A/N: This story is for Inês, who, when I suggested to her a while back that I might write a HPDM established relationship story, replied with a supportive 'Yes'. Or, since it's Inês we're talking about, she probably said 'OMG jskfjsklshgh YESS!' but I do speak her language enough to interpret.
I should really apologise for taunting her with anonymous asks on tumblr all day, but really, it's been too much fun.
Since I've been off work with
fucking tonsillitis for the past day and a half, this is what I've been doing. I hate being ill. But the extra writing time is nice.
Utter fluff. Really, truly. Pointless fluff. Fluff and smut.
Hope you enjoy.

Harry tumbles out of the kitchen Floo a full forty five minutes late. Hangs his robes up on one of the two little pegs next to the fireplace, already starting to beg for forgiveness.

Then he inhales.

"Did you cook?"

"It has been known to happen," Draco drawls from the stove. His back is turned to Harry as he stirs something in a large copper pot, his dark blue jumper rolled up to the elbows, the white shirt underneath unbuttoned at the cuffs and haphazardly pushed up his forearms.

His feet are bare on the tiles, warmed as they are from the heat of the fire and his hair (too long, now, really) curls at the nape of his neck.

"Is it a special occasion?" Harry asks as he sheds yet more outer layers. "Oh fuck, it is, isn't it? What did I forget?"

"Nothing," Draco says, turning now and smirking. "I just walked through Spitalfields market on the way home tonight and picked up some lamb, thought I'd make a casserole.

"You know, if I were a lesser man I'd let you think that you'd done something terrible and make you beg all night for my forgiveness."

Harry laughs and crosses to him for a quick kiss on the cheek. "Should I open wine?"

"Yes," Draco says. "Most definitely, yes."

While Harry searches through the wine rack and ponders what goes well with lamb ('red', Draco instructs), Draco serves up the casserole with big chunks of wholemeal bread with the grains still in it. 'Posh bread', Harry calls it.

They sit at the scarred, old wooden table that Harry salvaged from Grimmauld Place; it's too big for their home but some things are meant to be kept. As he's always done, Draco tucks his feet up so his legs are crossed on the chair while he eats.

"How was your day?"

"Dull," Draco says and swirls his wine in the glass. He says nothing, but his little hum of approval tells Harry he selected right. "Goblins are getting arsey about me being there, again, but it's not my bloody fault that I need to sign off on their bloody work."

"Of course not, dear," Harry says under his breath.

"Someone was having a right laugh when they gave me this assignment."

"Don't look at me," Harry protests. "I refuse to have anything to do with you at work and you know it."

Draco mutters something unintelligible. Harry lets it pass.

"Stew is good."


"Hermione owled this morning. We've been invited over there for drinks tomorrow night."

"Oh Harry, must we?"

"Stop it. The kids are going to Molly's for the evening. It'll just be the four of us."

"Oh." Draco considers this for a moment. "I suppose that's okay."

Harry laughs and reaches for the bottle of wine, topping off both their glasses. "I still don't get what your problem is. They're lovely children."

"See, that's your first mistake. You make statements like 'lovely children' enough and after a while you start to believe them."

Using the last of his bread, Draco mops the sides of the bowl clean and leans back in his chair with his glass of wine.

"You're Rosie's godfather."

"Doesn't mean I have to like her," Draco counters.

"She'll be off to Hogwarts in six months. Then you'll miss her."

"I won't," Draco argues, injecting a note of scandal into his voice. "That's a dirty lie, Potter."

Saying nothing, Harry picks up the now empty bowls and carries them to the sink. There's no point in arguing about the washing up tonight - Draco cooked. By the laws of the house, this means Harry has no choice but to wash up.

To his surprise, Draco joins him with a tea towel and silently starts to dry the dishes and put them back on their shelves. There's not a lot tonight; Draco's always been a fairly sparse cook, or, as he prefers to call it, a 'chuck it all in a pot and see what happens'. Harry always says it's a wonder he even passed Potions, let alone excelled at it.

With the domestic chores done Draco grabs the half empty bottle of wine in one hand, and Harry's hand in the other and leads him down to the living room. The peculiarities of this house dictate that the living room is just below street level, a half- basement that is in fact incredibly cosy. Draco picked the blue/grey colour for the walls and the overstuffed tweed sofas, the leather armchair that they argue over and still, on occasion, share.

Even though they should be edging towards spring, it's been a late winter this year and still unseasonably cold for March. Harry lights a fire - some sort of silent signal to their fat ginger cat to appear from wherever he had been chasing mice to settle on the soft rug in front of it.

"Do you have work tonight?" Harry asks. It's an innocent enough question, but one that tells of how often Draco brings home paperwork. Too often, Harry argues. If there's not enough time during the week for him to get it all done, then he's taking on too big a workload.

"No. Not tonight."

"Oh." He's strangely pleased.

Before Draco has the chance to steal it, Harry slides into the leather arm chair and props his feet up on the coffee table. With a lazy flick of his wrist he ignites the few lamps in the room (there's no space for an overhead light) and sighs while the leather creaks and settles around him.

Predictably, Draco sweeps his feet off the coffee table as he passes on his way to the bookcase. Down here they mostly keep volumes of fiction, both wizarding and Muggle. It's strange that, given their upbringing, Draco has developed over the years a taste for classic Muggle children's literature, while Harry is fascinated by wizarding books. It was one of the things that united them, way back in the early days of their relationship.

Harry had introduced Draco to Beatrix Potter and Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis, presenting him each birthday and Christmas with a beautiful hardback edition. Draco, for his part, had given Harry books by Tompkins, Q. B. Benson and Greta Catchlove.

Tonight, after some pondering, Draco selects Lewis Carroll. To Harry's surprise, rather than conceding and taking the sofa, Draco slides onto his warm lap and tucks his feet into the gap between the seat cushion and arm of the chair.

"Read this to me?"

"You're old enough to read for yourself."

"I know. But I like the sound of your voice."

Harry snorts but accepts the book from Draco's hands. The two wine glasses and bottle bob carefully, suspended, weightless in the air, waiting for a hand to reach out and take. Harry settles the book (a hardback, naturally, Draco detests paperbacks and scowls at the mere mention of e-books) on Draco's legs and turns to the first page.

"To a dear child," Harry begins, "In memory of a summer's day."

The scene is far too domestic for either of their tastes if they actually pause to think about it, so they don't. Instead Harry squints while he reads so Draco conjures a few candles to float just behind Harry's head, illuminating the pages for him. In thanks, Harry runs his fingers through the back of Draco's hair.

"It's getting long," he comments when he pauses in his reading to take a sip of wine.

"Don't you like it long?"

"I don't mind. It just makes you look... refined."

"Old," Draco says scathingly. "You were going to say old."

Harry laughs and flicks his ear teasingly. There's a tiny silver hoop through the lobe, mostly hidden by the long hair. "I would never call you old, Draco. I wouldn't dare."

They finish the bottle of wine, feed the cat and are in bed by midnight.

The bedroom is freezing because someone forgot to close the window before they left for work this morning but the point is carefully avoided as they strip down to boxers and huddle under the heavy duck feather duvet together.

"Fuck off, Malfoy. I don't want your feet up my bum, contrary to popular belief."

"But your thighs are warm," Draco whines. "And my feet are cold."

"Mine aren't exactly toasty either."

Too close to the mark. He backtracks, and concedes.

The sound of London at night is home, now, after all these years; cabs and laughter and the pub across the road, the sound of young people smoking on the thin wooden benches. Traffic. The tube station - it's only just down the road but there's a vent in the pavement outside their front door and the rush of trains blends into the background.

Eventually Draco rolls over and snuggles back into Harry's embrace.

"You're hard."

It's a surprised exclamation.

In the dark, Harry rolls his eyes. "It has been known to happen."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know. I'm still trying to decide."

Draco laughs, delighted, and wriggles his hips, purposefully grinding his bum against Harry's erection.

"Do you want some help?"

"Maybe." But he's kissing the side of Draco's neck, right in that spot right there that makes Draco arch his back and search out Harry's hand on the bed.

He rolls over to find lips that slide together seamlessly, tongues that know where and how to lick and trade breathless little laughs and gasps that confirm their relationship. Draco's working on his own erection now - it doesn't just spring up like it used to. Harry helps. He's so good like that.

With familiar ease, Harry presses his knee between Draco's and gently rolls him onto his back. Their bodies undulate together, finding friction and smooth skin and increasingly frantic kisses.

This isn't unheard of, but after a bottle of wine they're more likely to fall asleep tangled in each other's limbs and snore away the night than fuck through it. Familiarity is a wonderful thing, as is the ability to be spontaneous after twenty years together.

Or is it twenty one?

No. Twenty.


Draco gasps. It is, however, a gasp of righteous indignation rather than one of pleasure.

"You vanished my boxers," he says.

"I did."

"Those were Calvin Kleins."

Harry laughs and nibbles his collarbone. "Were they?"

"Ooh, you're in trouble, Potter."

"Harry," he whispers. "Call me Harry."

'Call me Harry'. Fateful words from their past. Ancient history, but still so relevant.

"Harry," Draco says obligingly, his fingers combing through black hair, just ever so slightly starting to grey at the temples. "Harry. Roll over."

"No. You roll over."

Draco raises a single eyebrow in question. And in it lies many secrets.

In the years they've been together, Harry has a habit of going through phases. His most recent phase, one that has lasted several months, has been a bottoming phase. Before that there had been a blowjob phase, and a rimming phase, and an exhibitionist phase... a rough top phase, a slutty bottom phase, a Polyuice phase. And so on.

They'd last, these phases, anything from a couple of weeks to almost a year. They're not steadfast rules; other things appear on the sexual menu alongside regular blowjobs or having sex in the shower. Instead, it's more like a preference. A very strong preference.

Draco's languid roll onto his stomach signifies a change in Harry's current preference. To what, he's not yet sure, although there has yet to be a phase that Draco hasn't enjoyed. The spanking phase made sitting down at work the next day slightly uncomfortable, but he'd liked it at the time.

As Harry presses kisses down the length of Draco's back, Draco sighs into a pillow and shifts on the bed so it's hugged to his chest and spreads his legs. Really, with anyone else he'd consider the action slutty. But for Harry... well, for Harry, he'd do anything.

Especially when it seemed like Harry was contemplating a rimming phase again.

That could always be tolerated.

It doesn't take long for his body to blossom under Harry's careful licks and touches; slick liquid pushed inside him with gently probing fingers and kisses that flutter from the swell of his bum to the ticklish skin on his sides. Harry knows when Draco's ready and positions himself, one leg either side of the other man's thighs.

"This okay?" he asks in a breathless whisper.

"Yeah," Draco agrees. There's something about the dark that inspires hushed words, even though they're alone in this house, no one to catch them.

While Harry slicks himself up and positions his cock, one hand braced on the bed and the other on his dick, Draco wriggles. There's no other word for it. He's suddenly desperate for that aching, twisty push of Harry inside him and the rush of endorphins and hormones and other things that comes with it.

And when it happens, it's as good as he remembers. As good as it's always been. And there's something very reassuring in that; his body reacts, painfully at first, then it too remembers that this is okay. In the few seconds it takes for his body and brain to come to this conclusion, Harry holds still and kisses a line from one shoulder to the other.

It's Draco who arches back into the sensation, a strangled moan escaping from his throat. Harry re-settles his body and finds Draco's hand on the bed. Holds it. And starts to move.

They communicate as much in little moans and grunts and gasps as they do whispers and terms of endearment. Draco always used to tease that the only time Harry called him 'baby' was when his cock was either in Draco's ass, or down his throat.

"Oh, god, baby," Harry moans and Draco laughs breathlessly, squeezing the hand that's curled around his own.

"You feel amazing," he whispers in response. "I missed you."

"I missed you too. I'm sorry."

"Don't... ah, fuck! Don't be..."

It's a slow, sensuous roll of bodies, moving together seamlessly and with endless love and affection. Harry's lips skim over Draco's neck, lingering on the point where he can feel the rush of blood separated only by the thinnest stretch of skin. He only leaves this point when Draco twists again, demanding kisses on his lips, now, while his entire lower body bucks back into Harry's.

Harry, for his part, knows that he's only a lift of his hips and change of angle away from taking his partner over the edge. It's a delicious dilemma, being desperate to come inside Draco's impossibly tight, incredibly hot ass, and making this last as long as possible. He might be old, but he's still got his pride and his stamina. Well, maybe not as much stamina as when he was a teenager, and certainly not the same recovery time. But he can make this last.

"Now, Harry, please, fuck, now..."

And to hell with it, he decides, and loses himself.

Draco shifts on the bed so he can sneak a hand back, gripping his own cock and stroking himself in time with Harry's thrusts. The wild cries of his lover's orgasm are a trigger point in some part of his subconscious and Harry comes, hard, white dots dancing over his vision.

Then he slumps into a boneless heap on Draco's back.

"Oof," Draco grunts. "Get off me, you big lump."

Harry's laughing as he rolls inelegantly back to his side of the bed, but drags Draco with him for more sweet kisses. He runs his fingers through Draco's hair a few times, moving the pale strands back from his forehead where it's been stuck there with a sheen of sweat.

Draco's wand, when he reaches for it, works unusually well (as it always has) as Harry casts a cleaning charm over them both. When Draco shivers from the cold, Harry drags the duvet back up over them both and nudges Draco's head to his shoulder.

Draco flops his arm over Harry's waist, his leg over Harry's thighs and snuggles in deep.

"Night, Harry."



Harry wakes the next morning to the smell of tea and toast and the familiar, inky parchment of the Saturday Prophet. A fat cat pads around his feet and settles there, sharing his warmth, and Draco slides back into bed next to him. Kisses his shoulder.

"I've laced your tea with Sober- Up. Thought you should know."

Harry stretches, groans; scratches through the hair on his head, his stomach and his balls. Finds his glasses on the bedside table and pushes them on. Then returns the kiss.

"Thanks," he says in a gruff voice. He props the pillows up on the bed so he can sit back against the headboard. Draco already has the paper laid out across the top of the duvet and silently passes Harry the Quidditch scores.

There's at least half a loaf of buttered toast on a plate between them. Draco has developed a charm which hovers between the sheets and the breakfast, quietly repelling crumbs. This mostly acts as his way of telling if Harry eats in bed without him.

"Damn," Harry mutters around a mouthful of toast. "The Harpies lost to the Cannons."

"Of course they did," Draco says in his best 'I told you so' voice. "You should never bet against Ron when it comes to the Cannons."

"I only do it to wind him up."

"I know you do, darling. How much did you lose this time?"

"Five Galleons."

Draco sighs indulgently and licks his finger to turn the page. "Good grief."

"What?" Harry leans over to look at the page.

It's a large photograph of the two of them at a Ministry benefit dinner from a few weeks before. They were promised that there would be no reporters at the event, in fact, it was one of the few conditions Harry had put on his agreement to attend. The Minister would be pissed.

Other than the circumstances, Harry can objectively say it's a nice picture of the two of them together. Pictures of the couple are rare. Nice ones are rarer. They're talking to the Minister for Magic herself, all three of them holding long champagne flutes and Draco's hand is resting lightly on the small of Harry's back.

After a moment, picture-Harry laughs and moves his hand, lacing it with picture-Draco's fingers on his back and dropping their joined hands to their sides.

"Well, I can see why the Prophet decided to run it," Harry says and sips his tea.

"There wasn't supposed to be any photographers at this one," Draco whines. He sits back against his own pillows with a slump and a pout.

"It's fine," Harry sighs, ever the diplomat. "It doesn't matter."

Draco knows better than to push, instead finishing his tea and toast in silence and then leaving Harry in favour of a shower. Harry snoozes, and pretends not to be when Draco reappears some twenty minutes later.

"Where are my grey wool trousers?"

"In the wash," Harry says absently as Draco flicks hangers about in the wardrobe. Draco harrumphs.

"What about my dark blue jeans?"

"In the wash."

"Does anyone ever do the washing around here?"


"Then let me have a bloody house elf!"

"Nope. Going for a shower now. Let the cat out, would you?"

Draco is growling and muttering to himself so Harry makes his exit swift. When he returns to the bedroom, freshly showered, Draco has left with the dirty breakfast things, and has laid out clothes for him on the bed.

Because he can, Harry ignores them and puts his scruffy jeans on. It's the weekend, after all.

He pulls on socks but not shoes, not until he knows what the plan is for today. If there is a plan at all. He knows there's a Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match being played up at Hogwarts, if either of them can be bothered to make the journey. He's tempted to suggest it, partly due to his recent loss to Ron and mostly because it'll be fun. Draco always gets so riled up when their former houses play each other, and rumour has it this game is important in the race for the Cup.

"Draco?" he calls as he pads down the stairs.

Harry finds him in the kitchen, sat barefoot and cross legged on top of the kitchen table, sorting through the post. Draco looks up from a letter and smiles. With a slow roll of something in his belly, Harry leans forward and demands kisses. Soft, slow, wet kisses.

"What was that for?" Draco demands as Harry pulls back.

He shrugs. "Because I can?"

"Oh." Draco smiles. "Then do it again."