Drinks
It took less than ten minutes for Draco to realize that Harry never specifically said where they were going. His brain knew that—had taken in the information and even filed it away (lovingly) in the box that contained anything to do with Harry—and he liked the secrecy at first. It was exciting. He didn’t dare call it a date but he also wasn’t sure what else to call it… Regardless, it’d been years since he’d had someone take him somewhere for drinks other than Pansy’s usual pub.
“Darling! I have absolutely riveting news.”
That was the only warning Draco got before the Gatherer threw a file folder at his head and plopped herself down on her settee.
“Well, hello to you too.” He opened the manilla folder—plain, he noted, and devoid of any label or company logo—but didn’t pretend to understand the reports inside. “What is this and why are you so happy about it?”
Andrea smiled. She conjured a martini glass filled with clear liquid and Draco was willing to bet it was water but he also didn’t want it thrown at him so he kept quiet. He would let her have her dramatic antics if she answered the question.
“I wouldn’t say I’m happy, per se, but I am intrigued and that’s nearly the same thing. Shall I tell you the news or would you prefer to bore me with tales of your perfect, peachy little corporate life first? Truly, I’m all ears.”
Draco threw the folder at her. Unfortunately, she seemed to be expecting it and she caught it easily but he just turned back to his desk so she wouldn’t see his smile. Their dynamic certainly wasn’t what it had been at the beginning, but he wasn’t opposed to the new direction it was taking. He still had a mountain of trust issues, of course, but he liked having Andrea around. Sometimes, that was enough.
“If you’re going to insist on invading my office and distracting me then you might as well at least share some useful information. What are those reports on?”
He didn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting he couldn’t understand them, but he knew that she’d guessed. Surprisingly, she didn’t push it. Instead, she just sipped her faux-martini and kicked off her heels. Out of the corner of his eye, she looked like Pansy about to complain after a one night stand and he hid another smile. If she saw it, she ignored it.
“I’m so glad you asked. Remember those hairs you found?”
“You mean the hundreds of hairs that were creepily stashed between very specific pages of every single book that I own, including my personal journal with torn out pages? Gee, that doesn’t really ring a bell. Could you be more specific? I think that might help me remember.”
Vaguely, Draco heard something collide with the wall beside him and he reasoned that Andrea had thrown something at him again. That seemed to be their main method of communication aside from sarcasm but it was working for them so far so he wasn’t about to ruin it.
“Yes, those hairs you absolute asshole. Well, because I love you and because I am the best assistant/bodyguard in the world, I took the liberty of having them analyzed. They’re not human.”
“Yeah, no shit. Any other groundbreaking discoveries?”
Another object hit the wall near him. He couldn’t tell if Andrea was genuinely bad at aiming or if she was intentionally being kind and not hitting him, but he wasn’t sure he liked either option. She shifted on the settee and he heard the rustle of papers.
“Touchy today, aren’t we? The lab tested anyways just to be sure so you can untwist the knot in your panties whenever you’re ready to hear the interesting part. I’ll wait.”
Draco had no doubt that Andrea absolutely would attempt to wait him out, but he also still had things to do before getting drinks with Harry so he didn’t have a lot of time to spare.
“My sincere apologies, you highness. Please enlighten me.”
She snorted, but he didn’t hear any other impact so he decided he’d made the right call. After a few beats of silence, he began sifting the powdered dung beetle in his mortar. Evidently, that was her cue to continue.
“They weren’t animal hairs either. I double checked the results personally because I didn’t believe them but, according to my sources, there was no DNA in any of the samples. Not human DNA, not animal DNA, and—get this—not creature DNA either. Do you understand what that means, Draco? They’re not creature hairs. Or, at least not any creature that the Ministry has ever so much as heard of.”
Draco’s brain took a long moment to process that. Not human. Not animal. Not creature. No DNA.
“What do you mean no DNA? What are the hairs made of then? Some DNA-less protein?”
He threw another dried dung beetle into his mortar and began grinding it with the pestle, but his body was on autopilot. His brain was reeling. How did hair not have DNA?
“That’s what I asked them, believe it or not. It took some digging—and by that I mean a few thousand galleons, a trip to South Africa, and calling in a personal favor—but eventually one of my contacts gave me an answer. Apparently, the hairs are not made of any protein at all. What are they made of then, you ask? Well, darling, prepare to be amazed by the frankly impressive work that went into getting this particular answer. Are you ready?”
“Just tell me already.”
He could feel her pouting from the other side of the room, but his patience was running thin. To Andrea, this was a new and interesting challenge but he still viscerally remembered the feeling that had come over him when he found those hairs. Dread. The realization that he wasn’t safe even in his own warded office. His stomach churned remembering how meticulous and methodical his unknown visitor had been. He still had no idea how they’d done it so quickly.
“You’re no fun. I had this whole monologue prepared just for you, you know, and I even practiced it on the way here but since you insist on ruining my fun, fine. All the tests came back the same. No DNA or protein or anything else that would indicate a living being. Just pure transfiguration magic.”
“Transfigured from what?”
Draco’s mind was already going a thousand miles a minute. Had he actually had bookmarks in any of those pages? Had someone managed to transfigure the pages themselves? Or something as mundane as household toothpicks, maybe? It was a similar size and it would explain the strange coarseness and straightness that the hair exhibited. But that didn’t explain—
“Transfigured from nothing.”
At that, Draco turned around. Andrea was grinning and her eyes were lit up like someone had just offered her the world. He had no doubt that she was loving the mystery of this and basking in her own dramatic reveal but his brain couldn’t get past that statement. Transfigured from nothing? What did that even mean? The whole point of transfiguration was changing one thing into another. Even conjuration involved a transfiguration of energy and intent but… nothing?
“Aw, you’re so cute when you’re speechless, darling. I’ll save you the trouble of asking your endless questions and say that I have no answers. I don’t know what that means or how that’s possible. All I know is what the labs told me, and that they tried to reverse the transfiguration only to find that the object had no original state—just an original location. Do you know of any spell or any creature that uses transfiguration magic for location-based purposes?”
Mutely, Draco just shook his head. This wasn’t something he’d ever heard of, let alone something he had experience with. His brain was stuck somewhere between ‘transfigured from nothing’ and ‘what the actual fuck’.
“No? Pity. I was hoping it was some old pureblood thing I’d never learned about in the States.” Andrea vanished her martini glass and pulled her heels back on, suddenly standing level with him. “Well, you know how it is, darling. Places to go and people to see. Behave yourself.”
And just like that, Andrea disappeared. She wasn’t stupid enough to Apparate around brewing cauldrons but she might as well have for how long it took Draco’s brain to catch up with the sight of her walking away. By the time his mouth was able to form words, she was gone.
He tried to shake off his stunned stupor enough to go back to grinding dung beetles. His hands performed the task automatically. This was too much. He could feel himself getting overwhelmed and immediately remembered the last time Harry had walked in on him mid-panic attack.
That wasn’t going to happen again.
In a last-stitch effort to keep his brain under control, Draco thought of Harry. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew it was effective. His hands released the pestle and traced the knot of his bracelet instead, focusing on the tiny thrum of magic pulsing through the cord. He was going to get drinks with Harry and he could worry about everything else after. Maybe he wouldn’t sleep and maybe he would spend the next four days researching until his eyes melted out of their sockets, but that was for after. First, he had to get drinks.
Strangely enough, not knowing the location of their meetup didn’t give him an overwhelming sense of anxiety. It was calming not to have to anticipate something for once. Not that that stopped him from trying to, of course, but he didn’t have to. He trusted Harry, he realized, not to take him somewhere that would make him uncomfortable. That was… a nice change.
But the warmth of that thought faded a little more with every passing hour. He focused on Harry and on their plans to avoid spiraling off in the rabbithole that Andrea had just offered him. Of course, given that Harry hadn’t even told him the name of the place, Draco hardly had floo coordinates or a phone number he could call to check the reservation time. Even if he really wanted to, just to give himself something to think about. Logic, more than any desire to actually do work, kept him in his office. At Whirlwind. Where he could easily be found.
At first it was just a waiting game. Harry hadn't specified a time and Draco was fairly certain that the Auror's definition of ‘after work’ was loose at best. But, Harry had invited him and Draco had accepted. He'd sent the reply owl almost immediately and hadn't received anything else—though why would he?
Which was how Draco had now ended up sitting behind his desk at 6pm with nothing to do. Maybe he'd already spent fifteen minutes fixing his hair in the nearest reflective surface and maybe he'd sped through his tasks for the day in eager anticipation for Harry's arrival but that just left him with a blank to-do list. Every single potion in his lab—quite possibly for the first time in his entire career—was at the same mid-brewing stage and couldn't be prepped or rushed any further. He'd already organized his desk and strained his eyes scanning tiny printed recipes.
At 6:30, he decided to dust his ingredient shelves. He managed to spend another twenty minutes taking each individual container from the shelves, dusting, and re-alphabetizing them. Draco didn’t let any of the whispered little what ifs in the back of his mind take hold. Harry had never missed a day of his hot chocolate duty, why would he miss drinks that he specifically had scheduled?
Besides, people were busy sometimes. Draco could hardly blame him for getting off work a little late given all the Broken Crown stuff they’d been wading through lately.
By 7:30, Draco began wondering what time Harry started his shift if he usually got off this late. Was he more of a night owl than Draco had remembered? Doubt was starting to creep in. It was slow, the way it’d been leading up to the trials, and insidious in a way that clutched at his lungs. Had Harry forgotten? Received some other invitation for drinks after work and decided that Draco was the less appealing company?
By 8, Draco started cleaning again because he was unsure what else to do and figured that a clean office was never a bad thing. His bookshelves were the first to be reorganized and dusted, then the hearth, then his brewing tables, and then any miscellaneous equipment he'd somehow forgotten to deal with earlier. Doubt was starting to curdle into anger. Was Harry deliberately trying to make him feel stupid? Had this all been some twisted prank? Designed to make him look foolish for even considering the idea that someone like Harry Potter would want to spend time with him?
By 9pm, he'd managed to rationalize a trip to the janitorial closet and was halfway through his second round of power mopping. The anger was outweighing the doubts. He couldn't believe that Harry hadn't showed. Potter had always been a git, of course, but this?
It was better like this, he reminded himself, than if Harry had stood him up and left him waiting in a restaurant somewhere for servers and reporters to pity. At least this way his misery wasn’t a public performance. That didn’t make it any easier, though.
By 9:30, Draco was a mess of emotions. Did Potter really think he was so much better than him? Had the knowledge that Draco was a fucking Death Eater finally sunk in? With a pit in his stomach, Draco remembered the full-page photo that had been printed of them this morning. Had Potter not seen the Prophet before inviting him?
It made sense. Draco had known all along—from the very beginning, before they’d even met—that Harry Potter was special. Bold and pure of heart enough to save the world… But that was just salt in the wound at this point.
Now, Draco felt like he was eleven years old again. The cold sting of rejection mixed with the burning humiliation all over again, making his palms sweat. No reassuring thrum of magic came from the bracelet. Figured. Potter’s curiosity surrounding the big bad Death Eater had clearly run out. He felt like a First Year being stood up for a duel, or a Second Year losing the first Quidditch game of the season to the Gryffindor Golden Boy.
Bitterness spread through his veins faster than blood. His hands shook as he tried to top off his jar of dried cloves. The initial bite of Potter’s absence had faded and allowed Draco’s anger to turn inward. He should have known better than to see Potter and… get attached. It was that same drifting pattern of motion they’d always had—close, then apart, then close again but never touching. Like opposing magnets.
Draco felt less like an eleven year old with his feelings hurt and more like a Sixth Year student—tugging his sleeves down low over his wrists, begging someone to notice that he was falling apart at the seams, and simultaneously terrified of ever letting anyone find out. Cornered and emotional.
At 9:45, Draco decided that the acceptable window of "after work’ had officially passed and he packed up his briefcase alongside his pride, prepared to go home and drink his sorrows away. But he paused halfway out the door. For the millionth time that night, Draco wondered if it was intentional. Had Harry forgotten? Assumed that Draco knew the location and would meet him there? Had something... bad happened?
Harry had invited him that very day—how could he have forgotten? And Harry had been vague about the place they were supposedly going, not even naming it or giving a general location so surely he didn't expect Draco to find it himself? Which left the third option: something bad had happened. It was that last, niggling thought that got him moving.
Before he could overthink it, Draco walked the 16 blocks to the nearest 24 hour floo point and called out "Ministry of Magic" as he threw the powder in.
He walked into the Auror department, visitor badge stuck to his chest, and glared at the familiar drab walls cast in muted fluorescent lighting. It was chaotic and crowded but it didn't seem any worse than usual. In fact, other than the late hour, Draco could have sworn he’d just walked in in the middle of a mid-afternoon lull. His eyes found Harry at the far end of the room, his back to Draco.
He took in Potter’s shoulders and completely in-tact uniform. Not injured or dead, then. There went excuse number one. He scanned the room, looking for Aidan or Kingsley or even Andrea but found none of them. Excuse number two was out. Failing to come up with any other plausible reason that Harry could give, Draco narrowed his eyes. He was ready to tear Harry a new one for daring to stand him up but then the Auror turned.
Harry looked exhausted. That was the first thought that managed to register past the surprise that overwhelmed Draco's body. The Auror looked like he'd been run over by a herd of centaurs wearing studded shoes and the way his face softened when he saw Draco... did things to Draco's mental state.
"Hey!"
Harry waved him over, ignoring the scowls suddenly blooming on the faces of his entourage. They were all Aurors. Panic started to build in Draco's lungs at the thought of willingly walking into the lion's den like this but he pushed it down. He could do this. He was still bloody pissed, albeit confused as well. Harry waved again and this time Draco obeyed. They all looked tired, he realized. Most of the room seemed sullen and lackluster in a way that just having to work the night shift didn't explain.
"Hey!" The Auror greeted him once he was close enough, though his voice had a false note to it. "Sorry, I know you're probably mad and I-"
"Where's your office."
Draco cut him off before he could continue. Clearly, something was going on and it was yet to be determined if that something was a worthy excuse but, at the very least, Potter didn't need to go around announcing their business to other Aurors.
"Right there. The black door."
Draco nodded curtly.
"Come talk to me once you're done here."
He didn't mean to make it sound like an order but Harry's eyes crinkled in amusement. It was a weird contrast to his otherwise low mood.
"Sure thing, boss."
It was a joke. Draco didn't let it rile him even if he felt it under his skin. What good would it do to banter in front of all these Aurors? Rather than dignify Harry with a retort, he turned on his heel and marched towards the black door Harry had indicated.
Harry’s office was simpler than Draco had expected. He closed the door behind him and checked that the blinds were already shut before allowing himself to look around. There was a small bookshelf to the right, filled half with books and half with squishy desktop toys. His desk was a mess of paperwork and old coffee mugs. Draco turned up his nose at them, but couldn’t look away.
Something about the mess was decidedly… homey. It was lived in and informal and domestic in a way that Draco was not prepared to handle. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d gathered the mugs and dropped them in the small sink on the other side of the room. It was instinctive. He flicked on the tap and poured some dish soap onto the only cleaning tool in sight: a small scrub brush.
Realization hit him as soon as the water touched his skin. He was doing Harry Potter’s dishes. That was… unexpected. His hands kept going in spite of his brain’s spinning confusion, scrubbing two- three- or maybe even four-day old coffee from the mugs as if he’d grown up doing nothing else.
It was the domesticity that had done him in, he decided. Being in Harry’s office—his space, which somehow held more of his personality than any Prophet article about him ever had—was too personal. Too close to home. That sense of being lived in and yet obviously still lacking in some areas… Draco knew his place in situations like that.
Everything in him screamed that he needed to be helpful. It didn’t matter if he was pissed or if Harry was a complete and utter asshole, Draco was in the Auror’s space and habit was a powerful thing. He dried the mugs and replaced them in the cupboard above the sink.
His stomach churned as he began neatening the countertop and cleaning what he could reasonably reach. Where was this coming from? A voice in the back of his mind whispered that it was a symptom of trauma, that he was trying to appease and mitigate Harry’s anger before it even appeared. But something deeper than that seemed like a better explanation.
He was stepping into this role—this serving, caretaking, waiting role—because it was easy. Not because he thought Harry expected it of him and not because of any fear or lashing out that might come later. It was so incredibly easy to let everything else take a backseat. The Aurors outside the door? Not his problem. Whatever had happened that had warranted Harry no-show no-calling him? He would find out soon enough.
All that mattered right now were the small, easy things. Like clean mugs, neat counters, and tea. Draco was surprised (and a bit relieved) to see that Harry had a Muggle electric kettle rather than a Wizarding one. Given his lack of boiling charms, it would have been a much more difficult process had the kettle been a self-steeping one or, Merlin forbid, required fire. But he didn’t need magic or fire for this. This was easy.
His hands filled it and clicked the switch, making the glass light up blue. While it heated, Draco moved back to the desk. He didn’t dare touch the paperwork even if he wanted to arrange it into neater stacks because having his fingerprints on any given Ministry document was just asking for trouble at this point. But, he did manage to find a few quills and Muggle pens in among the mess that he added to the little cup of them. A bit of organization never hurt, right?
The kettle clicked off, leaving the water at a pleasant rolling boil. Draco deliberated for half a second over the ethical implications of raiding an Auror’s cupboards but decided Harry could deal with it. His anger hadn’t subsided quite all the way yet.
He’d just finished adding the cream to Harry’s tea when the door opened.
“Hey,” was all the Auror said for a long moment.
His eyes skirted over his desk as if checking that Draco hadn’t disturbed anything, then landed on the two mugs he was holding.
“What are you doing?”
Draco tried to feel into the air. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for honestly—Harry’s magic, maybe, or some kind of vibe that would tell him how to play this—but he couldn’t decipher anything. Clearly, he was just finishing making tea. If he said that, though, then Harry would ask questions that Draco couldn’t answer. Namely: why was he making tea?
Before he could think of a response that wouldn’t warrant more questions, a bit of his earlier bitterness resurfaced. So, rather than answer, he pointed to the chair and made Harry sit patiently for a second before handing over the tea. If Harry noticed his petulance, he didn’t comment.
“You stood me up.”
Instantly, the Auror’s face flushed. He sighed and took a long sip of tea, eyes flicking from Draco to the door to his desk and back again. Rather than address the accusation, Harry took another sip. He paused, swirled the tea around in his mouth, and cocked an eyebrow.
“You know how I take my tea?”
“Since school.”
Harry blinked at him. There was something subtly off about the Auror that Draco didn’t know what to do with. Everything he did was a bit slower and distracted as if he were fighting through sludge to do it. It made whatever homemaker instincts in Draco that’d shown themselves earlier flare. Draco halfheartedly wished he’d slipped a bit of Pepper Up into the tea. Harry didn’t seem sick or cursed, though. Maybe he was just sleep deprived?
But lack of sleep didn’t explain the way he was looking at Draco. Usually, Potter watched him with a spark of interest in his eyes or even a shimmer of amusement. His eyes followed Draco around the room and cataloged his every move as if it were valuable information that he might need later. Most days, Potter was so focused and dialed in on Draco that he seemed to know what the blond was going to do before he did it. But right now, Harry was staring at him like he couldn’t understand what he was doing here.
“You stood me up, Potter.”
The repetition seemed to make it through the haze of whatever Harry’s brain was struggling to deal with. He blinked again, took another sip, and nodded.
“I know, I’m sorry. I was going to send an owl as soon as the body was in for processing but you got here first.”
Draco leaned his hip against the desk. He held his own mug and watched Harry’s face with an intensity that was usually directed the other way. Harry looked worn out and it showed in the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. Would he let Draco smooth them out?
“The body?”
Part of him was perversely glad that something had happened to make Harry miss their… their what? Appointment? Date? …outing? Regardless, Harry hadn’t no-showed because he’d changed his mind at least. That was good, right? Having a reason at least helped the hurt, bitter part tucked away in his chest that still wanted to make Potter pay.
“Yeah, the body. Another vic for the Broken Crown case. Shikha Brecken.”
Harry leaned forward enough to pull a headshot from one of the folders near the top of the pile. He slid it towards Draco, letting the blond take in the tall, dark-skinned woman in workout gear.
“What’s…”
Draco stopped himself just short of asking ‘what’s so special about her’ because that seemed harsh. She was a victim and she deserved more respect than that, but he also wanted to understand. Broken Crown had a body count in the double digits now. The last three deaths hadn’t even been reported to Harry, let alone personally worked by him—so why was Shikha Brecken any different?
“She was an Auror,” Harry answered quietly. “A rookie. Just transferred here from Bristol.”
Oh.
Oh shit.
An Auror was dead. That was a big deal.
Draco couldn’t help it. Harry looked even more exhausted now that he’d said it outloud—not just 'I missed my 8 hours last night’ but more ‘I'm taking responsibility for a death that wasn't my fault'. Those same instincts kicked again. A little urge at the base of his skull pushing him to comfort, to touch, to soothe, and to provide support in any way that he could. He may have been shit at dealing with emotions ninety eight percent of the time but Draco Malfoy was good at taking care of his Dom.
Which Harry was not.
But the air around them felt stiff and painful, like the Auror had been holding himself together for hours without anyone even asking if he was okay. Slowly, Draco had begun to realize that no one at the Ministry ever asked Harry that. They should have.
Acting on impulse alone, Draco moved off the desk and stood behind Harry’s chair, using one hand to hold his mug and letting the other run over a broad, muscled shoulder. The touch barely registered and he moved to the other shoulder, instinctively trying to comfort.
"What are you doing?"
Draco froze. He couldn't answer that question. He didn’t really know, to be honest, and he didn’t think he could explain it if he tried. They were no strangers to dodging questions and supplying half-truths though, he just needed to make sure that Harry asking wasn't an attempt to escape the behavior.
"Are you complaining?"
"No, definitely not."
As if to prove it, Harry tilted his head back and let Draco catch some of his curls between his fingers. The texture was different from Draco’s own soft, thin strands and he let himself examine because Harry seemed content to allow it. Even as he touched, Draco could see Harry’s eyes back on the photo in front of them. He knew it was out of line. A former Death Eater had absolutely no right to tell Harry bloody Potter what to think or how to feel but he couldn’t stop himself. It was something deep and instinctual telling him to take care of this man. Urging him to make it better.
"It wasn't your fault."
Harry spluttered, choking on his tea, and Draco absentmindedly moved to rubbing his back for a few moments until he’d recovered.
"I’m sorry, what?"
"The Auror who died. It wasn't your fault."
He kept his voice quiet because he couldn’t tell if there were silencing charms on the room, but he made the words firm and unrelenting. There was no wiggle room when it came to Harry’s guilt complex.
"What makes you think-"
"Your face.” He’d been ready for that question, but he still hesitated before finishing the thought. “You had the same look on your face at my trial. Like you were blaming yourself for things out of your control."
The room went silent. They hadn’t talked about Draco's trial or his time in Ministry custody. Ever. Draco’d never offered and Harry’d never asked but, the few times something like it had come up even as a joke, Draco had always shut it down. Here he was offering up information on a silver platter, though. As if proving that he trusted Harry would somehow erase the effects of an Auror’s death.
“I’m sorry,” Harry finally whispered, refusing to look away from the picture.
Draco couldn’t tell if he was apologizing to Shikha or to him but either way it was unfounded. He squeezed Harry’s shoulder, prepared to tell him so, but the Auror beat him to it.
“You shouldn’t have had to wait a year in custody just to go to trial. I should have pushed it harder when Kingsley—”
“Harry. Stop. You’re right that I shouldn’t have had to wait a year but that also isn’t your fault. I have to get this out of the way and say that I’m grateful for your testimony. You kept me from going to Azkaban and I owe you for that.”
“You don’t—”
“But,” Draco cut in, raising his eyebrows at the interruption. “That isn’t the focus right now. An Auror is dead and you’re upset. Drink your tea.”
Harry snorted—Draco felt the movement under his hand before he heard the sound and god the thought of feeling Harry react to him was enough to cloud his mind for a second—but reached for the tea. He took a long sip under Draco’s watchful eye. It was getting late and Draco glanced at the clock, unsurprised to find that it was already past eleven. He doubted he could make Harry go home, though.
“Are you going to work all night?”
As if to confirm Draco’s suspicions, Harry sank lower into his chair and shuffled a few folders.
“Yeah, I’ll probably work late on this. I don’t think I could sleep even if I tried so I might as well be here, doing something useful.”
Draco considered offering him a sleeping draught but Harry was still a bit off and he didn’t want to push it. As much time as they’d spent together over the last few months, he’d never actually seen Harry work. Harry came to his office all the time, of course. But never the other way around and it was just new enough territory that Draco didn’t feel comfortable pushing his luck.
“Okay, but you still owe me dinner so you’re buying our takeout.”
It was presumptuous and bordering on something near an order. Maybe Draco didn’t feel like overstepping with the whole work thing, but he knew Harry well enough to be able to push a bit there. Sure enough, the Auror turned to look at him.
“You don’t have to stay, Draco. We both know that you have work tomorrow and this isn’t even work that you can—”
“I’m staying.”
To prove it, Draco released his grip on Harry’s shoulders and plopped himself down on the floor, leaning back against Harry’s desk in protest. He glanced up, trying to judge if Harry was moody enough to actually physically remove him from the office, but… oh. There was something else entirely in Harry’s face. It wasn’t anger or annoyance but that laser-like focus was back and Draco was the sole recipient of its intensity.
“Potter?”
Draco didn’t pretend to understand what had just happened but it seemed to have snapped the Auror out of whatever daze he’d been in before. Harry reset his expression and flashed a smile, turning to his top drawer. He pulled out a takeout menu for what Draco assumed was a nearby Chinese place and scribbled down their orders before making the call.
So maybe the floor hadn’t been the best choice. While Harry talked to whoever was taking their order, Draco shifted a bit and tried to get more comfortable but, no matter how he sat, his tailbone seemed to smash into the paper-thin carpeting. He shifted onto his shins, sitting back on his heels. By the time Harry turned back to him, he’d resettled himself and met the Auror’s eyes easily.
“Jesus…” Harry gaped at him for a moment before noise came through the phone. “No, sorry. Not you. Yes, I’m still here and 11:45 works great. You can just leave it at the front desk. Thank you so much, yes. Okay, bye.”
Draco realized the second Harry hung up the phone why the Auror was acting strange. He was kneeling. He hadn’t even thought about the position when he’d slipped into it, just taken in the lack of other chairs and tried to get comfortable. Apparently ‘comfortable’ was on his knees beside Harry’s desk chair.
He knew what he looked like in that position. Something physical and out of his control arched his spine, pulling his shoulders back and accentuating his ass. He placed his hands on his thighs—but not palms up and lax the way he wanted to, that would have been too obvious—and cocked his head. Harry took in a slow, deep breath.
“Draco…”
His name was a warning that time but Draco resolutely ignored it. Part of him still saw the man in front of him as needy and off balance and an even bigger part of him insisted that he could fix that. He could make this better. Even if he couldn’t do it the way he wanted to, he could at least distract the man, right?
To demonstrate his innocent intentions, Draco looked up and met Harry’s eyes full on. Anyone Draco had ever played with would have taken that as a challenge, but he didn’t want to project so he let Harry have his own reaction and merely watched. No anger or annoyance, interestingly enough. Despite his defiance, Harry looked utterly enthralled.
“Draco, you don’t know what you’re playing at.”
But this time, Draco laughed. Harry had all but worn a badge that declared: hello, I’m a Dom! He’d outed himself in all the tiny ways he reacted and Draco was done playing coy.
“I think we’ve established that I know very well what I’m playing at, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes flared. He looked torn between sheer admiration and something much more carnal but Draco was happy with either. Slowly, a dark-skinned hand extended itself towards him. He considered meeting the touch halfway or grabbing the hand with his own. There was nothing stopping him from lifting his arm and blocking the attempt entirely, but he didn’t want to. He held still and kept his hands neatly placed in his lap.
Fingers ghosted along the ridge of his jawline. He sucked in a breath but didn’t dare close his eyes for fear that Harry might pull away. The Auror stared down at him, barely breathing, and traced gentle outlines of his bone structure as Draco fought himself to stay completely motionless.
It was no small effort, but it was all worth it when Harry finally pressed a finger beneath his chin. Harry didn’t force him to lift it, but the slight pressure was cue enough and Draco let the muscles in his neck go lax so that Harry could direct and position him how he wanted. The Auror couldn’t seem to decide how he wanted Draco. He lifted his head all the way first, watching and waiting as if Draco might resist or pull away. Draco did neither, and let his face be tilted towards the ceiling.
His throat was completely exposed and the knowledge of it sent goosebumps all over his skin. If Harry noticed, he didn’t react to it. Instead, he lowered Draco’s chin again and twisted this time to one side, watching the movement as if he couldn’t believe that Draco was letting him do this. Draco shut off the part of his brain that had doubts and focused on the warmth of Harry’s fingers.
Harry directed his head to the other side, tilting this time until his neck was craned at an odd angle and lighted the pressure of his fingers. A test. Silently, Draco steeled himself and held the position—uncomfortable angle and all—as Harry pulled his hand back. Draco held the position and looked at the wall.
“God, Draco, you’re so…”
As much as he wanted to fill in the blank with something like beautiful or good or perfect, Draco never got to know what Harry meant. Instead, a knock at the door jolted them both. Draco blinked, more startled than he would have been if he wasn’t already slipping under, and Harry took the briefest moment to cup his cheek and return him to his original position before he went to answer the door.
It was a receptionist with their food. She couldn’t see Draco from where he was kneeling behind the desk and maybe he crouched a bit to make sure but that was neither here nor there. Regardless, he heard the door close again and Harry sat back at his desk. They split the food up and began discussing the latest victim’s case as if none of that had just happened.
Slowly, the events of those ten minutes seemed less and less real. He started to doubt that they’d even happened as the two of them began sorting through the details of the case. Harry didn’t give him any signals one way or another. The Auror seemed calm and collected enough to work, though, so Draco didn’t push it. They bickered over the spring rolls and Draco whined until Harry shared the soda he’d gotten, ignoring for now the way it made the Auror’s eyebrows raise.
Absently, Draco wondered if this was just how they were. If they could only be honest when they’d been stripped of all their defenses by the horrors of any given day. He hoped not.
It was well past two in the morning by the time Draco remembered to check the clock. They’d made some good progress but Harry showed no signs of going home anytime soon so Draco settled himself in for the long haul. After a while, his feet had started to fall asleep so he’d shifted back to sitting cross-legged. Then back to knees. Then side-saddle with his legs tucked in neatly beside him. Harry accused him of fidgeting.
But Draco didn’t move from his position on the floor.