Chapter Text
17th May, 2006
Harry Potter was not unfamiliar with wedding venues.
Since their engagement the previous year, they had visited no less than thirty. Harry had liked the majority of them, whereas Draco loathed all but one, which is the one Harry despised the most.
Currently, they stood in the shadow of a wisteria, which stood proudly beside a large Georgian manor house. Harry really liked it, but he did think it was slightly too grand for them. Well, too grand for him. Since they’d started dating, Harry had become more and more convinced that Draco was in fact a long-lost Prince. His tastes were so precise and immaculate, not to mention expensive, that Harry often got a headache trying to keep up with Draco’s materialistic reasoning.
The previous summer, when he took Draco to Oxford Street for some muggle clothes, he had nudged Draco into the general direction of some of the more reasonably priced shops. Not because either of them struggled financially (both had inherited a rather large fortune separately), but because Harry could never justify spending ridiculous amounts of money on designer brands.
However, Draco had turned his nose up at all of the ‘normal’ shops (as Harry called them) and wandered into Selfridges. Draco managed to spend £15,000 in one go, and Harry was furious when Draco revealed he’d spent £800 on a jumper for Harry.
“But that’s an obscene amount of money,” Harry had whined. “Seriously, thanks, but I’m too scared to wear it.”
“Scared?” Draco had queried with a smirk. “That’s not very Gryffindor of you.”
Harry sighed, exasperated. “Yes, Draco, scared. You know I’ll tear it on something or drop something down it the moment I put it on.”
“So don’t do either of those things,” Draco replied simply, holding the yellow bag out for Harry to carry.
“I think you know that’s not an option,” Harry grumbled, excepting the bag with a soft peck to Draco’s cheek, which served to tell Draco that whilst Harry was slightly annoyed, he still loved Draco a lot.
Harry wore the jumper once before promptly spilling coffee down the front.
Harry recalled the memory as he squinted at the manor house. He already knew they wouldn’t get married there; Draco had turned his nose up at the building the moment they’d driven up to the car park.
“It’s nice, don’t you think?” Harry whispered, nudging Draco with his elbow. “Smile. You’re scowling.”
“I’ll smile when I’m happy,” Draco replied stiffly, glowering at the preppy woman who was giving them a rather animated tour of the manor’s grounds.
“Queen Victoria visited these gardens no less than five times during her life. We actually have an extract from one of her diaries, where she described how wonderfully the wild garlic complimented the borders…”
Draco sipped his champagne and rolled his eyes, whilst Harry acknowledged the woman’s information with a polite: “really? Wow.”
Afterwards, when they climbed back into Harry’s car and Harry started the engine, Draco slumped in his seat and let out a long groan.
“This is hopeless,” he said, closing his eyes. “Everywhere is shit.”
“Everywhere is not shit,” Harry corrected him. “You’re just picky.”
“And you’re not picky enough,” Draco retorted. “Did you see the stucco in the ballroom?”
“You have to know I have no idea what stucco is,” Harry replied, his hand on the back of Draco’s seat as he reversed.
“The gold on the ceiling,” Draco explained.
“Oh.” Harry nodded, concentrating on not reversing into a rose bush. “Yeah, it was nice.” In reality, Harry held exactly zero opinions on the ballroom ceiling. He didn’t even understand why they needed a ballroom – he couldn’t dance for shit, except for carrying out his ‘Dad moves’, as Hermione affectionately called them.
“It was falling apart, Harry,” Draco complained, putting his feet on the dashboard.
“Oi,” Harry bat Draco’s knee. “Feet off. If we crash, your knees will go straight through your brain.”
“That hardly sounds like a bad thing,” Draco said grumpily. “A knee through the brain might lower my sense of taste and allow me to be satisfied with one of these horrendous venues. Why does nobody have any taste?”
Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead whilst he waited to pull out of the private road and onto the main one. Cars whizzed by, and Harry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting impatiently.
He decided not to reply to Draco’s question. It was probably rhetorical.
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t apparate,” Draco continued, and Harry found himself having to bite his tongue.
He was quickly becoming tired of having the same discussion. Constantly justifying his reasoning behind doing ‘Muggle’ things was becoming tiresome, and Draco’s whinging throughout the day had put him in a bad mood.
Most of the time, Harry found it quite endearing, but sometimes it became slightly too grating.
“Look at the road, Malfoy,” Harry said, slightly snappier than he originally intended. “There are no pavements, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. We couldn’t feasibly walk here without raising a few eyebrows from the staff at the house.”
To Harry’s surprise, Draco slouched.
Harry sighed. He knew Draco well enough to understand that when Draco slouched, it meant he was in a fowl mood.
Wedding venue searching often resulted in an argument, and not the good kind that usually ended in sex. These arguments were childish and vindictive, and left both of them tired and agitated.
Draco would say something cruel, and Harry would say something mean, and Draco would say that he just wanted everything to be perfect and why couldn’t Harry see that, and Harry would say that he understood that but he really couldn’t give a shit about the venue, and explain that he’d be happy marrying Draco in the Shrieking Shack if it meant they were married.
That usually won Draco back over, but Draco would still sulk over whatever mean thing Harry had said.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, finally pulling out onto the main road and hastily putting his foot down to get his battered Freelander up to the speed limit.
The first few times Harry had driven Draco, Draco had been amazed at Harry’s ability to control a car, even though Harry pointed out that most muggles could do it. Now, he just complained every time Harry hit a pothole or drove too close to a cyclist whilst overtaking.
Draco refused to learn how to drive.
“Nothing,” Draco mumbled, looking out of the window. He drummed his fingers on his knee, which he still hadn’t moved from the dashboard.
Harry barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he said. “What have I done wrong this time?”
“How do you know I’m upset with you?” Draco asked, turning to look at him.
“So, you are upset with me,” Harry said, and Draco looked away again. “Come on, spill. Tell me what I’ve done wrong so that I can apologise, and I won’t accidentally upset you that way again.”
Draco sighed. “It’s stupid.”
“Probably,” Harry agreed, “but I can’t try to correct my mistake if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he pointed out.
Draco sat up.
“You called me Malfoy.”
“Ah. Well, that is your name,” Harry said, smiling slightly as the root cause of the problem dawned on him.
Draco pissed Harry off a lot of the time, but he was also incredibly cute sometimes. Harry found it difficult to stay angry for long – most of the time.
“You usually call me Draco,” Draco replied testily, and Harry grinned, his suspicions confirmed. “I don’t like it when you call me anything other than Draco anymore. You only call me Malfoy when you’re pissed off.”
Draco always became upset over the pettiest things.
“Sorry, Draco, I didn’t realise,” Harry corrected, fighting to keep the humour out of his voice. “But are you sure you only like to be called Draco? And not something else? Like darling?” Harry’s grin broadened as he watched the tips of Draco’s ears redden.
“Shut up, Potter,” Draco grumbled, glaring at his reflection in the passenger window.
“Call me Potter all you want,” Harry said, shrugging. “I don’t care, I actually think I prefer it. But does this mean that you don’t like it when I call you darling?” Harry briefly took his eyes off the road to look at Draco.
“Shut your mouth,” Draco said through gritted teeth.
“Sorry, could you repeat that, darling?” Harry asked, grinning. He reached over and patted Draco’s knee. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Now you’re just being an idiot,” Draco huffed, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” Harry hummed. “Is there something else I could call you instead? How about dear Draco? My dearest Draco?” He paused, then said: “Daddy Draco?”
Harry snorted with laughter as Draco punched him (playfully) in the side.
“Hey! Not whilst I’m driving!” Harry chastised, still laughing as they joined the motorway.
Draco leaned against the passenger-side door.
“I’ll make you pay for that,” Draco said, and Harry laughed.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Harry chuckled. “But don’t forget that McGonagall is coming over later, so you’ll either have to make me pay before she visits, or afterwards.”
Draco frowned, sitting up slightly.
“Why’s she coming over?” He asked.
Harry shrugged.
“Not sure, she said she has a proposition for me.”
Draco’s frown deepened, though it wasn’t related to their new strain of conversation.
“Hang on, why can’t I make you pay before and after?” He asked.
Harry smiled ruefully. “You’ve had a glass of champagne, I didn’t think you’d be up for two rounds.”
Harry laughed as Draco spluttered a protest.
“You’re so rude,” Draco said. “I don’t think I want to marry you anymore.”
“Fine by me,” Harry said, stifling a yawn as Draco glared at him, worry briefly covering his face before he relaxed again, realising that Harry was taking the piss. “I can stop giving up my days off to drive you to places that you’ll only slag off.”
Draco frowned.
“You don’t mean that,” he said sulkily. “You want to marry me.”
“Do I?” Harry asked, trying to hold back his smile with little success.
“Yes, you do,” Draco said firmly.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” Draco nodded.
“Fine,” Harry sighed, forlorn. “I do want to marry you.”
Draco smiled and peeled Harry’s hand off his knee. He clutched it in his own and kissed the back of it, and Harry grinned.
“I love you,” he said, leaning over to kiss Draco’s cheek.
“I love you too, idiot,” Draco replied exasperatedly, and he didn’t let go of Harry’s hand until they felt the motorway forty minutes later.
—
Draco had been the potions master at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries when he re-met Potter.
Potter had been brought in after being spiked with unknown truth serum. Draco had great fun teasing Potter about his problem. A few dramatic things had happened along the way, but ultimately, Potter being spiked meant that two years down the line, at approximately two o’clock in the afternoon, Draco was confidently striding up the quiet village street they both lived on, holding Potter’s hand tightly in his own, with every intention of ploughing Potter into the following week.
They reached the tidy front door, Draco hastily unlocked it and pulled Potter inside.
It was fair to say that the last two years of Draco’s life had been some of his happiest.
From his first official date with Harry (they went for coffee and cake in a little café near Harry’s house), to climbing Mount Snowdon (which Draco had not enjoyed in the slightest), to his slightly rocky proposal (Harry thought he was joking and had sworn at Draco very loudly in front of all of their friends), to Harry barging into St Mungo’s with a broken foot and refusing to see anyone except Draco, Draco knew he’d made the right decision in coming clean about his feelings.
Prior to Potter, Draco hadn’t realised any single person could make him so obnoxiously happy.
He knew he wound Potter up a lot, and he knew that he wasn’t the easiest person to love, but Potter never made it seem like loving Draco was a chore. They had arguments, certainly, but Draco had never been scared they’d break up because of them. He knew that (one way or the other), they’d forgive each other and move on.
From the very start, Potter had been adamant that communication was key and Draco couldn’t help but agree. There were the odd instances where Potter would give him the silent treatment, but Draco had quickly learned that it was mostly because Potter needed time to think, rather than to serve as a punishment for Draco.
“What’re you thinking about?” Potter asked. He leaned against the wall as he prized his shoes off. He never undid the laces, but always stood on the back of his heel and spent ages pulling his foot out. It was particularly taxing to watch when he wore converse.
“Nothing in particular,” Draco commented, hanging his jacket on a coat peg.
Potter’s shoe came loose and collided with the wall.
“Daydreaming?” Potter asked.
“Something like that,” Draco replied, as he took Potter’s hand again.
Potter smiled slightly, looking down at their intwined hands, then back up at Draco, apparently confused.
“What’re you doing?” Potter asked.
“Well, I’m currently holding your hand,” Draco said, rolling his eyes, “and in a moment, we’re going to go up to bed, and within twenty minutes you’ll be reminding the whole street that my name is Draco.”
Potter laughed but cocked an eyebrow all the same.
“Really? You’re that sure of yourself?”
Draco took a step forwards, closing the gap between them. Potter looked up at him, a little surprised but his smile was infectious, and Draco couldn’t help but smile as he backed Potter up against the front door, still holding his hand.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said quietly, glancing between Potter’s mouth and eyes, drinking him in whilst he crowded Potter’s vision.
He couldn’t wait another second.
He kissed Potter softly, and Potter kissed him back enthusiastically, trying to move closer to Draco but Draco remained firmly gentle. He swiped his tongue across Potter’s bottom lip and Potter barely managed to suppress a whimper.
Draco rummaged around in his back pocket and extracted something he’d been carrying all day. Briefly, he let go of Potter’s hand and hastily closed a handcuff around Potter’s wrist.
Potter broke away from the kiss.
“Handcuffs?” Potter laughed. “Wait, have you been carrying those around with you all day?”
“Yep,” Draco replied, popping the p. He held onto the open ring and began walking towards the stairs, dragging Potter with him.
Potter continued to laugh.
“So you were planning on using handcuffs on me at some point whilst we were out?” Potter asked.
It always amazed Draco how Potter could stay smiling whilst he was being tied up, or being dragged around, or really just letting Draco do whatever the fuck he wanted.
They’d tried it the other way around once. Draco had screamed bloody murder at Potter, demanding that Potter untie him the moment he became slightly immobile.
Draco liked tying Potter up, though, and if Potter was more than happy to be tied up by Draco, then there really wasn’t a problem if Potter smiled a lot.
“Well, I wasn’t sure,” Draco said. “Also, you’re not supposed to be smiling. This is supposed to be an adrenaline fuelled moment and you’re supposed to be excited about the prospect of letting me have my way with you.”
“I am excited,” Potter said, though he kept smiling. “Sorry for being happy in your presence. I’ll try to be grumpier.” He cleared his throat, then continued in the most sarcastically sad voice he could muster as they walked up the stairs. “Oh no, I’m being tied up… whatever shall I do… I’m so scared…”
Draco rolled his eyes, pushing Potter over onto the bed. He landed with a soft thump.
“Do you know what? Fuck you. You can sort yourself out.”
Potter pouted as Draco stood between Potter’s knees, looking down at him.
Potter’s arm rested on the duvet above his head, still with one cuffed wrist. His jumper had ridden up slightly, revealing his stomach. The way Potter looked up at him with his pout steadily morphing back into a smile, his focus entirely on Draco, almost made Draco cave.
“Fuck,” Draco leaned forwards, planting his hands on either side of Potter’s head. “I hate how much I love you.”
Potter grinned and pushed himself up onto his elbows so that his and Draco’s noses were almost touching.
“You know we’re engaged, right?” He asked. “You don’t have to pretend that you hate me anymore. If you’ve forgotten then I’m a little bit concerned. You proposed to me, remember?”
Draco rolled his eyes and pecked Potter’s nose. The resulting blush that spread across Potter’s cheeks made him do it again.
“Of course I didn’t forget,” Draco said. “How could I forget? You never shut up about it.”
Potter gaped.
“You’re joking, right? Who was it who sent me an owl whilst I was at my muggle job to say that – Mhm.”
Draco cut Potter off by kissing him softly, and he felt Potter melt beneath him.
Draco learned a long time ago that the best way to distract Potter was to either kiss him, or mention Quidditch. Draco preferred kissing Potter, though, so that’s the tactic he used most often.
Potter sighed softly, completely relaxed while Draco busied himself locking the second cuff around Potter’s other wrist.
“There we go,” Draco whispered, pulling away from Potter only briefly.
“You forgot to take my jumper off,” Potter said quietly.
“Your jumper doesn’t need to be off,” Draco replied, kissing the corner of Potter’s mouth as he cupped Potter’s crotch beneath his jeans.
Potter groaned and rolling his hips up into Draco’s hand, and Draco kissed just beneath Potter’s jawline whilst he palmed Potter’s crotch.
“Fuck,” Potter gasped, and Draco grinned.
He loved watching Potter come apart. He loved listening to Potter moan.
How Draco had managed to get so lucky, he had no idea.
Hastily, he undid the fly of Potter’s jeans and the button. He tugged Potter’s jeans down, followed swiftly by his boxers.
Potter’s cock lay flush against his lower stomach, and Draco wrapped his hand around the base as Potter groaned.
“Fucking hell, Potter,” Draco said, leaning over and fishing the bottle of lube out of the bedside table. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already rock hard. Pathetic.”
Draco grinned at Potter’s glare as he poured lube onto his hand, then rubbed it between his palms to warm it up slightly.
“Shut up. You’re jealous because mine’s bigger than yours,” Potter said testily, and Draco’s grin broadened.
“That’s a lot of words for a man who’s tied up,” Draco replied. “Especially when I can make him shut up with one move.”
Potter raised an eyebrow. “One move?”
“Yes, one move.”
Draco smiled and leaned over. He pressed a soft kiss to Potter’s forehead, and Potter instantly went quiet.
“Told you,” Draco whispered. “Look at your little face. You’re so cute.”
Potter blushed, and Draco kissed him softly, wrapping his hand around the base of Potter’s cock again before pulling up, dragging a soft moan from Potter.
Draco gently bit down on Potter’s bottom lip as he ran his thumb over the head of Potter’s cock, and Potter shivered, putty beneath Draco’s hands.
Draco began stroking Potter more earnestly; Potter’s moans were like music to his ears, like a siren’s song and Draco kept going, desperate to hear more of the obscene noises Potter made against Draco’s lips and tongue as he snogged him hungrily.
It didn’t take Potter long to cum, moaning Draco’s name (upon Draco’s request, of course), and Draco kept kissing him, content that he was the only person who could make the great golden Potter like this.
Draco was sure he was the key to Potter’s happiness, and that’s the way he wanted it to stay.
—
At precisely four o’clock, Professor McGonagall rang Harry and Draco’s front doorbell.
Harry opened the front door seconds after the bell rang, slightly too excited (and a little nervous), to see the his old Head of House.
McGonagall smiled warmly at him. She wore a billowing tartan cloak that was entirely different to the muggle clothes Harry always wore, and her grey hair was pulled up into its usual tight bun.
She hadn’t changed at all since Harry had last seen her in 2003, at an event that marked five years since the Battle of Hogwarts. At the time, Harry had been unprecedentedly miserable and was more than ready to give up his ambition of becoming an auror.
McGonagall telling Harry that she was proud of him was one of the reasons Harry stayed on the course.
“Potter,” McGonagall said excitedly (or with as much excited as Harry presumed her capable). “I am here to see whether you’d be interested in applying for a vacancy at Hogwarts.”
Harry stared at her. “I… what?”
“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” McGonagall explained, her usually raised eyebrows doing a strange animated dance as she fought to contain her enthusiasm. “We have a vacancy. Professor Buzwell handed in his notice yesterday, and you were the first person I thought of to take up the position.”
Harry blinked.
“Wow, urm. Come in,” Harry said. He stepped aside and held the door open for McGonagall, who hurried inside. He closed the door behind her, with the strange feeling of disbelief settling on his brain.
“Oh, hello, Mr Malfoy,” Harry heard McGonagall say, as he followed her into the house.
“Good afternoon, professor,” came Draco’s polite but slightly curt reply. “Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely, Malfoy. Thank you.”
McGonagall sat down in one of the sofas, and Draco vanished into the kitchen. Harry thought Draco seemed like he was in a bad mood.
He decided he’d find out later.
“So, a teaching?” Harry asked, taking a seat on the adjacent sofa to McGonagall’s and turning to face her. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
—
In the kitchen, Draco’s insides had turned to lead.
He heard McGonagall tell Potter about the job at the front door, and he immediately knew he could never allow Potter to make such a stupid decision.
Potter couldn’t go back to Hogwarts. That was in Scotland, and they lived in Somerset, almost the opposite end of the UK. What was Draco supposed to do if he couldn’t see Potter everyday?
Draco quickly made tea, then made his way back into the lounge, trying to appear as casual as possible, like his insides weren’t rotting at the possibility of Potter moving away from him.
“Of course, the curriculum has changed somewhat,” McGonagall was saying, “in response to everything that has happened. All first years learn protective spells, for instance.”
“That makes sense,” Harry said, nodding. He thanked Draco for the tea as Draco sat down next to him.
McGonagall had never seemed particularly bothered by Draco. Certainly, she was never rude to him, or showed any form of distaste at the fact that he was Slytherin whilst he was at school, but Draco always felt slightly intimidated by the woman.
He supposed she’s have to be slightly formidable if she was in charge of the most feral house at Hogwarts, but the way she looked at Draco now told him that she didn’t trust him in the slightest. Like his days were numbered if he dare insult Potter in front of her.
“I’d love to, Professor,” Potter began, and Draco’s heart soared. Potter’s sentence would almost certainly continue with a ‘but’. Draco could imagine it.
“I’d love to, Professor, but I’m marrying Draco so I can’t.”
Or: “I’d love to, Professor, but I’d miss my fiancé too much.”
Or: “I’d love to, Professor, but I love my future husband so much I couldn’t possibly leave him.”
None of Draco’s imagined responses happened.
“But I haven’t any teaching experience,” Potter said stupidly, “and I work in a garden centre… my last interaction with the dark arts was helping Luna Lovegood get rid of a boggart.”
Both Draco and McGonagall stared at Potter incredulously.
“Are you joking?” Draco asked after a moment’s pause, Potter’s stupidity momentarily distracting him from how badly he needed Potter to turn the job down. “You literally defeated You-Know-Who.”
Draco used to call Voldemort ‘The Dark Lord’, but Potter said it made him want to throw up, so Draco changed his vocabulary.
“I know that,” Potter said. “What I mean is that…”
McGonagall cut him off.
“Potter, you spent almost a year teaching your classmates defensive spells in secret, and Neville has been singing your praises about how much of an effective teacher you were. He’s recently accepted the position as Herbology professor.”
Potter leaned back on the sofa, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Can I let you know?” Potter asked McGonagall, and she nodded.
“Certainly,” she said. “Owl me once you’ve made a decision. You may take the Hogwarts Express on the 1st of September, however, I recommend that you arrive at Hogwarts earlier to reacquaint yourself with the building.”
McGonagall spoke as though Potter had already decided. As though they’d already decided, but Draco really needed to talk to Potter. He needed to convince him to stay. He needed to convince him that moving so far away, when they were engaged, was stupid.
“Wow,” Potter said again. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said, and McGonagall stood. Potter stood, too, so Draco supposed that he probably ought to as well.
They bade farewell to McGonagall, and Potter promised to send her an owl the moment he’d made a decision.
She disapparated from their kitchen.
Potter collapsed back onto the sofa.
“Well, obviously you’re not going to take the job,” Draco said, sitting in the armchair McGonagall had recently vacated.
Potter lifted his head and frowned at Draco.
“What?”
“You’re not taking the job,” Draco replied, and Potter’s frown deepened.
“Sorry? I’m not taking the job? I don’t think that’s a decision you get to make for me,” Potter replied uncertainly, and Draco felt his chest tighten around his heart protectively.
“Potter, we’re engaged,” Draco pointed out. “We have to make these decisions together.”
“Together, yes,” Potter agreed. “I’m telling you that I want to accept the job offer, and I’m asking you to support me with my decision.”
Draco scowled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his natural reaction when he couldn’t get his own way.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Potter sighed, sitting up. “Come on. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Draco crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t think you should leave,” he said, nursing his cup of tea. “I think you should stay here. With me.”
Potter sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was used to Draco being selfish, this wasn’t anything new.
“I mean, yeah, it will be weird not seeing each other all the time but, Draco, I think this is something I actually want to do and it’s not like I’ll be moving to Yemen or anything. I’ll be at Hogwarts. I might even be able to get my office fireplace hooked up to the floo network. Could you imagine? I could just pop back of an evening, or you could visit me in Hogwarts…”
Potter sounded so excited, and it made Draco feel sick.
He frowned at Potter, but Potter was watching him hopefully. His stupidly green eyes desperately searching Draco’s for any lenience on the argument.
“Really?” Draco asked, doing his best to sound condescending. It wasn’t a difficult feat for Draco. “You actually want to move to Hogwarts and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts?”
Potter frowned, his excitement slowly dying as he read Draco’s condescension.
“What’s wrong with Defence Against the Dark Arts?” He asked, and Draco swore internally.
“Nothing,” Draco replied easily. “Just seems like a bit of a vanity project for you, that’s all.”
It was a nasty thing to say, Draco knew.
Potter stared at him. “A vanity project? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A vanity project is when a person does something they know they’ll be good at to boost their ego,” Draco replied coolly, and Potter glared at him.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You need to be capable of explaining yourself properly to be able to teach, Potter,” Draco said, and Potter’s glare seemed to become fiercer. Angrier, if that were possible.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked, annoyed. “Why’re you being a prat? Why don’t you want me to accept this job offer?”
“I’m not being a prat,” Draco replied. He sipped his tea before continuing. “I just don’t want you to make a stupid career choice.”
Potter rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, because my £8 per hour job at the garden centre was a sensible career choice,” Potter said sarcastically, but then he leaned back slightly. “I think working at Hogwarts could be really good for me.”
“Bad for our relationship, though,” Draco said quickly, before he could stop himself, and Potter frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Draco looked up at him, jaw set.
“I mean: how could we possibly be in a relationship if you live one million miles away?”
“Hogwarts isn’t a million miles away,” Potter huffed. “Draco, we could make this work really easily. You could move to Hogsmeade, or I can come and visit you on the weekends… you work long hours anyway.”
“You won’t,” Draco bit, and there was such a finality to his voice that Potter looked like Draco had slapped him. “Because there’ll be a Quidditch game that you want to watch, or you’ll have marking, or you’ll forget.”
“I won’t forget,” Potter said, and now his temper was rising too, because Draco was being incorrigibly ignorant. “We can work his out. I want this job.”
“If you want this job, then you don’t want me.”
Potter’s eyes widened, and he stared at Draco in disbelief.
Why the fuck had Draco just said that? He hadn’t meant to say it, but it had fallen out of his mouth anyway. It was mean and stupid and not true and Draco had only thought it because he wasn’t being dramatic. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew that Potter would be great at the job, he’d be a natural, but he wanted Potter all to himself and if he couldn’t have that then, well, maybe he did have a right to guilt Potter into turning the job down.
“That’s… that’s ridiculous,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair, deflated. “Draco, I want the job. I think I can do it. I think I’d be good at it. I don’t want to work at the garden centre forever.”
“Fine.” Draco stood abruptly, and Potter stood, too.
Draco couldn’t look at him. If he looked at him, he’d cave. Potter would win him over with those stupid puppy dog eyes and he’d be in Hogsmeade living the life of a bachelor five days a week until Potter decided to see him.
It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work.
“What’re you doing?” Potter asked, his voice thick with worry as Draco strode over to the front door.
“I’m leaving,” Draco replied curtly. “Potter, if you accept this job, if you move to Hogwarts… we can’t be together.”
He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob.
He knew Potter would back down. He knew Potter would say: “Okay, fuck the job offer. You’re more important to me than that.”
But it never came.
Instead, Potter spoke with clipped annoyance: “this isn’t fair, Draco. We can talk about this. We can work something out.”
Draco knew he was being unfair. He knew he was being unreasonable. He knew he was being a manipulative twat, but his tactics weren’t working.
“There has to be away for us to still be…” Potter started, and Draco turned the doorknob as realisation seemed to dawn on Potter. “So is this it, is it? You’re going to walk out because I got a job offer five minutes ago and you’re already not even willing to try to make it work? This is a complete fucking joke, Draco. Stay. We can talk about this. We can work this out.”
Draco opened the front door.
“The fact that you’re trying to bargain shows me that you don’t really care about us,” Draco said, and he felt his heart wince.
Why the fuck did he have to be such a selfish cunt? But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. To hug Potter and tell him to do whatever made him happy. Why couldn’t he support Potter like a good fiancé? Instead of trying to bully him? When there was an even better opportunity waiting for him?
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Potter said dumbly, as Draco shrugged his jacket on. “Draco, please stay. We can work something out. This is pathetic. We can… you can move to Hogwarts, maybe. I’ll try to be home on the weekends.”
There were possibilities. There were things they could do to make them work. Draco didn’t have to leave. Draco didn’t have to go. Draco didn’t have to vanish in a flurry of scowls and expensive black clothing.
But Draco was too stubborn. Too determined to win.
To backtrack was to make himself look like an idiot, make him look like a coward, and he’d given up being a coward a long time ago.
“Draco, please,” Potter tried again, his voice breaking.
He tried to take Draco’s hand, tried to pull him away from the now open front door, but Draco wasn’t having any of it and stepped over the threshold, slipping out of Potter’s grasp with ease.
“Draco!” Potter grabbed an umbrella and threw it at him.
Anything to get him to turn around. Anything.
“Draco, please,” Potter begged, watching through teary eyes as Draco vanished into thin air.
When Draco reappeared at the Leaky Cauldron, he imagined the umbrella colliding with the wooden front gate.
He imagined Potter closing the door behind him.
He imagined Potter waiting for Draco to come back.
He imagined Potter sat on the sofa, not really sure what to do with himself.
Draco sighed and leaned against the wall.
He had to give it time, that was all.
Potter would decline the job offer, he’d make a desperate plea to Draco, and Draco would go back to him, full of forgiveness, and they’d live happily ever after.