Chapter Two
Draco Malfoy prided himself on his ability to keep his composure. He had endured years of public scorn, endless Ministry regulations, and working directly under Harry Potter without hexing him into oblivion. But this? This was testing the limits of his patience.
"So," Draco drawled, seated in Harry's office with one leg crossed over the other, "do you plan to tell me how you're going to explain our whirlwind romance to the wizarding world, or are we relying entirely on your Gryffindor recklessness to carry us through?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "We'll keep it simple. You work for me, we got to know each other, things... escalated."
"Escalated?" Draco's lips twitched. "What, did you accidentally trip and propose?"
Harry shot him a glare. "Do you have a better idea?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Draco pulled out a piece of parchment and tapped it with his wand, conjuring a list. "If I'm going to sacrifice my reputation for this farce, we're doing it properly."
Harry groaned. "Of course you've got a list."
"Rule number one," Draco said, ignoring him, "we need a plausible timeline. I suggest claiming we've been secretly dating for at least six months. No one will believe you fell for me overnight."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You think people will believe I fell for you at all?"
Draco smirked. "I'm very charming when I want to be."
"Sure you are," Harry muttered.
"Rule number two," Draco continued, "we'll need a public display of affection—something subtle but convincing. Perhaps holding hands at the Ministry Gala next week?"
Harry's face turned red. "I'm not—what—I mean, we don't—"
"Relax, Potter," Draco said with a wave of his hand. "It's not as if I'm asking you to snog me in front of everyone. Not yet, anyway."
Harry's eyes widened, and Draco chuckled at his discomfort.
"Rule number three," Draco said, his tone turning serious, "we'll need to practice our story. Details, dates, inside jokes—the whole lot. Rita Skeeter won't waste any time digging for dirt."
At the mention of Rita, Harry's jaw clenched. The thought of her sniffing around his private life made his stomach churn. "Fine," he said. "But keep it believable. Nothing too... elaborate."
"Oh, don't worry, Potter," Draco said, his smirk returning. "I'll make sure our love story is utterly captivating."
Later That Evening
Harry sat at his kitchen table, staring at the parchment in front of him. It was a mock timeline of his "relationship" with Draco, complete with fake anniversaries and fabricated date nights. Draco had insisted on including ridiculous details, like how Harry supposedly surprised him with roses after a particularly stressful day at work.
"This is insane," Harry muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
There was a loud crack as Kreacher, Harry's aging house-elf, appeared by his side.
"Master Harry looks troubled," Kreacher croaked. "Is it the nasty reporters again?"
"Not exactly," Harry said. "It's... complicated."
Kreacher's large eyes narrowed. "Is it the Malfoy boy? Kreacher always said he was trouble."
Harry snorted. "You're not wrong."
At that moment, his fireplace roared to life, and Draco's head appeared in the flames.
"Potter," he said sharply, "I need your input on the engagement party menu. Narcissa insists on serving only French delicacies, but I suggested—"
"Draco," Harry interrupted, "it's nearly midnight."
"And?"
"And normal people don't discuss party menus at midnight!"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Clearly, you've never planned an event with my mother. Now, do you prefer pheasant or venison?"
Harry groaned. "I don't care. Surprise me."
Draco's lips twitched. "Careful, Potter. Keep up this enthusiasm, and I might start thinking you enjoy my company."
Before Harry could respond, Draco disappeared from the flames, leaving Harry with an exasperated sigh.
Kreacher muttered something under his breath about "cheeky blondes," but Harry ignored him, his thoughts drifting back to Draco's smirk.