Malfoy Meets Muggle

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling

Warnings: Non epilogue compliant, some strong language

Rating: T

Chapter 1. Proposal

Draco knows he's wearing his 'shit-eating grin', as Harry calls it, the one that usually sends lesser beings running for cover, but he can't bring himself to care. Why shouldn't he be happy? He's just joined one of the country's most exclusive clubs, one with less than a dozen living members, and more than that it is his skill alone that has got him here. No one can accuse him of buying his way in this time, he thinks smugly. He wonders how he should inform everyone of his brilliance. Letters? Over drinks? Take out a full page spread in the Prophet?

He's still considering the matter when he steps out of the lift and into the waiting room, and he quickly realises he's forgotten to clear his expression. The receptionist gulps and cowers behind her desk, and a squat wizard sat in the far corner pales and shrinks down in his seat. The other occupant of the room, though, shoots to his feet, his smile matching Draco's.

"All done?" Harry asks, and Draco proudly holds up his official scroll. Harry whoops and grabs Draco round the middle, apparently forgetting they're in public. Draco clears his throat and pulls away slightly; their relationship has been public knowledge for over six months, but he's still not as comfortable with public displays of affection as Harry. Harry rolls his eyes and settles for kissing Draco's cheek. Draco flushes as he smoothes the creases from the front of his robes.

"So, where would you like to go for lunch?" he asks, before mentally kicking himself. Damn Harry for getting him all flustered! Even after almost a year, Draco still hasn't been converted to Harry's favourite 'pub grub', and endures it only when he really has to (or whenever Harry cheats and uses The Puppy Dog Eyes on him).

Harry, though, surprises him. "Hey, this is your big day – you choose."

Oh, thank Merlin, Draco thinks. "Chez Christophe," he says instantly, then frowns when Harry pulls a face, "What? You like it there!"

"The food's great," Harry concedes, "But you know I feel stupid when I don't understand the menu."

Draco sighs, used to Harry's insecurities by now, and squeezes his hand. "That's what I'm here for. Draco Malfoy, translator extraordinaire. You know I like to feel useful."

That's a lie; Draco likes nothing more than to relax and be taken care of. The only exemption is when he's around Harry. He still can't believe his luck – that someone like Harry would want someone like him – and he's determined to spoil and take care of the other man to the best of his abilities. Harry shoots Draco an indulgent smile and links his elbow.

"Okay, then. Chez Christophe it is. Just make sure they don't bring me anything disgusting, yeah?"

"This is really good," Harry mumbles around a mouthful of chicken ballotine stuffed with escargots. Draco hides a smile. Harry doesn't know he's eating snails, but in all honesty, he never would have chosen this if Draco had told him exactly what the chicken was stuffed with, and Draco only has Harry's best interests in mind. Snails are, after all, surprisingly nutritious, and broadening Harry's rather limited culinary horizons can only be a good thing.

After the main course, the pair of them share a crème brulee. Harry moans in delight as he sucks each mouthful slowly off the spoon. It's practically sinful, and Draco hides a groan of his own at the sight.

"What do you think?" Harry asks, gesturing at the dessert.

"I think we should move in together," Draco says.

It isn't until Harry drops his spoon that Draco realises what he's said and he's instantly horrified. Not at the idea, of course – he's actually been considering asking Harry for a couple of weeks now – but at the blunt and completely bungling manner in which he's raised the matter. He should have sounded Harry out first, dropping hints to try and gauge what his reaction would be. Harry's completely oblivious about these things; he wouldn't have known what Draco was doing. Instead, Draco's asked him with no preparation, no thought-out plan as to how it would work, in the middle of a public restaurant no less! He opens his mouth to apologise but no sound comes out, making him look a little like a dying fish. He snatches up his linen napkin and covers his face whilst Harry flushes magenta.

"I think we'd better order coffee, don't you?" he asks quietly. Draco, knowing Harry isn't going to let the matter drop now it's been raised, signals the waiter over and orders two coffees. The waiter shoots Draco an annoyed glance – he's asked in English instead of French – but scurries off to get their order. In the time it takes for them to arrive, there is complete silence, both men not knowing exactly what to say or how to say it. Eventually Harry clears his throat, tips an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee and stirs it nervously.

"Did you mean it?" he asks.

"Of course!" Draco says, affronted, "When do I ever say things I don't mean?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "All the time. You say you hate shopping, but you're always very eager to accompany Pansy on her weekend trips to Paris..."

"How do you know about those?"

"It doesn't matter. You tell me you love the curries from the takeaway round the corner because you know they're my favourite, but you pull faces and vanish them when you think I'm not looking. You tell me you've seen homeless beggars dressed better than me, that my glasses went out of fashion fifty years ago and that my hair is an embarrassment, but you're still happy to be seen with me." His amused smile drops slightly. "At least, I hope you don't mean it when you say all that stuff..."

"Of course I don't," Draco says, taking Harry's hand, "I say that because, well, I don't really know what else to say. You know I have problems expressing myself when it comes to..."

"Emotional stuff," Harry finishes quietly, "Which is why I'm so shocked that you just blurted that out. I'd have expected a subtle interrogation for months before you brought it up."

Draco frowns; it seems Harry knows him better than Draco thinks he does. "It was a little unsubtle, wasn't it?"

"Unsubtle? Draco, a rampaging hippogriff could have come charging through this restaurant with more subtlety than that!"

Draco bites his lip and looks away. "But I do mean it."

Harry sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know you do, you prat. But it's not a simple yes or no, is it?"

Draco frowns, confused. "It's not?"

"Think about it. What can you tell me about the flat I'm in now?"

"It's tiny – I think my ensuite bathroom's bigger. But it doesn't matter. We'd need somewhere larger; we could easily afford it..."

"That's not what I meant," Harry interjects, "Draco, my flat is full of muggle stuff. I grew up in a muggle household, and I'm just used to doing a lot of things the muggle way. I won't have a house elf – I promised myself when Kreacher died that I would never get another – and I don't want one of yours from the manor. If we move in together it will be just me and you..."

"You and I," Draco corrects under his breath.

"Whatever. It will be just you and I, and I won't... I can't... Damn it, I don't know how to say it right..."

"I'll have to learn to put up with muggle things?" Draco suggests.

Harry sighs. "Exactly, and I know learning about muggle things isn't exactly on your bucket list..."

"Why would I want a list of buckets?"

"No, it means... Never mind. I just know it's not the way you want to live, that's all."

Draco sighs and picks at the table cloth absently. Harry is right; Draco has never seen the attraction of all the muggle things Harry uses in his flat, not when a house elf is perfectly capable of doing the same thing in less than half the time. Still, he knows they're important to Harry, and he supposes the only thing he has to consider now is whether having Harry all to himself is worth it. He's fed up with the way things are now; there isn't room to swing a kneazle in Harry's flat, and Draco's parents have a nasty habit of disturbing them in the manor, no matter which of the forty-six rooms they're hiding in. Draco glances across the table at Harry. Harry, his boyfriend, who has already risked and given up so much to be with Draco. What he has done to deserve Harry, Draco doesn't know, but one thing he is suddenly certain of is that he would be a fool to even consider letting Harry go over something as trivial as a handful of muggle items.

"I love you, Harry," he says, "You've already adapted for me; you come to my balls and charity events even though you hate them, you learned enough pureblood etiquette to appease my father, and you put up with the aftermath of my stupid dreams..."

"I get nightmares too," Harry says softly.

"Shush. I'm speaking. The point I'm trying to make is that I'll try my best. I might never be comfortable with them, just like I don't think you'll ever be comfortable at my charity galas, but if muggle things are as important to you as the galas are to me, then I'll try."

Harry smiles the smile that does funny things to Draco's insides. "For someone who doesn't do emotions very well, that was pretty damn emotional."

Draco sniffs. "Yes, well, it won't happen very often, so I suggest you commit it to memory as best you can."

Harry laughs. "I sure will. So, shall I book us an appointment with an estate agent?"

"Estate agent?"

"Muggle people in charge of selling and renting out houses. We can't get a place in a wizarding district."

Draco's stomach gives a nervous flip. "Why not?"

Harry gives him a funny look. "We need to be connected to the electricity grid or nothing of mine will work."

Draco sighs, nods and asks for the bill. Deep breaths, he tells himself. It's only muggle things. Muggles are primitive and stupid and nothing they could ever come up with can faze him. He will be absolutely fine. Besides, he can't wait to see the look on his father's face when Draco tells him he's going to be leaning about muggle gadgets. That thought alone is enough to put the smile back on his face, and as he takes Harry's hand and they stroll out into a sunny afternoon, Draco doesn't think that life could get much better than this.