#topdraco

“Mate, you alright?” Ron asked, a shine in his eye that told Harry he was several drinks deep. “You’ve been staring at Malfoy all night. Don’t think he’s up to something, do you?” 

Harry frowned, shook his head.

“No. Just…nothing,” Harry said, and Ron leaned toward him. 

“You haven’t got a Marauder’s Map for the Ministry, do you?” 

“What? No, why?” 

“Thought I might find you lying awake tonight watching Malfoy’s tiny footsteps like you used to do in sixth year.” 

“Shut up. It’s not like he lives there, anyway,” Harry said, elbowing him away. 

Harry searched for Malfoy again, glimpsing blond hair as he disappeared around the corner, and Harry got up from his seat, then turned back, grabbing Ron by the arm.

“Don’t ask why, but I need you to distract Nott for me.” 

“Gross! I don’t want to talk to him—” 

“I’ll buy your drinks next Friday. All of them. Please?” 

Ron’s eyebrows lifted, a glint in his eye as he stood up from his chair and wobbled a bit before he went toward Nott. Harry lingered at a nearby table for a long moment before he went to the bathroom. He pushed the door, his heart pounding, unsure of his intentions as he rounded the stall door and nudged it open. 

Malfoy was there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, head bowed. He looked up, timidly at first, but his expression shifted when he realised that it was Harry standing there. He straightened, arms hanging by his sides, mouth opening and shutting again. 

“Waiting for someone?” Harry asked, and he braced his forearm on the door as Malfoy tried to push it shut. 

“What is this?” Malfoy asked, his eyes going to the space behind Harry as if expecting someone to be there. “What do you want?” 

“I want to know why you’re hooking up with a prat like Theodore Nott. Have you no self-respect?”

“Self…?” Malfoy huffed, relenting his fight with the door as he stared at Harry in disbelief. “Even if that were true, it would be none of your business, would it?” 

Harry’s neck pricked, his heart skipping, eyes darting to the floor and back to Malfoy’s face as his alcohol-riddled brain tried to come up with an excuse. 

“The team is my business. It doesn’t do well for training if people start hooking up with each other.” 

“Oh? Well, I didn’t see you put up an argument about Weasley’s little bet regarding Finnegan and Thomas. Is your anti-sex clause only applicable to Slytherins?” 

“Well—that’s different. They were always that way—skirting around each other, even in school.” 

“So what? We’re all trainees. What difference does it make?” 

Harry swallowed, shrugged, glanced away again. 

“It doesn’t—I just—it doesn’t matter. They’re not doing anything and neither should you.” 

“Who said I was? Did you hear something? Did someone say something to you?” 

He had stepped closer, his shoulders set, eyes narrowed and Harry felt the urge to step back but didn’t—not wanting to allow space for Malfoy to exit the stall. 

“Nobody said anything,” Harry said quickly, and Malfoy looked back and forth between his eyes, stance not easing. 

“Then why would you think I was waiting to meet— someone in here?” 

Harry shrugged, leaned his other arm against the wall nearest, blocking Malfoy in.

“Well, I’m not blind. I…saw you come in here just after him last week.” 

“So? Can’t two people use the toilet at the same time? What are you, the piss police?” 

“As the Lead Auror in training, I don’t think it’s smart to sleep with your fellow trainees.” 

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself , if you’re so obsessed with all of it? Maybe it will keep your nose out of other people’s business,” Malfoy spat. “Can you move, or were you planning on climbing in here and seeing what all the fuss is about?” 

Harry let out a huff as Malfoy leaned back, folded his arms, rested his shoulder against the stall wall. 

“I didn’t think you and Nott were so close,” Malfoy said, lifting his chin, shaking his hair off his face. “That must be how you found out—he told you, didn’t he?” 

“What? No—I—I saw you follow him in.” 

“I don’t believe you. Why would you notice where I go? Why would anyone?” 

“I keep tabs on the whole group. It’s part of my job, isn’t it?” 

Malfoy’s mouth quirked, his eyes dropping to Harry’s shoulder, then his chest. Suddenly Harry’s collar felt too tight, chest heating uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“What I think is that you heard a rumour and came to see if it was true,” Malfoy’s eyes lingered on Harry’s belt for a long beat before he lifted his gaze again, shrugging. “I’m not as opposed as I once thought.” 

“Opposed? To what?” 

Malfoy didn’t answer, taking a step closer. 

“You’ve gotten better at duelling, you know?” Malfoy asked.

“I’m sorry…was that a compliment you just gave me? I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.” 

“Well, you’re still not that great. Just better than before.” 

Harry huffed, his heart leaping when he felt Malfoy’s fingers at his shoulder, sliding up to adjust his collar. 

“What is it you heard?” Malfoy asked, and Harry’s eyes found his mouth, unable to look away.

“Heard?” Harry whispered. 

“What did he tell you?” 

“Who?” 

“You came in here for a reason, didn’t you? What is it?” 

Harry opened his mouth, shook his head, licked his lips. 

“I…I don’t know. To see if you were waiting for him, I guess. Like he did last time.” 

“And then what?” Malfoy asked, his hand flattening on Harry’s shoulder, sliding down to his chest. 

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” Harry murmured.

“Your lack of forethoughts hasn’t changed, then.” 

“Wow,” Harry said as he approached, looking at Draco like he were wearing his nicest suit and not a simple sweater and jeans. “So this is you on a weekend, hm?” 

Draco looked down at himself to make sure he was wearing what he thought he was. Then, he looked at Harry—his t-shirt, strong arms, apron tied at his neck. 

“Yes,” Draco responded eventually, and for some reason, Harry laughed. 

“What’ll it be?” 

“I trust you,” Draco said, then flushed. “I mean—whatever—anything—” 

“Sure,” Harry said, his smile easy—calm. “On me, today.” 

“Please, let me,” Draco said, card already in hand. “Really, there’s no need. Don’t they take it from your paycheque?” 

Harry grinned, then tamed it, nodded a bit. 

“Alright. How about I buy you one and you buy me one?” 

Draco nodded, and Harry took out his wallet, reached to tap his own card to the reader, then rang up another drink, gesturing for Draco to do the same. He moved to the end of the table, wondering if Harry would drink his now or wait until his shift had ended. Two cups with his name were set in front of him, then someone beside him grabbed one of his cups, and Draco’s eyes trailed it as they lifted it to their mouth and drank. 

It was strange, the difference between three feet and a few inches. Draco had never noticed before. Now, he could see Harry’s eyelashes—the chain of a necklace under the collar of his t-shirt—smell his sweet cologne even through the richness of fresh-ground coffee. He was so real. 

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Draco asked, noticing the absence of his apron—or rather, the outline of his chest muscles that he could now see without it. 

“They can stand twenty minutes without me, surely. We’re not busy. Care to sit?” 

Draco looked toward the tables, then the bar near the window. 

“I’ve…never had time before.” 

Harry went to the bar, pulled out one of the stools and gestured to it. Draco realised he hadn’t followed and immediately stepped forward, then had to go back for his drink, smoothed a hand over his hair to hide his blush as he sat down. He squinted as he looked out the window, having never been here when it was so bright.

Draco saw their knees were an inch apart and didn’t dare move, holding his cup so firmly the sides bowed. 

“How do you like yours?” Harry asked, and Draco tore his eyes away from Harry’s leg as he sipped his drink. 

“Raspberry?”

“We can swap, if you don’t like it. I have toffee. You like that one.” 

Draco hummed, shook his head. 

“It’s alright. Might prefer the non-fruity flavours a bit more, though.” 

“Here,” Harry said, taking the lid off his. “I’ll take yours.” 

“I’ve already had some. It has my…germs and…things...” 

Harry smiled. 

Draco had never noticed quite how soft his palms were. As they pressed against his eyes, cool—moisturized—he wondered if Harry would notice, too. That is, if they did this.

“I can’t—” his voice came out choked, face burning hot, sweat on his forehead. “We can’t—” 

“There’s no other choice. A quarter of the sand has already gone to the bottom, and the runes say—” 

“I know what they say! I read them!” Draco shouted. “I knew I shouldn’t have come down here with you! Knew you’d get us in trouble when there’s only one bloody week left in auror training and I’ve been so—” 

The fight left him, and he leaned back against the wall, both hands pressed across his mouth, eyes shut. He heard Harry pacing somewhere in the room but couldn't look at him. 

“It doesn’t have to be…” Harry tried, but Draco shook his head, and he trailed off. “Fine.” 

Draco opened his eyes, saw Harry seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands interlaced. 

“Who knew I’d survive Voldemort only to die because some dickhead was too proud to shag me.”

“This isn’t about pride, it’s about—!” Harry looked at him with his eyebrows raised, expectant. Draco turned away. “I’ve…never done it before, alright?” 

“Well, if you don’t do it now, you never will. No time like the present.” 

Draco stared at the wall beside him—the cool stone—pressed his hand to it. 

“I don’t want my first time to be with someone who hates me,” he said, quieter than he’d intended, his face unbearably hot. 

“And if I didn’t?” Harry asked, and Draco looked at him. “Hate you?” 

“You’re just saying that because you want to live.” 

Harry scoffed—hung his head. 

“Whatever,” he murmured, laying on his side facing away. “You don’t even have to look at me. Just…put it in.” 

Draco’s body flamed at the image, nails scraping the wall behind him, picturing it before he could stop himself. He stared at Harry’s slowly rising shoulders in silence, his hammering heart louder than the stream of falling sand. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tilted his head back, trying to calm his breathing without Harry hearing. 

“I could blow you. Make it easier…” Harry continued. 

Draco felt blood rushing between his legs, his mind out of control, gritting his teeth as he remembered Occlumency, tried to use it to save himself. 

“All you’d have to do is stand there. I’m perfectly capable of fucking myself, as I so adequately demonstrated by trapping us—” 

“Shut up!” Draco snapped, sweat on his top lip and brow, cheeks painfully hot. 

Harry looked over his shoulder, glasses askew, green eyes sweeping him up and down before he pushed himself upright, one foot coming to the floor. They stared at each other as Draco’s pulse beat all over his body—sure that Harry could see it pounding at his throat—knowing just the shade of blotchy red his face was colouring. He’d seen it before as he watched himself come to the thought of Harry—the colour of shame. He wore it now. 

“You…like that idea, don’t you?” Harry asked, his eyes dropping, and Draco didn’t need to look down to know what he could see. The tightness in his trousers was telling enough. “Do you think we need to do it on the bed, or can I…?” 

His other foot came down and Draco’s shoulders raised, crowding himself into the corner, wishing he could sink through the wall.

“No!” he shouted, but his voice was thin, tears wetting the corners of his eyes. 

Lone figure in front of wall-length windows, Draco Malfoy turned when Harry entered his office. Grey eyes searched the air near his head—to the left, to the right, above—yet not directly at his face. 

“Hermione?” Malfoy asked, lowering his gaze, examining the paperwork in his hands. 

“Harry,” he corrected. 

Malfoy looked at him, mouth flat, eyebrow raised. He turned his shoulders and stepped in Harry’s direction, setting the paperwork on his desk, folding an arm behind his back. 

“Over the years, Hermione has grown like a benign tumour in my brain that I’ve come to count on. If removed, the displacement of brain tissue could lead to herniation—in which case, I might die,” Malfoy said calmly, continuing his slow pace forward. “However, if the object to replace the Hermione-sized tumour is an adequate size, I might avoid a midline shift, but only under the circumstance that its substitute is a perfect fit. Based on the colour or your trousers, the horrendous sight of your hair, and the tea stain on your collar that you would have noticed straight away had you managed to look in the mirror before you left the cave that you call a house—I’m inclined to believe that I need to brace myself for death at the very obvious lack of Hermione Granger at your side.” 

Malfoy had come so close that Harry felt the urge to crane his neck back in order to look up at him properly, but instead kept his back straight, his gaze on Malfoy’s shoulder. 

“I’ll ask again,” Malfoy said, placing both hands behind his back. “Hermione?” 

Harry cleared his throat, took a bracing breath. 

“She’s in hospital,” Harry said. “Went into early labour last night—she’ll be on maternity leave for the next few months.” 

“How early? Not pre-term?” Malfoy asked, and Harry glanced up, seeing a crease between his brows. 

“No, just a week,” Harry said, and Malfoy raised his fingers to his chin, turning away, his other hand curled behind his back as he paced toward his window again. 

“It’s unavoidable, then,” Malfoy murmured. “I did wonder why she was dragging around that strange boy last week, but thought it was some kind of work experience…” 

“Er, that was me,” Harry said, and Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. 

“When did you say she’d be back? Next week?” 

“January. She told you all of this when she introduced me last Monday.” 

“How am I to listen to everything she says?” Malfoy muttered. 

“She also wrote it in a memo. It’s there, on your desk,” Harry said, pointing to it with his pen. 

Malfoy waved his hand again, sighing. 

“Well, this is supremely inconvenient,” Malfoy murmured. “Your trousers are awful. What is that, vomit colour?” 

Harry looked down, stuck out a leg. 

“The tag said khaki.” 

“They’re terrible. Go find something from Stefano Ricci—even Tom Ford would do. Just don’t let me see those dreadful things again.” 

“Er…would TK Maxx be alright? I’ll get something black.” 

Malfoy’s shoulders raised, and he turned, his mouth pinched. 

“TK Maxx?” He asked, voice raising. “Don’t you dare try to use your company card at such a revolting place as that. Surely, the plastic would melt on contact with the card reader.” 

“Company card? I haven’t got one.” 

Malfoy groaned loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Must I do everything around here?” he asked, going toward his desk, searching through a drawer and pulling out an envelope. 

He turned it and Harry saw his name on the front as Malfoy slipped a finger underneath the seal flap and pulled out two credit cards and a sheet of paper. 

“Ah, my little brain tumour,” Malfoy sighed, the corner of his mouth lifting, and then flattening when his eyes caught on Harry’s trousers again. “Go. Now. I can’t stand to look at you.” 

He held out the envelope and Harry went forward to take it, tucking it in his pocket. 

“You have three meetings this morning and then lunch—it’s all on your schedule,” Harry said, reading his notes quickly. 

“Yes, yes, I know—get out. Buy at least three trousers, five shirts, two belts, two pairs of shoes, and two suits for functions. Navy and black only, no grey. It will wash you out. Monochrome shirts only. And ties—don’t forget ties. Nothing plaid, plaid makes me nauseous. No houndstooth, either—if I even glimpse houndstooth from the corner of my eye, I get an instant migraine and am miserable for days.” 

Harry scribbled it all down as quickly as he could, struggling to spell ‘houndstooth’, and wondered what it even was. 

“Right now?” Harry asked.

“And those glasses? Are you certain about those? Get a watch, too—something classic like Rolex or Cartier.”

“I’ve already got a watch,” Harry said, and Malfoy tutted, his eyes full of pity as he considered the watch fastened to Harry’s wrist. 

“A cheap watch cheapens the whole outfit, and if you look cheap, then I will, too.”

“Do I have—er—a price limit? This will cost…hundreds of thousands, I can’t even imagine.” 

Malfoy put his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing, and Harry took a step back. 

“You’ve already insulted me just with your clothes and your face. Now you want to do it with your words, too?” 

“I—” 

“Go! I can feel the purchase value of my stocks dropping the longer you stand here in those absurd trousers.” 

Harry set down the printed version of Malfoy’s schedule and left, pausing as he shut the door to take out the envelope Hermione had left for him in Malfoy’s desk. He found the two credit cards with his name on them, as well as a document with instructions on how to submit his receipts for approval to the finance department.