#wywdm

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing, explicit sexual content

suggested rating: Adult for sexual content

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 47 ||

-

Chapter Twenty One

They woke late in the afternoon and eventually managed to find a brunch place that was still open. Draco ordered two plates of waffles, one with lemon blueberry meringue and another with strawberry rhubarb compote. Potter went in for a more savoury eggs benedict option. Draco made sure they shared because he liked to try everything, and Potter needed more sweetness in his life.

Draco had made plans for the day, rather ambitious ones, but with the morning gone and most of the afternoon as well, he frankly couldn’t be bothered.

Potter had no better ideas, so they laid about on the couch and watched the television. Draco liked to chat about whatever was happening on screen, and Potter liked to complain about his chatting, which only encouraged him. They ordered takeout when it got late and ate butter chicken and tikka straight from the containers as the late-night chat shows came on. And at some point, curled up against Potter’s shoulder, Draco fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun had just started its rise. His whole body felt heavy, his mind swamp-thick with a night of sleep so deep he felt half-submerged in treacle trying to draw himself out of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so hard without potions or alcohol to drag him under. And this sleep didn’t feel like shit to wake up from, just pleasantly heavy.

There was a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, and he felt the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest under him. Draco had tucked his legs up onto the remaining couch cushion, leaning against Potter’s chest to sleep. Potter had remained sitting upright, slumped into the corner of the couch. Draco had to assume Potter hadn’t meant to sleep there; he was still wearing his glasses and had left the television on, the volume so low it was barely audible.

An urgent complaint from his bladder, and quite likely the reason he had woken up so early, finally forced Draco to move. He carefully eased his weight off the sofa and went to the loo as quietly as he could manage. After relieving himself, washing his hands and face, and rinsing the taste of last night’s dinner from his mouth, he tiptoed back to the couch. He was plotting how best to slip back onto the couch without waking Potter when a soft tapping made him turn to the window.

An owl was sitting on the empty planter box outside. Draco guessed it was a Ministry issue from the dull scruffy brown feathers, half of which looked ready to fall out. He went to the window, half-expecting it to be stuck shut from years of paint, but managed to wiggle it halfway open without too much noise.

Draco reached for the message tied onto the owl’s leg. The owl pecked at him, flapping its wings in warning.

So the message wasn’t for him then, not that Draco had suspected it would be. He glanced over his shoulder and, seeing that Potter was still asleep, snatched at the bird again. He managed to catch hold of its leg, grimly holding on as the horrible animal tried to peck him to death. He pulled the small scroll of paper free and snatched his hands back. The owl glared at him, its beak snapping after the message and Draco’s fingers. Draco shoved it off the window box and shut the window before it could fly back up.

Draco’s hands stun, already blooming with red welts and a few small cuts from the mail owl’s beak. He glanced at Potter again, making sure he was still sleeping before opening the message.

It was from Robards, saying that if Potter was feeling ‘up to it’ he should come in early for something ‘urgent’. Draco scowled; he highly doubted it was anything close to ‘urgent’.

Draco shoved the message between the couch cushions as he sat back where he had been before, pulling the blanket over himself and Potter as he laid back against Potter’s chest.

Potter twitched at the movement and took a deep breath in. He yawned and went to rub his eyes but ran into his glasses, leaving smudges on the lenses.

“Sleep well?” Draco asked.

Potter grunted irritably as he pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes.

“So articulate.”

Potter grunted again, though this time it sounded a bit more like a laugh. He stretched his arms over his head, his chest rising as he flexed his back and shoulders. He tried to turn his head and winced, muttering a heartfelt “fuck,” as he rubbed his neck.

Draco, most unhelpful, didn’t move.

The couch cushion sank as Potter shifted his weight, pushing himself upright and dumped Draco off of his chest and onto his lap.

“You could have warned me!” Draco gasped, his heart beating a little too fast at the unexpected movement.

“You’re fine; it didn’t kill you,” Potter said with a rueful smile, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the hem of his t-shirt.

“It might have,” Draco said stubbornly, “You don’t know. I might have a weak heart, and you just callously risked my life,” he pressed his hand over his chest.

Potter slid his glasses back on and put his hand over Draco’s, “Hmm… I think you might make it, really.”

“You can’t feel my heartbeat that way,” Draco said, annoyed. “If you could, you’d know I’m probably dying as we speak.”

“Is that so?” Potter said flatly. He took his hand off Draco’s and placed it lightly against Draco’s neck, “Ah, what a shame.”

“A great loss,” Draco said.

“Do you want to be buried or cremated?” Potter asked.

“Cremated,” Draco said, “I want my ashes thrown into the eyes of my enemies.”

Potter grinned and laughed, “Of course, you’d want that!”

“The list is quite long, I’ll have you know,” Draco said.

“With me included?” Potter guessed.

Draco pondered for a moment, “Maybe not anymore.”

Potter smiled, “I’m honoured.”

“Perhaps you ought to have one of my knuckle bones, though,” Draco said, “You can carry it around as a worry stone.”

Potter raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re not allowed to forget me,” Draco said.

Potter blinked, “...I wouldn’t.” He smiled a little uncertainly, “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

“Flatterer,” Draco said.

Potter hesitated and then pointed over his shoulder, “I’ve gotta piss.”

Draco sighed dramatically and sat up, “Excellent way to ruin the moment, Potter.”

“What can I say?” Potter said as he got up and headed to the loo, “I have a talent.”

Draco stared after Potter for a second, then reached between the couch cushions and pulled the message out. He read it over again with a scowl. Despite desperately wanting to set it on fire and pretend it had never existed, he knew Potter would never forgive him if he found out, and that was… unacceptable.

So Draco went back to the window, wiggling it open and resting his forearm on the sill. The air outside still had its evening chill, and he shivered faintly. He pulled his arms tighter to himself and took a deep breath, the air smelling sweet with morning dew.

It was an age before Potter finally came back, his cheeks smoothly shaved and his teeth brushed. He headed straight from the bathroom to his bedroom.

“Owl came,” Draco said quickly, holding up the message.

“For me?” Potter asked.

Draco nodded.

“It shouldn’t have delivered to you,” Potter said, with a frown, walking over to take the message.

“It didn’t particularly want to,” Draco said, holding up his hand to show off the scratches the owl had left him with.

“Did you read it?” Potter asked as he took the small scroll of paper and unrolled it.

Draco gave him a look.

“Of course, you read it,” Potter said, resigned.

“Of course.” Draco shrugged, “It’s not as if it was interesting.”

Potter let the scroll roll back up and dropped it onto the coffee table, vanishing it with a flick of his wrist.

“Flirt,” Draco said.

Potter shook his head as he fished his wand out of his back pocket and took Draco’s hand in his, “Episky.” The red welts faded, and the scratches healed.

“Thank you,” Draco said far more softly, unable to maintain his normal cheekiness.

“Maybe not get into any more fights with owls?” Potter suggested.

“I won,” Draco said.

Potter rolled his eyes and headed toward the bedroom. Draco followed him, clinging to some slim hope he might be going back to bed, but Potter went to his dresser, pulling out fresh clothes.

“You’re not actually going, are you?” Draco asked.

“They said it was urgent,” Potter said, stripping out of the things he had been wearing yesterday and replacing them one by one with clean but remarkably similar pieces.

“If it was actually urgent, they wouldn’t have sent an owl,” Draco pointed out, “You can sleep through an owl.”

Potter shook his head, “Never have.”

Draco frowned, “It’s the crack of dawn, hours before your stupid alarm would have gone off.”

“Must be urgent then,” Potter said.

Draco’s frown deepened, and he decided to shift tactics, “I suppose they just can’t manage without you. Just you.”

“It’s work,” Potter said stiffly.

“And you’re the only one in the department then?” Draco asked, “Weasley is a cop, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, so-”

“How often is he brought in at the crack of dawn, then?” Draco asked.

“Often.”

“And I’m sure Weasley never takes holidays. Or personal days-”

“Malfoy-”

“-But if he did, they’d be sure to call him in regardless. Just like they do to you?” Draco prodded, wanting to be right, sure that he was right.

Potter froze for just a second, then quickly jerked open the closet and grabbed one of his Auror robes, “There’s no special treatment; every auror does the same work.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, “I think other people have to be envious for it to be considered ‘special treatment’. This seems more like a punishment to me.”

“You would say that,” Potter said, probably not even realising what he said had stung like a slap to the face.

Draco’s hands fell down loosely to his sides.

“I was called into work by my boss. It’s my job. What am I supposed to do?” Potter said, charming the buttons of his uniform closed.

“Say no?” Draco said.

“I can’t-”

“You can,” Draco said pointedly, “You’re Harry Potter; they can’t-”

“I don’t want that!” Potter snapped, grabbing a pair of well-worn dragon-hide boots, “I’m not going to use my name to- to just get what I want!”

“Well, they’re using your name to take advantage of you, so you-”

“No! Just stop- can you just stop, already!?” Potter shouted.

And Draco did, already edging away from Potter, far too aware of the wand he still held in his hand. He knew Potter wasn’t like the death eaters that had stayed in his house, like Voldemort, but his feet wouldn’t listen to him.

Potter didn’t notice, shoving his feet into his boots and impatiently charming the laces tied. “I’m going to work,” he said as he straightened up. A moment later he apparated away with a sharp snap, the photos taped to the wall fluttering at the sudden pull of air.

It took several moments for Draco to be able to move again, anxiety roiling in his stomach. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. He wished he hadn’t said any of it. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed.

“Coward,” he muttered, hearing his father’s voice more than his own.

-

💜 Thank you for reading! 💜💜

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing, explicit sexual content

suggested rating: Adult for sexual content

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 46 ||

-

Draco groaned as his sleep was rudely interrupted by the horrid beeping of Potter’s alarm. He pulled his pillow over his head. When Potter didn’t move to turn off the alarm, he kicked at him under the blankets.

Potter twitched and grabbed at the noisy little box, knocking most of the things on his nightstand onto the floor. The beeping followed the mess, becoming faintly muffled. Draco popped his head  over his pillow, watching as Potter leaned over the bed, fumbling around for ages before finally heaving himself back onto the bed. He had put on his glasses while he was down there and was holding his wand in his teeth. He lifted the alarm by its cord and impatiently jerked the plug from the wall.

“Why, the fuck-” Draco said in the sudden silence.

Potter pulled his wand out of his mouth, “Still gotta call in sick.”

Draco gave him a look of utter dismay.

Potter just ignored him. He lifted his wand, closing his eyes for just a moment, a smile faintly ticking at the corner of his mouth before swirling his wand, silently casting a silvery Patronus charm. Draco had always heard that Potter’s patronus was a stag and had even seen it from a distance, but none of that had prepared Draco for how large it was. The spread of its antlers was as wide as the bed, and it had to lower its head to bring its muzzle close to Potter’s face.

Draco unconsciously leaned away, pulling the duvet up to his chin.

“Tell Gawain Robards that I’m sick and can’t come into work,” Potter told it.

The stag dipped its head in acknowledgement and disappeared into a stream of light leading out of the flat.

Draco smacked Potter’s arm, “You could have done that later, after a nice proper lie-in.”

Potter shook his head, dropping his wand back onto the now empty nightstand and collapsing into his pillow.

“No?” Draco prompted.

“Ron or Hermione would come around to check on me,” Potter said.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not them,” Potter said quickly before Draco could speak. “It’s because I never do that sort of thing.”

“Even when you did call in to take time off, they got fussy about you,” Draco pointed out.

“Well, that’s...” Potter sighed, “there isn’t much I can do about that. I did talk to them about it, but it’s like… they’re kind of over-protective after the war and everything.” He was quiet for a long moment before adding, “I probably am too.”

Draco rolled over to lay on Potter’s chest. He smiled when he felt the faint hitch in Potter’s breathing. “Just so you know, I’m not interested in any foursomes,” he said faux seriously.

“Melin, no!” Potter sputtered

“Are you saying you’ve never thought about it?” Draco asked.

Potter shook his head, his chest vibrating with silent laughter.

“Not even once?” Draco teased.

“shut up- shut up!” Potter laughed, putting his hand up to cover Draco’s mouth.

Draco let him, and then gently bit his finger, just managing to follow it up with the tip of his tongue before Potter pulled away.

“You’re the worst,” Potter said.

“I’m flattered you think so,” Draco said, dropping his head onto Potter’s chest.

He let his hand skim across Potter’s chest and the dark hair growing there, up to trance along the line of his collarbone. Draco could hear Potter’s heartbeat and how it sped up as he touched him.

“Malfoy...” Potter warned.

“I’m not going to fuck you, Potter,” Draco said in a singsong tone. “I’m just touching.”

Potter made a noise in the back of his throat somewhere between acknowledgement and annoyance.

“I like to touch,” Draco said, he kept his tone joking, but it was, if anything, a warning. Draco itched to touch every inch of Potter. Not even sexually, though that too, but just to… feel it all.

“Mother always said it wasn’t proper. That wizards of our standing should always remain reserved and in control at all times.” Draco said.

He cracked a wry smile as he cupped the side of Potter’s neck, tracing his thumb down the tendons that shifted as Potter swallowed. “Of course, I would be a disappointment in that as well.”

“You are just about the least reserved person I’ve ever met,” Potter said.

“Exactly,” Draco said.

“It’s better that way, though, isn’t it?” Potter said.

Draco glanced up at him.

“That you’re just you?” Potter said.

“Well, I have to agree because I am, me,” Draco said. “It’s just unfortunate that I was nothing my parents expected of me. Except for my looks.”

Potter frowned, “I don’t… you didn’t kill anyone-”

“Just barely,” Draco said, “Though I’ll agree that I never tried to kill anyone. Except Dumbledore.”

Potter sighed at him. “I just meant that you being their child should have been enough.”

“Baring any murder,” Draco said.

“Shut up, for merlin’s sake,” Potter said, exasperated.

“Mind you, my Father would have preferred slightly more murdering,” Draco said lightly.

Potter sighed louder at him and sat up, dumping Draco off him.

“Hey!” Draco protested.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Potter said, getting out of bed.

“More like have a wank,” Draco said sourly.

Potter ignored him, heading out the door.

Draco rolled his eyes and pulled the duvet back up, preferring to try and go back to sleep.

He had barely managed a light doze when Potter returned, banging around as he pulled open his dresser and took out various clothes.

Draco sat up, “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” Potter said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m up?” Potter said.

“Exactly,” Draco said sourly, “Why are you up? We ought to be sleeping.”

“Yeah, well,” Potter said as if that were an answer, pulling on a worn pair of jeans.

Draco decided to switch tactics, “Did you enjoy your wank?”

Potter didn’t answer.

“It’s more fun with company, you know,” Draco said.

“Have a lot of experience with that sort of thing?” Potter said, his words faintly bitter.

“And he’s calling me a slut again,” Draco joked.

“I am not,” Potter said.

Draco knelt on top of the covers, “None.”

Potter glanced at him with a frown, “None what?”

“I have no experience when it comes to wanking with company,” Draco said. He pushed the waistband of his pants down, his cock half-hard from thinking about what he was doing. “So I suppose I ought to have a little experiment to find out.”

Potter stared at him, frozen in place, “...to find out what…?”

“If it really is more-” he gripped his cock and let out a heavy breath, “-fun with company.”

Draco shivered faintly, cool air licking across his previously warm legs, his cock growing hard as Potter watched him with hungry eyes.

Potter took a step closer.

“Ah, ah, wanking only,” Draco warned gently.

Potter’s hands clenched unconsciously as he stopped only a few steps away from the bed.

A faint smile curled onto Draco’s lips as he stroked himself. Draco forced himself to keep his movements slow, teasing his cock as much as Potter. He had to close his eyes for just a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation.

When he opened them again, Potter’s stare had darkened with his desire.

Potter made an almost inaudible sound, “I can’t see properly.”

Draco huffed a laugh and grinned as he slid his hand up his stomach, pushing the hem of the shirt up.

Potter’s breathing jumped, and Draco began to move faster, squeezing himself tighter. Then he let go of the t-shirt, the edge falling on the top of his clenched fist, and Potter practically growled in frustration.

Draco laughed even as he reached further up, pulling the collar of the shirt up over his nose and breathing in Potter’s scent.

“fuck-” Potter said, his voice sounding strangled.

Draco bit the edge of the fabric as it fell from his nose to keep it pulled up, letting his free hand drop to his stomach, sliding over his skin. He closed his eyes, imagining it was Potter’s rough hand running over his hip and down his thigh.

Draco moaned faintly, sweat slipping down the small of his back as his muscles tightened, his hand moving over his cock growing more erratic. He opened his eyes. Potter’s name caught between his teeth as he came, muffled into nothing by the fabric in his mouth. Pleasure shot through him like a cascade, the warmth of his release covering his stomach and Potter’s shirt as he let it drop.

Draco sat back on the bed, breathing heavily, shaking faintly from the strange intensity of it all.

“Malfoy-” Potter’s voice was rough, nearly strangled with desire, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans.

“Touch yourself,” Draco said.

Potter’s eyes widened, still somehow surprised, uncertain but wanting as well.

“I want to see you touch yourself,” Draco said. He crawled to the edge of the bed and held his hands out.

Potter moved closer, and Draco hooked his fingers into Potter’s belt loops, holding Potter right in front of him.

“Show me,” Draco said.

“Malfoy...” Potter said, far too uncertain.

Draco rose up on his knees and kissed Potter.

“Show me,” he said again, almost in a whisper.

Potter’s hands brushed over Draco’s as he unbuttoned his jeans.

Draco sat back on his heels and tugged the faded blue denim down. Potter’s cock strained against the thin fabric of his pants. Potter’s hand shook ever so slightly as he pushed his pants down.

Precome began to bead at the tip of Potter’s cock, and Draco had to resist the urge to lick the head of Potter’s cock, put it in his mouth, and swallow him down. He forced himself to lean back, to slide his hands down Potter’s thighs, and simply look up at him.

Potter groaned, his jaw clenching like he was fighting not to come right then and there.

“Merling, fuck, I-” Potter broke off, finally wrapping his hand around his cock. His fingers tightened around the shaft but didn’t move. He reached out with his other hand, cupping Draco’s jaw, and Draco tilted his head up at his touch. Potter’s thumb slid over his lips, lightly tracing the shape. Draco let them fall open, his tongue darting out to lick the pad of Potter’s thumb and eliciting a groan from Potter.

The bed creaked as Draco rose up on his knees, so close to Potter that he could feel his body heat and slid his hands up Potter’s chest.

“I can’t-” Potter shuddered, “I’m going to-”

Draco licked his lips, feeling desperately pleased as he kissed Potter, as light and chaste as Potter’s touch had been before. “-then come,” he said softly.

Potter let out a shuddering breath and began to stroke himself, almost clumsily, his grip tight and rushed. Draco felt Potter’s forehead touch his, the top of his glasses pressing into Draco’s skin. Potter’s eyes fluttered shut, a shudder running through his whole body as he came.

Draco’s stomach jumped as he felt Potter’s warm come on his skin, mixing with his own. Draco loosely curled his arms around Potter’s shoulders, sliding his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Potter's neck as his breathing slowed.

Potter’s eyes searched Draco’s face, and he wondered what Potter was looking for. He very much doubted Potter would find it with him.

Before his thoughts could hurt him more, he said, “Seems like very successful experiment, wouldn’t you say?”

Potter huffed a laughed, “You’re the worst.”

“Flatterer,” Draco said. He cupped Potter’s face in his hands and kissed him. “Now, I need a shower.”

Potter glanced down, his brow furrowing for a second as he realised, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t-”

Draco snickered at him, “That’s just what being with blokes is like, a bloody mess.” He kissed Potter again before slipping off the bed. “It’s fantastic, by the way.”

He grabbed his wand from underneath his pillow and headed to the loo. He gave the poor t-shirt a quick cleaning charm to get the worst off before taking a quick shower. He changed into fresh pants and a t-shirt from the pile next to his bed and had jeans in hand when he realised Potter wasn’t out and about in the flat.

Draco returned to the bedroom and found Potter lying on the bed on his side.

“What-?” Draco started.

“I give up,” Potter said. He took off his glasses, folding the arms and setting them above his pillow. He held out an arm, “Let’s have a bloody line-in, then.”

Draco grinned and climbed back into bed, curling into Potter’s chest.

Potter wrapped his arm around Draco and sighed into his hair, “I just don’t know what to do with you.”

“That’s fine,” Draco said, “Neither do I.”

Potter pressed his face into Draco’s hair and held him even tighter.

-

💜 Thank you for reading! 💜💜 this will probably be the smuttiest story I’ve ever written so I can only hope my smut writing has improved🤣 💜

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 45 ||

-

The flat was dark when he arrived. And Draco almost apparated right back out before spotting a light coming from Potter’s bedroom. He pushed open Potter’s door and stepped inside.

Potter looked up from where he had been sitting on the edge of his bed, still wearing his work clothes.

“You’re here,” Draco said.

“It’s late; I was going to bed,” Potter said stupidly.

“Yes, well, it’s rather hit or miss with you, isn’t it?” Draco said.

“If we’re keeping count, you’re later than me half the time,” Potter said.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Yes, but...”

“But, what?” Potter prompted.

Draco hesitated, unwilling to admit how much he hated that night that Potter had left for some emergency work thing, how dark and empty he had felt and how much he completely and utterly despised feeling that way. He forced a scoff, “As if I’m just going to wait around in your dingy little flat.”

Potter looked unconvinced, so Draco added, “I have better things to do.”

“Right, well...” Potter looked down at his hands and seemed to come to a decision. “I’m taking tomorrow off.”

Draco grinned, crossing the room to Potter’s side, “I knew it. I knew whatever work you had today would be bullshit.”

Potter huffed a laugh.

Draco straddled Potter's lap, wiggling close as his knees sank into the soft layer of blankets.

Potter’s hands caught Draco by the hips, to keep them from tipping over, “What’s this?”

“A celebration, obviously,” Draco said.

“Yours or mine?” Potter asked.

“Both,” Draco said as he combed his fingers through Potter’s hair.

Potter unconsciously leaned his head into Draco’s touch, and the small movement made Draco feel like he couldn’t breathe.

“I suppose I’m supposed to be celebrating having a day off,” Potter said, “So what are you celebrating?”

“Being right,” Draco said.

Potter laughed.

“And getting to have you for a whole day,” Draco said.

Potter’s expression softened, and he tilted his head up to kiss Draco.

Draco leaned into Potter, giving Potter’s hair a gentle tug as he kissed him, eliciting a soft hum of pleasure.

Then Potter frowned, “You taste like cigarettes.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “I taste like a cigarette.” He leaned forward, hoping for another kiss, but Potter just tipped his head away.

“Nope,” Potter said.

Draco affected a pout.

“I’m not kissing an ashtray,” Potter said.

“I didn’t eat it,” Draco said.

“Go brush your teeth. It’s late and I’m tired,” Potter said.

Draco huffed a sigh, “Fine, keep your pants on.”

Draco went to the bathroom, quickly brushing his teeth and washing his face before returning to Potter’s bedroom. The lights were already off. Draco cast a floating lumos that hovered near the ceiling, bathing the room in a pale blue light.

“What-?” Potter said, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table and fumbling them on.

“I will be staying here tonight,” Draco said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t-”

“I told you to keep your pants on, didn’t I?” Draco said, ignoring him, “I meant literally. Not that I mind if you’re naked, but you probably do.”

“I am not, it’s just- it’s...

He went over to Potter’s laundry basket. Keeping his back to Potter, Draco took off his clingy tight black shirt and pulled on a t-shirt from the bottom of the basket. It was far too large for Draco, or Potter for that matter, the hem going down to his thighs. Draco pushed off his jeans and kicked them into the laundry basket.

“...different,” Potter’s voice faded to a whisper.

Draco pulled the collar of the shirt up over his nose, breathing in the smell of Potter.

Potter was staring at him with a slightly strangled expression that made Draco feel very pleased with himself.

Draco walked over to the other side of the bed.

“W-wait-” Potter held up a hand, “wait.”

“What? I left my briefs on,” Draco lifted the edge of the t-shirt to show him.

Potter looked away, flushed and annoyed, as he scrubbed his hand through his hair, “...you’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

“I doubt I’d be so lucky,” Draco said pleasantly. He pulled back the edge of the covers and went to sit.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, a warning edge to his voice. “You- you know  I’ve never been with a bloke before, right?”

Draco sighed at him, “I never said we were going to fuck. I do other things.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Potter said.

Draco sat on the bed and put his legs under the blankets. He wasn’t going to sleep alone; he wasn’t sure he could survive it. “So don’t touch me.”

“That’s also not what I meant,” Potter sighed.

Draco laid back on the mattress, filled with the sudden regret that he hadn’t brought his- Potter’s- other pillow with him.

Potter tucked the blanket tighter around his waist before grabbing his wand off the side table, “Accio pillow.”

There was a pof sound as something soft hit the door, the momentum slowly easing the door open until the pillow could fly through and into Potter’s hand.

“Here,” Potter dropped the pillow onto Draco’s face.

Draco laughed, too pleased to complain, pulling the pillow down and hugging it to his chest.

Potter huffed almost fondly at Draco, even as he tried to hide it.

“What did you mean then?” Draco said.

“What did I- Oh, you mean earlier?” Potter said.

“Yes, obviously,” Draco said.

“It’s just, when I was with-” Potter stopped.

“The Girl Weasley,” Draco finished for him.

“Her name is Ginny,” Potter said.

“I know,” Draco said. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to say it. “You were with her for years or something.”

Potter nodded slowly.

“Was it just her?” Draco asked, and wondered why stupid things were always coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Potter said.

Draco took a deep breath and let it all out at once. He knew he had no right to be jealous, not of her. She was made for Potter, his perfect partner. “Go on then; what about her?”

“We were friends first, and she was Ron’s sister before even that,” Potter said slowly, carefully picking out his words. “It was easy in a way. I didn’t know that then, not till now, anyway.”

Draco snorted, “As if I would ever make anything in your life easier, Potter.”

Potter rolled his eyes.

Draco stayed quiet, wondering what Potter would say next, even though he knew it would hurt him.

Potter continued, “But we were... fucked up by the war. Everything happened so fast. We were scared and hurt and trying to heal by clinging to one another,” He spread his hands in his lap, looking at them in the pale blue light. “...It was a mess.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad; you stayed together,” Draco said dryly.

Potter huffed, “Yeah, but only because Gin went back to Hogwarts for her last year. And by the time she was back, I was busy with the aurors. I thought about taking time off, but Gin was scouted by the Harpies, so she was as busy as I was, doing all the training camps and whatnot. We were more roommates that fucked than lovers, especially at the end. It wasn’t all that surprising when she told me she was moving out.”

“A bit anti-climatic,” Draco said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was,” Potter sighed, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be going on about an ex. It’s probably last thing you want to hear. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Draco had to roll his eyes, “It must have meant something; otherwise, why bring it up?”

Potter paused, and Draco could practically see him replaying the conversation and trying to remember his own point. Draco laughed and earned a distracted swat at his shoulder from Potter.

“…I just don’t want to rush things this time,” Potter said.

Draco pressed his face into the pillow. Of course, Potter was taking things seriously again. It was almost more than Draco could stand.

“...Malfoy?” Potter asked.

Draco sighed and forced himself to relax, to let go of the pillow and answer honestly. More or less. “I had been thinking of a snog mostly.”

“What?” Potter asked.

“Before,” Draco said,  “I just wanted to snog your brains out.”

Potter looked meaningfully at Draco lying in his bed.

“What? I didn’t want to sleep alone. Do you have a problem with that?” Draco snapped.

Potter blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes, you fucking dunce,” Draco said.

“Oh,” Potter said.

“God, you think me quite the slut don’t you?” Draco said bitterly.

“No-” Potter started.

“Don’t lie,” Draco said. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I lie all the time,” Potter said.

“I don’t doubt that,” Draco said, “but don’t do it to me. You’ve never minced words with me before, don’t fucking start now.”

Potter hesitated, “… I don’t think you’re a slut, you- you just seemed to have a lot of partners… before.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t have anyone to cling to after the war. I made do.”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Potter said.

“Blech,” Draco said, exaggerating his expression to be as disgusted as possible. “Fuck off with that.”

“But-”

“If you feel sorry for me, for even a second, I’m leaving,” Draco said.

Potter shook his head, “You make everything difficult.”

“The pot says to the kettle,” Draco said.

Potter sighed and raised his wand again, pointing it at the dresser,  “Accio pants.”

The dresser drawer rattled ominously, wiggling open to allow pants, after pants, after pants through, flying through the air and smacking into Potter’s hand and arm and face, falling into a pile on his lap.

“Don’t-”

“HAHAHAHhhahahhahah-!” Draco could hardly breathe, squeezing the pillow to his stomach for support.

“Oh, shut it,” Potter muttered, pulling a pair of boxer briefs off of his head.

He slipped off the bed, his back to Draco. This succeeded in shutting Draco up as he propped himself on his elbows to get a better view. Potter only gave him a few seconds, quickly pulling on the boxer briefs and getting back into bed, taking off his glasses and setting them on the bedside table.

Draco sighed, “You have a lovely bum.”

“Shut up,” Potter said tightly. He looked embarrassed.

Draco smiled, “It has dimples.”

Potter rolled towards him in the bed, “Malfoy-”

“I like dimples,” Draco said.

“Malfoy, go to sleep,” Potter said.

Draco cupped Potter’s face to feel the heat of Potter’s blush on his palms and kissed him. “Fine. Just so long as you know, I quite like your dimples.”

“I was here the whole time,” Potter said. Harry tugged Draco’s hands off his face, holding them loosely as he relaxed into the pillow. “Dispel the lumos?”

“No,” Draco said, wanting to look at Potter’s face as long as possible. “I can’t be bothered. It will fade out soon.”

“Fine,” Potter conceded.

“I don’t know what your rush is, anyway,” Draco said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he watched Potter's eyelashes dip closed. “You have tomorrow off.”

Potter sighed into the pillow, pulling the duvet up to his cheek, “ ‘M tired, you.”

Draco wanted to tease him with a, you what?, but he held his tongue. Watching Potter fall asleep was far better.

-

💜 Next update will be sometime, eventually 😅 I can’t wait for summer, at least that when things should calm down for me 💜 and thank you for still reading! it means the world to me💜  

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 44 || Part 46 ->

-

Chapter Twenty

Potter went to work the next day. Which was utterly beyond belief, as far as Draco was concerned.

He coped by spending the day with Mary. He did Mary’s shopping for her first and then settled in to watch her programs with her and eat biscuits with weak sweet tea. He couldn’t keep up with Coronation street, which often had long, convoluted storylines, but he adored listening to Mary’s excited recaps. The comedies were more his speed. Draco liked being able to just laugh and not think.

Elle joined them during Father Ted, hearing Draco’s laughter through Mary’s open window. And Samuel showed up after his shift, squeezing onto the middle of Mary’s tiny couch between Draco and Elle to watch a panel chat show. They all pitched in for fish and chips from a small local chippy down the street and laid the bag across Mary’s little coffee table, chips tumbling out of the greasy waxed bags as they shared around.

Mary dozed off in her little gliding rocker, her gentle snores keeping them company as they watched some sort of mystery program. Draco wasn’t following it terribly well, half-asleep himself, leaning against Samuel’s shoulder. Elle was pressed to Samuel’s other side, hugging a faded floral pillow to her chest as she watched the show. Samuel seemed the most interested, guessing what would happen next and mostly being right. None of them had a telly; Samuel and Elle preferred books, and Draco preferred company, but occasionally they all managed to come together and watch a few shows at Mary’s like this. They were always Draco’s favourite sorts of days.

Draco left when everyone else did, promising Mary he would visit again soon, waving as Samuel headed into his flat, giving Elle a hug before she went upstairs. He remained in the centre of the courtyard, standing perfectly still until he heard Elle’s door close.

It was quiet. If he strained his ears, Draco could just barely hear cars passing by on the road outside, and even then, part of him thought it might just be in his head. His mind gently twisting the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears into something alive and real, so he wouldn’t feel as alone as he was.

Draco patted his jeans down until he found what was left of his battered pack of cigarettes. He finished out a bent cigarette, lighting it with his wand, hunched over slightly to hide what he was doing. He breathed in too deeply, making his lungs and throat burn, his eyes watering and fighting to keep himself from coughing. Draco pressed his wand back into his pocket, a simple extension charm holding his wand in a space the size of a pound coin.  He wondered, with a bitter smile as he took another drag, if the Ministry would also call this misuse of muggle artefacts since he bought them in a muggle shop.

Draco closed his eyes, rocking onto the balls of his feet. He was already feeling it grow, that gnawing ache that lived in the centre of him. And with it, the desire to find a bar, a club, somewhere full of life and warmth, and alcohol to soften the jagged edges.

Draco flicked the butt onto the ground, ground it with the toe of his shoe, and went around to the back of the building to apparate back to Potter’s flat.

-

💜 Next update will be tuesday pst 💜 i think I had the evil eye on me last week, I had an uncanny amount of badluck, but things have been better this week, hopefully it will stay so 💜thank you for reading! 💜

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 43 || Part 45 ->

-

Jarold’s conversation quickly fell into a level of technicality that was entirely beyond Draco. Jarold was talking about muscle control, angles and velocities and how to attribute spins to the bludger, his hands moving to outline plays and lines on an invisible field of play only he could see.

Draco steered Jarold around lamp posts and news boxes as they walked, more interested in Jarold’s animation and passion than in what he was saying. After Jarold exhausted all the ‘basics’ of being a beater, he started talking about a specific move he had been trying to perfect. He called it a ricochet hit. Draco thought it could use a catchier name, personally. But it was where Jarold hit a bludger into the quaffle mid-pass, knocking it out of the opposing team’s possession.

“The first time I did it was an accident,” Jarold said, “But I knew I could do it again if I tried.”

“And have you?” Draco asked.

“Once,” Jarold said, he held up a finger with an absolutely triumphant smile.

“And that’s why you’re desperate for more game time!” Draco said in sudden understanding.

Jarold nodded, looking a bit sheepish.

“I thought it was-” Draco stopped.

“What?” Jarold asked.

“It seemed like, when we first met, that you wanted to play in a game to ‘prove yourself’ like an ego thing. That not playing was hurting your pride or something,” Draco said.

“Oh,” Jarold said. He was quiet for a moment, then nodded, “Yeah. Makes sense. ...It’s a bit of that too. The way people talk about beaters, I want to prove them wrong.”

“Question,” Draco said, “Have you ever told your coach any of this?”

Jarold squirmed, looking like a nervous little kid and entirely at odds with his big frame. “...wouldn’t be right.”

“Really?” Draco said.

“Yeah, she’s like the coach. I couldn’t,” Jarold said.

“She’s not a teacher; you’re not going to get in trouble for talking. You’re both adults,” Draco said.

Jarold grimaced, “Yeah, but….”

Draco sighed, “If she had any idea about all your angles and velocity and shite, she’d be fucking, well, intrigued at the very least. Have you ever thought about what you’re going to do after playing?”

Jarold blinked, having trouble keeping up with Draco’s prattling, “Uh...”

“You’d be a brilliant trainer, I bet, or even a coach,” Draco said.

Jarold shook his head, more in bewilderment than disagreement.

They had stopped in front of a yarn shop. Even though the listed hours said it was closed, the lights were on. A quick scan of the display showed why; a large, handwritten poster board advertising free knitting classes.

Draco’s eyes lit up, and he grinned, “What you need is practise.”

“For what?” Jarold said.

“Talking, of course,” Draco said. He pulled open the shop door and grabbed Jarold by the sleeve, pulling him inside with him.

“Erm, I don’t...” Jarold said nervously.

Draco ignored him, “Hello! Are we in time for the knitting class?”

“Oh? Well, we end in about an hour, but you can certainly come in and join us,” An older woman’s voice called back.

Draco dragged Jarold past the spinning racks of patterns and the shelves of all sorts of yarn in every conceivable colour and texture. Up by the register, a bunch of chairs had been set up in what space was available, making something like a lumpy oblong rectangle. The group consisted of seven older women of the silver-haired variety, though two had dyed the silver to brown. Or tried. One of the browns looked distinctly purplish.

“We don’t get many young people,” The smallest of the group said, her glasses thick and white hair neatly curled.

Draco saw some of the other women’s nervous looks at Jarold and went to work to setting them at ease.

“Don’t mind my friend, Jarold; he only looks scary. He’s a puppy, really. He hasn’t the foggiest how to talk to people, so he just ends up looming, you know the type,” Draco said.

He steered Jarold to an empty chair next to the small woman who seemed the friendliest of them.

Jarold, to his credit, ducked and hunched nervously, “hullo.”

“I was just talking to Jarold about how he needed more hobbies, and some practice talking to people. You only get better at these sorts of things by working on them,” Draco said as he walked to the other end of the rectangle and sat beside the woman with the brown dyed hair, giving her his most winning smile.

“My Davey is the same; he’s lucky his Penelope is happy to do the talking for him,” one woman said.

There were nods around the group, and they began sharing stories about their sons and husbands that couldn’t hold a conversation to save their lives.

At some point, the little old lady beside Jarold, Betty, lent him some knitting needles and bright blue yarn, patiently teaching him how to knit. The needles looked absurdly small in his large square hands, but he was managing somehow.

Draco had been handed a pair of needles but he hadn’t gotten past using them to emphasise his point as he chatted with the women next to him. And they, in turn, were delighted to have fresh ears for all their years-long petty dramas and squabbles.

It was nearly midnight when the yarn was wrapped up, and the needles were put away. Jarold had managed to knit a square of blue which eventually promised to be a scarf. Betty had insisted he keep the needles and yarn he had been using.

“I never did like the colour,” Betty said, “but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

“I offered to take it off your hands,” Louise pointed out.

“You said the colour was garish-”

“At first, but it grew on me-”

“Well, then you should have said-”

“I did!” Louise said with a laugh.

Jarold offered out the skein of yarn, “You can have it, if you want.”

Louise waved her hand, “It’s fine. It’s fine. I didn’t like it that much.”

To which Betty gave her a very pointed look.

Despite the meeting being over and everything packed up, they kept chatting for another half an hour. Which Draco had no problem with but excused himself and Jarold when he noticed that Jarold had gone quiet.

The night air had a chill as they stepped outside, and Draco rubbed his arms to try to warm them.

“Let’s find somewhere quiet where we can apparate from,” Draco said.

Jarold nodded tiredly, and they walked together until they found a narrow alley. Draco was about to leave first, but guessing at Jarold’s exhaustion, he offered, “Do you want me to side-along you?”

Jarold hesitated and then nodded. It took a while for him to gather the energy to say, “thanks, Hogsmeade is good.”

Draco dropped Jarold off at Hogsmeade and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder as they parted ways.

Draco returned to Potter’s flat, focusing hard on the destination so he would land softly and not disturb Potter. But upon landing behind the couch, he froze, startled by the lights being on and the noise that he took a second to realise was the television; the volume turned to a low murmur.

Draco breathed. He could see the top of Potter’s hair, a few silky black curls peeking above the couch cushions and tiptoed around to the front of the couch.

Potter was asleep, his glasses half falling off his face, a pile of half-folded laundry on the cushions beside him. It was all terribly wrinkled.

Draco’s brow furrowed as he fought to keep an infuriating smile off his face. He reached out, letting a lock of Potter’s hair slip through his fingers, the smooth, heavy strands, so much thicker than his own baby-fine hair.

“...Ginny?” Potter said, his voice sleep rough. He blinked and went a little cross-eyed, trying to focus on Draco’s face, “Malfoy?”

Draco swallowed down the bitterness at the back of his throat and said, “You know there’s a spell to fold these, don’t you?”

“I don’t know it,” Potter said, wincing and reaching up to rub his neck as he sat up.

Draco had to laugh, “I don’t either.”

He dropped onto the other side of the couch and picked up an unfolded shirt from the pile. He shook it out, making the wrinkles more visible. Draco snickered and haphazardly folded it into a semblance of a square.

“Where did you learn to fold a shirt?” Potter said with a frown.

“I didn’t,” Draco said.

“Of course not,” Potter sighed.

“It’s good enough,” Draco said.

“No,” Potter said.

“Just ‘no’?” Draco asked.

“Just no,” Potter said.

Draco laughed.

Potter picked up the shirt Draco had just folded and refolded it, his hands deft, smoothing the fabric as he went into a very neat rectangle with slightly less wrinkles.

Draco rolled his eyes and decided to stick with folding trousers and socks instead.

“Did you find the leftovers?” Draco asked.

Potter nodded. “Where were you anyway?”

Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s past midnight,” Potter said.

“Where were you?” Draco shot back.

“Working,” Potter said.

Draco snorted.

“We raided a potential potion smuggling workshop. The site had to be locked down and fully inventoried, and Robards wanted our reports today while it was still fresh in our minds,” Potter said, his voice dull, exhaustion seeping back into from just the memory of the day.

“You’ll get tomorrow off, at least?” Draco said.

Potter was quiet, his silence saying everything.

“Seriously?” Draco said.

Potter’s mouth twitched down, “It’s-”

“-fucking ridiculous,” Draco finished for him, not wanting to hear whatever bullshite was going to come out of Potter’s mouth. “Harry-fucking-Potter, you are Harry-fucking-Potter-”

“It’s fine-”

“It’s the exact opposite of fine; it’s a fucking travesty!” Draco said, “You are-”

“I know,” Potter snapped. “I know who I am. Fuck. Enough Malfoy.”

Draco scowled at him, “I-”

“Where were you?” Potter interrupted.

“Potter-”

“You never said,” Potter said stubbornly.

“A therapy meeting thing,” Draco said dismissively. “You’re at least getting overtime, aren’t you?”

Potter shrugged one shoulder, “What sort of therapy meeting? Your group doesn’t meet until….” he looked over at the schedule on the fridge, squinting to try and make out the dates.

“We had a homework assignment to hang out together,” Draco said before Potter could answer.

“With who?” Potter asked.

“You don’t know anyone in my group,” Draco said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, go on and tell me, then,” Potter said.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Jarold.”

“And you did-?”

Draco sighed heavily, throwing a balled-up sock at Potter’s chest, “We went to a playground.”

Potter frowned in instant confusion, “…Why?”

“To play on the things?” Draco said with an obviously tone of voice.

Potter continued to stare at him.

“Then we went to a knitting club meeting,” Draco said. He was really enjoying himself now.

“I- Knitting? Why the fu-”

“To learn how to knit, Potter,” Draco said.

“I-”

“You should call in sick tomorrow,” Draco said.

“Malfoy-”

“I could call in sick for you if you like,” Draco offered.

“I’m not calling in sick,” Potter said.

“Make you a deal,” Draco leaned forward, “If you go to work tomorrow-”

“I will.”

“And it’s utter bullshite, a complete load of crock-”

Potter crossed his arms over his chest.

“If anyone else in the Auror’s could do it, after you spent, however the fuck long, working today, then the day after tomorrow, you call in sick,” Draco said.

“How is that a deal?” Potter said, “I mean, what am I getting out of it exactly?”

Draco waited for a second to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

“You get a day off, Potter,” Draco said.

Potter looked unconvinced.

Draco shook his head, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Potter snorted and was trying very hard not to grin, “A lot of things, I’d imagine.”

“Merlin’s saggy bollocks,” Draco muttered.

“Maybe you just need to sweeten the deal,” Potter suggested.

“What do you want?” Draco asked flatly.

“Maybe I want to learn to knit,” Potter said.

“They aren’t meeting then,” Draco said. He had no idea when the knitting club met.

“A playground thing, then,” Potter said.

Draco narrowed his eyes, “You want to go on a date? I will take you on a fucking date, Potter, if that’s what you want.”

Potter looked a little flushed, “Well, I mean-”

“Deal,” Draco held out a hand. “We’ll go out if you call in sick-”

“But not tomorrow,” Potter said.

“The day after tomorrow-”

“Only if they didn’t really need me,” Potter said.

Draco sighed.

Potter waited.

“Yes. That’s right,” Draco said flatly.

Potter grinned and shook Draco’s hand, “Deal.”

“Thank god, my arm was about to fall off,” Draco said, rubbing his shoulder.

Potter snorted in amusement.

“And take your fucking socks.” Draco scooped up the pile of socks and threw them into Potter’s lap, “I couldn’t find a single pair.”

“Oh, I don’t match them; I just grab two out of the drawer and pull them on,” Potter said.

Draco narrowed his eyes, “You’re disgusting.”

Potter burst out laughing, and Draco threw the pile of folded trousers at Potter as well.

-

💜 Next update will be tuesday pst 💜 a day late👍👍 but i really wanted to finish the last scene with draco and harry so.... i did. hope you do too😘💜 💜thank you for reading!

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 42 || Part 44 ->

-

“But you’re different now, so it’s alright,” Jarold said.

Draco held his breath for a moment before saying, “...I’ve tried.”

Jarold nodded.

“And you…?” Draco said carefully.

Jarold looked down at him, his brow furrowed.

“I changed, but you haven’t,” Draco said.

Jarold blinked, his confusion only growing, “It’s not the same, is it? I mean, quidditch is alright.”

“Well, yes, but it being the only thing in your life-”

“It’s different,” Jarold cut him off stiffly. “You don’t get it.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Explain it then?”

Jarold sighed and glared out at the dark playground. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s my thing, my one thing. It’s easy for you lot to talk about doing other things and being different now, but I don’t have nothin’ else.”

“Have you tried?” Draco asked.

Jarold bristled at that, his shoulders tightening, “I went to school, didn’t I? Took the same classes as everyone else, did my best, didn’t I?”

“And you were just rubbish at it all?” Draco asked, not believing it for a second.

Jarold shrugged in frustration, “I did alright, I just- I don’t-”

“What?” Draco asked.

“It’s different,” Jarold said stubbornly, “It feels totally different. Like, I’ve spent my whole life being the clumsy oaf who doesn’t know what to say or do, but on a broom, I’m good, I can fly better than most, got dead-on aim with the bat. I’m good. Everything else just feels like trudging through muck.”

Jarold let out a huge sigh, “Just cause I can do the other stuff doesn't mean I want to, you know? ...I’m not sure what I’d do if I couldn’t play anymore.”

“It’s not that great,” Draco said.

Jarold snorted. He stepped down a metal bar, turning and jumping to the ground in one fluid movement that left Draco feeling a bit jealous. Over the last, however many years, his body had turned into something resembling pudding. Things he used to do without a second thought now seemed to take far more effort. Draco wasn’t sure what was more to blame, the drinking, lazing about in bed for ten to twelve hours every day, the drinking, or forgetting to eat much other than alcohol.

Draco hopped down onto reddish mulch surrounding the playground equipment.

“You said you played seeker?” Jarold said.

Draco nodded.

“Hm.” Jarold said dismissively.

Draco’s eyebrows rose.

“Nothing wrong with seekers; they gotta be strong flyers with quick reflexes. Keepers gotta have good reflexes too, and instincts to watch the play and keep track of the quaffle, good hands too.”

Draco started to grin, suspecting where this was going.

“Chasers, they got to be agile flyers as well as strong, with a good arm and good reactions,” Jarold said, his eyes shining with a mix of admiration and pride.

And beaters- Draco thought.

“And beaters,” Jarold said, “They gotta be all of that, and they have to do it with a stick. We have to know where the ball is, where the players are and where the bludgers are. No head strikes, cause that’s a foul, can’t miss with the bat and knock another player, that’s a foul, can’t touch the ball, that’s a foul,” he ticked each one off on his fingers. “And best play is to hit the bludger towards the other teams’ ball carrier, to disrupt the play, or towards their keeper to keep him off the ring, without fouling. Beaters get the most injuries of any position too, and that’s not counting practise injuries.”

“That’s a lot more complicated than how we played it at school,” Draco said, remembering how Vincent and Greg would just try and hit the bludger as hard as possible. It was considered a good play as long as it didn’t hit anyone on their team.

Jarold nodded, “Yeah. Hogwarts games were kids’ stuff. I read up as much as I could about professional play. And I Got to talk to Catherine Fullbright when I was sixteen. She was Beater for the Applebee Arrows for eleven years; she gave me some good pointers. But it was still a shock. The quaffle’s smaller, you know, and the bludgers are bigger.”

“I remember hearing that the snitch is faster, too,” Draco said.

“Yeah, charmed to be fastest at the start of play and gradually slow down to pedestrian play speeds,” Jarold said.

“Really?” Draco said.

“Yeah, takes about two hours, but it helps keep games from goin’ on for days like they did in 69’ and 75’,” Jarold said.

“When did that change?” Draco asked.

“91’. The decision was passed 16 to 9 by the Quidditch rules commission board,” Jarold said.

Draco couldn’t help but notice how much more eloquent and engaged Jarold was when it was talking about Quidditch. He seemed infinitely less tense but talked quickly, like he was expecting someone to cut him off at any second. It was intriguing.

Draco had only been impassioned about Quidditch so far as beating Potter went. And winning. Winning was the important part, which he was often forced to leave to other incompetents. Draco frowned at the shape of his own thoughts and shoved them out of his mind, turning his attention back to Jarold.

“Tell me about being a beater,” Draco said.

Jarold blinked at him, “What do you want to understand?”

“Why you like it,” Draco said.

“It’s not about like. It’s more- more-” Jarold took a deep breath and let it out, gesturing broadly with his hands. “It feels like that.”

“Relief?” Draco guessed. When Jarold shook his head, he guessed again, “Satisfaction?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Jarold said.

Draco frowned faintly in thought, trying to think of similar words that would work in this context.

“It’s like, there’s nothing like hitting a bludger and knowing you got the angle and speed just right, seeing it go where you wanted it to go, changing the movement of the whole pitch from one play,” Jarold gestured passionately with his hands.

Draco noticed out of the corner of his eye that some woman walking by the park was glaring at them. Draco recognised her type, the kind that would call the police on you just for existing. He managed to get Jarold to walk out of the park and down the pavement in a random direction without breaking Jarold’s flow of conversation.

-

💜 Next update will be tuesday pst 💜 well.....it’s still technically tues for me😅 sorry!💜  

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 41 || Part 43 -> 

-

“So what are we doing again?” Jarold asked.

Draco spun on his heel to walk backwards, leading them away from the Leaky Cauldron where Jarold had asked to meet, “And I said it would be more fun as a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Jarold said, furrowing his brow.

Draco sighed melodramatically but answered all the same, “A park.”

Jarold’s brow furrow deepened, “Why?”

“Well, you wanted to go to one before. My friend suggested that if we went at night, there wouldn’t be anyone to glare at us,” Draco said. He turned back around and waved for Jarold to keep following him. “There’s one around here, I think.”

“Yeah,” Jarold said, pointing, “That way.”

Draco gave him a look.

“It’s the one I tried to go to before,” Jarold said.

Draco nodded and shorted his stride to walk next to Jarold, conceding the pathfinding to the other bloke. “How did you find it the first time?”

“What?” Jarold asked.

Draco shrugged. “Well. I wouldn’t say you look scared to be in muggle London, per se-”

Jarold frowned.

“-but you certainly look uncomfortable. I can’t imagine you spend a great deal of time here,” Draco said.

“Yeah, well,” Jarold said a bit defensively, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his loose jacket. “Don’t really have any reason to be here, do I?”

“I wouldn't know,” Draco said carefully. “We haven’t actually talked that much.”

Jarold nodded and was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “When I was little, my mum would take me with her shopping around here. She said that muggle shops had things we didn’t.”

“Didn’t you say you had too much accidental magic as a child?” Draco said.

Jarold nodded, “Yeah. She’d only take me when it was quiet, early in the morning and stuff.”

Draco waited, but it seemed Jarold had no interest in continuing the conversation.

Draco broke the silence, “There are a terrible lack of wizarding playgrounds, aren’t there? You’d think we’d have at least one in Hogsmeade.”

Jarold shrugged one shoulder, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Then again, all wizarding children are prone to accidental magic, so it could be dangerous.” Draco kept talking, letting his mind wander, “But when I would have play dates as a child, they were never dangerous. The accidental magic we did do was almost always to prevent injury. Although I did once make a hedge sculpture of a hippogriff come to life in a fit of pique, which scared me so badly, I screamed like a banshee, and it burst into flames. I don’t know If I did the second part or if it was one of the house elves watching us. I had nightmares for months about that.”

“Sounds a bit dangerous, that last bit,” Jarold said.

“Doubtful,” Draco waved off the idea, “And even if we were hurt, it was nothing magic couldn’t fix.”

Jarold brow furrowed.

“Perhaps if you were to build a wizarding playground, you’d always have to have someone there keeping an eye on things, like muggle lifeguards-”

“What’s a muggle lifeguard? It’s- life isn’t something you can like protect like that,” Jarold said.

“They work at muggle swimming pools, and save someone if they’re drowning,” Draco said.  “I suppose if I were being pedantic, I would describe them more as protecting against accidental death, but guarding life does have a nicer ring to it.”

Jarold frowned, “We’ve got floating charms and anapneo and what-not if someone drowns. Muggles… how do they even manage? Like getting the water out? And everything?”

“It’s called CPR.” Draco said, “They press on the chest to pump the heart and breathe in the person’s mouth until they suddenly cough and throw up all the water, or at least that’s what I’ve seen on the television. I’ve been told that isn’t always accurate.”

Jarold made a face.

“Yes, well, they make do the best they can,” Draco said.

Jarold hesitated, then asked, “Err… what’s a television?”

Draco sighed dramatically, “What are they teaching in muggle studies these days?”

“How to dress, so you don’t look like a berk, and how to cross streets on the signal and about car machines and-”

“Yes, yes,” Draco dismissively, like he had even taken muggle studies and hadn’t had to pick all this up on his own after leaving school. “Well, a television is a muggle technology, which is like their magic-”

“Muggles don’t have magic,” Jarold said.

“Not real magic,” Draco said, “but they can make devices that can do nearly magic things, like cars and planes and-”

“Televisions?” Jarold guessed.

“Yes, precisely,” Draco said. “So muggles will perform plays, very complicated ones, and record them with one of their devices that allows them to replay the play anytime they like on their televisions. It’s fantastic, far better than books or magazines.”

“How’s that any different from photos or Omnioculars?” Jarold asked.

“The whole play. Hours and hours of stuff,” Draco said, trying to think of a way to say it that Jarold might understand better. “Like, muggles have this sport called football, and they record the entire game, with the announcers and scores on the screen and the recording device moves to follow the ball-”

“Can they watch it again?” Jarold asked, his interest perked.

Draco nodded, “There’s this thing called a VCR, I haven’t a bloody clue how it works, but it can make a copy of whatever is on the television on these plastic bricks and then you can re-watch it whenever you like.”

“We could learn a lot that way,” Jarold said thoughtfully, “Watching the other team’s plays and other games and...” he frowned.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Well, I don’t know any muggle-borns who could teach me how to do any of it,” Jarold said, disappointed. “I’d need a recording device and a, one of those televisions, and what-not.”

Jarold stopped and turned to Draco, “But you must know some muggle-borns, to know all this stuff.”

Draco shook his head.

“Wha-”

“I know quite a few muggles, though,” Draco said. “I don’t know if they’d have any more knowledge about it than I do.”

Jarold blinked at him, too surprised to respond.

“Yes?” Draco said.

“Well, uh...” Jarold said, “I dunno; you don’t seem like the sort of person who knows muggles, is all.”

Draco snorted and said sarcastically, “Is it the pure-blooded bit or the slytherin bit?”

Jarold’s expression read to Draco as that of someone who wasn’t sure what to say because every answer was the wrong one.

Draco laughed, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright… We’re almost there,” Jarold said, awkwardly starting down the pavement again.

And he wasn’t wrong; as soon as they turned the corner, Draco could see the park. It had just about everything a kid could want, swings, a slide, a climbing frame and other things.

“You were right; nobody’s here,” Jarold said.

Draco hung back as Jarold went into the playground and tested out each of the different things. He went down the slide, though he barely fit, and spun on a large metal circle frame. He had to crawl on his hands and knees to explore a little fort made of plastic panels, bumping his head along the way. His last stop was the climbing frame.

Jarold easily pulled himself up the metal bars; the red paint rubbed away in the middle where hundreds of tiny hands had grabbed it before. He sat down, right at the top, looking out over the playground with a distant, contemplative expression.

Draco followed him but only climbed a few bars up before deciding the rest were not worth the effort. He looped his arms around a bar, resting his weight against the cold metal, his head just about level with Jarold’s knees.

“...You know, it’s fine if you don’t like me,” Draco said carefully, making sure his tone was light.

“What?” Jarold said.

“I know what I did was-” the word caught in his throat, “-unforgivable.” He tried to clear his throat with a forced laugh, “Not everyone can be like Iris. Jasmine is more understandable, and Emad didn’t even know-”

“I don’t hate you,” Jarold said pragmatically. In fact, he seemed confused that Draco had even brought it up. “Or dislike you. I guess I can see why I ought to, but I was just a kid. I didn’t know you or your family.”

“Oh,” Draco said.

“And like… like maybe if my Da had been into Voldemort instead of quidditch, maybe I would’ve done the same thing as you,” Jarold said.

Draco laughed, more out of surprise than anything, “Father and his Voldemort hobby.”

Jarold smiled uncertainly.

Draco shook his head, “But you wouldn’t have joined that lot just because your Dad did.”

“I was eleven, so probably not,” Jarold said.

Draco laughed.

“But if I was the same age as you, I would have,” Jarold said.

Draco’s eyes widened.

Jarold shrugged one shoulder, “Quidditch is the only thing my Da really cared about.”

Draco slowly nodded. Jarold had fallen into quidditch because it was the only way he could relate to his father. And Draco… Draco had shaped himself in his father’s image because that was the only way to earn his father’s praise.

-

💜 Next update will be tuesday pst 💜 thank you for sticking with me! l hope you like the new part💜💜  

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)

Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing

suggested rating: Mature

Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 40 || Part 42 -> 

-

Samuel soon exhausted all his social energy and excused himself to walk back to his flat alone. Draco knew better than try to walk back with him. Once Samuel’s social battery was empty, he became a bit of a bitch, which was fair enough. They all had their limits.

Draco stayed in that little nothing park for a while longer until the silence began to make him restless.

He apparated to Hogsmeade to rent an owl; he preferred the small village to Diagon. The streets were wider, and as long as the Hogwart’s students weren’t visiting, it tended to be quieter.

Draco went to the owlery and argued with the clerk about the value of muggle money versus the three knuts it cost to use a mail owl. Draco did not win the argument because the clerk was an idiot. They were quite sure that two pence coins had the same value as a knut because they were both copper coins of about the same size. Draco was fairly certain that two pence was worth fuck-all but gave up trying to convince them. He knew he’d be blamed for ‘fooling’ the clerk when the discrepancy was discovered.

Draco sent a message to Jarold about meeting up later that night to hang out. He decided to wait for Jarold’s response at Potter’s flat, getting Chinese take-out and watching random programs on the tv. It was starting to get dark when an owl finally came to the window and tapped gently on the glass.

It was another hour still until he and Jarold were going to meet up, and Draco stayed in the flat. He thought about going to his old building again, seeing if anyone else was around, but instead, he stayed. It wasn’t until he was leaving that he realised he had been waiting for Potter. A glance at the clock showed how late it was. And Potter had left for work early that morning. Draco took the crumpled note out of his pocket and read it again, just to be sure. Called in early, it said.

He put the note back in his pocket and flipped off the lights. Draco drew his wand out of his back pocket and very firmly ignored the feeling of disappointment in the back of his throat as he apparated away.

-

💜 Next update will be tuesday pst 💜gosh tuesday comes around faster than I remember 😅  Sorry it’s short, but babysteps, I suppose. I gotta start somewhere lol 💜 

Tags below v (I don’t have a permanent tags list. All tags are of the wonderful people who left messages or reblogs on the previous 2 parts.)