Bottom Harry One Shots

Countdown to a Life

Summary: A balcony, first kisses, December to December. A little story of building up a life together.

Ship: HarryPotterxDracoMalfoy

All credit goes to tackytiger on Ao3

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Ten - and we're on the balcony again

Night-time, all the lights of London laid out in front of them from the balcony of Dean Thomas's mum's flat, the week before Christmas.

Potter has him up against the railings, and at his back Draco can feel the bite of a high wind, the sense of a long drop.

"What are we doing?" Potter says, and kisses him again, the fifth or sixth or however-many time—Draco has lost count and doesn't care anyway, just wants infinitely more—and his mouth feels like the only warm thing in the world. Inside, there's the tinkling crash of something breaking and a roar of laughter, but out here there's nothing but each other.

"Malfoy," Potter says helplessly, fingers skating tentatively over the skin at Draco's lower back, and Draco wants to say, use my name, please, call me by my name but he keeps quiet and Potter keeps calling him Malfoy but it's okay, because Potter's mouth is soft around the vowels and nothing about it sounds like it did when they were in school.

Nine - but now it's time to wait

"I didn't know you'd be here," Potter says from behind him, and when Draco turns, he can't keep himself from a tiny noise of approval. Potter in formal robes, curls wild, mouth slightly red from wine as he puts his wineglass down on the table.

"I'm not here, technically," Draco says. "I was on security detail for the set-up, but my shift just ended. Hence my outfit." He gestures at his uniform, watches Potter look him up and down.

"I always wanted to be an Auror," Potter says, vaguely despairing. "You get to fight crime and you're not the one who has to get up there and make a speech."

"I'm sure you'll manage." Draco passes Harry his almost-full glass.

"Don't," Potter says. "I have to be sober for this." But he takes a gulp, then looks around and swiftly raises the edge of the glass to Draco's lips, tips the wine into his mouth, something elf-made, so rich and red that Draco can hardly taste any fruit from it.

"I can get my own," Draco says after he swallows. "I'm free to mingle now, and I intend to take advantage of that development right there at the buffet table."

"I just like your mouth on my glass," Potter says, leaning back against the bar.

"And I just like your mouth," Draco murmurs, very close to Potter's ear, and Potter sighs deep in his chest, just the right side of too quiet to be a groan. His lips really are very red. "And anyway," Draco says, pulling back just enough for decorum, "you'd be wasted on the Aurors. You're too good for them."

"Easy for you to say," Potter answers, and his gaze snags on the bright buttons at Draco's throat, the holster at his thigh, the droop of the collar of his starched work shirt, softening with his heated body. Under his gaze, Draco feels a feverish flush of excitement, the nervous prickle of a gentle anticipatory sweat, the imagining of hot skin against hot skin.

"The key thing," Draco tells him, "is that you try to remember that this is your choice. You don't have to do this. You could walk away from it all tomorrow, if you wanted. If you're doing it, it's because you're choosing to do it. And that's a very beautiful, very freeing thing."

"I hate you," Harry says grumpily, and Draco laughs out loud at the sulky push of Harry's lower lip.

Eight - and there's no such thing as heaven