Just say no, Draco tells himself, lips pressed together tightly, hands curling into fists behind his back. Just say no. Nothing good can come of this.
But there is something so unassuming, so quietly patient in Potter’s eyes as he’s standing in the empty classroom where Draco still has to collect the homeworks from the students’ desks. He’s wearing obnoxiously Gryffindor colours, with mud covering his boots and splattered all over his robe and scarf, clearly coming here right after his flying lesson with the third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, instead of showering like any sane person would. Draco grinds his teeth, angry at himself that he even knows Potter’s schedule.
Say no, he tells himself. You must say no.
Irritably he flicks his wand and the parchments levitate up from the desks and arrange themselves in a neat stack on top of his desk.
“So?” Potter asks, his lips curling into the softest smile, which sends a shiver down Draco’s spine.
“Why?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the calming order of his desk, because looking into those hopeful eyes would undo him.
“What do you mean, why?” Potter asks in confusion, and Draco is grateful, because he can roll his eyes in exasperation and lean into the chilly sarcasm that has been the foundation of their tentative collegial co-existence since Potter joined the Hogwarts staff the previous school year.
“Oh I’m sorry, I would have expected that to be a question you were quite familiar with.”
A brief, cold glance at Potter tells him his attempt at getting a rise out of him failed spectacularly. Instead of annoyance or impatience, all he sees on Potter’s face is soft amusement and he takes a step closer to Draco before saying:
“You can’t blame me for being confused. Who answers a dinner invitation with why?”
The warmth of his voice makes it almost sound like he’s flirting and Draco’s voice is a little too breathless for his liking when he says:
“We don’t do that, Potter.”
“Things change.”
“Not that much,” Draco says firmly. Both to Potter and his own wildly beating heart. He picks up the parchments and a newly released potions research book he’s been leafing through between his classes today, firmly intending to walk out on Potter with his dignity and self-preservation still in-tact. But just as he begins to turn away, Potter steps closer again and gently presses his palm against the small of Draco’s back.
“What if I’d like it to change?” He asks quietly, his low, hopeful voice making Draco’s heart hammer against his ribcage.
Say no, he pleads with himself. It’s a joke. It has to be. Just say no.
But when he opens his mouth what comes out is a breathless, shaky: “Alright.”
XXX
Seven times Draco tried to cancel their Friday night plans. Seven times he had perfectly reasonable arguments that even someone as infuriatingly impulsive as Potter would surely understand. But every time he approached Potter, there was such a soft, pure joy in the man’s eyes that Draco’s thoughts got jumbled and he ended up simply nodding and accepting his fate.
By the time he’s knocking on Potter’s door on Friday, he has to clasp his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking.
“Hi,” Potter smiles at him brightly as he opens the door and Draco can only nod stiffly, trying his best not to notice the way the burgundy coloured shirt is hugging Potter’s frame, and the way his hair, as usual, evaded all attempts at order. Instead of stepping aside to let Draco enter, he walks out and closes the door behind himself.
“I thought we were-“ Draco starts but Potter grins at him and starts walking down the corridor.
“I figured you might appreciate us doing this on neutral grounds at first.”
Draco’s chest constricts at the implication this might only be the start of many such evenings and he has to firmly shut his mind to thoughts of how much he’d like that.
“Besides,” Potter adds with a glint in his eyes. “It can be like a little adventure.”
Draco can’t help but snort. “You and your adventures.”
Potter chuckles and shrugs. “We did spend a lot of time chasing each other down these corridors. Might be a nice change to walk by each other’s side, don’t you think?”
Draco’s heart skips a beat, but all he says is: “I guess.”
XXX
“You know, in all my years, I never actually came down to the kitchen,” Draco says, walking around the empty room, looking at the neat, ordered shelves and cupboards the house elves left for the night.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Potter says, fiddling with something by a small table on the other side of the kitchen, which Draco is not supposed to be paying attention to. His voice is playful and a bit distracted rather than accusatory, so Draco just rolls his eyes.
“Shut up, not all of us had an invisibility cloak that always got us out of trouble.”
Potter grins at him and shrugs: “I tend to think it got me into more trouble than it got me out of.”
Then he steps aside and lets Draco see the laid out table. It’s charmingly simple and a little artlessly romantic, in a way that Draco would scoff at if it wasn’t so very much like Potter. The single candle in the middle of the table suddenly flickers to life and he glares at Potter, while trying not to smile:
“Show off.”
While he sits Potter brings over two bowls from a nearby counter. “I promise, if you get food poisoning, it was entirely an accident,” he says as he puts one of the bowls in front of Draco and his laugh is a little nervous.
Draco raises an eyebrow but as he glances down at the dish, he forgets what he was about to say. “What is this?” He asks in a tight voice.
“Oh, erm,” Potter shifts in his chair a little uncertainly. “I know it’s not very fancy but… A couple of times, back in the day, when I couldn’t sleep I sneaked down here and Dobby always made me warm pumpkin soup.”
He smiles softly at the memory, then shrugs, for a moment looking more like the awkward boy he used to be. “It made me feel. I don’t know…”
“Cared for,” Draco says quietly.
“Yeah.”
Draco takes in a deep breath and slowly sinks his spoon into the creamy, bright orange soup. The scent of it hits him with the force of an old memory. As he tastes it, the warmth of it spreads in him and for a moment he almost chokes up with the force of the emotion making his chest feel tight.
“I haven’t had this since I was seven, I think,” he says and tentatively meets Potter’s gaze. He wants to tell him about Dobby’s thin hands patting his hair as he sniffed, afraid of his father’s stern expectations and his sudden temper. But the words get stuck in his throat, despite the softness in Potter’s gaze.
“And after?”
Draco shakes his head. “I changed.” He glances down at the soup. Tries not to remember how much he tried to please his father. How much he tried to become like him. How terrifyingly well it worked some days.
“Dobby’s was better,” Potter says quietly, and his tone is so warm, so unexpectedly understanding that Draco looks up at him and finds himself smiling tentatively, hope that this could be the start of something spreading in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s close enough.”