Claws, Darling...
Tonight was special. Draco had roused himself early enough that morning to make sure he had time to shower, and he’d laid out an outfit on his bed for once he got home. Of course, he’d already gone through seven different outfits and was satisfied with none of them. But, it was the thought that counted, right?
Tonight was Pansy’s birthday dinner. One of many, if he had to guess, because none of her friends were allowed to contact each other let alone attend a party together. As far as he knew, it would just be him, Pansy, Maeve, and maybe a couple of Pansy’s work friends. He wondered idly if Damien would be there. It was probably better if he wasn’t, though, considering that anytime Draco drank around the man he had a hell of a time suppressing the urge to go home with him.
Draco had his typical work uniform, which was always crisp and proper. However, Pansy would absolutely strangle him if he showed up to her birthday dinner in work robes so he’d forced himself to down two more cups of coffee and dress up a little. All in all, he thought he looked objectively good. He’d chosen a light grey button up that Pansy had said matched his eyes and a tight black suit vest with matching (and equally tight) black pants which, according to her, made his ass look like a ‘sourdough bread bowl’.
Because it was Pansy and he loved her, Draco had even added a tie: deep green, for Slytherin of course. And, again because it was Pansy—who was becoming alarmingly sentimental in her adulthood—Draco added the silver snake cufflinks that she’d gotten him for Christmas the year before. She would appreciate the gesture, he thought. As an added bonus, if he managed to look semi-put-together for the majority of the night, she might actually spend her birthday dinner not worrying about him for once.
A pang of bitter guilt shot through his chest, but Draco shoved it down. Tonight was not about him or about trying to apologize for making her deal with all his bullshit. Tonight, they were celebrating.
He walked into the bar feeling far too confident for someone who was still stone-cold sober. Pansy and Maeve were already seated in a half-circle booth and Draco could see that the brunette already had a hand possessively on his best friend’s thigh. In spite of himself, he smiled. Years of growing up together had taught him that Pansy did very well when she was the center of attention and he had no doubt that she adored being so clearly coveted.
“Drake! You made it!”
He smiled, this time for their benefit, and slid into the other side of the booth to wrap Pansy in a tight hug. It was rare that he gave or received any physical affection from someone, but this was a special occasion and Pansy was already two drinks in so he decided to go for it.
“Happy birthday, Pans.”
She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Just for a second, Draco was blinking back tears. But then she was pulling away, leaning back into Maeve’s side and twirling the engagement ring on her finger as she called for more drinks. She ordered for him without even asking and Draco caught himself relishing the quiet intimacy of that action.
As the women returned to whatever inane argument they’d been lost in when Draco had arrived, he let his eyes drift around the bar. It was a bad habit, but he told himself he wasn’t looking for drawn wands or exits. No, he was definitely surveying the available hook ups. Like a normal person.
“Draco! You aren’t even listening!” A hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned his attention back to Pansy with a small smile. “I asked you if you wanted to do shots with me! But since you were so rude and inattentive, it’s no longer a choice. Fireball all around!”
Draco groaned, already regretting coming out tonight, but he accepted the shot that was handed to him to humor the Slytherin. Tonight was about Pansy, he reasoned. It was only fair, then, that the birthday girl could make declarations like that and decide other people’s fates. He tossed back the shot and grimaced, but felt Pansy take his hand and raise it with a triumphant cheer, so he just forced a smile.
Tonight was about Pansy.
Harry had elected to take Hermione out for food and drinks rather than trying to show up at their apartment and answering her questions with Ron in the room. He loved his best friend, of course, but he had a feeling that even using Draco’s first name would be enough to set the redhead off so he was rather glad that Hermione had agreed to go out. They went straight from work, merely losing their outer robes and undoing the first few buttons of their shirts.
He’d let Hermione choose the place, hoping that would somehow grant him leniency. It hadn’t, but she’d led him to a small out-of-the-way place that she said Andrea had recommended so it had to be good. Harry knew the bar already because it was where Andrea hosted a semi-private monthly munch, but he didn’t say anything because he had no desire for Hermione to grill him on that aspect of his life. To his own credit, he even pretended to read the menu and acted like he didn’t have a go-to order already in mind.
“What do you think, Harry? The fish and chips sound good but I could also go for something more substantial like a veggie burger…”
“Oh you’d love the burgers here, they’re amazing,” he replied, but then realizing what he’d said, continued: “Or so I’ve heard.”
Hermione did not believe that for a second, but she let the subject drop and ordered a bacon and swiss veggie burger. Harry went for his usual (without actually calling it that) and got a burger of his own to go with a communal order of fries that Hermione insisted she didn’t want any of, but that Harry knew she would eat at least half of. Sure enough, when the fries and beers arrived, they both dug in.
“So,” Hermione started, obviously trying to keep her tone light and conversational. “Draco uses your wand now.”
“It’s not like it’s a constant thing…” Harry mumbled through his mouthful of fries.
He felt the distinct urge to defend himself and he tried to remind his brain that this was only Hermione. She was curious as hell, clearly, and she would grill him for information the moment he let her but that didn’t mean she’d disregard his feelings. This wasn’t a malicious interrogation.
“But that wasn’t the first time.”
She said it firmly, as if daring him to try to lie or deny it, but Harry merely shrugged. He knew that he’d been far too calm about Draco’s request and he’d handed over his wand far too easily for her to ever believe that was the first time. Rather than ask about that first time, though, Hermione just nodded and jumped tracks.
“Have there been any more attacks? Or are you just being overprotective with that bracelet?”
Harry’s face flushed red and he tried to buy himself time to recover by taking a long sip of his drink. Once he’d swallowed, though, Hermione was still just sitting there waiting. Of course she’d noticed it. The thing practically oozed magic and, as much as Andrea had contributed, Harry had forced a lot more power into that cord than it rightfully deserved. To someone like Hermione, that bracelet would be like a beacon on Draco. She quirked an eyebrow at him and he sighed.
“No, there wasn’t another attack, but I felt something in the wards. When I got there, he said that Aidan had paid him a visit and, well… We both know how trustworthy Aidan can be.
She nodded, despite not knowing the half of it, and took another bite of her burger. As she chewed, Harry could see the thoughts and ideas flickering through her expression like lightning bolts across the sky. Would she press him about his ‘feelings’ for the blond? Or start lecturing him about the old Draco and how horrible he’d been to them all?
“He almost went to Azkaban, you know.”
Harry did know, but hearing that fact outloud was almost too much for his system to bear. He nodded to Hermione, but his mind was still spinning and dwelling on the Draco Malfoy that he’d seen in the papers and again at the trials. Back then, the blond had looked small and fragile. His face had held an impossible amount of sadness and his thin, shaky frame had been highlighted by his obvious malnourishment. The first time Harry had seen him, a rush of protectiveness had poured into his veins and he hadn’t questioned why or how—he’d resolved right then and there, only three months after the war, that he would save Draco.
“You’ve always been incorrigible when it comes to him.”
Harry disagreed and did not consider himself incorrigible in any sense of the term, but he kept his mouth shut. Hermione had decided years ago that he couldn’t see his own obsession and nothing was going to change that opinion now, especially given his recent behavior. But it wasn’t his fault that Hermione didn’t feel the pull Draco had.
Even Andrea felt it, which was one of the only things that had managed to convince Harry that he wasn’t going insane. As far as Harry knew, Hermione wasn’t into kink in any major way (and he was quite content to never know anything like that about his best friends’ sex lives, thank you very much) but that also meant she didn’t get it. She didn’t study Draco the same way, looking for tiny signals or movements that could mean a thousand different things.
Briefly, in the beginning, Harry had considered trying to explain it to her with the analogy of her and Ron. She would want to protect him, naturally, and to make him happy. But it wasn’t the same and Harry didn’t have a way to explain why or how it was different. There was something much deeper behind it when it came to Draco…
Ron had proven that he could protect himself—but so had Draco, honestly—and Harry couldn’t explain how that desire to safeguard your loved ones from harm was different from that deep, instinctive need to make someone truly feel safe. He’d talked about it once or twice with Andrea, since that first incident with the wards. She’d nodded when he talked about Draco’s energy, and she’d agreed that Draco had a desperate, broken, neediness about him that most people didn’t. Of course, she and Harry had both felt that protective instinct towards other people, particularly subs.
Harry could still remember the last time they’d gone to a public play party and witnessed a rather intense non-scene breakup which had ended in the Dom of the relationship pinning his partner to the wall by the throat. Security had gotten involved, thankfully, but Harry had been down on the floor beside the sub in less than a second. He’d wrapped the girl in a tight side hug—and she was a girl, barely nineteen—and ran his thumb in small, gentle circles over the back of her hand until she’d stopped crying.
That was usually as far as it went. In most cases, Harry could satisfy that inner urge with the knowledge that whoever he was dealing with was a full grown adult and that they were in strong, capable hands. In the case of the girl, he’d handed her off to a female Muggle police officer with slow, careful body language and a soft tone. He’d worried about her, vaguely, for a few days afterwards but knew she was fine. And, even if she wasn’t, he couldn’t take responsibility for that.
But Draco was different. Logic said that it was just the years of memories between them and the guilt of all the ‘could have’, ‘should have’, ‘would have’ in their history. He knew that Draco was a sore spot in his psyche, and Andrea had even called him on it. Somehow, it still didn’t matter, though.
Every time he saw the blond, Harry was overwhelmed with the desire to ‘make it better’. He wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, usually, or why he thought he had any right or special ability to fix it, but he wanted to. With other people—hell, even with himself—Harry only fixed things at the surface level. With scenes, or therapy, or his deeper friendships, he could dive deep and address things but they were still only a bit below the surface. They were at a normal level, he realized.
But with Draco, Harry wanted all of it. He wanted the normal level things: the deep conversations, the late nights, the healing, and the work of building something beautiful. Beneath that, though, and even deeper than the desire to protect Draco both mentally and physically, he wanted everything else that no one else ever offered or even really talked about. Harry wanted to protect Draco’s soul.
“Earth to Harry?”
He blinked, not realizing he was sipping from an empty glass until he saw Hermione’s concerned expression. She was sipping her own drink, merely looking at him, and he had to wonder how long he’d been lost in his thoughts and how long she’d been studying his face. Hopefully, she wouldn’t pry. Those thoughts, for now at least, were just for him because he wasn’t even sure what they meant yet.
“Sorry, got distracted.”
She nodded, but was still searching his face for something. Maybe tears? Did she think he’d had some sort of episode and gotten lost in the memories again?
“I was trying to tell you that you spoke of the devil, and he has arrived.”
She gestured subtly towards the other side of the bar where oh Merlin fucking Jesus Christ. Draco was sitting in a booth with two women, one of which Harry recognized as Pansy Parkinson. He felt his face heat up, aware that he was staring, but he couldn’t look away. The blond was laughing.
And damn happiness was a good look on him.
Because Draco hadn’t seemed to have noticed them yet, Harry let his eyes linger. Gone were the potioneer robes or the chic comfort clothes that Draco had worn to meet him for drinks that one time. Instead, Draco looked unreasonably fancy and unfairly delectable. His hair was messy and fell a bit to one side in soft, subtle curls that Harry was certain he had never seen before. Was Draco’s hair naturally curly? Or did it get like that when someone had run their fingers through it a thousand times?
Harry felt his mouth go dry as his eyes moved lower, taking in the soft, intoxicated flush to Draco’s cheeks and the sharp line of his jaw. The blond’s tie—Slytherin green, as if Harry had expected anything less—was tight around his throat and it accentuated the length of neck and the paleness of his skin perfectly. That skin would mark so easily…
His Adam's apple bobbed as he took a drink and Harry wanted to feel that motion under the weight of his palm. He wanted to kiss and bite and lick into every dip of Draco’s jaw. With the blond’s current outfit, he couldn’t see his collar bones or the sharp angles of his hips, but Harry wanted to learn every inch of it with his tongue. Would Draco let him?
No, of course not—that was a ridiculous idea. Draco might have been slightly attracted to him, or at least to Mr. Doe, but there was no way the blond would trust him enough. Or at all, really.
Draco felt the eyes on him, but ignored it at first because he was used to getting angry glares or hateful sneers in any public place. When the eyes didn’t shift or move away, though, he became curious. They didn’t feel hateful…
He glanced up and around the bar, scanning diligently again for any wands drawn, but didn’t find any. Was the person watching him a witch or wizard? If so, they could have cast a Notice Me Not on their table which would make it very difficult for Draco to see them. If he could have cast a detection spell, this would have been so much easier—
Draco met deep, electric green eyes and he immediately understood why the gaze hadn’t set him on edge. They didn’t look angry or malicious, they looked hungry. He let his eyes drift upwards to take in the man’s face, but he’d already recognized the eyes and he knew there was no mistaking it.
“Bloody hell.”
Both Pansy and Maeve looked up at that, clearly surprised by the sudden emotion in his voice. He didn’t look at them, though. Harry hadn’t dropped his gaze or broken their sudden staring contest and Draco instinctively wanted to win. When Pansy touched his arm, he relented. Bitterly, he gestured towards where Potter and Granger were sitting. Pansy’s face split into a grin.
Draco knew that Pansy had gone back for her Eighth year at Hogwarts while he’d been in a holding cell. He knew that very few students had gone back, and that Granger had been among them. And, deep down, even knew that the two had become friendly over the year. But never, in all his years of living, had he expected Pansy to squeal in excitement at their presence and demand Draco invite them to join.
It was her birthday, and that was the only reason Draco forced himself to his feet. He could still feel Harry’s eyes on him, even with his back turned, and his skin prickled under the attention in a way that was definitely horrible and not at all pleasant. Being the object of Harry’s attention had always been his goal, though, and a part of him swelled with pride. With another gulp of his drink, he shot a glare at Pansy and made his way across the bar.
Draco could fake confidence. He was a Malfoy for fuck’s sake! So, even though his stomach was fluttering and even though his heart felt like it might beat out of his chest, Draco kept his manner calm and collected. He approached their table with easy, measured steps. And he immediately felt like Harry could see straight through him.
“Potter, Granger, Pansy has requested that I invite you to join us. We’re celebrating her birthday a few days early and, as you can probably see, she isn’t even remotely sober so I’m sure she’d take no offense if you—”
“We’d love to.”
Draco shot another glare at the man, but this time Harry at least looked equally shocked by his own words. Granger elbowed him under the table and gave Draco a polite smile. After a few seconds of wordless discussion via eye contact, the two seemed to come to an agreement and they stood, taking their drinks with them as they followed after Draco.
He sat himself again next to Pansy, but hadn’t thought that through. Because neither of the Gryffindors knew Maeve, that left them to join his side of the booth and, because no one had forgotten that incident in Third Year, Harry placed himself between Draco and Granger. Which left Draco squished between Pansy and Harry bloody Potter. Brilliant.
Evidently, Granger and Pansy really had been friends. The three women soon lost themselves in a narrative of recounted memories, anecdotes, and playing catch up on each other’s lives. Which left him, once again, stuck with Potter.
“So… how’re the potions going?”
Draco snorted despite himself and tried to take a graceful sip of his drink to cover the faux pas. Here they were, practically touching in a poorly lit booth at a bar, and Potter had the nerve to bring up work? At Pansy’s birthday dinner of all times?
“Really, Potter? Don’t you know it’s poor taste to talk shop with friends?” Draco realized too late what he’d said, and he saw the flicker of hope in the man’s face—had to shut that down. “Or at least in the presence of mutual friends?”
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. “What would you rather talk about?”
Oh, maybe Draco should have just settled for the work talk. This was exactly the kind of situation he did not need to put himself in, where Granger and Potter both had full access to him in a slightly tipsy state. He had to control the conversation before Potter realized the advantage he had.
“So, do you make it a habit of working with your exes?”
Harry choked on his drink. It was amusing, and it earned them both a concerned glance from Granger, but Harry recovered quick enough to avoid being questioned. Lucky bastard.
“No, I don’t,” he finally managed to get out. “But I stupidly assumed that Aidan would be able to act like a professional. I should have warned you about him, and I’m sorry.”
“I can take care of myself, Potter. I was merely curious.”
Draco didn’t like the idea of Harry having to warn him about things, let alone apologizing for not doing so. It felt friendlier than their relationship warranted. And, if it confirmed his opinion that Aidan couldn’t be trusted because Harry obviously didn’t trust him—then what of it? That didn’t mean that Draco was taking Harry’s word for it, he was just being cautious, right?
“Right. Well, I still should have told you once you were brought onto the case. I can tell him to back off and leave you alone at work if you want.”
Draco couldn’t help the sharp, derisive laugh that poured out of his mouth.
“Why? Are you afraid he’ll try to corner me in a bathroom and curse me?”
Immediately, Harry’s expression tightened and, immediately, Draco regretted the jab. He needed that distance between them, though, even if it made Harry’s eyes soften with an impossible amount of guilt and even if it made Draco’s insides hurt. Before he could do something stupid like take it back or apologize, Pansy’s hand gripped his arm.
“Put away your claws, darling.” Then, lower, she continued in his ear: “If you start a fight at my birthday dinner just because you two cannot keep it in your pants, I will tear you limb from limb, Malfoy.”
Draco was reminded of Andrea’s last threat and wondered if this situation constituted putting himself in danger. It sure as hell felt like it. But, Pansy released his arm and turned back to Granger so Draco shook off the threat and motioned to a passing server for another drink. At this rate, he was going to need to be plastered just to act civilly.
“Well, given that you’ve already asked me about my prior engagement with Pansy, I think it’s only fair that I ask what happened with the Weaselette.”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek at the name—Draco tracked the movement with rapt curiosity—but appeared to successfully hold back whatever retort he’d had ready. Instead, he just also motioned for another drink and shrugged.
“I suppose that’s fair. Things didn’t work out, as you could probably tell. We’re still great friends but between her travelling all the time for work and me not being entirely straight, it was just too complicated. We’re better off as friends, I think. What happened with Blaise?”
An ache low and deep in Draco’s chest made itself known at that name. He tried to search Potter’s expression and hunt down any hint that that had been a targeted comment or that Harry had been trying to provoke him, but there was none. Just passive, albeit quite attentive, curiosity. Pansy had heard the name, though, and thankfully stepped in before Draco could just blurt out an answer.
“We can’t talk about him, sorry Potter. He’s on the list.”
With Pansy involved in the conversation, the full attention of both Gryffindors landed on that phrase. Maeve, of course, already knew the situation and kept her mouth shut. But Granger and Potter both seemed clueless and Draco couldn’t tell if it was a carefully crafted act or if they genuinely had no idea.
“The list of people I’m not allowed to visit, contact, ask about, or discuss,” Draco offered, trying to at least save Pansy the chore of explaining. “It’s quite extensive and includes anyone with a Dark Mark regardless of whether or not they were pardoned. Thus, I couldn’t tell you about him even if I wanted to. Pansy could, once I leave, but even she is somewhat limited in what she’s allowed to know or talk about. We wouldn’t want to go against the Ministry.”
Potter looked, in that moment, like he very much wanted to go against the Ministry and Granger had a similar expression of confused indignation on her face. The policy was bullshit and it wasn’t fair, but Draco had given up fighting it years ago. Now, he was just grateful he had Pansy.
He didn’t want this evening to become a sad affair, though, and he already felt bad that Pansy had to deal with all of this every other day of the year so he mentally picked himself back up again and faced the table. Making eye contact with Maeve, they agreed on a plan. The brunette called for a round of shots just as Granger started to open her mouth to ask a question.
Harry bit his tongue as, once again, Draco’s laughter caused their legs to brush beneath the table. It was torture. He wanted to reach out and splay his fingers possessively over the blond’s thigh, as if he had any right to possess Draco. Every time someone called for more shots, Harry felt his resolve crumble a bit more.
He had absolutely no right to touch, to squeeze, or to pull Draco into the deepest kiss he could manage in such a small booth. Harry knew that it was ridiculous to even think about, but he wanted. And Draco was not making it any easier on him. Any time he caught himself staring, the blond was right there with his eyes locked somewhere just below Harry’s lips as if he wanted to stare back but knew better. As if he’d been taught better than that.
By midnight, Harry couldn’t stop himself and he no longer wanted to. The next time Draco laughed enough for them to touch, he would do it. He wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, exactly, but he knew he would take any form of contact that Draco was willing to let him have. But he didn’t have to wait that long.
They called for another round of shots, which everyone once again swore would be their last. As they all tossed back the rum, Draco’s hand shot out to steady himself and it landed on Harry’s thigh, just above his knee. Harry swore he could feel each individual fingerprint through his pants.
For a brief moment, Draco looked terrified. He looked like he wanted to recoil and slink away, or like he was so horrified by his own actions that he wanted to die on the spot. Before he could do either, though, Harry placed his own hand over the blond’s. Harry was very careful not to apply pressure or to grab at Draco’s hand, even if he desperately wanted to. He kept his own touch light, but tried to make it steady enough that Draco would understand that he didn’t need to pull away—that Harry didn’t want him to pull away.
A squeal from Pansy when she recognized the song playing overhead drew them back to the present. Draco didn’t pull his hand away, though, and Harry didn’t remove his own. So they sat there, stiff and still as if nothing had changed, and Harry tried to memorize the feeling of Draco’s skin against his palm because he knew he might never feel it again. He smoothed gently over the blond’s knuckles, out over each individual finger. Every now and then, he would press down on Draco’s hand as if cementing it to his thigh and as though Draco needed to be reminded that his touch was welcome. Encouraged even.
Harry could have cried when Hermione suggested that they call it a night. She was right and, judging by the level of intoxication that the birthday girl was exhibiting, it would be disastrous if they didn’t. But he was desperate not to lose this connection with Draco. Slowly, he watched both Hermione and Maeve—who was somehow completely fine, despite drinking the same amount as them—exit the booth. It was then his and Pansy’s turn, the latter of which was being guided out by her fiancée.
Harry was hesitant, but he grudgingly released Draco’s hand and made to scoot for the edge of the booth. Just as he did, though, he felt the hand squeeze. For a tiny, blip of a moment, Draco’s hand was alone on his leg and it squeezed the muscle in… what? Reassurance? Their eyes met and some sort of understanding passed between them, though Harry couldn’t have explained what they’d communicated if he’d been given veritaserum.
Regardless, he felt the pressing grip of Draco’s hand on his leg the entire way home.