duni9.cc 
I laugh. The sound startles me; I haven't had much cause to laugh at anything lately. Except at Pansy breaking the heel off of her shoe in the middle of Nott's last dinner party, and she hexed me for the trouble anyway. Bitch.
"I'd say we're doing a lot better than we did at school," I drawl, turning back to gaze at the broom some more. "Two whole conversations and not one insult. There must be something wrong with me."
"I'd call it a vast improvement," he nods seriously and then nudges me with his elbow. "Come on. If it's horrific you can leave and tell all your friends I'm still a complete shit."
Damn him. I'm smiling again, and I can't hold it back. "Alright," I agree and the idiot practically beams back. "One drink."
"You wouldn't be my friend! I was used to getting my own way!" I say and Potter laughs harder. He is on maybe his fifth or sixth pint and I've knocked back a fair few whiskeys and am feeling deliciously warm inside. We've moved on from Quidditch and are (probably stupidly) discussing our school years.
"Well I'm sorry," he says, his eyes twinkling. "That I upset you when we were eleven."
"You should be," I sniff, picking up my drink. "Left me psychologically unbalanced for the rest of my school years."
He's laughing again and I'm finding it hard not to laugh along. Drinking with Potter is so different from drinking with Blaise or Theo, or at any dinner parties or social evenings. Inexplicably and completely against any predictions or assumptions I may have formed prior to this, I find that with Potter I can kind of let go. I'm not worrying in the back of my mind that I'll get too drunk to remember my manners, or that I'll forget people's names, or use the wrong cutlery.
We are being a little careful; it would be obtuse not to be. No mention of Dumbledore, or the Astronomy tower, or the Dark Lord. We can laugh about the things we said and did to each other, but we can't talk about the rest of it. Not yet.
Despite this, I'm more relaxed here than I have been in weeks. I've already shucked my expensive outer robes, which is a relief, but my black shirt and tie ensemble is still a stark contrast to Potter's T-shirt and jeans.
"I am sorry you know," his tone is conversational but suddenly, somehow, he's serious. He picks up his glass, and then sets it straight back down. "I always wonder what it would be like now if I hadn't been such a shit to you."
Exasperated, I drain my own drink. "I can't believe you're apologising. I was way worse to you than you were to me."
"But I-" he swallows. "You never nearly killed me."
"Don't think I didn't try," I quip but he's not smiling.
"Did it scar?"
Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair, leaving it dishevelled, before reaching for my tie. His eyes widen as I pull it loose and undo the top three buttons of my shirt. I pull it aside to show him the tip of the faint white scar that runs across my chest. It's barely visible except for when the light touches it.
A trembling hand reaches lifts off the tabletop and I freeze; does he mean to touch it? Touch me? His eyes are wide, staring at my skin-
The hand reaches out and then diverts and picks up the pint glass again. I breathe out slowly and do up my shirt buttons. My head is spinning- I certainly hadn't been expecting the scar to get that much of a reaction.
"I-" he begins.
"Don't," I say quietly but firmly. "I am well and truly convinced that I deserved it, and think it's a fair exchange for what a cunt I was to you. I broke your nose for Christ's sake. Don't apologise or I'll end up with a moral dilemma, and I'll have to find some other way of making it up to you and I really can't be bothered."
A small smile crosses his face again. Oddly, I'm pleased.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Alcohol," he adds as way of explanation.
I smile and nod. "Time to go home then maybe? I'm sure someone's waiting for you and I'd hate to get the blame for keeping you away. My reputation is bad enough already."
He eyes me sharply but doesn't argue. He drains his pint and stands up, belching loudly. I carefully do my tie up and pull my robes back on before leaving the pub.
Harry walks me home. Stupid Gryffindor. I've my own place in London- as much as I love my Mother, living with her can be a challenge. I swear the woman has made it her own personal crusade to drive me up the wall before I'm thirty.
He looks up at my townhouse, curious. "No manor?" he asks.
"Might as well be for what it cost me," I sigh.
"I live not far from here," he says out of nowhere. I'm not sure what to say in response, so I keep quiet. He looks at me sideways, and I have the mad urge to tell him that the reason I don't want to marry Astoria Greengrass is because I much prefer cock to anything a woman can offer, but I stay silent.
For some stupid reason I like this odd truce we seem to be building. Like it too much to fuck it up by letting that bit of information loose. Reactions to me admitting I'm gay have ranged from shock, disgust, anger, acceptance, and even deadpan stares that quite clearly state 'like I didn't know that already.'
Getting to know Harry…is like a breath of fresh air. Being away from my world for a while feels great. It's just what I need right now - a break. Fate be damned that it's Harry bloody Potter giving me the break I so desperately need.
Finally making friends with him is also a bit like putting the past to rest; I can finally put a seal of that negative part of my life and move on. I'll still call him names, mind, but the hatred is gone.
Clearing his throat, he looks at me somewhat nervously. "Well. It's been…"
"Yeah," I nod, understanding. I smile weakly and he returns it, holding out his hand.
I take it and we shake hands for only the second time in our lives. I have a feeling it wont be the last.
"Really Draco. You should have known there'd be photographers about-"
I scowl at my Mother who is looking at me reproachfully. A week old copy of the Daily Prophet is open on the table in between us; a grainy photo of me and Harry sat side by side in the Leaky is the page three spread. 'Potter and Malfoy call time on feud'is the tagline. The article is surprisingly nice, for once. The writer is obviously still riding the post-war love train, and is thrilled to bits that two former enemies have 'made positive steps towards mending the bridges between the different social spheres of our world'.
"It was just a drink," I say and she frowns.
"But why?"
"I don't know alright," I snap. "I bumped into him in Quality Quidditch and he asked me. I was fed up and had nothing better to do."
"Fed up?"
My Mother knows me too well.
"Yes," I continue a little bitterly, "Fed up of not being able to relax, of all these rules,of having to watch myself all the time. Being with him was so good, you have no idea. Just to be able to talk and drink and not worry that I'd picked up the wrong drink at the wrong time or that I'd offended the second archduke of Worcester or some shite."
She sniggers and tries to hide it in her teacup. She straightens up and looks at me, trying to be serious. "Draco, you have a duty to the Malfoy name. You know what the Greengrass's are thinking with regards to you. And if you turn down their proposal you probably won't be able to keep your position in their firm."
"I know," I say unhappily. "I just…don't know what I want."
"Well, I want you to be happy."
Her comment catches me off guard and I look up at her. She's smiling, sadly.
"I mean it. Be happy," she sighs and looks at the paper. The photographic versions of Harry and I laugh together, oblivious that we're being watched. "And if drinking in the Leaky Cauldron with Harry Potter makes you happy, then bugger to all and do it."
At times like this that I realise just how much I love my Mother.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
She waves a dismissive hand at me. "It's fine. Anyway, you really never were cut out for this high society lark, were you?"
