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he took my arm, I don’t know how it happened
Draco tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of his dress robes. Despite the way they hang nearly to his knuckles, they still feel as though they aren’t long enough. He’s felt out of place the entire year and now is no different. He still thinks McGonagall is crazy for implementing an end-of-year annual ball, but he’s starting to think he’s even crazier for bothering to attend. He knows it’s not true, but it feels as though all eyes are on him—on his mark, on his close-trimmed but unmistakably blond hair, on the scars creeping across his neck, not quite hidden by the collar of his dress robes.
No one is looking at him. He’s quite sure people make it a point not to look at him, these days. One year out from the war and most people’s gazes slide right over him. Be it here at Hogwarts or at Diagon, it’s all the same. He steers clear of Knockturn, but he can’t imagine it would be much better.
He catches sneers now and then, but it seems like most people are content to pretend Draco Malfoy no longer exists. It was worse, after his trials concluded and he’d gotten away with only a short stint in Azkaban and paying reparations. Many had felt he’d gotten off too easily—including Draco himself, at times.
But then Potter had gone and done an article with The Quibbler, spouting all the same things he spouted during the trial.
That Draco had helped him not only escape Voldemort but helped him win the war. It’s a stretch, if you ask Draco… but no one asks Draco. Not even Potter, actually. They haven’t spoken since the trial, when Draco managed a shaky thanks and Potter had just nodded, a sad sort of smile on his face.
Draco tugs at his sleeves again and looks toward the door of the Great Hall. He could leave, he thinks. It isn’t as though attendance is mandatory. He’d only come because McGonagall had urged him to, a firm command disguised as a gentle suggestion. It’s maybe half nine now; he’s been here long enough for McGonagall to have seen him. He could leave, go back to his bunk, get a head start on packing. He’s not leaving the school grounds for a couple days, but there’s no sense in putting off the inevitable.
Draco’s about to turn to leave when a hand on his elbow startles him badly enough that he trips over the hem of his robes. He twists and yanks his arm from the grasp, rounding on whoever touched him with a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snaps before he realizes it’s Potter standing beside him, looking surprised and sheepish and shaggy as ever.
Potter gulps and scratches at the back of his neck. His dress robes are about two inches too short—hand-me-downs, Draco thinks, though not as derisive as he might’ve in the past. He almost wonders why Potter hasn’t gone for at least something new, something his own, but Draco is suddenly sure Potter would consider it unnecessary. Besides, the red complements his tan skin nicely. Draco pushes the thought aside and stands up straighter.
“Sorry,” Potter says after an awkward beat of silence. “I just wanted to talk with you.”
Draco blinks. “Alright,” he says slowly.
“How have you been?” Potter asks. He’s staring intently at Draco and it’s been awhile since Draco’s felt so scrutinized, so seen. Potter’s green eyes are intense, and it takes all of Draco’s willpower not to cower under the stare. He’s not scared of Potter. He doesn’t even really know Potter, anymore. And yet, Draco’s first instinct is to cower or flinch, even though Potter’s stare is nothing like the sneers on the streets he used to endure.
“Fine, I suppose,” Draco says. If nothing else, he supposes he owes a little conversation to the other man. Potter kept him mostly out of Azkaban and kept the Ministry from snapping Draco’s wand, after all. “Made it through the year. I have a Potions apprenticeship lined up in the States.” Draco hasn’t really told anyone about it besides his mum—because he doesn’t really talk to anyone. It feels nice to tell someone, even a near-stranger like Potter.
“That’s brilliant,” Potter says with what looks like a genuine grin.
“...Thanks.” Draco curses the blush he can feel creeping toward his cheeks. He tries not to sound forced when he asks, “And you?”
“About the same, I suppose. Can’t believe it’s been a year. No apprenticeships lined up or anything, though.” Potter’s grin turns a little cheeky. “I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do.” There’s a breathiness to the words that sounds like excitement, maybe disbelief.
That surprises Draco. “Not going straight into the Aurors?” It’d been the talk of the town for so long. The Prophet had reported that Potter and Weasley would be allowed entry into the Aurors without attending a final year at Hogwarts. When the two of them had chosen to go back to school instead, it was all anyone talked about for what felt like ages.
Potter laughs. “No. I’ve decided it’s not for me. Fought enough Dark wizards for one lifetime, I think.” Potter shifts on his feet and glances toward their peers dancing. He watches them for a moment, twirling and bouncing and, in some cases, gyrating. “Do you think this is all a bit barmy?” Potter asks with a nod at the dance floor.
“Oh, absolutely,” Draco replies easily. Some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. If nothing else, it’s nice to know he’s not the only one thinking it’s all a bit mad. “A ball? Honestly, it’s even crazier than putting all the eighth years into one house.” Which McGonagall had also done, although it wasn’t as disastrous as Draco had anticipated. Not many had come back for school and of those that did, none of them seemed inclined to keep up the same old rivalries.
“Hermione’s been going on about unity and collaboration, but I would’ve preferred a Quidditch tournament, I think.”
Draco’s about to laugh, about to grin and agree, but a memory flashes through his mind: the Room of Requirement, flames licking at their feet as they fly toward the door. Draco’s arms around Potter’s waist and the taste of soot at the back of his mouth. The crash landing and the way his heart raced in his chest like nothing he’d ever felt before. The stench of death following them into the corridor and the screeches of the Horcrux succumbing to its end.
“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice brings him out of the memory as easily as it’d sent him into it. “You alright?”
Draco swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “I haven’t been on a broom in ages,” he admits softly. He can’t admit that he’s been too scared to try. He’s too scared to even think of curling his hand around the handle. “Haven’t played Quidditch in even longer.”
Potter’s staring at him again, the same intent way as before. He doesn’t say anything, but Draco gets the feeling that Potter hears everything he doesn’t say. It makes him feel exposed, and his first instinct is to flee. Before he can, Potter speaks again.
“Since we’re here,” he says, and Draco looks at him cautiously, “and since we don’t have any brooms… why don’t we dance?”
Draco’s heart skips a beat. He thinks he might actually prefer dealing with brooms than dancing. “We both just agreed this is crazy,” he says slowly.
“Yeah,” Potter agrees, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.”
“Who says I’d enjoy a dance with you, Potter? I remember the Yule Ball. Vividly.”
Potter laughs, loud and bright, drawing some eyes their way. Draco forces himself not to wonder if the stares linger. “I’ve improved, I promise.” Then, Potter extends a hand.
“Are you mad?” Draco asks as he stares at Potter’s hand. It’s calloused, the skin of his palm lighter than the rest.
“Probably.”
Draco glances at Potter’s face for a hint of a lie, but only finds a familiar, sheepish smile. “The Prophet will be all over this.”
“Doesn’t bother me, I only read The Quibbler.”
“Of course you do.” Draco tries to surreptitiously wipe his hands on his robes—suddenly his palms feel clammy, and the last thing he needs is Potter knowing how nervous he is. All the reasons this is a bad idea flicker through Draco’s mind. His mother reads The Prophet, for one, and he doesn’t want to spend his time with her fielding questions about Harry Potter’s dancing abilities. Two, Draco’s done a good job of maintaining as normal a life as he can, post-war and whatnot; dancing with Harry Potter is not part of his normal.
Draco reaches out and takes Potter’s hand. “Fine, but I’m leading.”
Potter’s laugh carries them onto the dance floor. Sure enough, he lets Draco lead and he's not tripping over his feet like he was in their fourth year. It’s not as smooth as Draco’s own dancing, but that’s to be expected. It could be worse, probably. Draco’s so focused on making sure Potter doesn’t step on his toes, it takes him a while to realize he’s gotten himself into a no-win situation.
Either he has to stare at Potter, painfully earnest and bright-eyed Potter, or he has to stare at the people around them. Draco knows without a doubt that some people are staring. Some are probably whispering, and he can only imagine what they’re saying. Nasty things about Draco, nasty things about Potter—the attention, real or imagined, is suddenly too much.
Panic grips Draco’s chest. “Potter,” he says, “what are we doing?”
“Dancing, I think,” is Potter’s easy reply.
“Right, but why? Why are you dancing with me?” Draco shakes his head. “You haven’t even spoken to me all year.” The panic flutters faster between his ribs like an angry pixie in a cage. His life has been fine—boring, maybe, a bit lackluster, but fine. Normal and quiet and utterly devoid of things like world saviors and The Prophet broadcasting his business for everyone to see.
“I meant to talk to you, it just never happened,” Potter says. He looks sorry. Regretful. He looks like he wants to say more but Draco beats him to it.
“Why? Why would you want to talk to me at all?” Draco finally stops dancing and Potter trips, his hand falling from Draco’s. Draco takes a step back.
“I,” Potter starts, but Draco’s already turning to leave.
Stupid, he thinks as he slips out of the Great Hall. Utterly stupid. He’s got his life planned out: get out of Hogwarts, finish his apprenticeship in the States, and hopefully find a job working with potions. He’s never factored Potter into his plans and he’s not going to start now.
I felt it in my chest as he looked at me
“Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley says with a nod, “a pleasure to see you here.”
“And you, Minister,” Draco replies. They share a handshake and Kingsley even gives him a small grin. “This is lovely,” Draco says with a gesture to the event hall. It’s enormous, the high ceilings seemingly going on for miles. The place is already buzzing with people, even though Draco deliberately showed up early so he could leave all the sooner.
It’s the five-year anniversary of the battle of Hogwarts. The ministry has put together a function—food, music, speeches toward the end of the night. The mood at the moment is surprisingly upbeat, but Draco knows it won’t last. He plans to be gone before the speeches start, and therefore gone before the moroseness settles in.
“How did the States treat you?” Kingsley asks, drawing Draco’s attention back to him.
“Surprisingly well,” Draco replies. It’s not even a fib. While the United States were far from clueless about the war, being away from London felt like a breath of fresh air. For the first time in years, Draco had felt like he could breathe easy. No longer looking over his shoulder at every moment, the weight of his family’s legacy suddenly gone from his shoulders. He’d flourished under his mentor’s tutelage, free of judgement and his past looming over him. Even being back in London now doesn’t feel as constricting as it once did.
“But I’m glad to be home,” Draco adds after a moment.
Kingsley smiles at him. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, and then he’s off to greet more people.
Draco moves swiftly through the light crowds, away from the entrance and toward the drinks. He orders himself a firewhisky before finding a semi-secluded table in a far corner. He leans against it and fiddles with the napkin stuck to the bottom of his sweating glass.
The people around him are a low-level murmur alongside the hum of music filtering from who-knows-where. There’s no band, but there is a small dance floor off to one side. It’s mostly older couples swaying slowly, a few children here and there bouncing around. If not for the floating trays of champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres, it would look almost quaint.
Draco’s contemplating a refill on his whisky when there’s a sudden commotion from the entrance. For a split second, he’s on the defensive; he reaches for his wand holstered in his sleeve and whips his head toward the noise and sudden group of people. Just as quickly, Draco realizes there’s no danger.
Potter’s arrived, that’s all.
Even shorter than most of the crowd gathered around him, Potter is easy to spot. His hair has, impossibly, gotten more unruly in the time since Draco’s last seen him. Now the black curls are drawn on the top of Potter’s head in an almost passable excuse for a bun. He’s pushing his way through the crowd with all the humble grace of a teenager thrust into the limelight, despite being twenty-three.
Draco watches Potter finally escape from the crowd—he counts six handshakes, at least two baby’s foreheads kissed, and what might’ve been one marriage proposal—and make a beeline for the bar. Draco allows himself a snort of amusement as he drains what’s left of his whisky before taking in the rest of Potter’s appearance.
He’s a little disheveled from the attention at the entrance, not that it matters much for his dark jeans and simple dress shirt. He looks profoundly uncomfortable as he gets his drink in hand and turns to scan the crowd.
Draco shouldn’t be surprised when those green eyes land on him, but he is. He drums his fingers on the side of his glass for a moment before pushing off from the table. He forces his strides to stay steady and long as he crosses the room to Potter, watching the other man’s eyes widen in surprise as he gets closer.
Draco sidles up beside Potter at the bar, close enough that their elbows could brush, and orders another firewhisky. “Potter,” he says with a nod. His old glass disappears with a quiet pop and a new one slides toward him across the polished wood of the bar.
“Malfoy,” Potter echoes. “Your hair.”
Draco bites back a snicker. “I see you’ve gotten more perceptive in intervening years.” Even so, Draco can’t help but brush a hand along the side of his head. He’s still not quite used to the feeling of buzzed-short hair under his fingertips, even though it was the first thing he did when he got to the States. His hair had gotten absurdly long by the time he left Azkaban, longer still by the time he left Hogwarts.
“Er, sorry,” Potter says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Draco doesn’t quite know what to make of that, so he shrugs. “Kingsley sent an invitation. I was back in London anyway. It would’ve been rude to refuse.” After a moment, he adds, “Not that I had anything else going on, anyway.”
“No apothecaries knocking down your door?”
“No,” Draco says, shaking his head, “I haven’t decided what I want to do yet.’
Potter nods along. “I’ve got to give a speech,” he explains, though Draco could’ve predicted that easily enough. Potter knocks back his drink and taps the bar for another one. “Hermione offered to help write it since she couldn’t attend. Her and Ron are on vacation.”
Draco nods politely. “At least it’ll be coherent, then. I won’t be around to hear it, but good luck.” Draco raises his glass in a salute just as Potter gets his refill.
“You won’t be here?” Potter asks even as he clinks his glass against Draco’s.
“I plan to leave before things get morose,” Draco says simply before taking a sip. “I don’t need the trip down memory lane.” He bites his tongue on saying anything else. Potter’s not his therapist, Potter’s not even his friend.
“I heard they’ve got the Weird Sisters for after the speeches.”
“Planning on reliving our fourth year?” Draco asks.
Potter just shakes his head. “No,” he says after a beat. “But you should stay, I think.”
“And why is that?” Draco twists to look at Potter, unsurprised to find the other man already staring at him. “I’m certainly not going to get up and give a speech.”
“No, of course not.” Potter’s stare is unwavering. “But you were part of the war, too. This event is just as much something of yours as it is mine, or anyone else’s.”
Draco tries to swallow to wet his suddenly dry mouth, but a lump of emotion keeps him choked up. He chases it with a swig of whisky that burns worse all the way down. He feels unkempt and off kilter as he tries to figure out what to say.
Potter gives him a small grin and says, “Think about it, Malfoy. Maybe I’ll see you after the speeches.”
Draco ends up staying, although he keeps to the shadows. Partly because the less attention he draws to himself in general, the better. He also doesn’t want Potter to know he’s hung around, either. He sticks to corners and alcoves and, embarrassingly, the bathrooms to stay out of sight. Eventually, the lights go low and people start finding seats as they appear on the dance floor. The taller tables without chairs shrink and grow to accommodate more people in their chairs. Draco takes a spot near the back, at a mostly abandoned table. No one pays him any mind.
Kingsley starts off the speeches, naturally, but Draco tunes it out. He tunes out the other speeches too, up until the cheers get louder than ever before. Then, and only then, does Draco look toward the stage with actual interest.
Potter looks out of place on the stage, surrounded by witches and wizards with considerably more public speaking experience than him. He still takes the podium and clears his throat before bringing the tip of his wand to just under his jaw.
“Erm, hello,” Potter says. He’s met with titters of laughter, Draco’s included, and it seems to embolden him. “I want to thank you all for coming today. This day isn’t easy, for any of us. In fact, even though Minister Kingsley is a dear friend, I very nearly didn’t attend.”
There are titters of laugh in response, along with some in the crowd uncomfortably shifting in their seats. Potter scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly but carries on.
“I think, though, it’s important to remember this day. Even though it’s hard.” Potter stops and shakes his head. “Even though it makes us uncomfortable, even if it’s painful.
“So again, I want to thank you all for coming together today. Thank you for making this day something other than a bad memory.”
Potter clears his throat and takes a step back from the podium.
Draco claps along with everyone else. Some of the applause is a little scattered—it’s probably not the sort of speech they expected from the Boy Who Lived. It’s almost exactly what Draco expected, though.
When Potter’s eyes lock onto him again, Draco gives him a grin and a nod. People practically rush the stage not long after, and Draco means to slip out unnoticed. He really does. He stayed for the speeches, he’s pleasantly full on whisky and finger foods. He doesn’t need to actually say goodbye to Potter.
He’s nearly escaped when a hand lands on his shoulder, too gentle and bony to be Potters. Draco turns on his heel to find McGonagall staring at him. He’s so surprised, he finds himself stammering out, “M-Minerva?”
If she’s put off by his owlish blinking, she doesn’t show it. “I hear you’ve just gotten back from your apprenticeship.”
Draco nods. “I did, yes.”
McGonagall’s gaze rakes over him. Draco wouldn’t say he’s scared, but faced with the headmistresses’ calculating eyes, Draco wouldn’t say he’s fearless either. “Do you have a job lined up?”
“Ah, not yet. I only just got back a week ago. I was going to stay with my mother for a bit before finding something.”
McGonagall hums. She turns and looks over her shoulder. Draco follows her line of sight to Potter, who’s still dealing with the crowd. “Hogwarts has an option position for a Potions master.”
Draco blinks. “Pardon?”
McGonagall faces him again. “I will not repeat myself, Mr. Malfoy.” But her tone isn’t unkind, just calm and plain. “You know I’ve never held ill-will toward you, Draco.” Her voice softens and Draco’s heart skips a beat. “You were a child, then. What you were made to do…” McGonagall trails off with a shake of her head. “Owl me,” she says, pinning him with her stare. Her voice leaves no room for argument.
“Of course,” he says.
When McGonagall holds out her hand, Draco hurries to shake it. It lasts a beat longer than he expects, and before she pulls away, McGonagall arches an eyebrow at him. She doesn’t say anything, but she does glance once more at Potter. The throng around him has settled somewhat, and he’s engaged with Kingsley in what looks like a dreadfully dull chat.
McGonagall nods at him after dropping his hand and then she’s striding off. Draco doesn’t watch her leave. Instead, he makes his way back through the crowd. In the time it takes him to get away from the exit, the Weird Sisters have taken the stage and people are flooding to the dance floor. Draco pinpoints Potter despite the crowds forming, and he beelines for the other man.
“Malfoy!” Potter yelps in surprise as Draco enters his line of sight.
“Did you ask McGonagall to offer me a job at Hogwarts?” Draco asks, having to shout a bit over the music.
Potter’s mouth drops open. “Er.” An embarrassed flush floods his cheeks. “I mean, I didn’t tell her to do anything. I ran into her not long after you disappeared tonight, and I mentioned I’d seen you.”
“And you mentioned that I didn’t have a job, yet.”
“Well, yeah.” Potter shrugs. “It’s not so bad, y’know. Working at Hogwarts. I’ve been there two years.”
This time it’s Draco’s turn to be surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Potter sounds a bit long-suffering when he says it, rolls his eyes. “Defense against the Dark Arts.”
“Of course.” Draco doesn’t scoff, though. He stares at Potter, and the other man just stares back.
He’s not even mad, in all honesty. His pride is maybe a bit hurt, for not having a job already lined up despite a four-year apprenticeship. Someone taking action on his behalf is foreign, and Draco’s not entirely sure how to react. He swallows nervously. The music around them is picking up, crazier and louder, but it’s nothing compared to Draco’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.
There’s a lot Draco could maybe say. He could tell Potter that he’s going to pass on the offer, that he’ll find a job on his own. He could thank the man, because working at Hogwarts is far from the worst career Draco can imagine. He could compliment Potter’s speech or tease him for his public speaking skills.
Draco does none of that. Instead, he says, “Dance with me.”
Potter, who had turned to watch the crowds around them, swivels back to stare at Draco. “What? Why?”
Draco raises an eyebrow. “Because I said so,” he replies easily. He holds out his hand, not that different from Potter in their eighth year.
Potter opens his mouth again but Draco cuts across him.
“Potter, just. Just dance with me.” Draco reaches out and grabs Potter’s hand before pulling him to the dance floor.
It’s too fast to slow dance to, too rambunctious to sway with. Draco faces Potter in the middle of the dance floor and tells him, “I didn’t think this far ahead. I only know slow dances.”
Potter laughs. “Who cares? No one’s really watching.” Potter reaches for Draco’s hand and places it on his waist before laying his hand on Draco’s shoulder.
Draco wants to disagree; just like their eighth year, he’s sure at least someone is watching. But the music is too loud for him to think clearly, and he hasn’t been this close to Potter in years. “Fine,” he agrees before leading them in a dance that’s far too tame for the rock music pounding around them.
“Why’d you ask me to dance?” Potter asks after they’ve found their rhythm.
“Because it’s easier than saying thank you,” Draco replies. He drops his gaze to their feet and pretends to concentrate very carefully on their footsteps.
“So you’ll take the job?” Potter sounds excited by the prospect. He bounces on the balls of his feet a little more and Draco bites his lip on a grin.
“Just dance, Potter,” he says again.
helpless to the bass and the fading light
The knock at the door startles Draco, as does the door swinging open without his permission. What doesn’t surprise him is the mop of unruly dark hair that pokes in, falling to frame bright green eyes behind wiry frames.
“You know,” Draco drawls without heat, “people usually knock and then wait to enter. Although I guess it’s a bit too much to expect you to know that.” Draco softens the blow of his words with a grin aimed Potter’s way.
“Does it change things if I say I brought firewhisky?” Potter steps into Draco’s office and raises a hand, fingers curled around the neck of a bottle.
“Obviously,” Draco says. He turns to the cabinet behind his desk and grabs two crystal glasses. “What’s the occasion?”
Potter steps up to the desk and uncorks the bottle of whiskey with a soft grunt. He hums as he pours them each half a glass. “Classes start tomorrow, wanted to check on you.”
Draco rolls his eyes and ignores the warmth threatening to burn his cheeks bright pink. He picks up his glass and takes a slow, measured sip. “Classes start tomorrow,” he echoes, “and you thought it best to get me drunk?”
“Who said anything about being drunk?” Potter says with a grin. “I still get nervous before each school year—hell, before each class. I figured you might be the same. It helps to take the edge off.”
The urge to deny it is strong. Draco’s pride still keeps him from admitting when he’s feeling less than entirely confident. He swallows another mouthful of whiskey before answering. “I’m so bloody nervous, I nearly packed up all my things and left.”
“McGonagall would’ve understood.”
Draco barks out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad you didn’t leave.” Potter takes a sip of his own drink, but his eyes meet Draco’s.
“There’s still time,” Draco says, but they both know he isn’t going anywhere. “How did your first day go?”
Potter leans against Draco’s desk with a thoughtful tilt of his head. Draco wanders around to stand beside him, leaning his hip against the oak. Potter’s gaze drifts off to the side. “Honestly, looking back, it could’ve been worse. It felt like an absolute disaster when it happened. Was a bit convinced I’d taken the entirely wrong career path.”
“You’re really selling it,” Draco interrupts, “I’m not worried at all, now.”
Potter grins at him. “The kids were a bit rowdy, especially the ones that recognized me. Had to field a lot of questions about, well, everything. Managed to get them under control in the last ten minutes or so of class and assigned some reading, and I think that helped.”
“Assigning reading helped?” Draco asks.
Potter finishes off his drink. “I think it made them realize that I’m not just Harry Potter, the boy who lived, but also ProfessorPotter, who assigns one hundred pages of reading on the first day of class.”
Draco nearly chokes on his sip of whisky. He swallows it but comes out coughing into the crook of his elbow. Potter’s hand comes down hard against his back to help clear his throat. His palm is warm against Draco’s back as it lingers, even after Draco stops coughing. “You assigned one hundred pages of reading on the first day?”
Potter shrugs. “It was all I could think to do to be taken seriously.” Potter twists and pours himself another couple fingers of whiskey. “I don’t think you’ll have quite the same problems I did, though.”
“No?” Draco sets his finished drink aside. He can already feel the heat of the alcohol buzzed under his skin, making his thoughts just the slightest bit foggy. “What makes you say that?”
“The Malfoy name isn’t as notorious as it used to be,” Potter says simply. “Besides, you’re far more intimidating than me.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, well when you put it that way.” It’s true, at least in part. Ever since his father passed away, the last stranglehold of hatred attached to the Malfoy name seems to have vanished. “I think it’ll last the first week, until all the students write home about Professor Malfoy. Won’t be surprised if McGonagall starts getting nasty letters about hiring a former Death Eater.”
“No,” Potter says, voice thick with conviction. “That won’t happen.”
Draco’s not startled by the way Potter says it. By now, a year down the line from their run-in at the Ministry, he’s rather used to Potter’s antics. Often convinced of the best outcome, in a way Draco finds begrudgingly contagious.
“Perhaps you should sit in for my first lesson,” Draco says, “you’d be a great distraction.”
“Yeah?” Potter grins at him again. “Do I distract you a lot, Malfoy?”
Yes, Draco thinks. “You’re doing a decent job at distracting me from my first day jitters,” he allows. “But if I drink anymore, I really won’t be able to teach at all.”
Potter pushes the cork back into the bottle and stands. “It’s still early,” he says. He flicks a hand in the direction of the radio across the room; shortly after, soft and slightly staticky music fills the room. “How about a little more distraction?” Potter holds up his hand, the one with the faint, silvery scar from their fifth year.
Draco swallows. He takes Potter’s hand rather than answering. With another flick of his wand, Potter moves some of the desks aside to give them a bit more room. Not that they really need it, as they move in slow, small circles. One of Potter’s hands finds Draco’s waist and in turn, Draco lays a hand on Potter’s shoulder.
“Why are we always dancing?” Draco asks. He thinks back to their eighth year, to the Ministry event last year. If someone had told Draco when he was a child that he’d make it a habit to dance with Harry Potter of all people, he would’ve done his best to hex them.
“This is our third dance,” Potter replies, “it’s not exactly a habit.” Potter has a weird knack for that, seemingly reading Draco’s thoughts. It used to unsettle him, but now…now Draco almost looks forward to it.
“I disagree.” Draco makes no move to stop dancing, though.
Potter spins him out, their hands still clasped; not a complex move but one that makes Draco’s breathing catch all the same. “Would you rather duel?”
Draco scoffs. “Hardly.” He twirls back into Potter’s arms, somehow ending up with his back against the other man’s chest. It’s a far more intimate dance than they’ve ever shared before, and Draco’s more alarmed to find he doesn’t really mind. He keeps swaying with Potter and wonders what on earth he’s doing. He remembers asking Potter that, during the ball in their eighth year. Back then, it had seemed so impossible to be so near Potter while not in the middle of a duel. Now, it feels almost normal.
“I prefer this,” Draco decides to announce.
“Hm?” Potter’s voice rumbles against the side of Draco’s neck.
“I don’t have to look at you this way,” Draco taunts, grinning to himself. He can feel Potter stand up a little straighter, his scowl emanating off him like a beacon.
“Berk,” Potter mutters. He grips Draco’s hand again and pushes at his waist so Draco spins out and away again. It’s easy to give in to the push and pull of the somewhat clumsy dance. It’s easy to let Potter pull him back into his space, so close their noses almost brush. Potter’s unruly hair dangles to frame his face and Draco can’t stop staring at one particular curl; he’s never been close enough to appreciate them before.
Potter doesn’t say anything else and for a moment, they stand there in silence. They aren’t swaying, they aren’t moving. They’re simply standing in the middle of Draco’s classroom while the radio crackles on; Potter’s still got a hand on Draco’s hip and his thumb taps along in time to the song. Close like this, Draco can smell the dirt on Potter’s clothes and knows he’d been helping Hagrid earlier in the day. Draco wonders what Potter notices about him.
Potter blinks and his mouth drops open slightly. The panic that’s been at bay the entire time suddenly flares up in Draco’s chest. He hurries to speak.
“Does it help if I say you’ve gotten better at dancing over the years?” Draco asks with a laugh. He leans back, away, until Potter’s hand falls from his hip. An unceremonious end to their dancing. “Another five years and you might be as good as me.”
Potter watches him as Draco walks around his desk again and starts to fiddle with papers. A beat later, the radio stops. “Yeah,” Potter says, “maybe.”
Draco looks up and gives Potter a smile. He hopes it doesn’t look as shaky as it feels. “Thank you. For the distraction.”
Potter nods and returns the grin. “Course, Malfoy. Tomorrow will go great, I’m sure of it.”
“If it doesn’t, will you be back with the whisky?”
Potter laughs but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Again, he says, “Maybe.”
we were bound to get together
Draco’s drowsing into his coffee when McGonagall stands. He turns her direction and forces his eyes to focus. It's been a long week of grading and tutoring and grading; he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep. Her booming voice as she speaks doesn’t wake Draco up; instead, it only makes his headache pound worse.
“It is my great pleasure,” she starts, a hush falling over the Great Hall, “to announce preparations for the annual end of year ball. It has become a time-honored tradition in the last few years, and I look forward to seeing you all there.” McGonagall smiles to herself. Draco still thinks it’s a little barmy of an idea, even six years down the line.
McGonagall continues, mentioning the date of the ball and, “Dress robes or otherwise proper attire is required, and dance lessons will be held by me, next week.”
Draco looks back down at his coffee with a sigh. His first year as a professor hasn’t gone as badly as he expected. In fact, it’s been rather the opposite. There’d been no angry parents who came calling when they found out their children’s potions teacher is a former Death Eater. Classes are hard, and while teaching is rewarding, sometimes Draco wishes he had taken up a different profession.
As he thinks back to the last dance he shared—with Potter, in his office, the evening before classes began in September—Draco considers the merits of drowning himself in his coffee. He’s determining the logistics of it when someone crashes into the seat beside him. There’s only one person it could be.
“Potter,” Draco murmurs. He doesn’t spare a glance at him.
“’Lo, Malfoy,” Potter greets as he settles into his chair. He starts loading up his plate with a pile of food and not for the first time, Draco wonders where he packs it all away. “The students look thrilled at the idea of the ball.”
Draco decides—for now—against drowning himself in his coffee and casts his gaze out to the students in the Great Hall. It’s easy to tell who’s in what year by how excited they are. The sixth and seventh years all look bored out of their minds by the prospect; the fifth years look outright sullen, with the fourth years caught somewhere between dismay and nervous excitement; the first, second, and third years all look far too excited.
Draco snorts. “A time-honored tradition,” he echoes, a little skeptical.
“It sort of is, now.” Potter shrugs. “Six years of it. Goes off without a hitch every year.”
“I’d expect nothing less from McGonagall, of course. I think it’s got to have been at least ten years before it can be considered time-honored, though.”
Potter snickers beside him before inelegantly shoveling food into his mouth. Draco watches with a sigh. The last several months have desensitized him to Potter’s eating habits, mostly. There’s a faint voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his mother reminding him about his manners, but he ignores it. Draco still wrinkles his nose in distaste, and Potter rolls his eyes accordingly. It’s all part of their routine, including the spot of egg yolk at the corner of Potter’s mouth.
“Honestly, it’s a wonder any of your students take you seriously when they can see you eat every day.” Okay, so perhaps Draco isn’t entirely above ribbing Potter about his eating habits. Not yet, at least.
Potter just elbows him gently without looking at him. “It’s a wonder any of your students take you seriously when you look a few minutes away from drowning yourself in your tea.”
Draco scowls and snaps, without heat, “It’s coffee.” Potter still has that uncanny knack for seeming as though he’s inside Draco’s head. Draco knows he’s not, knows Potter would never do that. If anything, there’s almost something comforting about Potter being able to read him so easily.
Potter only shrugs. Mercifully, he wipes his mouth. “Prepare yourself, Malfoy.” At Draco’s perplexed look, Potter elaborates. “If you thought trolling the halls looking for students off for a snog was bad, the dances are about ten times worse.”
Draco’s gaze drops back to his coffee. “How many inches of liquid does it take to drown a person?”
“There’s not enough room in that cup to drown us both, so I’m not going to answer that,” Potter says with a grin.
“Prat,” Draco replies.
The day of the ball—after all the exams are finished, all the grading is done, and all that’s left is celebrations and classes spent throwing enchanted parchment airplanes—Draco makes a decision.
He’s been putting it off since that night in his office, last August. He’s known about his feelings for Potter for… too long, maybe. For so long he had been content to ignore them, sure that nothing would ever come of them. But the eighth-year dance and all the others that followed had got the idea in Draco’s head. The idea that maybe Draco’s feelings aren’t so unbelievable—and that maybe Potter even feels the same.
Draco adjusts his tie and takes a final glance at himself in the mirror. No dress robes tonight, though he still tugs a little uncertainly at the cuffs of his Muggle dress shirt. He nods at himself in the mirror and steels his nerves.
When he slips into the corridor, it’s into a sea of students making their way to the Great Hall. They’re all chattering and clamoring and none pay him much mind other than a few polite, 'Professor Malfoy's, and acknowledging nods. He sticks close to the wall and balances keeping his nerves in check with watching the students and making sure no shenanigans break out.
They all make it to the Great Hall in one piece; once inside, the students scatter off to find their friends or get close to the stage. Meanwhile, Draco lingers at the doorway and scans the room. He pinpoints McGonagall standing near Hagrid, the two of them talking as they both watch the dance floor. There are various other professors littered throughout the Great Hall, all of them in varying degrees of conversation with someone else.
There’s no sign of Potter, though. Draco chews the inside of his cheek nervously. All professors are required to attend, McGonagall made that clear in a staff meeting shortly after the ball’s announcement. The ball isn’t quite in full swing yet, so there’s no chance of Potter having already ducked out. Unless he’s sick, but Draco highly doubts that.
Draco shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous, he knows that much. His feelings have been simmering on a back burner for the better part of his adolescence, only coming to a boil within recent years. Waiting a little longer won’t hurt.
Draco strides over to the drink table and resolves himself to mingle, to keep an eye on the students, and to not look at the entrance to the Great Hall every few minutes.
Draco’s deep in conversation with Sprout regarding some leaves and plants he needs for an experiment he’s planning this summer when a hand touches his elbow gently. He doesn’t startle, nor does he whip around with a sneer or sharp word. He knows now, after years of looking over his shoulder, that he’s safe here at Hogwarts. Besides, he has a good guess at who’s grabbing at him like an untrained crup.
He keeps talking to Sprout for a moment, about Longbottom’s summer apprenticeship coming up, until she politely excuses herself from the conversation. She goes with a promise of letting Draco come by the greenhouse soon. Only then does Draco turn.
“Potter,” he says.
Potter grins. “Malfoy.”
Draco drains what’s left of his punch and sets his cup aside. It disappears with a pop a few moments later and Draco turns all his focus on Potter. “You’re late,” he says.
“Last minute scuffles in the Gryffindor common room,” Potter says with a nod at a few students across the hall. “Had to sort that out before we could get down here.”
Draco nods. Potter keeps talking, detailing the scuffle itself. Something about arguing over dress robes, or maybe hair products, or dates; Draco’s not really listening. He knows he could stand here and make idle chatter with Potter for a little while longer. It’s sort of their routine: small talk, before one of them inevitably asks the other to dance.
What a strange routine it is. Draco doesn’t feel especially bad about cutting it short.
He waits until Potter takes a moment to breathe before saying, “Dance with me.”
Potter’s mouth hangs open. “Huh?”
Draco holds out his hand, not all that different from Potter, years ago. “Dance with me, Potter.”
He only stares at Draco’s hand for a moment, then he stares at Draco as if he’s grown another head.
“Unless you’re scared,” Draco drawls. He makes to drop his hand back to his side.
Potter reaches for him in a flash, grinning bright as he replies, “You wish.”
Draco rolls his eyes and tugs Potter toward the dance floor. As always, he’s keenly aware of eyes on them. Most notably, McGonagall’s. She looks pleased, maybe a little smug. Not that Draco would ever say that aloud. He’s sure students are staring, too. He knows how the rumor mill at Hogwarts runs amok, just like he knows he and Potter have always been prime targets.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t really mind. They sweep onto the dance floor with an ease Draco still can’t believe they’ve established. He manages to put the eyes on them out of his mind and he focuses solely on Potter.
“Surprised you asked me to dance.” Potter’s watching their feet as they move.
“I didn’t ask you,” Draco says with a hum. “More like told you, really.”
“It’s the same difference when it comes to you.” Potter grins though he still doesn’t look up.
“You don’t seem to mind.” Draco shifts the hand on Potter’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck instead. He toys with the unruly curls sitting at the nape; his fingers don’t tangle, instead moving fluidly through the dark brown locks. Potter’s hair is mostly up, aside from the pieces that can’t fit into the bun.
“I don’t,” Potter says easily. They move through the crowd swiftly, easier than it’s ever been. “Amazingly enough, I think I’d even say I like you, Malfoy.”
“For once, you have excellent taste.” Draco swallows around the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the thudding of his heart. “Unfortunately, I like you too.”
Potter finally looks up and rolls his eyes. “Lucky me,” he says flatly. Potter opens his mouth, a no doubt sharp crack on the tip of his tongue.
Draco doesn’t let him speak. “Kiss me, Potter,” he says. He means for it to come out firm, determined. Instead it comes out hushed, far more vulnerable than Draco really intends.
Not that it matters. Potter’s face softens before splitting into a small grin. “What was that?” he teases, just as quiet. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Draco rolls his eyes once more before using his hand on the back of Potter’s neck to steer him into a kiss. Potter goes easily and leans up to meet Draco halfway. The kiss is awkward and a little clumsy; Draco isn’t exactly experienced, and they’re both grinning too much to make it much more than lips against lips.
“That was terrible,” Draco says quietly. Potter snorts and kisses him again, arms wrapped around Draco’s waist to tug him closer.
This kiss is better. Much better. It’s gentle and slow like the song playing around them.0 The crowd gives them a somewhat wide berth, which is good since Draco finds it hard to dance and kiss at the same time. It carries on probably longer than is really appropriate at a school dance, and it’s only the thought of McGonagall coming by to separate them that makes Draco pull back this time.
Potter, for some reason, is already chattering shortly after the kiss ends. “Does this mean it’s my turn to ask you to dance again, after this? We’ve been taking turns, haven’t we?”
Draco groans. “Shut up.” Draco doesn’t miss the gleeful glint in Potter’s green eyes. “Kiss me again.”
Potter does just that.