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Pour Faire un Choix To Make a Choice

He'd thought it might be coming; feared it, actually, and yet that hadn't prepared him for the sight of the thick square of parchment that lay on top of his post. His name was addressed in immaculate script, Monsieur Harry Potter, and in the upper left hand corner was the embossed seal of le ministère de la Magie Française, the French equivalent of Britain's Ministry of Magic. Harry stared at it, his throat suddenly thick. He picked it up, movements stiff, and popped the purple wax seal on the back.

Harry couldn't read French. But he recognized enough of what was written on the heavy paper to get the drift. "L'ambassadeur de la France Acaire Arels Bodier demande l'honneur de votre présence à la cérémonie de mariage de sa fille Adrienne Bernadette à M. Draco Lucius Malfoy."

When he reached the name, his hand began to tremble, and he refolded the parchment quickly and laid it aside. But his distress had been noticed.

"What is it, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing." He made a show of going through the rest of the post in hopes of deflecting his friend's interest, but he should have known better. Others had underestimated Neville's powers of observation for most of his life, but Harry hadn't.

"Is that the invitation? To Draco's wedding?" Harry swallowed, which was difficult when his mouth had gone dry as dust, and nodded. Neville squeezed Harry's arm before asking, "May I?"

"Be my guest." Harry tried for glib and missed the mark by a mile. Neville gave him a look full of understanding and picked up the invitation, opening it carefully.

"Very elegant." His eyes lifted to Harry's face. Harry was still sorting his post, but he knew he'd have to do it again later. Nothing he was reading made any sense. "You didn't know it was coming up so soon, did you?"

Neville's voice, like Neville, was gentle. Harry paused, then gave up and closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"You've not been reading the Prophet, then." Again, Harry shook his head. "It's been front page news for weeks."

"I gave up reading the Prophet years ago," Harry drawled. "Once they'd outed me to the public at large, I wasn't much interested in keeping up with my subscription." He felt Neville's hand come to rest on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to find his friend studying his face.

"Are you all right?"

Harry paused. "It's nothing a drink won't fix. Care to join me?"

Neville nodded, laying the invitation aside and following Harry into his front parlour.

Harry's flat wasn't large, but it was close to Diagon Alley and handy to the Ministry, which made its location perfect. Furnished in what Draco had once wryly called 'early bachelor', it was a hodge-podge of mismatched antiques and flea market finds, but it was comfortable. He crossed to an aged armoire where he stored his liquor and took out two thick crystal tumblers and a bottle of Old Ogden's, uncorking it with his teeth before splashing some into the glasses. He handed one to Neville and, with a sardonic smile, raised his in a toast.

"To his health," he said darkly before swallowing its contents in one go. Wincing and shuddering, he poured himself another.

"Easy there," Neville said without a trace of censure. "He's not the one who's going to end up with the hangover."

Harry laughed mirthlessly and downed the second shot much as he had the first. "No, he ends up with the French bint's fortune and the Malfoy name 'restored to prominence', just like his bloody father wants."

He started to pour another, but Neville stepped to his side and gently removed the bottle from his hand. Harry's anger flared before he saw the unwavering acceptance on Neville's face. "Let the first two take the edge off," Neville said. "You promised to help me put a crib together this afternoon, and Hannah would never forgive either of us if we show up at home pissed."

Neville's calm was infectious. Harry felt the anger drain out of him.

"Come sit." Neville caught his elbow and steered him toward the tattered plaid sofa that even Harry could agree was an eyesore. "Talk to me."

Harry fell heavily onto the couch, reaching up to card his hands through his hair. Neville perched on the edge of a chair across from him, rolling the heavy glass between his palms thoughtfully.

"You know," Neville began, "you never really did tell me what happened." He lifted his eyes to Harry's. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry started to shake his head, but hesitated. Did he? He hadn't discussed the end of his relationship with anyone. Ron and Hermione had never approved, and he hadn't wanted to hear a chorus of 'I told you so's'. The rest of the people he knew had made it abundantly clear that they thought the break-up was for the best. But as Harry looked into Neville's waiting face, he realized that he had never weighed in one way or the other. In Neville he might find a truly impartial listener, someone who wouldn't judge, who would just let him talk, and he realized that he needed that. He'd felt tied in knots for weeks. Ever since that night. The night that Draco told him he was getting married...

They'd gone to dinner at one of their favorite restaurants, then back to Draco's flat, where they'd fallen instantly into bed, not even undressing fully before they came together. Draco had been particularly needy that night. The marks that he'd left on Harry's body had been days in fading. Once they'd been sated and lying across his vast four-poster, Draco turned his head to look at Harry and the devastation in his eyes had pierced Harry to his soul.

"I'm getting married."

The words fell between them like a rock into a pond. Harry rose up on one elbow, his brow furrowed.

"What?"

Is something wrong with your hearing?" Draco snapped, rolling away, yanking his trousers up over his hips and lurching from the bed. He stood with his head down, shoulders stiff as he fastened his slacks. "I said, 'I'm getting married'. Do pay attention, Potter."

'Potter.' Harry moved slowly as he sat up, righting his clothes with hands that felt numb. He'd ceased being 'Potter' except when Draco was upset, and Harry moved carefully, as if in the presence of an explosive device. Silence spread out between them until Draco whirled around.

"So you have nothing to say? Nothing?" Harry saw that Draco's eyes looked wild and there was a flush across his cheeks. He held his silence. "Coward!" Draco hissed, hands fisted at his sides. "You don't want to know who she is?"

Harry tucked his shirt into his denims and methodically buttoned it, his heart surging painfully in his chest.

"For god's sake, Potter. You've been fucking me for three years, and you have no interest in the woman I'm going to marry? So much for your assurances of 'caring about me'."

Harry's eyes lifted, anger surging through him. "Don't you dare," he snarled. "Don't you fucking dare. You know damned well that isn't true, and you've no right to say it to me. This comes out of... nowhere, and you expect me to have something to say? What do you want me to do, Draco? Offer you my congratulations? Ask you where you're registered? You present this to me as if it's already done, and you expect..."

The fury drained from Draco so dramatically that Harry could see it go, leaving him empty, lost, swaying slightly on his feet. "It is already done," he said. "The papers have been signed, the dowry paid. And there isn't one bloody thing I can do about it."

He sat heavily on a stool, his hands sinking into his hair, soft pale strands sifting between his fingers. Harry stared at him before speaking.

"I don't... understand." He crossed to Draco and crouched at his feet, his hand going to one of Draco's knees. "Tell me."

Draco lifted his head, and his wide eyes were red-rimmed and overly bright, his face drawn. "Her name is Adrienne Bernadette Bodier; she's a pure-blood, and a virgin." He snorted. "Like that matters a damn. Her father is the new Ambassador to the Wizengamot from the French Ministry. He's been looking for a connection in England, parading his daughter's pedigree as if she were some... prize spaniel he'd like to breed." He dropped his head into his hands again. "Somehow my father got wind of it, and contacted her father. They'd signed the betrothal documents before I even knew what was happening."

Harry sat back on his heels. "I don't understand," he said again. "Your father..."

"Wants a politically advantageous marriage." Draco sighed. "Bodier is obscenely wealthy, politically connected in all of the right places, their blood is pure back centuries, and most importantly, he's not too fussy about our unfortunate connections during the 'former unpleasantness' in wizarding Britain. No one else has been willing to touch our family in the last five years."

Harry frowned. "Wait, your father wanted to set you up with someone before this? He knows that we're together."

Draco stared at Harry in disbelief. "Did you think the fact that his son was shagging Harry Potter was going to alter the plans of a lifetime? This has been his goal since the day I was born, Potter. I am the heir; my job is to marry and beget another heir, to insure the dynasty. I've known since I was old enough to understand anything that my primary function was as breeding stock." He snorted. "Ironic, that."

Harry stood, his eyes still on Draco's face. He felt as if someone had slapped him. "So I was always just a... what? A momentary diversion, easily replaced when the first available uterus came along?" His voice was strangely hollow to his own ears.

"Of course not," Draco answered, sounding tired. "Not to me. But you have to try to understand. To my father, the fact that I'm bent is just the latest area where I'm a spectacular disappointment. It's not an impediment to fulfilling my familial obligation."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "You've never even been with a woman. How do you know you'll be able to...?" He gestured with his hand, and Draco stared at him balefully.

"What? Get it up?" he drawled. "There are spells, Potter. Potions. Wizards, remember? I may vomit spectacularly when it's over, but my father will make certain that my performance won't be a problem."

Harry turned away, his hands fisting. "This is fucking medieval!"

"And bringing reluctant offspring into line has been done the same way for probably that long." Draco stood and came to him, standing close, his voice pleading. "Harry, try to understand. If I don't do this, he'll cut me off."

Harry turned his head and pinned him with a look. "Then it's about the money."

Draco frowned. "Well, partly, yes. But--"

"I'm not exactly a pauper, you know," Harry went on. "You wouldn't be homeless."

"It's not only about being homeless. If my father cuts me off, it isn't just the money. It's... everything. My inheritance is the least of it. If he repudiates me, I lose everything... including my name."

Harry stared, stunned. "He can do that?"

"It would be like I'd never been born. My name would disappear from the family documents, the wards would cut me out. I don't know what my name would appear as, but Malfoy would be gone forever."

Harry stared at him for several heartbeats. "You can have my name." He lifted his hand to Draco's face. His eyes closed, and he leaned into Harry's palm. "I'd give it to you gladly. Proudly. You know that."

"Harry," Draco murmured, turning his lips into Harry's hand. "He's my father."

Harry stiffened, then let his hand fall away from Draco's face. He took a step back. "Then… I guess that's it."

Draco followed, one hand extended. "It… it doesn't have to be."

Harry paused, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it doesn't have to change anything, my being married." His words quickened. "It's not as if I love her, or she loves me. This is going to be a marriage in name only. Once she has an heir, I don't ever have to touch her again. She can live at the Manor with my parents, or… I could buy her a house; it doesn't matter. She has nothing to do with us."

Harry stared at Draco as if he'd never truly seen him before. "Even before you marry this girl," he said, "you're planning to be unfaithful to her, and you want me to commit adultery with you.

Draco huffed in exasperation. "It wouldn't be that kind of marriage, Potter. Arranged marriages are still pretty common among pure-blood families. No one expects a love match, and the couple often has other partners."

"Is that the kind of marriage you want?" Harry asked. "One where you plan to cheat even before the vows are spoken?"

"It wouldn't be cheating," Draco argued. "And for god's sakes. I don't want to get married at all!"

"Then don't."

Draco gaped, his face ashen. "I explained to you why that is not possible."

"Would you die?" Harry's voice was stark.

"What?" Draco wheezed.

"Would. You. Die," Harry repeated. "If you don't marry this girl, would you die? Because short of that, I wouldn't let anything come between us, Draco."

"You can't know that." Draco argued. "You've never had a parent's expectations to deal with."

Harry recoiled before turning away, shoulders stiff as he jammed his arms into his jacket. He heard Draco move behind him. "Harry," he said, voice pleading. "Please. That didn't come out the way I meant for it to."

"No, you're absolutely right." Harry agreed, stung. "I know nothing about parental expectations. I know about the wizarding world's expectations. Dumbledore's, Ron's and Hermione's, even yours," he shot over his shoulder before he picked up his scarf and wound it around his throat. "I know how I shattered Ginny's expectations, and the Weasleys' expectations, by deciding to be with you."

"You can't blame me because you're queer." Draco's voice was as flat as Harry's was angry.

"That's true. I can't." Harry turned back, his stance tense and hands jammed into his pockets. "But it doesn't change that fact that the Weasleys were as close to parents as I'm ever going to get, and I broke their hearts. Perhaps that's not the same as having been cut off, but it didn't make it any less painful." He paused, his eyes searching Draco's face as the silence between them stretched. "You're right, Draco. I don't understand. I'm probably not going to. But I can't be your bit on the side. Not and face myself in the mirror." He paused to ease the tightness in his throat. "I'd do almost anything for you. But if you choose to do what your father expects and marry this girl, you're choosing to not be with me."

They stared into one another's eyes for several painful seconds before Draco finally dropped his head forward in defeat. Harry turned and left without another word.

"…and, I left," Harry concluded, letting his eyes close, feeling tired. That had been just one of the symptoms he'd suffered since ending things with Draco; the bone deep exhaustion that never seemed to lift.

The silence that filled the room was weighty. Finally Neville cleared his throat, and Harry opened his eyes.

"I'm going to say something to you." Neville sounded pensive. "And I hope that you'll take this in the spirit it's intended." One of Harry's brows arched, but he maintained his watchful silence. "Draco was right, at least partly. You don't understand." Harry started to speak, but Neville held up his hand. "I'm not saying that the expectations placed on you were any less painful, because that would just be stupid. What I am saying is that you don't understand the expectations on a pure-blood heir, especially when he's an only child." Neville shook his head with a wry grimace. "I spent years being compared to my father and coming up short. For Draco, I imagine it's worse. The Malfoys were once one of the most widely respected families in our world. His father made disastrous decisions, not once but twice, that cost his family dearly. He's counting on Draco to 'fix things' for him."

"How is that right?" Harry asked.

"It isn't," Neville answered. "It's just… what is. And I think Draco has always known that he was a disappointment to his father. You can't blame him for wanting to do this one thing that Lucius might approve of."

"And so he'll live a lie." Harry scowled.

"Harry," Neville said cautiously, "not everyone has your refined sense of morality. To you, right and wrong are pretty clearly defined. To someone raised in a pure-blood wizarding family, right is marrying the correct bloodline, providing the heir, and then doing what you please."

Harry stared, appalled. "You can't believe in that."

"No, I don't," Neville agreed. "But it's a lot more common than you might imagine. My gran had a lovely pure-blood girl all picked out for me by the time I was twelve."

Harry stared, his mouth agape. "But… Hannah's a half-blood."

Neville smiled. "I said she had her picked out. I didn't say I married her. I married Hannah because I love her, but Gran didn't approve."

"But you did it anyway," Harry said as if that proved his argument. "You followed your heart, Neville. You didn't sell out."

"It was easier for me," Neville countered. "Gran stormed and fumed, but she never really would have disinherited me. Even though Hannah wasn't her first choice, there was still the fact that she's a woman, and that we planned to have children. There will be more Longbottoms."

Neville stared pointedly, and Harry finally sat back with a resigned sigh. "He's gay, Neville. Getting married isn't going to change that. He might very well father that heir that Lucius is so interested in, but he's going to be miserable."

"Probably," Neville agreed sadly. "But I doubt his father cares. Lucius is right; this is an extremely advantageous marriage for the Malfoys." Harry shook his head and the silence settled between them again.

"Are you going to go?" Neville asked finally.

"Christ, no," Harry replied. "I have absolutely no desire to put myself through that."

Neville shrugged and drained his glass, but Harry could sense that he didn't agree.

"You think I should?" Harry was incredulous, and Neville met his gaze as he set his glass aside.

"Why do you think you were invited?" Neville asked instead.

"How would I know? Unfortunately, the bloody name means I get invitations all of the time. They probably just took it off of some Ministry master list or something. He's an Ambassador, after all." He shrugged.

"You know that isn't true," Neville said. "You know that the Ministry isn't publishing your address. You also know that he had them invite you specifically."

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, pretty clearly, because he wants you there."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "So I can sit and watch him marry someone else? Even he isn't that cruel."

"I agree with you," Neville said. "I don't believe for one moment he did it out of cruelty."

Harry frowned at him. "Then… what?"

"I think," Neville mused, "he's really conflicted." He leaned forward, his eyes level. "Harry, do you love him?"

Harry stared, startled. "What?"

"Do you love him?" Neville repeated. "Because, unless I'm a really lousy judge of character, I'd say that he was in love with you."

Harry continued to stare. "Why…" He shook his head. "Neville, you don't like Draco. None of my friends like Draco."

"So?" Neville shrugged one broad shoulder. "What's that got to do with anything?" Harry looked at him in consternation. Neville shifted closer to the edge of his chair. "Listen to me. I know that Ron and Hermione have made their feelings pretty clear. As, no doubt, have the Weasleys and everyone else. And am I a fan of Malfoy? Not particularly. He's improved a little, but he's still a right git. But when he looks at you, when you don't know that he's looking…" Neville shook his head, a sad smile pulling at his lips. "The man loves you."

Harry closed his eyes. "I don't think I can watch it."

Neville leaned across the gap and put his hand on Harry's knee. "I know," he murmured. "But at least, if you do go, you'll know for certain."

Harry studied Neville's face. "Know what, for certain?"

"Whether it's really over or not."

Harry stared Neville's earnest eyes and knew that he was right. He probably should go, even if just to prove to himself that this part of his life was over.

But should and would were two very different things.

He'd gone back and forth a dozen times since the invitation arrived. He was going; he wasn't going. Reading that the wedding was a two-day event, held at the Ritz in Paris, had weighed heavily in the ‘when hell freezes over' column.

Harry's parents had left him a substantial amount of money. The Black fortune had quadrupled that amount, leaving Harry quite nicely fixed financially. So nicely that he never had to work another day in his life if he chose not to. But Harry wasn't comfortable with the trappings of wealth, and most of that money still sat in the vaults. It was only one of the areas where he and Draco had very different values. Draco had been raised wealthy; Harry had come into it later in life. Their perceptions of what money was for, and their comfort level with spending it, could not have been more different. Draco was at home with the outward signs of affluence. When Harry was forced to rub elbows with the very rich, he felt like a fraud.

So when he read the invitation to Draco's wedding more carefully, and saw what it entailed, he felt his stomach begin to knot. The whole thing started Friday evening with a ‘formal dinner', extending into Saturday with a ‘brunch' followed by a cocktail reception, followed by the ceremony itself and then another reception. It sounded like a marathon nightmare. He'd even started to burn the invitation, but for some reason, his hand wouldn't release the damned thing into the flames. He dithered so long, in fact, that it was Wednesday, three days before, when he finally went to the Portkey office at the Ministry and requested one for Saturday about noon. That would get him there with time for the side effects of wizard travel to pass, for him to change, put in an appearance at the wedding, and then get the hell out again.

Harry was arguably the most powerful wizard alive, but he'd never been comfortable with Apparition. He spent hours afterwards tinged a sickly green and feeling as if he might heave at the slightest provocation. Portkeys were only slightly better. Hermione had tried every spell and potion known to man to make the process easier, but for some reason, none of them were effective. For all of his power, Harry Potter had a very easily aggravated case of motion sickness. Muggle forms of transportation were better, but he could admit to himself having developed impatience with the pace of it, leaving a Porkey his only wizarding option. And as Draco had been fond of reminding him, he was a wizard.

He was startled when the package containing the Portkey, camouflaged ironically as a hair brush, and instructions were delivered to his desk Thursday afternoon. When he opened the parcel and read the enclosed schedule, he'd huffed in exasperation and gone back to the travel office for an explanation.

"I said, Saturday afternoon," he told the wide-eyed girl at the desk. She was new, and Harry had never dealt with her before. "Not Friday. I don't want to arrive there until Saturday."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," she said. "I just assumed that you were going to Paris for the Malfoy wedding, and I scheduled the Portkey so that you wouldn't miss anything. I know there's a formal dinner Friday night, followed by…" She ticked off each of the events that Harry had hoped to avoid, her face avid and her eyes bright. Harry cut her off when she began to wax poetic about 'attending such a high profile event at such a beautiful venue'.

"I haven't made reservations for the entire weekend," he said, his jaw tight.

She seemed confused. "I'm sorry. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. The hotel was completely booked, but they were only too happy to make room for Harry Potter, so there's a room reserved in your name…" Her voice trailed off when she saw the way a muscle near his right eye began to twitch.

Valiantly, he fought the impulse to reach across the desk and throttle her. Forcing down his fury, he tried to speak evenly. "You're new here, aren't you?" he asked through clenched teeth, his hands fisting on the desktop as he leaned across it. Her eyes went very wide, and she nodded faintly, sinking back in her chair. "For future reference," he ground out, "you never, ever use my name to get me something not available to everyone else. Understood?" She nodded again, blinking rapidly. "Now fix this, and get me a Portkey for Saturday."

She dampened her lips, looking like a trapped squirrel. "I… I can't," she stammered. "There aren't any more, and that one can't be reconfigured for thirty days. There's no one here with the authorization to create another. I'm sorry, but…"

He stared at her for so long that she began to fidget under his gaze. Finally, not sure that he could control his anger a moment longer, he shoved back and stormed from the room.

That night he'd been certain he wasn't going. But now, two days later, he was battling lingering nausea as he walked unsteadily from the Portkey arrival point. The Ritz, like many of the finer hotels in Europe, had a complete Wizarding counterpart to the well known Muggle hotel, a twin that the non-magical population couldn't see.

Traversing a long, opulent hallway, Harry's apprehension grew. When he stepped into the columned doorway of the hotel's main lobby, his heart sank.

The floor was a cream colored travertine marble with what he was quite sure was actual gold veining gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Soaring ceilings had borders of carved crown moldings, there were Grecian statues in each of the corners, and elaborate sideboards in Louis XIV style sported enormous arrangements of white Casablanca lilies. From the center of the ceiling hung a massive crystal chandelier trimmed in more gold, and house-elves in gleaming white togas moved busily across the lobby, serving drinks from silver trays and Apparating luggage with a snap of their long fingers. Wizards and witches in expensive robes stood in small groups, and across the way there was a long white marble counter where he was quite certain the concierge was posted. He sighed silently and steeled himself for the walk across the open space, for even in his nicest black wool trousers, dark green cashmere jumper and black leather jacket, he felt like an unmade bed. Swallowing resolutely, he crossed to the desk.

A young man behind it, wearing the Ritz's distinctive royal blue uniform, smiled at him as he approached. "Good afternoon, sir," he said in faintly accented English.

"Good afternoon," Harry replied. "I've a reservation."

"Of course." He waved his hand and a leather-bound book appeared on the marble counter in front of him. "Name, please?"

Harry spoke very quietly. "Harry Potter."

The young man's eyes jerked up to his face, but other than that, Harry quite admired his professionalism.

"Of course, Mr. Potter," he said, pitching his own voice quite low, but Harry saw a young woman at the far end staring at him curiously. He ignored her. "You will be in the Albus Dumbledore Suite."

Harry blinked. "There's a Dumbledore Suite?"

"But of course," the man answered. "All of our magical suites are named for famous witches and wizards. Merlin, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Beauxbatons…"

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "I don't need a suite."

"But, sir," the concierge said softly, his brow furrowing. "Your reservation specifically requested one."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying to marshal his calm and remind himself that he could be sacked if he hexed a Ministry employee. After a moment, he exhaled and opened his eyes to find the young man studying him apprehensively. "That will be fine," he managed, and the steward nodded, lifting the register and handing Harry a fluffy white quill.

He'd just finished signing, and had received his room key when he saw the concierge's eyes fix on something over his right shoulder and widen almost imperceptibly. Harry was about to turn when a voice made his shoulders stiffen.

"Potter."

It was just his name, but Harry would have known that voice anywhere. After his fifth year and the debacle at the Ministry, he'd heard it in his dreams. Smooth, insidious, outwardly polite and yet dripping with disdain, no one else in the world could imbue his name with quite as much contempt as Lucius Malfoy. He paused for just a moment, then lifted his chin and turned, his face a careful mask of calm. Malfoy stood behind him, long white-blond hair pulled back in a neat queue; black velvet robes resplendent, grey eyes as welcoming as an Arctic glacier.

"Malfoy," he said in much the same tone as his own name had been spoken, and he saw the corner of Lucius's mouth twitch, as if he were holding back a sneer with effort

"Whatever are you doing here?" Draco's father asked, his voice pleasant but his eyes hard. "In Paris on business?"

"Actually," Harry replied, a small spark of vengeful pleasure flaring in his chest, "I'm here to attend your son's wedding."

Malfoy stared, his face an emotionless mask. He finally blinked. "Why, I'm quite certain that I'd not been informed that you were on the guest list," he said, as aware as Harry that they were not alone in the lobby, and that the staff behind the desk was no doubt hanging on their every word. "Although," he went on smoothly, "you and Draco did know one another quite well in school."

"And even better since." Harry took satisfaction in the stain that spread across Malfoy's high cheekbones. He looked as if he might be about to say something else when a friendly voice hailed him, and both Harry and Lucius turned.

"Lucius, we were wondering what had kept you."

A man approached, his burgundy robes flowing around his feet. His wavy gray hair blew back from his face as he walked, and he had a ready smile and dark eyes full of sly intelligence.

"I'm sorry, Arcare," Lucius said stiffly. "I was greeting an acquaintance."

The man turned to Harry, studying him thoroughly.

"Well, do introduce me," he said expansively, even though Harry had a feeling that he already knew who he was. Lucius's mouth tightened.

"Arcare Bodier, allow me to present Harry Potter. Mr. Potter, this is Ambassador Bodier." Grey eyes glowered into Harry's in warning. "Draco's future father-in-law."

"Ah, Mr. Potter," Bodier said more loudly than was necessary. Harry winced as people around the lobby turned and looked at him and the hiss of whispered conversation grew. "This is indeed an honor, sir."

Harry took the hand that was offered and shook it, but couldn't release it fast enough. Bodier's hand was cold and clammy, fingers grasping. "The honor is mine, sir," Harry managed, but the words felt like ash in his mouth. Instinctively, he disliked the man.

"I understand that you and young Malfoy were at school together," Bodier went on. Harry nodded. "Then you must join us. Lucius and I were about to join the rest of the wedding party for a casual drink before the evening's festivities begin."

Harry stiffened. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of imposing," he said quickly. "I'm quite certain that must be a family function."

"I insist," Bodier said jovially, his hand curling around Harry's elbow. It took every ounce of self-control that Harry had not to jerk his arm from the man's grip. "I'm sure that Draco would be pleased to see you, and there are some of your old classmates in the wedding party."

Short of refusing and creating a scene, Harry felt that he had little choice but to allow himself to be escorted through the lobby.

The only thing that made the situation less unsettling was the fact that Lucius Malfoy looked even more disturbed about Harry being invited than Harry was himself.

He entered the 'Albus Dumbledore' suite later that evening, closed the door and leaned against it, head back, eyes closed. The rooms were large and lavishly decorated in deep cardinal and gold, but Harry didn't notice. He stood where he was, legs braced, and banged the back of his head against the heavy door.

He should have ignored the bloody invite, Neville and his "you'll know for certain" nonsense be damned. He'd known for certain the moment Draco had rolled his head toward him in bed that night. This train wreck was not preventable; Draco would not go against the indoctrination of a lifetime, and he was only putting himself through unnecessary pain by watching it. That was nothing new, he thought darkly. Harry had put himself in untenable situations over and over again, because of his bloody saving people thing. Some people could not be saved. Why couldn't he get that?

The whole time Bodier had been bodily hauling him towards the private salon, Harry had known it was a disaster in the making. He should have been more forceful, made his excuses and walked away. But he hadn't, and so he had no one to blame but himself for the current lump of knotted nerve endings that had taken up residence in his stomach.

Pushing away from the door, he opened his eyes and searched for the mini bar. Surely a place like this… he began opening doors in a massive credenza, and made a relieved sound when he found the small stash of liquor. Skipping the butterbear, he went straight for a bottle of Muggle white wine. Another quick search revealed a cork screw and several glasses, and in moments he was drinking the expensive Chardonnay with one hand and holding the cool bottle against his forehead with the other.

The faces of the wedding party were a blur in his mind: Zabini's smirk on spotting him, Parkinson's dark glare, Narcissa Malfoy's quickly hidden surprise. But Draco's face…

That would stay with him forever.

People always thought that Draco was hard to read, but not Harry. His emotions had passed over his face like a rapid slide show. Initially his eyes had widened and filled with… what had it been? Joy? Relief? That had been quickly schooled away, but his handshake had lingered longer than necessary, and his grip had been a bit desperate. Relief had been followed by both helplessness and embarrassment, and it hadn't taken Harry long to see why.

Bodier had been anxious to introduce Harry to the 'bride', and on seeing her, it had been all that Harry could do not to groan.

She was not a dignified young woman, as Harry had expected. She was a child. Quite literally, a child.

As her mother, an obnoxious woman with a condescending manner, had taken great pleasure in explaining to Harry, "our Adrienne is not the scholarly type. We've decided that another year at Beauxbatons would be a waste of her time, when she could be married and settling in. We are quite certain that her real gift will be for the domestic arts and for mothering. After all, I have given Arcare six! It runs in the genes."

"Yes, she is only sixteen," Bodier had added. "But we were more than happy to sign the waiver in order for her to make such an advantageous match. They will have beautiful children, no?"

No, Harry had thought as he stared at the girl, who clearly wished she could become invisible. She was no more than five feet tall and plump, with a large nose and a painfully obvious overbite. Her dress was a monstrosity of organza ruffles in celery green that made her look jaundiced, and her eyes were a dull brown. Her one real beauty was her hair; it hung down her back to her waist in gleaming ringlets, glowing in the soft light. But knowing how Draco felt, Harry could only stare at it in consternation. It was the same exact shade of auburn as Ginny Weasley's. Harry knew Draco had picked up on his thoughts when a dull stain spread across his cheeks.

Someone pressed a glass of wine into his hand, and he'd found himself forced to participate in a toast to the 'young couple'. He'd stared at Draco, standing tall and pale and austere beside the sad little child bride, and the thinly veiled desolation on his face had made Harry's heart begin to ache.

He couldn't remember any of the details after that. He began immediately to try to find a way to escape, but the pleading look in Draco's eyes had kept him there for most of the afternoon. Finally, when Bodier began to press him to 'join us for the festivities this evening', Harry was able to gracefully decline. Mumbling something about 'a work related meeting', he'd shot Draco what he hoped had been an apologetic look and slipped from the room.

Several hours spent sitting in a cafe staring at pigeons did nothing to alleviate his melancholy, and he'd returned to his room only when he'd been certain that the formal dinner was already half over. Now he sat at the foot of a ridiculously large bed, his knees spread and his head bowed, glass abandoned as he drank a Corton-Charlemagne 1998 right from the bottle. It was half gone, a headache of epic proportions was building behind his eyes, and he was desperately trying to figure a way around the Portkey regulation office so that he could return to London early when a knock sounded on the suite's door.

Harry stalled for so long that the knock sounded a second time. Closing his eyes, he sighed before pushing himself to his feet. He knew who it was, and he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say.

A quick glimpse through the peephole showed him that he'd been right. Perfect silvery blond hair shown in the light, and square shoulders were swathed in crisp black formal robes. His head was turned, and he was nervously glancing down the hall, a muscle in his cheek flexing. Harry wearily leaned back and unlocked the door.

"What?"

"I can't stand out here in the hall," Draco muttered, pushing past Harry into the room. Harry was just drunk enough that he let him go. He caught of whiff of Draco's cologne as he passed, and something twisted hard in his chest as he closed and re-locked the door, then turned and leaned against it. He studied Draco's tense shoulders and his fisted hands and sighed.

"Draco," he sighed. "What are you doing here?"

Draco's eyes flared with heat. "You know what I'm doing here."

Harry didn't even have time to brace himself before Draco was on him, his hands twisted in the fabric of the cashmere jumper, his mouth open and voracious over Harry's.

He tasted of firewhisky and chocolate, and Harry wanted to push him away, he really did. But then Draco slipped his tongue into Harry's mouth, and slid his thigh between Harry's legs, and he could feel that Draco was hard against his hip. His resolve slipped away in the sudden need to touch, to feel, to take. The nearly empty bottle of wine slipped from his fingers to land with a dull thud on the carpeting, but neither of them noticed. Draco made a desperate sound of welcome when Harry's tongue began to tangle with his, when he lifted his hands and held the pale face between his palms, taking Draco's mouth, claiming it. Draco rotated his hips, rubbing his hardness against Harry's hipbone, and one of Harry's hands slid down and opened on Draco's firm arse. Draco's head dropped back on a needy gasp, and Harry turned them, shoving Draco's shoulders against the wall as his mouth attacked the fair skin just above his starched white collar.

"Yes, leave a mark," Draco begged, frotting against Harry wantonly. His hands scrabbled up under Harry's jumper, and when he found his nipples, he pinched them hard. Harry growled against his throat and pumped his hips forward, pushing Draco's arse hard against the wall. "Yes," Draco repeated, writhing. "Yes, Gods, please…"

Harry wasn't sure how it happened, but one moment they were against the wall and the next he had Draco sprawled beneath him on his back on the carpeted floor. He shoved the long legs apart with his knees and settled between, moving against Draco in earnest, cloth covered erections straining together as Harry set an almost brutal pace, and Draco responded, hips arched, one leg lifting to wrap around his thigh. The sounds that Draco was making, needy little cries and gasps, spurred Harry against him harder until strong hands braced on his shoulders and pushed.

"Not like this," Draco gasped. Harry lifted his head and looked down into the flushed face, saw the wild eyes and the swollen lips, and leaned in to take them again. "No!" Draco almost shouted, and Harry frowned. "Not like this," he said again, his voice coming out between harsh pants. "I need you to fuck me; I need you inside of me. Harry, please."

Dizzy with want, Harry went up to his knees and began to tear at the waist band of the black wool trousers while Draco arched his hips shamelessly.

"Yes," he whimpered when Harry tore them open, revealing the straining length, pale pink through the white silk pants beneath. Harry paused to palm him firmly, and Draco grunted. "Yes, Gods. I need to feel you inside of me. I need you to fuck me, Harry, hard. So hard that I can't walk straight. So hard that I'll still feel you tomorrow."

Harry had been about to tear the trousers down Draco's legs when what he'd said registered, and it was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. He stared at his own hand, stilled on the rigid cock clearly revealed through the thin silk, swollen veins and purpled head a relief map of Draco's need. His eyes lifted the length of the elegant body until they came to the lust-glazed eyes of the man who had been his lover for the last three years. The man he wanted above all others; the man he loved beyond reason. The man who in twelve hours was marrying someone else.

Draco must have seen the withdrawal in Harry's eyes even before he pulled back, because his hands came up, claw-like, and curled in Harry's jumper. "Don't you dare leave me like this," he hissed, rearing up until his lips were close to Harry's. "Don't you dare try to tell me that you don't want this."

"I do want it," Harry said raggedly. "I want it so much I'm aching. But I can't, Draco. I'm sorry."

The blow that landed against Harry's jaw rocked him back on his heels, and he tasted blood in his mouth as he lifted the back of his hand to his face. Draco scrambled back, face a furious mask, mouth tight as he shoved the tails of his shirt into his trousers and yanked them shut, pushing up from the floor with startling grace.

"Fine," he spat, staring down at Harry, running his hand over his tousled hair in a vain attempt to smooth it. "I have absolutely no doubt that I can find someone willing to give me what I want." He turned toward the door, his back rigid.

"I'm sure you're right about that," Harry said, his voice soft. "But they won't love you."

Draco went completely still, his hand on the doorknob. "Don't," he whispered harshly. "You haven't the right to say that to me. Not now."

Harry pushed himself to his feet and edged closer to Draco. So close that he could feel his body heat, so close he could feel the trembling that wasn't visible.

"I know I haven't the right," Harry agreed. "But it doesn't change it. I love you. I always will. Even after tomorrow."

Harry sensed the anger drain out of Draco, felt him melt forward until his forehead rested against the door. When his knees began to buckle, Harry caught him, his arm curling around the slender waist and holding him.

Draco didn't make a sound, but Harry could feel the shudders that began to shake him, and he leaned his face into Draco's neck, his eyes closed tightly against tears he refused to cry.

They stood that way for a long time. Finally, Draco seemed to gather himself, his legs steadying beneath him.

"I have to get back," he said, his voice sounding suffocated. Harry started to step back, but Draco curled his hand around his arm, holding him in place. "Please… don't leave."

"Draco," Harry whispered, despairing.

"Please," Draco repeated. "I won't ever ask you for anything else. Just… please. Don't leave."

He went still, waiting, and finally Harry sighed and nodded against the back of his neck. Draco exhaled in relief, unlocked the door, and was gone.

Harry turned and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his face in his hands.

He stalled as long as he could.

He spent the day away from the hotel, wandering the sights of Paris but not seeing them. He didn't return until nearly seven-thirty, when the wedding was scheduled to begin at eight, and he showered and dressed in his formal attire as slowly as he could. He had never become completely comfortable with formal wizard's robes and had purchased a tuxedo for occasions that necessitated it. As he slipped his cuff links into his sleeves there was a shimmer of magic on the antique dresser in front of him, and he stiffened as a small clear box appeared. He stared at it for a long time before opening the lid.

Immediately a soft, sweet scent lifted from the box, and his eyes softened as he looked at the small white flower nestled in a shimmering bed of excelsior. It was a white lily, Transfigured into a miniature version of itself, stem wrapped in black velvet ribbon with a glittering diamond stick pin thrust through. There was no card, but there didn't need to be one.

Only one person had ever given Harry flowers in the whole of his life. One person who had presented them almost shyly on their first anniversary, eyes wide, manner surprisingly hesitant as he'd whispered, "they reminded me of your mother." Harry stroked one small, velvety petal with fingers that trembled.

"Damn you," he murmured, but he lifted the boutonnière and pinned it to the thick satin of his lapel.

He didn't leave the suite until five minutes after eight. By then the ceremony should have begun, and his plan was to sneak into the rear of the room and then leave again quickly when it was over. The Portkey was scheduled to return him to his flat at exactly midnight; he figured he could kill part of the time in a bar before he had to be back in his rooms. He left the suite with all of the enthusiasm of a man facing execution.

He was aware of the speculative glances sent his way by two women in the lift but he ignored them, unable to marshal the necessary effort to be polite. When the doors slid open on the lobby, he strode as quickly as he could across it, suddenly wishing he'd brought his father's invisibility cloak with him. He didn't want to be seen, didn't want to be recognized, didn't want to be there. Following a series of directions, letters sparkling in mid air, he descended a huge staircase into a lavish landing. Arches of pink and white roses led the way toward the open doors of the Grande Vendome, the largest ballroom in Paris.

The area outside was deserted. Through the open doorway, he could hear harp music, and he straightened his shoulders and prepared to enter when he saw that the antechamber was occupied. He paused.

Standing inside the small lobby was the most miserable bride Harry had ever seen. She was wearing an unfortunate concoction of fairy spun lace; the tiers of ruffles and heavy veil making her look even shorter and rounder. Even from outside of the doors, he could see that the bouquet of roses she held in her hands trembled. She was surrounded by several other young girls in floor length pink gowns, and they all had their heads together, whispering. Bodier was there, looking irritated, and Harry frowned when Lucius Malfoy swung into the antechamber, expression thunderous.

"I'll find him, Arcare," he said in a lowered voice. "I'm quite certain it's nothing…" He saw Harry and stiffened, his eyes narrowed.

At that precise moment, a door off to Harry's right opened, and he heard Zabini's slow, amused drawl. "I imagine you aren't the first groom to lose his dinner before the big event," he was saying. "Relax, old man. Just go through the motions, and then I'll get you good and pissed."

Zabini was grinning as he emerged from the men's. He stepped aside, and Draco emerged behind him, resplendent in silver wizard's robes, white starched collar high around his chin, white tie immaculate, his face as tight and drawn as Harry had ever seen it. He saw Harry and went utterly still, and Harry saw the small lily pinned to Draco's lapel, the perfect match for his own. The rest of the men were wearing white rose boutonnières; the significance could not have been clearer.

He found Draco's eyes even as Lucius swept past him, catching Draco's arm in a hard hand.

"Draco, we're waiting," he hissed near his son's ear, but Draco continued to stare at Harry, and in the depths of his eyes, Harry saw desperation tinged with hope. He'd decided he wanted to be saved, and he wanted Harry to do it.

And Harry wanted to; his instincts told him to use the wand in his sleeve if necessary. He could do it, too. He didn't doubt for a moment that he could Summon Draco right into his arms and Apparate them from the hotel into his bedroom at home. It would be worth the vertigo just to have them both out of there.

He didn't care about the repercussions of kidnapping Draco from his own wedding. The Ministry backlash would be incredible, but he didn't care about that either. He'd weathered the storm of his unceremonious 'outing' by the Prophet, of Ginny's disappointment, of his friends' disapproval. He wasn't afraid of anything that might be thrown at him. But he knew that his deeply seeded instinct to rescue was not the right answer. Not now.

If Harry 'saved' him, Draco still wasn't making a choice. He wasn't standing up to his father; he wasn't choosing the life that he wanted. He'd be letting himself be rescued, but Harry would know who had made the decision for him. And his heart sank when he realized that he couldn't do it.

"Draco," Lucius hissed, his face flushed an angry red. "Our guests are waiting."

Draco didn't move, fighting against his father's pull, his eyes wide on Harry's.

Shaking his head was the hardest thing Harry had ever done in his life. Watching the hopeful light die in Draco's eyes was the most painful thing to witness.

"I'm sorry," Harry said softly. "You have to choose. I can't do this for you."

Draco blinked quickly, at last unresisting as Lucius pulled him past Harry towards the ballroom, his austere face smugly triumphant. Draco turned his head, staring at Harry as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured one more time, watching impotently as Lucius gestured to Zabini with an imperious wave of his hand before all but shoving Draco through the open door. Lucius paused to give Harry one last vicious smirk, then followed his son.

Harry turned on his heel and went back up the stairs, blindly striding through the lobby to the wide double doors, pushing through them out into the night, nearly bowling over the doorman. It was chilly, a slight mist dampening the cobblestones and swirling in the air, but he didn't feel it. He felt… nothing. Hollowed out and numb, he walked away, the heels of his formal shoes echoing on the ancient streets. He had no direction in mind, no awareness as the mist made his hair curl and seeped into his wool suit.

He had no idea how long he'd been walking when he stumbled into a small courtyard surrounded by charming townhouses, a bubbling fountain at the center. There was little traffic but for some other pedestrians, and they took no notice of him. Exhausted, he stopped next to the cheerful little fountain and stared into the water. He could see a distorted reflection of his own face, a pale oval topped by inky black hair, glasses shining like Galleons in the soft light. Just beside his heart on the black lapel, a white shape wavered in the water's surface. Suddenly furious, Harry reached up and ripped the boutonnière from his jacket. He threw the lily into the fountain, watching as it bobbed on the surface, pushed by the current of the water cascading from the bowl above. It twirled in circles, round and round, and Harry wished for it to sink so that he could watch it being swallowed by the water, see it drown. But it refused. It floated stubbornly and in spite of his resolve, Harry felt his eyes fill with the tears he'd been fighting for weeks.

"Sink, damn you," he hissed. "Just fucking… go away."

"Harry."

He stiffened, fists clenched, certain that in his despair he'd manufactured the only voice he wanted to hear. He stared at the little flower, still obstinately swirling in the current, afraid to move, to turn his head, to hope.

"Harry."

This time, there was no mistaking the voice. Harry turned.

Draco's hair was a tousled mess and the exquisite silver robes were darkened from the rain and there was a rip in one sleeve. His lily had lost all but two of its petals, and those were hanging limply, but the eyes that were fixed on Harry were wide and relieved. And bright.

"I thought I wouldn't find you," Draco said breathlessly, coming toward him. "The doorman told me that you'd left the hotel, but I had no idea which way you'd gone or where you were headed. And it's so bloody dark. I fell." He pulled at the torn sleeve with his other hand. "Landed in a flower bed." He laughed a bit wildly. "I'm sure that was a sight, me going arse up in the Ritz's rose bushes, but I had to move fast because you had a head start."

"Draco," Harry said, interrupting the wild flow of words. "What…how…." Harry couldn't seem to put a sentence together, and when he lifted his hands, they weren't steady. Draco took a step closer, taking them, slipping his fingers between Harry's and gripping tightly.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, stepping closer still. "You never have taken very good care of yourself. You'll catch your death out here, you idiot, and then I'll have to take care of you. I can manage tea, but you know my chicken soup is dismal."

"Draco," Harry repeated, realizing that he wasn't hallucinating, that Draco was there, standing a heartbeat away, holding tight to his hands. "Your father…"

Draco choked on a startled laugh. "Is probably still standing outside of that ballroom looking as if I'd hit him in the head with a Bludger." He looked bemused at his own audacity.

Harry curled his fingers tighter around Draco's hands. "What happened?"

"I would think that's fairly obvious," Draco murmured, stepping into Harry's body. He lifted his head and stared unblinking into Harry's eyes, his chin high, his expression as resolved as Harry had ever seen it. "You told me to chose, Harry, so I did." He lifted his arms around Harry's neck, and his breath touched Harry's lips just before he angled his head to one side and kissed him gently. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "I chose us."