#raitala

Hi! I hope you can help me find this fic I read on Ao3. It's rated E, Harry and Draco work as professors at Hogwarts and one of them loses a bet and has to wear a maid costume and prepare tea for the other. I believe it's from Harry's pov and they probably do it on the sofa. I'm pretty sure the the one wearing the costume talks about the texture a lot. Thanks!!

Potter doesn’t think of me as Lucius Malfoy’s son. I like that. But even Potter’s eyes shutter when he sees the mark on my arm. He slips into what I think of as his Soldier’s Face. The face of a man who has been asked too many times to take one for the team, so that he can reflexively distance himself at a blink. He wasn’t always like this. I can remember. But they just kept on asking. He gets that face on at award ceremonies, at memorials, at section meetings whenever the discussion turns to suggestions of Dark conspiracy and everyone turns to look at him. Everyone who isn’t glaring at me, that is. Perhaps it is because I can remember the boy whose every impulse of outrage was writ large upon his face that it strikes me as so wrong. I can’t blame him his disgust at my mark. Morsmordre has functioned as a call to battle for him since he was fourteen. I hate that face though. Potter isn’t a born soldier really. He’s too slapdash and too curious by nature. I don’t know why, but it makes me angry every time I see him slip away into that role. He should have been an absent-minded professor, someone like Flitwick, not the Saviour, the soldier. If we’re at a public event I usually find a way of sidling up to him and whispering the most offensive slurs I can think of in his ear. That snaps him out of it. If we’re in a meeting I can just kick him under the table. I do have long legs and very pointy shoes. If I sometimes get someone else by mistake it works just as well. He knows it was meant for him, when someone else doubles over and spills their coffee. “Fuck’s sake, Malfoy. Grow up.” It warms the cockles of my black little heart. Anger is the only thing that keeps me alive most days. And it’s also the only thing I know of that pulls him back from losing himself in duty on the one side or disappearing into a vortex of his own magical explorations on the other. Fortunately for everyone, I have the most perfectly honed ability to piss him off.

Title: A touch of silk

“But I don’t want my picture taken. I hate having my picture taken,” Potter protested. “Look,” said Draco patiently, “you like elves and you like Hermione. You’re right here. Now get in the fucking photo. Emmanuel, give him an ice cream. You know Emmanuel. He’s the drummer with Hubble. What am I saying? Of course you know him. He’s the bloke I was in the lav with, last time you tried to arrest me.” The picture of Potter looking fed up with life, surrounded by half-naked men in tea towels holding ice creams was so perfect Draco pinned a copy to the wall in his flat.