What You Do With Your Life, A.H.K.B.C.B. (After the Hero Kills the Batshit Crazy Bastard)

Rated for future chapters.

"What You Do With Your Life, A.H.K.B.C.B. (After the Hero Kills the Batshit Crazy Bastard)"

Disclaimer: I do not own them. I desperately wish that I did, but I don't. The lovely English lady and the big movie studio own them, I merely occasionally invite them out to play.

A/N's: There's a bit of a story behind this one. I had written several fest fics in a row, (HDWC, Inspired Animagus, Free range bunny vamp fic) all very plotty, heavy on the angst. It was fun, and satisfying, and exhausting. When this fluffy little bunny hopped up, I invited him to have a seat, have a glass of wine, and set a spell. This was purely written for fun, much like you use sherbet to clear your palate after a heavy meal. In that vein, it may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Don't worry; I'm sure the angst will return, but this was really fun!

Part 1/8

Two Years, A.P.M. (After Psychotic Megalomaniac)

Draco Malfoy had waited years in hope of seeing Harry Potter utterly humiliated.

He’d even fantasized about it when he’d been younger. He’d spun elaborate plots in his head where Potter was left in cringing, abject misery, and he, Draco, could have a good, superior laugh right in the ‘boy wonder’s’ face. The fantasies had reached their zenith and their most vicious during his sixth year at Hogwarts, when he’d been at his most miserable. He’d been stuck trying to do the unthinkable at the bidding of a mad man, and Potter had been in his face all the bloody time. That had been all that had kept him sane, those nasty fantasies of seeing Potter brought low. The plots had been extraordinarily creative and the conclusion the same: Potter would be humiliated, and Draco would finally win… something.

Then the next year had been… well, he now chose to refer to it as ‘the year that must not be remembered’. There had been no evil fantasies that year, just ongoing terror and the will to survive. He’d been lost that year. Lost, until a firm, calloused hand had reached down and pulled his sorry arse out of the fire, and…

That was why now, when he should have been enjoying the spectacle in front of him, he couldn’t. Damn it. Even this, Potter was going to ruin for him.

“Oh, this is just too delicious,” Pansy whispered in his ear, all but salivating at the scene taking place across the crowded bar.

Standing at one end, Quidditch Super Star and Scotsman ‘Most Likely To Get Laid’, Oliver Wood, was in the midst of a rabid circle of admirers, smiling his thousand megawatt smile, tossing his curly head. He really was too good looking for his own good, Draco thought as he watched. All broad shoulders and gleaming white teeth. And his arm was firmly around the shoulders of another man, a very pretty young thing with wavy brown hair and doe-like eyes, his attention fixed on Wood’s face as if he were witnessing one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Which, if rumors about Wood’s ‘attributes’ were correct, Draco supposed he was.

At the other end of the bar, huddled over a shot of Firewhisky, disreputable hair even messier than usual, jaw scruffy and eyes red-rimmed, sat Potter. His broad shoulders were hunched; his head was bowed, and every line of his body screamed abject despair. He looked as if he wished to be invisible, but anonymity was something Potter was never going to have. From the moment Wood and his entourage had entered the smoky space, the other patrons were watching the Quidditch Star and the Savior, wondering which one would crack first.

It had been a huge scandal, when Harry Potter had thrown over pretty Ginny Weasley for Oliver Wood. While young witches – and some not so young – all over Britain had moaned in despair at finding out that Potter ‘batted for the other team’, there had been parties in every gay bar on the continent. Potter single-handedly redefined what it meant to be a poof, because there certainly couldn’t be any insults hurled at his masculinity; at seventeen he’d destroyed the most powerful dark wizard of the modern age. He might be gay, but he wasn’t anyone’s nancy boy. And Wood had been proud to be seen on that arm, smiling for the camera, eyeing Potter the way that his young sycophant was currently eyeing him. It had been nauseating, really, Draco reflected. And then rumors of Wood’s ‘track record’ had reached Draco’s ears, and he’d eagerly anticipated the meltdown. Wood was a man-whore, his friends had whispered. There was no way he’d stay, not even with Potter. After all, he might be a hero, but ‘the Boy Who Lived’ was still, by any respectable gay man’s standards, an utter mess. He still wore his clothes too big, his hair was a disaster, and his glasses were hopelessly out of date. In a very real sense, he still looked like that lost urchin that had stumbled into Hogwarts their first year, and any self-respecting gay would only put up with so much of that, hero or no.

But now that the moment of truth had arrived, and Wood was parading his latest conquest right in his jilted lover’s face, Draco couldn’t take any pleasure in it because Potter, the great lout, looked so completely destroyed that he was taking all of the fun out of it. Pansy was a carnivore; she lapped up Potter's heart's blood like a Kneazle with a bowl of cream. Draco stared at the clenched hand around the shot glass, the hunched shoulders, the trembling beginning in the chin, and couldn’t sit there any longer. Potter was about to fall apart, and Draco found he couldn’t watch it. Draco had felt the horrible burn of being replaced by a lover; no one, not even Potter, should be forced to experience this with an audience.

Rising to his feet, he started to make his way to the bar, when a firm hand hooked in the sleeve of his robe stopped him. He looked back and saw Pansy holding the expensive fabric in her curled talons.

“Wrinkles, darling,” Draco snapped, slapping her hand. She wasn’t deterred.

“Where are you going?” she hissed, brow furrowed.

“To get another drink.”

She looked meaningfully at the full glass near her elbow, then back to his face. He rolled his eyes. “That one is too sweet. I want something different.”

She smirked, but it wasn’t as effective on her little pug-nosed face as it was on his. “That something ‘different’ wouldn’t look like Potter, now would it?” Her tone was sly and her expression supercilious, and he suddenly wondered just why it was that she was his best friend.

“Don’t be absurd.” He batted at her hand again, and she let go of the fabric. Irritated, he eyed the smudged and wrinkled silk. “And you’re paying to have this cleaned,” he said before turning with a swirl of dove-grey robes and pushing his way toward the crowded bar.

“Don’t you dare ruin my fun!” she called after him. He ignored her, hoping that he’d be able to do just that.

It took a bit of effort to get across the room, and by the time he did, he’d been pawed by more than one hopeful and over-eager potential one-night stand. He’d eyed them all with icy disdain, and they’d backed away with mumbled apologies. He was only pawed when he chose to be, thank you very much. By the time he reached Potter, he was feeling distinctly ruffled. He stepped up next to him and caught the bartender’s eye.

“A Muddy Merlin,” he ordered, speaking over the din. Potter didn’t even glance at him, just downed his shot and set the glass on the teakwood counter with a clunk, then leaned his elbow on the bar and rested his forehead in his hand. Draco stared at that masculine hand and saw the tremor in it. He leaned forward and hissed directly next to Potter’s ear.

“Don’t you dare.” Potter jerked, his hand dropping and his eyes lifting. Draco saw Potter's unfocused expression as he searched for who had spoken to him, a clear indication of how much alcohol he’d consumed. He also saw the sheen of unshed tears in Potter’s eyes. His hand dropped onto Potter’s forearm, and he squeezed it hard.

"Malfoy?" Potter squinted at him.

“Give the man a Galleon,” Draco said wryly. Potter blinked, looked down at the slender, pale hand on his arm, then lifted his head and tried to focus on Draco’s face. “What the fuck are you doing?” He sounded lucid, but Draco could tell by the way he was swaying on his stool that he was anything but.

“Saving you from being on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow, crying in your booze.”

Potter's brow furrowed. Even in the dim room, Draco spotted the flush creep over the collar of his misshapen jumper. Relieved, he watched Potter's jaw firm. So the hero had some self-respect left after all.

“I’m not… crying,” Potter managed.

“Good,” Draco retorted. “Because no one wants to see that. Now—” he leaned his elbow on the bar and sent Potter his best slow, seductive smile, “—smile at me.”

Potter blinked again. “Smile?”

“Oh, yes.” Draco ran his fingers over the back of Potter's hand. “Smile.” He traced the middle finger delicately. “Pretend there’s a snow ball’s chance in hell that you might get lucky tonight.”

“With you?” Potter’s lips quirked at the corners, and then he laughed. Softly at first, then with enough volume that it captured the attention of those seated and standing nearest. Draco noticed their shift in attention from the spectacle at the other end of the bar. He leaned closer.

“Very good,” Draco muttered, a smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Five more minutes and everyone here will start questioning the Prophet’s version of your breakup, and you’ll no longer be the tragic victim of the piece.”

“Because you’re coming on to me in a bar?” Potter asked with a wry lift of one dark brow. The sheer sexiness of the expression caught Draco off guard, and he stared for a moment before regaining his equilibrium.

“I don’t just ‘come on’ to anyone, Potter.” He lifted one hand and traced the neckline of the hideous eggplant jumper with his finger. “Ask anyone. I’m extremely selective.”

Something dark flared in Potter’s eyes before he circled the slender wrist with his hand, holding it in a deceptively firm grip. Draco’s fingers curled protectively into his palm. “So what are you doing?” Potter asked, his eyes searching Draco’s features.

“Trying to prevent a train wreck,” Draco said softly, his own eyes earnest.

“Why? I’d have thought you’d have loved this.” Potter’s eyes were leveled on his, filled with honest confusion, and Draco really didn’t have an explanation. He was saved from offering one, however, in the last way he’d wished. A long-fingered hand curved over Harry’s shoulder, and Draco cursed the fact that he’d let his attention wander from the other end of the bar for even a moment. He looked up and saw Oliver Wood standing directly behind Potter with his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Potter turned to look, and the hurt that flashed through his eyes before he schooled them into indifference made something long forgotten in Draco ache, and something heretofore unheard of surged to life in his chest.

“Hello, Harry,” Wood said smoothly, his voice deep and seductive. Every muscle in Draco’s body tensed when he saw Potter swallow heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Oliver,” he answered flatly. Draco saw Wood’s fingers tighten on Potter’s shoulder.

“What? Oliver, now, is it?” the Scotsman teased, hazel eyes sparkling. “Not Ollie?”

Draco saw Potter swallow again, felt the telltale tremble in the hand that still held his wrist, and stepped closer.

“You wanted something, Wood?” His voice dripped disdain, and Wood’s eyes lifted from the avid study of Potter’s face to Draco’s cool eyes. His face registered his surprise.

“Malfoy,” he said with a blooming smirk. “Been a long time.”

“It has,” Draco agreed. “If we’d seen you coming, it would have been longer.” He saw Wood register both the insult and Harry’s hand around Draco’s wrist at the same moment and felt a surge of vengeful pleasure when the man frowned. “You wanted something?” Draco asked airily.

“I was just going to introduce someone to Harry.” Wood’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Harry’s hand before lifting it to his former lover’s face. “But if I’m interrupting something…”

Potter opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Draco stepped into the pause. “Well, I was just offering to give your ex a mind-blowing example of my oral skills in the men’s when you toddled over.” Both the hastily indrawn breaths and startled giggles that erupted around them assured Draco that enough people had heard him. The quip would make it into the corners of the crowded bar the moment the altercation ended. “So, unless you’ve something better to offer…” He glanced over Wood’s shoulder and saw his doe-eyed boy toy watching avidly. “Oh, I am sorry,” Draco said. “You wanted Potter to meet your new ‘friend’, didn’t you?”

Potter re-engaged at that, looking over Wood’s shoulder to where the pretty young man stood. The boy started to reach his hand out, and Potter lurched to his feet, his fingers tightening around Draco’s wrist as he turned away.

“Whoops!” Draco grinned into Wood’s startled face as Harry began to stride away, pulling him along behind. “Clearly, I have the preferred plan. Later, Wood!”

Scattered laughter followed them as Potter plowed through the thick crowd, and Draco caught a glimpse of Wood’s reddened, outraged face before he was yanked around a corner.

They retreated to the men’s toilet, where Potter pulled him into a stall, slamming and locking the door before Draco registered that Potter might have taken him seriously. “Potter, listen,” he began, but Potter startled him by sitting heavily on the toilet seat and burying his face in his hands. Draco leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and silence settled between them. It lasted quite a while.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked finally. Potter lifted his head and looked up at him, and the wounded expression in his eyes made that place in Draco’s chest ache anew. He steeled himself against the unsettling hurt and curled his lip. “Honestly, Potter. It isn’t that tragic.”

Draco was relieved when some of the vulnerability faded and a spark of anger lit the green. “Isn’t it?” Potter snapped. “I ruined my entire life for him. I broke Ginny’s heart, Hermione won’t speak to me, the Weasleys have disowned me…”

“That is unfortunate,” Draco drawled, goading the other man. “Sounds to me like Wood did you a bit of a favor, actually. All of that hapless baggage, disposed of in one fell blow.”

Potter was on his feet so quickly, stepping close, green eyes blazing, that Draco’s breath caught and he pressed his shoulders back against the cool metal door. “Shut up, Malfoy.” Potter sneered, his white teeth gleaming in the unflattering, flickering light from the ceiling light. His eyes narrowed, and his face hardened. “My fucking life is falling apart, and you’re making jokes--”

They both stiffened as the men’s room door swished open, and Draco’s eyes caught Potter’s. “Silencing spell,” he mouthed, and Potter took a step back, nodding before raising his right hand and making a vague gesture. Immediately, silence settled over the stall like a muffling blanket, and Draco’s eyes widened.

“Impressive.” Draco resumed his casual stance, but his eyes were watchful. “Wandless, yet. You’ve picked up a few things.”

Potter sighed and leaned against one of walls of the stall. “A few things, yeah,” he muttered, running one of his hands through that thick mess he called his hair. It stood on end when he was done, but it was almost an improvement. Draco remembered Potter doing that when they’d been in school, running his hand through his hair when he was agitated. It was vaguely endearing.

“So,” Draco said carefully. “Care to elaborate on your previous statement?” Potter frowned at him. “Your fucking life is falling apart, I believe you said.”

Potter shook his head, his eyes drifting closed. “Like I’m going to discuss the particulars with you.”

Draco shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just thought maybe I could help.”

Potter's eyes returned to him, still suspicious. “Why would you?” he asked. “In fact, why did you help me out there? It’s not like we’re friends.”

Draco huffed. “We most assuredly are not. None of my friends would be caught dead in that hideous jumper.”

Potter rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You are the queerest queer I’ve ever met.”

Draco snorted. “Pot, kettle, Potter,” he said dryly. “A cock sucker is a cock sucker. Some of us just have more fashion sense than others.” Draco saw the corner of Potter’s mouth twitch. “Besides, in answer to your question, I owe you,” Draco went on. “You pulled me out of real fire; I pulled you out of figurative fire.”

“Yeah, and now everyone out there is thinking that you’re in here giving me a blow job,” Potter drawled.

“I’ve blown worse, believe me.”

They stared at each other for a long minute, a settling sense of understanding between them. The silence lasted a few moments before Potter spoke again.

“Ginny wanted to marry me,” he said, his face and voice stark. “The Weasleys wanted me to be their son-in-law. Hermione wanted us all to have kids that could grow up together.”

“And what did you want?” Draco’s voice was subdued, but not unkind.

Potter stared at the floor. “I wanted that, all of it. I wanted a family.” He sighed heavily. “At least, I thought that I did.” His hand combed through his hair again, wreaking more havoc. “And then, I ran into Wood again, and he invited me for a drink…” His voice trailed off, and he ran his hands over his face.

“Got you drunk so he could have his wicked way with you, did he?” Draco’s voice sounded teasing, and Potter shot him a sideways look.

“Well, I was drunk,” Potter affirmed. “But for the record, I had my wicked way with him, thanks very much.”

Draco smiled in delight. “Really? Wood bottomed?” Draco laughed delightedly when Potter shot him a sardonic look. “I wonder if ‘Bambi’ out there knows that, because he didn’t exactly strike me as a dom.”

“Well, not that it’s any of your business,” Potter said pointedly, “but he told me I’m the only one he’s ever done that for.”

Draco laughed again. “And you believed him, of course.” He shook his head. “You really are new to this.”

Potter scowled. “Well, as far as I knew, I was straight up until six months ago.” Once again, Potter’s fingers dove through the thick, shiny black hair. Draco had the sudden and completely inappropriate urge to see if the reason he did it so much was that it was softer than it looked. He shook himself, pushing the thought away.

“That isn’t how it works, Potter,” he said instead. “You don’t just wake up one morning, and decide it's the day to turn queer."

Potter’s scowl deepened. “I did,” he argued.

“Well, not to disillusion you,” Draco retorted, “but I doubt that. I mean, honestly, Potter. Look at the women you dated. Jocks. Butch, all of them. Built like boys. No tits whatsoever.” Potter looked like he intended to argue, but then stopped, his expression suddenly thoughtful. Encouraged, Draco went on. “I’m betting that you think getting head is dandy, but eating out your girlfriend didn’t appeal at all.” Potter looked down, but the rusty stain that started up his neck made Draco laugh. “And your favored position for fucking is from behind, because it’s easier to pretend your partner is someone else that way. Say, that fit bloke you saw jogging in the park…”

Potter's eyes snapped back to him. “How did you…?”

Draco sighed. “No one sets out to be queer, Potter. We all at least attempt to lie to ourselves in the beginning. Before good sense takes over, and we realize that ours is actually the superior lifestyle.” Potter’s face reflected his skepticism. “Seriously. All the sex, none of the nappies.”

Potter’s lips quirked again even as his eyes saddened. “I like kids,” he said softly. “I would have liked to have kids.”

“So, adopt.” Draco waved his hand dismissively. “At least this way, you don’t have to worry about someone named Potter sporting a full head of bright ginger hair.” He shuddered delicately. “And freckles. Let’s not forget the freckles.”

Potter turned his head and looked at him, really looked, and Draco felt a moment’s uneasiness until he saw the amusement in his eyes.

“You really are a complete prat.”

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”

They stared at each other in utter accord, perhaps for the first time in the whole of their acquaintance. Another silence stretched out, but this one was more comfortable.

“I really don’t know how to do this, you know,” Potter said finally, eyes clouding.

“Do what?”

“Be gay.”

Draco snorted. “I’m guessing if you kept Wood interested for more than ten minutes, you were doing something right.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “I get that part,” he huffed. “I just…” His eyes dropped to the floor again, and that fetching blush once again stained his neck.

“What?” Draco prodded. Potter’s hands fidgeted with the hem of his sweater.

“I don’t get the jokes,” he admitted. “And the way you all talk, I can’t do that.”

“Please, don’t try.” Potter arched his brows in question. “The idea of you being camp is almost more than I can bear. You start waving your hands around and calling blokes ‘darling’, and I may be sick.”

“You do it.”

“I–” Draco spread his hand on his own chest, “—am brilliant at it. You–” he poked Harry in his sternum, “—would just be embarrassing. Please save us all the agony.” Draco shrugged. “Besides, it isn’t who you are. You’re very masculine. Makes all the little queens’ hearts go pitter-pat.”

Potter’s mouth twisted. “Not so you’d notice.” Draco cocked his head. “I haven’t gotten laid in… weeks, Malfoy,” Potter admitted. “They certainly aren’t beating a path to my door.”

“Well, that might have something to do with the whole ‘savior of wizarding kind’ thing.” Draco smirked. “Puts most blokes off their game a bit, unless they’re a seasoned attention whore, in it for the publicity.” He coughed, saying ‘Wood’ quite clearly behind his hand. Potter’s lips twitched again. Draco grinned, then looked Potter over carefully. “And, to be honest, it might have something to do with the way you’re turned out. Honestly, Potter, purple? Really?”

“So the clothes matter?”

“Haven’t you ever heard that ‘clothes make the man’?” Draco asked. “Never more true than when you’re cruising to get laid, which I’ll admit is somewhat ironic considering that whoever you attract with the clothes is likely most anxious to get you out of them. And the hair, Potter, the hair… Have you ever even met a stylist?”

Potter ran his hand through the offending mess once again. “It never seemed important.” Harry looked down at the lumpy sweater, then sighed.

“Maybe to the Weaslette, it wasn’t,” Draco said. “But to swim in these shark-infested waters? Trust me, it matters.” Potter leaned back against the wall, his head dropping back and his eyes closing. “What?” Draco asked. There was a pause.

“It seems so… superficial,” Potter said.

“That’s because, in most cases, it is.”

Potter lifted his head, and opened his eyes. He studied Draco’s face. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?”

“That it all seems to be just about sex.”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to get laid, Potter. I have no difficulty in that area.”

Potter’s eyes traveled the length of Draco’s body, and it took Draco a moment to realize that he was being rather thoroughly checked out. “That I can believe,” Potter said, and Draco flattened his hand on his own chest.

“Good God, don’t tell me that was a compliment? I may faint.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Malfoy,” he said after a moment. “Don’t you ever want…” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged.

Draco responded in a soft voice. “Of course, I want,” he answered. “We all want. Everyone hopes, dreams that there is someone, one someone, just for them. It’s just–” he shrugged, touching Potter’s arm companionably, and who would have thought that they’d ever be ‘companionable’, “—I’ve been at this longer than you have. Not much, but a bit. And so far, I’ve seen very little to lead me to believe that there’s a ‘happily ever after’ for anyone.”

Potter stared at him, his eyes clouded. “I find that really sad.” His voice was soft and heavy.

“Well,” Draco replied, determined to lighten the mood, “look at it this way. There’s still the sex.” He raised his brows hopefully, and finally, Potter’s lips curled upwards at the corners.

“So you say,” he countered .

“Trust me; you get your kit straightened out, and something fetching and sexy done with that hair, and you’ll be beating them off with a stick.” Potter smirked. “Seriously, take Granger. Totally aside from her taste in men, she dresses well.”

Potter’s eyes darkened. “You weren’t listening. She isn’t speaking to me.”

Draco waved the comment away. “She’ll get over it. Trust me, the woman has fag-hag written all over her. Just start talking to her about how our rights are infringed; she’ll start a club. WAGGLE. Women Assisting Getting Gays Laid Effectively.”

Potter stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. Really laughed, his whole body moving with it. The sound was so infectious that Draco couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips. When Potter’s hilarity died down, he wiped at his eyes with his fingers, shooting Draco an amused glance. “You’re quite mad, you know.”

“Yes,” Draco answered, and again, Potter laughed. This time when he quieted, Draco put his hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, owl Granger. Take her for tea. Appeal to her innate fairness. You’ll be fine, I guarantee it.”

Potter nodded, then looked at the door at Draco’s back. “I suppose we should go back out there,” he muttered, but it was clear it was the last thing he wanted. Draco looked at the door, then back into Potter’s wary eyes.

“Tell you what,” he said brightly. “You just Apparate out of here. Don’t give Wood the opportunity to make a scene. I’ll handle it.”

Potter cocked his head to one side as he studied him. “Careful, Malfoy,” he murmured finally. “I’ll begin to think that you’re actually decent.”

“Good Lord,” Draco responded. “It’s utterly self-serving. I have every intention of allowing Wood to believe that you’re so completely over him that you let me, of all people, suck you off. I’ve always wanted to watch the prat’s head explode.”

Potter’s lips quirked in a half smile, but his eyes were warm. “I can think of worse things than having you suck me off.”

Draco smiled wickedly. “But few better, I’d wager.”

Potter’s smile was just as wicked. “For once in your life, I’d bet that’s the unvarnished truth.” Moving so quickly that Draco had no time to react, Potter slipped a hand around his nape and pulled him in, pressing his lips against Draco’s. “Thank you, Malfoy,” he said against his mouth. “You’re a better man than even you know.” And with that, there was a soft ‘pop’, and he was gone.

Draco blinked several times, lifting his hand to press over a heart that was galloping like a runaway racehorse in his chest. Potter had kissed him. Potter. Had kissed him. Quickly and fleetingly, to be sure, but voluntarily. And he’d called him a good man, something no one had ever done before. Putting his hand out to steady himself against the stall wall, Draco took several deep breaths before he was composed enough to turn and open the door.

As he’d known there would be, several men were in the restroom, standing at urinals and at sinks, pretending to wash their hands or take care of other business. Fully a dozen pairs of interested eyes watched him as he stepped out of the stall and made an elaborate show of crossing to an unoccupied sink and checking his hair in the mirror.

“Malfoy?”

He turned and saw the man who had spoken, someone named Tom, or Tim or something. They’d had a brief encounter once. He arched his brow in question.

“Where’s Potter?”

“Oh, the poor dear was just dead on his feet and went home,” he answered, smoothing the front of his robes. “Besides, he got what he came for.” His expression was sly as he smiled.

“So,” another man said. “How is he?”

“Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell,” Draco answered as he made his way towards the door. He waited until he could pause with his fingers on the handle before looking back over his shoulder. “Let’s just say my jaw is sore and leave it at that, shall we?”

He left the men exchanging wide-eyed, meaningful glances as he swung out through the door into the smoky club beyond.

Two Years Six Months A.P.O.P. (After Potter Offed the Psycho) Part 2 of 8

"What You Do With Your Life, A.H.K.B.C.B." (After the Hero Kills the Batshit Crazy Bastard)

Disclaimer: I do not own them. Ahhh, but if I did...

Two years and six months, A.P.O.P. (After Potter Offed the Psycho)

Draco loved Christmas.

Yes, he got dozens of presents. Mostly from his mother, but Pansy and Blaise did their parts as well. But it was more than that. It was the smell of roasting chestnuts, even though he wouldn’t eat them. And it was the sound of carols, and the towering fairy-bedecked fir trees that his mother erected all over the manor, and the roast goose and plum pudding. And the cold. He loved the cold, mostly because he knew that he looked elegant in his black wool overcoat with the silver-tip chinchilla collar and matching hat that mirrored the color of his eyes. He loved everything about the holiday season, including his traditional, frantic, wait-until-the-very-last-possible-moment, Christmas Eve shopping expedition. It had been abandoned during the war, and last year it had seemed inappropriate when there were still so many scars from Voldemort’s brief reign, but it had been over a year since Potter had offed the monster, and Draco felt it was time for life as it had been to reassert itself, at least partially.

Of course, there were limits to his bravado. As he and Pansy moved through Harrods with their packages, he reflected that he missed Christmas shopping on Diagon Alley, but not enough to risk being hexed. Daddy Dearest had done a real number on the family reputation, and Draco resembled the old man too much not to bear the brunt of some people’s displeasure. In his rational moments, he could understand how they felt. People didn’t know what having Voldemort in their home had done to his mother, or to himself. Usually, he absolutely refused to think about it: his nightmares were reminder enough, and those he couldn’t control. When he had a choice, he pushed the memories as far into the back of his mind as he could. His father’s absence and the sad, dead look that sometimes crept into his mother’s eyes was reminder enough that nothing would ever be the same.

He shook himself, pushing the melancholy thoughts aside. “I need something sparkly for Mummy,” he said to Pansy over the din of the Christmas carols and the noisy bustle of the other shoppers. “She’s feeling a bit low.”

“I imagine she is,” Pansy mused, frowning. “It can’t be easy.” When most people looked at Pansy, all they saw was a self-obsessed socialite with a trust fund, and in most cases, they were correct. But Pansy was his friend, and she loved his mother, and he knew that her concern was genuine. “There’s a lovely jeweler just around the corner. Why don’t we stop and have a spot of tea at the cute little shop across the way, and then go on and find Narcissa something jewel-encrusted. And obscenely expensive.”

“I love you, Pans.” Draco slipped his free arm around her slender shoulders, and she leaned into his side. “Marry me?”

She smirked. “Of course, darling. Then we can find some lovely man to share.”

“I don’t play well with others, love.” Draco pushed the doors open, and, juggling his several bags, pulled her along with him onto the crowded street. “You know this.”

“Oh, I know,” she agreed. “How about this, then? We find a lovely man for you, and then the two of you let me watch.”

“Degenerate,” he teased, watching traffic flow past, waiting for the light to change.

“Oh, come on,” she persisted. “You may not share well, but you’re a hopeless exhibitionist. It’s a win/win.”

“Point.”

They were grinning foolishly as they crossed the street, both sets of heels – her sleek pumps and his Italian boots -- clicking on the asphalt, cheeks reddening in the cold.

Draco pushed through the red lacquered door to the teashop, then held it open for Pansy. Inside, they looked around, and Draco spotted a table in a far corner. He gestured at it with a package-laden arm. Pansy nodded and weaved her way between the close-set tables, purchases held high.

He couldn’t help but admire the lovely deep green, woolen jacket with its fox collar. and the smooth, straight sheen of her shoulder length bob. Pansy was an attractive woman, and he did so love attractive things. He followed, murmuring his apologies when he jostled another patron, enjoying the covetous looks sent him by a nearby table of young women. When he set his packages aside and unbuttoned his coat, he could still feel their eyes.

“Shall I burst their bubble?” Pansy asked lightly, setting her own parcels on an empty chair and taking another as the women whispered amongst themselves. A brunette sent Draco a seductive smile, which he returned.

“Please don’t. This is as close to hetero as I may ever get.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but her full lips curved in a red-painted smile. She glanced toward the counter, looking for a waitress, when Draco saw one of those artfully tweezed dark brows arch and the pretty lips pull forward to pout. “Well, that explains what the waitress is doing,” she murmured, head cocked to one side. “And someone break me off a piece of that, please.”

Draco glanced over his shoulder towards the counter and went very still.

There was a young man standing there, waiting for his order, chatting with the clearly smitten girl behind the counter. All Draco could see of his face was a curve of cheek and a square jaw, but what he could see more than made up for the obstructed view.

The man's legs were planted shoulder width apart, sturdy thighs clearly defined in snug denims, compact arse hugged by the well-worn fabric. He was wearing a chunky boot with a slight heel, and a black leather bomber jacket rested on broad shoulders, collar turned up around his neck. His hands were in his jacket pockets, and even standing perfectly still, there was a leashed energy radiating from him. A knobby green scarf curled round his neck, and his coal-black hair was cut very short in back, defining the elegant shape of his head and small ears. It was slightly longer on top and gelled into spikes, and when the girl said something and he laughed, Draco saw a flash of straight, white teeth.

“You’re drooling, darling,” Pansy said. “And completely blowing the whole ‘hetero’ façade.”

He gave a start and realized that he was, in fact, still standing and staring. He sat quickly, removing his hat and running his hand over his hair, his eyes creeping back to the counter. “Who cares,” he said emphatically. “Good God, someone give me that for Christmas, please.”

“I saw him first.”

He shot his friend a wry look. “And if he’s straight, you can have him,” he answered. “And I’ll eat this.” He poked his fur hat with a long index finger. “My gaydar is on full alert, love. No straight man uses that much gel.”

“Perhaps he’s metrosexual,” she mused, staring as well. The man reached for his coffee, and he had beautiful, strong hands. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. “You know," Pansy continued, "a man comfortable enough with his sexuality not to worry about stereotypes.”

“I’d like him to get comfortable with my sexuality.” Draco watched as the girl handed the man his change, her cheeks coloring, and he had the irrational desire to hex her. He held his breath as the object of his attention turned with one last teasing word for the clerk, and his eyes immediately dropped to the man’s crotch. Well, well, well. If that was real, and not merely some artful padding…

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pansy hissed. “I don’t believe it. This is impossible!”

Draco's gaze snapped to her. He registered the disbelieving expression on her face. “What?”

She shot him a wry look. “Well, if you’d lift your eyes from his groin long enough to check out his face, you’d know!”

Draco did just that, and knew that his eyes had gone very wide just about the time that they were caught by the other man's. He was sporting sexy, sleek horn-rimmed glasses, and his eyes, the color of shiny holly leaves, were thickly lashed in stark black. “Potter?”

He knew his lips had formed the word when the corners of those lovely eyes crinkled in a slight smile, cheek dimpling enticingly. Draco’s heart leapt into his throat when the man in question began to wind his way through the tables towards them.

“Oh, he is not coming over here,” Pansy hissed.

“Apparently, he is,” Draco said breathlessly, eyes glued to the figure moving towards them. He recognized the leather jacket from the collection of an extremely well-known Italian designer, the jeans were snug and revealed just enough to entice imaginations, and the scarf brought out the color of his eyes. Draco was gobsmacked.

He heard the women at the next table make appreciative sounds and Pansy sigh explosively, but his eyes were on Potter, and Potter alone. When he stopped at the edge of their table and smiled, Draco had to swallow his tongue in order to keep it in his mouth.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Potter said cheerily. “Pansy.”

“Potter,” Pansy drawled.

“Would you… care to join us?” Draco managed, then grimaced when Pansy ground her heel into the top of his foot. “Ouch!” He looked at her, and she sent him a quelling frown.

“Have you lost your mind?” she muttered under her breath. Draco had the urge to throttle her.

“No, it’s all right,” Potter said. “I’m due at Hermione’s for dinner. I just saw you and thought I’d say hello.”

“Hello,” Draco said, voice soft.

Potter smiled. His eyes were shining. “Hello.” They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Pansy broke in. “If you’ve somewhere you need to be.”

Potter stirred himself and glanced at his watch. “I do have to run, actually. Good to see you both.”

“So, you’re okay,” Draco said, loath for him to go. “You and Granger.”

Potter nodded. “You were absolutely right about her.” He frowned, patting his pockets with his free hand. “In fact, I’ve a W.A.G.G.L.E. badge here somewhere.”

“W.A.G.G.L.E.?” Pansy sneered, one brow arching.

Draco laughed, and Potter’s grin widened.

“So, she helped with the drag?” Draco asked, feeling his equilibrium returning.

“She was instrumental in the makeover.” He propped his hand on his hip, posing, and Draco’s smile deepened.

“You? Got a makeover? Whatever for?” Pansy asked incredulously.

Potter’s eyes stayed on Draco’s face. “Someone told me that they thought I needed one.”

“And has it been successful?” Draco asked before Pansy could say anything else.

“I would say so,” Potter answered. “Things are better.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other again, then Potter shrugged, some of his former shyness showing for a moment. “I’ve still got to stop for wine, so I should go.”

“Wine?” Draco smirked. “You are a new man.”

Draco was delighted by the blush that filled Potter’s cheeks. “Not really,” he said. “Just the same one with a new coat of paint.” He paused, then stepped back. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.” Again, their eyes met and held. Then Potter smiled, said goodbye to Pansy, and was gone.

While the women at the next table giggled and made obnoxious comments about Potter’s arse, Draco leaned toward the window, watching him until he disappeared into the crowds on the pavement.

“What in the hell was that all about?”

Pansy’s pointed voice startled Draco from his reverie, but he was saved having to answer by the arrival of the waitress. He decided then and there that she deserved a healthy tip for her timing.

Five Years years, six months P.N.J. (Post Nut Job)

Ordinarily, huge parties with hundreds of men in tuxedoes and women in designer gowns, champagne fountains in each corner, and strawberries dipped in chocolate on waiter-born trays were Draco’s idea of heaven. Add a mirror ball and dance music throbbing from huge speakers, glitter drifting from the ceiling, and a shot or two of absinthe, and it was nirvana. And New Year’s Eve was without a doubt one of his favorite nights of the year. Draco loved to drink, loved to dance, loved to party. He was a terrific dancer, and with his white-blond hair and model-svelte body, which looked fabulous in anything he chose to wear, he was often the center of attention. And this New Year’s Eve was no exception; he was the center of attention, all right. Unfortunately, it was for all of the wrong reasons.

Damning himself yet again for allowing Pansy to talk him in to coming to this fiasco, he licked the webbing between his thumb and index finger and sprinkled salt on the damp skin. Lifting the faintly trembling hand, he sucked the salt into his mouth, downed a shot of hundred proof tequila with a grimace, then put a wedge of lime between his lips and bit down, swirling the lime juice and the burning alcohol in his mouth before swallowing the whole of it. He’d lost track of how many times he’d done that, enough that the liquor barely burned any longer and his head felt slightly too large for his body. He raised his hand to the bartender, pointing at the glass. Perhaps if he drank enough, he’d pass out at the bar and stop feeling the dozens of sets of eyes that were burning a hole through the coat of his Ralph Lauren tuxedo jacket, right between his shoulder blades.

Lifting unsteady fingers, he ran them over his sweaty forehead, his long lashes drifting closed over his eyes. God, what a nightmare. He knew, he’d always known, to keep his private business private. He’d been so careful, always, to keep the truth about his personal life out of print. He didn’t mind the occasional rumor or innuendo, and he still got a chuckle out of the salacious headline that had appeared after he’d helped Potter out in that bar. But the truth was not for publication. Ever. Now he'd made a mistake, and the story was everywhere.

Draco Malfoy did not fall in love. He hadn’t believed in it, thought it was some old wives' tale spun to get the masses to go forth and multiply. He wasn’t the masses, and he had no desire to procreate. He was an unapologetic flirt; he slept around, but he never had serious relationships -- never. Letting someone that close was a recipe for disaster: they learned too much about you, and then they had too much ammunition. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. For God’s sake, he’d been in the front row at Potter’s Oliver Wood disaster; so much for ‘true love’, he’d snorted with a reassuring feeling of superiority. You never let someone that close. He’d lived by those words right up to his twenty-first birthday.

And then he’d met Antonio. Antonio Rinaldi Antonelli, Viscount D’Agostino. The beautiful Tony, with his sun-bronzed skin and his liquid brown eyes, and his long, thick black lashes. He was built like one of Michelangelo’s marble sculptures, was a forceful and passionate lover, and rich as Midas. Tony, with his voice like Amaretto and his earnest declarations of undying love. He’d seemed perfect to Draco. Absolutely Perfect.

Draco had said once, when asked, that he didn’t believe gay men should ever marry. Not because he thought they didn’t have the right; he was not a political creature, and as long as he could do what he wanted, he didn’t see himself as a crusader for other people’s ‘rights’. His reasoning was purely practical, based on an intimate knowledge of his own character: he didn’t have the capacity to be faithful to one man, he believed, and he doubted that anyone else did, either. And then he’d done the unthinkable.

He’d been in Milan on holiday with Pansy and his mother, and they’d been invited to dinner by the Comtesse D’Agostino, a long time friend of Narcissa’s. There, at their majestic villa, he’d met Antonio, the Comtesse’s nephew, and it had been lust at first sight. The Italian had looked at Draco from between those long lashes, brown eyes smoldering, and Draco had succumbed. They’d made out like teenagers and groped one another behind a palm on the terrace, stumbled into bed together a short time later, and had been inseparable thereafter for months. The Antonellis and the Malfoys were ancient pure-blood wizard families, both obscenely rich. Both pedigrees were considered unimpeachable. (Well, except for that ‘Death Eater’ business, and that wasn’t discussed in polite company. Nor was the fact that Narcissa’s husband was serving life in prison for crimes against humanity. After all, all old families had their little bumps in the road.)

When Antonio had gone down on one knee and begged Draco to ‘honor him’, Draco had buried a lifetime of hard-boiled practicality under an avalanche of hearts and flowers and accepted. Of course, the antique four-carat diamond ring that he’d slipped on Draco’s finger hadn’t hurt. Narcissa wept, the Comtesse ordered champagne. All was well.

They’d begun appearing on the cover of every wizarding ‘Life and Style’ magazine that was published. They were the ‘golden couple’, both so beautiful, so very rich. Antonio was in his late twenties, so Draco was depicted as the ‘sweet young thing that had swept the hardened playboy off his feet.’ Had he not so completely bought into the idea, it would have nauseated him. But article after article appeared; photos from the family chateau on the French Riviera in “Wizard Quarterly”; Draco barefoot on the terrace wearing all white, Antonio lounging at his side in tight black trousers, muscled torso gleaming, both sipping champagne as the breeze ruffled their hair. An article and a spread in “Witch Weekly”, where Draco had waxed poetic about how romantic Antonio was, and the reporter had delighted in relaying that the handsome Italian called his pale English love his ‘amore mio’. The title of that article had been, ‘Witnessing True Love.’ It was perfect; they were perfect. As Draco downed another shot of the expensive tequila, he reflected that should have been his first clue that they were doomed.

He and his mother had come home to England to plan the wedding. Narcissa had been in her element, and Draco had been so madly in love that he’d floated through the preparations in a haze. He’d been so sure of Antonio’s affections that when little rumors had started turning up in the gossip columns, he’d brushed them off as the envious machinations of people trying to mar his happiness.

He ordered another shot and shook his head. God, he’d been so stupid.

Of course, all of the rumors had proven to be true. Antonio was a complete satyr, and the moment Draco had been in another country, he’d begun fucking everything in tight Italian pants. Come to find out, the Antonelli fortune wasn’t nearly as vast as it had once been, and Antonio and the Comtesse had seen Draco as the answer to their financial problems. It was Pansy, bless her, who had finally come to Draco, had made him listen to the truth. She’d been in Rome on holiday with her mother, and had recognized the handsome Italian in a club, just as he’d stuck his tongue down another pretty young man’s throat. They’d retired to the men’s room a few minutes later, and when the boy had returned with a bow-legged walk and Antonio with an unmistakable swagger, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had been going on.

Draco, devastated but determined to hear Antonio out, had confronted him with the story. Antonio had shrugged it off as nothing of importance, and had said that ‘if Draco really loved him, such as this would not matter.’ It had mattered, and Draco had ended their engagement. Unfortunately, it had never occurred to him to notify the newspapers. It had occurred to Antonio.

That had been how, on Boxing Day, Draco and his mother had woken to the headline: ‘Antonelli Heir Ends Fairytale Romance.’ The first sentence of the article had read: Antonio Antonelli had been willing to forgive his fiancé, Draco Malfoy, many things. But his implication in the murder of revered Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore, the handsome Italian thought, was too much to of a hurdle to be overcome. “Draco was not honest with me,” Antonelli confided to this reporter, his eyes red-rimmed from weeping. “It breaks my heart, but he has violated my trust. Dumbledore was a great friend of my aunt, the Comtesse D’Agostino, and I cannot ally myself with someone who might have had a hand, even peripherally, in his death.”

Draco had been devastated. In the years since the war, he hadn’t gone out of his way to be a humanitarian or endow an orphanage, but he had kept his nose clean, and, other than an occasional mention in the gossip columns, kept his family name out of the papers. His involvement in the Death Eater raid on Hogwarts, and Dumbledore’s subsequent death, was the great shame of his young life, and all he’d ever wanted was for people to forget. And for the most part, they had. They’d stopped spitting on him in the street, stopped sneering at him and calling him ‘Death Eater scum.’ Wizard shopkeepers had begun to accept the Malfoy money once again; his mother had been able to go about in Wizarding society. They been accepted back onto Diagon Alley, and while their reception had still been cool, they’d no longer been the complete pariahs they’d been immediately after the war.

In one vengeful interview, Antonio had brought it all back, reminded people what had happened. Who the Malfoys had been. And just like that, the years vanished, and they were once again the scum of the earth, the minions of the madman. Their credit was canceled in every wizard shop in London, immediate payment on all accounts required. There was no problem paying the bills, but their reputation, once again, was in tatters, and gossip was rampant. Every single indiscretion of Draco’s life was once more fodder for the newspapers, and he watched his mother age ten years before his eyes. He wanted to bury himself in a hole, and if it hadn’t been for Pansy, he’d have succeeded.

But Pansy had been unrelenting. “You have to get out and be seen, Draco,” she’d argued. “If you go into hiding, then the smarmy bastard wins.”

“No one wins in these things, Pans,” he’d answered wearily. “Just let it go.”

But Pansy didn't. There was a perfect opportunity for him to get out and show the world that he was still fabulous, she’d argued. The New Year’s Eve ball at Pennsington Abbey.

It was the social event of the wizard holiday calendar. Pennsington Abbey was in the middle of a Scottish moor. What appeared to be a collection of dangerous and derelict rubble to the casual Muggle observer, was actually a massive castle that had been turned into a four-star wizard resort. It was elegant and sumptuous and obscenely expensive, and every New Year’s Eve, everyone who was anyone in the Wizarding world donned their best and attended the resort’s ball. Second only to the Samhain rites at Stonehenge, this was the see and be seen event of the year for the upper crust of magical society.

Draco had not wanted to come. In fact, he’d been adamant about it, until his mother had urged him to attend.

“You should go,” she’d said. “You’re young, and beautiful, and should be enjoying your life. Please, darling.” Her light blue eyes had implored him. “Please, for me.”

He could have denied Pansy, but he’d never been able to deny his mother anything. So he’d taken a suite at the Abbey, arrived with Pansy in tow, and made up his mind to at least try to enjoy himself.

The moment he’d walked into the ballroom, disaster had taken on a whole new meaning.

The paparazzi feeding frenzy around the entrance should have alerted him that something was up, but it hadn’t. The whispers and the pointed looks should have been a further clue, but he’d assumed it was more of the same fallout from Antonio’s interview. It wasn’t until he’d actually entered the ballroom and seen the Viscount and Comtesse D’Agostino at the head table that he’d realized he was well and truly screwed.

He’d turned to Pansy in startled agony and saw instantly that she’d known Antonio and his aunt would be there. Draco had been avoiding the papers since that last nightmarish headline, but Pansy hadn’t. Draco looked at her, saw that her dark eyes were determined and her little jaw was squared, and he could see that she’d known.

“How could you do this to me?” he’d wheezed, feeling all of the blood drain from his face. He’d felt dizzy. “You’re supposed to be my friend.” For a moment, he'd feared he might actually black out. Until Pansy’s nails had dug viciously into his arm.

“I am your friend,” she’d said under her breath. “I love you more than anyone else on earth, but if you don’t stand up to this, you’ll be hiding forever. You can’t let him win by default, Draco, you just can’t. England is your ground. Take it back.” He’d met her determined look, and realized that if he retreated, he could never look her in the face again.

He’d stayed, but the entire evening had been one long nightmare of smug looks and direct cuts. Pansy had been stalwart, staying right by his side, but he feared it had been even worse than she’d anticipated. When he’d finally murmured that he was going to the bar, she hadn’t even put up token resistance.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she’d murmured, her eyes wide, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t think…” He’d lifted a hand to stop her words and turned away. Once at the darkened bar, he’d found himself a padded stool and initiated a plan to get completely pissed. He was making headway toward his goal, but unfortunately, the more he drank, the more depressed he became.

The one time in his life, he mused. The one time in his life that he’d allowed himself to care about anyone other than himself, and it had been a spectacular debacle, one that was apparently going to haunt him not just into the new year, but well beyond. He’d allowed himself to love someone, and providence had determined that he wasn’t worthy.

The alcohol deepened his despondency, and as much as he hated a maudlin drunk, he was very much afraid he might begin to sob right there at the bar. He blinked quickly, determined not to make a spectacle of himself, and reached into the interior pocket of his jacket for his billfold. He had to get away.

“Don’t you dare.”

Draco jerked. His hand dropped from his pocket. Standing next to him at the elaborately inlaid marble bar, square shoulders swathed in impeccable black wool Armani, his bow tie neatly in place and white shirt points hugging his square chin, was the absolute last person he’d expected to find there. Harry Potter’s eyes studied his face, and his hand fell on Draco’s arm and squeezed it hard.

“Potter?” Draco whispered, eyes wide.

“Give the man a Galleon.” Potter smiled, a wealth of understanding in his eyes. Draco stiffened against the expression of compassion. If there was one thing that would utterly do him in, it was that.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, trying to sound gruff as he pulled his arm free of Potter’s hold.

“Saving you from being on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow, crying in your booze.” There was that soft, understanding look again, and Draco’s shoulders slumped.

“I seem to remember us having this conversation before,” Draco murmured wearily.

“So we did,” Potter agreed, standing close and leaning his elbow on the bar. His voice dropped. “But the shoe is on the other foot this time ’round.” He studied Draco’s features carefully. “So,” he asked. “What are you drinking?”

“Tequila,” Draco answered. Potter turned to the bartender, who was watching them with widened eyes.

“I’ll have the same as this gentleman, thank you.” The star-struck server rushed to comply.

“Potter.” Potter's gaze returned to his, the handsome face composed. “Why… What are you doing?”

“You’re repeating yourself, Malfoy,” Potter said, accepting his shot from the bartender with a nod. “That’s already been asked and answered.”

“I’m not crying in my booze, and there are no reporters from the Prophet about.”

“Well, to your first point, let me just say if anyone deserved to, it’s you, but I admire your self-control. And to your second--” he glanced meaningfully toward the door to the bar, “--you are mistaken.”

Draco glanced back and saw that there were several people milling near the entrance to the dimly lit room, trying to appear inconspicuous, but the cameras hanging around their necks rather gave them away. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growled, turning back around on his stool. “I thought this was a private party.”

“It is,” Potter answered, eyes hardening. “But I overheard our host suggesting that they might find you in here.” He was back to studying Draco’s face again. “I believe there’s a snotty Italian countess and her slimy nephew who have something against you.”

“You overheard…” Draco’s brow furrowed for a moment, the alcohol in his system slowing his usual quick intelligence. “Ah,” he said in understanding when the haze cleared a bit. “Of course, you’re at the head table. Being… you.” The blush that briefly stained Potter’s cheeks amused him, and he smirked. “So, what are you doing in here with us peasants?” Draco asked, attempting to sound jaunty. He failed. “I’m sure there are much more interesting people about.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Potter responded. “Actually, I’ve never been so bored in my life. That Countess, or whatever she is, is a bitch. And the nephew has the worst come-on line I’ve ever heard.”

“Came on to you, did he?” Draco asked, angered that it still had the power to sting.

“Blatantly,” Potter answered. “I can’t believe you fell for that shit.”

Draco’s head jerked up, and he was about to retort when he saw the amusement-tinged empathy in Potter’s eyes. He couldn’t help the jaundiced, tight chuckle that passed his lips. “I can’t either.” He reached for his shot glass, saw that it was empty, and gestured to the hovering bartender for another. Potter watched impassively. The empty shot glass was replaced with another, full to the rim with clear liquor. He started to reach for it, but when he saw that his hand was visibly trembling, he curled it into a fist and pulled it to his chest.

“Actually, I can believe it,” Potter mused, and Draco’s eyes lifted to find Potter still watching him. He frowned. “That you fell for the Italian’s line," Potter added. Draco swallowed and looked away. “I mean, I fell for the Scotsman’s, and I’m sure he wasn’t as smooth as the Viscount.” Draco's eyes returned, and they looked at one another for a long moment. “It’s astounding what you’ll allow yourself to believe, when you think that you love someone.” His voice was soft, even kind, but the words were like daggers.

Had anyone else said it, Draco would have been able to deflect them with anger. He’d been practicing and was almost convincing in his ability to deny his feelings. But for some reason, the words coming from Potter’s mouth hit a raw nerve, and his eyes began to sting. He blinked quickly, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. “I don’t do love,” he said, his voice raw. “I don’t let anyone get that close, ever. I never let anyone hurt me…” He paused, shoulders stiffening. “God, I hate him for that.”

“I know.”

And Draco could tell from the look in his eyes that he did. That of all the people on earth Harry Potter understood exactly how he felt was confusing. In that moment, something inside his chest that had been tight and aching for two weeks began to loosen a bit.

“So,” Potter mused, turning his shot glass on the smooth marble surface. A bit of the potent alcohol dampened his finger, and he lifted it to his mouth, licking it away. Draco's eyes were riveted on that tongue. “Any inclination to give him back a bit of his own?”

Draco blinked. “Pardon?”

Potter’s lips curved. “Just wondering if the idea of perhaps… turning the tables on the Viscount had any appeal.”

Draco frowned. “I know I’ve been drinking, Potter, and that it has perhaps dulled my capacity to follow, but I’ve no idea what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m suggesting –” Potter’s smile deepened, and that dimple appeared in his cheek just to the left of his mouth, “—that it might be entertaining to turn the tables a bit. Let the Italian see what it feels like to be on the receiving end of some of that gossipy speculation.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly would that be accomplished?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Potter shrugged, but he looked smug. It was attractive on him. “Perhaps if the man he recently rather publicly jilted was suddenly seen in the company of someone else who was clearly interested… Someone who the media follows around like fleas on a dog and about whose love life they are forever speculating…”

Draco's lips quirked as amusement flared within him for the first time in days. “Oh, say… a war hero, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” Potter’s eyes were now sparkling wickedly. “I happen to know that there’s one around here someplace.”

Draco couldn’t deny that the idea of striking back, in even a small way, was infinitely preferable to continuing to be the victim, but he couldn’t help but wonder why Potter was suggesting it.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, Potter,” he said, “but what do you get out of this?”

“What, you don’t think I’d do it just to see that stuffed-shirt taken down a peg?”

“I don’t know.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “Would you?”

“Actually –” Potter looked thoughtful for a moment, “—I think I would. I haven’t met anyone I thought was a bigger arse in a very long time. I also owe you for that time you helped me out before. However, in the interests of honesty, I have to say that Italy isn’t the only country with a lying, cheating bastard in the building. Scotland also has a representative in attendance.”

“Ahhh.” Draco said slowly. “I see. So Wood…”

“Is in the other room, sitting not far from the Viscount, looking extremely smug that I seem to be dateless.” He stopped, eyes widening. “We should introduce them to each other!”

“It would never work,” Draco drawled. “People like that recognize each other instantly. It’s only saps like us that get taken in.” He shook his head. “And who’d have ever thought that we’d have anything in common, let alone that?”

Potter reached out with his fingers and touched the back of Draco’s hand. “All it means is that you aren’t as jaded as you want people to believe, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Malfoy.”

“It isn’t a good one, either.”

Potter shrugged. “Point.” He glanced toward the door where the paparazzi were still lurking, watching them avidly, then angled his head forward, his lips near enough to Draco’s ear that he felt the moist heat of his breath. It made gooseflesh rise on his neck. “So, how good an actor are you?”

Draco paused for a moment. Then thought, why not? What harm would it do? And if it made Antonio uncomfortable for even a moment, Draco’s savaged pride could take a step in the right direction. Slowly, Draco turned his face towards Potter’s, closed his eyes, and rubbed his nose along the line of Potter’s jaw. “Extremely,” he whispered, lips just brushing Potter’s chin. The fingers touching his hand spread, and Potter laid his palm on the back of Draco’s hand.

“Lovely,” he answered, nuzzling Draco’s face. “So, Draco…” he murmured. “Ever done body shots?”

Draco paused, then leaned back on the stool, the first real smile he’d displayed in days pulling at the corner of his lips. “A time or two,” he answered wryly. “You?”

Full lips curled and green eyes sparkled. “A time or two.” Potter turned to the bartender and requested a fresh plate of lime wedges, and it was set before them hastily. He stepped back, eyes avid, ignoring the other patrons seated at the bar. “So, would you care to go first, or shall I?”

Draco’s grin ripened, and he could sense the rising interest in the room. If it was a show they wanted, it was a show they'd get. “Actually, I think I will.” He shot Potter a look from beneath his lashes. Potter answered with an amused arch of his dark brow.

It began innocently enough. Draco delicately licked the back of Potter’s hand, applied the salt and licked it away, then took the shot and the bite of lime. He managed to do all of it very coolly, even though Potter’s hand was warm and strong, and his skin smelled of citrusy cologne. When he was done, he met Potter’s eyes with a half smile.

“Nicely done,” Potter said, amused admiration in his tone. “You have played this game before.”

“I told you I had.” Draco’s grin was smug.

“All right, my turn.”

Potter was every bit as smooth as Draco had been, which surprised him somewhat. For some reason, he’d simply never equated ‘smooth’ and ‘Potter’ in his mind. But when Potter turned Draco’s hand and pushed his cuff up, leaning over to lick a path across his pale wrist, Draco’s heart slammed into his ribs. And when he sucked the salt from the damp skin before taking the shot and the lime into his mouth, there was no mistaking the surge of interest in his trousers. Potter met his eyes with a heated look, as if he knew exactly the havoc he was wreaking in Draco’s body.

“So.” Potter ran his thumb across the wrist he still held. “More?”

Unwilling to be outdone, Draco straightened on his stool and nodded. Again, that amused smile pulled at Potter’s mouth, and he turned to the bartender and pointed to both shot glasses.

That was when Draco noticed that the sound of conversation in the bar seemed louder, and he turned, surprised to find that they had collected themselves an audience. Even Pansy was standing nearby, leaning her hip on a round table, arms crossed over her chest. She had a knowing smirk on her face. Draco felt his face fill with color even as he attempted an expression of elegant disdain. He raised a brow at her, and her grin deepened.

“All right. It’s your turn.”

Potter’s voice brought Draco’s head back around, and he saw the two shot glasses, full to the rim, sitting on the bar between them. He looked into the watchful eyes, his fingers tapping on his own chin as he considered his next move. “So,” he murmured for Potter’s ears alone. “How far do you want to take this?”

Draco could have sworn that heat flared in Potter’s eyes, but it was there and gone so quickly that he wondered if he’d been mistaken. The sight of it had made his heart jump. “I’m going to leave that entirely up to you,” Potter answered evenly.

“All right.” Draco watched him for a moment longer before picking up a wedge of lime and holding it in front of Potter’s lips. “Open up.”

Potter’s eyes went dark and hooded. “Upping the ante, I see.”

Draco shrugged, but his heart was pounding. Potter opened his mouth and took the wedge of lime between his teeth. Draco reached up with his hands and framed Potter’s face, then gently angled his head to the side. There were chuckles from the people behind him as he lifted the saltshaker in his hand. Slowly, he leaned forward and drew his tongue along the line of Potter’s jaw, then straightened just enough to cover the damp skin with a sprinkle of salt. When he leaned back in and opened his mouth on the curve of bone, sucking hard enough to pull the coarse skin into his mouth, Potter’s hand slid up Draco’s arm and closed around his bicep. Draco pulled at the skin longer than was necessary, and the feel of it between his lips, the taste of it, was seductive. When he finally released it, there was a reddened spot, and he wondered if it would remain. He tipped the shot into his mouth and caught Potter’s eyes before leaning in to take a bite of the lime. Their lips brushed briefly as he did so; the lime exploded, tangy and sharp on his tongue, and Potter’s fingers curled in the black wool covering his arm. Draco pulled back. Their eyes locked and held as he swallowed and made a production of licking his lips.

“Yum,” he crooned loud enough for those standing nearby to hear, and nervous laughter met his ears. Potter took the pulpy lime from his mouth and placed it back on the saucer.

“You,” Potter muttered, “are a terrible tease.”

Just drunk enough to be reckless, Draco said the first thing that came into his head. “Who said I’m teasing?”

There was no mistaking the fire in Potter’s eyes when they lifted to Draco’s, and the seductive promise in them made Draco’s breathing quicken. Deliberately, Potter shifted closer, his thick thigh pressing into the juncture between Draco’s spread legs, and the feel of the solid muscle against his balls made him go hard with dizzying swiftness. He caught his breath when Potter lifted his hands and pulled at one of the ends of Draco’s immaculate black bow tie. It came loose in Potter’s hand, and he pulled it out of the starched collar to the accompanying sound of catcalls from those watching. He smiled as he laid it over Draco’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, trying not to sound nervous, trying not to show how aroused he was.

“Following your lead.” Potter reached under the collar and removed the top silver and onyx shirt stud, then the second, then the third. Draco studied Potter’s face as he slowly opened the formal shirt down to the middle of Draco’s chest, then dropped the expensive studs into the pocket of Draco’s coat. “Don’t forget where those are,” he said with a slight smile. “I’d hate to get a bill.”

Draco wanted to make a pithy comment, or at least smirk, but all he could do was try to appear unruffled as Potter slowly pealed back the collar of his shirt, revealing his neck, collarbone and sternum. His neck was particularly sensitive, and just the thought of Potter’s mouth there was enough to make him feel lightheaded.

“I think–” Potter mused as he studied the bared pale skin before him, “—here.” He ran one blunt nail over a prominent collarbone, and Draco felt gooseflesh rise on his neck and arms. Potter picked up a slice of lime, and just as Draco had, held it in front of Draco’s lips, waggling it back and forth suggestively. Draco took the rind of the fruit between his teeth, then waited, pulse racing and breath short, while Potter lifted the saltshaker in his hand. When Potter leaned forward, his hair brushed Draco’s chin. It was surprisingly soft, and a rich, woodsy scent rose from it. Draco had to fight the dizzying urge to turn his face and rub his cheek against it. When Potter’s mouth opened on his collarbone, wet and hot against his cool skin, his nipples tightened, and his lower stomach clenched. His erection throbbed in his trousers, his balls aching where Potter’s thigh pressed against them. Draco studied Potter’s intent expression when he lifted his mouth away long enough to cover the damp skin with salt, and he couldn’t stop the soft grunt when Potter’s mouth returned, sucking hard.

Draco felt Potter shift, felt him press forward with his hips, and there was no mistaking the hard bulge that prodded against his hipbone. He didn’t know how his hands ended up in Potter’s hair, but they were filled with it, carded through the thick black strands, gripping tight as his own head dropped back. The suck and pull against his skin felt as if it were connected to his cock, and he was so hard he could feel his heartbeat hammering in the swollen veins along his length. Potter lifted his mouth away, and Draco wanted to pull him back when he heard the voice.

“Draco,” Potter murmured against the shell of his ear, voice dark, full of need and promise. Draco lifted his head and opened his eyes in time to see Potter pour the shot of tequila into his mouth before tossing the glass onto the bar, where it rolled away. Draco’s heart had tripled its rhythm and he forgot to breathe as Potter closed the space between their mouths and, angling his head, covered Draco’s lips with his own.

Limejuice erupted into Draco’s mouth, followed instantly by a rush of salt and tequila – and Potter. He chased the slender lime wedge against Draco’s back teeth, and Draco swallowed the liquor that trickled down his throat even as Potter’s tongue made the circuit of his mouth. He pulled against it, hollowing his cheeks, and he heard the groan that rumbled through Potter’s chest even as he felt a hard hand curl around his nape. Pressing his hips forward, he caressed Potter’s erection with a slow forward roll. The room erupted in raucous cheering and catcalls.

Lost in sensation, savoring the taste and feel of Potter, and more than a little drunk, it took Draco a moment to realize that one voice was standing out from the others.

“Why don’t you just put him on the bar and do him, Potter?” the accented voice called coarsely. “Clearly he wouldn’t mind.”

Potter caressed the side of Draco’s throat with his thumb, ended the kiss, and slowly pulled away. Draco felt an icy shiver of dread snake down his spine. He knew that voice. Intimately.

“I mean, he’s always been a bit of an exhibitionist.” Draco turned his head and saw Antonio standing nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest, black eyes narrowed and hard, full lips pinched. “And to be associated with such a celebrity. My, my, my, we have come up in the world.”

Anger combined with alcohol made Draco incautious. “Definitely.” He allowed one of his hands to slide down Potter’s arm. “Such an improvement over recent ill-advised connections.”

Antonio spread his hand on his own chest, clearly attempting lightness even as he vibrated with fury. “You wound me.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Impossible. You’d have to have a heart in order to be wounded.”

Antonio’s face darkened, and he closed the distance between them in two steps. Potter started to step around him, but Draco’s hand tightened on his sleeve, holding him in place.

“And you would know about having a heart?” the Italian hissed in Draco’s face. “You cold-blooded, insipid little whore. You’ll only ever be good for one thing, and you can accomplish that flat on your back.” Draco stiffened.

“That’s enough,” Potter warned. Antonio’s eyes lifted from Draco’s pale face, and his mouth curled in an ugly sneer.

“Ah, the new protector.” He shook his head. “Or are you just in it for the sex, Potter? Here, let me help you.” He took one step closer. “The fastest way to get him to wrap his ankles around your neck is to tell him that you love him. It worked for me.” Draco couldn’t stop the gasp. The comment had been like a knife between his ribs, and he felt he might actually be bleeding internally. And Antonio knew it, damn him, if the smug expression on his face was any indication. Even as he felt the color fading from his face and his stomach roil, he was damning himself for a fool.

I let him too close, his subconscious mind chanted. It’s my fault, because I let him too close.

So mired was he in his own misery, it took him a moment to notice the startled exclamations from the others in the bar, and the rising, discordant sound of bottles and crystal glasses clinking together. He saw that Antonio had reached out to grip the bar, and felt the strong arm under his hand vibrating just as he realized that the walls of the bar were… shaking.

He looked up, and was startled to see that Potter’s eyes were vivid with fury; his nostrils were flared, and his lips had tightened into a whitened line. And it was then that Draco realized that the shaking of the bar was a reflection of the anger coming from Potter himself. Reflexively, his hand tightened on Potter’s arm.

“It’s all right.”

Potter looked down at him, his pupils full and black. A muscle flexed in his jaw.

“It’s all right,” Draco repeated. “He isn’t worth it.”

Abruptly, the trembling ceased. Draco loosened his grip on Potter’s arm and soothed the spot with a caress of his fingers. As regally as he could, he turned his head and fixed Antonio with an icy glare, only to find the Italian staring at Potter with unmasked apprehension. When Draco spoke, he was amazed that his voice was so cool.

“I find myself astonished that I was ever attracted to someone who is so clearly suicidal.” Antonio’s eyes shot back to his, and Draco was gratified that he was able to manufacture a sneer. “Stay away from me, or I’ll have him drop a chandelier on your head.” He stood and caught Potter's eye. “Let’s go,” he murmured. “We have something to finish in private.”

He turned and managed to walk through the crowd and out of the room.

He hoped that outwardly he was managing to exude calm, because inwardly, he was writhing. So many eyes, watching his every move. It felt as if they were stripping his skin away, leaving his bruised emotions bared. He felt raw, exposed, diminished. Antonio’s words had ripped a gaping hole in his already damaged psyche: ‘You cold-blooded, insipid little whore. You’ll only ever be good for one thing, and you can accomplish that flat on your back… The fastest way to get him to wrap his ankles around your neck is to tell him that you love him. It worked for me.’

And it had worked for him. Draco had been so eager to believe the handsome man had loved him that he’d thrown over a lifetime of distance and reserve and ended up skewered on his own lapse of judgment. He moved through the crowd, head high, eyes level, but inside he was trembling, shaking as hard as the bar had been when Potter had unleashed his anger.

Potter. He was still there, at his elbow. Draco could feel his presence, catch a whiff of his cologne, feel the vitality rolling off of him in waves. Part of him wanted to lean into the reassuring strength and close his eyes, but the other part of him, the stubborn, proud part, wouldn’t give the bastards watching him the satisfaction. He sighed when they neared the lifts and eyed the waiting crowd with a sinking in his chest. He knew he was on display, and all he wanted was some peace, and some privacy.

“What floor are you on?”

Potter’s voice was near his ear, and he turned his head to find Potter’s cheek near his own. He straightened, squaring his shoulders.

“The top. Penthouse two.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter’s lips curl. “Of course. Only the best.”

“Of course.”

“I happen to be in Penthouse Four.”

Draco managed a small smirk, but it was an effort. “Why am I not surprised? Of course, they’d put the great hero up in a penthouse. And I'll bet you didn't pay a single Galleon for it."

“You think that’s because of the whole ‘hero’ thing, huh?” Potter mused. “And here I thought it was because of my charming wit and sparkling personality.”

Draco let out a surprised gust of laughter, and Potter smiled at him, eyes shining. People around them stared.

And then Antonio stalked out of the bar, glowering at them as he passed. Potter stepped closer, his hand going to Draco’s elbow, and Draco watched the angry man as he strode away. Good God, he’d almost married that. He’d almost handed that the keys to the Malfoy vaults. He’d sacrificed his family’s honor, what was left of it, on a fraud.

The massive amount of alcohol he’d consumed chose that moment to begin roiling in his stomach, and he swayed unsteadily.

“Malfoy?”

Potter’s hand tightened on his elbow, but his voice sounded far away. Draco felt sweat break out across his forehead and on his neck, and chills ran down both arms and along his spine. He swallowed heavily, but saliva flooded into his mouth, and he had the horrifying thought that he was about to be sick, right there on the travertine marble floor.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice sounded closer, and Draco felt an arm slip around his waist. He looked into Potter’s face, and hoped he was conveying what was happening to him without having to say it.

Apparently he was, for one moment they were surrounded by the other nosy party-goers, and the next he felt the sickening sensation of jerking just behind his navel. If Potter hadn’t been holding him, he’d have fallen flat on his face when they reappeared just outside his suite. He began to pat his pockets down desperately, but Potter raised his hand and uttered ‘Alohomora’, and the heavy oak door swung open on its own. With a grateful gasp, Draco managed to stagger into the huge suite and make it into the loo before the tequila reappeared.

Once on his knees on the bathroom’s tiled floor, his head over the toilet, he was wretchedly and embarrassingly ill. His body heaved until there was nothing left, and even then didn’t stop. Wracking dry heaves made him shudder, his hair hung limp over his eyes, and tears of exertion streamed unimpeded down his cheeks, dripping off of his chin. He could not remember being so miserable before in his life, and even as his body shuddered and arched, he found himself praying that Potter had, at the very least, the compassion to let him die in peace.

He hadn’t. He heard water running in the nearby sink, and glanced to the side, seeing immaculately creased black trousers and expensive black leather boots. Had Draco not been so miserably ill, he’d have ordered the annoying prat out of his loo, but all he could manage was a fumbling swipe at the toilet’s handle to flush it, then he leaned his aching forehead against the smooth, cool porcelain of the tank and prayed for oblivion. He’d passed out in worse places than the bathroom floor of a penthouse suite in a four-star resort.

He’d about drifted off when his stomach gave another sickening lurch, and he moaned as he situated his head over the bowl, but there was nothing left inside of him, and he just gagged queasily. When he felt a steady hand reach beneath his fringe to support his head and a cool, damp cloth press to his forehead, he was torn between abject humiliation and whimpering gratitude.

“Easy.”

The voice was deep and reassuring, and the hand that settled between his shoulder blades as his back bowed painfully was gentleness itself. He shuddered and trembled, his hands white-knuckled around the bowl, and more mortifying tears of pain and weakness slipped down his cheeks.

“It’s all right,” Potter murmured, his hand moving on Draco’s stiff spine. “Try to relax. It’ll be over soon.”

As if the words had been prophetic, the nausea faded, and Draco wondered dizzily if Potter had used some sort of spell on him. He still felt as if he’d been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop, and he was trembling, but the fact that the horrible roiling in his stomach had faded was a blessed relief. He leaned into the hand supporting his forehead.

“Better?”

He nodded with effort.

“Here, hold this in place.” His hand was lifted to his own forehead, a damp facecloth pressed into it, and he felt Potter move away. Again the water ran in the sink, and then a clear crystal glass appeared in his line of vision. With effort, he lifted his head and found Potter’s face. “Rinse your mouth,” he ordered, and Draco struggled to straighten so that he could follow the softly spoken instructions.

Once that was done, and Potter had taken the glass from his hand and used the cloth to wipe Draco’s sweaty, tear-streaked face, he helped him up from the floor. Slipping his arm around Draco’s waist, he carried him into the other room and sat him on the foot of the bed.

Moving efficiently, Potter slipped the expensive jacket from Draco’s shoulders and tossed it over a nearby chair, then knelt at his feet and unzipped his boots.

Draco stared at the top of his head, at the swirl of black hair that grew in a circle at his crown, at the neat ears that hugged the fine shape of his head, and noticed for the first time that Potter had a diamond stud in his left lobe.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Draco asked, his words slurred. Potter continued to remove his shoes but didn't reply. “You hate me.”

That got Potter's attention. “I don’t hate you,” he answered, looking back down at Draco’s feet. In tipsy fascination, Draco watched the blush that stained the back of his neck.

“You should hate me,” he announced. “I’ve been a complete and utter shit to you over the years.”

He saw Potter’s lips curl as he set the shoes aside and went to work on his socks. “Truer words were never spoken.”

“But then.” Draco pointed his index finger at Potter. It seemed to float before his eyes. “You’ve always been an annoying prat.”

The socks were balled together and shoved in one of the shoes, and Draco moved his bare feet on the soft carpeting. “I imagine you think so.” Potter said.

“I know so,” he said. “Annoying, infuriating, insufferable bloody… war hero. Perfect Potter…”

Potter shook his head and straightened, reaching around Draco’s waist to remove his cummerbund.

“You are, you know,” Draco went on, trying to focus on what Potter was doing. After a moment, he gave that up as a lost cause and closed his eyes. The man was moving too quickly, and it was making him dizzy.

“I know,” Potter said, his voice full of soft amusement. “Annoying, infuriating, insufferable…” He pushed Draco in the center of his chest, and he flopped onto his back on the soft bed. It bounced slightly, and he giggled. He felt Potter’s hands move to the waistband of his trousers.

“You are all of those things. And gorgeous.”

Potter’s hands went still, and Draco opened his eyes to find him hovering over his waist, his eyes on Draco’s face. He looked gobsmacked, and Draco clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“Oh, like you don’t already know that.” He lifted one hand and then let it flop back onto the duvet. “I bet you have to beat them off with a … something.”

Potter’s attention returned to what he was doing, and he efficiently unbuttoned and unzipped Draco’s fitted trousers. “Not so you’d notice.”

“And another thing.” Draco lifted his head and watched Potter sweep the slacks down his legs, leaving him in just his black silk boxers and his white dress shirt. He frowned. “Why are you taking off my clothes?”

“Because,” Potter answered, shaking the slacks out and adding them to the chair with Draco’s jacket. “I imagine this thing cost a bloody fortune, but I doubt that would make it comfortable to sleep in.”

“Oh.” Draco blinked, then plucked at his shirt. “What about this? It cost five hundred Gal… Galle… a lot.”

Potter seemed to be fighting a smile as he came back. He helped Draco sit up, then removed the stiff white shirt, leaving him in just his pants. He folded that as well, then crossed to the head of the bed and turned back the covers. When he returned to Draco, he held out his hands. Draco managed to catch them with his own.

“Okay, princess,” Potter teased, pulling him to his feet. “Time for bed.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco grumbled, then began to sway. Potter slipped his arm around Draco’s waist, bringing him up against his hard chest, and they both went very still as they stared into one another’s eyes. Potter searched his features for a long, suspended moment.

“Not tonight,” he whispered. “But someday.”

Draco stared, stunned into silence by the wave of heat that the unexpected words had sent through his body.

Potter helped him around the side of the bed, watched as he slipped beneath the sheets, and gently pulled the covers up over his chest. When his head settled on the thick down pillow, he sighed. Potter reached to turn off the bedside lamp, and Draco caught his wrist. Those amazing eyes settled on him again.

“Potter…” He paused to dampen his dry lips. “Thank you.”

Potter looked surprised, then his lips curled. “Bet that hurt.”

Draco rolled his eyes and let his hand drop away. “You’ve no idea.”

A soft chuckle accompanied the sound of the light being turned off, and the room settled into shadow. Draco closed his eyes, suddenly weary to his bones.

Deep in the bowels of the castle, there was the faint sound of horns and cheers, and the distant rumble of fireworks.

“Happy New Year, Malfoy,” Potter said.

“Happy New Year, Potter,” he murmured in response, already drifting off.

Later he would wonder if he’d actually felt the soft lips that briefly caressed his own, or if he’d dreamed them.

Disclaimer; They aren't mine. Ah, but that they were!

Part Four
Five years, nine months A.D.D. (After Dingbat’s Death)

Draco sat on the terrace just off of the Manor’s breakfast room, nursing a cup of tea and staring out across his mother’s sumptuous gardens. It was early in the blooming season, just before the end of April, but already the climbing roses were heavy with buds and the azaleas were beginning to show their vibrant colors. By June, when Narcissa held her annual ‘garden party’, it would be a stunning exhibition of nearly every type of blooming plant that could survive and flourish in Wiltshire. But Draco preferred the gardens the way they were: the greens very bright and new, the plants not quite as exuberant, the weather still slightly cool. Cool enough that he still needed his cable knit cashmere jumper even on a sunny mid-morning. He pulled the soft, grey wool closer around his long neck with his right hand as he sipped his tea from the bone-china cup with his left.

It had been a quiet spring. He’d opted out of his usual shopping exhibition to France with Pansy in February. He hadn’t felt like going, and it seemed an extravagance to spend money on an entirely new wardrobe when he’d scarcely worn the one he’d bought the year before. To Narcissa, this had been the final indication that there was something dreadfully wrong with her handsome twenty-three year old son. He’d been quiet and recalcitrant ever since his engagement to the Viscount d’Agostino had collapsed in a rather spectacular fashion during the winter, but his refusal to go to Paris in February had alarmed her so much that she’d called in their family Healer. Wedgwyck, with Draco’s grudging cooperation, had done a full work-up and returned the report to the concerned parent; Draco was mildly depressed, which was understandable given the circumstances. His weight loss was due to the strain of the bad publicity, his general malaise was something which would pass, and his refusal to plow through even more of his inheritance could easily be seen as part of the inevitable maturing process.

She called him a quack, dismissed him, and ordered the house-elves to put rich French sauces on every dish they prepared.

For Draco’s part, he knew that he was still feeling raw from the collapse of his engagement, but he was also finding that he liked his solitude. He read, studied piano (something he’d given up when he’d gone to Hogwarts), worked in his potions lab, and tried not to let his mother’s hovering irritate him. He knew that she meant well, even though she thought it necessary to check his temperature every time he passed her. If she thought he was fooled by the constant kissing of his forehead, she was mistaken. He knew that he wasn’t ill; he was just… tired.

A breeze stirred the new leaves on the ivy that climbed a nearby rock wall, and their rich green color shone in the sun. He frowned, cocking his head to one side. He knew that color; it stirred something in him and he stared…

Superimposed over the fledgling plant was an image of wide, compassionate eyes, thickly lashed in stark black. They were that very same deep, shining green. Draco sighed and closed his eyes against the bright color, letting his mind drift back four months…

********

He woke on New Year’s day in his suite in Pennsington Abbey when someone rudely opened the drapes, then plopped themselves on his bed. That someone was Pansy, and he glared at her through one barely opened, blood-shot eye.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” he growled. His head was pounding, his stomach was rolling, and her cheery smile made him want to strike her very hard. She answered by holding up a vial of Hangover Potion, which was probably the only thing that kept him from hexing her on the spot. He took it with a grateful sound and downed it without even sitting up. Instantly, the pain in his head began to fade and his stomach settled, and he closed his eyes. “Piss off and let me go back to sleep, Pans,” he said, turning his face into the soft pillow. “We don’t have to check out for another few hours before they charge us for another day.”

“Well, if that’s the criteria,” Pansy responded smugly, “we don’t have to check out at all. We can stay indefinitely.”

Again, Draco opened one eye and looked at her, and her coy and amused expression got his attention, just as she’d known it would. He groaned and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“Clearly you aren’t going to leave me in peace.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, wondering for a moment where his pajamas were, then remembered why he wasn’t wearing them. He felt his face heat even as Pansy stared at his muscled chest with a raised brow, her eyes lingering near the base of his throat.

“Nice hickey, Draco.” She smirked, then laughed aloud when he lurched out of bed and stumbled to the mirror above the vanity.

His first view of his disheveled appearance made him grimace, and he tried to flatten his tousled hair with his hand. When he spotted the purplish mark on his collarbone, he leaned into the mirror with an irritated frown.

“Oh, Merlin’s saggy testes,” he snapped, touching the discoloration on his otherwise unmarked skin. “Clearly the idiot doesn’t know that skin like this bruises easily. Barbarian.”

Pansy sat on the end of the bed, swinging her feet. “At least yours isn’t on your face.” He turned quickly, brows arching in question. “I saw him this morning,” she offered. Lifting her hand, she tapped the left side of her jaw with her index finger. Draco’s mouth dropped open as he remembered sucking on the curve of Potter’s jaw in just that spot, and he covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a startled giggle. It didn’t work, and soon the room was filled with their mingled peals of laughter. Draco joined Pansy on the bed, then collapsed onto his back, still laughing. She stretched out next to him, chin propped on her elbows.

“That’s priceless.” Draco stacked his hands behind his head, still grinning.

“Well, you both were rather into it.” He looked up into her face. “The body shots,” she clarified. He blushed and glanced away. “The two of you put on quite the show down there last night. Very sexy.” Draco shrugged, and Pansy continued. “So, what happened after you came upstairs, anyway? Your parting shot was pretty provocative.” He looked at her, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember.” She shook her head. “God, why can’t I be that contained when I’m pissed?”

“Because you’re a sloppy drunk,” Draco answered. “And what did I say?”

Pansy pretended to ponder. “Let me see. I want to get it exactly right…. Oh, yes. Potter had set the glasses and bottles in the bar shaking with that wild magic of his, and you said to the Italian, very coolly, ‘I find myself astonished that I was ever attracted to someone who is so clearly suicidal’.”

Draco smirked. “That is good.”

Pansy’s grin widened. “Oh, you weren’t done. Then you told him, and I quote: ‘Stay away from me, or I’ll have him drop a chandelier on your head.’ You then turned to Potter, and very regally announced: ‘Let’s go; we have something to finish in private.’ So, spit it out, you wanker.” She gave his shoulder a shove. “What happened up here last night?”

Draco stared into her avid face for a moment, contemplating lying, but Pansy knew him better than anyone else on the planet, and she’d know he was making it up in an instant. Nope, there was nothing for it but to tell her the truth.

“Well – “ he grimaced, “— would that be before or after I brought up every bit of alcohol I’d had to drink?”

She gasped, her palm flying up to cover her mouth. “You didn’t puke on him,” she gasped, horrified.

“No, I managed to save myself that indignity.” He rolled his eyes. “However, it was embarrassing enough to have him hold my head and then clean me up.”

Her mouth fell open. “He didn’t.”

“He did,” Draco mused, his eyes going to the ceiling. “He was very sweet, actually. Even undressed me and put me to bed.”

“And then he left.”

He heard the disbelief in her voice and knew she was daring him to lie. “Well, I rather passed out, and I doubt that Potter is into necrophilia.” She stared at him, surprised. “What?”

“I just assumed…” She paused. “I mean, it sort of makes sense; if the man had well and truly shagged you senseless…”

Draco frowned. “What are you on about?”

Pansy sat up, crossing her legs Indian style under her. Her tailored slacks and silk blouse hugged her trim body. “Draco, rumor has it that Potter went to McTavish --”

“Who?”

“Sergus McTavish, owner of Pennsington Abbey,” Pansy said. “Our illustrious host. Do you ever read those gossip columns that you’re forever appearing in? And stop interrupting. I heard it this morning in the restaurant when I was having coffee with Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. They’re here with their parents. Nice girl, Astoria, if you ignore the fact that she could eat an apple through a picket fence. The teeth on that girl…”

“Pansy,” Draco said sharply. “Focus. Potter?”

“Oh, yes. Anyway.” Pansy leaned forward, in full gossip revelation-mode. “Mr. Greengrass had it from Theo Nott’s mother, whose house-elf overheard it in the kitchens, that the Viscount and the Comtesse were asked to evacuate their rooms. They left in the middle of the night.”

Surprise blazed through Draco. “What?”

“McTavish apparently threw them out.”

Draco sat up slowly, eyes wide. Glee began to leak through his shock. “Why?”

“Well, that’s where the boy hero comes in,” Pansy said, her lips pursed. “Although not such a boy any longer, is he? At any rate, he apparently went to the old man and told him to make a choice: he could be the host of the nearly penniless Euro-trash D’Agostinos or the Saviour of the Wizarding world. But he couldn’t have both.”

Draco knew that his mouth had dropped open and that he was gaping like a fish, but he couldn’t be fussed to care. “He didn’t,” he breathed. Pansy’s black eyes sparkled.

“He did. And he wasn’t done there, either. He told McTavish that he had been a complete and utter arse to a member of an old, wealthy wizard family, and that in order to make things right, he expected him to take care of their rooms.” She clapped her hands in delight, but Draco just shook his head in confusion. “Oh, for God’s sakes, Draco, didn’t you hear me when I said we didn’t have to be in a hurry to leave? Thanks to Potter, McTavish is absorbing the cost of our rooms. And, there’s a rather extravagant room service spread in the outer room, compliments of the house.”

Draco rose and, in a daze, walked into the sitting room of his suite. As Pansy had said, the small dining table that sat in front of a bank of windows was set up with tea, juice, pastries, fruit, and covered dishes. Propped on one of the china plates was a handwritten note on heavy parchment. Draco picked it up.

“Dear Mr. Malfoy,” it read. “Please accept this meal, and your stay with us, with our compliments. We hope that you will continue to think of Pennsington Abbey as a destination of choice, and we deeply regret that the actions of the management of this establishment, or any of our other guests, may have caused you distress. Sincerely”, and then the signature was unintelligible but for the ‘S’ at the beginning and a couple of other letters. He lifted his eyes from the note and looked at Pansy.

“Did you read this?”

“Of course I read it,” she scoffed, plucking a strawberry off of one of the trays. “What do you take me for?”

Draco read it through again, shaking his head. “I can’t believe Potter did this.”

“Oh, he wasn’t done there,” Pansy said. She bent over and picked something up off of one of the straight-backed dining chairs and held it out to Draco. He recognized the Daily Prophet. “Here. Front page, directly under that delicious headline.” Draco turned the paper, read the headline, and felt his knees go weak. He sank into one of the chairs, his eyes glued to the words.

“Malfoy Heir Guilt-Free in Dumbledore’s Murder”, the headline screamed in bold print. Beneath that, the first paragraph was in smaller, bold script.

“Draco Malfoy had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Albus Dumbledore,” Harry Potter stated emphatically during an interview early New Year’s morning with this reporter. “I was there, and I saw the entire thing. Dumbledore was sick and dying, and he had asked Severus Snape to kill him if, and when, it became necessary. It did.”

The script then returned to normal size, and Draco kept reading. “And as for Antonio Antonelli and his baseless accusations, perhaps instead of printing half-truths and rumors, the Prophet might like to get something right for once. Antonelli is a penniless con artist who hid his financial situation from his fiancé and was repeatedly unfaithful. When he was confronted with that, he fabricated a story to cast himself in the best possible light and took it to the media, and you idiots printed it.” Potter’s eyes flashed as he dared this reporter to verify his words.

After contacting Gringotts Bank and several well-known wizarding establishments, I can report that Mr. Potter’s accusations are true. Antonelli, last of the D’Agostino line, and his Aunt, Veronique, have burned through what was left of an old fortune and are now deeply in debt…”

Gobsmacked, Draco lowered the paper and stared into Pansy’s smug face.

“Why would he do this?” he asked. Pansy’s cunning smile deepened.

“Well, Merlin knows he needs to get back up on that white charger of his occasionally or he’ll get all rusty,” she teased. “But, honestly, I think the poor boy has a bit of a crush.”

Draco stared at the paper, reading through the article again, his heart hammering in his throat.

For his part, he was very much afraid that what he felt for Potter was more than ‘a bit of a crush’. And the idea terrified him.

********

In point of fact, it still did.

There was no denying that he was attracted to Potter. If he examined the situation closely, and had a moment of honest self-examination (and those were rare), he always had been attracted to him. It certainly explained the lengths he’d gone to in school to get his attention; with no pigtails to stick into an ink well, he’d harassed the poor boy in other unmerciful ways. It was at the end of their fifth year that he’d first noticed Potter’s arse, and what a nice arse it was, and he’d been so horrified that he’d convinced himself that Potter had put a spell on him. When he’d begun to wank to visions of messy black hair and green eyes, he’d been terrified that Snape, or his father, or old Snake Face (shudder the thought) would use Occlumency on him and, at the very least, humiliate him to the depth of his soul.

Then sixth year had come, and his father’s imprisonment, and his ‘assignment’ from Voldemort, and the never-ending, stress-filled months while he tried to figure out how to save his family without killing Dumbledore. It had been a nightmare, but he’d stopped fixating on Potter’s arse. In fact, he’d managed to convince himself again that he hated the speccy git. Draco sighed and ran his hand through his hair. That had lasted right up until the Room of Requirement, and if he was going to be honest with himself, nothing had been the same since. He didn’t hate Potter; he doubted he ever really had. And now…

Why had he come to the rescue? Why? Pansy had made the ‘white knight’ analogy, and damn her if she hadn’t been right. Potter had charged in and saved him, and Draco would never admit it to a living soul, but he’d been more than happy in the whole ‘damsel in distress’ role. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d taken him to his room, held his head while he was sick, cleaned him up, and put him to bed. And maybe, just maybe, kissed him tenderly goodnight. Draco wished he could be sure. That fleeting impression had haunted him for four months.

He’d sent a formal thank you note on his mother’s expensive parchment when he’d arrived home. It was what one DID, after all, when someone had done one a kindness. Even to his mind, the words had seemed stilted, considering he’d let Potter suck on his throat long enough to leave a mark that didn’t fade for over a week. He’d written ‘thank you for your kindness. It was unexpected and appreciated.’ Potter’s response? ‘No problem. H.P.’ That was it; two words and initials. ‘No problem. H.P.’ He’d ranted to his mother about what a hopelessly classless git Potter was, and yet he’d kept the note, and the article from the Prophet, in a locked drawer in his desk. It embarrassed him to think how many times he’d read it, held it, even smelled it. Potter had touched something in him that night, something vulnerable and needy, and it scared Draco half to death. Better never to see Potter again than allow himself, once again, to be humiliated. It was inevitable. He and Potter would be a disaster, and he’d end up the butt of another endless series of bad jokes. He’d told one man he loved him, and it had left him gutted like a fish. He’d never say the words again.

“What are you doing sitting out here?”

Draco jerked and straightened, opening his eyes. Pansy came through the French doors that led from the breakfast room, red spike heels clicking on the flagstones, wearing a lovely cardinal double-breasted coat, the collar of which was turned up around her throat. Her sleek, mink-colored hair was smoothed up in an artful twist, and her lips matched her outfit.

“Just enjoying the fresh air,” he answered. She frowned and crossed her arms.

“You haven’t some deadly disease I’m unaware of, do you? Some reason for playing the invalid?”

He clenched his teeth. “I am not ‘playing the invalid’,” he said tightly.

She pursed her lips. “You’ve lost weight, you’re pale as death, and you never go anywhere or do anything any more. All you need is a lap robe and an oxygen tank. If you’re merely feeling sorry for yourself, I think it’s time that someone told you to snap out of it. And I care enough about you to do precisely that.”

Draco was about to respond with something scathing when Pansy reached into the deep pocket of her coat and removed a copy of the Daily Prophet, which she slapped down on the small table. He glanced at it, then the doors behind her.

“How in the world did you get that past my mother?”

Ever since the story that Antonio had put out about the end of their engagement had hit the front page, Narcissa had banned any of the wizarding print media from the Manor. Draco had no idea what was going on in the outside world, and found he didn’t miss it. His mother didn’t even know about the interview that Potter had given the paper. He found that was easier than trying to explain how Potter's change of heart might have been precipitated by having his tongue down Draco's throat the night before the article appeared.

“She’s busy showing my mother the new draperies in the front parlor,” Pansy answered. Instead of speaking further, she poked at a spot on the page with one long, red-lacquered fingernail, and Draco immediately saw what she wanted him to.

“Harry Potter to spend six months in America”, the headline screamed. Draco caught his breath and picked up the paper.

“Senior Auror and Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter, has been asked by the American Ministry for Magic to spend the next six months training an elite squad of his American counterparts in aspects of advanced defensive magic.”

“We are loaning Potter to the Americans for six months,” Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt said when asked. “He is the undisputed expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and will be invaluable in the training of these new Aurors.”

Potter is closing up his residence in London, and will be traveling to America by International Portkey on Wednesday, April 25th…”

Draco pushed the paper away and tried to appear indifferent. “So what?” He shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll be very good at it.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, and she pulled the other white iron chair over so that she and Draco were seated, knees to knees. When she leaned forward, he leaned back, but found the back of his chair left him with nowhere to go.

“You don’t fool me for one minute, Draco Malfoy. You’ve been sitting around here, pining for that man for months.”

“I have not,” Draco sputtered, outraged. Pansy arched one tweezed brow. Draco's jaw came forward. “I do not pine,” he reiterated, and she pursed her lips.

“Really? So what have you been doing then?”

Draco frowned. “I’ve been… resting. And… reflecting. And…”

“Feeling heartily sorry for yourself.”

He glared at her, infuriated, hoping just how angry he was showed in his eyes. Apparently it didn’t, because she wasn’t deterred.

“Draco,” she said, her voice softening. “I know that what Antonio did to you was horrible. I know that you’re frightened…”

“I am not frightened,” he sputtered.

“I know that you’re frightened --” she persevered in the face of his glare, “-- to let anyone close again. But Draco, you can’t just let him leave.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Why not, Pansy? If there were something there, he wouldn’t have spent the last four months ignoring me.” He crossed his arms, as if he’d won the point. He should have known better.

“Draco Malfoy,” she said, eyes steely. “The man made a grand gesture, and all he got in return was one of your mother’s very sterile, polite, tight-lipped thank you notes. What was he supposed to do? Ride up here on his broom and carry you away?”

Yes, something inside of Draco cried out. ‘Yes, I needed him to rescue me.’ Again.

“He could have at least…” Draco began weakly, pushing the thought aside.

“What?” Pansy sneered. “Walk up to the front of Malfoy Manor and knock on the door? Send you another owl, so that he could get yet another cold-blooded response? Darling.” She covered his hand with hers. “He may be ‘St. Potter’, but he’s just a man. He doesn’t know you as well as I do. The poor thing has no idea how you feel about him.”

“Pansy, I have no idea how I feel about him.”

The words hung in the air between them for a moment before she squeezed his hand. “How are you ever going to find out if you keep hiding yourself away in this mausoleum?” He stared into her wide eyes, his heart sinking in his chest.

“It’s too late,” he whispered. “Tomorrow is the 25th, and I’ve no idea where he even lives, let alone where he’ll be tonight.”

He should have known that Pansy would have a plan. Pansy always had a plan. Her scarlet painted lips curved knowingly.

“His friends are throwing him a casual ‘going-away’ party at Mc Dugan’s.” She made a face when she mentioned the seedy wizarding pub.

“That dive?” Draco grimaced. “Good God.”

“Well, it’s Granger and the weasel,” she said dismissively. “What did you expect?”

“And there, my dear, is just another reason why this is doomed to disaster.” Draco shook his head. “His friends aren't going to let me waltz into the ‘golden boy’s’ party, let alone his life.”

“Sweetheart.” The smirk that slid across Pansy’s face was reminiscent of Draco’s own. “I don’t believe that Potter needs his friends' approval for what he does with his love life. Do remember that he snogged you quite publicly on New Year’s Eve.”

“He was doing me a favor,” Draco countered, but something hopeful had begun to unfurl in his chest. “I mean, honestly, that’s all it was…”

Pansy shook her head slowly. “I was there, remember?” She linked their fingers. "Draco, Potter clearly fancies you. You couldn’t see it, but…” She paused. “Darling, when Antonio started in with his insults, I’ve never seen anyone so furious. I was certain that Potter was going to hex him dead. And after you made your grand exit, Potter held back for just a moment, and he said something to Antonio.”

“What?” Draco prodded, suddenly anxious. “He said what?”

“That you were too good for him.”

Draco stared, his mouth open. “Why, in Merlin’s name, are you just telling me this NOW?”

“Because I had no idea how you actually felt about him, you twit.” She freed her hand and slapped his knee. “You’ve never said, have you? Since New Year’s, you’ve categorically refused to discuss Potter at all.”

It was true. Every time Pansy had tried to raise the issue, Draco had changed the subject. He hadn’t wanted to talk about something he believed was absolutely hopeless.

“And do remember that for most of your life you’ve been rather public in your protestations of how much you hate him. I thought you were just depressed over the nasty Italian. It didn’t occur to me until about a week ago that it was Potter. I wasn’t actually sure until about five minutes ago. I’m good, Draco, but I’m not clairvoyant.” She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, now that I do know for certain--” she pursed her full lips, “--what do you plan to do about it? Let the man leave for America, believing that you couldn’t care less about him, or tell him the truth?”

“I told you!” Draco said desperately. “I don’t know what the truth is!”

“You know that you feel something for him,” Pansy retorted. “Isn’t that worth at least investigating?”

“Pansy, he might already be involved with someone else.”

“He isn’t,” she said.

Draco's heart leapt. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “You’re the one who’s locked yourself up here incommunicado,” she said dryly. “Not me. And…” She studied her bright red nails. “I might have overheard a conversation between that mad Lovegood creature and the Weaslette in the ladies at Madam Malkin’s a couple of days ago.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Draco asked.

“Of course,” she said.

Draco reflected that he was not the least bit disturbed that the conversation had obviously been private. They weren’t Slytherins for nothing. You took your information where you could get it. “What were they saying?”

“Just that Potter has seemed odd for quite a while, like since the New Year. Won’t come out, refuses invitations.” She shot him a knowing look. “Won’t date… Lovegood said she thinks he’s interested in someone, he just won’t tell them who.”

Draco dampened suddenly dry lips. “That doesn’t mean it’s me.”

“True.” Pansy angled her head. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t, either.”

A weighty silence descended. “You have to come with me,” Draco said finally, his voice hushed. “I can’t walk in there by myself.”

A slow smile spread across Pansy's face. “Of course, darling. Whatever you say.”

Part Five
Five years, nine months and six hours A.D.D. (After Dingbat’s Death)

By the time they left the Manor for McDugan’s, it was nearly nine-thirty that evening.

Draco had gone through everything in his vast wardrobe, and about six spells of anxiety, before deciding on Muggle attire. He'd settled on charcoal-grey slacks, a lighter gray button-down, and a very expensive midnight-blue velvet blazer. Then they’d had to come up with some excuse for Narcissa. Pansy had been quite adept at convincing her that she’d finally talked Draco into going out for the evening, and that she was buying him dinner. Narcissa had been so relieved that Draco was actually leaving the Manor that she'd merely patted him on the cheek and told Pansy what a very good friend she was.

“She has no idea,” Pansy had muttered under her breath. “I’m your bloody therapist. And pimp.”

Draco had attempted to look stern, but he’d been too apprehensive to manage it.

When they’d arrived outside of McDugan’s, he’d nearly bolted again, but Pansy had locked her fingers around the velvet covering his arm and urged him forcefully through the door.

Inside it was noisy and smoky. Raucous music blared, making soft conversation all but impossible, and the dance floor was crowded with both hetero and same-sex couples. McDugan’s was a relaxed place, where the cheap booze flowed and the décor was, as Pansy put it, early disaster zone. There were booths along the walls covered in red Naugahyde, complete with scarred round tables and candles flickering in red glass jars. The walls were covered with moving Quidditch posters and photos of both young witches and wizards in suggestive poses. The bar itself was in a far corner, packed deep with shifting bodies, and colored lights swept laser-like through the smoky darkness in rhythm with the pounding bass. Draco lifted his head and stared around the room. Back near the bar, he spotted a booth, with an overabundance of redheads and one woman with a frightful head of curling brown hair, seated around it. They appeared to be laughing and having a jolly time, and instantly, what courage he’d felt began to desert him.

He lowered his head and spoke directly next to Pansy’s ear. “This was a mistake.”

Her hand tightened on his arm. “It wasn’t!” She shouted in order to be heard.

“The whole bloody Weasley clan is back there!” he countered. “I’m not going to just walk up there…”

“Fine, come on, then.”

She tugged on his arm and pulled him towards the booths along the wall, but they were all full. As they approached, Draco saw Pansy fiddle with her sleeve, and abruptly six young women in short, tight clothing who’d been seated there stood up and, looking confused, wandered away.

“What did you do to them?” Draco asked when they scooted onto the padded seat. Pansy made a disgruntled face as she eyed the abundance of half-empty glasses containing colorful drinks that littered the tabletop. She waved her hand, and the clutter disappeared.

“Merely planted the suggestion that it was time to leave,” she answered with a shrug. “Clearly they were an eyesore and needed to move along. Honestly, this place is disaster enough without an entire table of taste-challenged tarts to add to the ambiance.”

Ordinarily, Draco might have said something, but a harried-looking waitress holding a tray appeared.

“What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have a white wine spritzer and a bottle of disinfectant,” Pansy said dryly. The waitress rolled her eyes, then turned to Draco.

“White Russian,” he said quickly.

“So, we hear Harry Potter is here tonight,” Pansy said. “Is it true?”

The waitress gave her a sour look. “Couldn’t say.”

Pansy removed a small velvet pouch from her clutch bag, dropping it onto the table. Even with the loud music, the sound of coins clinking together was unmistakable. “Could you say now?”

The waitress eyed the small pouch, then looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

“He’s here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Up in back with a bunch of gingers.”

The woman reached for the bag, but Pansy lifted it in her hand instead.

“Deliver them a round of whatever it is they’re drinking, and tell Potter that it came from this table,” she ordered, holding the bag just out of reach. “You can keep the change.”

She let the little purse drop onto the waitress’s tray, and the woman scooped it up and pocketed it neatly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Why did you do that?” Draco leaned close to her and asked. “You didn’t need to buy the Weasleys drinks.”

“I didn’t,” she answered tartly. “You did, and you will be paying me back for that. Besides--” she said with a burgeoning smile “--just greasing the wheels a bit.”

Draco watched the waitress walk away, his knee bouncing nervously. He didn’t want to set himself up for disappointment if Potter either ignored the gesture or seemed insulted by it. He was torn: he was terrified that Potter might see him and equally terrified that he wouldn’t. Or that he would see him and wish he hadn’t. He lifted his head and tried to see the table where he’d spotted the Weasleys, but there were too many bodies in the way, and the view was blocked.

His skin felt too tight, the music was too loud, the smoke too… smoky. He vacillated between drumming his fingers on the tabletop and twisting the heavy Malfoy signet ring on his finger, chewing his lower lip the entire time. Pansy pinched the joggling knee beneath the table, and he shot her an irritated look, but moments later the knee was bouncing again and she sighed in exasperation. Their drinks were delivered, and Draco fiddled with his as the ice melted, taking no more than one or two sips as Pansy drank her spritzer with all of the casual aplomb in the world. He’d have pointed out what a cold-blooded bint she was, that she could sit there so calmly while every nerve in his body screamed, but the music was so loud that he’d have had to yell. When ten, then fifteen minutes went by with no sign or word from the other table, Draco’s nerves felt near the shredding point.

He leaned in to Pansy, and she angled her head so that her ear was near his mouth. “Listen,” he began. “Obviously he isn’t interested and hasn’t even the manners to say ‘thank you’, so…”

But her hand closed over his forearm and her nails dug in, interrupting him. When he looked up, he found her looking past him, a slow smile spreading over her face. Draco turned his head and forgot what he’d been planning to say.

Potter had just appeared through the crowd, and his eyes found Draco’s across the smoky room. He paused in the doorway, staring, his expression unreadable. He was wearing snug blue denims and a fitted black tee, with a black button-down un-tucked and unbuttoned over the top of it, long sleeves rolled up part way on tanned forearms. His hair was short, gelled into soft spikes on the top of his head and spilling over his brow, and his jaw looked dark, as if he hadn’t shaved since the day before. Just the sight of him had Draco’s heart lurching hard against the inside of his ribcage, but in the blink of an eye it sank to somewhere in the vicinity of his navel when a thick head of obscenely red hair appeared just over Potter’s left shoulder. Weasley spotted Draco as well, and there was no mistaking the irritation on his freckled face.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered under his breath, looking down at his hands.

“What?” Pansy asked, stirring beside him.

“Look at Weasley’s face. He’s thrilled and delighted to see me again.”

Pansy made a soft, dismissive sound in her throat. “You concentrate on Potter,” she instructed. “And let me worry about the weasel.”

Draco lifted his head to say something, but Pansy was too busy staring pointedly across the room and slowly unbuttoning her bright red coat. It opened down the front and she slipped it sinuously from her shoulders, revealing a skimpy, spaghetti-strap cocktail dress in the same vivid red as the rest of her ensemble. It left a mile of pale creamy shoulder and the tops of both full, soft breasts completely on display. Draco stared.

“You planned this,” he muttered under his breath.

“Of course I did,” she agreed. And then there was no time for more, because Potter and Weasley had arrived next to the table.

Draco forced himself to look up and found Potter’s eyes fixed on his face.

“Malfoy,” he said softly, nodding.

“Potter. Weasley.”

Weasley jerked a bit, pulling his eyes away from Pansy’s décolletage, blinking as a rusty stain spread up his face. He grunted.

They stared at one another for a long moment, and to Draco it seemed as if he’d forgotten to breathe.

“Thanks. For the drinks,” Potter offered a bit hesitantly, his hands dipping into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Yeah, Malfoy,” Weasley stirred himself to add. “Hope you know you just bought booze for most of Gryffindor house.”

Draco merely nodded, and he and Potter went back to staring at each other. Finally, Pansy made a huffing sound and scooted out of the booth.

“Dance with me, Weasley,” she ordered imperiously, catching his arm.

“Hey, I…” he blustered, but she smiled up into his blue eyes and rounded her shoulders, pressing her breasts up and together. He went glassy-eyed as he stared down her dress, and she shot Draco an amused look as she hauled the redhead out into the middle of the dance floor.

Still, Potter stood. Still, Draco stared. Finally Potter gestured with his hand. “May I join you?”

“Oh, yes!” Draco scooted toward the center of the seat, and Potter slid in beside him. The awkward silence descended yet again.

“Would you… care for a drink?” Draco finally found the wherewithal to ask.

“No, I think I’ve had enough,” Potter answered, his eyes on Draco’s face. In fact, he continued to stare until Draco’s twitching and fidgeting and knee bouncing returned in earnest.

“So, uhm,” Draco said, desperate to end the tense impasse. His fingers moved restlessly on the sticky tabletop. “How’ve you been?”

“All right.”

Draco nearly sighed aloud. Well, that had taken all of two seconds, he thought with a sinking in his stomach. He began to drum his fingers in earnest, staring around the club, searching for something worth commenting on.

When Potter’s hand fell on top of his, flattening and stilling his fingers, Draco jerked his head back around and found himself being studied intently. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

Draco’s eyes widened, and he swallowed heavily. “Why, having a drink with a friend, although I’m not sure how much of a friend she actually is if she’s off traipsing around the dance floor with Weasley…”

Potter’s hand closed around his fingers, squeezing hard, cutting off his nervous ramble and a bit of his circulation. “Malfoy,” he repeated, leaning closer. “What are you doing here?”

Draco stared into the eyes that held his intently. “I, uh… read in the Prophet that you’re leaving tomorrow, and I wanted…” His words trailed away into silence as they stared at each other.

“You wanted… what?”

Yes, his bruised ego chanted in his head. What did you want? What did you expect? That the man would be so thrilled to see you again that he’d throw himself at your feet? You blew him off, you idiot. He opened the door, and you fucking slammed it in his face. You deserve what you get, you tosser.

“Malfoy?”

Potter’s eyes were still fixed on his face even as Draco felt all of the blood draining from it. Oh God, he thought, I’m making a fool of myself… again.

“Never mind.” Draco freed his hand from beneath Potter’s. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, I need to go.”

He scooted around the booth with surprising agility and dove into the crowd the minute his feet hit the floor.

“Malfoy!”

He heard Potter call out behind him, but he didn’t turn his head. He pushed across the jam-packed dance floor, saw Pansy spot him where she was writhing against Weasley, saw her mouth move as she called out to him. He didn’t even slow. His heart was pounding as hard as the bass that shook the hardwood floor, and blood was roaring in his ears. His face felt hot, his hands cold, and he was dizzy. He feared for a moment that if he couldn’t get outside, he was going to pass out right there in the middle of the throng. People pressed against him, more than one hand strayed where it shouldn’t, and all he could think was: What in hell am I doing here? Disaster. It was another disaster…

He hit the door to the outside with both hands and shoved it open as hard as he could, ignoring the doorman who growled at him, ignoring the line waiting outside to get in. Cool night air hit him in the face, and he sucked in deep breaths, stepping away from the line, putting out one hand to the worn brick wall to steady himself. He bent at the waist, heart still pounding, breathing still tight and harsh. How many times could one be a complete fool? his inner voice mocked. How many times?

The arm that slid around his waist was firm and solid and startled the hell out of him. He jerked, but the hold around him merely tightened, pulling him back against a warm body. “Easy,” a deep voice said next to his ear. “It’s all right. Try to relax and just breathe…”

He was back in that suite at Pennsington Abbey, and that same deep voice was right next to his ear. “Oh, God,” Draco moaned softly. “Not again.”

“Hey, at least you aren’t puking this time,” came the wry response as Potter’s other hand moved up and down Draco’s upper arm. Draco shook his head, trying to pull free. This was wrong, all wrong.

“Let me go,” he said. “Please. I’m just going to go…”

“You aren’t going anywhere until you can breathe properly.” Potter placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders and turned him gently, pressing him back against the brick wall, bracing his hands on either side of Draco’s upper arms, caging him in. Draco closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, but he still sounded like a distance runner after a race.

“I’m all right,” he managed, but even he could hear that he didn’t sound all right.

“Right,” Potter said dryly. Draco looked up at him, bracing for a confrontation.

“I am,” he retorted. “I just… it was hot in there, and there were so many people…”

Potter’s eyes were level, his expression inscrutable. “Listen, Malfoy. I recognize an anxiety attack when I see one; I’ve had enough of my own.”

Draco swallowed, his eyes widening. “You…?”

Potter nodded. “I had a murderous megalomaniac after me for most of my formative years. Anxiety, I recognize.” When he’d determined that Draco wasn’t going to bolt, he took a step back and crossed his arms. “What I can’t figure out is why you’d be having that reaction to me.”

Draco met his eyes, and found not the irritation he’d expected, but a calm acceptance. And patience. And more than a little compassion. He felt his breathing ease, felt his bunched shoulders begin to relax.

“So,” Potter prodded, bracing his legs slightly apart. “Are you going to tell me the real reason you were in this dive? Because I’m guessing it isn’t one of your normal hang outs. That jacket cost more than most of the furniture.”

A smirk flirted with the corner of Draco’s lips. “It really is disreputable,” he managed with some of his old snark. “Honestly, Potter, you can afford better.”

“We know the bartender.” He shrugged. “He keeps us in free booze.”

Draco grimaced. “So I bought drinks for everyone for nothing.”

“It was a nice gesture. And it certainly got my attention.” Potter’s eyes searched his features. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”

Those steady eyes didn’t blink, and the calm regard made Draco feel both stripped bare and oddly reassured. He dampened his lower lip with his tongue. “I wanted…” He paused, then took a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you properly for what you did for me in Scotland at New Year’s.”

One of Potter’s elegant brows arched. “You did thank me, very properly as I recall,” he said. “That was a painfully proper thank you note.”

Draco knew color was rushing back into his cheeks. “My mother didn’t make me attend all of those etiquette and comportment classes for little wizards for nothing.”

As if he couldn’t help himself, Potter’s lips quirked up at the corners. “I can imagine you at six, in velvet knee breeches and a ruffled collar, learning how to sip your tea.”

Draco sent him an arch look. “I’ll have you know that it was designer suits with sailor collars, and I was adorable.”

Potter lost the fight with his smile. “That I have no trouble believing at all.”

“Heavens, Potter, a compliment?” Draco spread his pale hand on his chest. “Be still my heart.”

Potter’s smile faded slightly. “So that was why you were here?” He persevered. “To thank me for New Year’s?”

“You did save my dignity,” Draco said softly.

“No, I didn’t.” Potter shook his head, his eyes remaining on Draco’s face. “Your dignity was never in any danger, Malfoy. Your self-esteem, maybe, but your dignity remained intact. You made that arse look like exactly what he was; beneath you.”

Draco stared into Potter's eyes. “Thank you for that, as well.” He paused. “I seem to be saying that quite a bit this evening.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” Potter angled his head to one side. “And that’s all that prompted your appearance tonight, then? Just… gratitude?”

Draco knew he was blushing and wondered if Potter could see that in the near darkness. Here it was, the opportunity to tell the man that he’d spent months thinking about him, regretted walking away…

Draco took a deep breath and settled his shoulders. “Not completely, no.”

Potter’s mobile brow arched once again. “Care to tell me what else there was?”

Draco's heart began to beat quickly again, but he lifted his jaw, determined not to let his nerves get the better of him. “I know that you’re leaving tomorrow, for six months in America.”

Potter neither moved nor spoke, just watched him. Draco forced his voice past the tightness growing in his throat. “I didn’t want you to leave, to go for that long, without…”

He stopped then, imploring with his eyes.

“Without what?” Potter prodded gently.

“There was… something, wasn’t there?” Draco asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “In Scotland, in the bar. There was…” He stopped again, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Slowly, Potter uncrossed his arms, eyes on Draco’s the entire time, and took a step closer. He braced his hand on the wall above Draco’s right shoulder. “There was… what?”

Potter’s eyes were so close now that Draco could count every lash, see the green irises nearly swallowed by the inky black of his pupils.

“Something happening… between us?” Draco’s voice came out a ragged whisper.

Potter moved closer still, close enough that Draco could feel the heat radiating off of his body, catch the pervasive, woodsy scent of his cologne. It made Draco’s head swim as he stared into the large eyes, now so very close.

“I certainly thought so at the time.” Potter’s voice was just above a murmur, deep and smooth. “I’d hoped, anyway, but then you sent that note.”

“I was scared,” Draco admitted, surprising himself. His eyes widened, and he swallowed. “I… was scared.”

He saw Potter’s eyes soften; there was no way he could miss it, just inches from his own. But the expression in them made something warm and unexpected ignite in his chest.

“You don’t need to be scared,” Potter assured him. “Not of me.”

“Potter, with our history, if I wasn’t scared, I’d be a damned fool.”

The corner of Potter’s full lips curled upwards. “I suppose there’s some truth in that,” he grudgingly agreed. “I guess the question is, can we get past our history enough to see if there is something?”

Draco studied the face, so close, the mouth, just inches away, and there was one more question he had to ask. “Did you kiss me?”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “In the bar? Yes.” His lips curled. “There were about two hundred witnesses.”

“No, not in the bar.” Draco paused for a heartbeat, studying Potter’s expression, and saw when what he was asking registered. There was a moment’s hesitation.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Again, Potter eyes didn’t waver. “The clock was striking twelve,” he said, stepping closer. His thigh slipped between Draco’s legs, his right hand lifted and curved around his waist inside the blue velvet blazer. It was warm through the fabric of his shirt. “It was the new year, time of new beginnings. And you were lying there, the moonlight in your hair, looking so bloody perfect, even after everything, that it took my breath away. And I wanted…” He stopped.

“Your turn, Potter,” Draco breathed. “You wanted what?”

Potter’s eyes dropped to Draco’s slightly parted lips and stayed there. “You,” he whispered. “I wanted you.”

Draco lifted an unsteady hand and pressed it, fingers spread, in the middle of Potter’s broad chest. He could feel the heat of him through the cotton, the muscles beneath filling his palm. “And now?” His voice was barely a breath of sound. “Do you still?”

Potter inhaled, a deep breath, then emphatically pressed his hips forward into Draco’s. There was no mistaking the hard ridge that prodded Draco’s hipbone or ignoring the solid, steady thump of Potter’s heartbeat beneath his palm. “What do you think?” This was asked against his lips, and Draco could feel the moist heat of Potter’s breath.

“I think–” he murmured, angling his head, “—that I wish you’d kiss me again, now that I’m conscious and can appreciate it.”

He felt more than saw Potter’s slight smile. “I can do that.”

And closing the distance between their lips, he did.

Even knowing it was coming, having Potter’s lips open over his was a surprise. It seemed incredible, that after everything that had happened between them, they should be kissing with such tentative promise. Potter’s lips moved against his, a gentle massage. He felt the subtle prodding of a silky tongue, and thoughts about anything else evaporated in the moment. He melted into the body against him as he parted his lips and allowed Potter to take the kiss somewhere less innocent, needier, and infinitely more arousing.

Potter’s tongue tasted of Firewhisky, and when it swirled through Draco’s mouth, he caught it, sucking on it, pulling against it. A deep sound vibrated through Potter’s throat, and the hand inside Draco’s jacket curled about his waist, spreading on his lower back, pulling him in tighter. Draco’s hands lifted of their own volition, one curling around Potter’s nape, the other spreading on his jaw, and he felt it flex beneath his fingers as Potter freed his tongue and began to thrust it between Draco’s teeth in a sensuous rhythm.

It was Draco’s turn to groan, and he pressed closer, angling his hips so that the hardness behind Potter’s fly pressed against his own, wrapping one of his slender legs around Potter’s calf. Potter changed the angle of his head and slid his palm down to cup Draco’s right arse cheek firmly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get a room!”

The voice was loud, but not unfriendly, and it was followed by some enthusiastic laughter and good-natured catcalls. Potter lifted his lips away and turned his head, and Draco glanced over his shoulder. He’d completely forgotten about the queue waiting to get into the bar, and when he saw that most of the young witches and wizards in line were watching them, he made a strangled sound in his throat and pressed his forehead against Potter’s shoulder.

“Nothing like being inconspicuous,” he muttered into Potter’s shirt.

“Shall we take their suggestion?”

Draco lifted his head and looked into Potter’s eyes. He saw the watchful amusement in them.

“I think this is where one of us says ‘your place or mine’,” Potter teased, but Draco could see that he was quite serious.

“Well, unless you want to risk running into my mother and an army of nosy house-elves,” Draco said breathlessly, “it’s going to have to be yours.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’.” Had it not been, the heat that flared in Potter’s gaze would have convinced him.

Draco held his eyes. “It’s definitely a ‘yes’.”

The smile that spread across Potter’s face illuminated the dim alleyway as he tightened his arms around Draco. “Brilliant,” he said. He stepped into a half-turn, Draco still in his arms, and Apparated them away.

Part Six

Five years, nine months, six hours and forty-five minutes A.D.D. (After Dingbat’s Death)

Even if the thought to look around had occurred to Draco, there was neither the opportunity nor the inclination. One moment, the odd and unsettling feeling of Apparition had his head swimming, the next his feet were on a floor and he was struggling for balance. Before he had the chance to steady himself, Potter was once again kissing him, hands sliding up under the blazer, pushing it from Draco’s shoulders and encouraging it to slip down his arms, which had his head swimming for an entirely different reason. It was a testament to how aroused he was that he didn’t complain when the expensive jacket pooled around his ankles. Potter’s fingers pressed into firm flesh as he searched out the dips and hollows of Draco’s spine, and his mouth slid down his throat, tongue grazing skin travelled. Draco let his head drop back and to the side. He hummed softly.

Moments later, he caught his breath on a sharp gasp when Potter reached down, grabbed him behind his knees, and lifted. Draco’s hands flailed, and he caught hold of Potter’s shirt just as his back came to rest on a soft, resilient surface, one that bounced slightly as Potter came down with him. A bed, he realized, and then thought was once more swallowed up in sensation.

Potter leaned over him, finding his lips with his open mouth, his hands moving over Draco’s chest and stomach with a growing restless urgency. Draco opened his mouth to the renewed thrust of his tongue, kissing back with the same burgeoning need, his hand lifting to spread on Potter’s chest, caressing, squeezing the mound of muscle he found there. Potter’s lips traveled from his mouth, down his chest, teeth nipping at fabric and the flesh beneath it on Draco's ribcage, then his hipbone, then pressed his legs apart and with a seeking hand, massaged the bulge at his groin before pressing his mouth over it. Draco arched and gasped at the sight of Potter’s mouth over the hardness tenting his trousers, and when Potter’s hand skimmed up his body to his face, Draco took two of his fingers into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them. Now Potter groaned. His hand replaced his mouth on Draco’s erection as he moved up his slender body, firmly massaging the hard cock behind Draco’s fly with his palm as his tongue replaced the fingers in Draco’s mouth. Moving impatiently, he curled his tongue around Draco’s, then sucked on his lower lip.

For Draco’s part, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d ever been so completely at the mercy of someone else. Potter handled him the way he liked, not roughly exactly, but not gently. There was nothing tentative about the way he touched him, nothing hesitant or tender. He used his teeth on Draco’s neck before sucking hard on the pale flesh, threw his leg over Draco’s and lifted his thigh between his legs, pressing up firmly. He pressed his groin forward into Draco’s hip, grinding his own hardness against the jut of Draco’s hipbone, and Draco moved impatiently to return the pressure.

Potter pushed Draco’s shirt open, running his calloused hand over the streamlined muscles before thumbing a straining, pale nipple. Draco gasped, hands clutching Potter’s biceps.

“Like that?” Potter asked, voice dark and rough and seductive as hell. Draco nodded quickly. Potter lowered his head and flicked his tongue over the straining peak before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard. Draco gave a soft cry and his hips arched off the bed. He was incoherent with need.

Potter moved into his hip again, rolling against it, and Draco fisted his hands in Potter’s hair and pulled his mouth from his chest, catching his lips, this time taking control of the kiss. His tongue surged deep, sweeping through Potter’s mouth before he drew back and caught at Potter’s chin with his teeth.

“That mouth,” Potter gasped, his eyes rolling closed as Draco bit his jaw. “I’ve had dreams about that mouth…”

“And in those dreams,” Draco asked breathlessly, regaining a bit of equilibrium, “where was my mouth?”

“My neck, my chest—” Potter pressed his hips against him again, “—my cock.”

“I’ll take door number three,” Draco murmured against his skin, and Potter pulled back to look into his eyes. “It’s capable of far more than witty repartee. Care for a demonstration?”

He saw Potter’s eyes go black with lust as he threw his leg over Draco, straddling his ribcage, rising up onto his knees. He moved forward until his thighs were pressed under Draco’s arms, then he tore off his button-down and threw it over the side of the bed. Draco yanked the t-shirt out of the waistband of Potter’s denims and ran his hands up over the striated stomach, his eyes on Potter’s flushed face. Hands moving efficiently, Potter unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down around his hips and was reaching for the waistband of his black cotton pants when Draco caught his hands and pushed them away.

“My turn,” he murmured, then hooked his hands in the y-fronts and pulled them down, freeing Potter’s hard cock. It slapped against the flat belly, not quite as long as Draco’s own but much thicker around. Draco curled his fingers around it, stroking it from base to tip and back again. Potter hissed between clenched teeth, his eyes rolling up as Draco pulled it down and away from the muscled stomach and the dark trail of hair that led from Potter’s navel to his groin. He lapped at the swollen, dark red head with the flat of his tongue, then catching Potter’s eyes, took him into his mouth.

Potter exhaled heavily as Draco took in as much of him as he could, then backed off again, curling his tongue around the silky flesh, pulling against it with slow, steady suction. Blood throbbed in the veins that ran the length of the hard flesh, Potter's rapid heartbeat pulsing against Draco’s lips, and Draco tasted a salty drop of pre come on his tongue. Potter’s hand curled around the back of Draco’s head, cupping it in his palm, but instead of holding his head and fucking his mouth, which others had done before, he let Draco set the pace, holding himself still even as his legs began to tremble and his stomach muscles clenched. Draco reached around him and grabbed his arse, fingers digging into solid flesh, and it was only then that Potter began to move in short, shallow thrusts, steady but careful not to hit the back of Draco’s throat. He paused for a moment to tear his tee off over his head, and Draco sucked hard, providing a steady, wet suction that made Potter shudder while Draco’s hands glided over Potter’s solid torso. He was beautiful; that was the only coherent thought in Draco’s head. He was beautiful, and for that moment at least, all his.

It wasn’t long before Potter pulled back with an inarticulate growl, and shifting backwards, lowered his chest to Draco’s and took his mouth in a slow, wet possession that had Draco’s toes curling. Draco lifted his arms and encircled the firm body above him, hands moving over the broad back. With another impatient sound, Potter lifted away and, grabbing the front of Draco’s shirt, pulled him up to his knees. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and stripped the fabric from Draco’s body, throwing it aside. His hand went to Draco’s fly, unbuttoning and unzipping, then down into the soft boxers to caress the hardness he found there.

“Oh, God,” Draco moaned as Potter curled his fist around him and stroked. “Oh, yes. Oh… oh…” He was aware that he sounded completely inarticulate, but the feel of that hot, calloused hand, pulling on him, stole any reason that he might have had left.

Potter’s lips returned to his neck, suckling the flesh, abrading it with his straight white teeth. Draco found Potter’s ear with his mouth, pulled against it, sent his tongue to explore the tender shell. Potter gasped and squeezed Draco’s cock, twisting his hand on each increasingly fast stroke, and Draco began to shake as his hand curled around Potter’s wrist, stopping the maddening rhythm.

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” he muttered against Potter’s ear, swirling his tongue around the shell.

“Merlin,” Potter answered, shoulders trembling. “Yes.”

“Then stop that, or this will be over before it starts. I’m not a girl, Potter. I don’t need foreplay.”

“Bossy pain in the arse,” Potter grumbled, but as he said it, he was pushing Draco down onto his stomach on a soft, black duvet, running his tongue down his spine, caressing his back as he moved lower. Then he was grabbing Draco’s slacks and pants and yanking them down to the tops of his thighs.

Draco felt Potter’s teeth sink into his left arse cheek and he gasped, his back arching, his cock rubbing against the bedding. Moments later he felt large hands on each cheek, and he was being spread, exposed. Instinctively he tightened, but then Potter’s mouth was there, hot moist breath wafting over him just before Potter’s tongue thrust against him, pressing, pushing, then withdrawing before doing it again. Draco ground out a moan, his forehead pushing into the bed, his fingers clutching convulsively at the fabric. When Potter’s tongue had finally loosened him enough to breach him, and slid sinuously inside, Draco gasped. His cock felt as if it might explode at any moment, and he reached back blindly and clutched Potter’s thick hair in his hand.

“Potter, please,” he begged. “Now, please…”

He heard movement behind him, felt his shoes being pulled off and heard them drop heavily to the floor, felt his pants and trousers jerked off over his feet. He heard rustling and pictured Potter’s jeans dropping. A drawer opened and closed. He glanced back over his shoulder as the bed dipped between his feet and saw Potter pouring lube from a blue bottle into his hand. He snapped it closed and tossed it aside, then met Draco’s eyes for a moment before bringing his hand to his arse.

The lube was cool as Potter spread it over and around his entrance. Draco’s eyes closed tightly when he felt one of Potter’s blunt fingers tease the muscle before sliding carefully inside of him. He reached down and curled his hand around his own cock as Potter withdrew and entered with two fingers, and Draco pushed back against his hand, his forehead pressed once again into the soft bedding, his hand stroking himself as Potter stroked into him with those long, dexterous fingers. When they pressed forward and down, expertly finding and stroking over his prostate, Draco let out a hissing breath between clenched teeth. Potter pulled his hand away, positioned himself behind him, and Draco felt something infinitely broader and more blunt press against him.

Slowly, carefully, Potter breached the twin rings of muscle, sliding inside of him with a soft grunt. It burned and Draco hissed.

“Oh,” he muttered, his face in the duvet. “Oh, fuck.” Potter remained still for a moment, then moved shallowly inside of him. “Oh, fuck,” he said again, but he reached back with one of his hands and gripped Potter’s thigh, pulling him in again. “Oh… oh fuck.”

“Ready now?” Potter asked gently, and Draco jerked his head in affirmation.

Potter caught Draco’s narrow hips between hard hands, and held him still as he began to move inside of him in long, slow strokes that made Draco’s breath catch in his throat.

“Feel good?”

“Oh, god, oh yes,” he moaned. “Yes, yes. You’re so… fucking… thick…”

“And you’re so bloody tight.” He felt Potter’s mouth on his back, felt Potter’s hand curl around his ribcage, but concentration had tunneled down to the thick cock stroking into his arse, and his own hand, moving more and more quickly on his own straining erection. He braced one hand on the bed, let his head drop forward, felt sweat slip down his forehead and off of his nose. “Oh, yeah,” he growled as Potter’s strokes picked up momentum, and he heard and felt Potter’s skin slapping his own. “Oh, oh, oh…” he gasped out each time Potter’s hips pumped forward, his hand moving so fast now that it was a blur. “Oh, god, yeah…” Potter’s hands slid up his back and hooked over his shoulders, fingers clutching, pulling him back as he moved into Draco harder, faster. A symphony of hard, disjointed breathing and small sounds of pleasure mixed between them, accompanied by the wet slap of flesh on flesh and the rhythmic squeak of the bedsprings. “Oh, god, I’m so close,” Draco moaned. “I’m so fucking close…”

Potter reached around him with both hands then, curling them around Draco’s upper thighs, gripping the tendons that stood out in bold relief on either side of his groin. He pulled Draco back until he was all but sitting on Potter’s lap, angled his thrusts upwards, and Draco let out a shattered cry as the new position brought his prostate into searing, continuous contact with the hard crown of Potter’s cock. Potter moved harder, faster, skin slapping louder and louder. Draco felt his balls draw up tight, felt a rushing jolt of pleasure streak down his spine.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasped. “I’m gonna… oh, god!”

He’d never felt anything like that orgasm. It shot from his spine through his arse, into his balls, and his cock jerked hard in his fist as he erupted over the bed in arching streams of translucent white. Some struck him in the chin, and the chest, and still it went on as he gasped and jerked, his body one giant spasm of raw nerve endings. Potter continued to drive into him, and he heard the tortured growl, felt Potter’s fingers dig into his soft inner thighs with bruising force, felt the hard body behind him jerk and then arch, shuddering as he lifted Draco from his knees.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco cried, his own orgasm still roaring through him, leaving him a shaking, trembling wreckage. “Oh, sweet Circe.” He jerked one last time, and then went limp, falling forward, and the only thing that kept him from planting his face in the duvet was the arm that curled around his chest and held on. And for the first time in the whole of Draco's life, an orgasm sent his consciousness slipping away.

******

When rational thought returned, Draco was lying face down on the bed, limp as a washrag, and a solid, but more importantly heavy, body was pressing him into the mattress. He tried to move, but he was quite effectively trapped. He could feel Potter’s heart racing against his back, felt the sticky skin pressed to his, and grimaced.

“Get off,” he ordered, his voice muffled by the bedding.

“Hmmm?” Potter hummed against his ear, but didn’t move.

“I said, get off.”

“Just did that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Very clever, Potter.”

“Listen, Draco,” Potter said lazily, his mouth near Draco’s ear. The rush of warm air made gooseflesh rise on Draco’s shoulders. “As I’m still inside of you, do you think you might find a way to call me Harry?”

“No,” Draco said emphatically. “Now move. You’re heavy as hell, and I’m lying in the wet spot.”

“Bossy git,” Potter muttered, but there was more indulgent fondness in his voice than exasperation. He pulled out carefully, but even so, Draco winced and hissed. “Did I hurt you?” Potter asked, his hand coming to rest on Draco’s shoulder.

“I’m all right,” Draco answered, feeling his face heat. “It’s just… been a while.”

“Ah.”

He felt the bed shift and turned his head, peering through his fringe at Potter, who’d settled on his back beside him. His tawny skin was slick with sweat, his hair stuck to his face in wet clumps, and he still looked sensational. Draco shifted and grimaced in distaste.

“You really are sore.”

“That was not pain,” Draco said primly. “So don’t get an inflated ego over how well-endowed you are. I wasn’t lying when I said I was on the wet spot, and it’s sticky.”

He felt a wave of magic spread over his body and shivered in response. The stickiness beneath him disappeared, along with the sheen of sweat on his skin. He jerked a bit, gooseflesh rising on his arms, and peered at Potter. The man was watching him calmly, his hand settling back on his own stomach, no wand in sight.

“How do you do that?” Draco asked.

“Cleaning spell,” Potter answered casually.

“Without a wand.” Draco stared, and Potter shrugged, his face coloring. “Hades, Potter. Most wizards need a wand to channel their magic. If you get angry, windows rattle in their frames, and if you want something clean, you just… wave your hand. It’s…” He searched for a word. “Have you any idea how fucking powerful you are?” he asked. “That much magic is… well, it’s unnatural.”

Instead of being angry, which once the words had left his mouth Draco was afraid he might be, the corner of Potter’s lips quirked and his eyes began to shine with suppressed laughter.

“I said something amusing?” Draco drawled.

“Well,” Potter said. “Yes, actually. You do know that there’s an entire segment of the population that find magic, any kind of magic, unnatural.”

“Muggles,” Draco said dismissively. Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t get your wand in a knot. I’m certainly no proponent of old Snake Face’s pure-blood nonsense, and I wouldn’t go all Death Eater on their arse. I just don’t want to have dinner with them.” Potter’s lips curved up at the corners.

“You really are a complete prat.”

“Yes. And that’s not exactly a news flash.” Draco lifted up onto his elbows. “And there’s clearly something about it that you like, or I doubt we’d be where we currently are.”

Potter’s eyes studied him for so long that Draco felt an overwhelming need to fidget. He managed, just barely, to overcome the urge.

“I do like it,” Potter said finally, his tone thoughtful. “I like you. And I’m as surprised by that as you are.”

“I’m not surprised,” Draco said even as his heart began to trip faster in his chest. “I’m charming. It would be more of a surprise if you didn’t like me. The question is; do I like you.”

Potter’s lips twitched. “Well, to quote something a very smart man said to me quite recently: there’s clearly something about me that you like, or I doubt we’d be where we currently are.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

“So,” Potter said, expression thoughtful. “The question becomes: what do we do about it?”

Draco rested his chin on the back of his hands. “You’re leaving tomorrow for six months,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

Draco shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Potter frowned. “How so?”

“Well,” Draco looked down, traced the topstitching on the comforter with one long finger. “Neither of us has the best track record.”

“This is true,” Potter admitted reluctantly.

“And we’ve spoken some about our history, about getting past it, but we can’t exactly ignore it.”

“Maybe we don’t have to ignore it.” Draco looked over and found Potter studying him. “There’s always been something, Draco. With you and me. Always.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand. “When I was eleven, twelve, thirteen… I convinced myself that I hated you. And there were certainly lots of reasons to believe that. We were so completely different.”

“Yes,” Draco said, unable to keep a bit of bitterness from drifting into his tone. “You were the hero, and I was the junior prick. I remember.”

Potter shook his head. “Well, you may have been the junior prick, but I wasn’t the hero,” he scoffed. “I was… let me see if I can recall it all now, there’s such a long list. Oh, yes. I was mad, deranged, dangerous. I was the Triwizard cheat, and the Heir of Slytherin.”

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to be the Heir of Slytherin.” Draco shook his head. “Merlin, I was dim-witted.”

“You weren’t dim-witted,” Potter countered. “You were conditioned. Just like I was. We were cast in our roles, Draco. Your family picked one role for you, Dumbledore and the wizarding world picked another for me. We never stood a chance.”

Draco stared into the shadowed face, into the eyes so large, so dark, and felt his heart turn over hard in his chest. “Do we now?” he whispered.

“I don’t know.” Potter reached out and trailed his fingers over the turn of Draco’s shoulder, and again gooseflesh broke out on his arms and along his spine. What was it about this man, he wondered, that made his body react that way? “I don’t think we can ignore our history,” Potter went on quietly. “There’s too much of it.” Potter shifted closer, large hand closing over Draco’s upper arm, and he urged him to turn. Draco cooperated, and once on his back, saw Potter’s eyes drop to his torso, saw the way he studied the skin carefully, saw when he found the almost invisible cross-section of scars that traced across his chest. When he lifted his hand to touch them, it trembled faintly. “I was terrified I’d scarred you for life, but they’re almost gone.” he murmured.

Draco dampened his lips with his tongue. “My mother…” He had to stop to clear his throat. “My mother had an amazing scar removal cream. They were gone…” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘they were gone by the time the madman moved into the Manor’. “They were gone quickly.”

“I didn’t know what the spell did,” Potter murmured, eyes lifting to Draco’s. “I swear I didn’t. If I’d known…” Draco could see that Potter desperately needed for him to believe him, and he lifted his hand, cupping Potter’s jaw.

“I know,” Draco said softly. “It’s all right. I know.”

“I’m so sorry.” Potter looked and sounded so stricken that Draco pressed his fingertips over his mouth.

“Stop,” he ordered. “I’m sorry I made your life at school a living hell, and that I made those ridiculous badges, and that I broke your nose.” Using his thumb, he traced the slight bump that still remained in Potter’s otherwise straight nose before letting his hand drop away. “Look at it this way: thank God you had that spell, Potter, or I’d have killed you and missed one of the most spectacular shags of my life. And that would have been a crime.”

Potter shook his head, the corners of his lips pulling up slightly. “You know that you’re incorrigible.”

“It’s one of my many charms.” He reached up and looped his arms loosely around Potter’s neck. “Here’s a thought; let’s enjoy the rest of tonight together, because after waiting so long for this opportunity, I’m certainly not done with you yet. And then, you go do what you have to do in America, and we’ll re-evaluate where we are when you return. No strings, no promises, nothing hanging over our heads. Just a few more hours of utterly hedonistic fucking, and then when you get back, we’ll see.”

Potter stared down into his eyes, as if he were trying to search out the secrets of Draco’s soul. Draco struggled to keep his expression neutral, because he really didn’t want Potter to see how desperately he wished that he weren’t leaving in the morning, and how very much he wished he could go with him. It was too soon for those kinds of declarations; if he’d learned one thing from Antonio, it was that he was better off trying to ignore the rash side of his nature rather than jumping into something unprepared. And yes, six months sounded like a lifetime, but if Potter still felt something when he returned, then maybe, just maybe….

Potter was still staring at him, and Draco waited, almost afraid to breathe.

“If that’s how you want to do this,” Potter said y, and Draco sagged with relief.

“I think it’s the wisest thing, given the circumstances.”

Potter nodded solemnly. “Probably.” He lowered his head and kissed Draco, fleetingly, gently, a sort of silent benediction, an unspoken promise. “So,” Potter murmured against his lips, one hand sliding onto Draco’s thigh. “What was this about a few more hours of utterly hedonistic fucking?”

“It was just a suggestion,” Draco teased, nipping at Potter’s lower lip with his teeth. “I suppose we could go to sleep…”

“Not on your life,” Potter growled, pulling Draco into his arms and rolling to his back so that Draco was sprawled atop him. “I’m about to have a six month dry spell, and you promised fucking.”

Draco smiled down into his eyes, more thrilled by Potter’s words than he’d ever admit. “So I did.”
oooOOOooo

Dawn had washed the room in pale lilac light, and as Draco sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes, he glanced towards the bank of windows across the room. There were only the thinnest of white sheer panels hanging at them, and through the thin fabric he could see the tip of the sun as it appeared over the buildings around Potter’s townhouse. He leaned over and picked up his other boot, sliding his foot into it as the purplish color of pre-dawn warmed the walls to a soft pink.

He could hear the shower running in the en-suite bath, knew that Potter was still in there, scrubbing away the last traces of their night’s activity. Draco had used a Cleansing Charm on himself, choosing to wait until he got home in order to bathe. The reasons for that decision were two-fold: Number one, if he got in the shower with Potter, he’d never want to get out, and Potter had a six forty-five international Portkey to catch; and number two, he knew that he was going to desperately need a long soak in a hot tub. Already, there were places on his body that protested the night’s rigorous exercise, and he was certain that as the day went on, muscles he’d long since forgotten he even had were going to be making their presence known.

After that first, memorable time, they’d had sex twice more. Once immediately following the conversation, and once again at some point before Potter’s alarm had gone off at five. The second time had been nearly as energetic as the first, but that third time…. Draco zipped up his boots and ran his fingers through his hair. That third time had been slow and sensual, face to face, enough like ‘making love’ that Draco had felt his throat go tight and his eyes burn as Potter had gently and thoroughly led him to orgasm, only allowing himself release when Draco had come twice. It had been beautiful, and tender, and utterly terrifying. This was supposed to have been about the sex, and only the sex. Not about love… he wasn’t doing love anymore. He might allow himself to have a relationship, a ‘friend with benefits’, but love? He’d thought he’d learned that lesson.

He heard the shower shut off and stood quickly, grimacing as a twinge shot through his thighs. He picked up his blue blazer and shrugged into it. He didn’t want any awkward ‘morning after’ moments; he searched his pockets to make sure that he had all of his effects and was turning towards the hall when the door to the bath swung open and Potter emerged, one towel in his hands as he briskly dried his hair, wearing another wrapped low around his narrow hips.

He looked edible, Draco thought, stunned that the sight of the fit body, still damp from the shower, could cause an immediate surge of desire. Good Lord, he’d just been shagged senseless. Ordinarily, after a night like the one he’d just spent -- and he wasn’t sure he’d ever spent a night quite like that one before -- he was good for days. He saw Potter standing there, towel clinging to his hips, clearly outlining what was beneath it, and felt an unmistakable stirring in his groin. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to curl into that muscled chest and stay there forever, or run as fast as his sore legs would take him.

Potter looked up from beneath the towel, taking in the fact that Draco was already dressed. “You could have used the shower,” he offered softly.

“I used some cleansing spells,” Draco answered, unconsciously rubbing his hands on the wool covering his hips. “I need to go.”

“All right.” Potter hung the towel around his neck, then came to Draco, staring into his eyes. There was a heavy silence. “This was memorable,” he said finally.

Draco nodded, fighting the urge to take a step back. He couldn’t let himself care about this man this much, this soon. He couldn’t. He didn’t do love … he didn’t….

“It was,” he agreed.

“May I write you? While I’m gone?”

Draco blinked. “Of course,” he answered. “I… hope that you will.”

Potter nodded, and they went back to staring.

“Well, I have to go,” Draco blurted, desperate to be gone, to be home, to have some space to think. He started to turn away when Potter reached out and grabbed his upper arms firmly in his hands. Draco looked back at him, blinking. “I…”

There wasn’t time for more, because Potter pulled him in and covered his open mouth with his own, silencing anything else he might have said. Draco stiffened for a fraction of a moment, but then Potter’s tongue was there, and it tasted of peppermint and something else that was uniquely his own. He searched slowly, persuasively, sweeping through Draco’s mouth, caressing his tongue, caressing his lips, as if he were looking for… something. When Draco’s tongue returned the touch, he made a sound in his throat, as if he’d found what he’d sought. His hands came up to Draco’s head and carded into his hair, angling him where he wanted, holding him firmly yet gently as he kissed anything cognizant right out of his head. When their lips parted, Potter leaned his forehead against Draco’s, and for his part, Draco simply tried to remember how to breathe.

“Think about that while I’m gone,” Potter said, his voice dark, slightly rough, supremely seductive. “Think about me.”

“M’kay,” Draco managed, certain that was about as articulate as he was going to be able to be. “Going… now…”

Potter nodded and released him, stepping back, but his eyes were still filled with both heat and longing. “I’ll miss you, Draco.”

Draco stared into the watchful eyes. “I’ll miss you, too… Harry.”

He saw a fierce light flare in Potter’s eyes just as he turned and Apparated away.

Draco hated feeling helpless. He wanted control: of his life, of his reactions, of his environment. It was the only time he felt stable and sane. He’d spent the entirety of the bloody war, and almost all of his formative years, at the whim of someone else, and he’d promised himself that he would never again allow anyone to have that level of control over his life. Which was why, four weeks after he’d left Potter’s townhouse to return to the Manor, he found himself vacillating between anger and despair and feeling distinctly unsteady.

He’d been seated in his sunken bath the morning after his night with Potter, whirlpool jets swirling the hot water around his aching body, when the door had swung open and Pansy had entered like a head of state, the only things missing the sound of trumpets and a major domo to announce her presence.

He’d looked at her in exasperation. “Pans, I’m naked, if you don’t mind.”

“Not in the slightest.” She’d slipped out of her coat and gloves, laid them aside, then perched on the edge of the tub in her blood-red gabardine slacks and white cashmere jumper, crossing her legs, her ivory boots shining. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen you au naturel. And you didn’t think that you could simply disappear last night, leaving me at the mercy of all of that hideous ginger hair, without a proper spilling of the details.”

“As I recall,” Draco said dryly, “it looked to me as if a bit of that ginger hair was at your mercy.”

She waved her hand. “Beside the point. Spill. How went things with you and the ‘boy wonder’? And do not think for one second that you are going to get away without a complete blow by blow, as it were.” She smirked and looked pointedly at his throat, just above his collarbone. “I can see for myself that the boy bites.”

Draco’s hand came up to cover the purplish mark that Potter had, indeed, left on his throat. “I think he got carried away,” Draco said.

“Well, good heavens, I hope so!” Pansy said. “So, did you stay the night?”

Draco felt color fill his face as he looked down at the water and nodded.

“Lovely.” Pansy rubbed her hands together. “Details, man. I want details!”

Surprisingly, for the first time Draco was loath to share the details that Pansy wanted. Ordinarily, he would either wax poetic or heap scorn on his conquest of the evening. But this time… this time it felt wrong, and the meager things he was willing to tell her didn’t satisfy Pansy’s voracious appetite a bit. She was left marching off in a huff, but not before she’d given him some uncomfortably pointed looks.

Fortunately, she got over her fit of pique rather quickly. Unfortunately, her pointed looks and oblique comments about ‘being careful what you wish for’ hadn’t diminished in the weeks that Potter had been gone.

Owls were no longer pressed into International postal service. Most mail moved from continent to continent in the possession of a ‘carrier wizard’ who used Portkeys to deliver all British mail incoming from America to London, where it was then delivered by owl. Because of the convoluted nature of the delivery system, mail was not prompt. A letter posted in America often didn’t reach its European destination for two weeks or more. The Floo network was more efficient, but there were restrictions on International Flooing that made setting one up a bureaucratic nightmare. The guidelines were a hold-over from the war, when the American Ministry had been afraid that rogue Death Eaters would attempt to escape justice in America. As a result, the Floo network between England and America had been virtually shut down, and there were still miles of red tape to go through to reverse that decision.

Potter’s first letter had arrived exactly 13 days after he'd left England, and it had been very polite and newsy, full of information about the American Ministry and their version of the Auror squad, and about his hotel, and the food, and the people he’d met. Draco had devoured each bit of information, poring over the messy scrawl that Potter called writing, enjoying Potter’s wit and flair for description, even smiling faintly as he read a very humorous description of the American Minister’s rather rotund wife. It was when he reached the last page, near the bottom, that he’d gone very still, his eyes wide.

“I think you’d be surprised,” Potter had written, “by how very much I miss you. I know that seems strange – it’s not like we’ve been close for long – but I find myself wanting to tell you things during the day, to talk to you over dinner. I miss you, more than I’d thought possible.”

Draco had stared at the words for a long time, then had glanced down at the bottom, and stared.

“Write back soon,” Potter had written. “Love, Harry.”

He had written back that very day, attempting to keep the tone of the letter light and amusing. He’d told Potter all about a shopping expedition with Pansy, and another with his mother. He’d commented on the weather and the latest gossip in London. At the time, it had seemed the perfect tone to set: affectionate, but not too much so. Like he’d been glad to hear from him, but never indicating how over the moon the words had actually made him feel.

And then the next morning, not twelve hours after he’d posted that response, he’d come down to breakfast, and everything had changed.

*********
He’d known that he shouldn’t open it.

He’d seen the envelope, lying next to his breakfast dish, and he’d instantly recognized the handwriting.

Nothing that came from Antonio could possibly be good news. He’d known it, known he shouldn’t open it. He’d piled other mail on top of it and managed to ignore it. Mostly. Then breakfast was over, and his mother had kissed him on the forehead before heading out on a shopping expedition, and he’d even made it nearly to the stairs to change for an outing with Pansy when the siren’s song of that damnable thing had called him back. It was just… sitting there, the white of the parchment stark against his mother’s forest green linens, and his curiosity got the better of him. What could it hurt to see what the bastard had to say, he’d reasoned? Draco was over him; there was nothing the man could do to hurt him. So honestly, the fact that he’d read it, and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach never to find its way home, was no one’s fault but his own.

There had been a sheet of stationary and a newspaper clipping inside. The note had been short and gleefully cruel.

“My poor darling,” it had read. “You really do have the most abysmal taste in men. Tonio.”

Draco had read the words, a frown forming between his brows, and had then opened the clipping. And everything he thought he knew, or had hoped he knew, turned to ash.

The clipping was a small thing, no more than two inches by four inches, taken, according to the heading, from a newspaper called ‘The Crystal Ball’. The print was small, but the information contained in it had Draco reaching out to steady himself on a dining room chair.

“Harry Potter to remain in America permanently,” read the headline, and Draco felt the blood drain from his face.

“Harry Potter, British Auror and Hero of the recent wizarding war in Great Britain, has been in the United States teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts seminars to an elite group from the American Ministry for Magic’s Law Enforcement Division. Originally slated to remain in America for just six months, it now appears that the man still called ‘the boy who lived’ in his homeland has decided to take up residence in Manhattan. He’s been seen scouting real estate on the upper west side and has been spending a great deal of time in the company of David Waterman, handsome twenty-six-year-old heir to the vast Waterman fortune. According to friends of Waterman, Potter and the strikingly handsome son of Augustus and Belinda Waterman, have been together nearly every evening and have become ‘quite intimate.’ Potter was even seen leaving Waterman’s penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park very early on Monday morning….”

Draco stared at the words, his mouth dry and his heart lodged around his navel.

It was Pansy who pointed out to him that there was a very real possibility that the “Crystal Ball” was every bit the rag that the Daily Prophet was, and that the one little article might very well be a lie.

“Oh, honestly, Draco,” she’d said when he’d showed her the clipping. She’d known instantly, just looking at him, that something was very wrong. And he’d never been able to lie to Pansy. “How much of what’s printed in the papers here about Potter, or you, for that matter, is the truth? This is a gossip column! Throw that rubbish away.”

He’d chewed his lip, but was forced to concede that she was probably right.

“Besides --” she’d said, plucking a strawberry from a silver tray next to his bed where she sat with her legs crossed beneath her, “ – you can’t believe anything that snake Antonelli sends you. He’d do anything to get back at you and Potter. Ignore it.”

He’d tried, he really had. But the seeds of doubt had been planted.

His second letter from Potter had been just as entertaining as the first, but Draco had been unable to enjoy it due to one small paragraph near the bottom of the second page.

“I’ve met some very nice people while I’ve been here,” he’d written. “The man in charge of the Auror Division, Sagramore Bentifene, has had me ‘round to dinner with his family. His wife is a very kind woman, and eating with their six kids reminds me of dinner at the Burrow with the Weasleys. Although you’ll be delighted to know there’s not a head of ginger hair in the bunch. And there’s a decent chap named David that I’ve shared a pint with a time or two….”

Draco had stared at that sentence for a very long time, unable to concentrate on any of the other things that Potter had written. ‘A decent chap named David…’ He’d pulled out the clipping, which, in direct opposition to Pansy’s suggestion, he had not destroyed, and re-read it. David. And even though there were millions of Davids in the world, his mind supplied the last name with alacrity. David… David Waterman, ‘ handsome twenty-six-year-old heir to the vast Waterman fortune.’ It was naïve in the extreme to assume that this was any other David, and Draco was many things, but naïve was not one of them.

He’d stared at the clipping in his hand, and feelings of inadequacy began to creep into his thoughts. He’d written one flippant letter, taking great care to sound nonchalant and casual, made no protestations, hadn’t even really responded to Potter’s words about missing him. And when he’d signed it, determined to give nothing of his own feelings away, he’d signed it simply, ‘D.M.’ In short, he feared very much that he’d come across as a self-absorbed, spoiled, indulged fool whose only interests were either fashion or rumor, and who had no special feelings for Potter at all. If Potter had turned to someone else, who could blame him? After all, it had been Draco himself who had set the guidelines.

“…. you go do what you have to do in America, and we’ll re-evaluate where we are when you return. No strings, no promises, nothing hanging over our heads….”

Those had been his words; there was no taking them back now. And he had no idea what to say to let Potter know that they hadn’t been meant as dismissively as they must have sounded. Potter’s second letter mocked him, unanswered, from the top of his secretary in his suite; what was there to say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous? ‘I’m glad you’ve made a new friend? Do I give better head than he does? Pardon me while I break international law, fire up an illegal Floo, and come to America to Hex his bollocks off?’

Caught unsure of what to do, Draco had done nothing. He hadn’t answered the letter; for two weeks, he’d gone about in a state of preoccupied anxiety until both his mother and Pansy were ready to strangle him. And then, the second envelope had arrived. It was the twin of the one that had arrived with the clipping in it and the distinctive handwriting across the face was the same.

Pansy had been seated at the breakfast table with him, and only his quick reflexes had him plucking the missive from the house-elf’s hand before Pansy dove for it.

“Do not open that,” she’d ordered him sharply, her eyes narrowed. “For God’s sake, Draco, you know what the bastard is…”

He hadn’t listened. Hands trembling, he’d slipped his fingers under the flap, popped the wax seal, and pulled out the contents. There was another note and a photograph. Not a wizard photo, but a Muggle one. Static, unmoving, even slightly grainy. It didn’t matter. It was clear enough.

It was a photo of Potter. He was seated at what appeared to be some sort of banquet table, set with elaborate china and silver, a bowl of white lilies at the center. He was wearing dress robes, and his messy hair had been tamed into order. His head was turned towards another man seated near his side, whose face was slightly hidden by Potter’s profile and square jaw. He appeared to be either whispering something in Potter’s ear or kissing his cheek, and Potter was smiling. The sight of their heads so close together made that sore place in Draco’s chest break open and begin to bleed, but it was the sight of their hands that caused the most pain. The other man’s was resting on Potter’s forearm, long fingers gentle on his sleeve, and Potter’s hand was curled around the man’s elbow. The affection between them was unmistakable. Draco didn’t need the scrawled note to tell him what he could see for himself. But Antonio could not resist one last dig.

“I did try to tell you, amore mio,” he’d written. “Now, perhaps you will believe me.”

Draco had felt for one alarming moment that he might be ill, right there in the breakfast room. When Pansy had held out her hand and demanded to see the contents, he’d handed them to her absently, his ears buzzing, his head light. There was only one explanation for his body’s extreme reaction to what he had seen, to the denial he’d walked around in for weeks. He was in love with Potter. Oh, God, he’d let himself fall in love. Again. And with Potter, of all people. It was a disaster. Again.

He pushed back his chair, steadying himself for a moment on the table’s edge.

“Draco, this doesn’t mean anything,” Pansy said, her voice strident. “It’s just a silly photo!”

He looked at her then, hands white-knuckled around the edge of the table, shoulders, jaw, back, arms, every part of him held tight against the possibility of complete humiliation.

“Please,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “do not patronize me. I am not stupid. Antonio is a bastard, but he did not manufacture that.” He pointed at the photo, then pulled his hand back when he saw that it was trembling. “We promised one another nothing,” he went on, sounding breathless to his own ears. “Potter is a free agent. He has a right to date whomever he pleases.”

Pansy stared, her eyes wide, her face suddenly full of aching comprehension. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed. “Please tell me that you haven’t…”

He abruptly held up his hand, stopping her words. “Pansy,” he wheezed. “Just… don’t. Please don’t. Because if you say it, then…”

He stopped, unable to go on. Oh, he was a fool. A complete and utter fool. He pushed back and strode away with as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances.

He hadn’t seen the white-faced fury that had replaced the debilitating compassion on Pansy’s face.
********

Ten days later…

Draco was quite certain that his mother’s goal in life was to drive him out of his mind.

He realized she probably thought that she was ‘helping’ him, as he had been decidedly uncommunicative since the note and photograph had arrived. She had no idea why he’d been so quiet, and for that he was grateful, but in her mind nothing lifted the spirits more than planning a party. Hence, her insistence that she simply could not plan her annual garden party and tea without his invaluable assistance. He knew that she was more than capable of doing it alone, and had been, in fact, for as long as he could remember. But it was easier to humor her than to drum up the energy to argue. Hence his current occupation with putting the little hand-written peach parchment cards in the sterling silver holders that would sit before each fussy, flower-bedecked bone-china place setting around the twenty tiny tables that dotted the formal dining and sitting rooms.

“I has iced thirty bottles of champagne, Master Draco. And squeezed the juice for Mistress’s Mimosas.” He looked over and saw the tiny elf that was in charge of the kitchens looking up at him with her luminescent neon-green eyes. “Is there anything else that young Master is requiring?”

Draco lifted his elbow and checked his mother’s obsessive/compulsive list one more time. It was faintly defeating that more than half of the items to be done still remained. “Have the Merlot and the Chardonnay been brought up from the wine cellar?” he asked, directing his Quick-Quotes Quill to draw a line through the listings.

“Yes, young sir; the red is opened and is breathing, the white is on ice.”

“Very good.” Draco gave her a dismissive wave with a weary hand. “That should be all for now, Bitty.”

“Just be calling if you are needing me, sir,” she said with a slight curtsy, then disappeared with a soft ‘pop’.

“Oh, trust me,” he muttered under his breath, straightening the card for ‘Mrs. Augustus Pynwick’ in the shining holder with a sigh. Every ancient society matron in London would be wandering the gardens, then taking lunch at the fussy tables within two hours. He thought before the day was over he might do himself in with a butter knife. If he could drum up the energy to make the cut.

The staccato sound of high heels clicking on the parquetry floor had his eyes lifting, and instead of his mother, who he’d been expecting, he found Pansy headed determinedly toward him, wearing a lovely floral print robe of swirling organza and a large picture hat with a silk rose on the brim. His lips quirked, the closest they came to a smile these days.

“I see Mummy picked out the wardrobe,” he said when she was near enough to hear him. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Careful, dear. It wouldn’t take much to convince Narcissa that those fetching dusky rose robes she purchased for you last year would make a lovely accompaniment to the décor. And look so very nice with your pretty pale hair.” She blinked vapidly, and he frowned at her.

“Bitch,” he muttered without heat.

“I know, darling,” she crooned, pulling out the tiny white chair at his left and seating herself gracefully. “But please don’t take your nasty mood out on me. I’m already at my wit's end, between my mother’s hovering and your mother’s fluttering.” She pulled a compact out of her small beaded bag and opened it, carefully applying another layer of peach lip-gloss. “However did they manage to throw this thing every year when we were children?”

“A virtual army of house-elves,” he answered, slipping yet another card into yet another holder. “Back before Miss Granger got the House-elves Bill of Rights passed through the Wizengamot, and we had to start paying the little darlings.”

“I knew there was a reason I hated that bitch.” Pansy pursed her lips, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need a reason to hate her.” He finished the last of the cards. “Her being a Gryffindor was always reason enough for you.”

“There is that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Morons, the lot of them. I think this whole… bravery thing is a front for their lack of subtlety and their complete stupidity. Honestly, they’re the thickest, most imbecilic lot of twits…”

“Pansy,” he interrupted softly, and her words faded into silence. He reached over and put his hand over hers. “Thank you, love,” he whispered. “But please, just… don’t.”

Instead of speaking again, she turned her hand and linked their fingers, but he could tell from the pursing of her lips and the way the corners of her mouth went tight that the silence he’d requested was difficult for her to maintain.

By the time that the women who’d been invited to the afternoon gathering were all in the house after touring the grounds, Draco had a headache of monumental proportions. He’d forced himself to smile so much that his face ached, the incessant chatter was a faint buzzing in his ears, and as he gracefully took his seat between his mother on one side and Pansy and her mother on other, he was wondering if he’d be risking disinheritance if he excused himself. A hired catering staff of serving elves moved between the tables, pouring either champagne or wine and delivering the small, fussy first course of fruit and cheese, and Draco accepted his glass of merlot with a grateful sigh. He caught Pansy’s eyes as he took a healthy drink, and she winked at him as she sipped her own Mimosa.

“Draco, darling.”

He turned his head and found one of his mother’s oldest acquaintances, Lady Pryton-Davis, eyeing him with an expression of fawning concern from across the table. “Dear boy, you’re so very pale.” Only the sharpness in her eyes gave away that her intentions were anything other than altruistic.

“Draco’s skin has always been fair, Mertha,” Narcissa said smoothly. “He inherited that from me, I believe.”

“Well, certainly, Narcissa,” the woman said with a regal nod. “All of the Black women had lovely ivory complexions. I’m sure you’re right about its origin. But you also look weary, my dear boy. Are you quite well?”

“I’m fine, Lady Pryton-Davis,” he answered smoothly. “Never better.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” She fluttered her faded lashes at him. “So, the recent unpleasantness has left you unscathed?”

Pansy opened her mouth, but Draco reached over and squeezed her knee beneath the table.

“Quite,” he answered firmly. “Thank you for enquiring.”

She gave him a condescending nod. “One can’t be too careful, you know,” she went on pompously. “Even some of our oldest families have had such… unfortunate things occur within their ranks. I understand the difficulty of someone with your… predilection finding a suitable companion. And the lure of a title is always so very tempting.” Lady Pryton-Davis was married to a count, and never lost an opportunity to remind anyone listening of that fact.

Draco felt his mother stiffen at his side, and he eyed the older woman, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “I assure you, my lady, that I am quite well, and have little trouble finding companionship.”

She studied his carefully blank face for a long moment, then nodded and turned to the woman on her other side with a coy expression.

“Tight-arsed old busybody,” Pansy seethed under her breath. “She’d make a lovely tea cozy.”

Draco fought a smile.

“Or perhaps, with that spreading derriere, a very nice tufted ottoman,” Narcissa added sotto voce to Pansy, and as the two women toasted one another with their glasses, Draco hid his small smile behind his napkin.

Lunch tasted flat to Draco. He knew that he was the topic of conversation in several quarters, if the looks he was receiving were any indication. Perhaps he should have realized that this would be the case, given the notoriety of his break-up, but he hadn’t even considered it. He could see from the tightness in his mother’s expression and the apologetic looks she occasionally sent him that she hadn’t either. As they segued from the fruit platters to the soup, then to the tiny stuffed game pheasant, Draco ate very little, but drained his glass more than he probably should have. A pleasant buzz was ringing in his ears by the time the small soufflés that were dessert were set before everyone. It was perhaps that very ringing that delayed his noticing that the crystal glasses on the table were clinking together, making a soft, chiming sound.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Parkinson gasped, watching the wine shudder in the glasses. “Whatever is going on?”

The ringing faded and the wine stilled, but there were wide eyes around the room. A moment later, there was a soft concussive sound, as if something had bumped into the Manor itself, and the wine glasses took up their discordant melody even as the crystal chandeliers far above began to sway slightly. It was then that alarm streaked down Draco’s spine. He knew what was causing the disturbance.

“Why, whatever…” Narcissa began, and slight frown between her brows.

“The wards, Mother,” Draco began. “Something is trying to penetrate the wards.”

Even as Draco was shaking his wand from his sleeve, there was a loud crack, and the floor-to-ceiling windows bordering the room shook in their wooden frames. There were loud gasps of surprise and stifled cries from the assembled guests, and then a strange, deepening silence descended when they realized that in the very center of the room, where moments before there had been nothing but an artfully patterned rug between the close-set tables, a man stood. A man with tousled hair as black as pitch, wearing simple horn-rimmed glasses and stark black robes with the insignia of the Auror Squad embroidered over his right breast. His wand was in his hand. His eyes widened in confusion as he scanned the crowded room, turning slowly in place. He looked flushed, and harried, and… wonderful.

“Potter?”

The man turned quickly, his eyes searching for and finding Draco. Before Draco could speak again, however, Pansy was on her feet, her hand coming down on Draco’s shoulder and squeezing it firmly.

“I’ll handle this,” she said between clenched teeth, shaking her own wand into her hand. Draco had a sudden image of his mother’s drawing room covered in bits of crystal and shattered china, chocolate soufflé dotting the ceiling, and curled his hand around her wrist.

“I appreciate the impulse, darling,” he said. “But I can handle this. Please put your wand away.”

She looked into his eyes, her own wide. “Draco…” she began.

“Please, Pans,” he entreated, gesturing with his head. “This is already enough of a scene. Let’s not make it worse.”

Pansy glanced at the room full of avid faces, then nodded and sleeved her wand. She sat, but she didn't look happy about it. Draco stood slowly, placing his napkin on his plate and scooting back his chair.

“Draco.”

His head lifted and he found Potter staring at him as he returned his wand to his own sleeve. Moving as gracefully as he could with his knees trembling, Draco walked around the table to where Potter was still standing.

“Shall we take this somewhere… less crowded,” Draco said softly, trying for smooth but he knew that his voice sounded breathless and unsteady.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Potter said, ignoring the avid looks he was receiving, his eyes never leaving Draco’s face. “When I left, I thought everything was all right…”

Draco reached his side and caught Potter’s elbow in a shaking hand. “Not here,” he whispered under his breath. “My mother has guests, Potter, in case it escaped your notice.”

“It didn’t,” Potter retorted, yanking his elbow free. “And I don’t want to take this somewhere else. I want clarification of a few things, right here, right now. In front of all of these witnesses. Because I’ll be damned if one more thing that I do is somehow misinterpreted.”

There were scattered gasps, and Draco felt hot color flood his face. “Please don’t do this,” Draco murmured. “Please.”

“Why didn’t you answer my last letter?” Potter went on, unmindful of the eager faces around the room. “But more importantly, why did I receive a Howler from Parkinson calling me every filthy name in the book? What did I do?”

Draco shot Pansy an alarmed look, which she returned with a flinty-eyed one of her own, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were saying, ‘tell him, or I will’. Draco turned back with a sigh, his eyes on the wide ones studying him unblinkingly.

“You’re determined to humiliate me utterly,” he said softly. “Aren’t you?”

Potter’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he frowned. “Humiliate you?” he said hoarsely. “Why would I do that? I love you.”

Draco dimly heard the scattered exclamations around the room through the roaring in his own ears, and his vision tunnelled down until the only thing he could see was Potter’s face, his eyes intent upon him. “You… what?” he wheezed, reaching out and grabbing the back of the nearest chair to steady himself.

“I love you, you idiot,” Potter said intently. “I’ve been in love with you since the night Wood tried to embarrass me, and you told me to clean up my act or I’d never get a date. Why in the hell do you think I changed everything about myself? For you, Draco. I haven’t wanted anyone else since that night. I’ve only wanted you.”

Draco could scarcely process what he was hearing. He stared at Potter as the faces watching them faded away, as the room itself faded away, until only the two of them were standing there in a bubble of silence.

“I don’t understand,” Draco said softly, hating the hope that had threaded into his voice, hating the way his wounded heart wanted so desperately to believe.

“It’s not complicated,” Potter went on, his voice growing softer, deepening. “I’ve been in love with you since the first night, when you told me what to do to get a date because I was such a disaster at it.” A slight smile pulled at his lips, then faded as he paused and took a step closer. “I loved you even when you were engaged to someone else, even though I thought I could never have you and it was killing me. Have you any idea what a shitheel I felt like, when he broke your heart and you were so miserable, because I was so glad that it hadn’t worked out?" He reached out with his hand then, stopping just short of touching Draco’s robes. “I’d given up hope after New Year’s, when so much time went by, but then you were there again, and we had that brilliant night and I thought…” He paused. “Tell me what I did, Draco. Please. Tell me what I did, so that I can make it right, and we can go back to how it was that last morning. Please.”

Draco studied the earnest face, the openness in the beautiful eyes, and he wanted so desperately to believe. “I saw… an article,” he said faintly. “And then, in your letter…”

Potter sighed. “Waterman,” he said. Draco blinked, but nodded. “David Waterman is nothing to me, Draco. Nothing. He started out nice enough. We had a few drinks, before I found out what he was. He had his publicist plant that story in their local gossip rag, because he’s been involved in some shady business deals and he’s trying to resurrect the family reputation.”

Draco heard the sincerity in his voice, saw it on his face, but was still afraid to believe. “But, the photo…”

“They sat me next to him at a Ministry function, and he was all over me like a cheap whore. I didn’t want to make a scene; he’s a major contributor to their Ministry. So I was polite to him in public, but when he tried to talk his way into my pants, I told him to get lost. I swear it.”

“Then… you’re not buying real estate in New York?”

Color slowly filled Potter's cheeks, and he looked momentarily discomfited. “I looked at a penthouse,” he said. “To lease. Because I thought it might make a nice place to vacation with you. They’ve got all of these great stores, supposedly, and I know how you like to shop…” Potter trailed off. Inside his chest, Draco felt something knit back together and begin to glow.

The sound of someone clearing their throat nearby startled Draco, and suddenly he was back in the middle of his mother’s drawing room, and there were three dozen pairs of eyes glued to them. He glanced around, feeling his face flush, then stepped closer to Potter.

“We need to take the rest of this somewhere private,” he whispered, his hands finding the front of Potter’s heavy robes and curling into them. “Hang on?” he asked, grey eyes carefully searching green.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Potter answered, arms sliding around Draco’s waist.

Draco reached up and touched the earnest, handsome face, then pulled Potter against him. The sound of their Apparition faded in the crowded room, and as a burst of excited chatter rose, Narcissa and Pansy exchanged slow, misty smiles.

I do not own them. I desperately wish that I did, but, alas...

Part Eight

Five years, ten months, ten days and sixteen minutes A.F.O.G.L. (After Finish of Great Lunatic)

The pop of their Apparition was still fading when they appeared in the middle of Draco’s massive bedroom suite. Potter looked around, eyes wide.

“Where are we?”

“My room,” Draco answered, studying the striking face in front of his, eyes ardent as he took in every line, plane, and angle. He saw Potter’s gracefully arched brows lift in surprise and appreciation.

“This is your room? This is a bloody suite.”

“Well, it’s a suite, yes,” Draco responded a bit wryly. “This is a Manor house, Potter, not a flat. And why exactly are we talking?”

Potter’s eyes returned to his face and warmed with amusement and desire.

“Not worried about Mum and an army of house-elves, then?”

Draco’s lips curled. “I think my mother knows better than to interrupt at the moment, and the house-elves wouldn’t dare.”

The arms around Draco’s waist tightened, and he melted into Potter’s body. Even through their layers of clothing, he could feel the evidence of Potter’s arousal pressing against his own, and he moved into it. Potter licked his lower lip. “So, you want to shag with all of those people downstairs?”

“If you wanted, I’d let you shag me on the table next to the appetizers.”

Potter’s amusement resolved into a full, spreading smile. “Missed me?”

Draco’s humor faded, and he lifted his hand and curled it around Potter’s nape. “You’ve no idea,” he whispered. “I was so convinced…” He stopped, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“Of what, Draco?” Potter urged softly. Draco studied the watchful eyes, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, spoke from his heart.

“That I’d ruined it. That you had found someone else, because I was so glib the day that you left.” Potter started to speak, but Draco shook his head, and he subsided. “It was a self-defense mechanism. I wanted more than a one-off with you, and it scared me, Potter. And I was afraid that my comment about ‘no-strings’ had somehow convinced you that I wasn’t serious. And then Antonio sent the clipping and the photo…”

Potter’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “Antonelli,” he said flatly. “He sent the article to you.” Draco nodded, and Potter’s jaw hardened. “That treacherous son of a bitch. And of course, he made it sound as if there was something going on.” He shook his dark head. “Someday, I’m going to hex that vile prick.”

“But not now,” Draco murmured, his thumb moving soothingly in the short, soft hair just above Potter’s nape. “I don’t want to talk about him now.” He leaned in, his nose brushing against Potter’s chin. He smelled of citrus blended with spices, warm and subtle, and it stirred something in Draco’s chest, made gooseflesh raise on his shoulders. Potter smelled like a man, and Draco gripped him tighter. “I don’t want to talk at all.”

He covered Potter’s mouth with his, angling his head, immediately pressing against the seam of Potter’s lips with his tongue. Potter made a soft, grunting sound in the back of his throat, then opened his mouth and let Draco kiss him with all of the pent-up passion that had been nurtured by weeks of loneliness and fear. The kiss was violent in its intensity, teeth against soft lips, tongue thrusting, and Potter stayed pliable in his arms, allowing Draco’s fear and hurt to morph into a consuming passion. Potter linked the arms that were wrapped around Draco’s waist and lifted him, turned, and walked until the back of Draco’s thighs were pressed against the side of his bed.

Hands went to work, somewhat gracelessly, as heads changed angles and mouths fed. Draco’s robes were unfastened and pushed from his shoulders to pool around his hips; Potter’s were opened and allowed to slide to the floor in a soft rustle of sound. Beneath his robes, Draco had worn only his dark pants, socks and shoes, and Potter made a sound of pleasure when his hands encountered skin. Beneath his robes, Potter had on a button-down, tie and slacks, and Draco growled in irritation as his hands fisted in the cotton of his shirt. He gripped Potter’s arms and turned, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Potter looked up at him in surprise when Draco pushed him flat onto his back, his legs hanging over the side of the mattress.

“Draco…” he began, but bit off anything further when Draco palmed his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

“Shit,” Potter hissed, arching his back, lifting into the touch.

“Deal with the shirt and tie,” Draco ordered, slowly sinking to his knees between Potter’s spread thighs. He reached for his belt. “I’ll take care of this.”

Potter loosened the tie and yanked it off over his head as Draco unfastened his belt, then unbuttoned his slacks. He was unbuttoning his shirt when Draco unzipped his trousers, long nimble fingers finding the opening in his y-fronts and pulling his cock through the gap. When Draco immediately lowered his mouth over the swollen, straining length, Potter gasped, his hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

Draco took in as much as he could, bobbing his head, tongue working along the underside and swirling around the thick head on each upward stroke. Draco’s hand curled around him as well, and he moved it in concert with his mouth, making Potter exhale in a long, harsh rush. Not satisfied with only part of what he wanted, Draco paused long enough to yank at Potter’s trousers, and Potter kicked off his shoes and lifted his hips so that the constraining clothes could be stripped away. Then Draco was back, lips spread wide, taking him into his mouth and then his throat, and Potter moved his hand restlessly over Draco’s hair as he began once again to work the swollen flesh with his cheeks and his tongue, his free hand moving to cup Potter’s heavy balls.

Potter managed to get his shirt unbuttoned and open down his chest with one hand, and Draco’s fingers slid up over defined hipbones and ribs. His mouth dropped lower and he sucked first one, then the other soft globe into this mouth, massaging them with his tongue. Potter’s thighs stiffened and his breath stuttered, and his hand roamed over the back of Draco’s head and his shoulders. Draco released the sphere with a soft ‘pop’, licked up the underside of Potter’s straining flesh then fluttered his tongue against the swollen ridge. Potter made a growling sound in his throat before grabbing Draco under his arms and lifting him easily, turning and dropping him on his back on the bed. Draco barely had time for a self-satisfied smile at the raw hunger in Potter’s eyes before he was being kissed with a thorough intensity that had his arms lifting and his fingers curling into the heavy muscles over Potter’s shoulder blades.

Potter grabbed Draco’s arms, fingers climbing to circle his wrists and press them against the mattress on either side of his fair head. He slid his lips along Draco’s jaw, then down his throat, his tongue mapping the pale flesh, his teeth nipping as he went. When he arrived at a tight, pale nipple, he closed his mouth over it, tongue swirling, lips sealing to skin as he sucked against it, teeth teasing the sensitive flesh. Draco made a surprised, needy sound, and Potter’s lips slid to the other nipple and he gave it the same taunting treatment. By the time his tongue slid down the indentation between Draco’s straining abs, Draco's hips were shifting impatiently and his breath was escaping in short, needy sounds that mortified him on some level, but he was too far gone to care. When Potter shoved Draco’s pants down and took his cock into his hand, then his mouth, Draco cried out, his hands fisting in the duvet on either side of his head.

Potter pulled against Draco’s cock with his tongue and his cheeks, all wet suction and heat. Draco grew more and more restive, his head moving against the counterpane, his legs twitching. Potter curled one firm hand around Draco’s thigh and stilled it, then slid beneath to push the long leg up as his mouth moved lower, briefly caressing Draco’s balls before sliding lower yet. When his mobile, wicked tongue traced the hypersensitive puckered flesh of his opening, Draco groaned deep in his chest, grabbing his leg behind the knee and pulling it against his chest.

“Potter,” he gasped. Potter hummed, and the vibration was almost more than Draco could bear. He began to shake, his breathing loud and harsh. He felt Potter’s tongue move against him again, pressing inside of him, and he jerked. “Potter!” he cried, his other hand dropping and fisting in messy black hair.

“Draco.” Potter stuck his fingers in his mouth, covering them with saliva, then slid his lips along the tendon between Draco’s leg and groin as he reached down, caressing the crease in his arse. His eyes lifted to Draco’s, so dark that they were nearly black. “Really, we’ve been through this,” he said smoothly, pressing, slipping a finger sleekly inside, curling it, making fireworks explode in Draco’s head. He whimpered. “Don’t you think we can get past your aversion to my first name?” he whispered.

“I’ll call you Henrietta if it will force you to get on with it,” Draco ground out between clenched teeth. Potter’s slow smile was wickedness itself as he pulled his finger out and pressed in again, adding a second, carefully loosening the tight ring of muscle.

“Harry will suffice, thanks.”

Draco’s neck was arched and he was breathing harshly through his mouth by the time Potter had prepared him completely, massaging his aching prostate the entire time. He knelt between Draco’s legs and looked down into his face.

“Lube?” he asked softly.

“Table,” Draco answered, panting. “Drawer.” He’d been ready to go on saliva alone, he was that desperate, but part of him knew he’d be grateful later for the consideration.

Potter raised his hand and muttered a spell, and the drawer flew open and the bottle sailed into his hand. Draco felt a thrill run the length of his spine and gooseflesh broke out on his chest as Potter’s magic brushed his skin. His legs were pushed up, and Potter flicked open the bottle with one hand and poured the slick, cool lube directly onto his loosened opening. Draco shuddered, his teeth gripping his lower lip. Potter’s fingers came back briefly, spreading the gel, then he shifted closer, and Draco felt the pressure of Potter’s cock pressing against him. Then he paused.

“Potter,” Draco wheezed, gripping the man’s forearms hard.

“Harry.”

Draco’s eyes had rolled up and glazed at the sensation of Potter’s cock against him, and he fought to bring them back into focus. He found Potter watching him closely.

“Wha…?”

“Harry, Draco. My name is Harry.”

Draco curled his fingers into Potter’s muscular arms, panting shallowly as the thick head slowly breached him, but went no further. “Potter!” he cried out, trying to lift his hips to force him deeper, but Potter flattened a hand over Draco’s lower abdomen and held him down. Draco growled between his teeth.

“Draco,” Potter said. “My name is Harry. Is this really so difficult?”

Draco felt sweat dripping down his temple, felt his fringe glued to the dampness soaking his brow. Every muscle in his body was straining; his arms were shaking. Why was he fighting this, he wondered wildly? Why couldn’t he just say it? He dampened dry lips with his tongue. Only once in the entirety of their acquaintance had he ever called Potter anything other than… Potter. But to do so now, staring up into the watchful eyes while pinned beneath the coiled strength and about to be taken, completely vulnerable? It seemed like a huge step, a massive leap of trust, and his heart was pounding jarringly hard in his chest. Trust; it required trust. He licked his lips again.

“Harry.”

It was just a breath of sound, not really loud enough for Potter to hear, but he must have read his name on Draco’s lips for he slid home with a satisfied sigh. Bracing himself with Draco’s legs over his arms, he leaned down and kissed him gently. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmured against his mouth, then lifted his chest and began to move.

Draco stared into the face above his, watched features tight with pleasure, saw how his jaw jutted forward slightly with each slow, measured thrust. Tendons stood out in bold relief down each side of his throat, muscles bunched and flexed across the top of his shoulders and down the center of his stomach. He moved with slow, steady strokes, taking his time, easing the initial sting and burn of entry with care. And the usual feeling of fullness, something Draco loved -- if the truth be told even craved -- was somehow more. More satisfying, more exhilarating, more exciting. Draco’s cock never flagged; it stayed hard as a rock, flat against his belly, a small pool of pre-come mingling with the slender trail of fair hair beneath his navel. He lifted his hands and slid them into Potter’s damp hair, fingers curling around the silky strands and holding on. Potter’s eyes opened and he stared down into Draco’s face, and Draco held the gaze, unblinking.

Inevitably, the pace picked up. The bed didn’t squeak, but the headboard bounced rhythmically against the wall and Draco made short, sharp sounds that mingled with the wet sound of the lube and the soft grunts that began to accompany each increasingly forceful thrust. Potter reached between them and curled a slick hand around Draco’s cock, fisting him in time with each forward motion, and Draco’s toes curled and his neck arched as he felt pressure building through his pelvis, in his balls.

“Ah, ah, ah…” he gasped. His thighs were pressed tight against his chest, even without Potter holding them there, and he curled his spine, lifting his head, arching his groin up, making Potter’s cock slide directly over his prostate. “Oh, shit!” he cried with a garbled moan, dropping one hand from Potter’s hair to clutch at the duvet. But Potter’s free hand caught it, and he linked their fingers and held on. No one had ever held his hand like that during sex, and it seemed in that moment more intimate than anything that had come before. More intimate than Potter’s other hand fisting his cock, more intimate even somehow than the cock moving hard into his arse. He stared up into Potter’s flushed, damp face, into the wide, watchful eyes, and whatever he thought he’d once felt for Antonio was eclipsed in the flood of emotion that filled his chest. Tears stung his eyes, and with a shattered, startled cry, he felt his release burst from him to paint both of their stomachs with shining drops of thick, pearly white.

He was still shaking from the force of his orgasm when he felt Potter’s movements go from smooth and steady to erratic and short, so hard they shoved Draco along the mattress. Potter gasped and shuddered, his head dropped back and his teeth clenched, his fingers clutching Draco’s in a punishing grip. Draco felt the cock inside of him pulse.

“Oh, God,” Potter ground out, his body convulsing. “I love you, Draco. God, I love you…”

He hung above Draco for a moment, body rigid, muscles clenched, then he slowly collapsed, catching himself before he dropped onto Draco, lowering himself on trembling arms instead. He turned his face into Draco’s neck, his breath sawing against the sweat-slicked skin. Draco lifted his arms and embraced him, and found that the words were there, just waiting to be said.

“I love you,” he whispered, his lips against Potter’s ear. “I love you, too…. Harry.”

Potter’s broad shoulders shuddered, and his lips moved against Draco’s throat as he slipped his arms beneath the slender body and held him tight. For several long moments, there were no words. What needed to be said had been said.

Silence lingered for a long time after. Both of them seemed loath to break the fragile bubble of understanding that closed them off from the rest of the world. Potter withdrew gently from Draco’s body and rolled to his side, taking Draco with him, holding him in a loose embrace. Draco listened to the sound of Potter’s ragged breathing over the wild beating of his own heart. His pulse rate calmed, and the sweat on his skin dried, and still they did not speak.

Once the euphoria of his orgasm began to fade, Draco’s mind began to race.

Potter… no. Not Potter. Harry.

Harry loved him. Good God. Harry Potter loved him. He’d said so, in front of his mother and a room full of Britain’s most powerful, influential, not to mention gossipy, witches. There was no taking it back now; by the time the Evening Prophet came out, he didn’t doubt that one of the well-heeled matrons in attendance downstairs would have sold the story to Skeeter. He’d be front-page news again, and yet he couldn’t find it in his heart to care.

He was in love with Harry Potter, too.

Even thinking the words didn’t remove the incongruity that such a thing might be so. From where they’d begun to the place where they were now had been a journey so strange, so convoluted, that it seemed all but impossible. It was the stuff of absurd fiction. Not so long before, he’d have argued that Draco Malfoy and happy endings didn’t belong in the same sentence. In fact, he still wasn’t completely sure that it wasn’t some sort of elaborate mistake, that the fates would get wind of the whole thing and manage to strip him of the moment. As the thought crossed his mind, his fingers tightened on Harry, as if he could physically hold that tiny fragment of time in his hands.

“Are you all right?”

The deep voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to find Harry studying him with a slight frown between his brows.

“I’m fine,” he answered quickly. Too quickly, for he could see that Harry didn’t believe him.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, lifting his hand and pushing Draco’s fringe from his eyes. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“God, no,” Draco answered with feeling. “It was brilliant.”

“I can see that something is on your mind,” Harry prodded. “Tell me.”

Draco licked his lips. “Does it ever,” he began tentatively, “just seem… impossible?”

“What?” Harry asked. “Us?”

Draco nodded. “From where we started? Have you ever even imagined a less likely relationship?”

“Probably not,” Harry acknowledged with a shrug. “Does it matter?”

Draco frowned. “It doesn’t to you?”

Harry’s lips curled up slowly. “Not even remotely.”

“Potter…” he began, then stopped when he saw Harry’s eyes narrow. “You know,” he muttered, “I’m no doubt still going to call you Potter occasionally. Old habits die hard.”

“I don’t care if you occasionally call me Potter,” Harry retorted. “Just not in bed while I’ve still got your spunk on my stomach, yeah?”

Draco grimaced. “That was… unnecessarily descriptive.” He glanced down and saw that he too was still wearing the evidence of his own orgasm. “And yet completely true,” he acknowledged with distaste. Harry muttered under his breath, and Draco felt the tingling of the cleansing spell over his groin and arse.

“You know, it’s a good thing I’m fond of you. That’s an incredibly invasive spell.”

Harry chuckled in response. “Well, considering I’m the one who instigated the mess, I didn’t suppose you’d mind my cleaning it up.” Draco batted at Harry’s side, which garnered another chuckle. Harry caught Draco’s hand and linked their fingers, then kissed the back of his hand. There was another soft silence. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Draco admitted quietly, stroking the back of Harry’s hand with his thumb. “I think this has been the longest four weeks of my life.”

“Mine, too.” Harry paused to run his lips over Draco’s knuckles. “So, the question arises again: what are we going to do about it?”

Draco inhaled, held his breath for a moment, and then slowly let it go. “What do you mean?”

Potter shifted back, hands on Draco’s shoulders, so that there was enough room between them for him to look into Draco’s face. “I know this may seem sort of sudden, but I’d like for you to consider coming back to New York with me,” he said carefully. “I have a suite in a very nice hotel in mid-town Manhattan, not far from the Ministry and the Wizard Quarter. I’m teaching two sessions a day, but unless there is some function in the evening, I’m usually done by two or three in the afternoon, which leaves my evenings free. And to tell you the truth, I’ve been kind of bored and… really lonely.”

Draco stared into the earnest eyes, his heart in his throat. Here it was; they’d made their declarations, and now Potter was asking him, for all practical purposes, to move in with him for the next five months. So what was he going to do? He wasn’t sure what he was more afraid of: saying yes and having it go badly, or saying no, and never knowing how it might have gone at all. His pulse began to race again as he considered what his answer should be.

Potter must have taken his silence for refusal, for his eyes dropped and he rolled to his back. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m pushing…”

“No, you aren’t.” Draco said. Potter’s head turned, eyes tentative but hopeful. “I… haven’t been to New York in years. It might be nice to see it again.”

He saw the small light of hope that flared in Potter’s eyes, and there was one in his own chest to match it. He so wanted to see if it grew into something full and warm and lasting. He wanted to take the chance. He wanted to take the chance with this man. But his relationships thus far had been miserable failures, and he knew that the fault, at least partly, was his own. And Potter deserved to understand what he was getting himself into.

“Po…” He paused. “Harry,” he went on softly, and the green eyes shone. “I’m not easy.”

One brow arched. “Do tell.”

“Oh, shut it,” Draco said in mild exasperation. “I’m trying to tell you that I can be… difficult, and high maintenance, and a bit of a snob.”

“Just a bit?” Harry broke in, teasing. Draco shot him a narrowed-eyed look that brought a slight smile.

“I’m demanding. And spoiled,” Draco went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And when I don’t get my own way, I tend to pout, and you might find me irritating, and…”

“Oh, enough!”

Whatever else Draco might have been going to say was lost when Potter reached over and curled his hand around his nape, hauled him in, and kissed him into silence. Draco stiffened for just a moment, but Potter’s lips were so soft, and supple, and persuasive that he forgot his arguments and returned the kiss instead. When Potter pulled back, he looked into Draco’s eyes.

“Okay, it’s my turn,” he said, his voice deep. “I know that you’re high maintenance, and difficult, and spoiled. And better than just about anyone, I know that you are a snob.” Draco began to retort, but Harry held up his hand, silencing him. “There is absolutely no question that when, not if, you pout, I will find it irritating. And I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it.” He reached out, bracketing Draco’s face between his palms, his eyes intense. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been for longer than I think even I realized. I know it won’t be easy; I’m stubborn, and opinionated, and I always think I’m right. I tend to leap before I look, and when I drink too much, I get sloppy. I’m a dreadful slob who constantly needs picking up after, and I wouldn’t know a decent vintage of wine if you hit me over the head with the bottle.” He smoothed one of his thumbs over Draco’s lower lip. “Is any of that a deal breaker?”

Draco stared into the watchful eyes for a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m not saying I won’t complain, but no. None of that sounds so very terrible.”

Harry’s eyes began to shine. “Well, none of what you said sounds so very terrible, either. I know those things about you, Draco, and I don’t care about any of them,” he said solemnly. “I told you once that I thought you were a better man than you knew. I still believe that.”

Draco studied Harry’s face in the soft light that filtered in through the windows across the room, searching for any signs that he didn’t mean exactly what he was saying. He could find none. “You really do, don’t you?” The smile that moved across Harry’s face was slow to develop, but so real, and so sincere that it warmed Draco clear through. “I want to be,” Draco said softly, his hand moving up the back of Harry’s neck, fingers carding through the damp black hair there. “I want to be that for you.”

Harry tightened the arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him in until their chests were pressed firmly together, and their lips were close. His eyes moved over each of Draco’s features, and Draco had never felt so exposed and yet safe, all at the same time. Harry reached up and pushed Draco’s fringe back from his eyes with gentle fingers, then cupped his cheek in his hand.

“Draco, you already are,” He murmured warmly, then slipped his hand to Draco’s nape, pulling him in, bringing their lips together.

And as Harry kissed him with such love, and such aching tenderness, Draco thought that it must be true.

He must be a better man than he’d ever realized.