"You look stressed."

Harry had stepped into the flat with raindrops still slipping down the surface of his windbreaker to find Draco curled into himself on the couch, reading as the rain steadily pounded against the glass surface. Beneath them, Diagon Alley was empty, shops alit but empty as customers hid away in the safety of their own homes.

"You've no idea," Harry said, hanging up his coat and running his hands through his hair repeatedly, making a futile attempt to dry the dark strands. Draco stared at Harry's hands, strong and worn, for too long before lifting himself off the couch.

"I'll make dinner," Draco suggested.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You cook now?"

"I can try, Potter."

The boy who lived poured two glasses of Merlot and swished one around before sipping at it. He lifted himself onto one of the barstools, ready to watch Draco's attempts at cuisine. The blond-haired boy was juggling pans, putting on water to boil, and pulling anything and everything out of the kitchen's refrigerator.

"What's got you down, Potter?"

Harry felt a blush creep up the back of his neck and hoped that it wouldn't reach his cheeks. He shrugged nonchalantly. "The usual. My job sucks, my friends are better than me..."

Draco raised a blond eyebrow. "That came out of nowhere."

Harry swallowed, knowing that it had come out of nowhere because he'd made it up out of nowhere. "Well... That's the truth."

There was a glint in Draco's eye as he poured a box of pasta into the now-boiling water. "That's all?"

Harry watched as Draco moved around the kitchen, graceful as a dancer. His fingers were light as he tapped them against his ingredients, searching for this and that. His snowy hands against the counter's slate, his nimble fingertips sliding just out of reach of the kitchen knife as he chopped onions - Draco looked angelic. Harry's heart rate steadily rose.

"That's all," he said, trying not to grit his teeth against his sheer level of attraction to Draco Malfoy.

Draco's eyes shot up from the warming sauce for a moment and he winked at Harry. "At least your flatmate is amazing." His eyes were back on the pot of fettuccine now. "I'm way better at making pasta than you are, by the way."

Harry grinned. "Shut up. My spaghetti was great."

"If 'great' means 'inedible,' then, yeah, you're spot on."

Draco spooned a strand of pasta out of the boiling water and picked it up before tossing it against the wall. It flopped to the floor with an unimpressive smack.

"What are you doing?"

"Cooking," Draco answered lightly, stirring the sauce a little more. "You pick up a noodle and throw it against the wall. If it sticks, it's ready."

"Are you sure that's actually a thing?"

Draco was cooling another noodle, blowing on it lightly. He lifted it and tossed it at Harry. It remained plastered against his glasses, smack across his face. Harry picked the noodle away from his skin and ate it, Draco laughing all the while.

"Alright," Harry said, "you might be a better chef than I."

--

    "Do you want to try something?"

    The plates of spaghetti were clear, the kitchen now a mess. Each of the boys had downed a good amount of wine; the previously-full bottle was at the quarter mark. Now, Draco posed the question as he stared across the counter at his flatmate.

    Harry's drunken eyes betrayed him as they remained caught on the pale pink of Draco's lips. "That's an incredibly vague question."

    "I think you might like it, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable or-"

    Harry's eyes had retrained themselves onto Draco's. "Are you offering me drugs?"

    Draco giggled drunkenly. "Perhaps."

    Harry remembered the pressure of his anger, the pressure of his heartbeat, the pressure of his legacy. He wanted air. He wanted lightness, and loveliness, and to forget the hurt and isolation and, most importantly, the pain he felt whenever he thought of Draco.

    The fog of drink clouded over Harry as he slipped forward towards Draco. "I would love that."

--

    Harry sat across from Draco on their living room rug. All that remained of their escapade with weed was its stench and the a light cloud in the living room - and, of course, a wonderful lightness in Harry's heart.

    "I want to see it," Harry whispered, a smile in his eyes as they sat cross-legged, knees touching.

    Draco smiled. "It's not much now with the other ones, and I-"

    "Please."

    Draco shut his eyes, transparent eyelashes dipping against his moonbeam skin. He lifted up the corners of his long-sleeved black shirt and pulled it over his head, exposing a body laden with tattoos. His arms were covered with little things, doodles, even. His small torso was blank but for a small printed sentence across his collarbone.

    Harry leaned in, attempting to read the Courier font. Draco lifted himself into Harry's lap (all for the purpose of reading the tattoo, of course).

    Harry whispered it aloud, breath hitting the surface of Draco's skin. "Ambition only prevails when goodness is achieved."

    The boy who lived smiled and pressed his head into the crook of Draco's neck lazily. "I like it," he muttered lazily into the patch of skin.

    Harry turned his head, black curls contrasting against Draco's skin. Head against Draco's chest, he began tracing the lines on the boy's arm with a calloused fingertip. He swirled around the head of a lion, then up across the body of a ferret. He laced around the dark mark, lingering. His hand remained there, now holding Draco's forearm.

    "I regret it more than anything," Draco whispered.

    Harry's head had returned to its place at the base of Draco's neck. "You didn't have a choice. You can't regret something that wasn't your decision."

    Draco felt the words buzz in his chest, through his ribs, Harry's warm breath lingering upon his skin. "Thank you."

    Harry mumbled something sleepily. His breathing slowed. Draco lifted the arm not enclasped in Harry's hand and slowly began drifting his fingertips through the warm, still-drying curls of hair that laid against his bare chest.

    "Thank you, Harry."