Sunday, 15 December 2002

Draco experimentally opened one of his eyes, just to be greeted by harsh sunlight that made him feel like his head was exploding. Ugh! He hadn’t felt this horrible since two years ago, when Blaise had needed a drinking buddy, after he had caught his then-girlfriend cheating on him. That had been the worst hangover of his life. But, from the looks of it, this one seemed to be turning into a close runner-up.

Whimpering, he dragged himself to the bathroom and rummaged through the cab for a hangover potion. He hated that stuff, it tasted awful, and it didn’t really help with the headache, but still, it was quicker than just waiting for the queasiness to subside. When he found it, he quickly uncorked the little vial and downed it in one gulp, immediately brushing his teeth afterwards to get rid of the aftertaste.

Groggily, he trudged back to his bed but before he could plop down on it, he heard something over by the windows. Frowning, he let the unfamiliar barn-owl flutter in and watched it land on a chair. His eyes fell to the letter tied to the owl’s foot. If this was a note from Blaise, mocking him for last night, Draco would make sure he would never be able to use his hands again.

Mere seconds after he finished untying the letter, the owl screeched and took off again. Apparently, whoever had sent it didn’t expect a reply. Draco watched the owl vanish into the sky, before sinking down on his bed, careful not to make any sudden movements. The potion was working, he did feel better, but he still had a splitting headache.

It was his own fault. He never should have agreed to drinking firewhiskey with Potter. Oh. Oh no. He had drunk firewhiskey with Potter. But…fuck, he couldn’t remember what they had talked about. Something…about Blaise’s constant flirting…and…maybe Potter’s work and…nothing, he had no idea. Well, shit!

Absentmindedly, he opened the letter he was still holding, taking in the familiar handwriting.

Hopefully you’re still in bed when you see this.

You can thank me later for sparing you the pain of spilling hot coffee all over yourself.

Draco frowned. He turned the letter over to find something attached to the back of it. It looked like an article from the Daily Prophet; today’s Daily Prophet, Draco realised as his eyes widened. There was a picture of him and Potter, talking animatedly. The caption read something about the highly sessful charity gala and how Potter had helped with it blah blah blah. It was the same balderdash as always. He scanned the paragraphs for the words “Ex-Death Eater” but found they had simply called him “socialite Draco Malfoy”. He scrunched up his nose, not sure if he liked that new title. But, whatever, he was far more interested in the picture anyway. He didn’t remember that. Any of it. Potter started laughing, apparently at something Draco had said. It did weird things to his stomach.

Something else seemed to have caught Potter’s attention, and while he looked away, picture-Draco’s eyes were still fixed on him. His look was so full of yearning, Draco suddenly felt sick again. Oh, for fuck’s sake! And this was in today’s Prophet? For the whole freaking Wizarding World to see? Potter had probably seen it by now as well. Fuck! Fuck!

Why had Draco agreed to the firewhiskey? Why had he invited Potter to the gala? Why was he still here? Why couldn’t the ground open and swallow him up?

As Draco sat there, feeling dizzy all over again, he came to the conclusion he couldn’t really be blamed for any of this. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get the insufferable prat out of his head. No, it was entirely Potter’s fault. And he was going to pay for it.

Monday, 23 December 2002

When Draco left Madam Malkin’s, holding a bag with his new robes he planned to wear on Christmas, themotion in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies immediately caught his attention. Arching an eyebrow, he approached the cluster of people, careful not to get too close to the ones who were squeaking and jumping up and down. What were they—Ah, of course. Potter.

Apparently, he was trying to politely decline all the biscuits and presents that were being shoved at him.

“That’s very kind of you, Madam, truly, but I really can’t—Oh, thank you, but I shouldn’t—”

They didn’t even let him talk, Draco thought irritatedly. Four bloody years after the war, and people still lost their minds over him. Ugh.

“Potter,” he called, startling the witch beside him. Potter’s eyes instantly found his, a mixture of confusion and excitement in them. Fuck, why did he have to look at Draco like that? e here,e on, we need to go. Now!” He stretched out his arm to make room for Potter to walk through, not giving a damn about being scowled at.

Potter shook hands with a few people, thanked them over and over again, and even apologised, before he threw Draco a grateful look as they hurried down Diagon Alley.

“Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “People get a bit crazy around the holidays.”

“I noticed,” Draco said curtly. “You could have just told them to leave you alone.”

“I’m not very good at that,” Potter admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I noticed,” Draco repeated dryly.

“It’s just…so many peoplee to me and tell me their stories, how they survived the war, how they never stopped believing in me…Sure, there are a lot of crazy people too, but… I can’t just tell them to bugger off.”

“Of course you can.”

Potter sighed. “Believe me, I’ve lost my temper enough times to know how that ends. As long as they’re being friendly,” he shrugged, “it’s okay.”

Draco shook his head. Potter was such a goody two-shoes.

Diagon Alley was buzzing with people, all laden with shopping bags. Some stopped and stared as Draco and Potter walked past them. It was highly ufortable. Draco didn’t even know why he had pulled Potter away from those people. It irritated him, the way they practically mauled him but that was none of his business, was it? He hadn’t even thought about it, but now…now he was walking down Diagon Alley with Potter, who he had tried to stop thinking about since Blaise sent him that article. He still flinched whenever he thought about the way he had been looking at the prat in that picture. He didn’t even want to think about the ways Potter was probably going to tease him about it.

“Doing some last minute Christmas shopping?” Potter asked, peeking at Draco’s bag.

“Not exactly,” Draco replied, avoiding Potter’s gaze. “Just some new robes.”

“Ah,” Potter said. “Is there anywhere else you need to go?”

Draco hesitated, wondering if this was some kind of trap. “No. Actually, I was just on my way—”

“Good. How about we get a drink?”

Draco stopped, almost dropping his bag. A drink? With Potter? Was he serious?

“Why?” was the only thing he found himself capable of saying.

“Why not?” Potter shrugged.

“Because…” Draco didn’t know what else to say.

e on,” Potter said. “Let’s go to the Leaky Cauldron.”

Draco followed him silently, not sure whether to be excited or mortified. Bumping into Potter was one thing, spending more time with him than necessary, on the other hand, was very dangerous. Draco almost felt like a teenager again; insecure, angry, foolish. It wasn’t a goodbination.

Tom showed them to a table and, as soon as they placed their orders with him, a torturous silence stretched between them.

“I really enjoyed the gala,” Potter said after a while. Draco cleared his throat and simply nodded. He refrained from pointing out that Potter had looked utterly ufortable the whole evening. “You never got back to me about another drink,” Potter added.

“What?” Draco spluttered.

“You know, I told you to owl me if you wanted to grab drinks.” He didn’t sound offended, which made Draco wonder why he was bringing it up at all.

“We’re having drinks now,” he pointed out. In all honesty, Draco didn’t remember that particular conversation. Apparently, there was a lot he didn’t remember about that night. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have owled Potter. Immediately.

“Yeah, but only because we bumped into each other.” Potter gave him a speculative glance. “Are you anti-social in general or didn’t you want to get drinks with me specifically?”

Draco suppressed the choking noise he had been about to make, pressing his lips into a tight line. Had Potter always been this blunt?

“I’m a busy person,” he shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

“Here you go,” Tom said as he placed a butterbeer in front of Potter and a camomile tea in front of Draco. Potter eyed the tea for a second, before he grinned and took a sip of his butterbeer.

“Feeling nervous, Malfoy?”

Ugh, that cocky bastard!

“Maybe this is why I didn’t want to get drinks with you,” Draco said, almost snapped, actually. “You’re still so full of yourself.”

Potter studied his butterbeer, not taking his eyes off it as he answered. “You’re not still hung up on the past, are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco said, furrowing his brows.

“We’ve grown up,” Potter said with a shrug. “We talked about what happened.”

Indeed they had. Potter had practically forced Draco to talk to him after his trial, even though, or maybe especially because, he had refused to at first. Draco had felt too ashamed, too embarrassed, but also too angry to talk to Potter. It was just the icing on the cake that Potter, of all people, had been the one to save him. Again. And even though gratitude had been somewhere in the mix, it had mostly felt degrading.

As always, things had beenplicated.

Draco hadn’t believed his ears when Potter had told him he didn’t hold a grudge against him. Sometimes, Draco almost felt like he had gotten off too easy. He hadn’t understood how Potter could ive him for what he had done. How could Potter ive him when Draco hadn’t iven himself? Sometimes, when he was feeling gloomy, he still asked himself that question.

“That doesn’t automatically mean everything’s otten,” Draco murmured, curling his fingers around his cup. His skin soaked up the warmth, calming him.

“Is that why you avoided me at the gala?” Potter asked. “Or why you’re avoiding looking at me right now?”

Draco’s eyes involuntarily snapped up to Potter’s. They were soft and warm, not at all what he had expected.

“I liked talking to you. Especially while you were in such a good mood.”

“Good mood?” Draco echoed. “I was drunk, Potter.”

“I know,” he smiled. “But it made you…a little less serious. I liked that.” The smile widened.

Fuck. What was going on? The few times he had bumped into Potter over the years had been nothing like this. Granted, Potter had been friendly but he had also been curt and aloof. Draco had gotten the impression Potter was doing what he thought was required of him. But this, Potter being openly nice to him, was a first. And it was horrible. It only made things worse.

“Howe you’re not at work at two in the afternoon on a Monday?” Draco said after clearing his throat. “Are you already on holiday? I didn’t take you for the type to take a

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