3. Been back on my Drarry bs in my spare time (between all the other fandoms I got back into recently), don't know what ... maybe public play ish? If you're feeling smutty of course. But magic allows for better chance of not getting caught. Unless they're into that? Idk. Magic is also great for fuck or die and that's always fun toooooooo
Harry Potter is a sick bastard. Always has been, as long as Draco’s been concerned. His gaggling gang of Gryffindors have no idea how sick their little hero is, and Draco isn’t exactly eager to share the news. Potter is his sick bastard, and he has no qualms about keeping it that way.
He does like sitting here amongst them, though, and feigning the pretty little boyfriend. The reformed Death Eater. The proof people can change. Harry Potter’s war prize, or so the more fun of the bunch has called him. Dean Thomas is funny, Draco is not loath to admit, and there are subtle, cutting undertones of sex laced in every word that oozes from his pretty little lips. Draco can always appreciate a friendly seduction. It’s why he set Thomas up with Blaise. He and Blaise have the same sultry presence, and they’re an absolute show when they’re together.
The rest of the lot are lost causes. Draco likes them, they’re always a fun time, but they’re nothing like Harry. Not a single one of them, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, none of them are capable of appreciating Potter like Draco can.
Potter’s arm is wrapped casually over Draco’s shoulder. It’s a quiet night at the pub, and the unlikely group has tucked itself into the back corner, the one with the circle table that all of them can squeeze around comfortably. Granger and Weasley, the cliche that they are, are tucked into one end of the wrap around booth. Then there's Longbottom, Luna, Pansy and her Weasley–the most redeemable of the Weasley’s, the Dragon Tamer–next to Potter and Draco, flanked on the other side by Blaise and Thomas, who Draco has come to realize likes only the end seat. An easy way out perhaps?
Potter’s fingers are dancing at the collar of his shirt. His thumb has already slipped under the fabric and he’s rubbing it gently back and forth over the very tip of the scar that dances from there all the way to Draco’s other hip.
Draco knows he’s smirking. He can practically taste it on his own lips. There’s no reason to be, to anyone else maybe. But Draco knows exactly what Potter is thinking, so he leans forward, claps his hands in front of him on the table, and taps his own wrist with two fingers. Potter catches the movement and his thumb presses harder against the edge of Draco’s scar. He wants to play.
“Has Mother gotten back with you about the Hydrangeas?” Draco asks, not having seen Longbottom in almost a week.
Draco sits back, leans further into Potter’s side, and drops his hands to his lap. He runs the two fingers over his wrist gently, knowing Potter’s eyes had darted down to watch the directive. We’ll take it slow, he’s saying, we’re entertaining guests.
“We’ve almost gotten them stark white. There’s a bit of that natural beige tint near their centers still, but her spells have worked wonders compared to everything Professor Sprout has tried,” Longbottom said. “Narcissa’s been altering things a bit for the delicacy of the petals, we think that has been part of the problem, but we should have them all white by June.”
“You’re going to be the picture of purity, Granger.”
“Who knew Granger would be such a demanding bride,” Pansy chirps, and Granger’s eyes pop up to her before dropping down to the table in embarrassment.
“Should we talk about your seventeenth birthday, darling?” Draco asks, eyes still on Granger.
The Dragon Tamer snorts, loud and amused, and Granger looks up at Draco with a tiny, appreciative smile.
“The dramatics with this one, love,” Draco says, nodding towards Pansy, but talking to Granger and Granger alone. “You should have heard her. I need everything to be as black as my soul. The sheer amount of teenage angst was unsettling. Besides, we all know Potter had the blackest soul of them all back then. Pansy tried, though, didn’t she?”
Potter coughs out a loud laugh at the Horcrux reference, Weasley’s jaw drops almost dramatically, as though he’s in some sort of gauche film, and Granger starts giggling. She was generally a quiet drunk. Rum seemed to snap all of the excessive knowledge right out of her, and Draco thought it was quite nice to see her actually sit and enjoy herself every once and awhile, rather than being the picture of control.
“You know she pensieved it for me once,” The Dragon Tamer says, and a dangly silver charm that’s hanging from his right ear glitters dangerously in the low light of the pub. “Her coming of age party. Everything really was black. Even the food. Though I think she may have tampered with the memories a touch. They got a bit fuzzy at parts.”
The table is a giggling, sloppy mess, and Pansy sits up in her seat, smiling despite herself. “You have enough to handle when I’m at my worst now, you don’t need to know my worst back then.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens the line of her back and Charlie bumps her a bit, shoulder to shoulder, and Draco is amused by how taken they are with each other.
“I bore the brunt of that for you, didn’t I, Charlie?” Draco says. “Sixteen year old Pansy? You’re welcome for that.”
“In that case, next round is on me, yeah?” he waves over to the bar, the charming silver glint dangling at his jaw.
Blaise leans forward to get the Dragon Tamer’s attention and says, “Then I deserve a double don’t I? Had to deal with sixteen year old Pansy and Draco.” He catches Draco’s eyes and flashes him a predatory smile. “Potter,” he sneers in a perfect imitation of Draco, but his teeth gleam prettily. Thomas lifts a hand to wrap around the back of Blaise’s neck and the two look at each other, sharing a quiet smile as the table erupts in a chorus of Potter, Saint Potter and Harry Bloody Potter. It’s become a bit of a challenge, who can sound most like Malfoy, but nobody is anywhere as good as Blaise, nobody but Potter himself who sounds eerily like Draco.
In the distraction, Draco flicks his wrist and Potter goes momentarily rigid mid-laugh. He was caught off guard, and Draco’s smirk is back. It’s just a little sensory charm. One Draco slaved over learning to do wandlessly and nonverbally. It’d taken him half a year to perfect, but it was worth it because Potter’s nerves are now haywire. Just his thumb rubbing over Draco’s scar is enough to send a wild pleasure running down to his gut. He squirms, and Draco runs his two fingers over his wrist again. We’re entertaining, Potter.
Potter listens. He always listens so well. So he makes a joke about his friend’s poor attempts at mimicry and then he belts out his own name in the perfect rendition of Draco. His arm tightens around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him closer into his side. That means his thumb slips further down the scar, and he’s likely close to overwhelmed by Draco’s heat pressed completely down his side. He hides it well enough, but Draco can feel the tremble in the thigh pressed up against his own.
The table erupts in groans. Weasley actually boo’s. Potter smirks, and Draco does too, but only because his influence on Potter is tantalizing and seeing his own expressions mirrored back at him from Potter’s face is a little breathtaking. He moves his hand from his own lap to Potter’s. He just rests it gently there on his knee, and his legs fall open a little. Draco can feel how on edge he is. Potter is so tense, wrapped around him. He rubs his thumb in small, innocent circles, but Potter is so sensitive that he’s practically rigid under Draco’s touch.
“Of course Harry would have it down,” Luna says, and Draco smiles at her indulgently because this is always Luna’s take. “He was probably more obsessed with Draco than Draco was with him. Wrackspurt patterns never lie, you know.”
“We don’t talk about sixth year,” Potter says and Draco laughs because they sure as hell do talk about sixth year. Potter still has a sick sort of obsession over what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom. It’s only in front of everyone that they can’t really go there, and especially not under the sensory charm.
“What about third?” Thomas says lowly, and Harry groans so quietly that Draco barely hears it. It’s mostly a soft rattle in Potter’s chest. Thomas’s teeth are sharp, like Blaise’s, but the telling gleam is in his eyes. They’re such a light green, and gleam dangerously against his dark skin. He knows something the rest of the table doesn’t seem to, judging by Wealey and Granger’s faces.
“Play nicely, love,” Blaise says and Thomas is practically glowing in his amusement.
Potter turns his face into Draco, a subtle show of his embarrassment, but he goes rigid, and Draco knows it has something to do with the brush of his hair against Potter’s cheek. He likes that enough without the charm.
“Are we going to embarrass the Gryffindors or are you going to tell me about it later?” Draco speaks in a whisper, but knows it’s not enough that the Dragon Tamer and Blaise and Thomas won’t hear.
Thomas grins something feral and Blaise turns to him. It’s something magnetic and Draco prides himself in this Merlin made match he’s helped develop.
“Harry didn’t learn any decent privacy spells until at least 6th year, did you Harry?”
Ron groans and Potter has resigned himself to the conversation. He seems more than a little amused by it himself, now.
“At least I learned one at all,” Potter says and Thomas and Blaise are both suddenly all teeth.
“Someone had to pick up the role of entertainer where you left it off,” Thomas says, then he turns to look directly at Draco. “You know, Harry has always been a morning person. It just took him years to realize I was, too. Didn’t it Harry?” Thomas had put on an air of casual indifference, leaned forward there, with his chest pressed to the edge of the table as he spoke to Draco, but he was smug. It was probably clear to everyone in the entire pub who bothered to care that he was smug.
Granger erupted into aggressive giggles, and Draco didn’t have to look up at him to know that Potter was smiling at her. He had the softest fondness for Granger. She was and always had been so brutally behind Potter’s every move, in a way that nobody else ever had been, that some part of Potter practically melted for her. He loved her so aggressively that Draco couldn’t help but feel the same protective indulgence of her. There was no brushing aside any part of Granger, you begrudgingly admire all of her tendencies, no matter how overwhelming they could potentially be.
“The rest of those arseholes would sleep till noon if you’d allow it.”
Draco looked to Weasley who shrugged and Longbottom smiled in good nature, “we weren’t all that bad, mate.”
“All I’m saying is Harry could probably rattle off a pretty good ‘Potter’ by third year, couldn’t you Harry?”
Potter was close to shivering against Draco’s side. He pulled away a little, so he could turn and look Draco in the eye. His eyes dropped down to his lips, then to the collar of his shirt, and finally back up to his eyes. He grinned. It spread slow across his face, something Draco would swear he’d picked up from Lucius.
Visits to Azkaban had become another strange fascination of Harry’s.
“Yeah, I bet I could have,” he said after a moment. Weasley groaned loud enough for the whole table and Pansy was positively delighted.
Charlie returned and she leaned over to whisper something to him. He just shook his head, and a tuft of orange hair fell into his face, blocking the glint of silver dangling from his ear.
“Why do we always learn too much about Harry on pub night?” Weasley called out to the masses, likely making the rest of the pub occupants jealous. Maybe even intentionally. Granger giggled and turned her face into his shoulder.
Draco smiled at her fondly. It couldn’t be helped.
“Because he likes it,” Draco said.
Potter pressed into his scar. Draco dropped his hand to Potter’s thigh and rubbed gentle circles into the fabric of his jeans. Potter went rigid.
“I think I’ve found my dress,” Hermione said suddenly. She had to be taking pity on Weasley. “But I can’t show you because Ronald’s here.”
“Boo!” Pansy hollered. She threw a balled up napkin towards the center of the table. “Beat it Weasley. We must see the dress.”
“Where do you suppose I go?”
“Line to the loo should keep you occupied for a time,” Thomas grinned.
Weasley jerked around. There was a line. He groaned again. It seemed to be the sound he was most comfortable making.
“Shoo, Ronald. Give the girls a moment,” Blaise said with a wiggle of his fingers.
Weasley put on the dramatics. He rolled his eyes and scraped his way up from the table, but he was smiling as he went. As he should be. He was marrying Granger.
Granger pulled out her wand with an intricate little twirl. Then she held her fist out in front of her, fingers up, and when she uncurled them a little replica of her dress appeared.
Of course Potter and Draco had already seen it. They’d scoured the shops with her, setting up appointment after appointment after she’d been discouraged with finding something she was truly happy with. It’d been on Narcissa’s insistence that they visit a friend of hers in France that they’d found it.
The dress was a beautiful satin number. It loosely hugged Granger's body, with just enough structure in the bodice that it sat prettily and delicately against her frame. It was like the stark white upgrade of the jaw-dropper she’d worn to the Yule Ball.
Luna was going on about the benefits of silk on a wedding day, applauding Granger for her brilliant choice. Draco wasn’t going to be the one to tell her it was pure coincidence.
Pansy was crooning. Talking about hair and veils and diamonds.
Potter leaned back against Draco. They’d done their job helping to find it in the first place.
Blaise let out a low whistle and Granger looked up at him shyly. It was normal that Blaise threw people off their game. Normal for people to be shy around him. It was just strange that Granger was, too. When Draco had first started coming around for Potter, she’d walked right up to him, demanded an apology, and reminded him that he’d deserved being punched in the face in third year.
“I’m jealous, darling,” Blaise said, “you’re going to look nothing short of ravishing. Don’t think I wasn’t absolutely fawning over you when you showed up draped in silk with Krum dangling off you as arm candy. There wasn’t a boy in Hogwarts who didn’t need to catch his breath.” His teeth were gleaming in that predatory way and it didn’t help that Thomas was grinning beside him. A twin pair of sparking grins.
Draco could feel the burn of Potter's skin getting hotter against his side. Could feel it shining through him. Another shiver as Potter rubbed at the top of his scar, and Draco ran the back of his fingers along the side of Potter's thigh.
A hard exhale. Draco smiled at Granger. Let his fingers drift up and pressed down into the soft, relaxed muscle. Don't get caught, Potter.
