Publicity
Draco paced back and forth across the only unobstructed space in his entire apartment: namely, a five foot strip between the kitchenette and the living room that might have been called a hallway by someone who was feeling particularly generous. It didn’t give him much room, but he refused to wrinkle his clothes by giving into the urge to hide under his bed. Besides, it wouldn’t do to show up in dirty robes.
Not that he was wearing robes. After being released, he’d spent over a year searching for a potioneer who was kind (or stupid) enough to take him on as an apprentice and he’d learned the value of Muggle thrift shops. Most of his clothes aside from his work robes were Muggle. They were a step up from his original threadbare sweaters and oversized jeans, but they were still decidedly Muggle.
Pansy had ‘popped by’ for an unexpected visit as soon as he’d gotten home from work which meant that she definitely had something to do with this whole plot, but she’d offered to cast some tailoring spells on his clothes so he couldn’t hold a grudge. Merlin knew that even if he could have cast them, his clothing spellwork had always been shit compared to hers.
The result was… an acceptable appearance. Draco didn’t know the restaurant they were going to but Pansy did and she’d assured him that this was the right level of black tie formal mixed with casual chic. That was a good thing, right? At this point, Draco had spent the last forty five minutes pacing and fighting not to bite his nails or be sick from the anxiety.
Potter, thank Merlin, had been struck with the sudden gift of forethought and had realized his whole ‘pick you up at six’ plan would not end well. Draco’s mental health was not ideal currently and his apartment reflected that. Pansy was once again the prime suspect behind that little change. The Auror hadn’t said anything explicitly in the note he’d owled about an hour later, but had given Draco the address, a new time to meet, and a small portkey instead of forcing himself into Draco’s space.
Honestly! A personal portkey? The little tag attached to it (For your convenience, should you choose to use it.) did not help things. Since when did Potter care about his ‘convenience’? Was he just trying to rub in the fact that Draco couldn’t Apparate or easily Floo to the restaurant the way he could?
Draco shook his head. He paused in front of the small mirror he’d hung to one side of the front door because there was no room in the tiny sliver of space his landlord called a bathroom. Pansy had spent a good hour hyping him up but he still scowled at his reflection. All in all, her tailoring charms had done wonders for the clothes and, if he hadn’t been practically vibrating with anxiety, he might have appreciated it more.
The jeans were the thing he clung to. They were impossibly tight—sinfully tight, Pansy had said, but in a good way—and such a deep black that they were easily mistaken for slacks or dress pants. Draco knew he looked good in those jeans and they were his go-to whenever he left the house for something even remotely fun related (usually with Pansy).
The shirt… he was less sold on. It’d started as a plain white button up but Pansy had charmed it into a rich, deep dark blue that shimmered in the dim lighting. She’d also selected a light grey blazer and a pair of her own designer combat boots. Yes, the fact that they were the same shoe size was still often used as ammunition by both parties.
He did look good. Logically, he knew that and he knew that this was neither a job interview nor a date so he had no reason to even worry about how he looked. But, he also knew that this was Potter. The Auror for whom his feelings were as clear as mud—a saying he’d adopted from Maeve—and whose protective bracelet was still snug around his wrist. It was also Potter, the Savior himself, who was hounded by the press anytime he stepped out in public. Tonight would be no exception.
Draco could already imagine the headlines: Our Savior’s Latest Charity Case? Death Eater Malfoy finally spotted! Turned Confidential Informant? Seeking to settle a debt?
Again, Draco shook his head at himself and ran a hand over his perfectly styled hair (which Pansy had also helped considerably with). It wouldn’t do him any good to get all worked up before he even got to the restaurant. The last thing he needed was bad press. Passing out in public, yelling at the Savior, and storming out of a public restaurant in a rage were all just headlines waiting to happen. He didn’t need that right now.
Draco glanced at the clock again and decided that 6:58 was as close to 7pm as his patience was going to allow him to get. Casting a glance around the room, he made sure all the windows were locked and the curtains were drawn. He grabbed his coat, though he didn’t need one, and locked his front door from the inside before finally letting himself pick up the portkey.
It was a tiny metal pin of the Slytherin crest. Until now, his anxiety hadn’t really let him take in much information other than Pansy’s makeover-related directions, but now that he was staring at it Draco couldn’t believe his eyes. The pin was old. From before his grandfather’s time, if not earlier, and one of the oldest crest designs from before they’d been redrawn and cast into the plaques all over Hogwarts. No one really wanted or kept Slytherin memorabilia these days but this one belonged in a museum and Potter had just casually turned it into a portkey?
More importantly, someone had let the Gryffindor idiot turn it into a personal portkey with absolutely no advance notice? Though, on second thought, he wasn’t surprised. It was Harry bloody Potter—of course they’d let him do it! They’d probably kissed the ground he walked on while he did it and offered him a hundred more Slytherin artifacts while they were at it.
Draco looked at the clock and was pleased to catch it turning from 6:59 to 7:00 exactly. Some strange little meddling urge in his gut wanted to be prompt and punctual just to prove that he was still capable of maintaining his Pureblood manners. It definitely wasn’t because he thought Potter expected it of him, or because he wanted to please the man. That was ridiculous.
With a deep breath, Draco closed his hand around the pin and braced himself against the pull of Apparition.
Harry smiled at the server who approached him and reiterated that he was waiting for someone so he would not be ordering yet. He’d only been sitting for about five minutes and something innate in him said that Draco would be on time, but already two different servers had offered him complimentary bottles of wine or a list of recommendations. This was why he always wore a glamour, dammit! But no, that was the entire point of this meeting. Honesty and transparency.
He’d chosen a medium-size upper class restaurant on the outskirts of London that Pansy had recommended. It was a fusion restaurant and one of the first of its kind in the area, combining magic and Muggle dishes to create a menu that was exactly the kind of thing Draco would love. Pansy hadn’t said that part, actually, but Harry was fairly certain. If he’d been feeling braver, he might have even risked ordering for both of them before the blond arrived. As it was, he knew he was on thin ice so he kept his mouth shut.
Still, he had his guesses. They weren’t even guesses, really, as much as predictions because he’d read the entire menu twice and he was willing to bet a hundred galleons that he knew both what Draco would want to order, and what he actually would order. The lemon and caviar linguine for the former (which Harry was planning to order himself and offer some to the blond) and the coq-au-vin pourpre without mushrooms for the latter. Draco hated mushrooms.
“Mr. Potter, your guest has arrived.”
Harry glanced discreetly at his watch, pleased to see that it was 7pm on the dot. He wasn’t sure what Draco’s punctuality meant yet, or if it meant anything at all given the way he’d been raised, but he was fairly sure it was a good thing. Draco could have shown up early to scope out the restaurant or intentionally tried to piss him off by making him wait. Instead, he’d shown up exactly at the time Harry had requested. Interesting.
Harry lifted his head, timing his movement the way he did in scenes and then cursing himself for it a moment later. This wasn’t a scene, even if he knew the blond was drinking in his every tiny shift as if waiting for a cue to flee.
Draco looked fantastic. He hadn’t expected anything less, of course, but those black skinny jeans were tight in all the right places and the blue button up made Draco’s eyes look like molten silver in comparison. God, he was beautiful. Why had Harry thought he could do this?
“Potter.”
Right, because it was do this or lose whatever he’d built with Draco so far. He knew very well that he would likely lose it anyways but he refused to give up without a fight and, judging by the glint in those silver eyes, Draco had come prepared for just that. Good. They’d always been their most honest when they were fighting.
“Good evening, Draco. I’m so glad you could join me.”
The waiter that was pushing in Draco’s chair looked up sharply at that, but they were well-trained in a place like this so they quickly dismissed themselves. Still, Harry had caught it. Soon the entire staff would know that he’d called Draco by his first name and that he’d been the one to request this dinner, not Draco. That was important.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Potter.”
He met his companion’s eyes and held them as steadily as he could manage. Harry had spent five years navigating situations like this and he knew exactly what he’d just done, but he wasn’t used to other people seeing it too. Ron or Hermione never read much into what he said and they would have taken it as the surface level greeting that it sounded like—nothing more, nothing less. But of course Draco, with all his years of Pureblood aristocracy, would notice.
“Shouldn’t have done what? Told the truth? The sooner they stop gawking and bothering you, the sooner we can get to the real topic of the night.”
Draco opened his mouth and Harry just knew that he was about to make some cutting remark about what that ‘topic’ might be, but a server appeared. They smiled and introduced themselves as Henri in a French accent with no ‘h’. Their name tag had a second line of print under the name itself which said ‘Head Server - He/They’. Harry could see why Pansy had recommended this place.
“Evening, everyone. Can I get you started with something to drink? May I suggest our newest import of the ‘82 Red Vienna?”
Harry smiled into his menu, already imagining the retort that was hovering just on the tip of Draco’s tongue. The blond wasn’t a red wine person, but trying to impress him with import times and oldish years would not work on someone who had grown up with the Malfoy Manor’s wine collection.
“I’ll have a glass of the ‘97 Sauternes, actually.”
Harry fought his smile harder. He was by no means a wine expert, but he could read the menu enough to see ‘Sauternes’ listed under the category of ‘dessert wine’ and he was secretly quite pleased that Draco’s sweet tooth extended even to this. Tempted though he was to simply order the same thing, Harry pointed to one of the Chardonnays. Henri disappeared with a smile and a flourish.
“So, Potter,” He looked up and let himself get caught up in the effortless poise that had overtaken Draco’s features. “You were going to elaborate on the ‘real topic’ of this evening?”
Right. Now or never, he supposed. He took another sip of his ice water and settled in his chair, keeping his body language as open and neutral as possible. Draco was eying him carefully, eating up every cue or hint that Harry would give him as to where this was going or what he wanted. Harry was struck by the urge to give him cues that would make him relax. He wanted to slump his shoulders slightly and lean back in his chair or maybe run a hand through his hair and lower his voice into that tone that always made subs breathe a little easier. But he shook off that thought almost immediately. This was important.
“Well, first of all, I would like to acknowledge that you’re here of your own free will. You can leave at any time, of course. Are we agreed?” Draco bowed his head in a small nod. “Great. Then I should let you know that tonight will be about me. Don’t give me that look—hey, at least let me explain before you walk out.”
Draco paused, halfway into the motion of pushing his chair out. He stopped, studied Harry’s face, and then sighed as their wine arrived. Henri was back and asking if they’d made up their minds on what to eat yet, which Harry assured him they had. It made Draco shoot him a glare, but it also made him settle back into his chair so Harry was willing to count that as a win.
“The coq-a-vin, please, with the spring salad as a starter.” Harry smiled, but waited. “And no mushrooms on either of those.”
There it was. He managed to order his own dish—the linguine that Draco probably actually wanted and was definitely going to take some of—without making an utter fool of himself but he was proud of himself. He’d guessed correctly so maybe Pansy was on to something. Maybe he knew Draco better than he thought he did.
“You were explaining, Potter?”
Right. Deep breath.
“Yes, I was. There are two options for how this conversation can go and I wasn’t sure which you would prefer so I prepared for both. The first option is that I simply talk. I tell you things that I’ve been able to practice saying or things that only people close to me know. The second option is that you ask.”
“I ask what, exactly?”
Harry smiled and took a sip of his wine to disguise the expression. Already, he could hear the hesitancy and suspicion in Draco’s voice and he didn’t blame the blond because he wouldn’t have believed it either if their roles had been reversed. Draco was currently very closed off and on edge with him which wasn’t bad, necessarily. It would make this interesting, though.
“Anything. You can ask me anything, Draco,” He paused to search for a reaction, but found only the same guarded expression. “I mean it. You didn’t get to choose what I saw or learned about you so it’s only fair to give myself the same disadvantage.”
Draco swirled the wine in his glass as if it were whiskey on the rocks. It was highly undignified. For a second, Harry was caught off guard by the sudden shift but then he recognized something in the blond’s expression and fought the urge to sigh. Petulance. Draco didn’t believe him and he was going to test this situation to prove himself (and, more likely, his insecurities) right.
“Why are you doing this, Potter?”
“Because I don’t want our relationship to be built on an unbalanced foundation. And because, if I have the slightest chance of saving even a modicum of our friendship, then I will answer as many questions as it takes.”
Draco considered him carefully. There was no trust or honesty in the blond’s face yet and Harry had expected nothing less but it was still disheartening. He’d naively hoped that this would be easy. Simple. Instinctive, even, the way things always were between them. But emotions were hard and healthy relationships were even harder.
“I’m surprised you even know the word ‘modicum’. You certainly didn’t learn it at Hogwarts.”
Harry let Draco see his smile but didn’t take the bait. He’d run through this conversation a thousand different ways in his head and he’d decided that getting riled up would only make the situation worse. No matter what Draco did, he would stay calm and collected. Which would be easy as long as—
Fuck. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Draco set down his wine glass and slowly unbutton the cuff of his sleeve. He wasn’t sure what exactly this was testing but the sight of Draco’s forearm was… distracting. His eyes were locked onto it. He watched the muscle twitch and hollow as Draco twisted his wrist, undoing the other cufflink to roll up that sleeve as well. They were at his elbows now, both forearms on display. Harry had to swallow hard just to be sure he wasn’t drooling because watching Draco reveal bits of skin like that completely unprompted was the stuff of fantasies.
Someone gasped to their right. Immediately, Harry realized what was happening and before he could even touch his wand the cameras began to flash. Draco’s face was set into a stony expression.
“What’s the matter, Potter? Crup got your tongue?”
He thought it was because of the Mark. Harry understood too late that this was another one of Draco’s dramatic attempts to push him away and the public nature of this stunt did not escape either of them. The blond’s blank expression morphed into a pained, sadistic smile. He laughed under his breath.
“My apologies, Saint Potter, I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”
Draco’s fingers clasped around his glass, prepared to down the entire thing. As he raised it, though, Harry lifted his own and clinked them together. They both froze. Cameras flashed on all sides and Harry could only imagine what the front page would look like tomorrow: he and Draco toasting over dinner, Draco’s Dark Mark on full display. He stared into those silver eyes though, and he realized he didn’t care.
Two can play at that game, beautiful.
“I wasn’t lying when I said the Mark didn’t bother me.” Harry paused, waiting to see the flash of disbelief and incredulity in Draco’s face before he laid out his own bait. “But my mistake. I should have been more clear. The ‘ask me anything’ policy is a one night only event. You’re free to go, of course, but I won’t offer again.”
Draco stared at him. If Harry had been flooded with less adrenaline, he might have tried to read one of the thousands of thoughts and emotions flitting across that beautiful face. Had Draco been expecting the reporters to scare him off? Harry thought about offering reassurances or shifting closer to the table so he could lower his voice and demand to know what Draco thought he was playing at, but that wasn’t the right move. Instead, he merely took a sip of his own wine, dangling the carrot of limitless questions, and watched until Draco did the same. They set their glasses down just as security arrived.
“Terribly sorry, Messieurs!”
Harry waved a hand at the anxious server who was now barking orders in French at one of the security guards and hauling reporters out by their camera straps. His eyes never left Draco, though. The blond didn’t seem to be wound as tightly as he’d been when he first sat down, but there was still a slight pinch to his expression. Reporters probably weren’t ideal for someone who already suffered from anxiety and panic attacks.
Harry caught himself before he could reach across the table and do something stupid like take Draco’s hand or smooth his thumb over pale, shaking knuckles. Draco wouldn’t allow it. Not now, and especially not in such a public setting. That was one of the reasons that they were in a public setting though, because Harry had to control himself. He didn’t want to make Draco put up any more walls between them. He’d thought long and hard about what the blond might ask him once given the chance. About the war, maybe, or about his life before Hogwarts? About being an Auror? Or, Merlin forbid, his ‘intentions’?
“Did you hate me?”
Harry had not been expecting that question. He found himself pleasantly caught off guard and he offered a small smile to Draco as a reward for playing along. It might have been imagined, but he swore he saw the blond’s shoulders relax ever so slightly.
“When?”
That was an important clarification because it changed the answer very much. He could have given it a blanket ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but he wanted Draco to understand just how much he was putting on the line for this. Just how much he was willing to put on the line.
“First Year?”
“Yes.”
He couldn’t tell if Draco was surprised by that. Either way, Harry would have understood.
“Sixth Year?”
“No.”
Draco nodded, stalling by taking a small sip of his ‘dessert wine’. If they’d been in a better place in their relationship, Harry might have teased him for that. He could imagine watching the words register—the faint indignation and surprise, then the immediate flare of a challenge in Draco’s eyes—and the thought made him ache. Merlin, he missed that easy, playful energy between them.
“Do you hate me now?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it and even if other diners glanced in their direction, he couldn’t stop. Hate?
“Draco, what part of me taking you to dinner makes you think that I hate you? I’m doing all of this to make you not hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
The reply was so quick that Harry almost didn’t hear it. Fast and desperate, like a confession he was ashamed of or as if Harry might not like the meaning if he heard all the words. Did Draco really not understand that he wanted this?
“Well, that’s a step in the right direction at least.”
Their food arrived with more hurried apologies from the server and a second glass of each of their chosen drinks. They fell silent until the server disappeared.
“Can I cast a Muffliato?”
He waited, fully expecting Draco to sneer or walk out at the mere suggestion, but the blond merely shrugged. When he didn’t cast it, Draco seemed to realize that he wanted an actual answer. Passive lack-of-disagreement was not consent.
“Sure.”
Harry cast as strong of a Muffliato as he could manage, being sure to tighten the range of it enough that even an approaching server wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. He reholstered his wand and took a few bites of his linguine. It was incredible and unbearably rich. Just the kind of thing Draco would love.
“Tell me about Aidan Drummond.”
“Aidan was… a learning experience. I wasn’t coping well in the aftermath of the trials and I met him in a Muggle kink-friendly club. At first, it was just an escape. I’d never had an actual relationship and I wasn’t really interested in trying to figure one out. He was experienced and knew what he was doing so it was easy to relax and let him take control. We started actually dating a few months later, and moved in together not long after.”
Harry paused and sighed.
“Aidan likes puzzles. I always used to listen to the sappy, romantic daytime TV shows that my aunt watched on weekdays and I thought I needed someone who wanted to figure me out. Aidan dug deep and he learned me like the back of his hand. I was interesting and complicated and trapped in a web of repressed trauma that Aidan untangled string by string. We weren’t bad together, honestly, and it wasn’t perfect but I could have been happy with him I think.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, I learned that Aidan likes puzzles because he likes solving them. And after he’d solved me? He moved on to the next puzzle that managed to catch his attention.”
Draco hummed in acknowledgement of that statement, but offered no further comment. That was alright. Harry didn’t particularly want Draco to comment on every single thing that he revealed tonight—though he could, if he wanted to—because it would lengthen this conversation well into the wee hours of the morning. It was a weeknight, afterall.
But Harry didn’t mind Draco’s silence. Instead, he watched the blond lift his fork and stab a piece of chicken straight through, vaguely reminded that Draco could very easily do that to his balls if Harry pissed him off at the wrong time. As pleasant as that thought was, Harry shoved it out of his mind. He focused on the way Draco’s jaw relaxed, letting his lips part, and the way his tongue darted out to collect the few drops of sauce that were escaping down the handle of his fork.
Draco knew exactly what he was doing. If the little self-satisfied glint in his eyes hadn’t given him away, the slight lowering of his head would have. It was almost imperceptible, but Harry knew it’d been completely intentional. His stomach flipped.
"You don't wear your glasses anymore."
It wasn't a question but Harry heard it as one. He tried not to let it show just how much that sentence had jarred him out of his thoughts, or what his thoughts had involved. Draco seemed to know anyway.
"No, I wear contacts now usually. For some weird reason I just couldn't get over the anxiety of a stranger pointing their wand at my face."
"I wonder why."
There was a dry, humorous tone to Draco's voice now that felt ridiculously close to a reward. Harry felt like he’d earned that emotion, that miniscule slip of the Malfoy mask.
"Right? It doesn't make any sense. And as much as I love Hermione, she is not an optometrist. So I wear contacts now except on bad days."
Harry knew exactly what he’d just done. He hadn’t had to tack on that last little tidbit, and he hadn't needed to open himself up to questioning on it. But he had. Intentionally.
"Bad days?"
"Yeah. It's rare now but when my anxiety is really bad or when I'm struggling with disassociation, I like seeing the frames. They're something solid and it narrows my field of vision. Everything inside the frames is real, but everything outside of them doesn't have to be. It makes things more manageable."
Draco paused to absorb that. He didn’t understand this conversation, this dinner, or what the hell Harry was doing and that unnerved him. Why was Harry just… telling him these things? If they’d been lies or unimportant details, Draco might have understood Harry using it to stall or to pry for information of his own. But these were not unimportant.
Anxiety? Dissociation? Those were Mind Healer terms, the kind of thing that Harry never should have been sharing with him even under the influence of Veritaserum. But here was Harry bloody Potter, sitting across from him and bearing his soul like it was nothing.
“Interesting bargaining tactic, Potter.”
“I’m not bargaining, Draco.” Harry’s eyes bore into him, daring him to scoff or question the use of his given name. “This isn’t an exchange. You don’t have to say or do anything—you don’t even have to ask me questions if you don’t want to. If you’re comfortable with it, I would prefer to move this conversation to a more private location later if you want to dive into any deeper issues, but I understand if not. Either way is fine.”
Even with that reassurance, Draco didn’t believe it. So Potter’s plan was to get him alone, but then what?
“Alright, so say we have this brilliant conversation over this delicious food and then we move into a ‘more private location’. What happens then, Potter? I swear to never tell a soul and we seal it with a kiss?”
“Do you want that?”
A hot, scarlet flush spread up into his cheeks and, from the tiny smirk on Harry’s face, it was noticeable. The Auror took a long sip of his wine, letting the darkness of his lips contrast against the chardonnay that Draco was fairly certain he’d picked at random. Still, it was a good look. Did he know that Draco had a thing for contrast? It would be even more pronounced with Harry’s hands splayed out over the bare expanse of Draco’s chest…
“I thought I didn’t have to say anything.”
Harry’s face split into a smile that Draco immediately recognized. It was the same playful, antagonistic smile he’d first seen through the glamour and that frequently plagued his dreams.
“Who said the answer was for you?”
For a second, Draco scrambled with that sentence and tried to understand it. He took another sip of his wine to stall, watching Harry’s eyes flicker from his face to his hands to their food and then back again, but then it hit him. Harry wanted him to realize that he wanted it.
“What do you want out of this, Potter?”
Forgiveness probably, Draco reasoned, because he’d never met someone with a bigger savior complex or a bigger guilt complex. Sex maybe, though that seemed like likely. Information? Something to do with the case or the Ministry? Free potions?
“I want you to not hate me,” Harry replied, fixing him with a stare. “And maybe, just maybe, I want to know you—if you’ll let me. I think we’re more similar than either of us originally realized.”
“Is that so?”
He waited, watching Harry twirl a forkful of pasta and eat it before looking up. The Auror offered him a small smile but, when Draco didn’t return it, let his expression fall back into something more serious. Draco regretted not returning it.
“In some ways, yes. The bigger, deeper ways that people don’t really talk about.”
It was a beautiful, poetic non-answer. ‘Bigger’ and ‘deeper’ were all well and good but they meant nothing compared to actual, definable traits. True, they’d both lived through the war but they’d been on vastly different sides of it and had had more than enough bad blood between them. True, they’d both lost their parents (though Narcissa wasn’t actually dead, he reminded himself) but those were again two very different situations.
“What’s something you think we have in common then, Potter?”
The last name was intentional. It made Harry’s eyes flare and, just for a fraction of a second, Draco saw something like fire there. Something that was not the familiar urge to retaliate. Instead, it looked dangerously close to the desire to discipline…
“Well, for example, Draco,” Harry shot him a look but Draco hid his smirk behind his wine glass. “I’m… very good at being alone. I distance myself from people when I’m overwhelmed and I grew up always solving my own problems so I’m very bad at accepting help now. I’m even worse at asking for it.”
This was dangerous. These were the kinds of things that Draco had let himself fall asleep wondering and fantasizing about back in Third Year. The kind of things he would have paid good money to learn. And Harry was here, just… offering. Daring Draco to admit that he wasn’t doing the same bloody thing and slowly cutting himself off from Andrea and the Auror—the only two people he’d really considered ‘friends’ other than Ariana.
“You mentioned a more private location?”