Name: Density
Author: Steph
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nothing major, but I'd give the whole series if you're hard core against spoilers
Warnings: Post-Hogwarts. Also, this is an unforgivably fluffy fic. Draco and Harry exhibit absolutely no trauma from the War that is absolutely not mentioned at all. Draco is a weird combination of fanon, my own personal flavor and only a dash of canon, so you've been warned.
Summary: It wasn't raining when Harry left the house, but now it is, and he doesn't have anywhere to go. Harry's a little bit dense, but Draco's there to help him figure it out.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of any of the characters herein. They belong to JK Rowling, et al, and it's probably better that way.
Author's note: Many thanks to my new friend ladybug218 for the quick, useful beta. You're stunning and beautiful and make me very, very happy. Additional thanks to crabbegirl for pointing out some minor grammatical errors.
Feedback: Yes please! Constructive criticism and positive feedback both much appreciated!


It started, as these things sometimes do, on a gray, bleak day soggy with rain and lethargy. The autumn shower had been building all week, the humidity rising to nearly unbearable temperatures, the sun shining dimmer and duller and the anticipation of release growing each day.

Since Monday morning when every working man and woman struggled to wake in their dismally darkened bedrooms, they’d planned for rain. Everyone, it seemed, except Harry Potter.

The problem wasn’t the heavy, sodden mess of his robes clinging to his body and weighing him down. It wasn’t that the water from his flattened hair dripped lukewarm drizzles from the nape of his neck and down his back. It wasn’t even that his soaked socks sloshed around excess rain uncomfortably inside his shoes with his every step.

These were unfortunate occurrences, of course, and all in all, he could have done without the tiny pebbles of hail hitting his head at irregular intervals, but those things could have been tolerated.

The problem was that Harry couldn’t see.

“Excuse me,” he muttered when his shoulder slammed into another person walking past him.

The steady rain rendered his glasses useless. Typically, that wouldn’t present a problem. A flick of his wand and a quick Impervius spell would repel the water right off of them. Which led to the corollary to Harry’s problem.

He’d left his wand at home.

Not on purpose, obviously, because what’s a wizard without a wand? He’d been quite engrossed in his thoughts, and the idea of a nice, quiet walk to Diagon Alley for groceries had struck him as particularly appealing. He’d told this to Ron, Hermione and Dean all gathered around Hermione’s telly watching The Godfather. Ron told him to “go to the mattresses.” Harry said he’d do his best, and left.

It hadn’t been raining then.

The heavens finally overflowed twenty minutes into his walk. He’d reached into his robe, found the pocket empty and with complete clarity, recalled taking his wand out to place a self-cleaning charm on the dishes in the sink and then leaving it on the counter.

His first impulse had been to Accio the wand from its spot next to the sink. He’d gotten as far as sticking his hand back inside his robe when he realized that he couldn’t summon his wand without his wand. That interesting and almost philosophical conundrum kept his mind occupied several minutes before he accidentally ran into a rubbish bin and was forced to consider the issue at hand.

Harry reckoned the best plan would be to get his groceries and Floo home. Then, in another sickening lightning bolt of memory, he saw Hermione closing the Floo in their fireplace to avoid Julian, her latest in a wave of unfortunate relationship choices, from stopping by unannounced.

He modified the plan to buying his food and waiting around in the store until the rain let up a bit.

Harry was having, as should be obvious, something of a bad day.

He was on his way back home an hour and a half later when the rain didn’t stop and the shops starting closing up. Some of the water on his clothes had dried up in the store, but as soon as he stepped outside, he was drenched again.

Bringing his glasses up to his face with the hand not holding his bags, he made sure he walked in the right direction despite his lack of vision and the dusk that darkened the already dreary day. Unfortunately, his focus in front of him left him blind to the person coming from the side. He once again knocked his shoulder into an unsuspecting pedestrian’s.

“Excuse me,” he said, still stumble stepping along the path.

“Harry?” cried his victim, and even if Harry couldn’t immediately identify his voice, the blurry image of shocking white blonde hair would have told him.

Harry nearly groaned out loud. It would figure that at one of the more ungraceful and undignified moments of his life, he would run head long into Draco Malfoy. Infinitely poised and collected Draco Malfoy; multimillionaire, war hero and winner of Witch Weekly’s “Top Ten Most Beautiful Wizards” two years running. It would stand to reason that it would be him that Harry shoved himself against.

“Oh, hello,” Harry answered, trying his best to sound casual.

“You’re soaking wet,” Draco said.

“I can see that,” he replied. Well, he really couldn’t, but he assumed.

“Do you want to come under my umbrella?” Draco asked.

Probably to make up for his inability to see, Harry’s mind helpfully conjured up an image from Malfoy’s most recent photo spread in Witch Weekly. He wore a snug, charcoal gray jumper and his hands were tucked into the back pockets of his black leather trousers. His feet were bare. Harry spent a long time looking at the way his pale, thin, fine boned feet contrasted with the black leather that barely grazed the smooth tops of his feet. Malfoy’s hair looked artfully tousled and his eyes gazed intensely at the camera, accentuated by black eyeliner. Occasionally, if one looked at the picture long enough, one would catch him darting a pink tongue out to trace along his bottom lip.

Harry ran a hand over his face to wipe away the vivid image and excess water.

“Would it really do any good at this point?”

“Probably not,” Malfoy conceded.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Harry said, “You could do an Impervius charm on my glasses though.”

He held them up, and Malfoy reached out and inspected them a moment before saying the charm. Harry slipped them on his face and winced when the world came back into abrupt focus.

Malfoy stood in front of him, his head cocked curiously. A large umbrella floated untouched above him, and kept him completely dry. He wore a lightweight black robe covering a red jumper Harry had seen him wear a few times at work, all over fitted jeans. His hair looked meticulously careless, and his own small, tasteful, silver-rimmed glasses did nothing to hide the inquisitive gray blue eyes trained on Harry.

Harry looked like a wet rat.

“Why couldn’t you perform the spell yourself?” Malfoy asked.

Harry grimaced and felt his face heat slightly. “I forgot my wand at home.”

Malfoy smiled peculiarly at that, a soft, secretive smile. “And when you saw it was raining, you didn’t think…”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” Harry defended.

“Ah,” he said. “And you’re walking back? You can’t use the Floo Network?”

“Hermione closed it earlier today,” Harry replied.

Malfoy’s smile turned knowing. “Avoiding Julian, is she?”

“Yes,” Harry answered. He’d never really gotten used to the fact that Hermione had befriended Malfoy over the past few years that the three of them had worked together at the Ministry of Magic.

“Well, I live five minutes from here. You could get dried off and use the fireplace to let them know what happened so they’ll open the Floo.”

That plan made sense, though Harry’s mind strongly questioned the wisdom of following through with it. Eventually, though, the rain cascading down his back decided it for him.

“All right,” he agreed, and Malfoy grinned widely.

“Excellent! Now get under here before you drown.”

Harry stepped back. “I don’t think…”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter,” he responded and reached an elegant, long fingered hand out into the rain to clasp Harry’s robe and pull him under the safety of the umbrella.

“Right.” Harry smoothed down the bunched material. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly.

“You’re welcome,” Draco answered. “My flat’s this way.”

They walked in silence, Harry’s left arm barely brushing Malfoy’s right one every few seconds. Less than five minutes later, Malfoy pointed Harry to an expensive looking building across the street from the main shopping center of Diagon Alley.

A new building with a prime location. Harry expected nothing less.

Malfoy greeted the doorman and guided them to the lift. He pressed the button for the highest floor and, as with all Wizarding lifts, they materialized in the correct place a moment later.

It looked as though Malfoy’s flat made up the entire floor. He took out his wand and muttered the unlocking spell for the door before leading Harry in. Malfoy charmed the lights and then turned around to stop Harry in the doorway. He grabbed the bag of groceries from him.

“Take off your robe and drop it here before you drip all over the floor. I’ll be right back.” He left Harry, stopping to place the bag on the kitchen table, and went into a room in the back of the flat.

Harry unbuttoned his robe and let the heavy material fall off of his shoulders and land on the ground with a satisfying splat.

With a grimace, he also toed off his shoes and soggy, disgusting socks. He noticed as he tucked both of his socks into one shoe that his fingers had shriveled into ten wrinkly prunes. How attractive.

Malfoy walked back in then, and like Harry, he’d removed his robe and boots. In his hands, he held a towel, a folded green shirt, gray sweatpants and a pair of white socks. He handed all of these things to Harry when he reached him.

“Here, my room’s on the far left,” he pointed to where he’d just come from. “You can change in there.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Potter…” Malfoy cut him off. “Honestly, just give them back to me tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Good, I’ll be in the living room.”

Harry entered the room Malfoy pointed to and looked around. It was clean and warm looking with dark carpeting and high, draped windows. The centerpiece of the room had to be the huge king sized bed positioned right in the middle. Harry took a long, shuddering breath, eyes glued on the bed. He nearly sat on it before remembering his sodden trousers. That thought cleared his head and he stripped, his movements economical and quick. He used the towel to wipe his damp body and then ran it through his wet hair.

Picking up the cotton shirt that Malfoy gave him, he saw that it had the Slytherin House crest on it, complete with writhing snake. Harry almost recoiled before remembering that the choice was between wearing that, nothing, or his wet, balled up shirt. It barely fit him since his shoulders were slightly wider than Malfoy’s, and the fabric was soft against his skin, as if it had been washed too many times. He ran a hand down his chest and sighed.

The sweats and socks came next, and then he spent several futile seconds in front of Malfoy’s mirror trying to get his hair to look tidy. He gathered all of his wet items, including the towel, and headed into the living room.

Malfoy sat on one side of a deep, plush leather couch, his bare feet tucked under him and a small glass of rum and Coke in his hand. When he heard Harry enter the room, he turned around and grinned mischievously at the Slytherin shirt he wore.

“It was the only thing I had,” he said with mock innocence.

“I believe you,” Harry answered without an ounce of either sincerity or hostility. He gestured at the wet things in his hands. “Where should I…?”

Malfoy waved back at the door where Harry’s robe still laid. “Put it all there. I’ll clean them tonight and give everything back to you tomorrow.”

Harry nodded and placed his bundle where Malfoy indicated. He walked back and took in the sight before him. Malfoy curled up on the couch in front of the flickering fireplace, the sleeves of his red jumper rolled up to the elbows. It looked as perfect on him as Harry remembered. His gaze took in the lightly cluttered coffee table and stopped on the bottle of his favorite beer sitting in front of the empty spot on the couch.

“How did you know I like this?” he asked, indicating the bottle.

Malfoy shrugged and smiled. “It’s always in your refrigerator, and you drink it whenever we’re at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Very observant,” Harry admitted, and sat down stiffly beside Malfoy on the couch. He leaned over to pick up the bottle and suddenly froze; arm outstretched and mouth completely dry.

“Wha…” Malfoy said, and then noticed where his eyes focused. “Oh,” he sounded slightly embarrassed, “Those are just some outtakes from a photo shoot I did.”

Harry nodded dumbly, but he didn’t need to be told that. He recognized the picture; the intense bedroom eyes, the rumpled hair, the leather trousers. There was only one thing missing that differentiated it from the one Harry kept in the top drawer of his dresser: the gray jumper. Harry didn’t know whether to thank or damn his near photographic memory, but either way, Malfoy’s bare torso was an image that would be in his head for a long, long time.

He took a deep, fortifying gulp of his drink and turned to look at Malfoy. One elegant white eyebrow was raised to show his confusion at Harry’s behavior.

“I should go,” Harry decided, glancing at the fireplace next to them.

“In a bit,” Malfoy answered. “I’d actually like to talk to you about something.”

Harry played with the condensation on the neck of his bottle. “What?”

“Why are you avoiding me?” The bluntness of the question caused Harry’s head to snap up, and he almost lost the grip on his bottle. Malfoy stared at him in a knowing, triumphant way. “Well?”

“I’m not,” Harry said, feigning ignorance.

“Please, Potter, I’m not stupid. You’ve transferred out of the last three missions we were sent on together.”

“That had nothing to do with you,” he argued.

“Whenever you see me in the halls, you turn and walk the other way,” Malfoy continued.

Harry felt his face redden at the vocalization of his ridiculous behavior the last few months.

“Whenever Hermione invites me for tea, you always conveniently have other plans that require you to be out of the flat.”

The first time Hermione told Harry about their dinner plans, his stomach dropped down to his feet. For a sickening second, he thought Hermione was dating Malfoy, but then remembered that at the time she had been seeing Louis, the bloke working in the Department of Games and Sports.

“Why would I be avoiding you?” Harry asked, not liking the desperate way his words sounded.

A moment later, he regretted saying anything at all. Malfoy gave him a slow, sleepy smile, leaned in and answered, “I can think of a reason.”

He moved back against the cushion of the couch, and the action caused the bottom of his jumper to ride up, revealing a glimpse of the smooth, taut, pale skin of his hipbone. Harry swallowed thickly and then jerked his head up to meet Malfoy’s dancing eyes.

A rush of rage and embarrassment ran through him. He put his bottle back down on the table and stood up.

“I have to leave,” he said stiffly.

Malfoy’s cool, dry hand reached out and held his wrist. “Harry, stay,” he entreated.

Harry sat, shocked by the sincerity in Malfoy’s tone, and the use of his first name.

Both men sat uncomfortably and silently several seconds until Malfoy let out an explosive sigh.

“You make everything so difficult.”

That said, Harry watched with budding horror and not a little arousal as Malfoy crawled across the couch until he had one knee on either side of Harry’s body and sat firmly on his lap.

“What are you doing?” Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“The only thing I haven’t done,” Malfoy replied. He placed a steadying hand on Harry’s face and leaned in, touching their lips together, sighing quietly into Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s eyes closed when their lips met, and his whole body relaxed into the decadent couch cushions behind him. His hands went to Malfoy’s hips and squeezed compulsively while the skill of Malfoy’s mouth slowly and methodically erased any memory Harry had of why kissing him was a bad idea.

After only a few short seconds, Malfoy pulled back until their lips were barely separated. His tongue darted out to touch his bottom lip, and he panted warm, damp breaths that ghosted along Harry’s face. His eyes were hooded and his mouth was swollen and wet.

Harry had never seen anything more gorgeous in his entire life. He closed his eyes briefly to regain his slippery control.

When he opened them again, Malfoy hovered over him, a smile tilting up the edges of his lips.

“Are you going to hit me?” he asked.

Harry responded by fisting a hand in Malfoy’s jumper and pulling him back down the scant few inches that separated them.

Malfoy smiled against his mouth. “Finally.”

***

Later, after they’d shuffled and stumbled and tripped their way into Draco’s room, they laid on top of the rumbled sheets of the soft, oceanic expanse of Draco’s bed. They faced each other, sharing the same pillow, naked legs entangled and heavy breath mingling.

“God,” Draco panted and ran a hand down Harry’s sweat slick side, “why did it take so long for us to do this?”

“Because I didn’t know…” Harry began.

“If you were gay?” Draco finished.

Harry scowled indignantly. “No, if you were.”

Draco stared at him for a moment before dissolving into laughter. Offended, Harry tried to push away from him, but Draco just hooked an arm around his back and pulled him closer.

“How can one person be so dense? Harry, I’m absolutely mad about you! I’ve chased you around for the last year and a half, been ridiculed mercilessly by everyone at work about it and you didn’t know?” Draco laughed again as Harry gaped at him. “I didn’t believe Hermione when she said you fancied me but wouldn’t admit it.”

“I didn’t think…wait, Hermione told you that?” Harry asked.

“She’s been telling me that for the last year or so,” Draco replied. He snickered at the horrified look on Harry’s face.

“God, was I that obvious?”

“Not to most people. I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

That made Harry feel at least a little bit better and he relaxed back into the mattress when a thought occurred to him. “I should tell Hermione and Ron where I am. They’ll be worried.”

“They already know,” Draco answered.

“What? How?”

Draco gave him a guilty look that made Harry immediately suspicious. “Actually, Hermione used the Floo to tell me that you went off like a twat in the middle of a rain storm, and you’d probably need a place to dry off.”

“You two have been plotting together?” Harry questioned, shocked.

“She helped me out when she could,” he admitted. “Not that it even mattered, because you were so bloody oblivious!”

“I don’t believe it,” Harry argued.

“She told me when all of you met at the Three Broomsticks, so that I could 'accidentally' stop by at the same time. And look around, Harry, I have food. I don't need to eat at your flat once a month, and yet I do,” he paused a moment and grinned into Harry’s shoulder. “Plus, she told me how much you seem to like the way I look in my red jumper.”

“That woman sees everything,” Harry complained in order to hide his pleasure.

“She’s a bit like your antithesis that way,” Draco commented.

“Shut up,” Harry responded good-naturedly. At the thought of Hermione, his mind brought up the memory of her, two months ago, tossing that Witch Weekly issue onto the kitchen table and sending him a secretive look. He sifted through it aimlessly until he came to that photo of Draco with his gray jumper and leather trousers. After several floundering minutes of staring, he’d relieved himself to his room, magazine in hand. “She told you about that magazine too, didn’t she? That’s why you had that picture on the table.”

Draco furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “No, I was going through my briefcase earlier today and happened to leave that out there.”

Harry felt heat flush his face, and knew that his blush traveled all the way down his neck and chest. Draco saw this, and a wicked grin spread across his face.

“Why, Harry? What about that picture?” When Harry pressed his face into the pillow, Draco’s grin widened. “Harry?”

He turned back towards Draco and stuttered, “Hermione bought that magazine with you in it. I…liked that picture. The version they used. In the spread.”

“Did you have a close, personal relationship with that picture?” Draco questioned with mock seriousness.

His embarrassed silence was all the evidence Draco needed. “You did!” he cried, cackling loudly.

Harry buried his face in the pillow again. “I hate you,” he mumbled into the fabric

When his chuckles subsided, Draco shifted closer to him. “Haa-aarry,” he sing-songed. He swung one of his legs over Harry’s waist and ran a hand lightly down his back. “Harry. Harry.” He nuzzled his nose behind Harry’s ear until Harry finally acknowledged him. “I still have those leather trousers,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Harry’s hips secured under Draco’s leg bucked uncontrollably against the mattress. He groaned low in his throat, and muttered, “Oh, God.”

Draco laughed delightedly.

-The end-