stop smirking adorably at me, albus potter, i am trying to get your dad laid
OMG, what is wrong with me, IDEK. So I did another ficcish thing and lo, it was not hds_beltane , either, but I solemnly swear that one is next. In my defense, though, this one's for the hd_and_sons monthly challenge and, y'know, mod hat. Let's pretend this was a reasonable thing to do, okay?
Uh, let's call it a prequel to the D/Al I wrote for talekayler , in which Al works at the Ministry and Draco is his boss. Everybody's legal, nobody's been married, Scorpius who?AU. Shamefully self-indulgent, shamefully lacking in porn. Enabled by the chatzy lovelies (of course, obviously), kitty_fic and eanelinea77 in particular.
Albus Potter’s been coming to the Ministry’s annual Memorial Ball pretty much his whole life on account of who his parents are but he’s never felt as comfortable with anyone as he does with the potions lab staff, who adopt him on account of his troubleshooting skills and seem entirely unaware of what his last name means.
That’s a big deal. Even when he knows they know, when it’s been made inescapably clear, they don’t see Harry Potter’s son, they just see him.
So yeah, he ditches the head of the Department of Mysteries, who's been trying to recruit him for ages and who's evidently decided she's his new best friend tonight, in order to hang out with his lab team, who all seem actually delighted to see him and who immediately take up the cause of getting him good and drunk before he’s whisked off again.
Albus doesn’t really need any encouragement to misbehave but he can’t say he’s not fond of having an excuse.
He’s sitting back in his corner watching a sea of familiar faces flood the dance floor to varying degrees of dance, nursing his third pint of the night, when he hears Robin and Simon bickering over terms. Albus spent months with them, he knows that can’t end well.
“I’m telling you, he’d never,” Robin says like she’s sure, and she folds her arms across her chest, cocks her head.
Simon points a thick finger at her and leans in across the table. Any closer, Albus thinks, and he’ll be in his cups in all the wrong ways. “And I’m telling you, he would. For the right offer.” Simon grins, his attempt at a leer. Robin narrows her eyes dangerously, which makes Mark lean back and whistle, but Simon just carries on. “Besides, if it were easy, there’d be no reason to bring it up.”
Robin flushes slightly. Simon’s finger swirls. Robin looks away, catches Mark’s eye and lights up with hope. “Mark, tell him. It’s ridiculous and it can’t be done. It is career suicide to even ask.”
Which settles who they’re talking about, then; there aren’t many people in the Ministry capable of putting that kind of caution in the potions lab staff but their boss.
Albus is pretty sure Mr. Malfoy could eat them all alive without more than a note in his file somewhere. It’s one of the many things Albus appreciates about the man, how flexible he is about everything right up until he’s not.
And yeah, he’ll most likely make them regret whatever they’ve cooked up now, if only to amuse himself. There’s no explaining how it is to work on this team, the caution and security they enjoy and the crazy, antics-filled atmosphere that’s evolved. Helps them cope with the ridiculous hours and the unreasonable expectations the rest of the MLE puts on their department, he thinks, but he’s never been entirely sure.
Might just be that it takes a special breed to voluntarily spend time around potentially life-threatening potions all day for relatively pathetic Ministry pay.
In all his thinking, Albus misses Mark’s response but he can tell it hasn’t appeased Robin at all, because she’s got the stubborn chin-set and she looks a shade off pulling rank.
Mark puts his hands up and says, “All I’m saying is he hasn’t done it yet, but that’s no reason to think he can’t. Maybe the music’s just not his thing? I mean, he’s not actually grown in the labs, right? He must be human under all that-” Mark handwaves vaguely in Mr. Malfoy’s direction.
Simon crows. Robin scowls. Albus’s brows shoot up as he works out the rest. “What are the terms?”
That fast, that easy, he’s got everyone’s attention. They all look like he’s deranged, which he gets rather a lot from them, really, all things considered. He really does love his job.
“Drinks,” Robin says carefully, clearly against her better sense.
Simon scoffs. “If you’re in it, mate, I’ll go five Galleons. But he has to say yes.”
“Sod that,” Robin counters, shoving in to lean against the table, narrowing her eyes at Albus speculatively. “For five Galleons, we get to watch.”
Albus lets a coy smile play over his mouth. “And what precisely do you think you’d be watching?” He mutters, “Pervy voyeurs, you lot, honestly,” just loud enough for Dustin and Simon to hear. Dustin sprays his mouthful of pint in surprise, which has Robin making a face of impatient, affectionate disgust as she pushes her napkin across the table.
“And will there be anything for us to voyeur, pervy or otherwise?” Simon counters with far too much interest.
Albus rolls his eyes. “Here? For five Galleons? Not hardly.”
Simon crows again. Robin hides her face in a palm. Mark mumbles something uneasily encouraging before he throws back what’s left of his drink. “One dance,” Simon says, pointing that nicotine-stained finger at Albus’s chest. “Right here, tonight, you get the Lab Dragon out on the dance floor for one song and you’ve made yourself five Galleons, mate.”
Albus makes a show of thoughtfully rubbing his chin, gives the appearance of thinking it through because he knows he should. Just, it’s Mr. Malfoy-Draco-and it’s here, the Ministry’s insufferable annual ball, and really, it’s ideal.
Well, for his purposes, anyway.
So Albus leaves off the rubbing to bob his head in a nod, then bumps a congenial fist against Simon’s arm. Simon looks positively gleeful. Robin just looks alarmed.
“Wait, no, Albus-” she starts but he’s already finishing his drink in a hard swallow, getting up as he does. He thunks his glass down when it’s empty, then nods at the table, flashes a wicked grin.
“Back in a bit,” he says, then “Don’t wait up.”
::
Mr. Malfoy-sod it, Draco, they’re not on the clock now-Draco spends most of his obligatory Memorial Ball time lurking by the bar getting conspicuously not drunk, staying conspicuously quiet. He doesn’t talk to anyone, not really, and never for long enough that it might be called any sort of conversation, and more importantly, Albus is certain he’s never brought a date.
Albus isn’t foolish enough to think Draco Malfoy’s been celibate all his life, which suggests interesting things. Hasn’t ever settled down, Albus thinks, has basically married his job, and that’s more interesting again in that Albus has become something of his unofficial right hand.
Since Draco seems the marrying sort, if only to carry on the family name, Albus infers rather a lot from his continued bachelorhood. More than he should, maybe, but a man can dream.
And if there’s anyone at the Ministry who’d get away with asking Draco Malfoy, Potions Lab Dragon, to dance, it’s almost certainly Albus, who knows better than anyone how messed up and brilliant Draco’s sense of humour is.
So really, there’s no cause to worry when Albus makes his approach, though he has a shaky moment when he catches Draco’s baleful stare. Draco lifts his glass slightly; Albus can’t tell if that’s an offer or a salute. Doesn’t really care either way, because it’s not like Draco’s going to run him off or anything.
Not unless he crosses the line. Albus likes to think he’s brighter than that, though he supposes time will tell.
He slips in beside Draco easily, worms space for himself against the bar and rests an elbow against the rail, glancing back to find the bartender busy handling patrons at the far end. Albus is all long-suffering patience when he meets Draco’s wary watch.
“Mr. Social,” Albus says by way of greeting, tipping his head quickly and trying to contain his grin.
“I have to be here,” Draco mutters. “What’s your excuse?”
Albus sing-songs his last name under his breath, watches Draco snort and try to hide his smirk behind his glass. Albus likes that, knowing that’s what Draco’s doing, being more certain than he probably should be that he’s the reason Draco looks less annoyed with the world in general than he has. “So what’s the plan this year? Another lab emergency only you can handle, or did you mean to just disappear?”
Draco looks torn between amusement and some ridiculous need to keep a straight face. He tsks a bit but he doesn’t mean it, Albus can tell. With Albus, he very rarely does. “You’re sure those are my only options, are you? I might mean to stay this time.”
Albus laughs outright, can’t help but do with how easily Draco deadpans. Albus has spent almost the entirety of his employment with the potions labs wanting to climb his boss like a tree, hopefully ride him like a broom at some point, but the thing that convinces Albus he’s in trouble is how very much else he likes about the man. Draco Malfoy’s meant to be six kinds of arsehole and he is, just he’s the exact kind of arsehole Albus enjoys.
Draco shakes his head and does his best to feign resignation. Albus really likes that face, too. “All right, yes, fine. I have no intention of staying.”
“Is it the music or the food?” Albus watches Draco finish his drink, then leans back to catch the bartender’s eye, signaling an order for two of whatever Draco’s drinking. Draco’s giving him the eye when Albus turns back, that patient amusement again, warm and fond and something else Albus can only speculate about just yet. It’s encouraging, at any rate. Albus lowers his voice. “I know it can’t be the company.”
There it is again, Draco watching him like Albus is fascinating. “Sure about that, are you?” Draco murmurs, just for him, and it’s different, how he says it this time, low and smooth and hot.
Albus gives him a filthy smile. It’s a risk, he knows, because they haven’t either of them said anything yet, but it’s not such a risk that he’d pass it up. And anyway, he’s always been a bit headstrong about these things, a bit bolder than he should be by rights.
For a long moment, he just lets Draco look him over, study his face for whatever he wants. Albus tells himself there’s no sense crying victory when Draco’s wry smile fades but honestly, he does get a bit odd in the chest, a bit quick in the pulse. Merlin help him, Albus is a half-breath off a lean with intent and the only reason he’s not already going for Draco’s mouth is that Draco’s still all caught up in watching Albus’s face, sealing it into his memory or whatever.
It’s incredibly hot.
Albus is just fine letting this moment draw itself out.
Then the bartender sets their drinks down by Albus’s elbow and it’s enough to jolt them both out of the moment, their unfortunate reflexes honed by too much time around experimental potions and such, and they both look away. Or, well, Albus does and he assumes he’s not alone, because he knows how Draco’s mind works and that’s…logical. The requisite next step.
It doesn’t escape his notice that Draco’s next drink disappears quickly, though it does take him a moment before Albus realizes there’s no actual liquor in his glass.
“Juice?” he murmurs, looking over with his brows raised. “Really?”
Draco shrugs with just his face. Albus kind of adores how well it suits. “Believe me, Potter, this is the last place I’d voluntarily intoxicate myself.”
Albus tsks lightly. “Albus. We’re off the clock.”
Draco thinks that over, then shakes his head. His shoulder’s right up against Albus’s arm. “No, I’m quite sure I’m only here because it’s a requirement of my job. Unpaid, yes, but off the clock, no.”
Maybe it’s the way Draco says it, light and wry. Maybe it’s that they’re touching, that Albus can nearly feel the heat of Draco’s arm against his own. Maybe it’s just that Draco’s been staring, that he hasn’t moved away, that Albus has made him smile so much already tonight. In retrospect, it’s something, Albus just isn’t ever sure what.
He leans in, presses his side deliberately against Draco’s, too long and obvious to be anything but what it is. Draco’s eyes half-close; his nostrils flare for a moment. It takes him a shade too long to look over mildly, like he needs to collect himself, first.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, low and hot, rougher than he means.
Draco answers in kind, gaze dipping to watch Albus’s mouth. “As much as I’d like to say yes-and believe me, I would-I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Then Draco slowly, carefully, deliberately says Albus’s first name.
Albus can’t help the shiver that runs through him at Draco’s tone, all the banked heat between them pushing everything else away. Draco licks his lips, makes Albus want to lick his own.
“Actually,” Albus starts unsteadily and he needs to start again because the word breaks. “Actually, that’s probably the best we’ve got tonight. Draco-” Draco’s eyes close when Albus says his name, which is more than enough for Albus, only Draco breathes shakily, too, and that’s just…Albus has to touch him. Soon. They’ve put this off for months, done their best to ignore it in their own ways, but the past ninety seconds are all the proof Albus needs that it won’t disappear with sustained denial. “Draco, as far as I can tell, our choices are yours, mine, or here. Which would you prefer?”
Draco laughs quietly, tight disbelief. “You’re going to be the death of me, I can tell already.”
“Yeah, but you’ll enjoy it.”
“No doubt I will.” Draco has to force himself to look away, ease back, put space between them. Albus understands that, both why it would be a struggle and why it’s necessary anyway, but he can’t say he doesn’t miss the heat of contact all the same. Draco stares hard at the mirror behind the bar; Albus resumes his leaning against the rail and surveys the room. He doesn’t see anything, it’s all a blur of bodies and sound and colour, but he tries to look nonchalant.
Who-knows-how-long later, Draco says, “Oh, joy, we have an audience.”
Which is when Albus remembers he’s got the whole of the potions team probably gaping at them right now. “Yeah, the kids got restless.”
Albus is the youngest member of the potions lab staff by at least two years; everyone gets a kick out of him calling them “the kids”, Draco most of all. Well, when they’re alone. When they’re in the labs surrounded by everyone, Draco mostly rolls his eyes. This time, Draco laughs again, low and familiar, the comfortable heat Albus knows so well. Makes it a little easier to keep his distance.
Well, that and knowing he’s not in this alone, that Draco’s interested, too, and it’s really only a matter of time.
“About anything in particular or should I assume general mayhem?”
Albus taps his fingers idly against the rail. “Actually, how do you feel about splitting five Galleons?”
Draco eyes him warily, can’t quite hide his smile in an officious frown. Albus rather loves that he tries. “What would I have to do?”
::
Which is how it comes to pass that after a solid twenty years plus without dancing at the Ministry’s Annual Memorial Ball, Draco slips his hand into the palm Albus holds out and lets himself be led out onto the floor. Albus can tell Draco’s amused by the specifics of the bet, that his staff would even notice what he does at these things let alone wager on something this small, and because they’re neither of them idiotic enough to risk the close contact of a slow dance, Albus earns five Galleons bouncing easily to a pop song he remembers from his clubbing days, working his hips like an outrageous flirt and playing up to the audience catcalling from their table.
As it happens, Draco’s not bad on the dance floor at all. Not current, maybe, not as prone to grinding as Albus might like, but he keeps pace with the bassline and he laughs when Albus gets shameless, bright and real, and it’s so good, Albus moves in.
He’s nose-to-nose with a hand on Draco’s neck, another at Draco’s waist, before he’s really aware of it. They’re not dancing anymore. Albus has no idea what’s going on around them. Something loud, something busy, Albus gets jostled forward and that’s just…
That’s it. All he can stand. His fingers tighten to steady himself and doesn’t let go. Draco’s not smiling anymore.
“Please,” Albus says, rubbing Draco’s neck a bit, incapable of letting go long enough to get them the distance they both so obviously need, and he feels like he might burn up right there. “Please, Draco, can we…?”
And because clearly Albus has better luck than he has any right to expect, Draco stares at him every bit as enchanted and nods.
~f~
Uh, let's call it a prequel to the D/Al I wrote for talekayler , in which Al works at the Ministry and Draco is his boss. Everybody's legal, nobody's been married, Scorpius who?AU. Shamefully self-indulgent, shamefully lacking in porn. Enabled by the chatzy lovelies (of course, obviously), kitty_fic and eanelinea77 in particular.
Albus Potter’s been coming to the Ministry’s annual Memorial Ball pretty much his whole life on account of who his parents are but he’s never felt as comfortable with anyone as he does with the potions lab staff, who adopt him on account of his troubleshooting skills and seem entirely unaware of what his last name means.
That’s a big deal. Even when he knows they know, when it’s been made inescapably clear, they don’t see Harry Potter’s son, they just see him.
So yeah, he ditches the head of the Department of Mysteries, who's been trying to recruit him for ages and who's evidently decided she's his new best friend tonight, in order to hang out with his lab team, who all seem actually delighted to see him and who immediately take up the cause of getting him good and drunk before he’s whisked off again.
Albus doesn’t really need any encouragement to misbehave but he can’t say he’s not fond of having an excuse.
He’s sitting back in his corner watching a sea of familiar faces flood the dance floor to varying degrees of dance, nursing his third pint of the night, when he hears Robin and Simon bickering over terms. Albus spent months with them, he knows that can’t end well.
“I’m telling you, he’d never,” Robin says like she’s sure, and she folds her arms across her chest, cocks her head.
Simon points a thick finger at her and leans in across the table. Any closer, Albus thinks, and he’ll be in his cups in all the wrong ways. “And I’m telling you, he would. For the right offer.” Simon grins, his attempt at a leer. Robin narrows her eyes dangerously, which makes Mark lean back and whistle, but Simon just carries on. “Besides, if it were easy, there’d be no reason to bring it up.”
Robin flushes slightly. Simon’s finger swirls. Robin looks away, catches Mark’s eye and lights up with hope. “Mark, tell him. It’s ridiculous and it can’t be done. It is career suicide to even ask.”
Which settles who they’re talking about, then; there aren’t many people in the Ministry capable of putting that kind of caution in the potions lab staff but their boss.
Albus is pretty sure Mr. Malfoy could eat them all alive without more than a note in his file somewhere. It’s one of the many things Albus appreciates about the man, how flexible he is about everything right up until he’s not.
And yeah, he’ll most likely make them regret whatever they’ve cooked up now, if only to amuse himself. There’s no explaining how it is to work on this team, the caution and security they enjoy and the crazy, antics-filled atmosphere that’s evolved. Helps them cope with the ridiculous hours and the unreasonable expectations the rest of the MLE puts on their department, he thinks, but he’s never been entirely sure.
Might just be that it takes a special breed to voluntarily spend time around potentially life-threatening potions all day for relatively pathetic Ministry pay.
In all his thinking, Albus misses Mark’s response but he can tell it hasn’t appeased Robin at all, because she’s got the stubborn chin-set and she looks a shade off pulling rank.
Mark puts his hands up and says, “All I’m saying is he hasn’t done it yet, but that’s no reason to think he can’t. Maybe the music’s just not his thing? I mean, he’s not actually grown in the labs, right? He must be human under all that-” Mark handwaves vaguely in Mr. Malfoy’s direction.
Simon crows. Robin scowls. Albus’s brows shoot up as he works out the rest. “What are the terms?”
That fast, that easy, he’s got everyone’s attention. They all look like he’s deranged, which he gets rather a lot from them, really, all things considered. He really does love his job.
“Drinks,” Robin says carefully, clearly against her better sense.
Simon scoffs. “If you’re in it, mate, I’ll go five Galleons. But he has to say yes.”
“Sod that,” Robin counters, shoving in to lean against the table, narrowing her eyes at Albus speculatively. “For five Galleons, we get to watch.”
Albus lets a coy smile play over his mouth. “And what precisely do you think you’d be watching?” He mutters, “Pervy voyeurs, you lot, honestly,” just loud enough for Dustin and Simon to hear. Dustin sprays his mouthful of pint in surprise, which has Robin making a face of impatient, affectionate disgust as she pushes her napkin across the table.
“And will there be anything for us to voyeur, pervy or otherwise?” Simon counters with far too much interest.
Albus rolls his eyes. “Here? For five Galleons? Not hardly.”
Simon crows again. Robin hides her face in a palm. Mark mumbles something uneasily encouraging before he throws back what’s left of his drink. “One dance,” Simon says, pointing that nicotine-stained finger at Albus’s chest. “Right here, tonight, you get the Lab Dragon out on the dance floor for one song and you’ve made yourself five Galleons, mate.”
Albus makes a show of thoughtfully rubbing his chin, gives the appearance of thinking it through because he knows he should. Just, it’s Mr. Malfoy-Draco-and it’s here, the Ministry’s insufferable annual ball, and really, it’s ideal.
Well, for his purposes, anyway.
So Albus leaves off the rubbing to bob his head in a nod, then bumps a congenial fist against Simon’s arm. Simon looks positively gleeful. Robin just looks alarmed.
“Wait, no, Albus-” she starts but he’s already finishing his drink in a hard swallow, getting up as he does. He thunks his glass down when it’s empty, then nods at the table, flashes a wicked grin.
“Back in a bit,” he says, then “Don’t wait up.”
::
Mr. Malfoy-sod it, Draco, they’re not on the clock now-Draco spends most of his obligatory Memorial Ball time lurking by the bar getting conspicuously not drunk, staying conspicuously quiet. He doesn’t talk to anyone, not really, and never for long enough that it might be called any sort of conversation, and more importantly, Albus is certain he’s never brought a date.
Albus isn’t foolish enough to think Draco Malfoy’s been celibate all his life, which suggests interesting things. Hasn’t ever settled down, Albus thinks, has basically married his job, and that’s more interesting again in that Albus has become something of his unofficial right hand.
Since Draco seems the marrying sort, if only to carry on the family name, Albus infers rather a lot from his continued bachelorhood. More than he should, maybe, but a man can dream.
And if there’s anyone at the Ministry who’d get away with asking Draco Malfoy, Potions Lab Dragon, to dance, it’s almost certainly Albus, who knows better than anyone how messed up and brilliant Draco’s sense of humour is.
So really, there’s no cause to worry when Albus makes his approach, though he has a shaky moment when he catches Draco’s baleful stare. Draco lifts his glass slightly; Albus can’t tell if that’s an offer or a salute. Doesn’t really care either way, because it’s not like Draco’s going to run him off or anything.
Not unless he crosses the line. Albus likes to think he’s brighter than that, though he supposes time will tell.
He slips in beside Draco easily, worms space for himself against the bar and rests an elbow against the rail, glancing back to find the bartender busy handling patrons at the far end. Albus is all long-suffering patience when he meets Draco’s wary watch.
“Mr. Social,” Albus says by way of greeting, tipping his head quickly and trying to contain his grin.
“I have to be here,” Draco mutters. “What’s your excuse?”
Albus sing-songs his last name under his breath, watches Draco snort and try to hide his smirk behind his glass. Albus likes that, knowing that’s what Draco’s doing, being more certain than he probably should be that he’s the reason Draco looks less annoyed with the world in general than he has. “So what’s the plan this year? Another lab emergency only you can handle, or did you mean to just disappear?”
Draco looks torn between amusement and some ridiculous need to keep a straight face. He tsks a bit but he doesn’t mean it, Albus can tell. With Albus, he very rarely does. “You’re sure those are my only options, are you? I might mean to stay this time.”
Albus laughs outright, can’t help but do with how easily Draco deadpans. Albus has spent almost the entirety of his employment with the potions labs wanting to climb his boss like a tree, hopefully ride him like a broom at some point, but the thing that convinces Albus he’s in trouble is how very much else he likes about the man. Draco Malfoy’s meant to be six kinds of arsehole and he is, just he’s the exact kind of arsehole Albus enjoys.
Draco shakes his head and does his best to feign resignation. Albus really likes that face, too. “All right, yes, fine. I have no intention of staying.”
“Is it the music or the food?” Albus watches Draco finish his drink, then leans back to catch the bartender’s eye, signaling an order for two of whatever Draco’s drinking. Draco’s giving him the eye when Albus turns back, that patient amusement again, warm and fond and something else Albus can only speculate about just yet. It’s encouraging, at any rate. Albus lowers his voice. “I know it can’t be the company.”
There it is again, Draco watching him like Albus is fascinating. “Sure about that, are you?” Draco murmurs, just for him, and it’s different, how he says it this time, low and smooth and hot.
Albus gives him a filthy smile. It’s a risk, he knows, because they haven’t either of them said anything yet, but it’s not such a risk that he’d pass it up. And anyway, he’s always been a bit headstrong about these things, a bit bolder than he should be by rights.
For a long moment, he just lets Draco look him over, study his face for whatever he wants. Albus tells himself there’s no sense crying victory when Draco’s wry smile fades but honestly, he does get a bit odd in the chest, a bit quick in the pulse. Merlin help him, Albus is a half-breath off a lean with intent and the only reason he’s not already going for Draco’s mouth is that Draco’s still all caught up in watching Albus’s face, sealing it into his memory or whatever.
It’s incredibly hot.
Albus is just fine letting this moment draw itself out.
Then the bartender sets their drinks down by Albus’s elbow and it’s enough to jolt them both out of the moment, their unfortunate reflexes honed by too much time around experimental potions and such, and they both look away. Or, well, Albus does and he assumes he’s not alone, because he knows how Draco’s mind works and that’s…logical. The requisite next step.
It doesn’t escape his notice that Draco’s next drink disappears quickly, though it does take him a moment before Albus realizes there’s no actual liquor in his glass.
“Juice?” he murmurs, looking over with his brows raised. “Really?”
Draco shrugs with just his face. Albus kind of adores how well it suits. “Believe me, Potter, this is the last place I’d voluntarily intoxicate myself.”
Albus tsks lightly. “Albus. We’re off the clock.”
Draco thinks that over, then shakes his head. His shoulder’s right up against Albus’s arm. “No, I’m quite sure I’m only here because it’s a requirement of my job. Unpaid, yes, but off the clock, no.”
Maybe it’s the way Draco says it, light and wry. Maybe it’s that they’re touching, that Albus can nearly feel the heat of Draco’s arm against his own. Maybe it’s just that Draco’s been staring, that he hasn’t moved away, that Albus has made him smile so much already tonight. In retrospect, it’s something, Albus just isn’t ever sure what.
He leans in, presses his side deliberately against Draco’s, too long and obvious to be anything but what it is. Draco’s eyes half-close; his nostrils flare for a moment. It takes him a shade too long to look over mildly, like he needs to collect himself, first.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, low and hot, rougher than he means.
Draco answers in kind, gaze dipping to watch Albus’s mouth. “As much as I’d like to say yes-and believe me, I would-I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Then Draco slowly, carefully, deliberately says Albus’s first name.
Albus can’t help the shiver that runs through him at Draco’s tone, all the banked heat between them pushing everything else away. Draco licks his lips, makes Albus want to lick his own.
“Actually,” Albus starts unsteadily and he needs to start again because the word breaks. “Actually, that’s probably the best we’ve got tonight. Draco-” Draco’s eyes close when Albus says his name, which is more than enough for Albus, only Draco breathes shakily, too, and that’s just…Albus has to touch him. Soon. They’ve put this off for months, done their best to ignore it in their own ways, but the past ninety seconds are all the proof Albus needs that it won’t disappear with sustained denial. “Draco, as far as I can tell, our choices are yours, mine, or here. Which would you prefer?”
Draco laughs quietly, tight disbelief. “You’re going to be the death of me, I can tell already.”
“Yeah, but you’ll enjoy it.”
“No doubt I will.” Draco has to force himself to look away, ease back, put space between them. Albus understands that, both why it would be a struggle and why it’s necessary anyway, but he can’t say he doesn’t miss the heat of contact all the same. Draco stares hard at the mirror behind the bar; Albus resumes his leaning against the rail and surveys the room. He doesn’t see anything, it’s all a blur of bodies and sound and colour, but he tries to look nonchalant.
Who-knows-how-long later, Draco says, “Oh, joy, we have an audience.”
Which is when Albus remembers he’s got the whole of the potions team probably gaping at them right now. “Yeah, the kids got restless.”
Albus is the youngest member of the potions lab staff by at least two years; everyone gets a kick out of him calling them “the kids”, Draco most of all. Well, when they’re alone. When they’re in the labs surrounded by everyone, Draco mostly rolls his eyes. This time, Draco laughs again, low and familiar, the comfortable heat Albus knows so well. Makes it a little easier to keep his distance.
Well, that and knowing he’s not in this alone, that Draco’s interested, too, and it’s really only a matter of time.
“About anything in particular or should I assume general mayhem?”
Albus taps his fingers idly against the rail. “Actually, how do you feel about splitting five Galleons?”
Draco eyes him warily, can’t quite hide his smile in an officious frown. Albus rather loves that he tries. “What would I have to do?”
::
Which is how it comes to pass that after a solid twenty years plus without dancing at the Ministry’s Annual Memorial Ball, Draco slips his hand into the palm Albus holds out and lets himself be led out onto the floor. Albus can tell Draco’s amused by the specifics of the bet, that his staff would even notice what he does at these things let alone wager on something this small, and because they’re neither of them idiotic enough to risk the close contact of a slow dance, Albus earns five Galleons bouncing easily to a pop song he remembers from his clubbing days, working his hips like an outrageous flirt and playing up to the audience catcalling from their table.
As it happens, Draco’s not bad on the dance floor at all. Not current, maybe, not as prone to grinding as Albus might like, but he keeps pace with the bassline and he laughs when Albus gets shameless, bright and real, and it’s so good, Albus moves in.
He’s nose-to-nose with a hand on Draco’s neck, another at Draco’s waist, before he’s really aware of it. They’re not dancing anymore. Albus has no idea what’s going on around them. Something loud, something busy, Albus gets jostled forward and that’s just…
That’s it. All he can stand. His fingers tighten to steady himself and doesn’t let go. Draco’s not smiling anymore.
“Please,” Albus says, rubbing Draco’s neck a bit, incapable of letting go long enough to get them the distance they both so obviously need, and he feels like he might burn up right there. “Please, Draco, can we…?”
And because clearly Albus has better luck than he has any right to expect, Draco stares at him every bit as enchanted and nods.
~f~