Potter was late. Very late. Very very very very very very- Draco stopped to cast a discreet Tempus to check how very very later Potter was. Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes that Draco had spent rattling around The National Gallery foyer, buffeted by crowds, eyed by security guards, it really was too much.Resolving - once again - to only give Potter one more minute before leaving; Draco resumed his vigil next to the information kiosk.
āMādrunk Mafoy,ā Potter slurred, leaning back against the damp brick wall. āWant this, want you, but want to do it properly, yuhāknow?ā Earnest, bloodshot eyes gazed up at Draco.
āOf course, of course, Iā¦ Iā¦ā Draco trailed off, grinning helplessly at Potter who started grinning back. āIā¦āāYouā¦āāIāve wanted this, you, for a while now,ā Draco exhaled, reaching forward to run his hand through the black and grey curls behind Potterās right ear. āSoā¦ā Draco took another deep breath as Potter turned to nuzzle his wrist, āI can wait, of course. Iāll wait.āāNot for long,ā said Potter, his lips moving against Dracoās wrist. āJust ātil tomorrow. Mājust drunk is all.āāYes, I think, I might be too. Iā¦ but thatās not why this happened?ā Draco took a step back, untangling his hand from Potterās hair. Frowning, Potter hooked an arm around the small of Dracoās back and pulled him back in.āCourse not, meet me tomorrow.āāAlright, where?āāGallery, National-ā Potter paused to hiccup, āGallery. 3 oāclock, yeah?āāNational Gallery, 3 oāclock.ā Draco found himself smiling again.***He was a fool, a sentimental fool who should have known better. Finally leaving the National Gallery, Draco was met by a gust of freezing sleet. Trafalgar Square was crammed with shoppers and tourists, a group of shivering buskers were playing Jingle Bells on steelpans.āSo this is hellā, Draco thought to himself as he hustled his way through the crowd. The nearest Floo-point was Charing Cross Station but after nearly colliding with a hen party Draco turned left.Heading up St. Martinās Place, Draco wrapped his arms around himself. It hurt. The promise of Potter, the lack of Potter. All the important parts of Draco had been scooped out by Potterās green eyes and dopey smile and now the only thing left was hurt.The traffic roared as he stumbled along, so distracted by the sleet and the pain that he almost didnāt hear the shout.āOy Malfoy!ā A hand latched onto Dracoās elbow and swung him around. āDidnāt think you were going to come,ā Potter smiled up at Draco, white flicks of sleet sticking to his eyelashes.Huffing in outrage, Draco drew himself up to his full height, ready to unleash a world of pain. Potterās lateness and then this near-Slytherin attempt to cast Draco as the late party was too much. It would not be born, Draco may be a Malfoy but he was also a man of blood and nerves and hopes and for Potter to play with him in this manner-Unaware of his impending doom, Potter continued to burble on, steering Draco towards a doorway where a sign welcomed visitors to Londonās National Portrait Gallery.āCouldnāt remember if we said the National Gallery or the National Portrait Gallery,ā Potter explained, bashfully gazing up at Draco. āBut youāre here so it looks like I guessed the right one. Shall we go in?ā
