Six Bloody Months

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12035091.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Original
Non-Human Character(s)
Additional Tags: Fluff, Angst, Misunderstandings, Cats, Post Hogwarts AU, POV
Alternating, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Tall Harry Potter,
Smutty, Florist Harry Potter, Cafe Owner Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy
Has Long Hair, Oblivious Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Flirts, Pining
Harry Potter, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Dorks in Love, Pining Draco
Malfoy, H/D Career Fair 2017, HP: EWE, Enemies to Friends to Lovers,
Falling In Love, Flowers, Coffee, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &
Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop
Language: English
Collections: Harry/Draco Career Fair
Stats: Published: 2017-10-14 Words: 14,695 Chapters: 1/1
 Six Bloody Months
by JET_Playin

Summary

They were friends with business benefits, that's all...

Notes

For Prompt #39.

Oh, wow, it's finally done! This was so much fun to write, and such a challenge, as well.

Thank you so much @bloodyflammable, for all of your amazing input and for reminding me
to breathe. I hope you like the changes I've made. I know how much you wanted this prompt
and I hope I've done it justice :) <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Thanks, also, to @lululuvin and @llap115 for betaing and all of the amazing
writers/artists/readers in the discord drarry squad for all of the hours of sprinting and your
unwavering support! I love you guys, thank you so much for helping me through my first
deadline! <3 <3 <3

I hope you guys enjoy this fic!

Disclaimer: I don't do not own any of the characters or places depicted in this fic... except the
the shops, I guess O_o sadly, Harry Potter and company are belong to JKR and Warner
Brothers :(

See the end of the work for more notes

“And, you know, my granddaughter just adores daisies.”

“I’m sure she’ll love these, Mrs. Baker.” Harry offered a sly smile to the elderly woman who
came in at least once a month to buy flowers or plants for one family member or another.
Clarice Baker was one of his favourite regulars.

And wasn’t that unexpected?

When Neville talked him into opening the shop, he’d anticipated the need to hire a few extra
hands so he could hide away in the greenhouse. But, as it happened, the customers were one
of the best parts of his job. He still got the occasional tourist, peeking in to see the Famous
Harry Potter. Or, The Boy Who Lived. Or, Merlin help him, The Saviour of the Wizarding
World. Thankfully, those visits had thinned quite a bit in the last seven years.

Mostly, his visitors were young lovers, buying their first bouquets for a date. Parents and
grandparents, like Clarice, just trying to make their families smile. He met men and women,
popping in when they got the chance, looking for hopeful arrangements for ill loved ones or
cheerful, potted plants to welcome new life.

And, on the other side of the spectrum, he met the grieving as they selected something that
could convey their love and loss when laid across gravestones. Harry came to know a great
many survivors of the Second Wizarding War, those who had paid far too dear a price. And
he had learned more about moving forward with life than he could have imagined.

The string of bells hanging from the front door tinkled, announcing another customer
eliciting a plaintiff meow from the vicinity of Harry’s ankles. The sound dragged him from
his reverie and he glanced up, briefly as the cat leapt up to explore the countertop.

“I’ll be right with you,” Harry called, continuing to wrap the sturdy wildflowers in colourful
papyrus.

“Oh, take your time, Harry.” Hermione smiled brightly and nodded a greeting to Clarice,
coming to a halt at the counter, beside the old woman. “I'll just go take a look at the new
aconite Neville told me about.”

“Be careful,” Harry warned.

With a gleeful kind of enthusiasm, she made her winding way toward the greenhouse, waving
over her shoulder as she went. Mrs. Baker watched her go with a calculating look in her
faded eyes.

Harry knew that look. His world, it seemed, was full to the brim with well-meaning friends
and customers endlessly trying to fix him up. Best to nip it in the bud, he thought.

“Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Baker?” he asked, flashing a grin at the woman. He
nudged Jedusor away from where he was batting gleefully at the pale yellow ribbon Harry
tied around papyrus.
“Hmm?” She stroked the fluffy golden cat, scratching behind his ears, absently. “Oh, no,
thank you dear. Say, that Ms. Granger is a lovely girl, isn't she?”

His eyes narrowed as Harry peered at the woman. “She's definitely that, ma’am. Ron is a
lucky bloke, if you ask me.”

“Oh, but didn't the two of you have a fling, in school? I remember the artic—”

“We never dated, Mrs. Baker,” he sighed. “You know better than to believe everything you
read.”

“Oh, of course. Well, she's still a lovely girl. As is the Weasley girl.” She leveled him with a
shrewd look as she spelled her money purse closed and tucked it into a large handbag. “You
should really consider settling down, dear. You, more than any of us, deserve a happy ever
after.”

Harry smiled, thinking of the prickly blond who, come to think of it, should be arriving any
moment. “Thank you, Clarice, but my happy ever after doesn't actually involve a woman,” he
smirked.

“Well, a man, then,” she stated matter-of-factly, startling a laugh from Harry. “Anyway, you
have a wonderful day, Mr. Potter.”

Patting at her salt and pepper hair, she sent Harry a motherly smile, and patted Jedusor’s head
lightly, before shuffling out. With an amused shake of his head, Harry chuckled and edged
out from behind the counter, heading toward the greenhouse.

“Let’s see what Hermione needs, shall we?” he asked as the cat trotting along beside him.

He got his fair share—more than, really—of family and friends stopping by as well.
Hermione and Ron were frequent guests. Various Weasleys visited, more often than not, as
did plenty of Harry's old classmates.

And Draco.

Harry ducked through the curtain that blocked the greenhouse from the rest of the shop.
Smiling when he saw Hermione bent close to one of the flowering aconite, he wrapped one
hand around the thin wall of the archway and used the leverage to swing himself through,
into the large, humid room.

“I told you to be careful,” he scolded, pleased when she jumped back, sheepishly. “To what
do I owe this pleasure?” When he reached her side, he dropped a kiss to her hair and she
turned to smile at him.

“I just wanted a closer look; I wasn't going to touch it.” Her eyes darted to him and away,
again, betraying the innocent tone. “Mrs. Baker is well?” she asked, shuffling away in the
direction of less dangerous specimens. Jedusor, unsurprisingly, gave the poisonous plant a
wide berth and headed toward the catnip.
“Oh, yes, she’s well. Aside from her incessant need to see me married with a brood of
children running wild at Hogwarts.” He grinned when Hermione giggled, then continued.
“Her granddaughter is feeling down, so she wanted to get her a floral remedy.”

Surveying the haphazard array of plants waiting to be carried out onto the main floor, Harry
heaved a satisfied sigh. This year’s crop was coming along nicely. Before long, it would be
time to arrange the summer blossoms into a bright display that would catch the eyes of
customers as they browsed.

The summer flowers were Harry’s favourite; all of the colors, the shapes. They were sturdier
than the delicate spring varieties, but carefree when compared to their rugged, winter cousins.

“Hmm,” Hermione hummed, running a loving fingertip over a petal of one of his day lilies.
“They’re all so lovely.”

“Aren’t they?” Harry asked. “Look, the mandrakes are maturing.” Pointing, he drew her
attention to group of enormous pots lining the wall along one side of the greenhouse.

“They are. Neville is pleased, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yeah. He came round last week to check on them. I can't tell you how relieved I was,”
Harry shuddered, memories of second year flashing through his mind. “St. Mungo’s is pretty
excited, too. Their order is due soon.” Turning back to Hermione, he smiled fondly and
poked at her shoulder. “So, what are you doing here on a workday?”

“I told you, I came to see the aconite,” she hummed, gesturing to the deceptively pretty
purple flowers. “Also,” she continued, drawing a deep breath. “Ron and I wanted to invite
you and Draco to dinner, Friday.”

“‘Mione,” Harry groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, the picture of innocence.

He crossed his arms, scowling at her. “Like we’re one person. I’ve told you, we aren’t
dating.”

“Oh, you aren’t?” She lifted one brow and eyed him, speculatively, and he sighed.

About six months before, Harry had finally wandered into the coffee shop two doors down
and across from his own on Diagon Alley. Hermione was ecstatic, as it meant she could stop
bringing him coffee whenever she came to the shop.

It wasn’t a secret that Draco Malfoy owned the café. That fact may have been the primary
reason he’d waffled about visiting, often opting to walk a couple of blocks into Muggle
London to get his caffeine fix. It wasn't too bad, he thought; he enjoyed the walk.

That morning, though, he’d been running late and decided he was being ridiculous. The war
was over, Malfoy had been acquitted—largely due to Harry's own testimony—and they were
both adults. And, god damn it, he needed coffee. It was foolish to go out of his way to avoid
someone he didn't need to avoid.
Hermione bringing him coffee from the shop certainly hadn't helped. He’d quickly become
addicted, asking one friend or another to run by on their way into the shop with alarming
frequency. Malfoy may be a pointy git, but he was a wizard with coffee.

When he walked in that day, he half expected a derisive laugh at having finally sunk to
entering enemy territory. Frowning, he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and
pushed that thought aside.

Draco Malfoy was not his enemy anymore.

Technically, he never had been. And they'd survived eighth year without a single incident,
hadn't they? There was nothing to be feared, walking into an old classmate’s coffee shop.
There was nothing to be feared in the hushed café itself, either.

It was warm and welcoming, with its dark, flagstone floors, haphazardly arranged wooden
tables, and the sleek marble counter running the length of one wall. Jars and glass-fronted
display cases lined the counter, offering a variety of breads and biscotti, as well as sugar
quills and licorice wands.

Behind the counter, steam curled upward from a row of cauldrons, just visible from where
Harry stood frozen by the door. Nestled in one corner of the crowded worktop, there was
even a muggle espresso machine. At the register, Malfoy glanced up to see who had entered
and his eyes widened for a moment, then he returned to his queue of customers.

Overall, it was not what Harry had been expecting. He started forward, stiffly, but paused
when a soft body wound its way between his legs, vibrating with the sound emanating from
it’s throat. A white cat, just as fluffy as Jedusor, looked up at him and sat itself right in his
path.

“Er, hello there,” he greeted the creature, then stepped around it.

Joining the queue, Harry shuffled along, listening to Malfoy as he interacted with his
customers. He offered the baked goods and warm drinks, commiserating over the cold. He
asked about the lives and activities of those he knew and wished everyone a good day as they
left, usually with more than they originally ordered.

At some point, the cat joined Malfoy at the counter, where it proceeded to sprawl out and rest
it’s head on the edge of the register. Harry chuckled quietly but, when he glanced away from
the cat’s twitching tail, it was to find two sets of eyes watching him, cautiously.

The queue moved along without incident, though, until the bloke ahead of Harry took his
place at the counter. Malfoy let out a delighted laugh and launched himself over the counter
to embrace him. Startled, Harry watched him plant a kiss on each of the man's cheekbones
before settling back to flirt, outrageously, in rapid-fire French.

Harry scowled. This was what Malfoy called service? He would have considered
complaining about it to the owner, except... Well, the owner was brushing at the man's
shoulder and laughing like he'd said something particularly risqué.
His scowl deepened and Harry tapped his foot, impatiently.

Glancing his way, briefly, Malfoy smirked when Harry rolled his eyes. He shrugged, then
turned back to the bloke.

"Désolé, Nico, on discutera une prochaine fois. On dirait que Harry Potter a besoin de sa dose
de caféine."

Casting a curious look over his shoulder, the bloke grinned and retrieved his order. He took
the offered hand and bent to kiss the knuckles, making Malfoy blush prettily.

When the French dreamboat finally swaggered away, Harry stepped forward, still scowling,
opened his mouth to complain...

And promptly forgot how to speak.

Malfoy was smiling at him. It seemed to be genuine, if more than a bit sardonic. “It’s about
time you made it in, Potter. I was starting to think you didn’t like my coffee.”

“Er…” Smooth, Harry, he berated himself.

“Ah, just me then,” Malfoy intoned, nodding solemnly. “After all, half of Dumbledore’s
Army is in here with your order on a weekly basis. The usual?”

“Oh, that's not—I've been meani—” Harry stammered, mentally kicking himself. He was
being stupid. “Y—yes, the usual.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and shifted his
weight from foot to foot. When Malfoy didn't move, only eyed him expectantly, Harry
cleared his throat. “Er, please?”

With a curt nod, he turned away to prepare the café au lait. Harry sighed, letting his shoulders
slump again.

Honestly, what was wrong with him? The ferret smiled at him once and he forgot how words
worked. Only, ferret wasn't really accurate anymore, was it? Harry considered as he reached
out to pet the cat, tentatively. Pleased, when the purring resumed instantly, he turned his
attention back to Malfoy. He’d filled out; the sharp edges of his features had softened,
creating a surprisingly friendly countenance. He was still slim, though not as dangerously
skinny as he'd been toward the end of the war. And he wore his pale hair longer, now, pulled
into a loose knot, low on the back of his head.

His wardrobe didn't hurt, Harry thought, absently assessing the man as he turned to ladle
steaming liquid from the nearest cauldron. He still wore a waistcoat, but it hung open over a
deep, maroon dress shirt. The shirttails were tucked into dark jeans that hugged his hips and
accentuated the length of his legs.

Malfoy moved to the espresso machine to steam the milk and Harry found himself leaning
over the counter to watch. A low whistle sounded and Harry was appalled to realise it had
come from him. Suddenly aware of just where his eyes landed, he straightened, just as
Malfoy returned with his order.
He swallowed, hard. The snarky, pointy boy he had known appeared to be… Well, attractive.
But his arse, tightly encased in dark, new denim, was delectable.

“You know, Potter, most people say ‘hello.’”

“Hm? Oh!” Kicking himself, he shook his head to clear the sudden, unwelcome thoughts
aside. “Of course. Hullo, Malfoy.”

Malfoy passed him the thick, disposable mug, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on
the counter between them. The expectant look was back in his eyes and Harry shoved a hand
into his pocket for his money.

“What's the total?”

“Oh, please, like I could charge the great Harry Potter for a cup of anything, let alone coffee,”
he grinned, dropping one hand to tap his fingers lazily against the marble. Just as lazily, the
swirling grey eyes roamed over Harry, making him squirm. “How have you been?”

Harry's eyebrows furrowed in a frown. Malfoy’s face was far too close, his smile far too
wide, to be conducive to proper thought… functions. A cool scent, cut through with the
underlying bitterness of a dark, foreign roast, teased Harry's nose.

He wanted to leave.

He wanted to drag the man close and inhale, deeply.

He wanted Malfoy to stop tapping his bloody fingertips on the sodding countertop.

He would not tolerate special treatment, least of all from Malfoy. “I can’t accept that,” he
insisted. But Malfoy only shook his head. “Just take the money, Malfoy.”

With an annoyed sound, the cat rose, jumped down from the counter, and padded toward one
of the enormous windows along the front edge of the cafe. Draco chuckled, his eyes flicking
back to Harry.

“Don’t mind Hydrogéne, she’s just looking for a nice place to nap. I’ll tell you what,” he said
in an agreeable tone, finally stilling his restless fingers. “I need to pick up some flowers for
Mother’s birthday. How about we call it a trade?”

Clearing his throat, he stood, made a show of opening the display of biscuits beside the
register and selected three. He slipped the biscuits into a small sachet and turned, holding it
out to Harry.

Still frowning, Harry eyed the sachet warily, then gave Malfoy the same treatment. “Who are
you?” he asked, bewildered. “The Malfoy I know would never—”

Malfoy laughed, a bright, warm sound, set the sachet beside Harry's hand on the counter,
then held out his own. “You knew ‘Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,’” he said, affecting a mock serious
tone, then sniggered. “I'm Draco. And these are sandbakkels. Trust me, you'll like them.”
“Er, okay…”

More confused than before, Harry took his hand. It was cool but firm and Malfoy—or Draco,
apparently—held on a moment longer than necessary. A slow smile spread over his face and
Harry swallowed again.

Attractive? No, no that was too simple. Draco was gorgeous. How long had he missed that?
Surely, he hadn't been, in school. Right?

Draco released him, handing him the sachet of biscuits, and Harry turned toward the door.
His feet moved on their own, though, as he couldn't form a coherent thought that didn't
include a sexy blond.

Draco's voice dragged him back to consciousness just as he reached the door. “Flowers,
Potter,” he called. “I’ll drop by this afternoon.”

Harry waved, nearly colliding with the door before snapping to attention.

Draco's laughter followed him out, that day, and it had been like that ever since; Harry had
yet to fully understand what was happening and Draco seemed content to laugh as he tried to
work it out.

He swept into the flower shop at least once a week, bringing coffee and those “sand
biscuit”… things, and browsing the display bins and shelves. Sometimes, he’d leave with a
bouquet or a potted plant; sometimes, he'd spend the time chattering away about whatever
came to mind, seemingly forgetting all about flowers.

Eventually, Harry started going by the café after work. They would sit for hours at a high
table in a corner and talk, drinking too many cups of perfectly brewed coffee. Occasionally,
Harry could convince him to play a game of Exploding Snap. More often, Draco talked him
into ill advised chess matches.

Harry had come to the conclusion that they were somehow… friends. And Hermione wasn't
that far off, really; he definitely wanted Draco, but it didn't matter.

It didn't matter that Draco dressed in a strange mix of muggle and wizard clothes. Likewise, it
didn't matter that Harry constantly wanted to remove them. It didn't matter that his hair
carried the scent of a spring breeze or that his breath was sugary sweet from too much coffee,
or that both made Harry's fingers itch to delve into that hair so that he could pull him close,
taste him. Nor did it make a difference that his apparent lack of boundaries, and caffeine
induced restlessness, frequently brought him close enough to Harry to pose an imminent
threat to his sanity.

No, it wasn't important that he was nearly as intelligent as Hermione or as mischievous as

George on a good day. The fact that he'd taken to naming Harry's flowers was trivial, at best,
honestly. As was the knowledge that Draco kept it up solely because Harry found it so
endearing. It didn't matter that his heart raced, or that his palms sweat, or that, once a week,
his schedule was abandoned so he could follow a god damned Malfoy around his shop like a
lovesick puppy.
It certainly didn’t matter that Draco had recently begun choosing flowers that said, quite
clearly, that he was seeing someone. Harry didn't care that Draco - his friend - was interested
in some random bloke. Probably that French bloke, Nico. But, it didn’t matter because they
were friends with a business arrangement. Nothing more.

“You know we aren’t,” Harry glared at the pretty flowers that danced as if in a summer
breeze, the memories turning his thoughts murderous. “It’s just a business arrangement,
Hermione. That’s all.”

Hermione hummed, a look in her dark eyes that said she didn't buy it but would back off. For
now. “Well, if you say so, Harry.”

“I do.” He cleared his throat before facing her. “Now, can we drop this?”

“You’ll still come by for dinner?”

“Of course. I have a reci-” The bell at the door sounded and Harry made his way back toward
to front of the shop. “I have recipe for a trifle that I’ve been meaning to try. I’ll bring it, shall
I?”

“Yes, please.” Smiling, Hermione followed him out, Jedusor close on her heels.

“Welcome, how can I—Oh, Draco.”

“Harry,” he said with a slight nod, oblivious to the way Harry's heart thundered in his chest.
“Hermione.” The cat brushed up against his leg, and Draco bent to scratch his ears, for a
moment.

“Hello, Draco. I'm sorry, I can’t stay, I’ve a meeting at noon.” Hermione stood up on her toes
to peck a kiss on Harry’s cheek and smiled at Draco. “You'll be joining us for dinner Friday,
won't you Draco?”

“‘ Mione ,” Harry groaned. “I told you—”

“That you'd talk to him about it, I know Harry.” She shot him a sly grin and Harry wondered
when she had become so… Slytherin. “I just thought, since he's here now, I might as well
invite him myself.”

“Hermio—”

“Don't be silly Harry,” Draco interrupted, turning a bright smile on Hermione. “I'll be there.”

“Excellent!” She tossed a smug smile at Harry, who flinched when Draco aimed his own,
shortly after—he knew he was doomed from the moment Draco had started calling Hermione
by her given name; those two were a terrifying duo—and strode matter-of-factly to the door.
“I'll see you both there. Have a nice day, boys.”

-
Harry sighed, slumping against the counter, then turned his attention to Draco. Or, rather, to
the mug and small sachet Draco held.

“Please tell me those are sand biscuits?” he begged, his tone weary.

“Sandbakkels,” Draco scoffed, passing him both containers.

He smiled when Harry immediately opened the sachet, shoving one hand in and drawing out
a diamond shaped biscuit. Breaking the corner off, he popped it into his mouth and released a
long, low moan. Draco's breath hitched as the sound slipped from Harry's lips and straight to
his cock.

Merlin, the man had no comprehension of the effect he had. Six months, he thought as Harry
removed the lid from his coffee and inhaled deeply. Six bloody months since the man had
walked into Draco's café and back into his life.

Every time he entered Harry's shop, he assured himself it would be the last. If Harry didn't
open his ridiculously green eyes and sweep Draco right off his fucking feet, he wouldn't
bother trying anymore. How oblivious could the man be?

He stood there, bafflingly appealing in his faded denims and worn flannel, a scruffy beard
softening the hard line of his jaw. He looked edible and chattered away for longer than he
should, making Draco want . He wore his dark green apron wrapped tightly around his hips,
his hair curling wildly in every direction, and those stupid glasses slipping down his stupid
nose, completely blind to the desire Draco was sure was written clearly across his face.

But he kept coming back, kept hoping, in spite of the stubborn, thick headed, hero–complex
ridden prat who couldn't see a come on if it smacked him in the face. And it practically had.
Honestly, Draco had expected it to be difficult, given their history, but this was not what he'd
had in mind.

He'd expected apologies and getting-to-know-you conversations over coffee. That was what
he had planned for, what he'd turned over in his mind ever since he'd decided to win Harry
over, years ago.

He'd all but given up, once. It was harder than he'd expected; he'd done well, for a while, but
Harry was just… there. Everywhere. He was in Hogwarts, in the Manor, in the Room of
Hidden Things, in Draco's fucking dreams . And, of course, his fucking dreams.

But then, Merlin help him, Harry was in his café.

He was standing there, just staring, and Draco might have panicked a little. It still surprised
him that Nicolas was willing to help when he did. The poor man. But he played the part
perfectly and Draco had given him free coffee for a week as a thank you. Perhaps he could
have just invited Harry to dinner, but he wasn't a Slytherin for nothing.

And here he was, six months later, standing in Harry's shop and watching the man lick
condensation from the lid of his disposable mug. Merlin he was an idiot but, with any luck,
he'd be Draco's idiot.
Sidling up to the counter beside Harry, where he stood with one hip resting against its flyer
strewn face, Draco quirked a cheeky grin.

“How is Angela doing?” he asked, cocking his head toward the greenhouse, where the
widow's thrill grew.

With the ease of practice, he relaxed against the counter and let his eyelids fall on a sigh of
pleasure. Stretching the muscles of his back and tilting his head one way, then the other to
work out the kinks there, he listened for a reaction to the suggestive position. And a bolt of
triumph skidded along his spine when Harry's breath hitched before he answered.

“She's doing well,” Harry chuckled, sounding more than a little nervous. “Another week or
two and she'll be ready to harvest.” He swallowed audibly, and gulped his coffee. Which was
a shame, if you asked Draco. His coffee deserved to be savoured.

He could still remember the first time he'd tasted coffee; the rich, bitter flavour exploding on
his tongue, the heat spreading through his body. He wondered, sometimes, if tasting Harry
would feel like that.

“So, what kind of flowers do you need, today?” Harry asked, pushing himself away from the
counter and startling Draco out of his musings. When he opened his eyes, Harry was headed
toward the section Draco lovingly referred to as the Miss You Mum corner. “A nice, late
spring planter for Parkinson?”

Draco laughed, light and genuine. “Pansy will kill me if I give her another plant to keep
alive.” Darting to catch up, he hooked his arm around Harry's elbow and steered him in the
opposite direction. “No, I need something romantic. Roses?”

“R—roses?” Harry stammered, hesitating for a moment before he allowed Draco to drag him
to the Love, Lust, and Take Your Fucking Pants Off section.

“You don't like roses?” he asked, a smirk creeping onto his face.

“Well, yeah, ‘course. But everyone gives roses…”

Beaming, Draco turned to face the array of colourful blossoms. “You're right, it should be
something special.”

“Special, right.” Harry crossed his arms, nudging Draco in the process, and huffed. “Well, the
white dittany is in season.”

“Suzy?” Draco asked, incredulously, turning to the riotous blossoms. “Harry, these are
perfect! Love, passion, and you know, it's an aphrodisiac.”

“It—what?” he sputtered, and Draco smirked, again. “Now that you mention it, th—that
seems a little, er… excessive. How about yellow acacia?”

“Hmm,” Draco hummed, doing his level best to hold back the grin creeping across his face.
Pursing his lips, he crossed his arms and tilted his head, thoughtfully. “True friendship seems
a little trite, don't you think? Oh, but there is the secret love aspect. That could work.”
Harry sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Actually, you may have had it right, from
the start; roses are a good choice. Purple and orange are closest to the dittany.”

Draco nodded, glancing toward the selection of roses. “The lilac roses, then,” he nodded.
“And some red. They'll bring out his eyes.”

“Draco—” Hesitant, Harry dropped a hand to his shoulder, halting him as he reached for the
pale purple flowers. “I think you should—”

“Is there something wrong with my message, Potter?” he asked innocently, lifting one
questioning brow.

“Well, n—no. I just, er— That is, I think that, you know, there’s— I mean—”

“Well? Out with it, Potter.” Draco dug his teeth into his cheek, hard, to keep from smiling.
Stepping closer, he tilted his head back to meet his eyes, cocked his hip, and poked a finger
into Harry's chest. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Harry swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I just meant that, well— Don’t you want more
than that?” Licking his lips, nervously, Harry took a step back, but Draco followed.

“Of course I do,” he laughed. “But I’m trying to get a point through a very thick skull.”
Slowly, they kept moving until Harry stumbled into a shelf against one wall. “What would
you have me do?”

He lifted one hand and slapped it against a shelf beside one flannel clad shoulder, pinning
him between the shelves. Draco fisted his other hand on his hip and leaned closer, holding
Harry's gaze as well as his own breath.

He was so close, he could smell the warm, earthy scent of Harry, could feel the heat and
tension pouring from him in rippling waves. His eyes seemed slightly clouded, his breathing
a little shallow. Draco’s arms were practically around the other man and he longed to press
his body flush against him. To feel the muscles he could see working beneath the worn
flannel and his ridiculous apron.

Just an inch and he could—

“You—” Harry began, then paused and shook his head a little, forcing his glasses down a
fraction. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “You could stop trying.” The deep green
refocused, narrowed, and Draco jerked back, as if slapped.

“Stop trying?” He studied Harry's face for a moment, his gaze steady. He looked… Terrified.

He gulped, nodded. “Yes .”

“You— you think I shou-”

“Think about it, Draco.” Harry pleaded with a look of sheer desperation. “Why would you—
I mean, you and me, we—”
Would never work. Mortified, Draco held up a hand to silence him. “No, no, you're right.”

“I am?” he asked, then snapped his jaw shut.

Draco shuttered his eyes, willing his old mask into place, one he hadn't used in years. “Of
course,” he replied, his tone cool. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

“So, you're going to stop?” A grin grew across Harry's face and he spun around.

As if burned, Draco jumped back, his mind whirling. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it
should go. Harry was too nice to—

“Here, how about these?” Harry turned to face him again, a small bouquet held out.

Releasing a breath he didn't realise he was holding, Draco shifted his gaze to the small, pale
pink blossoms.

“What are they?” he asked, warily. “Do they have a name?”

“Anemone,” Harry muttered, eyes locked on his work boots as he scuffed the toe on the
wooden floorboards. He looked all of twelve years old and Draco had to turn away to keep
from reaching for him.

Feeling foolish, he took the bouquet and stepped away from Harry. How was he supposed to
give up when everything about Harry Potter seemed to insist on hugging him?

But he couldn’t.

He already occupied the only place in Harry’s life where he was welcome. His business
friend with a business arrangement and no funny business. Who was thicker, really? The man
who seemed impervious to flirtation or the fool who refused to take a hint?

“What do they say?” Draco asked in a small voice, aiming a watery smile at the flowers.

Harry’s voice was strained, his hands in his pockets, and he still hadn’t looked up. “They
represent l—letting go. They’re basically, er, funeral flowers. To… to say goodbye.” As he
finished speaking, he finally lifted his eyes to Draco’s with a grimace.

Draco stared at the flowers, his grip tightened around the stems. Letting go. Yes, it was time
to stop this. “I suppose that's perfect.”

“Draco—”

“They— they’re cute, aren't they? Annabelle,” he decided after a moment, running a gentle
fingertip along the bright petals. “She’s beautiful. And likely just what I need, really,” he
added under his breath.

Harry frowned, but Draco nodded, moving toward the counter. He lay the bouquet down and
folded his arms on the rough surface, eyes never leaving it as the slim necks nodded with the
residual motion.
“Draco,” Harry began, sliding behind the counter. “Are you sure?” He ducked his head as he
reached for his wrapping supplies to prepare them for travel, as he always did, and Draco
lifted just his eyes, straining to see from the level of Harry's waist. “Is this what you want?
Moving forward like this, I mean.”

“Of course it is, Potter.” Sighing, Draco straightened to accept the bundle of papyrus and
ribbon and sheltered blooms. Harry had chosen a pale grey ribbon and Draco fingered it for a
moment before sighing, again. “It’s time to stop waiting.”

Harry nodded, winced. “I know I'm being selfish— It's just that… well, anyway. We should
talk abou—”

“Please, Potter,” Draco sneered. “I'd just as soon keep my dignity, thank you.” With a smile
that fell short of reaching his eyes, Draco nodded and moved toward the door, slowly.

“Draco?” Harry rushed around the corner and pulled him into a hug. “Are we still on for
coffee, tonight?” he asked, leaning back to look at him.

There it was. Harry still wanted to be friends. Draco opened his mouth to ask what would be
the point of that, but… There was something bright in his eyes, in spite of the hesitancy
etched across his face. Draco forced his shoulders back and nodded. That would certainly
give him time to prepare a goodbye speech, to go with the flowers.

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

Without another word, he slipped out and trudged back to his own shop. He pushed through
the door and stepped inside, staring around for a moment.

Somehow, the quiet room seemed… Empty. Surreal. His customers went about their daily
activities and, from behind the counter, his summer busboy watched him. He was a Slytherin
student, home from Hogwarts on holiday; this was his third and last year working for Draco
as he’d be starting seventh year in a month.

For some reason, the little details jumped out at him. The boy’s short hair was falling free
from the potion he'd styled it with, that morning. His collar was unfolded, the top button of
his shirt undone. Across his apron, there was a long smear of something and a muscle ticked
in Draco's jaw at the sight of him.

Blinking rapidly, he shook himself. He never cared about these things, anymore. He owned a
café, for fuck’s sake, messes were inevitable. Even if they were wizards and could clean up
spills with the wave of a wand? If course, this boy couldn't, but he had a rag, didn—

“Is everything all right, Mr. Malfoy?” he asked when Draco still hadn't moved.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Draco snapped. He strode purposefully toward the
counter and set down the bouquet. Unbuttoning his shirt sleeves, he shook the material loose
around his wrists. His clothing had become unpleasantly restrictive.
“Well, sir, it’s just that— well, usually, you seem happier when you come back with flowers.”
He moved toward one of the low cupboards on either side of the row of cauldrons against the
wall and Draco turned to follow the movement. “Did he dump you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did he dump you? Mr. Potter?”

Why did Draco hire a Slytherin, again? Fuck house pride, next year he’d get a Huffle— No,
they’d want to… hug. A Ravencl— Fuck, no. They were too smart for their own good.
Merlin help him, he was going to hire a Gryffindor. A dumb, self-righteous, gorgeous, sweet
Gryffindor who looked like a dream and smelled like a forest.

No, no, no! Fuck it all, he didn’t need a sodding employee. From any house. Or Harry
fucking Potter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Potter and I are not… anything.”

The little prat smirked. “I can see that, sir. What are you gonn—”

“I’m gonna advertise for your position if you don’t get back to work,” he bit out with a little
more force than necessary.

The boy, damn him, only eyed the quiet café pointedly, taking in the silent customers still
engrossed in newspapers and books. Not a single one acknowledged them or even the noise
they were making. Even so, he nodded and wandered away. To clean something, Draco
hoped.

Turning in place, he tried to find something to fill his own time. The flowers, he remembered,
still laying on the counter, were probably the best place to start.

Retrieving the bouquet, he walked calmly to the door behind the counter, and through, before
he stomped up the stairs to his flat above the café. His arm out, intending to toss the bouquet
onto his dining room table, he paused. Thinking better of it, he set them down, carefully.

He could find a vase, like a civilized person.

That was easier said than done. Every single vase he owned sat scattered over every available
surface of his flat. The wide windowsills, the already crowded mantle, every end table and
shelf. He did throw away the dead flowers that had outlasted their protective charms, but
there were still enough to make finding space nearly impossible.

For anything, really. Many of his “purchases” had been potted plants. Those were crammed
around corners of every room, sheltering Hydrogéne’s favourite napping spot and giving his
home the appearance of a poorly maintained witch’s garden. He’d even had a phase, a few
months back, where he’d decided potions ingredients and herbs were a good reason to visit
Harry, even though he hadn’t needed either.

Fuck, he was a fool.

Summoning a wilted bouquet of azaleas from beside the sofa, he vanished the dried stems
and deposited the fresh bundle into the vase. It would do; Harry’s spells would last long
enough for Draco to present him with the bouquet that evening.

Finished, he sank to a chair at the table and thumped his head to its surface. He was an idiot,
pining after a bloke who didn’t want him.

It was typical, really. He’d spent the better half of seven years trying to get the same bloke’s
attention. Adulthood changed nothing, he’d learned. Simply aging did not bring maturity or
wisdom, merely age. And the ages of Draco’s life could be measured by Harry Potter.

Some things changed, he thought ruefully. Letting his mind drift, he folded his arms and
lifted his head enough to slide them underneath.

Some things were intrinsic to growing up. The things he couldn’t shake from his mind. The
things that kept him up at night, panting into his pillow and embedding his own fingers deep
inside of himself. The things that drove him to see Harry even though he always ended the
visits in the same state. An angry kind of horny.

Sitting back, he slipped a hand into the waistband of his trousers, sighing when it met warm
flesh. He stroked himself idly, his mind supplying the age old images of solid muscles and
smooth planes. Of a beard toughened neck and deep green eyes and scarred forehead.

The scent of the flowers surrounding him took Draco back to the shop, to Harry. The way his
chest rose and fell and his face heated as he stared at Draco. He recalled the fear in those eyes
when he asked Draco to stop.

“Stop trying,” he said. And that was what he was going to do. Right now.

In a minute.

Slowly, Draco trailed one hand up, from where it rested on his thigh, sliding over his chest
and dragging his shirt with it. His breath hitched when his thumb skated over one tight nipple
and he let his head fall back against the chair, imagining.

Groaning, he flicked open the fastenings on his trousers and shoved them down his hips, just
enough to free his cock, before wrapping his own slender fingers around the length. They
weren't what he wanted but, since he'd never have what he wanted, they would do.

The hot weight filled his palm, leaking onto his hand as he squeezed his eyes closed and
relaxed against the chair, again. Stroke, squeeze, twist. He set a steady rhythm, hoping to
draw out his climax. If— since —he was letting go of Potter, this would be the last time he—

Stupid Potter, he thought. With his stupid denims that looked like they would fall off his hips
at any moment. With his ridiculous hair that gave him that perpetual just-shagged look. With
his big hands that Draco desperately wanted on him, in him.

Curling his hand around the base, Draco pumped up and down, gaining speed and adding
pressure as he imagined Harry's hands on him. The wide, work roughened palms stroking
him as strong fingers wrapped around his flesh. Digging into his arse, dragging against his
skin as they writhed together.

The almost–there touch dragged a moan from him as it seemed to ghost over his skin,
following a path over his chest and down to join his own and Draco bucked his hips as his
breath hitched.

“Fuck!” he cried, twisting his wrist over the leaking head of his cock.

Clenching his teeth, he hooked his index and middle fingers around the foreskin, sliding them
through the slippery fluid pouring from him, and nudged it down to expose the sensitive
glans to the close air of his flat. Shuddering at the sensation, he gasped in a ragged breath and
repeated the process, hips juddering with a primal insistence, chasing his orgasm.

Behind his eyelids, his thoughts swam with the deep, endless green of Harry's eyes, the easy
strength and steady pressure of his hands, the pretty bow of his mouth, slackened in bliss.

What kind of lover would Harry be? Would he manhandle Draco, throw him around the bed,
take what he wanted? Or would he be sweet, gentle, attentive? Caressing, stroking, carrying
him patiently to his climax? Would he use those hands, that mouth to bite and tease or to
sooth, to worship?

None of that, his mind reminded him. He would be none of that because Harry Potter would
never be his lover.

Moaning desperately, he slid down further in his chair until he was slouching, nearly
horizontal, and pressed his shoulders against the back. He muttered the spell that would coat
his hand with lubricant and gasped when the cool liquid touched his aching cock. He fisted it
tightly, finally allowing his hips to push the straining muscle into his grip as he pumped in
time.

It was too much, the wanting, the imagining. With a shout, he cried out for the man he
wanted beside him, above him, in him. A whine started low in his throat and grew as every
muscle clenched, arching him off the chair as he came. Draco whimpered, but continued
pumping until the last shudder subsided, then slumped back, panting.

Fucking Potter. How was he supposed to give this up? Could Draco even have an orgasm
without calling his name? They hadn’t even shagged and Potter had already ruined him for
anyone else. But, he reasoned, they hadn’t even shagged. Potter was probably shit in bed.
Right?

Right.

Cringing, Draco summoned his wand and shot a Scourgify at the thin ropes of spunk where
they landed on his trousers and shirt. And then another. After the third, he gave up and
shoved away from the table.

He’d just have to change, his clothes as well as his approach. And, by approach, he meant
retreat.
To mourn what felt like a cowardly step backward, he selected a set of plain, black robes,
brushed his hair back from his face, and headed back downstairs. He wasn’t running, he
assured himself. He was being practical.

Sucking in a steadying breath as he approached the café, Harry squared his shoulders and
reached out to turn the doorknob. The moment the door opened, a cloud of warm, fragrant air
wafted over him and Harry stopped to inhale deeply.

The café was nearly empty; a few stragglers still sat, sipping their coffee in the dimming, late
afternoon sun and the soft lighting of the shop. Hydrogéne took advantage of what sunlight
remained, stretching out on a wide window ledge and the sounds of rasping parchment and
scratching quills accompanied the occasional clink of china and cutlery.

Harry envied their blissful ignorance, how they could sit there going about their business. He
had spent his afternoon alternating between wary hopefulness and kicking himself—and
walls—for feeling so good that Draco was planning on dumping someone—probably
Nicolas.

He came to the conclusion, about an hour before, that he was being an arsehole. But he
refused to regret it. This was his chance and he was damned well going to take it. That didn't
mean he had to continue being an arsehole about it.

A crash, from behind the counter, startled Harry out of his thoughts, even though no one else
so much as flinched — except the cat, whose tail flicked in annoyance. Walking quickly, he
leaned over the countertop to see what happened. It wasn’t often he heard such loud noises in
the cafe, though he heard Draco sometimes had his “moments.”

“Fucking hell! Who thinks this is acceptable?” Draco knelt beside an open cabinet door,
various boxes and canisters strewn across the floor around him. He reached out, still
mumbling under his breath, and began collecting the scattered containers. “Honestly? Square
on top of circle? It’s absurd.”

“Draco?”

Draco’s head shot up. Unfortunately, it was in the cabinet at the time, so he let out a stream of
curses that would be sure to make Narcissa blush.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Harry asked, a smirk twisting his lips. He knew he
should be apologising for his behavior, but Draco was… “So, how’d it go with—”

Draco rose, dusting his hands on his black robes. “With what?”

“The, er… the bloke. You changed your clothes?” he asked, his mood darkening, rapidly.

“What?” He looked down, confused, then back up. “Yes. Had a bit of a spill, earlier.”

There was an unusual look in Draco’s eyes as he stared over the counter at Harry. “A—and
you've styled your hair. You never do that anymore… ” Shit. He hadn't broken it off with
Nicolas? Harry frowned, anger spiking at the thought of another man’s hands on his—

“Oh, yes. It, erm,” He ducked his head for a moment, picking at the dark fabric at his wrists
as colour rose from his neck to cover his ears. “The spill was rather… something,” he
finished, lifting his chin, defiantly, to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Something?” Harry asked, his voice low and steady. Something should stay the hell away
from Draco’s bloody trousers and hair , if it wanted to remain… breathing? In existence?
Harry shook his head. He’d never been very good at threats. “Did you topple a cauldron?” he
quipped, gesturing behind him to where the row stood.

Draco frowned. “No, you prat. If you must know, it was, ah… cream.” He crossed his arms
over his thin chest and Harry thought he may have actually growled. “I assume you’re here
for coffee. Help me pick this up and I’ll pour a cup.”

With an agitated jerk of his hand, Harry sent the boxes and canisters neatly into the cabinet.
Draco must be out of sorts if he was forgetting to use magic. “Don’t know why you didn’t do
that, in the first place…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco muttered, pouring coffee into a thick mug and setting it before Harry on
the counter. “You go on, I’ll be along in a moment.”

Harry made his way to their usual table, his mind whirling uncomfortably. He said he was
going to stop. Not that it had been fair of Harry to ask, but he agreed. God, that was why he
was in such a bad mood. He didn't know how to tell Harry he wasn't interested.

He'd missed his chance. Could he accept that? He wanted Draco, all of him. He wanted him
in his bed, yes but he also wanted his laughter, his snide comments, his easy teasing. He
wanted to know how Draco tasted, what he looked like first thing in the morning, what he
mumbled in his sleep. He wanted to mean more to him; he wanted to mean everything to
him.

But Draco had to want that, too.

With a soft meow, Hydrogéne leapt into his lap, settling immediately. Stroking her obediently,
Harry lifted his gaze to watch Draco move around the room. He had an innate grace,
something he’d carried with him throughout his life. He stalked from table to table, refilling
mugs and collecting tips left on abandoned tables. Even in his foul mood, he asked polite
questions of his customers in a calm, pleasant tone. Somehow, he managed not to disrupt the
quiet of the room with his voice, even as his shiny oxfords slapped against the floor.

After refilling all of the waiting mugs, Draco disappeared through the door leading to his flat.
Harry grasped his mug between two fingers, watching the liquid lap at the edges as he turned
the crockery in desolate circles. Draco was amazing, he thought wistfully. He was smart,
funny, hardworking. He’d made a comfortable space here, where people genuinely enjoyed
spending time.

Harry knew he didn’t need the money and that made the endeavor all the more admirable.
Draco chose a career that put him in the public eye, even passively. That couldn’t have been
easy, after the war. But he’d jumped in and kept going. He was kind. He might have thought
he was being sneaky, but Harry saw him wave away the small change payment of one
customer who clearly couldn’t afford even a cup of coffee. Similarly, he’d seen Draco accept
the same from a hard faced woman who narrowed her eyes at his offer, preferring to pay for
her drink with pride, in spite of the expense.

He was friendly with everyone and snarky with the people who could take it. In the months
since he first set foot in the café, Harry had seen everything that drew customers in, and
everything that kept them coming back.

How could Harry not want that? How could anyone? Could Harry really begrudge someone
else for realising it, first?

When Draco materialized beside him, Harry jumped. He must have stopped stomping
around.

“Here,” Draco said, holding out the bouquet he’d picked out earlier in the afternoon.

With trepidation, Harry accepted the offering. “Yo— you still have them?”

Sitting opposite Harry, Draco propped his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and rested
his chin on them. “No; now you have them,” he replied.

Harry set the bouquet on the table, reaching one hand across to rub a thumb over Draco’s
wrist. “I’m sorry, Draco. I'm an idiot.”

Draco snorted. “Damned right, you are.” There was an odd tone to his voice, bitterness
coated in amusement.

“I know, and I'm sorry. Can we just— I don't know… Pretend I never said anything? Things
have been good between us, right? I don't want that to change.”

He snorted again, but quickly schooled his features. “No, actually, I don’t think that will
work.”

“Sure it will. We're friends. We can—”

“No.” Shaking his head resolutely, Draco braced the palms of both hands flat on the table top.
He took a deep breath, but didn’t look up at Harry. “It won’t work because we aren’t friends.”

Finally, Draco looked up. His eyes, hard and cold, met Harry’s over the table, freezing the
words in his throat. He gestured between them, a jerky motion, and Harry’s jaw dropped.
“This was never going to work, I don't know why I thought it would.”

Harry sat back, dumbfounded. “Draco what are you—” He cut himself off, suddenly
remembering where they were. He glanced around, but the café was empty. When had that
happened? Turning back to Draco, he tried again. “What are you talking about? Of course
we’re friends. You come to my shop every week, we have coffee together almost every nigh
—”
“Yes, well, I’ve grown quite tired of it.”

“What?” The blood draining from his face, Harry stared as Draco—no. No, this was Malfoy
—leaned back in his chair, examining his cuticles. “That’s ridiculous, Draco, and you fucking
know it.”

“What I know,” he said, eyes suddenly flashing. “Is that this whole thing has become boring.
So,” he went on, ignoring Harry’s snarl. “I think it would be best if—” He stuttered for a
moment, cleared his throat, and went on. “I think it would be best if you leave.”

“You want me to…” Harry didn’t know what to say.

Draco wanted him to go? How was Harry supposed to fight this?

But that was it, wasn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to. Harry was supposed to be his friend and, if
Draco wanted him to leave, that was what he was supposed to do.

Grasping the bouquet, Harry heaved a sigh and rose to his feet, slowly, dislodging the cat.
“These are meant as a goodbye to me, aren't they?” he asked, studying the flowers.

When he didn’t answer, Harry looked up. He didn’t trust himself to look at Draco, though, so
focused on a sconce hanging on the wall, behind him. “If that’s what you want, Draco, I'll
go.”

“I—it is.”

“Okay.” He walked steadily across the room, trying and failing to match his heartbeats to his
steps. At the door, he turned one last time. “Goodbye, Draco…” he murmured.

Outside, Diagon Alley had darkened with nightfall and Harry stood on the crumbling
cobblestone as the door swung closed. Another cloud of coffee scented air, caught by the
door, surrounded him and he found he couldn’t move any further.

That smell. Oh, god, he— He couldn’t just—

Harry cast his gaze one way, then the other, searching for answers in the silhouetted buildings
around him. This wasn’t what he wanted, this was all wrong. There had to be something he
could do, some way to make it right. But, what?

In the distance, Gringotts shone bright, lit by the rising moon, but offered no consolation.
Numbly, he sat, dropping to the curb gracelessly, the bouquet still clutched in his shaking
hand.

Draco let out a gasping breath as soon as the latch clicked, sagging into the wood and
wrought iron of his chair.

He had done it. He was no longer waiting for Harry bloody Potter to want him. He was no
longer that pathetic sap who pined for a man who didn’t want him. Why couldn't Harry just—
No, that wasn’t worth dwelling on, Draco told himself, ignoring the way his shoulders shook.
His fingers were cold and his face felt damp, but he wasn’t crying. Of course he wasn’t. This
was what he wanted, why would he be crying?

A sob ripped from his throat and Draco flung himself forward, wrapping both shaking arms
around his middle. Doubled over, he let the tears come, berating himself for them.

Of course this wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Harry. He wanted everything, but would
settle for nothing. If Harry didn’t want him, he refused to stick around, forever the friend as
Harry lived life around him.

“Fuck!” he shouted, drawing out the sound in an expulsion of emotion he hoped would let
him regain control of his traitorous body.

He stood, one arm still held tightly over his stomach, and stumbled to the register to retrieve
his wand. He had to lock up, go to bed. And stay there for a month.

Or an eternity.

Halfway there, though, the door slammed open and he spun around with a gasp.

“Draco!”

“Potter? What are you doing here?” he asked, swiping hurriedly at his eyes. Fuck, Potter
couldn’t see him crying.

Not again.

“I heard a— Are you okay?” He stood in the doorway, moving neither away, nor further into
the café. “I thought I heard a shout.”

“What business is it of yours, Potter?” Draco sneered, aiming for snide. It came out weak and
watery.

“Draco.” He lifted a hand, dropped it. “You can’t just— I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes you are. I told you to leave.”

“I was an arsehole,” Harry surged forward, babbling as he rushed across the room. “I’m
sorry, I wasn’t supportive today. I let my feelings get in the way. I won’t do it again, Draco, I
promise.”

“Feelings?” Draco asked, staring as Harry grabbed him by the arms, giving a little shake.

“I’ll help you pick the right flowers, okay? I’ll do whatever you want, Draco. I just can’t— I
need you in my—”

“You need me? You could have fucking fooled me,” Draco spat, finally finding his voice.
What the hell was happening?
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend. It’s just, this bloke you’ve been seeing— I
didn’t know how to deal with it, but— just, don’t write me off, I’ll—”

Draco jerked back. Harry believed he was seeing someone? Why would he—

No, it didn’t matter. Friendship was what Harry offered and it would never be enough. “I
don’t want to be your friend, Potter,” he all but whined.

“Why not? You have more plants to name, Draco, it’s almost autumn! I’m going to need
more—”

“ I need more, you prat!” Wrenching himself free, Draco shoved at Harry’s chest, knocking
him back a fraction as he stood frozen, his jaw slack. “I don't want to go to your shop, I can't
— It’s so fucking small, Harry, and all I can think about is you! I can’t sit here, having coffee
with you every night, and just pretend that it’s enough. So just, fucking go! Please!”

His chest was heaving and, still, Harry just stood there. His eyes unfocused and Draco could
swear he saw the gears turning, the steam building, behind his ridiculous glasses.

“But, you’ve been… all those flowers.”

Draco sighed. “Please go, Harry. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what, exactly?” he asked, stepping forward, crowding into Draco's space, his eyes
suddenly flashing, his jaw tight. “Drive me fucking mental? Do you have any idea what you
do to me?” He darted his hands out to shake Draco by his shoulders again. “You aren't dating
Nicolas?” he asked, pointedly.

“What? Of course not,” he said, pointedly raising one eyebrow.

“Then why were you getting all those flowers?”

“I— it doesn't matter.”

Potter shook his head, hair flopping with the motion.

“For the love of— let me go, Potter.” He twisted but Harry held fast, this time.

He met Harry's eyes, the sharp green brighter, somehow. For a long moment, Harry just
looked, his irises flicking back and forth as he scanned Draco's face, looking for something.
Then his eyes softened and he asked again.

“Why were you getting all those flowers, Draco?”

Draco narrowed his own eyes, frowning. He refused to be swayed, but Harry loosened his
grip and slid his hands down Draco's arms and he felt his resolve waver.

“What are you talking about?” he gasped. Harry's hands had reached his and were gripping
them too tightly. “You know why. You asked me to stop. You— how could you not know?”
Draco asked, wetting his lips.
He swayed forward, subconsciously, and Harry bent to meet him. “Tell me,” he whispered,
breath ghosting over the newly damp flesh and sending a shiver through Draco.

“It's not my fault you're thick,” he murmured. “I did everything but physically accost you,
and sometimes even that. I brought you coffee, I named your plants, we—” He was
whispering, his eyes closed, and suddenly gripping Harry's hands, back, afraid to let him go.
“How could you not—”

And, maybe not as suddenly as it seemed, Harry’s lips were on his. He couldn’t say who
moved, who cracked, but it didn’t matter. Harry was finally, finally kissing him.

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Draco released Harry's hands, looping his arms around his
neck and holding him close. Without a thought, he opened his mouth, eagerly sucking
Harry’s lips between his. Harry deepened the kiss and Draco quivered as the intoxicating
flavour coursed through him, leaving him light headed.

Hands groped blindly at stiff robes before coming up to Draco's face. The calloused thumbs
caressed his cheekbones as broad fingers inched past his ears and into his hair. The only
conscious thought in Draco’s mind was of those hands, finally touching him, holding him as
Harry deepened the kiss, tracing the line of his teeth and delving in as far as he could reach.

Harry tilted his head and nipped lightly at Draco's bottom lip, eliciting a startled gasp.
Chuckling, he did it again, rolling the flesh between his teeth and groaning against him.
Draco buried one hand in the wild mane and tugged, pulling Harry back into the kiss. He
moaned wantonly as his senses were dominated by him.

His scent; earth and sweet summer flowers layered over the something that was entirely man,
entirely Harry. His touch; firm and steady as he slid those hands down, dragging over the
rough material of Draco's robes, to settle on his hips and hold them tightly together. His taste;
bitter coffee and sweet cream and everything he could have hoped for.

This was what Draco had been hoping for, waiting for, and, although he had few hopes for
anything past this moment, he still wanted it. So, he would take; whatever Harry offered,
whatever he could grab, he'd take it and hold on, even if it killed him.

When Harry broke away, panting lightly, and latched his mouth onto a sensitive spot below
Draco's ear, he thought it might well kill him, after all. He gasped, arching into Harry, his
hands scrambling for purchase on broad shoulders.

Rising on his toes, Draco brought their bodies into alignment and rolled his hips against
Harry. The hardness that met his swelled further and Harry lowered his hand to cup Draco’s
arse, grinding himself against him.

“Harry,” Draco panted.

Harry hummed low in his throat and lifted one hand to his hair. Fisted there, he used the grip
to angle Draco’s head, baring his neck to teeth and tongue.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, raking his hands down Harry’s back. “Fuck, yes!”
Harry breathed harshly through his nose, latching onto the muscles under his tongue, and
sucked the taut flesh into his mouth. The hand on Draco's arse squeezed, released, and moved
in slow, sensual circles.

“Oh god, Draco,” he groaned, releasing him with an obscene pop. “Six fucking months.”

“You’re one to talk, you fucking— ah! —imbecile! Oh, yes!”

Harry moved swiftly forward, backing Draco into the marble counter, grasping Draco’s hips
and hoisting him up. Draco winced when the edge of the counter hit the small of his back, but
forgot the discomfort quickly, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and grinding
downward.

“Look at you,” Harry murmured, doing just that as he pushed against Draco’s chest, laying
him backward over the counter. He deftly flicked open buttons on his way down. “God,
you’re gorgeous.”

Draco squirmed under the intense gaze but reveled at the awed tone. “As if you ever loo—”

“I fucking looked, you idiot.”

“Then wh—why didn’t you—” he broke off, a cry falling from his lips as Harry’s hand
continued its downward path, pausing to massage his cock, trapped under robes and pants,
before sliding around and under his hip.

“Just fucking look at you,” Harry retorted. “How was I supposed to— And then, you were
getting all those flowers and I thought…”

“You shouldn’t do that. Haven’t you learned, by now?” Reaching down with one hand, Draco
pulled Harry’s hand back to his groin as he lifted the other to hook around the back of his
neck and pull him down. He rested his forehead against Harry’s, muttered against his lips,
“Just fucking act, isn’t that what you do?”

Harry claimed his lips again and, suddenly, his hands were everywhere; pushing the robes
down his arms, raking his nails lightly over flesh as he went. The material pooled around his
hips and Harry smoothed his hands over the pale flesh quivering there, thrusting himself
against Draco in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

Desperate to keep up, Draco’s hands flew to Harry's flies, struggling fruitlessly for a moment
before trailing up, over the hot, rigid muscles under the worn material of his tee shirt. He
paused, for a moment, to brush his thumbs over the peaked nipples there, rolling them
between his fingers, before shoving the material up further to see.

“Fuck, how do you even—”

“Even wha— ah! —even what?” Harry grabbed the edge of the material, pulling it over his
head, and Draco’s eyes tracked the movement, taking in the ripple of muscle and swallowing
around the sudden lump in his throat.
Merlin, Potter was just fucking perfect, wasn’t he? The dark, taut skin stretched tight under a
light dusting of hair, centered around his chest and lower belly, disappearing under the
waistband of his low-slung denims.

Rearing up, Draco pressed his chest to Harry’s, relishing the gasp that shuddered through the
man. “Back up,” he urged, burying his hand it the soft, tangled mess of Harry’s hair and his
face in the crook of his neck.

He bucked his hips in an attempt to push them away from the counter without breaking
contact. When that didn’t work—Harry merely grasped his hips and gyrated against him—he
lowered his legs to the floor and turned until their positions were reversed. He slid fluidly to
his knees and made quick work of Harry’s flies, now that he could see them properly. With
one, resolute tug, pulled the denims, and pants, halfway down his thighs, eyes immediately
locking on the exposed flesh.

Harry’s cock, flushed and leaking, was a sight to behold. A shade darker than the surrounding
skin and jutting out from a dark mass of curls. The swollen length bobbed with the motion
and Harry gasped above him, drawing Draco’s eyes, momentarily.

Within the span of a heartbeat, his gaze was back on his prize. His foreskin strained around
the glans and Draco’s mouth watered at the thought of taking him in… anywhere, really.

But he wanted to draw this out, so he wrapped a hand around him, mesmerised by the
contrast of heated velvet against his cool hands, of pale skin against dark.

Harry moaned, his body sagging enough to draw Draco’s hand in an unintended stroke
halfway up the shaft.

“None of that, now,” he scolded, tightening his fist and lowering it back to the base. “You
made me wait six bloody months—” longer, but Harry didn't need to know that “—you can
damn well be patient.” Harry was nodding when Draco lifted his gaze again, and he smirked.
“Good.”

With no more warning than that, he lowered his mouth to engulf the head and suckled gently.
Harry cried out, his hands flying to tangle in Draco's hair and he keened in response. After
lifting up briefly, to wet his lips, he plunged forward again. The slick slide sent a rush of
blood to Draco’s own straining cock and he rocked his hips, blindly seeking friction.

He paused to lift the hem of his robes and shove one hand into his pants, giving himself a few
lazy strokes. When Harry whimpered, Draco took pity on him and bobbed his head swiftly.
He squeezed the base of his own cock, then reached his other hand up to fondle the soft,
wrinkled skin of Harry's bollocks.

Harry panted, gasping when Draco swirled his tongue around the sensitive head, groaning
when he dragged his teeth lightly up the shaft.

“Oh, fuck, Draco!” The hands tightened, twisting in his hair to force him forward and Harry’s
hips rocked in a helpless rhythm.
Breathing deeply through his nose, Draco complied with the silent request. He let the muscles
of his throat relax, allowing Harry deeper with each thrust and shivering with every sound he
made. Harry held his head still, for a moment, and he swallowed around the head. He
released a choked sound and it sang through Draco's blood.

He did that, he thought, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock. Testing the limits of
his lung capacity, he stilled, holding Harry in his throat.

“Dra— ah! Fuck, Draco!” Harry tugged at his hair, trying to pull him off. “Draco, I'm gonna
co—”

But Draco wrapped his arms firmly around Harry’s thighs and clamped his teeth loosely
around the base of his cock, holding him in place and swallowed around him. A moment
more, and Harry came with a shout, spilling down Draco's open throat and pumping his hips,
convulsively.

Draco pulled back, gasping for breath, and lifted his gaze back to Harry's. Slowly,
deliberately, he licked his lips, chuckling when Harry bucked forward, again.

“Holy hell,” he panted, flexing his hands in Draco's hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, Draco.”

As he rose, it took all of his willpower not to pull the folds of his robes up over his chest.
Aiming for alluring, he smirked. “Why don’t we take this upstairs?” he asked, eyeing Harry
through his lashes. “You can see what I’ve done with all of those flowers.”

With a wink at the blissful expression on Harry’s face, he turned and sauntered around the
counter and through the door leading to his flat. He didn’t look back, exhibiting a level of
confidence he still didn’t feel, so could only hope Harry followed.

Jesus fucking Christ, Harry thought, watching Draco’s hips sway under the hanging folds of
his robes as he moved. He slumped against the counter, his legs still unwilling to support his
weight. Well, shit. Draco was just full of surprises, wasn’t he?

He paused when he reached the door and turned back to Harry, lifting one sharp, questioning
brow and Harry stared in awe. How could he have spent six fucking months being so
oblivious? God, Draco had practically thrown himself at him. He could see it, now; the
touches, the proximity, the fucking flowers. He teased and flirted and, Christ, Harry was a
fucking idiot.

In the dim lighting of the café, Draco seemed to glow. His hair, mussed from Harry's
enthusiastic hands, fell in soft clouds around his face. Pale skin stretched over sharp angles
and smooth planes, marred only by the thin scars crisscrossing his torso.

Harry winced, his eyes trailing the lines, all but invisible if not for the light glinting off the
shiny, healed skin. How could Draco even want him in the first place? Harry had scarred him.
His gaze jerked to one bare, luminescent arm and the black stain there.
Harry had marked him, just like—

Shaking the thought away, he steeled his resolve. He could—would—berate himself later.
Right now, the man of his dreams was standing on the stairs to his flat, to his bedroom,
waiting. Harry refused to make him wait any longer.

Breathing deeply through his nose, he rounded the counter, shedding his jeans and pants as he
went. Draco’s lips spread wide in a predatory grin, but his eyes betrayed his relief, softening
as Harry approached. He slid his hands down his chest, slowly, to undo the remaining clasps
holding his robes in place. Triumph replaced the soft expression when Harry froze, captivated
by every inch of pale skin that was revealed, and Draco laughed, nervously.

Reminding himself to breathe, Harry surged across the remaining distance and caught him
around the waist. Draco met him, dragging him close and curling around him, all firm, lean
muscles and soft skin.

His steadily swelling cock grazed Draco’s, and Harry swallowed the gasp it pulled from him.
Mesmerised, he did it again, angling his hips and pressing against the hard, leaking muscle.
The drag of heated flesh, that hint of friction, sent Harry’s head spinning, and he followed its
lead. Groaning, he turned, caging Draco against the wall with one hand braced beside the fair,
disheveled head.

“I'm so sorry I made you wait,” he whispered roughly, against Draco's lips, and peered into
the shifting, mercurial eyes that searched his. “Let me make it up to you?”

One hand, gripping Draco's hip, slid down to cup the arse Harry had spent months only
watching, dreaming of, never able to touch. Well, that was over, he thought, digging in and
pulling them impossibly closer. Slowly, he raked his nails over the flesh of the join, where
arse met thigh, then slid down to the underside of Draco's thigh. He guided his leg up to wrap
around his hip, gasped when Draco hummed and squirmed, seeking friction.

“Oh, Merlin,” he breathed, bucking his hips as they aligned with Harry’s. “Up— upstairs,
now,” he gasped.

His hands trailed down Harry’s chest, slid around his waist and Harry rocked with him.
Panting, he traced his tongue over the prominent collar bone, pausing for a moment at the dip
below Draco’s throat, then down, over his chest. A shudder wracked his thin frame and one
trembling hand tangled in Harry's hair, pressing him close when he closed his lips around one
pebbled nipple.

Sucking it into his mouth, Harry nibbled, tugging the little bud between his teeth before
laving his tongue over it. His hips pumped, all the while, in a torturous rhythm that stole
Harry’s breath with every slide, every press. Draco’s mewling cries met each movement, each
wet swipe of tongue, each rocking thrust of hips, and Harry was sure he was losing his mind.

“God, Draco—”

“Harry! Fuck!” Draco whimpered. He fisted his hands in Harry's hair and dragged him back
up.
The kiss, sweet, lingering, and so unexpected from this snarky, short-tempered man, was a
stark contrast to the undulating movement of his hips. Draco increased the pressure of his leg,
curling possessively around Harry's hip.

Lifting Draco's other leg, Harry wrapped his arms around his thighs, cupping his arse to
support his weight, then turned and started up the stairs.

“What are you—?” Startled, Draco snaked his arms around Harry’s shoulders, nails digging
into the muscles, and let his head fall back on delighted laughter.

Still sniggering, he leaned forward to nuzzle into Harry’s damp neck, swiping his tongue in
teasing circles over the sensitive spot behind his ear. Harry stumbled on the last step and had
to pause, to readjust his grip. It was futile, of course, as Draco writhed, letting his hands
wander as he grew more and more bold.

“Bedroom?” Harry panted, letting his weight collapse against the door, pinning Draco
between himself and the hard surface.

“Oh, you want the tour, now?” Draco teased, arching against the door and moaning when
Harry’s cock slid against the cleft of his arse.

“Fuck, no,” he growled. “I want you — fuck! — Now, Draco, please.”

Immediately, Draco dropped one hand to his side and Harry released a shaky breath. Finally,
he would open the door and lead him to—

“Oh, God!”

Nimble fingers wrenched a groan from low in Harry’s throat as they trailed from his cock to
the crease of Draco’s arse, and back. The touch, light and playful, matched the smile
spreading across Draco’s face when Harry managed to focus his eyes, again.

“Now,” Draco nodded, pressing one finger to the head of Harry’s cock, coaxing it, tempting it
to sink into the hot entrance above. “I want you, too, Harry,” he whispered against his lips,
nudging Harry’s glasses with his nose as he moved teasingly close, and back again, out of
reach.

“Draco, shit, wha— lube, Draco, wait—”

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Grinning again, he twisted himself away and muttered
something Harry couldn’t hear, then reapplied the pressure to his cock. With Draco’s fingers
guiding the way, the head slipped easily past the loosened ring of muscle, sliding into the
tight, slick channel.

Harry gasped, his eyes widening. “Oh God, Draco!”

Draco swung back around, leaned close to his ear, and rocked his hips until Harry was fully
sheathed, his chest heaving. “Fuck me, Harry,” he whispered. “Now. Fuck me, now.”
Nodding mindlessly, Harry clutched his hips, rocked back, then forward again, and groaned
as the fiery velvet clenched around him. Setting a steady pace, he leaned forward to catch
Draco’s lips.

Only moments later, he was pulling back, sucking in air, licking at those lips as Draco panted
into his mouth, his eyes locked on Harry’s. And Draco kept rocking, his hips working, his
legs flexing around Harry’s waist, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Fuck, yes,” Harry muttered, almost to himself. “Just like that, baby.”

“ Ah ! Harry, fuck! Just— aaahhh, yes!” Draco screamed. His hands scrambled at Harry's
shoulders, back arching as he tried to jerk away and push back, simultaneously. “Oh! Oh,
fuck! Merlin, yes! Right there, right there, yes.”

Setting a steady rhythm, Harry pushed into that spot, over and over, fucking into Draco and
drinking in the mindless sounds falling from his lips as he pounded his prostate. God, that he
could make Draco sound like that, move like that…

Rutting against him, and moaning low in his throat, Draco tangled his hands in Harry's hair,
pulling him closer. His hips bucked and Harry shifted his own, holding him still even as he
thrust into him, ruthlessly.

“Har— Harry, please!” Draco keened, attempting to impale himself further. “Oh, fuck,
please!”

Harry released his hips, allowing Draco to sink more completely on his cock and planted is
feet in a firm stance. He circled Draco's wrists with his fingers and gently tugged his hands
from his hair. Draco's gasp reverberated through Harry when he jerked the pale arms over
their heads, cuffed them to the wall with one hand. With a growl, he crushed their lips
together, wrapping his free hand around the base of Draco's cock, sliding it slowly to the tip,
a back down.

Draco let his head fall back against the wall, giving in to the overwhelming sensations.
“Harry. Oh, fuck, yes. Merlin, Harry, touch me. Harder! ” Draco fell nearly limp, pliant in
Harry's arms, and let him ravage the fragrant skin just below his ear. Let him fist his cock,
desperately. Let him plow into him.

The little sounds falling from Draco’s lips were as intoxicating as the flavour flooding Harry's
mouth as he sucked and nipped at the long column of his neck, as mind numbing as the tight,
hot squeeze of his arse around his cock. He would never tire of this, he knew. He went half
mad with wanting Draco and, now that he was here, naked and writhing in his grasp, Harry
wouldn't be letting go anytime soon. And he said so.

“Mine,” he rasped.

“Yours, Harry. Please—”

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled against his shoulder, his cock sliding into him easily, now.
“I've wanted this arse since the first time I came here. You were wearing those jeans and
snarking at me and— God! How could I not want you?”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry!” Draco whined, bucking into his fist. “I swear, Potter, I will kill you
if you don't- aah!”

“Oh, god, baby, yes! Rock your hips, sweetheart, ride my cock. Fuck!”

He did, hips pistoning to match the pace set by Harry's hand. “I—I'm so close Harry,” he
panted. “Just— fuck! Just a little more!”

Harry chuckled, pumping Draco's cock faster, then muttered a lubrication spell under his
breath. Draco gasped when his cock slid smoothly against Harry's palm.

Harry's hips juddered, his own orgasm swiftly approaching, and he tightened his fist, twisting
his wrist on every upstroke. Draco writhed against him, arching into him, rocking forward
mindlessly. He stopped trying to speak, only dragged air into his lungs, releasing it in bursts
before sucking in, again.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me, Draco.”

“Oh fuck,” he whimpered, ducking his head for a moment before throwing it back, against
the door.

Harry closed his teeth over the corded muscle of his neck and held on, his thrusts becoming
erratic, his thoughts, disjointed. A wild cry ripped from Draco's throat and his cock pulsed in
Harry's hand, hot liquid gushing from him. Harry followed close on his heels, his own
guttural shout muffled by Draco's skin.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” he muttered, when he finally released the rapidly bruising flesh. He
continued rocking his hips, sliding through his own spunk and their combined sweat. “Shit!”

He finally slumped forward, spent, to collapse against Draco. Wobbling only a little, Draco
lowered his leg, wincing when Harry slipped out of him with a squelch, and propped up the
dead weight, chuckling.

“Oh, no you don't. Get up Potter. You are not going to fall asleep on top of me against my
fucking door.”

Harry snorted. “Fucking fucking door,” he murmured and tightened his arms around Draco's
waist when he shoved sharply at his shoulder.

“Get off of me, you oaf!” But he was laughing, even as he attempted to push Harry away.

“Okay, fine.” Harry conceded, shifting his weight.

He caught Draco's hand and hauled him close, sighing when his arms encircled Harry's waist,
immediately. He was smiling, but there was something in his eyes that sent a tingle of fear
running down Harry's spine.
“So,” he began, wading through the feeling for some of that infamous Gryffindor courage.
The last thing he wanted, or would accept, was for Draco to push him away, again. “If I recall
correctly, there was some mention of flowers?”

That startled a laugh from Draco and he shook his head. “Harry, I—”

“And a bed?” Harry interrupted, wrapping an arm around Draco's waist and bringing his
other hand up to caress his cheek.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he studied him and Harry braced himself for the argument he could
feel coming. Draco didn't want the same thing he did, but that was okay. They could start off
light, but Harry would be damned if it ended with that; he had Draco, now, and he wasn't
letting go.

“I'm not leaving,” Harry said, furrowing his brow and trying to sound firm, instead of
terrified.

Draco's eyes widened, but he smile. Taking Harry's hand, he opened the door and, dodging
the streak of white darting in around them, led Harry into his flat.

Still holding Harry's hand—too tightly, in all likelihood—Draco stood in the doorway of his
flat, waiting for Harry to speak. He let his eyes drift over the room, trying to see it from his
perspective.

More than a few of the bouquets were on their last leg, drooping and shriveled in their vases.
The potted plants were faring much better — if one overlooked the precocious cat gnawing
on the catnip — though they could use a session with some pruning shears. The herbs were
probably the healthiest, since he kept them near the kitchen and tended and used them
frequently.

Still, the overall effect was a bit jarring, he thought, and was about to say so when Harry
finally spoke.

“You kept them.” His voice was awed, quiet, and Draco didn't know what to say. “You didn't
just… I don't know. You kept them.”

“What else would I do with them, Potter?” He was starting to feel self-conscious, standing
there, stark naked.

Releasing Harry's hand, he moved back onto the landing to summon their belongings. After a
brief debate, he slipped Harry's flannel over his shoulders, doing up a couple of buttons, and
passed Harry his wand and denims. Harry's hand stilled around the clothing and Draco
flipped his hair out of his eyes, looking up to see what had distracted him.

Impossibly green eyes met his, held them, and Draco forced himself not to fidget. He raised
his chin, definitely.

“What?”
“I—sorry, it's just—” He cupped a hand around Draco's neck, leaning forward to rest their
foreheads together. “You're perfect, did you know that?”

Draco tried to lean back, but the hand on his neck held him close and Harry slid his other arm
around his waist. All Draco could do was stare into those eyes.

He could do that, though, he decided. For as long as needed. Forever.

“About time you realized it, Potter.” He hooked his arms around Harry's shoulders and
laughed when he swung Draco off his feet.

“Wasn't there supposed to be a bed in this tour?” Harry asked, chuckling.

And he carried Draco, toes just barely skimming the floorboards, toward the bedroom,
swallowing his laughter as he went.

“Ron, would you check the potatoes?” Hermione asked, brushing stray wisps of hair from her
face as the doorbell sounded, again.

“‘Course. ‘Mione.” He caught her wrist as she passed, pulling her into a quick kiss. “Don't
fret. You know Harry will come round. He knows how brilliant you are.”

“Oh, I know,” she said without a trace of irony. “But he's so stubborn. I don't think he can
even see how Draco acts around him…”

“You'll set him straight. Er, so to speak.”

She swatted at his shoulder playfully, then pulled away. “Well I can't do anything while
they're standing out on the front step, now can I?”

Sidestepping another attempt to snuggle, she darted out of the kitchen and down to the door.
After fussing with her hair for a moment, she opened the door.

And froze.

There stood her best friend, the unlikely business man, the most oblivious man in the
world… Snogging Draco Malfoy in a very unbusinesslike manner.

Well, at least he was still oblivious—some things never changed. He seemed lost in the kiss,
his hands buried in Draco's hair, dislodging the band of leather knotted high on his head.
Draco held Harry around the middle, his shoulders shaking in a way that suggested he had
been laughing at something before Harry kissed him. Beside them, a pretty serving platter
bobbed dangerously and Hermione hurried forward to catch it.

“Oh, honestly,” she muttered when the two men remained unaware of her presence. “Carry
on, then. We'll just send your supper out here, shall we?”

“Hmm?” Harry asked, then promptly returned to his enthusiastic, slurping kiss.
Draco, on the other hand, jolted and began to pat insistently at Harry's back, leaning back and
meeting Hermione's eyes around Harry. “Harry, she's here.”

“What?” Harry lifted his head and swiveled toward the open door. Confused, he turned a little
further until he finally saw Hermione, standing behind him, his tart held safely in her hands.

“Well, I must say, I had your relationship all wrong, didn't I?” she teased, eyeing Harry with a
smirk. “You clearly are not involved.”

“‘Mione,” Harry groaned, finally releasing Draco, but only to tuck him into his side.

“No, no, Harry, I see it now. Very platonic.”

Draco rolled his eyes and Hermione lost her battle with laughter. Casting her own levitation
charm, she stepped forward to hug each man, in turn.

“I'm glad you finally came to your senses, Harry. And Draco,” she added in a whisper,
squeezing him just a bit tighter. “I'm sorry he made you wait so long. Welcome to the
family.”

“What's taking so long,” Ron called before he poked his head through the open door. “Oi,
Malfoy, get your own Gryffindor.”

“It's okay, Ron,” Hermione chuckled, releasing Draco. “Mission aborted.”

“Oh. You convinced him, already?” Deflating a little, Ron clapped a hand to Harry's shoulder.
“She's scary good, mate.”

“Actually, as it happens, he didn't need me after all.” She slipped her arm around Ron's,
though, and rose on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “But I am thrilled that you think I'm
scary.”

“I said scary good ,” he corrected, but cringed when she shot him a glare. “Now Hermione,
you know I'm terrified of you,” he amended, patting her arm with mock hesitation. “I have
nightmares and everything.”

“Good. Now, who's hungry?”

The End

Translation:

"Désolé, Nico, on discutera une prochaine fois. On dirait que Harry Potter a besoin de sa dose
de caféine." = “I'm sorry, Nicolas, we'll have to catch up another time. Harry Potter looks like
he could use a caffeine fix.”
End Notes

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