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A high yelp—reminiscent of a coyote, slightly out of place for the locale—rang through the narrow space, bouncing off the weathered bricks and dissipating amidst breathy whimpers. Draco could barely believe he was the one emanating these sounds; these animal noises spilled forth without a single coherent thought, brought forth easily, naturally.
“Shush now,” a familiar low voice rasped almost soothingly, “we’re almost done here.”
Draco felt a needy keen start at his throat, but it was cut short by a meaty slap against his thighs. He startled, but obediently fell silent. Nothing but his rapid breaths were audible, before Harry let out a contemplative hmm.
“Are you in the mood to behave now, then?” Harry asked, a humouring air coloring his words. Draco would’ve, perhaps should’ve, cared more about the tone but he was otherwise occupied. A heady sense of submission was clouding his mental facilities and he was perhaps a bit, maybe just a little, only very slightly intoxicated on cheap firewhiskey and gillywater tonics.
*
It had begun at a bar, as these things are wont to do. A few years after the war brought forth a shift in perspective, some much needed introspection, and an entire self exploration arc that facilitated Draco Malfoy’s transformation from a dramatic and frankly sheltered caterpillar into the equally dramatic but much more self-aware and flamboyant butterfly that now graced any establishment, wizarding or otherwise, that served alcohol and welcomed anyone other.
It had begun at a bar, and Draco had been nursing whatever fruity cocktail the friendly barkeep had offered, when a familiar-yet-unfamiliar-yet-oh-so-familiar body—hair jet black and as untidy as a bird’s nest, eyes somehow unavoidable and piercing even hidden behind the speckiest pair of glasses imaginable—sat beside him. Or, rather, pressed up against him, only barely contacting the seat just enough to constitute sitting.
It had begun with a simple:
“Potter.”
Draco had meant only to acknowledge him and then perhaps dismiss him. He had better things to do, after all, than to sit there and rehash the past. Discomfiting letters with uncomfortable apologies and awkward greetings in crowded hallways were just about all the two had exchanged in years past. Any time the boy wonder had attempted to sideline Draco alone in the (frankly confusing) so-called eighth year they had shared at Hogwarts, Draco had successfully avoided. And how he had attempted. Near the end, it had been a veritable dance, Draco shimmying and sashaying his way quickly into the shadows whenever he so much as sensed a hint of the Gryffindor. He knew what little good would come of a private interaction between just the two of them. They would fight—it’s what they do, what they’re good at—and he’d really rather not.
“Potter,” had fallen from Draco’s lips, meant as an acknowledgement and a dismissal, but the flare in Harry’s eyes suddenly made it seem like a plea. Baffled and feeling just a tad bit helpless, Draco faltered. He had meant to continue with, something, yet he wasn’t quite sure what—and that moment of hesitation gave Potter the chance to reply:
“Malfoy.”
It was given easily, with a slight incline of the head, a nod that only made one more acutely aware of how ridiculously that mess of hair flopped, how gauche those frames were, how absolutely predatory that gaze was. And Draco knew right then and there that this night wouldn’t end without a fight. Caustic words would be exchanged, flesh would impact flesh, something fragile would break, and indelible impressions would be made. After all, it was what the two of them were good at.