A Specialty Brew

Draco sat at the bar, nursing his drink, as he waited for Andrea to show up. She’d accepted his invitation and sent back a very blunt: sure, Niggly’s at 7’oclock—which Draco hadn’t responded to. It wasn’t a suggestion. 

So he’d gone home after work and taken a long, burning hot shower. He’d assembled his entire wardrobe (which was not much) and picked through the pieces of clean and passable clothing until he’d compiled something acceptable. Ripped black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, a dark jacket, and a grey beanie. He looked pretty good considering what he had to work with, in his own humble opinion, and he only cast one subtle glamour to hide the bags under his eyes.

Not that he was trying to impress Andrea in particular, of course. She’d only ever seen him in his work robes and he wanted her to know that he had a sense of fashion even if his wallet couldn’t oblige it most of the time. Maybe he still had a bit of that prideful vanity from his childhood…

“I never thought I’d see the great Draco Malfoy in ripped jeans and a beanie. You clean up nice.” 

Draco whirled in his chair, already recognizing the voice but praying he was wrong. Sure enough, Mr. ‘Doe’ was standing next to him in jeans and a dark leather jacket. He looks incredible was Draco’s first thought, but he swallowed that down. The second thought, he voiced:

“What are you doing here?”

“You invited me.”

The Auror held up his note, looking confused, and Draco could have punched that fucking owl to death. Stupid! He should have known that the bird would pick up on both magical signatures and choose whichever one it liked better—even if Andrea’s was stronger. Andrea had probably been farther away, he reasoned, so the bird had delivered his note to the Auror. 

“It was meant to go to Andrea.” 

For a split second, Draco saw something like disappointment flash across that abnormally average face. 

“Ah, I understand. She’s in Tibet currently but I can leave you be and get you her forwarding address.” 

The man took a step back and Draco surprised himself with the rush of nonononono that flooded his system. True, he’d been expecting Andrea. But hadn’t he considered inviting the man first? He was a very good distraction, if nothing else. It was unprofessional, but then again it might be worse to jilt the man rather than to just have a drink with him. 

“No, please stay. Can I get you something to drink?” 

A beat of silence passed and Draco could feel those brown eyes scanning him, searching for any hint of a joke or a lie. He could barely breathe and was convinced he’d failed the test until the man smiled, sliding into the seat beside him. Thank Merlin. 

“I’ll take a Blackberry Cider. I have another early shift tomorrow.” 

Draco nodded and turned to the bartender, only to find that the man was already pouring the drink. Mr. ‘Doe’ had evidently been talking to both of them. Intuitively, Draco didn’t like that and it hit him with a jolt that he didn’t like it because he didn’t want to share the man’s attention with anyone, even the bartender. That was… new. 

“Don’t feel obligated to stay,” Draco said quickly. “I know you already had a late night because of me and I’m sure you need the rest.”

He’d meant it to be logical, but somehow the words still sounded disappointed out loud. The man turned his full attention to Draco, and smiled easily as if getting drinks with Draco were the most natural thing in the world. 

“Oh, I’m staying. An invitation from you, Draco, is simply irresistible. I’m afraid you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” 

It was a joke. Draco knew it was a joke, and yet the man hadn’t looked like he was entirely joking when he’d called the offer ‘irresistible’. And he couldn’t tell if that last part had meant to be encouraging, or threatening. Either way, he liked it. 

“If you insist, Mr. Doe.”

The man looked at him and seemed to size up his mostly empty glass, but then moved to Draco’s face and down his body. He was making no attempt to hide that he was drinking in Draco’s appearance—Draco just couldn’t tell if it was suspicion, appraisal, or genuine attraction. Whatever it was, the man seemed to get his answer because he smiled. 

“Come to drown your sorrows, Draco?”

Merlin he was still not used to hearing a male voice say his first name. Pansy had always called him Draco or Drake so it had been easy to get used to Andrea calling him by it, but not a man. Men were dangerous and more impulsive, at least to Draco’s paranoid subconscious. Just because this one felt different didn’t mean he actually was. 

“Maybe. What’s it to you if I did?”

It was probably the third or fourth sentence he’d said to the man since they’d arrived at the bar, but Draco was already popping an attitude. He watched very carefully, waiting to see a hint of annoyance or a flicker of contempt shine through the glamour. As usual, the only expression he could read was the one that the man’s face eventually settled on: in this case, a quirking little smile and an amused glimmer in his eyes. 

“I’m merely curious and trying to make conversation. You’re being defensive and closed off, though, and I think the only fitting punishment that I can give, then, is to force you to make conversation. So, go ahead.”

Draco felt his face contort into a pout, but it just made the man’s smile grow. The asshole enjoyed torturing him, apparently. Not that this was the kind of torture Draco’s brain immediately went to, but that was neither here nor there. 

“Fine, I will. How was your day?”

The man nearly choked on his cider and looked at if Draco had slapped him. Slowly, he started to laugh. He couldn’t control it and he kept laughing even after Draco felt his own face flush red and confusion settle into his limbs. Had he said something funny?

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just. I never thought I would ever be getting drinks with you and having you ask about my day.” 

Draco bristled, turning to his now-empty glass for solace. Was it so crazy for him to make normal conversation? No one was forcing the man to be here or to even show up, but had he only accepted as a joke? Did the man really see him as that far outside of society? That inhuman? 

“Hey, no. Don’t look so sad. It’s only funny because of who I am and, naturally, you don’t know who I am so I’m sorry. It’s not you or anything you said.”

Draco didn’t care what his excuse was, though. It just reminded him that A. he didn’t know who this man was still and B. he once again was the butt of the joke. His pleasant alcoholic haze was souring into self-pity. He could take a joke, but he was sick of being a joke—he’d worked really fucking hard to get to where he was and it wasn’t—

A single warm, calloused finger under his chin stopped any kind of thought process he might have had. He blinked, suddenly aware of tears prickling behind his eyes. No! He would not cry in front of this man. 

Slow, gentle pressure against his chin prompted him to lift his head. The man was looking straight into his eyes like he could see into Draco’s soul and it gave him goosebumps. He swallowed hard, trying to force back the tears that had formed for no apparent reason, and endeavored to meet the man’s eyes with the same kind of intensity. After two beats of silence, he looked away, though. 

“Hey,” Draco let his eyes dart back, but then quickly averted them after seeing no change in the man’s expression. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset. I wasn’t laughing at you and one day, when you know who I am, you’ll get the joke. I promise.” 

Draco believed him. Whole-heartedly, mind-bendingly, didn’t-even-question-it-for-a-second believed him. He nodded, feeling the pressure of that finger against his jaw and relishing in the way it resisted the movement. The man didn’t retreat or recoil the first chance he got. It reminded Draco of something he’d been wanting to know.

“Can I ask you something?”

The man smiled and it occurred to Draco that he looked nothing like an Auror in that outfit and this environment. He pulled his hand back, but Draco felt the loss immediately. His head was somehow difficult to hold up on his own now—which was ridiculous, because he’d been able to hold it up just fine for the last twenty or so years—but he didn’t wallow in it. His eyes flicked to his companion, searching for a reaction. The man was smiling and he looked socially comfortable in a way that Draco never was. 

“Of course, assuming it’s not about my identity and that I can ask you one in return.”

Draco should have known better. Nothing with this man was ever going to be simple or easy and he was very aware of what he was putting on the line. If he agreed to answer in return, he was trusting the man to ask something… tolerable. The small advantage that he’d had would disappear. But, if he refused, he also wouldn’t learn anything about the mysterious Mr. ‘Doe’ and that was simply unacceptable. 

“Deal. That time in my office with the juggerknats… You touched my Mark.”

“That’s not a question.”

Draco paused, examining the man’s face, but found no anger. The tone had been calm and level but not upset necessarily and the man was merely watching him, waiting for the actual question. With a deep breath, Draco decided to risk it.

“When you healed my wrist, you touched my Mark and you didn’t flinch or react at all. How?”

Suddenly—so suddenly it made him jump— the Auror laughed, but it was dark and dangerous. It set Draco on edge. He didn’t like the quality that had overtaken the man’s voice and he really didn’t like how severe his expression had become, even through the glamour. 

“I’ve touched much darker things than you, Draco, let me assure you. I didn’t even notice the Mark.” 

Strangely enough, Draco believed that.

Harry cursed himself for ordering anything even remotely alcoholic. He needed every ounce of self-control he could muster and he definitely did not need anything lowering his inhibitions. Inhibitions were good. Inhibitions would make sure he didn’t completely cross a line and slam Draco against a wall just to kiss the life out of him. Not that he could kiss him normally either, of course.

Draco, admittedly, looked good and Harry had a feeling that the blond knew it. That wasn’t what drew his eye, though, and he appreciated the style but there was something that it did to Draco’s appearance that was wreaking havoc on his self-control. 

Outside of his Potioneer uniform, Draco looked… young. The harsh, grisled tension he usually held in his shoulders hadn’t disappeared, but it had calmed to be almost unnoticeable. Draco’s entire appearance was softer. He was still reserved, but he no longer looked like he would hold a knife to the throat of anyone who questioned him. Less defensive, Harry decided. Though that might have been a product of the alcohol. 

Harry caught himself wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through Draco’s hair. He already knew how deceptive the blond’s sharp features could be—his skin was impossibly soft, for one—and he tried to remember if he’d ever touched Draco’s head in a fight. Doubtful, but they weren’t fighting now so it hardly mattered.

With a small smile, Harry realized that, even though they weren’t fighting, Draco hadn’t lost any of his attitude. Now that it wasn’t channeled into hits below the belt, Harry could appreciate that sharp tongue and the way that words seemed to arrange themselves effortlessly for the blond. Draco liked talking back and pushing him. Which worked well, Harry thought, because he was rather partial to brats. 

He couldn’t think of Draco that way, though—not yet, at least, even if the blond had completely short-circuited with a single finger under his chin. Harry took another sip of his drink and tried to focus on Draco for the correct, appropriate reasons this time. The blond looked almost happy to be there with him, but there was an undercurrent of discomfort in his body language that Harry attributed to the general social atmosphere. He hoped it wasn’t because of him. 

“So, Mr. Doe,” Draco’s eyes flashed as he purred over the name. “I suppose it’s your turn to ask your question. A deal is a deal.” 

Harry smiled at the fake confidence in the blond’s voice. Draco was nervous, even if he was determined not to show it, and yet he’d still brought up Harry’s chance to ask a question. He could have said nothing and hoped that Harry would forget. But his pride wouldn’t let him, Harry supposed, and Draco didn’t look as uncomfortable with the idea as Harry had thought he might be. His eyes were bright and they still darted quickly around the room but Harry was pretty sure he could see the difference between fear and anticipation. Merlin knew he’d elicited enough of both.

“You’re right, I believe it is my turn. Ought to make it a good one...”

Harry trailed off, pretending to think, and watched that same mix of fear and anticipation flare in Draco’s eyes. Good, he thought, let him simmer. There were a thousand things Harry wanted to ask and even more that Harry wanted to learn by doing but he couldn’t help thinking of this as a sort of test. He could push Draco and ask something difficult—which the blond was undoubtedly expecting—or he could be a wild card. His curiosity wouldn’t allow him to ask something as mundane as Draco’s favorite color, but he could temper it enough not to ask about the war or the trials. 

“Are you happy, Draco?”

Fear immediately flooded Draco’s expression and, for a second, Harry thought he might have misjudged the situation. But the fear quickly disappeared as the blond forced his face into a neutral position. Oh, Harry did not like that. The idea of Draco hiding something from him—visibly shutting down and closing in on himself—went against every single foundation of trust that he wanted to build. He never wanted his sub to hide from him or be genuinely afraid of him. 

But, he reminded himself, Draco was not his sub. Draco had no reason to trust him and every right to shut him out. It was just so easy to see the blond fitting into that role… Harry hadn’t offered it, though, and Draco hadn’t accepted it so Harry had no right to be upset that Draco was hiding things from him. Absolutely no right, and yet…

“I should be,” Draco mumbled. 

And oh that was much worse than hiding things from him. His voice was tinged with something heavy and bitter but it was turned entirely inward. He wasn’t angry at Harry for asking the question, he was angry at himself… for answering it at all? Or for the answer itself?

“That’s not an answer.”

It was, and it told Harry more than a simple yes or no might have, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to know, when pushed, what Draco would say. If he would lie. The choice was entirely in the blond’s hands and, after all, Harry had no right to either answer. But he hoped, and he told himself that if Draco was honest it was a sign he hadn’t fucked this up entirely the night before. 

“No, I guess I’m not. But I should be.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself. Draco’s voice was so sad and pitiful that it made his chest ache and he was reaching out before he even realized what he was doing. He reached for Draco’s cheek—he wanted more than anything to cup that pale jaw and run a thumb comfortingly along his cheekbone—but managed to stop at the last second and touched Draco’s shoulder instead. 

The blond didn’t jump or startle. Even if Harry didn’t know a lot of what had happened to him, he knew that unexpected touch was enough to trigger a startle response in almost anyone who had survived the war. Draco didn’t jump, though, and as Harry settled his hand to press flat over the blond’s jacket, he could have sworn he saw a hint of calm in his expression. 

“Thank you for being honest with me, Draco. And, for the record, you shouldn’t be anything other than exactly what you are.”

A brief, sardonic smile slid onto those pale lips. Though Draco still wouldn’t meet his eyes, Harry could feel his pulse calming. Subclavian artery, his brain supplied, or maybe even carotid with how fast his heart is still beating but that would be a dangerous level of pressure.

“You sound like my Mind Healer.” 

It was Harry’s turn to smile. Draco was in therapy? That was good—that was very good, especially considering that Harry’s brain had been not-so-subtly suggesting that he take on that role. He had no place pretending to be a therapist, of course, but he also had a bit of a ‘thing’ when it came to trying to fix people so he welcomed the information.

“Funny, I was actually quoting mine.”

The blond was still looking at the bar, but Harry could see his eyes flicking cautiously up every now and then to somewhere near his chin. Checking for a change in his expression, maybe? Or trying to watch his other hand to make sure he didn’t draw his wand? Either way, there wasn’t any obvious fear left in his face and Draco hadn’t shifted or tried to pull away yet, so Harry let his thumb run over the blond’s collarbone before withdrawing. He did not miss the full-body shudder that he earned in response. 

Merlin, it wasn’t fair how responsive he was. 

“You were a Gryffindor?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, but he was already smiling and shaking his head. He’d been prepared to stop the questions entirely and go back to normal conversation to keep from making Draco uncomfortable. Evidently, he’d underestimated the strength of Draco’s curiosity. 

Two can play at that game, sweetheart. 

“Ah-ah-ah… Too identifying. I know you, Draco, and you’re smart. The second I admit to any identifying information like that you’ll start combing through Hogwarts records trying to figure out who I am.”

Dammit, he was right. Draco cursed the glamour for not letting any microexpressions or flashes of quick surprise slip through, which could have answered his question for him. Damn cautious Auror. It was justified, naturally, and that may or may not have been exactly what Draco had been planning to do the second he got the information, but… Still. Clearly he knew Draco by more than just reputation.

“Alright. You weren’t a Slytherin, though—that isn’t a question—which only leaves three other options. But I’ll play by your rules for now. Are you in a relationship?” 

That question came out of nowhere from the depths of Draco’s subconscious but he wasn’t entirely sure he regretted it. It was something he wanted to know. He watched, carefully searching for something like disgust in the man’s face or maybe even contempt, but found nothing. Just plain, mellow interest and a willingness to play along.

“No, are you?”

Oh, he didn’t like that this was becoming reciprocal. He took another big drink from his recently-refilled glass, hoping it would either give him the bravery to answer or the sense not to. Draco knew he could refuse to answer—could. But he was burning with curiosity and the man seemed determined to follow a tit for tat rule so he shook his head.

“No, but I was engaged before the war.” 

“I’m not surprised. I think I read something about that in the papers, Parkinson right? Favorite base liquor?”

“Rum. Vodka is usually cheaper, though. And yes I was engaged to Pansy before the war but she’d managed to escape getting the Dark Mark so we staged a public breakup. The papers ate it up. She broke the engagement, citing my Mark and choices during the war, to strengthen her own innocent plea and it worked. Are you really as rich as you pretend to be?”

The man’s eyes were resting on him and, by all appearances, were completely calm but Draco could feel an energy behind them. Mr. ‘Doe’ was cataloguing that information very carefully. Was it mere personal interest or was he storing it to bring to the Ministry?

“Yes, I am, though most of it was left to me. I know the Malfoy fortune was seized after the war, but surely whatever rate you’ve negotiated at Whirlwind isn’t enough to live off of?” 

Draco shrugged and downed the rest of his drink. He motioned for another, but the Auror intercepted and mumbled something to the closest bartender. She gave him a smirk and disappeared. 

“Anything is enough to live off of, depending on how low your standards are. What did you order for me?”

“A surprise. I think you’ll like it, it’s rum with... other things. Do you live alone?” Draco raised an eyebrow, and the man held up his hands. “Okay, you’re right, that sounded creepier out loud than I meant it to be. Why did you get into potions after the war?”

“I’m good at it. Why did you become an Auror?”

The man’s head shot up, but Draco held back a smirk. He looked so surprised as if there was no way Draco could have figured it out on his own. Maybe he wasn’t as intelligent as Draco had been giving him credit for. Even as he thought it, though, the man’s face relaxed into something resembling that prideful expression he’d had when Draco had successfully made the potion. Was he… proud that Draco had figured it out?

“I’m good at it. How did you know?”

“Who else would wear a glamour while buying a potion? At first I thought you were a surprise inspection from the Ministry and I was bloody pissed, but…” Draco shrugged. “This is an incredibly thorough inspection.”

The man laughed, helped no doubt by the emptiness of his glass. Draco liked the sound of his laugh, he realized, even if he knew it wasn’t the man’s real voice. It was… nice. No, nice wasn’t a good enough descriptor. It was disarming, Draco decided, and it gave him the dangerous impression that he’d done something right.

“No, I’m not here from the Department of Quality Control or anything like that. Merlin, that would be boring. You were recommended for my… unique situation by a blackmarket informant I flipped a few years ago. Don’t look so panicked, you’re not on any kind of watch list or anything. Your name and contact information were given to me as a personal favor.”

Draco merely nodded and absorbed this information. He could make a good guess at who would have dropped his name, given the chance, but if the Auror had had to call in a favor it could have been anyone short of the Minister himself. Hell, even half the bloody Auror department probably knew who he was. That was not a comforting thought. 

“Well, as much as I appreciate the company, I’d hate to have Shacklebolt sick the Auror department on me because you showed up exhausted two days in a row. Besides, you’ve definitely earned the rest.”

The man smiled, glancing at his watch. With a sigh, he stood and shrugged on a coat that Draco hadn’t noticed him carrying before. Before opening his mouth to say goodbye, though, the man pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and placed a stack of galleons on the bar. Draco gaped at him—and at the money.

“What are you—”

“Remember how I’m rich? My treat. Consider it a thank you for giving me a chance, even though I’m not nearly as entertaining as Andrea. Get some rest, Draco.”

He gave a small nod to the bartender, flashed Draco a shockingly cute smile, and disappeared out into the night. Draco sat, reeling and staring at the coins. Part of him wanted to be prideful and be angry about the money, but the other part shut that down before it could gain any traction. He was in no position to refuse the money, especially from someone who obviously didn’t need it. 

The bartender placed a glass in front of him, and only then did Draco remember the mystery drink that Mr. ‘Doe’ had ordered for him. It was yellow, though not obnoxiously so, and the bartender called it a hurricane. He took a sip. A mixture of rum and tropical fruits hit his tongue and he smiled. It wasn’t as sweet as a pina colada, but he could definitely taste grenadine and he decided he liked it. 

He wasn’t surprised the man had guessed correctly. Glancing at his own watch, he realized it was already almost 10pm. Had it really been three hours? That seemed impossible, but Draco wasn’t sure if it was because he felt like time had stopped or because he felt like years had passed during their conversation. He was certainly tired enough for the latter option. 

Slowly, like he was fighting his way through liquid glass, he thanked the bartender and made his way out of the bar. The cold wind didn’t even register. One foot after the other, he walked towards the nearest bus stop and tried to figure out what was happening. Why was he so tired all of a sudden? He felt like he could pass out right there on the bus stop bench.

Get some rest, Draco. 

By the time he got home, Draco was struggling to keep his eyes open. Just like the night before—though arguably at a much more reasonable time—Draco fell into bed fully dressed and barely managed to kick off his boots before he was asleep.