The Art of Pretending

The marble floors of Malfoy Manor were freezing against Draco’s bare feet. He padded toward the drawing room, but the cold didn’t touch the frustration burning under his skin. Another silent dinner. Another night of his mother smiling too tightly and his father reading the Evening Prophet like the news mattered more than the son three feet away. They were proud of him—of course, he was a Malfoy—but it was the kind of pride you have in a well-trained dog. They didn’t see him. They didn’t ask about his day, his friends, his fears.

He was just the heir. A prop in the grand Malfoy legacy.

So when Narcissa mentioned at breakfast she worried he spent too much time alone, that maybe he should bring a friend home for the holidays, Draco saw an opening. The lie came out before he could stop it.

“I’m not alone, Mother. I have a boyfriend.”

The words hung in the air like a hex. Narcissa’s teacup stalled halfway to her mouth. Lucius’s eyes—cold and grey as winter storms—lifted from his correspondence.

“A boyfriend.” Each syllable dripped with disdain and curiosity. “Do tell. Which pureblood family have we overlooked?”

Draco’s heart hammered, but he kept his chin up. “He’s… not from a pureblood family. But he’s brilliant. And he treats me well.”

Lucius’s expression darkened. “Not pureblood? I hope for your sake, Draco, you’re not wasting your time with some half-blood or—Merlin forbid—a Muggle-born.”

“He’s not a Muggle-born,” Draco said quickly, the lie getting heavier. “He’s… he’s in Slytherin. Top of our year. You’d approve.”

Desperate gamble. He had no boyfriend, no lover, no one. But the thought of his parents finally paying attention—of seeing them react to something he chose—was intoxicating.

Lucius set down his quill. “Bring him to dinner. Tomorrow evening. I will see this paragon for myself.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “Father, that’s—he’s busy with—”

“I did not ask for excuses.” Soft, lethal. “I gave an order.”

Two hours later, Draco stood in the dimly lit corridor of Hogwarts, his pride in shambles, his options gone. He thought about asking Blaise—but Blaise would never go for an elaborate ruse. Pansy would have laughed in his face. Crabbe and Goyle? No.

Only one person was reckless enough, arrogant enough, and—if memory served—owed him a favor.

Harry Potter was in the library. Draco spotted him at a table near the Restricted Section, messy black hair bent over a stack of books, quill scratching furiously. Late, nearly curfew, the library empty except for Madam Pince patrolling the far aisles.

Draco approached, footsteps deliberately loud. Harry looked up, green eyes narrowing.

“Malfoy.” Flat. Unwelcoming. “Here to hex me in the library? That’s a new low, even for you.”

“I need your help.” The words tasted like ash.

Harry blinked. Then laughed—short, disbelieving. “Right. And I need a date to the Yule Ball with the Giant Squid. What’s the punchline?”

“There’s no punchline.” Draco sat down across from him, ignoring Harry’s incredulous stare. Lowered his voice, hating how desperate it sounded. “I might have told my parents I have a boyfriend. And my father wants to meet him. Tomorrow night.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend? Are you insane?”

“Yes, probably.” Hands trembling, he clasped them under the table. “But you owe me, Potter. Last month, when Snape caught you out after curfew and I told him I’d seen you heading to the library for a potions book—who do you think covered for you when he started asking questions? I said you were with me, studying. I took points off my own house for you.”

Harry’s smirk faded. He remembered. He’d been sneaking to the kitchens to meet Hermione, and Snape had been furious. Draco’s lie had been unexpected, and it saved Harry from detention and a letter to the Dursleys. He never understood why Draco did it.

“You think one favor makes up for seven years of being a git?” Harry asked, but his voice had lost its edge.

“I think it makes us even enough for you to consider it.” Draco met his eyes, and for a moment, Harry saw something he’d never seen in Malfoy before: vulnerability. “Please, Potter. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice.”

Harry studied him. Sharp cheekbones, pale skin, silver eyes that usually held nothing but contempt—now held something fragile. The idea was tempting. An evening at Malfoy Manor, pretending to be Draco’s lover, watching Lucius Malfoy squirm? Too good to pass up.

“What’s in it for me?” Harry asked.

“Besides my undying gratitude?” Draco forced a smirk. “My father has a wine cellar full of rare vintages. I can smuggle you a bottle of something expensive. And I’ll owe you. A real favor, not some schoolyard payback.”

Harry leaned back, crossed his arms. “One dinner. I play the doting boyfriend. I charm your mum, make your dad uncomfortable, and then I leave. No strings attached.”

“No strings,” Draco agreed, relief flooding through him.

“I’ll need details. What’s my name? What’s my backstory? How did we meet?”

Draco pulled out his wand and cast Muffliato. “Let’s start with the easy part. You’re Harry. Just Harry. No last name necessary. You’re a sixth-year Slytherin, top of our class in Charms. We met in the library—I asked you for help with a transfiguration essay.”

“You’re not into Potions?” Harry asked, amused.

“My father expects Potions mastery from me. I’d rather not give him ammunition.” Draco’s smile was thin. “We’ve been together for three months. You’re from a minor wizarding family in Wales. Your parents are dead. I told them you’re private about it.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You used my real dead parents for cover?”

“I needed something tragic enough they wouldn’t pry. The Malfoys respect tragedy—it makes you interesting.” Draco’s voice softened, just a fraction. “I’m sorry. I know it’s personal.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s fine. One dinner. Let’s get this over with.”

Next evening, Draco stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, second-guessing everything. The outfit was deliberately provocative: a black tube top that barely covered his chest, paired with a micro suede skirt that ended high on his thighs. Sheer stockings, heeled boots adding three inches, eyes lined with kohl, lips painted a deep bruised plum. Hair artfully tousled, silver-blond falling across his forehead.

He looked like he was going to a club in Knockturn Alley, not a formal dinner at his own home. But he wanted to unsettle his parents, prove he was his own person, that he could attract someone desirable without their approval. And if he was honest—if he was very honest—he wanted to see Harry’s reaction.

The Floo flared in the drawing room at exactly seven. Draco’s heart lurched as he heard his mother’s polite greeting, then a deeper voice—Harry’s—answering with easy charm.

He smoothed his skirt one last time and walked down the stairs.

Harry stood in the foyer, and Draco nearly tripped over the bottom step.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, jacket cut to emphasize his shoulders, white shirt crisp and unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was tamed into something resembling order, and he held a bouquet of white roses and silver eucalyptus. He looked nothing like the scruffy teenager who wore oversized jumpers and rumpled robes. He looked like a prince.

And he was staring at Draco.

Their eyes met. Harry’s lips parted. For a long, suspended moment, neither spoke. Then Harry walked toward him, slow, deliberate, and offered the flowers.

“You look—” Harry’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “You look beautiful, angel.”

The word hit Draco like a Confundus Charm. Angel. No one had ever called him that. He took the bouquet, fingers brushing Harry’s, and a shiver ran up his arm.

“You clean up well, Potter,” he managed, steadier than he felt.

Harry’s hand found the small of his back, warm and possessive. “Your mother said dinner is in the east dining room. Shall we?”

Draco nodded, and Harry guided him through the manor, his hand never leaving Draco’s back. At one point, passing a narrow hallway, Harry’s palm slid lower, resting just above the curve of Draco’s hip. Draco’s breath hitched.

“Relax,” Harry murmured close to his ear. “You’re stiff as a board. They’ll know something’s up.”

“You’re touching me,” Draco hissed.

“That’s the point, isn’t it? We’re boyfriends.” Harry’s fingers traced a small circle on Draco’s hip. “Boyfriends touch.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. He expected Harry to be awkward, to fumble through the act. Not this—so natural, so confident, so good at it.

They entered the dining room, Lucius already at the head of the table, Narcissa by the sideboard pouring wine. Crystal and silver, candles flickering in the centerpiece.

“Ah, Draco’s… friend,” Lucius said, eyes raking over Harry with clinical precision. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Harry stepped forward, extended his hand. “Harry Potter. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.”

The name landed like a bomb. Lucius’s hand froze mid-reach. Narcissa’s wineglass slipped, clattering onto the silver tray.

“Potter?” Lucius’s voice went ice cold. “The Potter? The Boy Who Lived?”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. He had forgotten—how could he have forgotten?—that Harry’s last name was synonymous with everything the Malfoys despised. The scar on Harry’s forehead, half-hidden by his hair, seemed to pulse in the candlelight.

But Harry didn’t flinch. He smiled, charming, disarming, that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s me. I hope my family name won’t be a problem. I assure you, I’m nothing like my father.”

Lucius’s jaw worked. Narcissa recovered first, her smile frosty but polite. “Of course not, dear boy. Please, sit. Tell us how you and Draco met.”

Dinner was a minefield. Lucius prodded Harry with questions—grades, class, family, politics. Harry answered each with smooth, practiced ease, never once stumbling. He mentioned he was Slytherin, admired pureblood traditions, thought the Ministry was too lenient on Muggle-borns. All lies, of course, but delivered with such conviction Draco almost believed him.

And through it all, Harry kept touching Draco. A hand on his knee under the table. Fingers brushing as they passed the salt. A thumb stroking the inside of his wrist while Draco sipped wine. Each touch sent a jolt through Draco, heat coiling low in his stomach.

“You’re feeding him?” Lucius asked, raising an eyebrow as Harry lifted a forkful of asparagus to Draco’s lips.

“He’s been stressed lately,” Harry said, voice soft, eyes locked on Draco’s. “I like taking care of him.”

Draco opened his mouth, and Harry slid the asparagus in. The flavor was delicate, but all he could taste was the proximity of Harry’s fingers, the warmth of his breath.

Narcissa dabbed her lips with a napkin, expression unreadable. “You are very attentive, Mr. Potter.”

“He deserves nothing less.” Harry’s hand moved to Draco’s thigh, resting just above the hem of his skirt. Draco’s legs parted involuntarily.

Lucius cleared his throat. “Draco, perhaps you and Mr. Potter would like to take coffee in the living room. We can continue our discussion later.”

A dismissal, but polite. Draco rose, legs shaky, Harry standing with him, hand sliding back to the small of his back. They walked out of the dining room, and the moment the door closed behind them, Harry let out a long breath.

“That was exhausting.” He muttered. “Your father is a nightmare.”

“You did well,” Draco said, meaning it. “Better than I hoped.”

Harry turned to him, eyes dark in the dim light of the living room. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows. The manor was silent around them, servants dismissed for the night.

“I wasn’t just acting, Draco,” Harry said quietly.

Draco’s heart stopped. “What?”

“The touches. The words. Calling you angel.” Harry stepped closer, close enough that Draco could feel the heat radiating off him. “I’ve been thinking about you for months. Since that night in the library. I didn’t know why you covered for me, but I couldn’t stop wondering. And then when you asked me to do this… I realized I wanted to know what it would be like. To really have you.”

Draco’s breath came short. “You’re supposed to be acting.”

“I was. But I’m not anymore.” Harry’s hand came up, cupping Draco’s cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…”

Draco didn’t tell him to stop. He closed the distance.

The kiss was fire. Harry’s lips soft but demanding, sliding against his, tasting wine and need. Draco’s hands fisted in Harry’s jacket, pulling him closer, and Harry wrapped his arms around him, one hand tangling in his hair, the other gripping his waist.

They stumbled backward, hitting the arm of the sofa, and Harry pressed Draco into the velvet. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling, breath mingling, and Harry’s hands roamed—down Draco’s back, over the curve of his ass, squeezing hard. Draco moaned into his mouth, arching into the touch.

“Harry,” he breathed, breaking the kiss.

“I know.” Harry’s lips moved to his jaw, his neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “I know. I shouldn’t want this. But I do.”

“I don’t care,” Draco gasped. “Don’t stop.”

Harry’s hands slid under the tube top, palms flat against warm skin, and Draco’s head fell back, a shudder running through him. The pretense was gone. This was real. More real than anything he’d ever felt.

The door clicked open.

They sprang apart, breathing hard, faces flushed. Lucius stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. Silence stretched like a wire.

“I see you two are… comfortable,” Lucius said.

Harry straightened his jacket, composure returning faster than Draco could manage. “Mr. Malfoy. We were just—”

“I know what you were just doing.” Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “I am not blind, Potter. But I also see that my son is happy. That is… unexpected.”

Draco’s heart pounded. “Father, I—”

“I did not ask you to speak, Draco.” Lucius’s gaze stayed on Harry. “Your performance tonight was convincing. Perhaps too convincing. But I will not object to you courting my son, provided you continue to show the same respect.” A pause. “You are welcome at future family dinners.”

Closest thing to approval Draco had ever heard from his father.

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. I would be honored.”

Lucius turned and left, the door closing softly.

The moment he was gone, Draco sagged against the sofa. “Merlin’s beard. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Harry laughed—soft, surprised. “He said yes. He invited me back.”

Draco looked at him, at the smirk playing on Harry’s lips, at the firelight reflecting in his green eyes. “He invited you back because he thinks you’re genuinely interested in me.”

“Aren’t I?” Harry stepped forward again, hands finding Draco’s hips. “I told you. It wasn’t all acting.”

“So what now?” Draco asked, voice barely a whisper.

Harry leaned in, lips brushing Draco’s ear. “We keep pretending. In public. But in private…” His hand slid down, squeezing Draco’s ass again. “We don’t have to pretend at all.”

Draco’s hands found the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him into another kiss. This one slower, sweeter, tasting of promise.

“I think I can live with that,” Draco said against his lips.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel lonely at all.