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Turned out having breakfast with Harry Potter also meant having dinner with him.
The bastard eased Draco into it. “I’m making curry tonight, you want some?”
Spiraling out of his control, Draco went from rarely seeing Potter to twice a day. Potter’s cooking being just as good at night as it was in the morning was the only upside.
The rising daylight was accompanied by, what Draco regrets to acknowledge, was amiable silence as they prepared for the arduous days ahead of them. The nighttime was accompanied by actual conversations. It start menially: a bunch of “how was your day?”s and “who do you think will win Quidditch?”. Then Potter would bring up a memory from their eight year and Draco would start gossiping about their old classmates.
On it went, from polite chatter to affable talk then friendly banter—or from an outside perspective: verbal war.
“You almost murdered me once,” followed by: “Like you wouldn’t’ve.”
“You were a prick in school,” proceeded by: “You weren’t?”
One night they finished eating and Potter asked, “You want a drink?”
Draco, exhausted and always susceptible to alcoholic bribes, said yes.
Potter took out firewhisky from the liquor cabinet and poured it into two matching crystal cups.
Their conversations reached their inevitable climax: quasi-flirtation. Perhaps it was the heat from the liquor—the heat radiating off of Potter—but the air felt tight-knit with tension. It might have been Draco’s imagination warping the way Potter smirked around his glass. The light from the room refracted off the crystal somehow made his green eyes shine even brighter.
“Draco,” his name coming out of Potter’s lips sounded indecent, like intruding on a tender moment. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Draco pretended he said it with sober fondness and not drunken impulse. He allowed himself this one thing.
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