They were caught leaving The Flailing Lizard the first time. The picture on the front page showed a startled Draco just outside the restaurant, a hand to his chest as the flash of the camera went off, and immediately a scowling Harry, pushing Draco behind himself, lifting his chin at the reporters in defiance.
It wasn’t their first evening together, Harry knew better than to have a first or second or even third date in a public place. Unlike Draco, he was used to the papers sticking their long, unwanted beaks into his personal affairs. But it was their first outing together, and though he’d warned him, he saw the impact the article had on Draco the next morning, saw his beautiful, pale eyes follow the shit it spouted across the front page and tense up.
He sighed, leaning against Draco’s side, his naked chest brushing against Draco’s work shirt, and read over his shoulder. Rubbish, speculation about the nature of their outing, but nothing incriminating. Not really. He kissed Draco’s shoulder, nuzzled it.
“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” he murmured against his skin.
“Nonsense,” Draco replied, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself. “It’s not your fault, and it doesn’t even say anything of substance either way.”
With a flick of his wand, the paper went up in flames.
The second time was no different. A blurry picture of them having coffee, Harry nodding, tipping his cup into his mouth, Draco gesturing with his hands as he recounted something or other.
Harry Potter sharing coffee with ex-convict Draco Malfoy, read the headline.
“I was never convicted,” Draco muttered over breakfast the next morning, his tea gone cold from how long he’d spent reading and rereading the bullshit article. It wasn’t funny, but Harry huffed a laugh anyway. After a beat, Draco joined in. It was ridiculous, after all.
“They have no clue what they’re on about, as usual.”
He transfigured the paper into a napkin, used it to dab his mouth and threw it away, after. Draco smiled.
The third time, having caught them leaving Gringotts together, the paper ventured a guess.
Potter and Malfoy to become business associates, details on page 9.
This time, Draco laughed first.
“Did you know,” he asked against Harry’s lips after their good morning kiss, “we are to open a bar together?”
It became a thing. Every single morning after they went out, without fail, there would be something, Harry’s blurry profile, Draco’s fringe just about visible through a window, both of them caught mid-argument in Harry’s box at the Quidditch stadium, getting into Ron’s car together, walking Diagon with the back of their hands brushing. All full of wrong speculations, making up alleged business ventures, or implying Draco was broke and in need of Harry’s charity, or once, famously, suggesting Harry was to marry Draco’s distant cousin, which required them to draw up a marriage contract. They had a field day with that one.
The final time, nearing Christmas time, Harry spotted the reporter right as they were about to set up a camera, so he drew Draco in by the lapels of his jacket and kissed him right where they stood, outside Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, leaned heavily into him, palming his side.
The next day, the article was only half coherent and had a lot of exclamation marks. Draco laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach, wipe tears out of the corner of his eyes.
“You’ve put history behind you,” was what a reporter said to Harry when he found him walking his crup the next morning, shoving his wand-turned-microphone into Harry’s face. “Aren’t you worried about public outrage? What people might think about this relationship?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said around his cigarette, barely glancing at the camera. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck.”
@drarrymicrofic - history
