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Sunday, June 29, 2003: 'Kiss My Arse,' Saviour Tells Death Eater

Harry Potter made an enticing picture, half-clothed and braced against the tiled wall. His legs were spread. His naked arse twitched at Draco's touch. As Draco's hands smoothed over the soft skin, pulling the cheeks apart to expose Potter's cleft, Potter looked back over his shoulder and mumbled inaudibly.

"What, in Merlin's name, were you thinking?"

Ignoring Pansy, Draco traced a line down Potter's back to his arse. He could still feel the way Potter's muscles had flexed under his hands, hear his whispered demands that Draco get on with it. He could hear Skeeter's screech of glee and was almost blinded again by the flash going off in the semi-darkness of the bathroom.

Blinking his eyes against the remembered light explosion, Draco shoved the Prophet away and fumbled for his coffee cup. His head was pounding, his tongue felt as if an entire farm of Puffskeins had taken up residence, and the usual Hangover Remedy had done absolutely nothing to help. He should want to fucking slaughter Potter, but everything felt so Merlin-bedamned fuzzy.

"You're supposed to fuck him, not be fucked over by him."

Draco stared at Pansy. An inexplicable urge to defend Potter drew his gaze back to the picture, where Potter was once again glancing over his shoulder. He frowned as another image floated through his memory. Potter had been embarrassed, yes, but also dazed, even scared as he tugged his breeches and shirt closed before turning around to face Skeeter.

A hand with green and silver painted nails slammed down on top of the paper, covering Harry. "Stop staring at his arse and talk to me."

"Potter shouldn't be frightened of anything." What the fuck was that? Draco rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to focus on getting his brain cells to function.

"What?" Pansy sent the paper flying off the table. "Why are you defending him? You could be sent to Azkaban for this."

A sense of absolute certainty, of knowing Potter, filled Draco. "He wouldn't."

"Don't be a bigger idiot than you already have been. It's not his decision. Not unless he retracts this accusation," Pansy said. "Love potions are illegal. If you'd actually had sex with Potter —" She sniffed. "That fucking bastard. He should be the one going to Azkaban."

Draco glanced over at the newspaper pages that lay scattered on the floor. A flicker of motion caught his eye. Potter had wanted him — wanted his tongue, his lips, his cock. Draco knew that like he knew his own name. Just like Draco had wanted Potter. Long before this whole fucking mess had blown up in his face.

Salazar's fangs, he was a fucking cretin. Years of hard work to restore the Malfoy name and he'd tossed it away for what? His stomach began to roil as another memory swam into focus, of him kissing Potter, of Potter kissing him. His hand shook, spilling lukewarm coffee over his skin.

"Fuck." Draco dropped his cup and was sick all over the breakfast room floor.

* * *

"A love potion? From Malfoy?" Hermione frowned at the Prophet headline. "Honestly, Harry, couldn't you have come up with a more believable excuse?"

Wishing he'd put a thicker jumper on, Harry shivered and ran a shaking hand through his hair. He winced as the movements made his headache worse. "It wasn't an excuse." At least he didn't think it was. Then again, he didn't remember telling anyone that Malfoy had done it. He massaged his temples and tried, yet again, to remember what the fuck had happened. There'd been the dinner at the Ministry, with the interminable speeches, and the argument over the Dementors, and Malfoy in those robes that emphasised all the parts of his body that made Harry want to—

The click of glass on wood pulled Harry out of his thoughts. Ron was placing a phial of Hangover Remedy in front of Harry.

"You know, mate, I'm the last one to defend Malfoy, but a love potion? That's a bit underhanded, even for him." Ron dropped into his usual seat next to Hermione.

Harry reached for the phial and its precious yellow potion, and Hermione pulled it away from him.

"Give me that," he said.

"You can't. It'll contaminate the results." She stood up with a look of determination on her face. "We're going into the Ministry, and you're going to get tested. If someone dosed you with a love potion last night, they're not going to get off as easily as Romilda Vane did."

The thought of facing the other Aurors and their teasing and condemnation made Harry feel sick. He swallowed down the bile that was threatening to rise. "I'm not going anywhere right now, especially not to work."

"You have to," Ron said, exchanging a glance with Hermione. He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, ratcheting Harry's headache up another notch. "Come on. We'll go in with you."

Harry could think of a thousand objections, but then he looked down at his trembling hands and another shiver wracked his body. Something was definitely wrong with him, something more than the usual morning after a night of too much to drink. More than the blurry memory of how good Malfoy's hands had felt on his arse.

Swallowing again, he gave them a careful nod and pushed himself to his feet. "All right. Let's go and get it over with so I can come home and crawl back into bed."

* * *

Saturday, June 28, 2003: Inside the Merlin Ballroom

"Here's to the joy never being sucked out of our world again." Seamus Finnigan raised his pint glass and took a long drink from it.

"I can't believe you. All of this," Hermione Granger said, her wave encompassing everyone and everything in the Merlin Ballroom, "to celebrate the incarceration of an entire species."

The resulting argument left Draco shaking his head. It was Granger and Longbottom, with occasional support from Weasley, against pretty much everyone else around the overcrowded table. Lovegood, he noticed with interest, was as silent as he and Potter.

Potter leaned over to him. "They don't stand a chance against her," he murmured in Draco's ear.

Draco's hand twitched from the shock of having Potter actually initiate a conversation with him. He placed his empty glass carefully on the table. "Depends," he said, "on whether she's done her research."

Potter snorted with amusement. "This is Hermione we're talking about. Of course, she's done her research."

"Doesn't sound like it to me." Draco shrugged. He wasn't about to take on Granger over something as unimportant in the scheme of things as Dementors.

Before Potter could ask the question that was clearly dancing on the tip of his tongue, Anthony Goldstein's voice cut through the hubbub. "The Dementors aren't truly a species."

Granger narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"

"They were created by Mordred," Goldstein said. "Formed from mud taken from the deepest bogs and water from the Lady's lake. Cloaked in a Lethifold. They hunger for a soul, because Mordred gave them a mere semblance of life. They have the bog's need to suck and a Lethifold's never-ending hunger."

"But," Granger spluttered, "there's nothing about that in Fantastic Beasts or The Complete Bestiary." She began digging in her tiny wrist bag.

"Oh, that's done it. She's going to be at this for hours." Potter looked into his own glass, which contained little more than a sip of Merrow Cider. He raised it to his lips.

"Don't drink that." The words were out of Draco's mouth before he had thought them all the way through. At Potter's quizzical look, he said, "You never drink Merrow Cider at room temperature."

"What then?"

In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. Draco signalled for a waiter. "We'll need fresh drinks if I'm to show you how to do it properly."

* * *

Monday, June 30, 2003: Amortentia Confirmed in Attack on Saviour

 

"I'm entitled to a representative, and I'm not saying another word until one arrives." Draco crossed one leg over the other and sneered at the two Aurors on the other side of the table. He wasn't a scared kid any longer, and he wasn't about to let the Aurors bully him again.

"You're not helping yourself with that attitude, son," Egbert Savage said, giving Draco a patronising smile.

Draco inspected the nails of his right hand, concentrating on keeping it steady and not revealing his nervousness or his anger.

"Fucking Slytherin," said Zacharias Smith from his position next to the one-way mirror. "He doesn't deserve help from anyone. Why don't we just dose him with Veritaserum and chuck him in Azkaban?"

"Because, you obnoxious coward, there's such a thing as due process these days. No one will be tossed into Azkaban without a fair trial on my watch. And certainly not on a case with this kind of attention."

Despite his intention to remain aloof, Draco was unable to stop himself from turning to look. Hermione Granger stood in the open door, dressed in formal dark brown robes. Her hair was pulled back into a single, neat plait. She looked almost intimidating, which gave Draco hope.

"Took you long enough," he said.

"I was held up on my way in. Apparently someone," her mouth twisted with disgust, "insisted that I had to answer a series of utterly inane questions before I could pass by his desk." Her tiny velvet bag made a loud thump when she dropped it on the table. "Needless to say, the Minister will be having words with that particular someone and his cronies."

Savage's face turned fascinating shades of red and purple. "What are you insinuating, Granger?"

"I don't insinuate, Mr Savage, nor do I make empty threats. Now pack up your little sidekick and leave me alone with my client."

There was a moment when Draco thought either Savage or Smith was going to protest, but then Savage made a slashing motion with his hand, and Smith followed him out the door like a kicked puppy.

"If you don't turn off the Monitoring charms and the mirror, I'll have you on suspension faster than you can blink," Granger called after him. She sat down and motioned Draco to be silent. After a few seconds, she shook her head and pulled her wand. "He should know better," she said, reaching into her bag. She placed a multi-faceted crystal ball between them. After a tap of her wand on the top facet, deep purple smoke rose from it and surrounded them.

"Convenient," Draco said, not trying to hide how impressed he was with the magic behind the device.

"It is." She gave him a thin smile. "You're going to listen to what I have to say, and then I'm going to get you out of here. In fact, you're not going to say a single word until we get to my office no matter how hard Savage tries to get a rise out of you. Then you're going to tell me absolutely everything, so we can work out how you got yourself into this mess."

"I —"

She held up her hand. "Not another word, or you'll be looking for someone else to represent you. And you know how that would be interpreted."

Biting the inside of his mouth to stop himself from responding and telling her exactly what he thought of her tactics, he nodded.

"Good." Her smile expanded, became almost feral. "Shall we have a little fun?"

As long as it gets me out of here, Draco thought as she disengaged the ball.

* * *

Purple smoke filled the room on the other side of the mirror, hiding Hermione and Malfoy from view and turning their words into an unintelligible series of crackles and hisses. Harry brought a hand up to cover his mouth and hide his highly inappropriate grin. He supposed that he should be angry at Malfoy and maybe even at Hermione for defending him, but she'd been so insistent that it couldn't have been Malfoy, that Malfoy wouldn't have done something that stupid. Frankly, it was impossible not to believe her when she made that much sense. Of course that left the question of who the fuck had dosed him.

Savage slammed his hand against the door between the viewing room and the interrogation room. "That bloody cu —"

"That'll be enough." Anger made a muscle below Robards' right eye twitch. "Savage, turn off the Monitoring spells. Smith, disable the mirror." When they both hesitated and Smith turned to Savage as if for permission, he added, "Delay another second, and I'll have you both on dawn patrols at Knockturn for the foreseeable future."

Just the memory of his stint on that assignment had Harry wrinkling his nose in disgust. Mornings in Knockturn weren't for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach.

"Potter, what are you doing here?" Robards asked. "I thought I'd given orders for you to stay away from this investigation."

"I was just watching from this side of the mirror." Harry glanced at the still-darkened glass and then at Savage, who appeared as triumphant as a Seeker who'd just caught the snitch at the World Cup. "I haven't done or said anything to cause problems."

"I should be so lucky," Robards said, the muscle tic getting worse. "Savage? Has Potter talked to any of your witnesses or tried to get involved in any other way?"

"Well, it's more than a bit difficult to conduct a proper investigation when your chief witness and victim refuses to cooperate."

"Is that true, Potter?" Robards' gaze swung back to Harry.

Refusing to be intimidated, Harry shrugged. "I answered everything that was pertinent to the night in question. It's not my fault that my memory of what happened isn't up to much, is it?"

Smith sneered at him. "Loss of memory is not a known side-effect of Amortentia."

"It is when mixed with ridiculous amounts of alcohol, however," Hermione said in that tone of voice that made it clear she was right and everyone else was an idiot.

Harry was so glad to see her that he didn't even care that Malfoy was hovering behind her.

"Ms Granger." Robards sighed. "Have you had a chance to confer with your client?"

Savage muttered something under his breath that Harry didn't catch, and Smith sniggered. Robards gave them both a quelling look.

"I have. And now I plan to escort him home, since your case," she hesitated, her disbelief clear, "seems to be made up from nothing more than wartime prejudices and the same unfounded accusations that have the Daily Prophet being sued for libel."

Robards passed a hand over his face and then glared at Savage and Smith. "Do you have anything to hold him on?"

"We followed protocol all the way, bringing him in." Savage glared back. "Why do we need —"

"I'll take that as a no, then," Hermione said. "This isn't the old Ministry, Savage. I'd have thought even you would have worked that out by now."

Not wanting to draw attention to himself in case Robards remembered that he shouldn't be there, Harry ignored the brief discussion over Malfoy's rights under the new rules and focussed on the man behind Hermione.

Malfoy looked... well, dishevelled was the only word that came to Harry's mind. A lock of hair hung loosely in front of his ear, and Harry wanted nothing more than to tuck it back into place. He shoved his hands into his pockets and was amused by the way Malfoy's eyes followed the movement, upper lip curling in distaste.

"— right, Harry?"

"Huh?" Harry jumped. He hadn't expected to be dragged back into the conversation so soon. "What was that?"

Hermione sighed with exasperation. "I suggested that the truth of what happened is in your and Draco's memories."

"How will that help?" Harry asked. "I don't remember much of anything."

"You might be surprised what you see in a Pensieve," she said.

"No," Savage said. "You're not putting Malfoy and Potter in the same room without an Auror present. And since it's our case, that means Zach and me."

"Absolutely not," Hermione said. "I don't trust you not to interfere if the evidence doesn't fit your pet theory."

"What evidence would that be?" Smith pushed off the wall and went to stand in front of her. Harry was fairly sure he was attempting to intimidate her. "What trick are you going to pull out of that bag of yours this time?"

Hermione bristled. "Oh grow up, Zach. This isn't about what we did or didn't do in school. This is about a man's life."

"It's about due process," Smith said. "Or do you only toss that phrase around when it serves your needs?"

Drawing herself up, Hermione clearly was about to respond when Robards raised a hand. "Smith, Savage, my office." When they didn't move, he said, "Now!"

"Thank you, Auror Robards." Hermione inclined her head.

Harry's relief at seeing the pair of them leave was tempered by the far-too-pleased with himself expression on Robards' face.

"Don't think you've won this round, Ms Granger," Robards said. "You're not having a meeting with Potter and Malfoy about this case without an official Auror presence. Since you and Smith clearly have an antagonistic relationship that is not going to help in the resolution of this case, you'll have to put up with Savage and me."

Thinking Hermione was going to object, Harry tried to catch her eye and warn her off with a subtle shake of his head. Her mouth tightened, and she glared at him. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and spread them to convey his innocence in whatever she thought he'd done.

"Come on, Potter." Robards began walking down towards his office. "You can thank Ms Granger for the fact that you're not going anywhere without an Auror escort until this is all over."

"What?" Shock made Harry gape at him. "You can't do that."

"I can, and I will," Robards said. "No one is accusing me of allowing Harry Potter to fall back into the clutches of his attacker."

"Alleged attacker," Harry and Hermione said, nearly simultaneously. Malfoy made an odd choking sound that Harry thought was an objection.

Robards sighed and massaged the back of his neck. "Come with me, Potter, and don't make me repeat myself again. Right now, I couldn't give a damn who you are or who attacked you. Give me lip again, and I'll have you sacked. The Aurors don't need a hotshot who only obeys orders when it suits him."

As Harry walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder. Hermione was talking with Malfoy, their heads close together. As Malfoy straightened up, he tucked the loose bit of hair back into place.

I was suppose to do that. The thought came with a surge of jealousy that made no sense at all. It was Malfoy's hand sorting out Malfoy's hair, after all. Rather than think about what that meant, Harry caught up to Robards and distracted himself by playing close attention to his mutterings.

* * *

Saturday, June 28, 2003: Inside the Merlin Ballroom

"Your ciders, sir." The waiter made no attempt to serve them. Instead he bent at the waist, holding out a tray filled with goblets and two cider glasses.

"On the table's fine," Draco said, curling his upper lip. He had no idea what catering companies paid waiters these days, but it clearly wasn't sufficient to attract those who knew what they were doing. Surely, it wasn't beyond the pale to expect a waiter who indulged in occasional grooming and wore a uniform that actually fit. Instead of this badly groomed nimrod whose shirt was so tight over his paunch that the fabric gapped between the buttons revealing an unwashed, greyish vest.

"Your ciders." The waiter thrust his tray closer to Draco, angling it to bring their drinks within easy reach. "If you've changed your mind..."

"If you don't take them from him, I will," Potter said.

Huffing with exasperation, Draco snatched the ciders off the tray. To add insult to injury, they weren't even cool, never mind properly chilled. He placed them on the table between them, rapping Potter's hand when he reached for one of the glasses. "Philistine."

"What the fuck, Malfoy?"

Draco glanced over at the others, but they were huddled over a book and deep into a discussion of Dementors and the correct way to deactivate a Golem — whatever that had to do with Dementors. At least Lovegood, Goldstein, and Granger were still talking. Everyone else had abandoned the table.

"You could join them," Potter said. "You don't have to take pity on me and my ignorance about cider."

"What are you on about?" Draco dragged his attention away from Goldstein's comments about Emet versus Met to frown at Potter. "Why would I take pity on you?"

Potter shrugged. "Can't imagine why, really."

"Arrogant berk."

"You'd know all about arrogance, wouldn't you?"

Draco was about to snap back, but Potter gave him a disarming grin that stole the words right out of his mouth. He took a deep breath and shoved both his resentment and his attraction out of the way. "Oh no, I'm not getting into it with you. Not in front of all these witnesses."

Potter looked like he was going to say something, but then shook his head and indicated the glasses. "You were going to show me the proper way to drink Merrow Cider."

"I —" Draco licked his lips and picked up one of the glasses. A familiar scent wound around him and then disappeared before he could identify it. He brought the cider to his nose and sniffed, but didn't smell anything unusual.

"You?" Potter tilted his head and examined him.

After clearing his throat, Draco said, "I'm going to need my wand for this. Don't get your knickers in a twist, all right?"

"Over you?"

"Stranger things have been known to happen," Draco said, twirling his wand.

"Yeah, and most of them tried to kill me."

Refusing to give in to temptation and return Potter's grin, Draco put his nose up in the air. "Now listen carefully. I know how hard it is for you to get anything through that thick skull of yours. It's a flick with a sideways tap." He demonstrated the movement before saying, "Gelidus."

After the glass stopped ringing, frost formed on the outside. Draco presented the properly chilled cider to Potter with a flourish.

"Brilliant," Potter said. "Now let me do yours. Just to make sure the spell made it through my thick skull."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do." Potter put his glass down and retrieved his wand. "Like this right?" He mimicked Draco's flicking motion. "Gelidus."

A ringing noise filled Draco's ears, and that elusive scent returned briefly. He accepted the frosty glass with a seated half-bow.

"Seems like this calls for a toast or something." Potter raised his glass and stared at it, for several seconds. He finally roused himself, looking a little flushed. "Here's to..." He trailed off, losing himself in his cider once again.

"Stranger things?" Draco smirked when Potter's eyes widened as he returned the toast.

Draco took a long swallow, but Potter drank deeply. Each bob of Potter's Adam's apple drew the candlelight to him, haloing him as if he were standing in a ray of sunshine. When Potter stopped drinking, his flush had gone, leaving his skin paler and his eyes brighter than usual.

"Malfoy, I think," Potter put his glass down without looking away, "maybe I need some fresh air. It's a bit —" he tugged at the collar of his shirt and undid the top button "— warm in here."

Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak. When Potter got up from the table, he followed close behind.

* * *

Tuesday, July 1, 2003: Wicked Witch Abandons Our Harry... (and Ron)

Draco had never liked watching people use Pensieves. It wasn't that their bodies disappeared exactly; they became insubstantial, transparent, bent over the Pensieve as if they were ghosts who were permanently affixed to that one spot. Even worse, you couldn't touch them or get their attention without entering the Pensieve yourself.

And that was precisely what he and Potter had been forbidden to do, despite the fact that it was their memories that were being viewed. Instead, they were standing on the outside with an Auror on guard to prevent them from getting any closer.

And Pansy, because she was too curious to stay away. Draco growled under his breath as she tapped her nails on the wooden arm of her chair for the umpteenth time. "Would you stop that?" he snapped.

She sneered at him, and then made a production of lifting her nails off the wood one at a time. "Satisfied, darling?"

"Only if you don't start up again. This is nerve-wracking enough," Potter said from his perch on the edge of Granger's desk, where he'd been staring at the Pensieve on its small, high, round table and the shimmering outlines of Granger, Robards, and Savage that surrounded it.

"Well, you could've kept your mouth shut in the first place," Pansy said, "instead of making false accusations."

"I didn't make any accusations, false or otherwise." Looking as if he were fighting the urge to throw some — likely truthful — accusations at her, Potter clenched his teeth. He picked up a quill and started pulling bits off the plume. "In fact, spotty memories notwithstanding, I was clearly too distracted to speak to Skeeter about much at all."

"Isn't that convenient." Pansy lips were drawn into a moue of distaste, an expression she believed made her look sophisticated. Draco thought it made her look like a blithering idiot.

"I'm glad you're convinced, Potter, but that does fuck all for me." Draco went over, grabbed the quill away from Potter, and tossed it in the Vanishing Bin. "Now if you could drag yourself away from the absorbing task of ruining this quill, we need to talk."

Potter nodded and glanced over at the other Auror. "Peter, can you give us a few minutes?"

For the first time, the Auror showed signs of life. "Come on, Harry. You know what Savage would do to me if he found out."

"How would he —" Potter stopped and stared at a spot on the wall above Peter Whatsit's shoulder.

"Potter, I understand how hard it is for you to —" The rest of the thought vanished from Draco's mind as he realised what had drawn Potter's attention. A beetle was clinging to the wall right next to a spider. A spider without so much as a thread, never mind a web.

"Trust me," Potter said so quietly that Draco almost didn't hear him. Then he jumped off the desk and began pacing back and forth. "I watched my memories of that night, every last one of them, before I handed them over to Gawain and Hermione."

"The Boy Wonder gets special treatment again. Why am I not surprised?" Draco stalked over to an empty armchair that gave him a full view of the office and dropped into it.

"I'm surprised that you didn't watch your own." Potter aimed a reasonably decent sneer in Draco's direction.

"I might have done that," Draco said, "if the Aurors hadn't confiscated my Pensieve."

Pausing in mid-turn, Potter blinked at him. Pansy was just sitting there, watching them. Her left leg was crossed over her right, with her left foot tapping the air, as it always did when she was working her way through something that confused her.

"It had to be in the cider you gave me." Potter began pacing again, dragging a hand through his hair. "Merlin's saggy left tit, never mind you giving me tainted cider, I can't believe I gave you tainted cider. The whole thing is mental."

"I wouldn't talk too loudly about being mental, if I were you," Pansy said, her eyes narrowed in thought. "Someone might take you seriously and shuffle you off to the locked ward at St Mungo's."

The Auror shifted in place, his hand dropping down to hover over his wand holster.

"Pansy," Draco said, allowing himself to smirk at her. "Do shut up before you're shuffled off somewhere cold and dank."

Her head snapped up, and her lips pressed together. Before she could say something she really would regret, Draco inclined his head towards the Auror. She subsided, and her foot stilled. Draco breathed out in relief.

Potter, of course, didn't understand Pansy's signals. He'd stopped pacing again, right in front of Draco this time, and was positively bristling. "Neither of you are going anywhere cold and dank, if I have anything to say about it."

"As much as I appreciate your support," Draco drawled, "I don't think it's entirely up to you. The Head Auror might just have a trifle more influence than the Golden Boy."

Pansy snorted, but didn't say anything.

"How long can it take for them to watch memories that have more blurry spots than actual events?" Potter looked so lost that, even though he was sure it was an act, Draco had to restrain himself from offering comfort.

Instead, he asked, "How many times would Granger want to rewatch the interesting bits?"

A flush bloomed high on Potter's cheekbones, and he flattened his fringe over his forehead. "Thanks," he said. "I'd successfully managed to avoid thinking about that until now."

"Any time."

To Draco's surprise, Potter came and sat on the arm of his chair. Peter Whatshisname straightened up, using the hand that wasn't poised over his wand to brush at the air in front of his face. Potter ignored him and slouched down so his head was at the same level as Draco's.

"The waiter?" Potter kept his voice quiet enough that the others couldn't hear.

After a moment's effort, Draco came up with a face and a body stuffed into a too-small uniform. "Had to be," he said.

"Vaguely familiar, too." Potter relaxed, crowding a little further into Draco's space, his shoulder resting against Draco's arm.

Draco knew that the closeness was all about being able to talk without being overheard, but the temptation to touch Potter was incredibly strong. He stretched his fingers and, not knowing what else to do with his hand, shoved it beneath his thigh. In his most whimsical tone, he said, "Paunchy, ugly, and badly groomed. How many wizards could possibly fit that description?"

"Git." Potter dug his elbow into Draco's ribs. "You ought to register that sarcasm as a deadly weapon."

"Pillock."

"Idiots, the both of you." Pansy stood over them, hands on her hips, blocking the Auror's view. "What in Salazar's name do you think that lot will do if they come out of that Pensieve and see you cozying up like a pair of... I don't even know what?"

Potter slipped off the chair arm with gratifying reluctance. "Jealous much, Parkinson?"

She laughed, the sound dark and low. "You wish, Potter."

"Oi," the Auror finally spoke up. "Break it up. They'll be on their way out any minute." He moved to take up a position closer to the Pensieve, and Potter went over to where the Auror had been standing.

Feeling ridiculously nervous, Draco got to his feet and went to stand between Pansy and Potter. She caught his hand and squeezed in the same way she'd been doing since they were kids. He returned the gesture, reassuring her.

Potter's eyes kept flicking between the bug and spider on the wall and the Pensieve. His arms were wrapped so tightly around his torso that he seemed to be hugging himself. Whatever composure Potter had gained over the past few minutes seemed to have vanished in the anticipation of finding out what had really happened.

Not that Draco was calm and collected. In fact, it was taking absolutely every ounce of his self-control to stand there calmly and not to disobey Granger's orders, run over there, and dive head-first into the memories. Or maybe attempt to break through Granger's charms and free his wand from her desk drawer.

Releasing Pansy's hand, Draco checked on Potter again. He found himself looking directly into his green eyes.

Potter mouthed silently, The spider. Seek like a Snitch. Draco nodded, and Potter's lips moved again. Three... Two... One. "Go!"

Adrenaline racing through him, Draco sprang for the wall.

* * *

As Harry leapt for the beetle flying overhead, Malfoy landed halfway up the wall. The beetle fluttered away, its hard frontal wings scraping the tips of Harry's fingers even as they closed on empty air. Keeping his eye on the insect, he began to hunt it in earnest.

On his second attempt, the rasp of a wand being pulled from its holster was almost his undoing. "Stop that at once," Peter said. "Both of you."

It took every ounce of Harry's concentration not to turn around and defend himself against Peter. Instead he focussed on tracking the beetle to its next resting place on the rim of an empty vase.

Parkinson released a high-pitched screech, startling Harry enough that he missed again. And, to add insult to injury, he knocked over the vase, spilling flowers and water everywhere.

"Got you," Malfoy exulted. "And I beat Potter."

Hurdling a low table, Harry launched himself into the air. His hand was closing over his own quarry when he heard Hermione activate the Petrificus they'd built into the protections on her office.

Falling to the ground after being petrified in mid-air, Harry discovered, was inordinately painful. Especially with the bloody beetle landing on his nose. At least he was fairly sure none of his bones were broken, given that he was frozen solid.

He was still lying there, contemplating his revenge upon Hermione, when she leaned over him.

"You better have a very good explanation for demolishing my office," she said.

Identifying the whir of movement in his peripheral vision as her wand moving, he glared at her. One vase, as far as he was concerned, could hardly be considered demolition.

She sighed and brought her wand around to rest it on his chest. Then she bent further down. "Why do you have a beetle on your nose?"

Use that celebrated brain of yours, Harry thought, trying to impress the words into her mind.

Apparently it worked, because Hermione's lips curved into a very Slytherin smirk. She picked up the frozen beetle by one of its hard wings and conjured a perforated glass ball around it. "Oh, Harry, I do believe you've won my case for me."

Not that it's doing me any good right now. He glared at her again.

"All right. I suppose I can let you go," she said. "Although it's nice to know the warding spells work."

"Ow, fuck, ow," he said, the second his muscles attempted to relax. "If you ever do that to me again —"

"Yes, I know," she patted his cheek, "you'll show me what you learned in Auror Training."

Getting to his feet, Harry stretched carefully and looked around the room. Malfoy had been frozen in mid-caper, up on one foot with his hands clasped over his head. On the floor by Hermione's desk, Peter and Parkinson seemed to be in a most compromising position. As for Robards and Savage, they'd both been caught with a confused expression on their faces that made Harry snicker. His eyes returned to Malfoy and to the triangle of bare skin above the waistband of his trousers. For a moment, all he could remember was how that skin had felt when he'd slipped his hands inside Malfoy's robes that night. He licked his lips.

"Are you going to tell me what happened while we were in there?" Hermione came to stand in front of him, her wand in one hand and the glass ball with the bug in the other. "I don't think you'd like it if I had to guess."

"There were two of them in the room." Harry indicated the beetle. "Skeeter and a spider, which has to be another Animagus, because I've never known a spider not try to capture an insect that's sitting within an inch or two of it."

Hermione glanced around the room. "I'm guessing Draco caught the spider."

"Couldn't resist rubbing it in, either." Harry made a face at Malfoy, before he realised what she'd said. "Draco? Since when are you on a first names basis?"

"Since he became my client, and he apologised to me for everything."

"Ap —" A warm feeling in his chest, Harry smiled. "About time."

"That's what he said." She walked over to Malfoy. "Spider's in his hands, I'd guess. Keep them together, Draco. I'm going to release you now, and that spider will be unpetrified as well, since it's touching you."

There was a pause as Malfoy stayed far more still than Harry could ever have managed before he brought his hands down in front of his face and flexed them. "Merlin forsaken bastard," he swore at the spider. "Bite me again, and I'll crush you."

"Give it to me instead." Hermione held out her hand, another perforated ball sat on her palm with the hinged lid open. "I'll make sure that spider gets what it deserves."

Malfoy bared his teeth as he placed the spider into the ball. "I'm beginning to like you, Hermione."

"Likewise, Draco."

"If the solicitor-client love fest is over, can we get on with this? The Aurors do have other cases." Robards strode over to join them, the rest following behind him. He pointed to the two glass balls with his wand. "If you don't mind, Ms Granger."

"Be my guest." Hermione tossed the balls up in the air and stepped back to join the loose circle that they'd formed.

Harry was standing close enough to Malfoy that he could feel his quick intake of breath when Robards Banished the glass balls. A second spell followed in quick order.

The spider and beetle started spinning, distorting, changing, and then Rita Skeeter and a balding man were standing in front of them the floor.

"Eight eyes," Malfoy said. "All those cameras, of course."

Images flashed through Harry's mind: the same man with the same cameras slung around his neck was standing in a room at Hogwarts, in a tent, and in the Ministry bathroom. "Bozo," he said.

"Head Auror Robards." Skeeter clacked her nails against the metal clasp of her purple snakeskin handbag. "I wonder how my readers will react when they learn how the Ministry treats innocent citizens."

"Innocent." Malfoy snorted in disbelief. "Even your readers aren't that gullible."

Robards' nostrils flared, a clear indication that he wasn't happy with the interruption, but he didn't say anything.

Swivelling her head to look at her audience, Skeeter fixed her predatory gaze on Harry. "How does this make you feel, Harry? Knowing that you were betrayed like that?"

"Bugger off," Harry said. "Malfoy didn't betray me." To emphasise the point, he shifted close enough to touch Malfoy's arm with his own. Malfoy, to Harry's relief, returned the gesture with a companionable nudge.

"Well, I certainly didn't." Skeeter sneered. "Then again, you're probably used to duplicity. How many times has Miss Granger broken your heart?"

Harry started to say something, but Robards gave him the 'be silent' signal and Hermione shushed him.

"What a load of Thestral shite." Bozo spoke for the first time. "You can't possibly think anyone would buy it?"

"Why Bozo, dear, is your conscience pricking your thumbs?"

A vein just above Bozo's temple throbbed and his fingers twitched, as if he'd gladly strangle Skeeter. "Merlin, you're a nasty piece of work, aren't you? Creating your own stories. Getting other people to manufacture the evidence needed to support them. All in the name of keeping your name on the front page, and to hell with anyone who gets in your way."

"Is that a confession?" Skeeter gazed at Bozo as if he were a headline embellished with a giant bow. "Auror Robards, be a love and let me reach for my quill."

Before Robards could respond, Bozo tried to leap for Skeeter. He fell on top of her instead. Glass crunched as his cameras were caught between them. "Just stun the waiter, you said, and put this potion in the drinks meant for Potter and Malfoy. And then you blame me? And expect me to roll over and go to Azkaban for you?"

"Savage, Proudfoot, get them up off the floor," Robards said. "Granger, Malfoy, the charges will be dropped as soon as I get these idiots back to the Ministry. As for you —" He turned his gaze on Harry, not saying anything for long enough to send Harry's heart sinking towards his toes. "Take the rest of the week off. You're banned from the Ministry until next Monday."

The thought of several days filled with nothing to do except face Hermione and her helpful intentions sent a shudder through Harry. "But I'm —"

"Banned," Robards said. He moved his wand into the Apparation position.

"I have an Apparation Alcove in reception," Hermione said, pointing to the door. "You'll find that's the only place in my chambers that permits you to Disapparate."

Growling under his breath, Robards left the room.

"And my name isn't Bozo, you... you... you besom, it's Archibald. Archibald Bosworth." Bozo struggled against Savage's grip and the charms holding him as he was shoved out of the room after Robards.

The office was quiet with just the four of them left. Parkinson smoothed down her skirt, patted her hair, and gave Malfoy a kiss on the cheek. "I believe my work is done here," she said, waving her hand as she flounced out.

Thinking that Parkinson was going to grow on him one of these days, Harry said, "She's something else."

"She is that." Malfoy took his wand from Hermione and ran his fingers along its length, all but fondling it. Harry completely understood that sentiment. He himself felt a similar need to ensure his wand was undamaged.

Hermione gave Harry a quick hug and ushered him towards Malfoy and the door. "Gawain is right. The two of you need to talk."

"We talked," Malfoy said.

"That's what got us into all this trouble," Harry added.

"Talk," Hermione repeated. She placed a hand in the middle of each of their backs and pushed them towards reception. When they were standing in the Apparation Alcove, she walked back to her office. Just before she closed the door, she said, "And start using each other's first names."

That odd warmth returned to Harry's chest at the thought of hearing his name in Malfoy's voice, of feeling Malfoy's name on his lips. He shook his head and rubbed his sternum.

Malfoy put his hand on Harry's to stop him. "Is it that hard?" he asked. "You used my name once before."

"And you used mine." Harry hesitated before saying, "Draco." He savoured the name and the almost blissful expression it brought to Malf— Draco's face.

"Harry," Draco said, and Harry's breath hitched. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night, Harry?"

"I... erm... yeah, that would great." Disapparating right after Draco, Harry didn't Splinch himself. Nor did he leave his goofy grin behind.

* * *

Saturday, June 28, 2003: Outside the Merlin Ballroom

Potter's arse was the eighth wonder of the wizarding world, Draco decided as he followed him out the ballroom doors. Then Potter turned around and batted those long black eyelashes at him, and Draco knew he was wrong. The eighth wonder was Potter's eyes, the way they held the light and gleamed so very green. Those were the kind of eyes that poets ought to write about.

"What the fuck," Draco said under his breath as he hurried down the corridor after Potter. Something, somewhere was very wrong. He didn't think thoughts like that, did he? But then Potter turned around and looked at him again, and the candlelight haloed him, and Draco forgot why he'd thought that was so very wrong when Potter deserved absolutely every ode that could be written about him.

"There's nowhere. No room anywhere near good enough." Potter was spinning around in a slow circle at the intersection of two corridors. His robes fluttered, occasionally giving Draco a peek at a pair of legs encased in what had to be custom-fitted boots.

"What to do, what to do?" Potter mumbled, almost to himself, biting his lower lip.

"We could do it here?" Draco moved within inches of Potter, admiring the way his dark red robes flowed and showcased his body. He wanted nothing more than to slide those robes off Potter and see what was lying underneath.

Potter stopped, facing Draco, his eyes wide. "Where everyone can see us?"

The idea of others seeing Potter with or without his clothes made Draco reach for his wand. He held his other hand out to Potter. Wishing that he were one of the lucky souls with permission to Apparate within the Ministry, he said, "Bathrooms are private."

"Perfect," Potter said, tugging on Draco's hand and heading down one of the corridors. "Just like you."

The bathroom should have been marble and gold, instead of tile and steel, but it was clean and empty. The Ministry protections didn't permit Locking spells on public places, but Draco conjured an Out of Order sign — in fourteen languages — and hung it on the door.

When he closed the door and turned around, Potter was leaning against one of the sinks. His robes hung undone, showing off a white cotton shirt and skin-tight black breeches. "Beautiful," Draco said.

Potter blushed and ran a hand through his hair.

Needing to touch him, to savour him, Draco strode over to Potter. He took Potter's right hand and brought it to his lips, tasting the skin, running his tongue over the knuckles.

"Oh," Potter said, and there was wonder in his voice and his eyes. "I never thought —"

"You should have," Draco said, although he hadn't either and could no longer imagine why he hadn't.

He leaned in, still clutching Potter's hand, and kissed him. Potter's mouth opened under his lips. Still clutching his wand, Draco wrapped his right arm around Potter in an awkward embrace. Their kisses were hungry and desperate, drawing them closer, sending shock after shock through Draco. Perfect, the word reverberated through Draco as Potter held on to him as if for dear life.

"You." Potter's breath was warm against Draco's cheek. "How did you do that with just a kiss?"

"Kissing you," Draco said, his lips moving against the spot just behind Potter's ear. "Of course."

Potter moaned and tilted his head to give Draco better access. His skin tasted of caramel, of the sharpness that filled the air after a thunderstorm, and — Draco sucked thoughtfully — a muskiness that reminded him of Quidditch.

"So good." He licked the bead of sweat that sat in the notch at the base of Potter's throat and began to slowly undo his shirt. As he slipped each button free, he slithered down Potter's body and kissed the bared skin, catching chest hairs between his teeth and tugging gently. He took extra time with Potter's belly button, circling it and fucking it with his tongue, moving his jaw and rubbing it against Potter's cock beneath his breeches. Occasionally, he peered up through his eyelashes so he could see Potter's face.

"God, oh god." Potter's head went back, exposing his neck, and he dug his hands into Draco's hair. His hips began to rotate, to push against Draco's jaw.

Draco moved from a crouch to his knees, easing the pressure on his own cock, and mouthed the spot in Potter's breeches where the head of Potter's cock was pushing against the fabric. No pants, he realised, and need sizzled in his bollocks, jolted through his cock.

"Please, Malfoy."

Hearing his surname was like a Cooling charm splashing through him. Draco bit Potter's cock lightly through the fabric and said, "Draco. My name is Draco." Then he sucked the now damp spot, hitting the edge of orgasm already just from the concentrated taste and smell of Potter.

"Draco." Potter moaned the last syllable. He gasped as he added, "You... oh... call me Harry."

Joy shot through Draco at the permission being granted so easily. "Harry," he said, curling his tongue around the word.

"Harry," he repeated and ran his lips up and down the outline of Harry's cock.

"Harry," he said one last time when he realised what the more was that he needed. "Turn around, Harry."

"Anything." Harry drew his hands out of Draco's hair, letting the strands fall back, and did as he was told. More, in fact, as he shrugged off his robes and tossed them to one side.

Shuffling backwards, Draco took Harry by the hips and guided him into place. He tugged Potter's shirt free of his breeches and slid his hands underneath. Potter's skin was soft and hot. A sigh left Draco's lips as he moved his hands upwards as far as he could and bumped his fingertips over Harry's ribs. Each sound he drew from Harry, each scratch of his fingernails over Harry's skin sent a shock like spellfire from Draco's fingers to his balls.

Harry pushed back into Draco. "Bastard," he chanted and, "fuck."

His breeches fit him so very well, but getting them down was a struggle, requiring Harry to wriggle and Draco to work. By the time Draco had them down to Harry's knees and realised that they'd forgotten about the boots, he gave up. It was enough. It would have to be.

He encouraged Harry to hold his shirttails up, to spread his legs, and tilt his hips, rewarding every movement with a kiss to the soft skin of Harry's arse. He ran a hand between Harry's legs to fondle his balls.

"You're touching yourself."

"You weren't," Harry said.

Draco could hear the grin in Harry's voice and repaid it by replacing Harry's hand with his own, squeezing as he pressed his lips to the top of Harry's cleft. He felt Harry's deep groan all the way to his toes.

"Not enough." Harry rolled his hips and thrust his arse into Draco's face.

Using his thumbs, Draco spread Harry's arse cheeks. The muscles of his pucker twitched, and Draco almost let him go so he could palm his own cock. He licked his lips and inhaled, leaned forward and—

FLASH

"I wonder if I could have a word with you, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy. A little something to go with that glorious picture of the two of you."

* * *

Wednesday, July 8, 2003: The Daily Prophet, Outed