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