Excuse Me, Do You Fucking Mind?

The world fell away. Draco’s vision hyper-fixated on the creature that stood on his front door.

Harry James Potter. With his green eyes, brown skin and black fur. With his glasses, hoodie and jeans. Standing there awkwardly. 

The fucking gall.

There wasn’t a trace of repentance on his face. Draco felt the overwhelming urge to hurt him in the most non-kinky and unenjoyable way possible.

Potter was just—he was so bloody shameless. So unused to apologising for his actions. So used to just… just one-upping— he knew didn’t he? Draco realised, in sudden clarity, there’s no way he would be so calm otherwise. No, that wasn’t the face Potter made when he was surprised. That was the face Potter made when he was wary of how Draco would react. He wore an utterly remorseless grimace. With his fucking hair all over the place—as if he’d just been fucked senseless—and his stupid, stupid eyes conveying discomfort but never breaking eye-contact. 

There wasn’t the smallest possibility that Harry Potter felt guilty for his lies and deception . No, Harry Potter never apologised for anything. Or he did—because he was spineless—but never to Draco. He never had before, and as Draco eyed him, his anger growing exponentially, he reminded himself that he wouldn’t now, either.

How dare he? How dare he do this? How dare he do it again? How dare he hold this much—how dare he make me feel like this? Draco hadn’t given him permission. Draco had done his express best to prevent Potter from ever—just— surprising him like this. From knowing more about Draco than vice-versa. Draco had double, triple-locked his doors only to find Potter hiding under his bed. Like a bloody stalker, or something . Like a—like some—Draco didn’t like feeling like he didn’t have the upper-hand.

That was the crux of the matter. Draco didn’t like feeling out of control. He didn’t like the reminder that despite his very best efforts, despite everything, Potter held this strange power over him. Look at the bastard—how vacant the inside of his skull must be, Draco wondered— he doesn’t even know it.

It was perhaps time for Draco to admit that his indifference was a sham. He didn’t like what Potter did to him.

Incite within him ardent homicidal rage, for one.

“This is gorgeous.” Blaise remarked, and Draco could have killed him.

“Isn’t it?” Pansy sighed, in a second becoming the target of Draco’s fury.

“Uh, Draco?” Remus asked. “Are you…” he trailed off, clearing his throat, “Shall we enter?”

Draco cut his glare to Remus. “You knew.”

Remus winced. “Only since a few days ago.” He was such a sincere person, Remus.

Draco considered this. He decided that he loved Remus too much to hold a grudge. He turned to Remus’s lesser half, “You knew, as well.”

“Knew what,” Sirius asked, blankly.

“Never-mind,” Draco sent him a scathing look, “it’s beyond your mental capacity.” What was the point of holding a grudge against someone too stupid to understand you were holding a grudge against them? Scowling, Draco moved backwards and opened the door so everyone could enter. 

“Didn’t need much of a mental capacity to marry Remus, did I?” Sirius mocked, as he entered.

“Fuck you.” Draco snarled.

“Sorry about that,” Remus shook his head, as he passed Draco.

Potter dawdled for a little too long at the front step. “Take your time.” Draco snapped.

And then they were all inside. Scratch that, Draco didn’t give a shit about that. And then Harry Potter was inside. Inside the place where Draco was raised. 

A sudden intense discomfort overcame Draco. It was how he imagined it must feel like to walk on stage and only realise that you were naked after strutting around for a half hour. He felt exposed, and he didn’t like it.

“Oi, Draco,” Sirius called.

“What.” Draco snapped. (He was—surprise!—in a snappish mood.)

Sirius looked at him with an expectant expression, too stupid to fear Draco’s snappish mood. “Get over yourself, come on.” 

Ah. Draco took off his face-mask. Taking off Pansy’s headband, he ran a hand through his hair in an effort to calm himself down and remind himself of what truly mattered. After a second, he said, “Drawing room.”

Sirius broke out into a grin.

“Wait, Padfoot—” began Remus, to no avail because—

“Lucy!” Sirius bellowed, “I’m home!” before changing into a dog and sprinting inside.

“Argh!” came Lucius Malfoy’s terrified squawk a second later.

Draco felt his lips turn up instinctually at the sound. Lucius’s Malfoy’s express discomfort was the goal of today’s dinner. Or it had been, before the one variable Draco never really managed to calculate showed up at his front step.

Remus sighed long and slow, rubbing a hand over his face before asking, “Cissa’s in the living room?”

“Yeah,”

“Drinking?”

Draco couldn’t help his grin. “Well, yeah.”

“Right.” and then Remus fled to his haven of excellent company and quality liquor.

With Remus and Sirius gone, the smile on Draco’s lips, which he had barely realised was there, disappeared. All that was left was… it. The creature. Harry Potter. 

Why does he bloody stare at me so much?

“Stop gawking.” Draco said, before turning to Potter’s gawk. Which he had to consciously remind himself was not cute. At all. Draco and Potter were not friends.

Come on, Draco, you’re pissed at him— Potter’s artless eyes were not charming— he’s a self-entitled wanker with knobbly knees.

“You’re too vicious to be a bunny.” Potter blurted.

Draco was trying too hard to pretend he didn’t give a fuck to enjoy the exacerbated discomfort on Potter’s face. Fucking Pansy and her fucking bunny headband. Don’t let it get to you, don’t let him win.

“That’s part of his charm, Potty. Lashing out from abandonment, are we?” Pansy pouted, latching herself onto Draco’s arm in a show of support. And for that, Draco could have kissed her.

The discomfort on Potter’s face morphed into something more guarded. He looked at them all like a threatened animal, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he expected Draco to throw decorum out the window and just jump him at the entrance to his own home. Which, honestly, Draco would have done, were he raised in a barn and not by the fine, noble hands of his beautiful mother.

“Weird, Potter. The ears were really doing it for me.” Blaise touched the headband in Draco’s hand in his own—however misguided—attempt at showing support.

Draco shot him an annoyed look. Blaise grinned back.

And that is when the front door opened. What new hell have you prepared for me now? Draco asked the universe.

“Oh,” greeted Looney, “Harry, you’re early,”

“Wasn’t that a pleasant surprise. ” Pansy said, as soon as they were upstairs and changing rapidly into their dinner clothes.

Draco turned to her accusingly, “What the fuck, did you know, as well—Jesus, Pansy, my eyes are burning.” Draco scowled at a near-naked Pansy. “Do you mind?”

“No, do you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Shame,” Pansy returned, still in her underwear and making no move to rectify this fact. “So, are you and Potter going to have some sneaky, post-dinner anger-sex in here—”

Draco was going to kill her. “Are your boobs sagging?” he interrupted, as caustically as he could manage.

Pansy’s head snapped down to her chest, as Draco had known it would. Birds of a feather, and all.

While Pansy was preoccupied with being a rather incorrigible narcissist, Draco took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain a modicum of… balance. 

Okay, he told himself, Potter is inside my house right now. I've spent the last seven years ignoring the fact that I thought he was fit. I can spend the next few hours doing the same. He has knobbly knees. And he’s an idiot. And even when he finally realises that he’s slightly gay, he’ll never go for me. I’m not good enough for Saint Potty. Draco scowled at his open hands. Not that I’d ever go for him, either! Anyway, he reasoned, quickly, I’m fucking furious at him. And he was. He was, truly. It was just… without the direct reminder that he was pissed at Potter (which came in the form of his messy mug), his childhood (and perhaps, life-long) insecurities took the fore.

Will there ever come a day that the very existence of Potter doesn’t make me hate myself, a little? Draco stared at the grey sweater on his bed. Will he ever just let me live in peace?

Focus on your fury, Draco. Your fury you can deal with. It was the easiest thing in the world, to be mad at Harry Potter.

Shaking his head, Draco changed into his grey sweater and close-fitting black trousers. Focus on your anger, focus on— he caught a glimpse of his reflection and all thought evaporated. He threw the sweater off in disgust and staring, shirtless, at his wardrobe, had a mini mental break-down. He tried on two other button-downs and one desperate tank top before Pansy threw a green sweater at his face and barked at him to wear it. After that, he only spent fifteen minutes staring at his reflection and regretting all his decisions in life before being kicked out of his own room. He then spent only five minutes regretting all his decisions in life outside his locked door before finally, finally admitting that he was being a coward. Wanting very much to rather chew glass with Stalin, he trudged slowly down the staircase to meet the bane of his existence in a lovely dinner.

Remember, he told himself, you’re mad at him.

As always, once in direct view of the object of his thoughts (and dark, shameful desires) Draco’s fury rose from the ashes. He needn’t have worried, really. Potter’s face inspired irritation.

Potter looked at him in panic from his position between Blaise and Luna. 

That look could have meant many things. From ‘oh, no, it’s Malfoy, he wants to kill me,’ to ‘oh, no, it’s Malfoy, green makes his skin look drab,’ to ‘oh, no, I wasn’t hallucinating, I’m actually inside Malfoy’s house right now.’ 

Draco could have spent the next decade deliberating the nature of Potter’s panic, if his fury hadn’t seized him violently. It really was the tragedy of Draco’s life that he would never affect Potter as much as vice versa.

“Draco,” greeted Luna, nodding to his sweater, “Pansy chose, didn’t she?”

Draco offered her a one-shouldered shrug in a show of his utter fury. He hadn’t forgiven her for somehow knowing before he did.

Luna smiled at his petulance, making him feel all at once like a child, “Will you forgive me if I say you look handsome?”

The answer was yes, but Draco wasn’t going to admit to it in front of Potter. He looked at her coolly.

“You look handsome,” Luna smiled fondly. They both knew very well that she was appeasing him. “Green looks lovely on you,”

“I know,” Draco sneered, appeased.

He was abruptly less appeased when he caught Potter shooting Luna a frightened look. What, you don’t think green looks lovely on me? What a bastard.

“You look especially delectable today, my fire-breathing Dracon.” Blaise called, as entirely relaxed as Potter was rigid.

“It means so much, coming from you,” Draco couldn’t help but return, in sarcasm.

“He looks lovely, doesn’t he, Harry?” Luna asked Potter, innocently.

The terror on Potter’s face would have been amusing if it didn’t feel so very shit at the moment. A hard weight settled in the bottom of Draco’s stomach.

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck what someone at the calibre of Potter thinks of me,” Draco drawled. The truth was more like: I wish I didn’t give a fuck what someone at the calibre of Potter thought of me, but they were taking liberties today and Draco had never been a very honest person, anyway. And besides, fuck Potter in the arse. Draco would rather die than stroke his already over-blown ego.

Blaise raised an eyebrow and like the wise man he was, made a visible effort to fight back a laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean.” Potter asked, hotly.

Draco looked at him placidly (oh, how good he was at pretending he didn’t give a shit), “How do you function in society if you can’t read subtext?”

“I’m asking why you implied what you did.” Potter retorted. “How do you function in society if you can’t understand direct meaning?”

Well, then. Draco narrowed his eyes.

Blaise retracted his arm slowly from the back of Potter’s seat. Luna looked between the both of them in interest.

“It was a harmless remark based on sincere observation, I don’t understand why it affected you the way it did,” Draco called on every single strand of control within his body. “But you’ve always been sensitive when it comes to me, haven’t you?”

“You wish.” Potter hissed, flushing.

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Draco broke his gaze and looked around the living room for somewhere to retreat. “You’d think that after all these years, you’d have better comebacks.” He glanced back at Potter—red-faced and flustered—and wished that the sight of him wasn’t so fucking endearing, even through the lens of Draco's anger. Retreat, then, it was. “Excuse me,” he muttered, before near running to his mum and Remus.

“Stop looking so miserable, darling,” his mum said to him. “It’s gouache.”

Draco smiled at her, artificially, “I am miserable.”

She sighed. “Your child has made my child miserable, Remus.”

Remus sighed, as well. “Your child has made my child miserable, Cissa.” Draco took comfort in this fact. He glanced back at a brooding Potter, still situated between Looney and Blaise.

Narcissa took a sip of her wine, and remarked, lightly, “It seems your child’s misery is of comfort to my child.”

“Rather a predicament, isn’t it?” Remus observed, amused.

Draco looked between the two people he loved probably the most in all the world. “You’re both awful at consolation.”

“Were we consoling, Remus?” his mother asked. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Neither was I,” Remus returned, smiling as he took another sip of wine.

Draco pouted. “Can I at least have some wine for consolation.”

“Only if you say it in French.”

“Puis-je avoir du vin,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Pourrais-je vous implorer de me donner du vin s’il vous plaît, ma charmante mère.”

“Everything sounds so lovely in French,” Remus noted, “Even sarcasm.”

“You’re too smart to be married to Sirius,” Draco said to him.

Across the room, next to a twitching Lucius Malfoy, Sirius’s head perked up.

“You’re too smart to be married to Sirius,” Draco repeated, more loudly, so that Sirius could hear, “I’m younger than him and more handsome.” 

Sirius began to growl. Draco’s father flinched at the sound.

“If you can torture Sirius, then you’re not truly miserable.” Narcissa noted.

“My child looks more miserable than your child, Cissa.” Remus agreed.

Draco felt a throb of irritation that Remus was now taking Harry bloody Potter’s side over his. “Your foster child is an empty headed cretin who doesn’t know how to hide his misery.”

Remus looked back at Draco, his eyes warmly amused, “Do I have to protect my child from you, Draco?”

Draco scowled. “He can protect himself.”

“If you can feel irritated that Remus is favouring his child over you, then you’re not truly miserable, Draco.” Narcissa noted, swirling her wine in her cup.

“You don’t like him more than me, do you?” Draco asked Remus, overcome by a surge of competitive spirit.

Remus burst out laughing, “You never change, little dragon,”

Draco tried putting on his ‘I’m a precious gift to mankind,’ face. “Do you, Remus?”

“You’re too old for that—connerie,” his mother said, scathingly. “Pardon my language, Remus,”

“Not at all,” Remus toasted her.

Draco sent his mum a sheepish look, “It was a powerful tool when it worked.”

“It was,” his mother agreed, “You used it well.” She sent him a look. “I hope you’ve realised that changing times call for changing tools.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I can’t use those changing tools on Remus. He’s married— to an imbecile,” Draco couldn’t help but add, “but still.”

It took a second for Remus to understand the implication behind their words.

“You’re both terrifying,” he complimented. “And you get more alike every passing year.”

Draco beamed at him. “Thank you!”

His mum looked at him with secret affection in her eyes. “You can have wine with dinner.”

And so, in between his two favourite people in all the world, Draco regained equilibrium. They remained in their happy corner of excellent company and great liquor (not that Draco was allowed to touch any before dinner) until Pansy finally came strumping down the stairs.

“Took you bloody long enough,” Draco hissed, as he smiled and kissed her cheek.

“One of us has to look good.” she hissed back, smiling up at him.

“I think.” Lucius Malfoy called to the room, trying to sound powerful and commanding. (The second hand embarrassment destroyed Draco’s meagre will to live.) “It is time for dinner.”

Draco finally let himself meet Potter’s gaze for the briefest moment. The irritation that seized him at the sight was a comfort. The skip of his heart, less so, but he couldn't have it all.

Draco’s plan, as they seated themselves, was to ignore Potter’s existence.

If only Potter would bloody stop staring at him. Draco felt his lips turn up in a sneer. He pulled the sneer back. He cleared his face. Ignore him.

Yes, anyway. So Draco’s plan was to ignore Potter. Draco reminded himself that he hated Potter. What other reason would Potter always be on his mind? Why else would his existence be so thoroughly thought-consuming? Don’t go there, Draco, for your own sanity.

It was a bit hard when they were seated directly across from each other. Draco tightened his jaw. You’ve faced him for nearly seven years, a few more hours is nothing, he told himself. 

Except… except those seven years had been before they’d achieved this middle-ground of partnership. Those seven years had been before Draco had gotten a frightening taste of what life could be like without hating Potter. Without the frightening knowledge that taking away the hatred didn’t actually take away the obsession, at all. Without the terrifying knowledge that Potter had an unfairly nice arse and was a seven out of ten. Without the bloody knowledge that Potter was Golden-boy, and had inadvertently been the subject of Draco’s dirty dreams for the past two years. Without the fucking, heart-stopping knowledge that Draco could have fun with Potter.

Draco didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. He didn’t know how to do anything except be pissed at Potter. So that’s what he did.

He reminded himself of his worth in Potter’s eyes, or rather, his lack thereof. He knew he was coming to my house but he didn’t think to tell me because to him, it just doesn’t matter. Potter didn’t care about showing up unannounced, because catching Draco in an unfairly vulnerable position just didn’t matter to him. It didn’t occur to Potter that catching Draco off-guard was a big deal, because to him, Draco was just another rando on the street. It shouldn’t matter if some random person sees a facet of your life you don’t usually make public. Who cares what some rando thinks? It was an unfortunate truth that to Draco, Potter could never be ‘just another rando’. Draco let that realisation seep in and, horrifyingly, turn into a dull ache in his chest. Draco had never been good with pain. Turn into anger, he pleaded, turn into anger, like you always do. He glanced up at Potter, who was caught in a conversation with Luna. He traced the curls of his black hair with his eyes, the curve of his tanned neck, his adam’s apple. I don’t matter to you at all, do I, and at the hurt that followed, he pleaded, stop affecting me like this, who gave you the right?

Potter’s lashes were quite possibly the darkest and longest in the world. They brushed the lens of his glasses. I wish I’d never met you at all, Draco thought, forcing his eyes to his plate. For once, he was left pleading for an anger that never really came. The best he could do was ignore. Compartmentalise. 

Potter was a cause of pain. Draco did not like pain. Draco avoided pain and subsequently the causes of it, also. Stop thinking, stop feeling. At least for now. Don’t show weakness in the face of the enemy.

This soup, Draco thought, singularly, is nice.

“Harry,” Draco heard Potter answer.

“What year are you in, Harry?” Lucius Malfoy asked. Draco nearly choked on his soup. His plans of being blasé took a nice little luxury vacay to Hawaii. Draco wished the bastards had taken him with them.

He looked up in tightly concealed foreboding. His father was eyeing Potter disdainfully—likely passing judgement. Why the fuck was Potter wearing a hoodie. Fuck’s sake. Draco looked at Sirius scornfully. Why the fuck did you let him dress himself, you blubbering buffoon?

“The same year as Ma—Draco.” Potter said, wincing as Draco’s name left his tongue. Fuck you, too, Draco shot Potter the imaginary finger.

He then watched in horror as recognition shot across Father’s face.

“Harry Potter.” Father said.

Fuck. My. Life. thought Draco. Seriously. If any higher being exists, fuck my life right now. Fuck it in the arse and fuck it without mercy. Draco paused. That sounded a tad too enjoyable for punishment. Never-mind. Just throw me in a ditch full of hungry scorpions.

Potter cut his gaze to Draco and then back. “Yes?”

Pansy and Blaise were watching the proceedings like a horse race that was going to win them thousands of pounds. Draco didn’t even have time to feel annoyed at them.

He looked at his mother for help. His mother took a sip of wine and smiled blandly. Fuck. He was on his own. He turned his focus back to his father and Potter.

“The youngest to make the Hogwarts Under Eighteens football team,” his father said.

Potter had the gall to be bashful. “Yeah,” He glanced at Draco, again. “How did you… ?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Draco speaks of you all the time.” his father revealed, disdainfully.

Draco refused to react. He refused to react to anything. Not even the sound of Pansy’s delighted gasp. (There would be consequences, of course, but those consequences would come later.) Draco sat there emulating nonchalance, and wished, like he had never wished for anything before, for that pit full of starving scorpions.

The starving scorpions did not come. Draco took a sip of his wine and looked at his mother calmly in a cry for help. His mother took a sip of her own wine and looked calmly back. Fuck. She was testing him.

Fine. Fine, fine fine. Draco would prevent the end of his life, all by himself. Fuck everyone. Loyalty was dead.

“In all fairness, I was complaining about how unfair it was.” Draco said, as he cut into his salmon and refused to let anyone see how this was affecting him. Don’t show a single tremor in front of the enemy. “Wouldn’t want you to misunderstand, Potter,” Draco added, making it sound like an after-thought. 

“I, for one, commend you, Harry, on your football prowess.” his father said, shooting Draco a disappointed look. “Your father must be very proud.”

Draco swallowed an eye-roll. His father was a child.

“Uh—thank you, yes, he—uh, he is.”

Harry Potter: The Pinnacle Of Eloquence.

Draco looked at his father calmly before turning to Potter. “Your father must be even prouder of all your work with the local orphanages.”

Potter’s eyes widened— Don’t do that, Potter. All that green— and with a new surety, he answered, “He is.”

Draco gave him a bland smile. “As he should be.”

“And what charities are you part of, Draco?” his father asked.

Draco took a sip of wine before answering, “None, regrettably. I’ve had no time with the chess club, debate team and LNAT prep.” he pretended to lament this fact, “All we’ve done in the debate team is donate our prize money to Red Cross,”

“Congratulations on the win,” Remus smiled. Draco smiled reflexively back. Remus was The Best.

“Draco quit the football team,” Father continued, for no reason at all other than because he liked embarrassing Draco in front of everyone. “Didn’t you, Draco?”

Right. Draco’s new goal was to destroy his father in polite conversation.

“I did,” Draco agreed, amicably. “It seemed the least pertinent to my career choice as compared to my other extracurriculars, and I didn’t want my grades to suffer as a consequence of taking on too much.”

“Harry.” his father demanded. “How many extracurriculars do you do.”

“Three.” Potter answered, uncomfortably.

“Three.” his father repeated, looking at Draco. “And can I ask how you’re doing in school?”

“No, Lucy, that’s rude.” Sirius answered, on Potter’s behalf.

Draco held out his palm to Sirius. Sirius and him exchanged high-fives.

“Regardless,” his father spluttered, “Harry, your parents must be so proud to have such a brilliant son.”

It was laughable, really, that Draco had once upon a time wanted nothing more than his father’s acceptance.

“His parents are proud of him,” Draco said, quietly, “I think, more so because he’s kind and brave and sure, rather than his academic and extracurricular achievements.” He swirled the wine in his glass, “Though I have no doubt that they are proud of those, as well.”

“Draco’s right.” Potter agreed, looking more than ever like Golden-boy.

His father smiled tightly. “Your parents are lucky to have you.”

Draco smiled at Potter, completely bypassing his father. “And you’re lucky to have them—as well as your foster parents,” Draco nodded to Remus and Sirius. “Especially Remus.”

Sirius nodded. At least he was in agreement.

Potter smiled back. Stop that, Draco thought, his chest throbbing uncomfortably at the sight. He looked back at his father.

“Yes.” his father said. “They’re very lucky to have such a grateful child.”

Draco sipped his wine contentedly, ignoring his father. If he was waiting for adulation, he was in for a very long and awkward wait.

“Uh, thank you?”

“You are welcome.” his father answered, tightly.

Draco kept sipping at his wine in nonchalance. “This wine is lovely, Mother. Bordeaux?”

A flash of amusement crossed his mother’s eyes. “Well recognised.”

Draco smiled, “I’m lucky enough to have inherited your refined taste.”

His mother smiled into her wine glass. His father scowled into his own.

“How is school going for the rest of you?” Remus asked.

And the conversation evolved into a much more civilised one. His father only made one other notable contribution, when Sirius deliberately brought up being a great big homosexual, as everyone had known he would.

“The kids in this country are so lucky they’re being brought up in a more inclusive environment than we were,” Sirius said. Draco grinned behind his napkin at what he knew was coming. “It took me way too long to realise I was in love with Remus.”

Remus shot him a warning look that wasn’t really a warning look at all because everyone loved fucking with the great big bigot Lucius Malfoy.

Father made a disdaining face.

“You look constipated, my dear brother-in-law.” Sirius said. “Whatever seems to be the problem.”

Okay, fine. Draco acquiesced to himself. I understand why Remus married him.

“Such topics are not appropriate for the dinner table, Sirius.”

“I’m talking about love, not se—”

“Sirius.” Remus said.

“Love isn’t inappropriate.” Sirius said, instead.

“You’re not wrong,” Draco agreed, because he’d promised himself he would destroy his father in polite conversation.

“Draco, for god’s sake.” his father snapped. “Sirius, if you would stop behaving this way in front of my only son.”

“I’m afraid that won’t make much of a difference,” Draco retorted, calmly. Telling himself that Potter probably knew anyway, he continued, “I was in love with Remus before I knew Sirius even existed.”

“Yeah!” Sirius said. “If anything, you should be telling Moony to stop being so sexy.”

“Si—” Remus choked on his wine.

Draco looked at Sirius disdainfully until he noticed his father was doing the same. Then, he stopped. Because fuck his father.

“Sirius, you’re lucky you didn’t grow up in an inclusive environment. If you had even one other source of competition, you’d never have gotten Remus.”

“You talk big for a child.” Sirius sneered.

“The day I turn eighteen,” Draco returned, supercilious, “is the death of your marriage, old-man.”

Sirius turned to Father, outraged. “Your only son has been trying to steal my husband since he was seven years old.”

Father turned in fury to Draco. This was nothing new to him. Draco had never been discreet about his ardour.

“It’s true.” Draco admitted, languidly. “I am incorrigible in love.”

“Oh my god,” Remus laughed, quietly.

“Ask Pansy,” Draco continued, sipping some more of his wine. “Or Blaise, or Looney.”

“Incorrigible.” Blaise nodded, fervently. “Absolutely incorrigible.”

“It’s beautiful, it is.” Pansy pretended to wipe a tear.

“Draco loves Remus very much.” Looney nodded, sincerely.

Draco turned to his father as if to say, What can you do, I’m as gay as they get.

Father opened his mouth to no doubt say something incriminating about Remus. (He truly was a fool. If the words had left his mouth, Sirius would have leapt across the table and killed him right there while Draco cheered him on.)

“I loved Remus before I knew he was gay. Before I really knew about the concept of sexuality.” Draco continued, smiling at Remus fondly.

Remus groaned and covered his face with his hands, embarrassed beyond words.

“Don’t be shy, Moony, you’re lovely,” Sirius proclaimed, dramatically.

“Far too lovely for the likes of Sirius, but, hey, even the unfortunate in life get lucky sometimes,” Draco drawled.

“Don’t hate me because you ain’t me, Ferret-face.”

“I can say with painful sincerity that I have never, for even a second, wanted to be a vagabond.”

Sirius turned to Lucius Malfoy, his glee showing even through his mock-outrage. “What kind of husband-stealing scion have you raised!”

“Narcissa,” said Lucius Malfoy, weakly. 

Narcissa Malfoy spoke up, then, “If I was a man, I’d be half in love with Remus, myself.”

Draco beamed at his mother. Remus looked at her in betrayal. Sirius nodded contentedly. Lucius looked like he was about to faint.

“I’m afraid,” Father said, weakly, “that I will have to excuse myself.” and then Father fled.

Silence descended on the table for roughly ten seconds.

“You’re both going to be the death of me.” said Remus.

Sirius and Draco broke out into matching grins. Blaise and Luna broke into applause.

“Well played, nephew.” 

“Don’t call me nephew, I don’t want to be associated with a vagabond.”

“You don’t see me complaining about being associated with a blond ferret, do you?”

“That’s because,” Draco drawled, “you’re not associated with a blond ferret. You’re associated with a devastatingly handsome young man who would have stolen your husband away from you if your husband wasn’t half as much in love with you as he unfortunately is.”

Pansy joined in the applause. “Well said.”

“Pansy.” said Sirius, hurt, “I thought you had a crush on me.”

“Only for a week.” Pansy admitted.

“Ha!” Draco mocked. “She had a crush on me for years.”

“They’re rather capricious, aren’t they?” Narcissa observed to Remus.

“My heroes.” Remus agreed, sarcastically.

“No, Moony, I don’t care about that child, you’re the only one for me—” began Sirius.

“Mum, when’s the dessert getting here?” Draco asked, instead. He wanted his chocolate and he wanted it now. “You’ll be happy to hear, Remus, that we’re having chocolate.”

And that got a lovely, dimply, smile out of Remus.

Draco was proud to say that he hadn’t glanced at Potter even once since the beginning of the conversation. If only the fucker would stop staring.

Draco was yelling at Potter to ‘stop looking at me, already!’ in his mind when his mum shooed all the children very politely up the stairs and into Draco’s room.

And Draco thought, No. No way is Potter coming into my room. Unfortunately, that is indeed what occurred. Draco hated the world and also his life. The distraction of other people wasn’t enough if they were in Draco’s room. Draco hadn’t gotten over the fact that Harry Fucking Potter was inside his house right now. If anything, pretending to not care had only made Draco care even more, as was so often the case in the joke that he called his existence.

“I’m so glad you got to come, Harry,” Looney was saying to Potter. “Draco’s so funny when he’s making Uncle Lucy angry, aren’t you glad you got to see it?”

Potter muttered something indecipherable, which Draco didn’t hear because it was just now really hitting him that Potter knew that he was gay. Of course, Potter was likely to have strongly suspected—what, with Tacky’s rather… vocal observations about Golden-boy’s butt. And yet still, the idea of someone he didn’t really trust, knowing… Draco walked faster.

In a few steps they were in his room. Draco shut the door behind him, and for the first time since about the start of dinner, he made direct eye contact with Potter. The sight of those eyes, gratifyingly, filled him with restrained anger.

“Woah.” muttered Blaise, moving backwards.

“What,” hissed Draco, boring into Potter with his accusatory gaze, “are you doing here.”

Potter looked taken aback, “I—dinner. I was here for dinner—”

“What are you doing in my house without informing me beforehand.” Draco corrected, tightening his jaw.

Potter’s expression shuttered. “I—”

“Too much of a coward to tell me?” Draco hissed, walking forward, his fury doubling with every step.

Potter glared. “W—”

“What happened to all your notions about honour, you liar.” Draco spat.

Potter stepped forward, as well. “I wasn’t—”

“We’re—gonna go,” Blaise said, quickly, pulling Looney and Pansy with him.

Pansy gave Draco a quick thumbs up before she left, with Looney calling after them, “Don’t break anything!”

The door to Draco’s bedroom shut. Something inside Draco broke.

“How could you.” Draco snarled, moving forward, wanting nothing more than to scratch Potter’s face to shreds.

“You’re not listening—” Potter grit out.

“All that talk about partnership,” Draco scoffed, looking down at Potter disdainfully (oh, the power that came with being taller than him), “is this how you treat your partner, Golden-boy? By lying to them and going behind their back? How dare you show up at my house.”

“I don’t— listen to me, Malfoy.” Potter pushed Draco a step or two backwards. “I was invited—”

“Your foster parents were invited.” Draco sneered, pushing Potter a step backwards. “Not you.”

“I was invited.” Potter near-shouted. “By your mother.”

The shout in Draco died. He glared down at Potter. “Explain.”

Potter was breathing hard, looking up at him. “Your mother invited me. In person. She knew who I was.” Potter glared at him. “Said you spoke about me all the time.”

Draco scowled. “Complained about you. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Potter clenched his jaw. 3… 2… 1… there it is— the muscle in his jaw twitched, as Draco had foreseen it would. “She came to Remus and Sirius’s flat a few days ago. We… had a conversation. She invited me. She knew who I was. I thought maybe—she told you. I,” Potter frowned, stepping backwards. “I’m sorry, I should have…” Then, Potter began glaring at him. “You never listen. You’re always quick to assume the worst of me, Malfoy.” Potter stepped forward again, menacingly.

Oh, so they were doing this, were they?

“Evidence based practice, Potter. Ever heard of it?” Draco asked, refusing to move, refusing to relent. Why did they always end up so close when they fought like this? This wasn’t normal.

“Based on what evidence?” Potter was the one snarling now. It shouldn’t have sent that shiver up Draco’s spine. “You’re deluding yourself. You don’t know shit about me—”

Draco looked at him in incredulous fury. “I don’t know shit about you? I know more about you than your little posse of fans.”

“Stop changing the subject.” Potter twisted his hand in the front of Draco’s sweater.

“You’re so grabby.” Draco scowled, all the while thinking stop touching me, stop touching me, you know I’m gay, now.

“Stop changing the subject.” Potter moved closer. That shouldn’t have been hot. Alas. “You’ve got no reason, at all, to think the worst of me. I’ve never done anything—”

“I beg,” Draco interrupted, “to fucking differ, Potter. I’ve got a scar or two—”

“You’ve got no scars—”

“Don’t tell me what I have or don’t have—”

“You’ve got no scars, Malfoy—”

“I’ve got millions of scars, fuck you!—”

“Strip.” Potter commanded, furiously. And wow, Draco hated himself. Straight to the groin.

He pushed Potter backwards and roared, “I’m gay, Potter!”

“No, shit!” Potter roared back.

“You don’t think,” Draco moved towards him, as menacingly as he could, “that you should be careful about telling a gay guy to strip in his own bedroom?”

Potter blinked. It took a good second or two, but when the realisation hit him, he flushed like a virgin.

Draco snarled at him, “Why do you have a brain if you never use it?”

“I—just—you don’t—I didn’t, uh—no, you—”

“Take your time.” Draco snapped.

“Stop being rude!” Potter snapped back.

“I’ll be as rude as I want, Potter.”

“You’re an arsehole.” Potter grit out. “You’re an arsehole.”

“You just realised?” Draco mocked. “You’re slower than I gave you credit for.”

“You’re only an arsehole to me!” Potter shouted.

“Fuck you, Potter, I’m an arsehole to everyone I don’t like.” Draco sneered, “You’re not special.”

A complicated array of emotions flit across Potter’s face, too quickly to interpret.

“You’ve got no reason to not like me!” Potter roared in Draco’s face.

“I’ve got plenty of reason not to like you!” Draco shouted back. He then stepped backwards and stopped shouting. “Stop shouting in my face— fuck, my ears—we’re civilised people.”

“Like what?” Potter demanded.

“Huh?”

“You said you’ve got plenty of reason to not like me.” Potter repeated, impatiently. “Like what.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. Fine then, Potter.  “One, you’re embarrassingly arrogant. Two, you think you’re the shit, when you’re really not—”

“One and two are the same thing.”

“Three,” Draco continued, undeterred, “You’re inconsiderate and reckless. That was four, by the way.” Draco sneered at him. “You’re reckless.”

“How does that affect you.” Potter demanded.

“You just demanded that I strip in front of you.” Draco rebutted.

“You said you had scars!”

“I do have scars, you inconsiderate fuck.”

“No, you don’t!”

“Five,” Draco grit out. “You never listen.”

“You don’t have scars, Malfoy.”

“Six. You’re stubborn.”

“You’re too vain to have scars.” Potter ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “You’d spend millions of pounds on creams and—and whatever—before you let yourself get a scar,”

“Some scars,” Draco retorted, imperiously, “can’t be healed with creams.”

Potter stared at him, before his lip began to twitch, “You sound like a twelve year old girl—”

“Anyway. Seven. You think you’re always right.”

“That’s not true.” Potter argued.

“Eight, you argue just for the heck of it.”

“I don’t!”

“Uh huh,” said Draco, deadpan.

“I don’t— wait, wait, okay, I see where you’re coming from—”

“Nine, you stand too close to me when you’re angry.”

“Wha—” Potter realised their proximity and took a few steps backwards. “Wait, that doesn’t count, it only happened once—”

“It happens every time you’re angry.” Draco said. “Every time. Ten, you stare at me too much.”

Potter flushed so hard Draco feared for a moment that he would faint from the rush of blood. “I—don’t.” 

“You do.” Draco said. “All the time.”

Potter took another step backwards.

“Eleven,” this game felt dangerous, “You stalk me when you’re bored.”

“I do not!” Potter cried, indignant.

Draco raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Twelve, you’re a liar.”

“I am not!”

“Thirteen,” that expression Potter had on—all that righteous fury—why the fuck was it so precious? “You refuse to admit to your mistakes.” 

“Only when I’m being unfairly accused.” grit Potter, still flushing all the way to his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Fourteen, thought Draco, you’re fit.

“Fourteen,” said Draco, “You’re sanctimonious.”

“Wha—huh? What does that mean?”

“It means you think you’re morally superior to everyone around you.”

“I do not.” Potter scowled, crossing his arms “I do not think I’m better than everyone around me.”

“Great, thanks—fifteen. You think you’re better than everyone around you.”

“Hey!” Potter whined. “That’s unfair.”

“Life is unfair, princess.” Draco grinned. “Sixteen. You complain too much.”

“Only—only when things are… unfair. Hey, wait, you’re setting me up for this—”

Seventeen, thought Draco, I can’t stop thinking you’re adorable.

“Seventeen,” said Draco, “You’re an idiot.”

“You can’t hate someone for being an idiot.” Potter spluttered.

“Uh, yes, you can?” Draco stared at him. “I do it all the time.”

“That’s horrible, Malfoy—”

“Eighteen,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “You love passing moral judgement on everyone else.”

“That’s not what I’m doing—I,” Potter sighed. “I’m not trying to—”

“Nineteen. You make people feel like shit.”

“Malfoy.” said Potter, quietly.

“Twenty. That voice.” Draco snarled. “Don’t.”

“Malfoy.” Potter repeated, even quieter.

“Twenty-one.” Draco turned to him. You’re too good. “You don’t realise the way you hurt people.”

Potter stared at him in silence. Somehow they had ended up all close, again.

“Twenty-two,” Draco said, unable to stop, “You can’t stand not being liked.”

“That’s not true.” Potter muttered, in protest.

“Isn’t it, Potter?” Draco asked him.

“It’s not true for everyone,” Potter flushed.

Twenty-three, I think I’ve always been a little bit in love with you.

“Twenty-three,” said Draco, closing his eyes, “You’re an idiot.”

“Wait, you said that already—”

“Twenty-four,” Draco paused for a second. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey,” Potter laughed.

“Twenty-five,” Draco opened his eyes and let himself have this moment, just for a while. “I think you might be a little bit of a masochist.”

“Uh, I—huh….” Potter frowned in thought.

“Twenty-six.” Draco smiled, “You are a masochist.”

“I’d say that’s unfair but I’m scared of you now.” Potter laughed.

“Twenty-seven,” Draco smirked, provocatively, “You’re a coward.”

“I am not,” Potter stepped forward. “A coward.”

“Twenty-eight.” Draco continued, “You have this weird thing about being a coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” Potter took another step forward. “That’s—”

“Unfair,” Draco finished, in falsetto. “Twenty-nine. That weird thing you do with your mouth when you’re thinking.”

“Wait, what?” Potter frowned, still moving closer, “What weird thing?”

Draco dramatically bit his lip and made an intense brooding face.

“Wha—hey!” Potter argued, laughing despite himself. “I don’t—Jesus, do I do that?”

“Uh, yeah.” Draco answered. “Thirty. You’re too close to me, again.”

Potter stared at Draco. “One. You’re scared of my proximity.”

Draco stepped backwards. “Thirty-one. You never follow the bloody rules. This is my game, Potter, not yours.”

“Two,” Potter continued. “You change the subject when you get uncomfortable.”

“Thirty-two. You never let me get away with it.”

“Three.” Potter stepped closer. “You pretend to hate me.”

Stay calm, Draco. “Thirty-three. You’re embarrassingly optimistic.”

“Four.” Potter bit his lip. “You hide your true emotions.”

“Thirty-four. You are weirdly intense!” Draco forced a laugh.

“Five.” Potter smiled. “You use humour as a self-defence mechanism.”

“Newsflash Potter, so does literally everyone else!” Draco stepped backwards, again. “Thirty-five. You keep forgetting I’m gay. Stop getting so close to me.”

“Six.” Potter moved a step forward, the bastard, “You don’t understand anything.”

A shiver went down Draco’s spine. “What are you doing.”

“Seven,” Potter paused. “You don’t—talk to me as much as you used to.”

“What?” Draco asked, horrified. What was happening. “Potter, what is happening.”

“Eight.” Potter had successfully backed Draco against a wall. “Your smirk. God, it drives me mad.”

“Uh—”

“Nine.” Jesus, Draco really hoped he wouldn’t get an erection. “You hide how good you are.”

“What?” Draco frowned. “I—what?”

“Why do you do it, Malfoy?” Potter asked, softly.

“What?” Draco repeated, blankly, not understanding anything that was coming out of Potter’s mouth.

“Ten,” Potter smiled, the fucker, “You’re an idiot.”

“I am not.” Draco hissed.

Potter laughed. “You’re predictable. That’s eleven.”

“What number was I on.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “What number was I on. Whatever. Number one hundred. You are predictable, Harry Potter.”

“Less predictable than you,”

“Please, Potter, did you know I was gay?”

Potter grinned. “You did keep telling me my arse was fit.”

Draco had never hated himself more. “Number one hundred and one. You never let me live down my worst memories.”

“Wouldn’t be much of an arch-nemesis if I did, would I?”

“Did you know,” Draco said, faintly, “That having an arch-nemesis at the childhood and adolescent age isn’t actually… healthy.”

“I don’t imagine so, no,” Potter smiled.

Number one-hundred-and-kill-me-now—your smile.

“What are you doing.” Draco whispered, staring into the green of Potter’s eyes—the dark, hazel ring which surrounded those emerald irises.

“Trying to figure out,” Potter whispered back, “why the fuck you hate me so much.”

Draco’s heart was going to stop working any minute now. Any minute now it would fail from excessive overuse. Any second, now.

“Number—one hundred,” Potter smiled at his blatant thievery, “You hate me.”

“You realise,” Draco heard himself say, “that this is meant to be the reasons why you hate me, right?”

“Mmmhmm,” Potter hummed.

“Does it piss you off that I’m taller than you?” Draco asked him, biting back a smile.

“You could say that,” Potter murmured.

“Number one million.” Draco grinned, whispering. “You’re fucking weird.”

Potter laughed, softly.

Something very weird was happening right now. Draco didn’t really—understand anything at all. Was Potter… hitting on him? Is that—what? What what what? Or was Draco just being embarrassingly optimistic?

“You’re being gay, Potter.” Draco hissed.

“You’re the one who’s always insisting that I am.” Potter argued.

Draco pushed him away. “For Diggory.” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “You know that I dated his ex-girlfriend, right?”

Draco scowled. Yes, Potter, I do know. I was in a fucking terrible mood the entire time.

Potter ran another hand through his hair, “Listen, I—I just—I think we got off on the wrong foot all those years ago.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard he got a mini headache.

“Listen, Malfoy.” Potter pleaded. “I—want to be friends with you.”

And Draco’s heart broke a teensy-weensy bit, but whatever. Life goes on.

“It drives me mad that you’re only ever this pissy with me.” Potter continued, flushing. “It—I don’t like it. Just—please.”

Draco said, “You’re standing too close to me.”

“Oh, right—sorry,” Potter scrambled backwards. “Sorry.” he bit his lip and stared at Draco.

Draco took a deep breath. His heart was maybe, slightly more than a teensy-weensy bit broken, but whatever. It be that way. Que será será. Compartmentalise, Draco. Not a single tremor in front of the enemy, ever.

Draco looked at Potter, ignoring the weird ache in his heart. Leave me alone, he wanted to shriek. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Draco had spent, what, almost half of his entire life in love with a bloody idiot who would never feel the same. Just leave me alone, please.

Potter was making that weird thinking face. The brooding-lip-biting-shebang. Fuck me. 

It was Potter this time who was holding his hand out to Draco. Potter, who was asking for friendship—and just friendship. Just friendship. Draco felt the urge to cry. He held it back. Come on, you pathetic worm. Compartmentalise. You’re stronger than this.

Potter was asking for his friendship. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Draco.

“You realise the irony of this situation, yes?” Draco asked, pretending that everything was fine. Because everything was fine. Compartmentalisation was a beautiful thing.

“Huh?” Potter frowned.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Never-mind.”

“Was—is that a yes, then?” Potter asked, shyly.

Draco looked at his flush, his quivering eye-contact, and despite all his innate cruelty, he didn’t have it in him to break Potter. Some pseudo-villain he was.

“God, you’re pathetic.” said Draco.

“Is that a no?” Potter asked, crestfallen.

Draco couldn’t take that expression on Potter’s face. What the fuck have you done to me?

“It’s a yes, fool.” Draco hissed.

Potter beamed. God, kill me now, Draco asked for what must have been the twentieth time. And there was no God, because Draco kept existing, and Potter kept beaming, and Draco kept being in love in Potter and hating his life.

A shuffling sound outside his door caught Draco’s attention. Draco sighed a sigh that was half a snarl.

“Come in, Stalkers.” Draco called, loudly.

Pansy, Blaise and Luna walked in unrepentantly.

“That was delicious.” Pansy said. “Truly. Truly, delicious. You have made me a very happy girl, Harry Potter.”

“Wha—you’re welcome?”

“Beautiful.” Blaise proclaimed, applauding absolutely nothing. “Gorgeous. Dracon, you—this is the best moment of my life,” Blaise hugged Draco. “I love you, Dracon, you know that, right?”

“Naturally.” Draco sighed.

Blaise kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I have positive sentiments for you, too, Blaise.”

Blaise kissed his cheek again, “I know you love me, too.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but okay.”

“We are in lo—woah, there,” Blaise was pulled off Draco.

“He’s gay.” Potter said, holding Blaise back by his shirt. “You should respect that.”

“Calm down, Potter.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “We’ve seen every single inch of Draco. It’s never happening.”

“You’re both blessed to have seen every single inch of me.” Draco sniffed.

“They were some very delectable inches,” Blaise agreed. “Kindly unhand me, Potter. Dracon is like the grand-uncle I never had.”

“Blaise,” said Draco, in wonder, “You’re older than me.”

“And?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“They’re both a bit mad,” said Pansy, to Potter.

“Wait,” said Potter, “You’ve seen him completely—” and he trailed off, whispering.

Draco eyed him for a miserable, miserable second before looking away.

“Draco,” whispered Looney.

“Looney,” Draco whispered back. “Why are we whispering.”

Looney shrugged. “Are you okay?”

Draco smiled, just brokenhearted enough to still be able to produce the action, “Is it the Wrackspurts?”

Looney hesitated and then reached forward to hug Draco. Draco pulled her to him as hard as he could.

“You’re the best, you know that?” he whispered to her.

“You too,” she whispered back, hugging him back just as hard. “You’re the best, okay?”

Draco closed his eyes as tightly as he could, against the embarrassing rush of tears. Luna rotated them, so that she was facing the others, and he was facing the wall.

“Okay?” she said softly.

Draco would have whispered an answer, but the lump in his throat was forbidding speech.

“I love you, Draco,” Luna whispered, “You don’t have to say it back, I know you love me, too.”

Draco nodded, again. The tears came even stronger than before. He felt Looney’s head move in his arms to face his expression.

“I love you, okay?” she whispered.

He swallowed once, twice. He inhaled deeply, exhaled. Swallowed again. Compartmentalise. He couldn’t cry in front of Looney. He loved her too much, he couldn’t do that to her.

“Okay,” he whispered back, opening his eyes, forcing a smile. “I love you too, Looney.”

She smiled back, “Theo loves you too,”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Theo likes my face very much.”

She giggled, “It’s a nice face.”

“It’s a bloody brilliant face.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but okay.”

Draco laughed. “I’ve corrupted you, Looney-toons.”

“Absolutely.” Looney agreed, her grey eyes large and wide, “What would Maximillian say?”

“He’d kill me.” Draco answered, “God, he’s terrifying.”

“Who’s terrifying?” asked Potter.

Draco turned Luna and him back around.

“Maximillian.” answered Luna, who had turned around in Draco’s embrace to face Potter, Draco’s arms still hugging her from the back.

Potter opened his mouth. And then he shut it. “Okay.”

“You’ll get along just fine,” Pansy patted his arm. “You’ll be great.”

Looney squirmed in Draco’s arms. “What’s wrong?” Draco asked her.

Looney made a face at the floor. “I didn’t eat any dessert because I was too full…”

Draco burst out laughing. “Are you hungry now?” he asked her.

Looney looked up at him. Looney was one of Draco’s favourite people in all the world. Draco kissed her forehead.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” he smiled. “Down to the kitchens, we go.”

Luna grinned. 

“Where are you going?” Potter asked.

“Okay, right, first lesson of being friends with Draco Malfoy,” began Pansy. “Stop questioning things.”

“It’ll drive you mad,” agreed Blaise.

Draco ignored them. Looney and him went down to eat some illicit dessert in the kitchens.