. He’d spent too many years worrying about what people thought. These days, he was all about doing what made him happy—and Draco Malfoy made him very, very happy.
Some time later that week, Harry took Draco to a hidden wizarding restaurant in the heart of London. The entrance was disguised as an unassuming brick wall, but with a tap of Harry’s wand, it transformed into an elegant archway adorned with enchanted ivy that glimmered like starlight.
“This is excessive,” Draco said, though his eyes widened in admiration as they stepped inside. The interior was breathtaking—floating chandeliers, tables that hovered just above the floor, and walls charmed to display panoramic views of the Milky Way.
“Only the best for you,” Harry replied, pulling out a chair for Draco.
Draco sat, his expression torn between annoyance and amusement. “You’re going to bankrupt yourself at this rate.”
Harry snorted. “Have you seen my Gringotts vault? I’d have to buy out the entire wizarding world to even make a dent.”
Draco’s lips twitched. “Still, it’s absurd. Nobody needs this level of… pampering.”
“You’re not just anybody,” Harry said, his tone serious for once. He reached across the table, taking Draco’s hand. “You’re… you.”
Draco blinked, his cheeks flushing slightly. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured, but he didn’t pull his hand away.
By the end of the night, after far too much champagne and a dessert that involved actual golden flakes, they found themselves back at Harry’s flat. Draco was lounging on the sofa, still muttering in French about Harry’s “insanity,” while Harry stood in the kitchen, pouring them each a glass of firewhisky.
“You know,” Harry called, “it’s not about the things. I’d still love you even if we were living in a one-room shack.”
Draco’s laughter rang out. “You? In a one-room shack? I’d pay to see that.”
Harry grinned, walking over and handing Draco a glass. “Maybe one day. But for now, I’m going to keep spoiling you. Because lucky for you, that’s what I like.”
Draco groaned, covering his face with a pillow. “If you quote that song one more time, I’m hexing you.”
Harry laughed, leaning down to kiss him. “Promise?”
One afternoon, they were lounging in Harry’s flat when Draco began muttering in French again. Harry, curious, leaned forward. “What did you just say?”
Draco smirked. “If you can’t understand it, then perhaps it’s not meant for your ears.”
Harry huffed, tossing a cushion at him. “Teach me, then.”
Draco raised a brow. “Teach you French? You can barely manage to pronounce half the spells you learned at Hogwarts.”
“Oi! That’s not true,” Harry protested, crawling onto the couch beside him. “Come on, just a few phrases. What’s the harm?”
Draco rolled his eyes but relented. “Fine. Repeat after me: Tu es insupportable.”
Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re unbearable,” Draco replied, his tone dry.
Harry laughed. “Figures. All right, let me try: Tu es insupportable.”
Draco’s lips twitched. “Not bad. Now try this: Je t’aime.”
Harry repeated it, his voice softer this time. “What does that mean?”
Draco’s cheeks turned pink. “It means… I love you.”
Harry’s grin widened, and he leaned forward to kiss him. “Je t’aime too.”
Another time, as Draco was meticulously arranging a bouquet of enchanted roses Harry had bought him, he muttered, “Potter, you’re hopeless.”
Harry stepped behind him, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. “Harry,” he corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Draco’s neck. “It’s Harry for you. Or darling. Take your pick.”
Draco’s breath hitched, but he quickly masked it with a scoff. “I only call you Potter anytime you buy me something extravagant. Anyways... You’re insufferable, darling.”
Harry chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”
Draco wasn’t always on the receiving end of grand gestures. One crisp autumn morning, Harry awoke to find Draco gone from bed, a note charmed to hover over his pillow.
Meet me in the garden. Dress warmly.
Curious, Harry bundled up and stepped outside. He found Draco standing beside a table laden with a steaming pot of tea, a plate of treacle tart, and a leather-bound book with Harry’s initials embossed in gold on the cover.
“What’s all this?” Harry asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Draco smirked. “You’re always fussing over me. It’s my turn to fuss over you.”
Harry picked up the book and flipped through its pages, his throat tightening. It was filled with photographs and notes—memories of their time together, enchanted so the images moved and the notes shimmered like starlight.
“Draco,” he whispered, his eyes misting. “This is… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say thank you, you dolt,” Draco replied, though his voice was softer than usual.
Harry set the book down and pulled Draco into a tight embrace. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.”
Draco’s arms tightened around him. “I know. Now sit down and eat before the tea gets cold.”
In quieter moments, Draco’s clinginess would surface in ways that Harry adored. On lazy Sunday afternoons, Draco would drape himself over Harry like a human blanket, his head resting on Harry’s chest as they read or simply lounged in comfortable silence. Harry would thread his fingers through Draco’s hair, his heart swelling at the way Draco leaned into his touch.
“You’re awfully clingy today,” Harry teased one afternoon.
Draco hummed, not bothering to lift his head. “You’re warm. And you smell nice.”
Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of Draco’s head. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”
Draco smirked. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Harry tightened his hold, a sense of peace washing over him. This, he realized, was what happiness truly felt like—being with someone who saw every part of him and loved him regardless.
A week later, Narcissa Malfoy invited them to a formal dinner in Paris. It was supposed to be a quiet family affair, but with her, "quiet" often translated into "elegantly excessive." Draco read the letter aloud, his voice tinged with mild annoyance. “She’s insisting we come, and she’s chosen one of the finest wizarding restaurants in the area. Of course.”
“Sounds lovely,” Harry said, lounging on the sofa. “When do we leave?”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize she’s going to scrutinize every detail of our relationship, right?”
Harry grinned. “Let her. I’m quite charming, you know.”
Draco muttered something in French that Harry didn’t catch, but he smiled anyway.
Draco spent the morning fussing over what to wear, changing robes no fewer than five times while Harry lounged on their bed, watching with amusement.
“You look perfect in anything,” Harry declared, flipping through the latest issue of Quidditch Monthly. “Besides, it’s just your mum. She’s seen you in nappies.”
Draco threw a silk tie at him. “Your standards are appallingly low.”
“My standards are you,” Harry said, his voice teasing but sincere. He set the magazine aside and stood, striding over to where Draco was pacing. “Relax, darling. You’re gorgeous, always. Now let’s go before your mother thinks we’ve fled the country.”
Draco huffed but allowed Harry to lead him to the Floo.
The dinner was held in a private salon at an upscale Parisian wizarding restaurant. Narcissa greeted them with her usual elegance, her kiss on Draco’s cheek lingering with maternal warmth before she turned to Harry.
“Harry, how lovely to see you again,” she said with a smile that was almost conspiratorial. “Draco tells me you’ve been treating him like royalty.”
Harry grinned. “He deserves it.”
Narcissa’s lips curved slightly. “Be careful, Mr. Potter, or you’ll spoil him rotten.”
“I’m already rotten,” Draco quipped, earning a soft laugh from his mother.
The dinner was exquisite, featuring dishes Harry couldn’t pronounce but thoroughly enjoyed. When the bill arrived, Draco reached for it, but the waiter politely declined.
“Everything has been taken care of, sir,” the man said with a bow.
Draco blinked, then turned to Harry, his expression a mix of exasperation and incredulity. “Potter—”
“Harry,” Harry interrupted, smirking. “Or darling. I like that one too.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but Narcissa chuckled, her gaze fond as she watched the exchange. “Draco, I believe you’ve met your match.”
After dinner, as they walked back to their hotel, Draco was uncharacteristically quiet. Harry glanced at him, concerned. “Everything okay?”
Draco stopped, turning to face him. “Harry, you can’t keep doing this.”
Harry frowned. “Doing what?”
“Paying for everything, planning everything, throwing your gold around like it’s endless,” Draco said, his voice soft but firm. “It’s—it’s too much.”
Harry’s expression softened. “Draco, it makes me happy to see you happy. That’s all.”
Draco sighed, taking Harry’s hand. “I know. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I’d love you even if we lived in a shack and ate beans on toast every day.”
Harry smiled, his heart swelling. “I know. But I’ll always want to give you the best of everything.”
Draco shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “How about we meet in the middle? I’ll let you spoil me occasionally if you let me spoil you too.”
Harry leaned in, brushing a kiss against Draco’s temple. “Deal.”
When Harry returned home from an Auror meeting, he found the flat filled with the scent of freshly baked treacle tart.
“Draco?” he called, setting his bag down.
“In the kitchen!” Draco’s voice rang out.
Harry entered to find Draco covered in flour, a slightly frazzled look on his face as he tried to charm a crust into behaving. On the counter sat an array of Harry’s favorite dishes, from shepherd’s pie to butterbeer pudding.
“You cooked?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with awe.
Draco turned, a sheepish smile on his face. “Well, I attempted to. Don’t get too excited—half of this is probably inedible.”
Harry crossed the room in two strides, pulling Draco into a kiss despite the flour smudges. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Draco flushed, swatting at him. “Eat first. Then decide.”
Harry did, and by the end of the meal, he was fighting back tears. “Draco, this is... Thank you.”
Draco smirked, though his eyes were soft. “You’re welcome. Now, stop crying. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Harry laughed, pulling Draco into his lap. “I love you.”
“I know,” Draco murmured, leaning into him. “And I love you too.”
The next day, Harry returned from an Auror meeting that had gone on far too long. He’d spent most of it staring at a stack of parchment without processing a word, his mind wandering to Draco again. Even while Kingsley droned on about international magical cooperation, Harry’s thoughts remained fixed on the way Draco’s hair caught the light in the morning, the way his voice softened when he spoke French, the way he filled their flat with his presence.
“Potter? Are you even listening?” Kingsley’s deep voice cut through Harry’s reverie.
Harry blinked, realizing he’d been doodling circles again in the margin of his notes. “Uh, yes. Absolutely.”
Ron, seated opposite him shot him a knowing look. “Really? Then what did Kingsley just say?”
Harry’s ears burned. “Something about… trolls?”
Kingsley sighed. “You’re dismissed, Potter. Go home. And try to come back with your head on straight next time.”
Harry wasted no time Apparating back to his flat, where he found Draco lounging on the sofa, a book in hand and a cup of tea on the table beside him.
“Long day?” Draco asked without looking up.
Harry crossed the room, collapsing beside him and resting his head on Draco’s lap. “Too long. I missed you.”
Draco’s hand immediately found its way to Harry’s hair, his fingers threading through the messy strands. “You’re hopeless,” he said softly, though there was no bite in his words.
Harry closed his eyes, a contented smile spreading across his face. “Hopelessly in love with you.”
Draco’s cheeks turned pink, but he didn’t stop stroking Harry’s hair. “Idiot.”
As time passed, their relationship deepened, filled with moments of laughter, tenderness, and the occasional dramatic flair. Draco still called him Potter in public, but in private, he often whispered Harry or endearments in French that made Harry’s heart flutter. And Harry, in turn, cherished every moment, grateful for a love that felt as magical as the world they lived in.