Fic Repost: We Are Young (HP, Harry/Draco, NC-17) 2/2

[femme]

Title: We Are Young (I'll Carry You Home Tonight)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry and Draco have been falling into bed on and off again since the last election five years ago, much to the amusement--and financial gain--of their circle of friends. But when Harry agrees to work with Draco to put Kingsley Shacklebolt into the Minister's office, they can't work side-by-side again every day and sleep together; that would be courting disaster. Wouldn't it?
Rating: NC17
Warning(s): Emotional roller coasters, intense friendships, UST and sex and UST and sex, voyeurism, desperate kisses, Wizengamot elections, ongoing wagers, policy wonks behaving badly, mention of war crimes and police brutality, kittens, Blaise-as-Malcolm-Tucker, some bisexuality, lots of profanity (see Blaise-as-Malcolm-Tucker), the odd West Side Story reference.
Epilogue compliant? Mostly EWE.
Word Count: ~69,000
Author's Notes: Written for taradiane for the 2011 hd_holidays. Huge thanks to the mods for their patience and understanding (and to the delivery people from the Thai restaurant around the corner whose pan-fried basil beef and rice noodles fueled the great majority of this story). My betas absynthedrinker, sassy_cissa, wemyss, and supergrover24 deserve a huge shout-out for all they did to make this fic hang together, and I need to give enormous hugs and great love to the amazing noeon, who was alpha, beta and omega, cheerleader, Muse and taskmaster, and without whom this fic would not exist--in this form or any. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to the writers of the television shows Party Animals, The Thick of It and The West Wing (and, I suppose I should admit, to an adulthood of watching Richard Curtis movies), all of which informed and inspired my own writing to various extents. And a nod to the band fun. for the title.

This story is a love letter not only to a few places in London which are special to me for one reason or another but also to Harry and Draco themselves, who will always hold a deeply meaningful place in my heart, and to those of you reading who love them as well. Buckle up, darlings, it’s going to be a bumpy ride at times, but we’ll get there in one piece. Mostly. :)

To Part One



- Autumn 2010 -

I leave Government three weeks after Draco moves out of the flat. Neither Kingsley nor Zabini is happy with me, though they halfheartedly accept my excuse for resignation--that the publicity around the inquest and my past mistakes in the Auror force were making it difficult for me to adequately do my work. We all know that's utter bollocks. Draco and I can barely look at each other, much less speak to each other

Kingsley levels an appraising glance at me when I hand over my letter of resignation. "This is more about Draco Malfoy, isn't it?" he asks. I don't answer, and he sighs. "You'll go back to the Trust then?"

In the end, I do, but Aisha doesn't take me back on in my former capacity. In truth, I don't ask her to. I take a role as founder and consultant to the Trust because she's a much better manager than I'll ever be. I take a cut in pay; Aisha's doing most of the work, so she deserves a higher paycheque. Besides, I've my parents' vault in Gringotts to keep living off of and not all of Sirius's legacy was put into the Trust. Aisha keeps my old office as head of the Trust, and I convert one of the small meeting rooms into a workspace. It's not as grand as my office in the Ministry, but it has a window that I can lean out of for a view of the Gherkin, and it feels as if perhaps I've come home, at least a little. I hang my Order of Merlin, and the framed front page of the Prophet from the morning after the election, the one with the photo of Kingsley speaking at the victory party, Zabini, Draco and I behind him, looking properly chuffed. It's the only photograph of Draco I keep. The others go into a box, tucked away in the back of my wardrobe.

The flat feels empty and odd without him. Mimsy curls up beside me the moment I come home from work, miaowing softly at me as I sit on the sofa, watching telly and drinking bottle after bottle of lager. It's not the same, though, without Draco's acerbic commentary mixed with that of the panelists on Have I Got News For You or his mocking me for watching Jedward: Let Loose. I can't even think about how empty my bed feels when I finally get up and wander into my bedroom, Mimsy stretching with a wide pink yawn and padding behind me. I lie awake for hours, with her settled on my shoulder, nudging my cheek with her tiny paw. We're both lonely, the two of us, even though Draco'd told me he'd left her with me so I wouldn't be. Idiot. As much as I adore the damned cat, she's not him.

In September, Aisha drags me to her parents' house in Bethnal Green for Eid. "You've been too gloomy, Harry," she says, standing at the front door of my flat, and she waits until I put on a proper suit. I don't want to go. I want to sit in my flat in my pants and watch footie. Instead I find myself in a warm kitchen, surrounded by plate upon plate of food and a laughing, happy family that welcomes me with open arms and cries of "Eid mubarak". It feels like the Burrow used to on holidays, before Gin and I broke up and the Weasleys stopped having me, although Molly hated to do it, because things were too awkward. For one night, I'm almost happy again, and I can even laugh when Aisha's mother subtly suggests she might know a nice Persian boy I might like.

My one other bright spot of the month is when Ron tells me over lunch that I needn't worry about Pansy any more. "I've taken care of it," he says calmly as he nicks one of my chips. "And I'm pretty sure Nott will be spending some time out of the country for a while. Bill called in a favour at Gringotts for me."

I'm glad. Very glad.

Ron comes over on the weekends to keep me company. We don't talk about Draco--I've made it clear I don't want to, but at the beginning of October, he's late for one of our dinners. I assume something's come up and go ahead and eat most of the now-cold pizza I've ordered for us, settling down to listen to the Portree-Harpies Quidditch match on the WWN whilst riffling through the notes for a new prisoner's case Aisha had handed me Friday just before she left work. She wants me to use some of my Government contacts to push through the release of a seventy-two-year-old wizard who doesn't look as if he'll last through the winter this year.

It's nearly eleven when Ron lands in my Floo, still in his red and grey Auror robes, rumpled and flushed and looking incredibly pleased with himself. He holds up two bottles of extraordinarily expensive firewhisky as he clambers through the hearth. "We got him."

"Who?" I put down my files.

His grin widens as he heads for the kitchen. "Bastard who went after Kingsley. It took me two and a half fucking months, but I knew I'd find the place he made a mistake. They always do. Where're your glasses?"

I follow him into the kitchen. "Left cabinet, top shelf. Who was it?"

Ron pulls down two glasses and opens the firewhisky, pouring two fingers into each glass before handing me one. "Dawlish."

"Dawlish?" I nearly drop my glass. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. A slow grin spreads over my face.

Ron nods and finishes his whisky, then pours two fingers more. "I thought it might be. I just couldn't say anything until I knew for certain. I had to follow a trail back to him, sneaky bastard. He used an old covert account that only he had access to. I knew I'd seen this weird little time stamp on a document before and combed through four years of data to find a document linking Dawlish to it." He looks at me. "Four years, Harry. Do you know how fucking annoying that was? I was certain he'd catch on before I found him."

"You," I say, impressed, "are quite an Auror."

"Yeah, well." Ron looks pleased. He wanders back into the sitting room and picks up a piece of pizza. "Your Malfoy seems to think so."

I sit down on the sofa, the bottle of firewhisky in my hand. I pour another glass. "He's not my Malfoy any longer. If he ever was."

Ron just gives me a long look, then shrugs. "He told Kingsley I'd make a good Head Auror. Kingsley agreed."

It takes a moment for me to realise what he's actually saying. "Holy shit, Ron."

"You, mate, are eating cold pizza with the new Head of the Auror force." Ron beams at me. "Youngest in two hundred and seventy-nine years."

"Nothing but the best for the Ministry." I laugh. "Seriously, Ron, that's amazing. Congratulations!" We clink glasses.

At least something good's come out of all this.

***

It's through Hermione and Zabini that I know what's happening in Whitehall--well, mostly through Hermione, though sometimes Zabini joins us for lunch, usually to harass me for being such a cocksucking coward for leaving Government at its hour of need. Complete bullshit, of course, at least for now. Kingsley's stronger than ever, having survived the confidence motion, and McLaird's off licking his wounds. Rumour has it that he's even thinking of leaving the Wizengamot for a thinktank in Europe, which would mean a change in leadership for the Pomps--and about time, I think. Penrose is being particularly kind to the Mods, which puts Zabini on a constant edge. Part of me suspects Penrose is just trying to fuck with Zabini, which makes me like the Omp bastard a little more. Whatever the case, the Omps are playing nice for now, and some significant pieces of legislation are up in committee.

Lucius is doing better, Hermione tells me. I'm glad, I have to admit, as much as I dislike Draco's father. Still, my hip aches when the weather changes, and the chill of autumn is settling into my new bones. I can only imagine what it must be for him. When he takes his seat again at the beginning of November, I go, standing in the Strangers' Gallery to watch him limp in, his hand clenched tight around the silver serpent head of his black cane. He looks up, and our eyes meet. He nods, but it's not until he looks past me and a smile curves his thin lips that I turn and realise Draco's four rows behind me, Zabini at his side.

Draco looks at me, and there's a flash of something in his eyes, before the mask falls again. I want to go to him, want to talk to him. Instead I stand there, silently, and he turns away, like I'm just somebody he used to know. Zabini sighs, shaking his head at me, and then they're both gone.

Over a cup of tea in Hermione's office later, I ask her about Draco. "Is he happy?" I have to know.

She doesn't answer for a long moment, then she sighs. "He seems to be." She bites her bottom lip. "Astoria's nice."

"I know. I've always liked her."

Hermione looks at me gently. "Are you all right?"

No, I want to say. No, I miss him. No, I feel like I've lost a part of my body, a part of me, and I don't know what to do any more other than to just get up each morning, put my clothes on and sleepwalk through the day, and no one, none of my friends can seem to see how I'm drowning, how wrong everything is in my life now that he's gone, how I've lost the one person who was my constant, and this time, he's not coming back.

Instead, I just smile as best I can, even if it doesn't reach my eyes, and say, "Of course."

She studies me. "You're lonely."

"I've been lonelier."

Hermione touches my hand. "You were going to ask Tony Goldstein to dinner once. He's still not seeing anyone, you know. It might be good if you went out with someone."

The curse of having friends in relationships is their annoying habit of insisting that everything in your life will be miraculously better if only you were dating. It doesn't matter if that's the last thing you actually want. They want you to be happy, just like them. Bastards all.

"I'm fine, Hermione," I say. She doesn't look convinced.

I go home and drink myself to unconsciousness. Halfway through the night I wake up, barely making it to the side of the bed before I sick up. Mimsy watches me in concern, reaching out to bat my bare shoulder with her paw. I shout at her, my words still slurring, shoving her away from me, and she cowers under my hand before dashing out of the room. Somehow I manage to Vanish the sick from the floor before collapsing back on the bed.

The next morning I have a wretched headache, and when I go to the kitchen to feed Mimsy, she's nowhere to be found. I go through the whole flat, calling her, only to discover her curled in the corner of Draco's old room, a sock he'd left behind clutched between her small paws. I sink down beside her, and she only flinches once as I pull her into my arms, stroking her soft fur lightly.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, and she rubs her tiny face against my cheek. "I miss him too."

When the tears finally seep out, I bury my face against her belly, breathing her in. The quiet rumble of her purr calms me. We sit there for what seems like hours, both of us lost in our grief.

That night I firecall Tony and ask him to dinner.

He says yes.


- 5 December, 2010 -

I fall back against the bed, the sheets twisted around my hips. Tony lies gasping next to me, his thighs still spread wide, my spunk smeared across his arsecheeks, his own streaking his taut stomach.

"Fuck," he says finally, and I just laugh. It's been all right, dating Tony. Comfortable. Reliable. I like him, I think--at least well enough to have dinner and a shag twice a week or so. Maybe Hermione was right. I might not be happy, but I'm not unhappy either, and maybe that's the best one can expect from life.

Still, we always end up in his flat in Kennington, not mine. I don't seem to be able to bring him there.

He goes to the loo to clean up and I lie against his rumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain outside. His room is tidy, far tidier than mine. There are four bookshelves on one wall, crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers both--and that's only in one room of his flat. I don't think I've owned that many books in my life. My breath evens out and then Tony returns, throwing a warm flannel at me. I wipe at the drying spunk on my cock and hips, then reach for the y-fronts I shed near the door an hour ago. I Summon my jeans. Christ knows where they ended up.

"We've got to talk," Tony says finally, as I'm buttoning my jeans. I raise an eyebrow at him. This violates our usual pattern, in which I get dressed and we snog at the door and then see each other in a few more days.

"Talk? About what?" I sit on the edge of the bed, my long-sleeved black Manic Street Preachers t-shirt in my hands. The silkscreened torso and roses on it are twisted between my fingers in folds of white and red.

Tony shrugs. "About us, really, although perhaps that's a bit of a misnomer." He pulls on a pair of old Ravenclaw trackie bottoms. I can almost hear Draco's mocking drawl in my head.

"What are you on about, Tony?" I'm genuinely confused now. Not to mention wary. In my experience talking about ‘us' never leads to anything good.

"I think it's time for us to take some time off," he says, watching my face closely.

There's a hole where my surprise should be. I lick my lips. I pull my t-shirt over my head. I don't look at him when my head pops through, my hair wild and rumpled. "Okay. I mean, if that's what you want. Have I done something wrong?"

Tony shakes his head, his sandy brown hair falling into his face. He's really quite fit. "No. Not really. You're entertaining, good in bed. I quite like you and I think I could even like you more."

"Then...why?" I can't seem to argue with him, but I feel like I'm missing something important.

"Because I don't share well," Tony says finally. "Especially not with ghosts."

That makes no bloody sense, and I'm beginning to get irritated. "Does this actually have a point somewhere? I mean, if you're kicking me to the kerb, perhaps you should give me a reason to go, not maudlin psychobabble." This is what I get for going out with a Mind Healer.

He shakes his head incredulously. "You don't even know, do you?"

"Know what?" I should think it's pretty bloody evident in my tense shoulders and blinking eyes that I've no clue. Christ.

Tony looks almost sympathetic. "That when Draco left you, half of you went with him, maybe more."

I want to shout, to rage at him, to scream Of course I know that, I know you sodding great fool. I live with it every day. But you're not supposed to know that. "Oh," is all I say.

"Yeah," he says. He has his Mind Healer tone on right now, and it's all I can do not to deck him. "And that's okay, I mean, it's been fun and all. But I think we should probably stop things here or I'll begin to get offended. It seems I can't really be as casual about you as I thought." He gives me a wry smile. "Sorry."

I nod. "Fair enough." I lace my belt through my belt loops, then look for my socks. I'm not even angry. I'm just tired and not really prepared for either a declaration of not-love or a deep glimpse into my shattered psyche. This was supposed to just be...I don't even know. But not this. I'm not interested in anything more profound than a nice dinner and a decent fuck.

Tony pulls a shirt on as I find my shoes. He walks with me to the door. I fumble around, looking for my coat and scarf, finding them both finally draped over the arm of the sofa. I turn back. "You're probably right," I say. "And I'm sorry. You do deserve better."

"Shut up, Potter," Tony says, his voice gentle. "I'm breaking up with you. For your own fucking good, sadly." He gives me a longing look, then pushes me. "Go, you big lug, before I regret my sudden burst of altruism."

I give him a small smile, although my heart is alternately cracking and seething. "Thanks, Tony."

He hands me an umbrella. I go.

***

From Tony's flat, I walk down Kennington Lane, past Vauxhall station. I think about taking the Tube back out to Stepney, but I'm not ready to go home. Not yet. Not even in the rain. My mind is still whirling. Instead, I take a right onto the Albert Embankment, walking down the steps to wander along the Thames. The last time I'd walked this route, I realise, was the night I'd kissed Draco back in April.

The rain's cold, and I'm grateful for my black wool pea-coat and the long grey cashmere scarf wrapped twice around my neck, the ends still hanging to the hem of my coat. Draco'd given it to me last Christmas, before Susan had sent me scampering off into exile. I finger the edge; the yarn is soft and warm against my skin. Above me the lights strung along the Embankment's stone wall between the enormous iron lampposts glow milky white against the dark sky. Rain strikes the stretched fabric of the umbrella, beating out a soft rhythm, then splashing against the pavement at my feet, shaping into puddles.

This current exile isn't Astoria's fault, this much I know. She'd always liked me when they were dating before, and she'd known what my relationship with Draco had been. She never told me to go before or been anything less than welcoming. I can't imagine that she'd be the one who was keeping me at arm's length. This time, I'm certain, is my fault. And his. I've done something, or not done something, that's changed everything. But I don't know what it is.

It'd started so simply, this horrid madness of Draco and me. Kingsley had won his first seat. We'd been out until the wee hours of the morning, celebrating with as much whisky and lager as we could down. Both of us had fallen asleep in a DMLE conference room, only waking up when a group of Aurors had come in for a meeting after lunch. They'd chucked our hungover selves out, and we'd downed sobering potions and gone down Whitehall in search of any hole in the wall that might still be willing to serve up a full English at four in the afternoon. Instead we'd settled on a chippy in Strutton Ground, stuffing ourselves with as much greasy fish and potatoes as we could stand before we'd walked through Westminster, the sun warm on our faces, laughing, our spirits higher than they'd been in weeks.

I stop, sitting on one of the wet wood and iron benches, not caring how the water soaks my jeans. Westminster Palace is lit up just down the Thames from me, golden light that seems to shimmer in the rain and fog, falling across the river-water. Behind me I can hear the whoosh of tyres against wet streets. A few tourists run past me, laughing and shrieking, cheap umbrellas turning inside out.

We'd found ourselves here, that day, on this Embankment, sitting on a bench just like this until the sun began to set behind Parliament. Dusk settled softly around us as we talked in streaks of pink and gold, and then Draco'd looked at me with that small smile of his, and his fingers had brushed my knee. We'd fallen silent. Down the Embankment, the London Eye had circled, its lights gleaming against the deepening blue sky. A magpie had chattered in the leafy branches above us, and I'd suddenly felt a premonition of disaster, a flash of my world shifting, falling, imploding around me.

And so I'd done the only thing I could: I'd kissed Draco Malfoy.

He'd caught me, both hands on my face as my heart lurched, his grey eyes wide, and then he was kissing me back, and the world had righted itself. I don't know how long we'd sat there, kissing slowly, carefully, deeply, but when we'd finally pulled away, Draco was looking at me, his eyes bright, his fingers brushing across his mouth.

"I'm not taking Kingsley's job offer," I'd said in a rush. "I'm going to set up a Trust instead. Work on prisoner's rights."

"Are you, then." He'd just smiled at me, then leant in again and kissed me, his fingers tangling in my messy hair. No one had ever kissed me the way Draco had. No one ever has. I could lose myself in his mouth, even now in just the memory of it on mine.

"How convenient," he'd murmured against my lips.

I'd let him push me back against the bench. It hadn't mattered who was walking by, what they were saying. We were oblivious to them all. This time when we'd pulled away, breathless, he'd run his fingers down the side of my face, and the look in his eyes had made a shudder of need go through me, a willingness to see where this rabbit hole led. "A proposition, Potter?" he'd asked. "You and me. In bed. No strings, no ties. Just everything both of us are wanting right now. Just us and nothing else."

How could I say no? I've asked myself that question over and over. Every time he leaves my bed. Every time he comes back. Even now when I don't know who I am any longer, or why I've let myself get hurt this deeply.

But it's not just sex between us. Everyone thinks that. Everyone jokes about it. But it's not. It never has been--not for me. As much as I knew I'd get my heart broken, I didn't care. What they don't know, what I'm just realising, is that Draco Malfoy is my best friend. Not Ron. Not Hermione. They'll always be close to me, always be dear, always be my oldest friends, but Draco knows me like no one else ever has, or ever will.

I sit here, stunned at the realisation, as rain pours down around me, washing away my illusions and numb self-pity. I went running headlong into disaster. More fool I.

And yet, how could I have done otherwise? I never could hide anything from him. Except for how I felt.

I know then. I understand what Tony was trying to say to me. I've never told Draco he's such an enormous part of me. I've never even admitted it to myself. Afraid he'd say no, I never gave him a chance to.

With shaking hands, I pull my mobile out of my pocket and press a few numbers. When Hermione answers, I blurt out, "I'm in love with Draco."

She's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs. "Oh, Harry. I was hoping you wouldn't realise. At least until after the wedding."

I'm silent. I can't speak. My heart's a tumult of emotions. Pain. Shock. Grief. Joy. And an overwhelming feeling that's been there all along, and that I can only now name. "I love him, Hermione." My throat closes up.

The line crackles and pops, then Hermione asks, "Where are you?"

"The Albert Embankment," I manage to choke out.

"Stay there." And then she's gone.

I stare out over the Thames, watching the barges pass. A few, even this early in Advent are decked out with Christmas lights. My heart's broken--and yet strangely whole. I love him.

"I love him," I whisper. The words still feel strange on my lips, like a forbidden spell. I close my umbrella and stand, letting the rain and wind whip through my hair. I walk to the stone wall and lean out over it, over the river. "I love him." It's a shout, carried out over the water and tumbling air. I feel a wild laugh bubbling up within me, a strange tickle in my chest that feels like the wings of a bird trying to fly. It explodes into a whoop of joy, and I wheel around, my scarf whipping around me.

And then the soaring joy fades, sinking back under the weight of reality, the timelessness of the stone and the dark night. He doesn't love me.

There's a crack of Apparition, and then Hermione's there, and she pulls me to her, her arms closing around me, as I bury my face against her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispers.

I am too, rent asunder by regret and lack of hope.

The rain falls harder, washing away my tears.



- 8 December, 2010 -

I don't go to the office for three days. I firecall Aisha to tell her I have food poisoning, but to be honest, I'm lying under an old plaid blanket on Hermione's sofa with Mimsy curled on top of me. Every few hours Hermione tries to get food into me. I seem to be able to manage soup and tea. I never knew being in love could feel like this. I wish I could sick it up and be done with it.

Hermione smoothes back my hair, and Mimsy growls softly at her. The little one's fiercely protective of me right now, but Hermione's beginning to win her over with small shreds of the chicken that I can't choke down.

The sixth time I put one of Hermione's Smiths albums on to play, she takes the remote away from me. "There's a line between depression," she says, "and self-indulgence, and you've certainly crossed it. Have some more fucking soup." She puts her hand over her mouth, a surprised expression on her face, but I've already caught her out. Zabini is rubbing off on her.

"Language," I mumble, and I press my face in Mimsy's soft belly. She stretches in my hands and purrs, batting at my hair with her pink and white paws.

On Wednesday morning, Hermione comes downstairs fully dressed. "I simply must go into the office today," she says. "Berwicke's beginning to question why I'm working from home."

I wave a hand over the back of the sofa. "I'll just be lying here when you get back. If I'm lucky, I might actually be dead."

Hermione leans over me. "You don't die of heartbreak, Harry. You just wish you did. I should know."

"Yeah." I tuck her hair back behind her ear for her. "I know." I'd spent two weeks with her when Ron'd broken her heart. She'd been almost catatonic, even though she was the one who'd called things off. I suppose I'm not doing as badly, although that admission injures my melodramatic self-importance. And I still feel like hell.

She kisses my forehead. "There's soup in the refrigerator. Heat it up in four hours."

I nod. We both know I won't.

After she's gone, I manage to push myself off the sofa long enough to slouch into the loo for a slash and a splash of water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and wish I hadn't. I haven't washed my hair in three days, and it's mutated into its own life form. There's the beginnings of a scraggly beard, and my eyes are bloodshot and shadowed. It's not attractive.

Grimly, I clean my teeth, although I don't know whose toothbrush is in the guest loo. I can only pray it's not Zabini's. I think about a shaving charm, but if I miss and Hermione comes home to me with scabs on my throat, she'll have me in St Mungo's in a heartbeat.

I shuffle back to the sofa and sit down, flipping the telly to BBC Breakfast. At least it's innocuous. Mostly. Mimsy and I sit there blankly watching. By the time we reach Cash in the Attic, my bum's going numb. I'm arguing with Mimsy about whether or not Aled Jones is fit--a new low in my depressed state on so many levels--when I hear the rattle of Hermione's Floo.

"You didn't trust me with the soup, did you?" I call out. "I told you I could manage."

"I wouldn't trust you with a fucking Squib-safe balls-warming charm right now," Zabini drawls from the doorway. "You couldn't manage a hand job on a randy Flobberworm, the state you're in."

Shit. I sigh. Hermione's been keeping Zabini away for the past couple of days on the (all too true) excuse that my nerves can't handle his insults. "That, I can assure you, is not true. Well. The hand job part. Not the Flobberworm."

"Vince tried that once," Zabini says. "Fucking waste of space--don't tell Drac--" He breaks off with a grimace.

"Yeah, not so much," I say. "I think I have better chances with a Flobberworm."

Zabini sets a takeaway bag on the coffee table. "I'll ring Hagrid up after lunch then, shall I--best to give him time to finish wanking his dog--but first you're going to eat."

"I've missed you, Zabini," I say dryly. "You arsehole." Something smells amazing and for the first time in days my stomach rumbles.

"Kisses to you too, cocksucker." Zabini unpacks the bag, handing me a polystyrene box that reeks of garlic. My mouth waters, and when he pulls out two bottles of bitter, I consider tonguing him. "Fuck soup," he says. "Real men eat kebab."

For a few minutes there's just the sounds of us eating--and Mimsy miaowing pitifully for scraps. I pinch off a bit of lamb from the centre and let her eat it from my palm.

"You spoil that rat." Zabini takes a large swig of bitter.

I look over at him. "Shut up. She's hungry and she takes care of me."

"Christ knows someone ought to." Zabini eyes me. I know he wants something because he doesn't mock me further.

I put down my bottle. "Zabini. Why are you here? I'm almost a hundred percent certain Hermione didn't send you by to check on me."

"You're going to be standing next to Kingsley on Friday when he announces an entire fucking radical overhaul of the penal justice system, including a full audit of those sheepfuckers at Azkaban and a fucking moratorium on the Dementor's Kiss so the bloody wigs can look at the legality of it. And it falls on my overworked and far too underpaid for this shite shoulders to make sure you don't look like a fucking lovesick tit while you do so. Because that would be a fucking embarrassment, letting your lack of Malfoy cock up your arse undermine the gravitas of the Minister for Magic." Zabini picks up his kebab again, licking his fingers. "Which first means getting you into a fucking shower, Potter. Christ, you smell like explosive diarrhea from a dog's arse." He takes a bite of lamb.

I can't stop looking at him. "You are not serious."

"It's true," Zabini says through a mouthful of kebab. "My aunt kept hounds and they got into a rotten haggis once. Nasty business. Had to put one of the stupid fucks down. And you smell worse."

"I meant about the overhaul." My nose wrinkles.

Zabini finishes off his bitter. "No, Potter. I just decided to risk going fuckless for weeks--and trust me, that's quite a fucking sacrifice given how fucking brilliant Hermione's fann--"

"Shut up," I say, warningly, and Zabini rolls his eyes.

"Fucking Gryffindors. The one fucking good thing I have to say about you is that you're not half-bad in bed. Once you shut the fuck up." He steals my beer and takes a drink, over my protests. "Paid for it, get to fucking drink it if I feel like it. But yes, Potter. For some Dumbledore only knows why reason, Kingsley still wants your sorry, cowardly arse up on the ceremonial dais with him when announces his new prison policy."

I hesitate. I have to ask. "Will Draco be there?" I don't know if I want him to be or not.

"And Babbity Rabbity and the fucking cackling stump too, arsehole. Everybody and their uncle's whore is going to be there."

"I'm not going," I say finally.

"Oh, fucking Christ on a goddamned raft of angels." Zabini gives me an exasperated look. "Potter, the Minister for arsefucking Magic has demanded your presence. Pull your finger out of your twat and man up."

My stomach churns. "I can't."

Zabini looks at me for a long moment, and then he sets down my bottle of beer and pushes himself out of the chair to sit on the sofa next to me. "I wish you'd fucking fight for him."

That's not what I'm expecting to hear. "What the fuck do you mean, Zabini?" My blood's pounding in my ears.

"Don't get me wrong," Zabini says, and his voice's quieter than I've ever heard. "I think Astoria's a decent lass, whatever that fucking means. But she's not you, and as much as it fucking kills me to say it, I think you're the man for the job where Draco's concerned."

Mimsy squirms across my thighs, digging her claws into my skin. I pet her absently. "I don't think that's true. He's the one who left."

"He doesn't know what the fuck he wants," Zabini says tightly. "And he's going to bugger up his life trying to get it."

I just look at him.

Zabini sighs. "There's an engagement party this Saturday."

My heart shatters into a pile of bloody shards. "Oh."

"Don't you fucking dare," Zabini growls. "This is your fault. If you'd asked him to fucking stay with you, he would have. He wanted you, but you didn't have the balls to keep him. Now that he can't have you, he thinks he has to fucking marry this girl for familial duty." Zabini spits out the words. "And of all the fucked-up things he has done for his pathetic excuse for a family--and I say that advisedly--this could possibly the fucking worst of all because it will ruin him."

"I--"

Zabini sticks a finger in my face. "Shut up. Just shut your fucking gob, you stupid little shit. I love Draco like you can't even fucking imagine, and I've never seen him this bad. He's fucking willing to throw his life away, to spend the next fucking fifty years in a lie. And not because his bog roll of a father even wants it, but because you said no, Harry-Shit for Brains-Potter."

"I didn't say no," I say, shocked.

"Well you fucking well didn't say yes, did you?" Zabini snarls at me. "He was terrified at losing his father, and the fucking idiot thought, in his very analytic Draco way, that if he could only be better, things wouldn't be so dangerous. And the worst thing is, only you can fucking understand what it's like. That's always set you two twats apart. You've both always had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Maybe you can stop saving other people and save yourselves."

I'm silent. I don't know what to say. What to think even.

Zabini stands up, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. "The only thing that keeps you fucking idiots from being together is your own stupid inability to admit you're already together. Although everyone around you already fucking knows it. And if you let him do this, if you let him pretend he's someone he's not until he doesn't have a fucking choice any more, I will fucking flay your skin from your cowardly bones and wear it as a robe to his fucking wedding. If you love him, Potter, if you really love him the way Hermione assures me you do, you'll tell him. Be a fucking Gryffindor, for Christ's sake. Jesus. What is the fucking world coming to?" He Vanishes our empty takeaway containers. "Now get off your lazy arse and get into the fucking shower. You have a two o'clock fitting at Twilfit and Tattings."

Shaking, I push myself to my feet and stumble towards the loo. I'm going to do what he says. I don't have anything left in me with which to object.


- 10 December, 2010 -

Somehow I make it to the Ministry on time. I'm showered. My hair's washed and relatively tidy. I'm dressed in the clothes Zabini made me buy two days earlier: a perfectly tailored charcoal wool waistcoat and trousers over a crisp white shirt--French cuffs fastened with small platinum and ruby cuff links--and a dark red silk tie. My over-robe's a matching charcoal wool frock coat, cut to be worn open. It fits my broad shoulders perfectly and is incredibly comfortable to wear. Even my black boots are polished until they gleam.

In his office, Zabini eyes me speculatively. "Turn," he says curtly, and I do.

"Well?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He leans in and sniffs me. "Aftershave, even, Potter? Impressive." He purses his mouth and looks me over one more time. "If you don't tighten a certain Malfoy's trousers, I'll wank Aberforth Dumbledore's favourite goat. Bastard'll have wet pants all day."

"I thought this wasn't about Draco," I say, even though I'll admit I'm a bit pleased.

"When it comes to you, everything's about Draco." Zabini plants his hand firmly between my shoulder blades. "And now it's fucking showtime, Potter. You're going to go out there, smile like the pretty girl you are for the nice flashy cameras, and if I tell you to drop on your knees and suck off the Minister for Magic, that's what you'll fucking do, do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," I say dryly. "Although he might have something to say about it."

Zabini gives me a shove towards the door. "Good lad."

We walk out into the corridor together, and take the lift down to the Atrium. My palms are sweating, and I'm certain I'm going to sick up. I don't want to do this. On Level Six, I think about dashing from the lift, but Zabini narrows his eyes at me as if he can read my every tremor.

"Don't even fucking consider it," he murmurs, and instead I shuffle to one side to let a rotund wizard with outrageous side whiskers into the lift, practising my best smile on him.

Hermione's waiting for us when we step off the lift. "Are you all right?" she asks softly, and I shake my head. Zabini opens his mouth and she stops him with one hand raised. "If you even start, Blaise..."

Zabini sulks at her. "I wasn't going to--"

"Yes, you were." The look she gives him is stern but affectionate. She leans in and kisses him quickly. "If you're good," she says quietly, but not as quietly as I'd like. "Very, very good, I'll do that thing you want me to do to your cock."

He considers. "I'll fucking think about it."

I glare at them both. "Not as long as I'm on the sofa."

"You've a fucking flat, Potter," Zabini says evenly. "Go depress your own bloody sofa."

Glenn, Kingsley's personal aide, scurries towards us. He looks as rabbitty as he did when I first met him. It feels like a century ago, not eight months. "The Minister's waiting," he says, but Zabini reaches out and flicks his forehead. Glenn yelps and rubs his hand across the red mark. For a moment I feel bad for the bastard, until I remember how bloody incompetent he can be at times.

"No shit." Zabini stalks past him, his robe fluttering. Glenn wrings his hands and hurries to catch up, muttering something about the media.

I look at Hermione. She smiles at me. "You look wonderful, Harry," she says.

"Yeah?" I tug at my waistcoat. I'm not used to wearing one, but Zabini had insisted. "I feel a right tit."

She slides an arm through my elbow. "And you look very ministerial. Kingsley will be pleased."

We're halfway across the Atrium when I see a flash of pale blond hair past the line of media types, and I tense. Hermione squeezes my arm, and I take a deep breath. This isn't anything, I tell myself. He doesn't know how I feel, and I don't care what Zabini says, he won't ever know. It's better this way. "Best to just rip the plaster off, right?" I murmur.

Hermione glances sympathetically over at me. "Sometimes, yes."

Kingsley greets me warmly--and not just for the sake of the press, I think. "Harry." He shakes my hand, clapping me on the shoulder. "How goes the Trust?"

"Well enough," I say, and I can't help smiling at his bonhomie. "Aisha's done wonders with it."

"So I hear." He pulls me aside, away from the flash of the cameras. "You'll stay a moment, after the announcement, will you? I've something to talk to you about." I nod and he smiles, a white flash of teeth in his dark face. "Excellent."

When he steps forward onto the dais in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, Zabini gives me a little shove. I follow, and find myself on Kingsley's right side. Ron, whom I hadn't even seen in the flurry of aides, politicians and press, takes his left, alongside two Mod MWs. He winks at me, then straightens his shoulders, his new Head Auror insignia glinting in the camera flashes.

"Thank you," Kingsley says with a smile as he stands in front of the floating podium. "So very glad you motley lot could join us today--seems there was a lull in Wizengamot scandals for the moment." The press laughs warmly, and I'm surprised at how their relationship with Kingsley has changed since I left in August. It's easier, I realise, and lighter.

Kingsely clears his throat. "This morning, I spoke with the Muggle Prime Minister, as I, of course, frequently do. He tells me that it is a day in which many of their governments celebrate those Muggles who work for human rights throughout the world. A day in which they remember the passage of their Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which states--and I quote--that all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood." He looks up, his gaze taking in the press and the members of the Wizengamot and Ministry staff standing behind them. "Wise words which we, in this time of reconstruction and renewal, would do well to remember."

A murmur of assent ripples through the crowd. Zabini stands at its edge, scowling at certain recalcitrant Party members. Draco steps up beside him, leaning in to whisper something. Zabini nods. I can't take my eyes from Draco. He looks tired, worn out. His hair's rumpled from where he's run his hands through it multiple times this morning. And yet, in his dark grey robes that suit his tall, willowy frame, he's beautiful. Something in my chest aches. Just when I thought I couldn't feel anything anymore, I do.

"This reordering of the penal system," Kingsley's saying beside me, and I realise that I've missed half of what he's already said, although from what Zabini's told me it involves the Dementors' Kisses and a serious overhaul of Azkaban, "will be done under the aegis of our new Head Auror, Ronald Weasley, and within the oversight of a new Ministry department dedicated to penal and legal reform measures that will work with the Auror force without being under the same organisational structure. In fact, the Head of the Penal/Legal Reform Initiative will report directly to me, while working in tandem with the Head Auror's office to determine towards where our reform efforts are best steered."

My eyes meet Draco's, and a zing goes through me. I can barely breathe. I have this sudden fantasy of jumping off the dais, of running to him, of pulling him against me and to kiss him until neither one of us can think of anything other than falling into my bed--our bed--and not seeing anyone else for days. Instead, I fumble with the leather document case Zabini handed me and try to compose myself.

"And that is why," Kingsley says, his voice booming throughout the Atrium, "I intend to meet with the country's leading advocate on prison and legal reform to convince him to take the job." He looks at me then, and my mouth drops.

"You cannot be serious," I say, and Kingsly just smiles tightly at me, releasing his Sonorous as the flashbulbs pop around us, and the press surges forward, shouting questions.

"I want you back in my office, Potter," he says under his breath. "And I'm not going to play fair. I don't know why everyone insists upon forgetting I'm an Old Slytherin myself. You want to revolutionise the Ministry? This is your bloody chance. Don't be a fool. Take it."

I have absolutely no idea what to say. I look across the crowd and find Draco again. His face is impassive, but he lifts his chin slightly, then nods. Do it, I can see his mouth form. I don't know that I can. To work next to him, every day, seeing him in meetings, acting as if I don't have these feelings surging through me, distracting me, making my soul ache? I shake my head. I can't do it. I can't. It will kill me before I'm two weeks back in the office.

And then Ron's there, and Hermione, both of them hugging me, Ron pounding his palm against my back and telling me how brilliant it'll be to work together again. When I look back to where Draco was standing, he's gone.

This, I think, was not what I expected. Fucking Blaise Zabini.

***

Although I think I'll never wear anything as formal that outfit Zabini picked out for me again, he steps out of my Floo in Stepney Green at half five on a Saturday. I've been home all of twenty-four hours. Mimsy is still sniffing around in all of the corners and exploring under the furniture, stopping every so often to bat a sharp claw across my ankles. I'm eating Thai red curry in boxers and an old Spurs t-shirt and my plans for the evening include jaffa cakes and lager, and maybe an old episode or two of QI on my laptop--the newest wizarding prototype. My new position does have interesting perks, Muggle and magical.

"Get the bloody fuck off that spunk-stained sofa, Potter." Zabini is dressed in white tie. "And hands off your dick. Put this on." He's hold a set of formal robes, the like of which I haven't seen since Fourth Year. "I had Gloria at T & T knock them out while the rest of your things were being tailored. So don't fucking have a Hippogriff when the bill's a bit larger than expected, you miserly bastard."

He tosses the robe at me. It's soft--incredibly soft--black wool, I think. There's a pair of trousers and a brocade waistcoat and a cutaway frock coat with a starched white shirt and a black bow tie. I look at him blankly.

"She said not to wear pants or it'd spoil the line." He winks at me. "Not that I'll fucking tell anyone."

"What?" I ask.

"Get dressed, Cendrillon, we're going to the ball."

I sigh and set my curry aside. Mimsy immediately jumps up on the sofa and starts sniffing at it. I wave her away, but not before she snatches a bit of beef and drags it under the sidetable, growling and then licking loudly. "Zabini, what the fuck?"

He drops down in the chair next to the lamp and Summons the telly remote from me. He flips it onto BBC Parliament. "Just put the fucking clothes on, gorgeous." He scowls at the sight of Ed Balls on screen. "Jesus fuck, what a wanker. Almost as bad as the PM himself."

I sigh, fingering the heavy silk of the tie, then do as I'm told. I don't know why I'm considering playing along with Zabini's game, but frankly, I've nothing else planned and his obnoxious little surprises aren't generally boring. It's probably a formal dinner where I'm to fill in for an absentee dignitary or something. Or make cow eyes at a sexy queer diplomat Zabini needs in his pocket.

"And don't forget to shave your fucking legs," he yells after me. "Which means you better come out of that shower smelling as sweet as Hermione's twat."

I lean around the corner of the sitting room. "Don't tell me you kiss her with that mouth."

"Every damned day, sweetcheeks." Zabini reaches for my beer and my curry, hissing at Mimsy when she tries to pounce on the takeaway box. "I fuck her with it too. I have fucking excellent tongue muscles, I'll have you know."

I roll my eyes and escape to the bath. It's the one bloody place I'm guaranteed peace lately.

Twenty minutes and two drying charms on my hair later, I come out in a wave of steam, fragrant with hinoki and bitter orange. I can hear Zabini in the sitting room, cursing vociferously at whichever Muggle politician's on telly now. I slip into my room and dress. Gloria's right about the pants. I undo my flies and push my trousers down, slipping out of my boxers before dressing again. Much better, although it feels strange to have my bits dangling out in near-public.

Zabini looks up when I come back in. "Your fucking tie's crooked." He pushes himself out of his chair and walks over to fix it for me. "I suppose you'll have to fucking do."

"Thanks," I say with a snort.

"We're late," Zabini says. He glances down at his pocketwatch, then tucks it back into his waistcoat pocket. "Come on." He grabs my arm and drags me to the Floo.

I hand him the tin of Floo powder on the mantel. "What's this for?"

Zabini takes a pinch and tosses it into the fire. The flames flare bright green. "You'll fucking thank me later."

My stomach drops. Zabini's grip is like iron around my forearm. "You're not--"

"The Hempel," he says, and he shoves me in.

***

The Malfoys and Greengrasses have hired out the entire hotel for the evening. The Zen garden is alight with lanterns that float on the wintery breeze. Warming charms and fire pits keep the chill at bay, however, and fairies float in the bare tree branches above, shimmering against the dark sky.

Inside a pianist plays in the long gallery, divided into spaces by white and black room screens. Glowing blue tables hover in mid-air, always filled with hors d' oeuvres and bottles of wine and warm sake. Somewhere nearby there's dancing and a jazz band from what I can tell. I don't care.

I'm sitting on a black settee in a small sitting area near one of the stairways, in the process of getting completely trolleyed. Zabini's finally left me alone for a moment--though he cast a tracking spell on me before walking off. Bastard.

Mr Greengrass has already waylaid me to congratulate me on my new position. "You're a good lad, Harry," he'd said. "Your politics are complete shit, but I'll never forget what you did for us." Mrs Greengrass shushed him and smiled at me whilst I demurred and told them what a lovely event this was and how happy I was for their family. I'm an excellent liar when I want to be. Maybe I'll make a politician after all.

I've even had to be pleasant to Lucius and Beatrice. Draco's father hadn't questioned why I was here, at least not to my face, but he'd eyed me sharply with those oh-so-familiar grey eyes. Somehow I'd stammered my way through a congratulations before staggering off to claim a full bottle of vodka from a surprised elf.

I'm halfway through it now. I wish Pansy was nearby with her little black case of poison--smoking's a wretched habit and I'm in the mood for something awful tonight.

Footsteps echo on the stairs behind me, then draw near. There's a plant blocking me from sight; I can only catch a glimpse of white gold hair. I pull my legs up onto the settee. I don't want to be caught here. Not tonight. Not like this.

"Draco," Astoria says, "you've been far away all evening. What's going on?"

I tense. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why him? Why not Lucius? I stop breathing and clutch the bottle of vodka tightly to my chest.

His words are too low for me to hear, perhaps he only mutters something.

Astoria's voice sounds exasperated. "We needn't go through with this, you know. We have plenty of other options and really, it's only going to get worse from here on out. Daphne's wedding was hell. For months on end."

"No," he says. "This is what my father and your mother want. Did you see how happy they look?"

"My mother is happy that my father can still stand and speak coherently, which really should be medically impossible given all he's had to drink, and your father is looking forward to a sexy hotel evening with Beatrice, you arse." I like Astoria, I do. I wish I didn't have to hate her.

There's silence for a long moment, then Draco sighs. "You wouldn't understand."

"If you actually spoke to me, I might."

"Lay off," he snaps irritably. "Really, can't you just fucking go through the motions?"

"Like you do?" she asks. "No. Actually. I prefer to be present when I'm involved in something."

Draco doesn't answer. There's a laugh from down the hall.

The plant shifts. I can see the back of Astoria's head through the leaves. "You're angry because Blaise brought Harry Potter with him," she says gently.

I shift and catch of glimpse of the side of Draco's face. He lifts a wineglass to his mouth, not looking at her. "He's a fucking arse."

"Blaise or Harry?"

Draco's bark of laughter is bitter. "Both of them actually."

Astoria touches Draco's cheek. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted this to be perfect."

"Yeah," he says. He pulls away. "I wish Mother was here."

My heart aches. He looks lost. Tired. Sad. Not at all the way a prospective bridegroom ought to look. From my vantage through a gap in the leaves, Astoria looks beautiful in her ice blue gown. Her face is glowing. The contrast between them could not be more evident.

She leans in and brushes her mouth against Draco's. A flare of jealousy explodes in my chest. I hate her again. I shouldn't be so petty, but I can't help myself. "Go upstairs for a little bit. I'll make your excuses."

"Thanks," he says, and he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, the way he used to do against mine. My throat tightens.

I wait for them to leave, and then I slide off the settee, peering out from behind the plant just as Draco turns to go up the staircase. Another quick glance in the direction Astoria disappeared, and then I slide out of my hiding place. I tell myself I'm going to get some water to go with the vodka, but my feet take me not in the direction of the gathering but away. Up the dark carpeted stairs. Down the hall. Around the corner that I see him take. And then he's out on the balcony, and I'm in the doorway behind him.

Draco leans on the ironwork railing, looking down over Craven Hill Gardens and the cars below. He runs a hand over his face. This side of the hotel is dark, but I can hear the laughter from the party. His hair gleams in the moonlight.

"Tonight," I sing softly. "Tonight, won't be just any night..." He whirls, his eyes wide, and I step out onto the balcony. "Hello, Tony."

He looks me up and down. A small smile flits across his face. "Shouldn't you be with Goldstein, Maria?"

I shrug. "Wasn't the right Tony."

"He wasn't?" Draco leans against the railing again, bracing himself with his arms to either side. "How'd you know?"

I move closer, my eyes fixed on him. "He wasn't you."

Draco's eyes flutter shut for a moment and he bares his throat. I can see his Adam's apple bob in a long, slow swallow. "Don't say things like that to me."

I'm beside him then, looking out over the street. The cool wind's sobering me up a bit, but I'm drunk with Draco's nearness. "It's true."

He opens his eyes then and looks at me. "I'm getting married, Harry."

"I know." I turn, my hip biting into the railing. My eyes scan his pale face. "May I take this opportunity to extend my congratulations?"

"You're an arsehole," Draco says.

I reach out and touch his face. My cock rubs hot and raw against the wool of my trousers, so close to him and yet so far away. I want him so much I can't breathe.

Draco's breath catches audibly, but he doesn't pull away from my touch. "I could lie and say I'd forgotten how fucking beautiful you are," I murmur. "But how could I forget?"

Draco just watches me. "Harry," he says quietly. His gaze doesn't move from mine. I can feel the pounding of blood through my body. It feels like all of my life is in my fingertips. On his face, on his jaw, on his soft lips. My hips inch closer to his.

He draws in a sharp breath when my thumb drags lightly across his mouth. "Harry," he says again, his lips parting.

"I love you," I whisper.

The look of torment on his face is devastating. It rips my chest open with its clarity. Everything I am, everything I want, I can't possibly doubt it now. And as his face turns to me, I see something, a glimmer, quickly shuttered.

A soft cough behind us sends Draco sliding away, out of reach.

"I see," Astoria says. I still for a moment, then turn to face her. She looks between us calmly. "Your father's asking for you, Draco."

Draco's on the opposite side of the balcony now, his arms tight against his chest. He won't look at me. "I'll find him." And then he's gone, and she turns her pale blue eyes on me. She doesn't look angry. Just curious, and a bit thoughtful.

"I- I'm sorry," I stammer. She nods and steps aside as I press past her blindly, dashing for the stairs. I can't even begin to say how mortified I am. I've broken our cardinal rule and then some. No infidelity. Especially not at a fucking engagement party.

I'm a horrible person, and I've no one to blame but myself.

***

Ron's still awake when I knock on his door. He answers it in worn jeans and a Chudley Cannons t-shirt.

"Tell me about Auror protection programmes," I say, and the wild look in my eyes must be what convinces him to open the door wider.

"Mate, you smell awful. I could light your breath." Ron leans back. I brush past him, and draw up short. Pansy Parkinson-Nott is sitting on his sofa, a bottle of lager in one hand and a fag in the other, the strap of the dress I'd just seen her wearing at Draco and Astoria's engagement party hanging off one shoulder.

She blows a stream of smoke towards me, then puts out her cigarette in a tray on the arm of the sofa. "Hello, Potter. Aren't you a fright?"

I look back at Ron. He rubs the back of his neck and blushes, then shrugs. "Want a beer?" he asks. "Or a cup of tea?"

"Tea," I say. I've had more than enough alcohol tonight. I follow him into the kitchen. Ron puts the kettle on the hob and lights it with his wand. I poke his arm. "What," I whisper, "is she doing in your sitting room?"

Ron reaches up to pull a mug out of the cupboard for me, revealing a good two inches of pale stomach and ginger hair in the process. "What do you think she's doing here?" He sounds annoyed. "Another five minutes and I'd have had her tits out."

"Three," Pansy drawls from the doorway. "But only because you're fit." She sets her beer on the counter and regards me evenly. "Yes, I'm planning on having an affair with your best mate, Potter. Mainly because rumour has it his prick's enormous." The look she gives Ron is heated, and yet affectionate.

"Er." I think for a moment. "If you don't mind my asking..."

"Theo's in Singapore on business, and will be for some time," Pansy says. "Possibly permanently." She looks at me. "I understand I have you to thank for setting Ronald on him."

"You're welcome?"

She pats my cheek.

Ron scowls into the box of P.G. Tips. "Bastard better fucking stay there, I say or I'll shove my wand up his arse and let off a Stinging Hex or two next time."

I hold my tongue about police brutality, even though it nearly kills me to do so.

"The best part of it," Pansy says with a satisfied smile, "is that the bastard's agreed to let me divorce him for adultery." She glances at Ron. "Feel like a wild holiday in Rome, darling? Something tells me I'm coming into rather a lot of cash shortly."

I suddenly have a strong sense of how much I've missed of the past months of my friends' lives. "I had no idea. I've been a little out of it."

"You've had a lot to deal with, with Draco. And Astoria," Ron says slowly. "We understand."

Pansy eyes me. "How pissed did you get at that party? I told Blaise bringing you was a terrible idea."

I don't meet either of their gazes. "Pissed enough to tell him I love him."

"Oh, shit," Ron says.

Pansy crosses her arms over her chest, revealing more than hiding her cleavage. "That was stupid of you. You're English. We don't do that sort of thing."

"In vodka veritas," I say. "And it is true, Pans. I'm buggered. And I told him."

"I don't care if you told him you want to have his arsebabies, you're not leaving the Ministry again," Ron says, glaring at me. For a moment, I feel the menace Theo must have fled from and I understand why he left. "I won't let you. There's too much to do."

"Also, they're thinking of moving to LA," Pansy chimes in. "Astoria's been offered some massive research position at the wizarding hospital there."

I catch myself on the counter. No. No, he can't move that far away. My stomach churns, and I sink down into one of the chairs at Ron's kitchen table. "I think I need more tea," I say, covering my face with my hand.

"And maybe a sobering potion," Pansy calls over her shoulder to Ron, who's headed for the bath to get a cool flannel, just like Mrs Weasley used to do in times of crisis.

Tonight there will be no morning star. It's over.

***

The office I have as Head of the Penal/Legal Reform Initiative is three times the size of my old one with an entire wall of windows overlooking the Atrium seven storeys below. It's even bigger than Zabini's, a fact which he comments when he comes in this morning. "You could have an orgy in here, Potter. With sheep," he says approvingly. I glare at him. I'm never going to forgive him for Saturday, not as long as I live. Or until lunchtime. Whichever comes first.

I firecall Aisha as soon as he leaves, setting up a meeting with her for tomorrow. Ron will be there, I tell her, and the three of us will sort through the various reform issues at hand, deciding on which are the most important to tackle. She just looks at me through the green flames, eyes wide. "Is this really happening, Harry?" she aks. "After all these years..."

"Yeah." Her enthusiasm is infectious. It really is amazing. "And we're going to fucking grab this chance, Aisha, and take it as far as we possibly can."

She laughs, a sharp, happy burst of joy as she reaches through the fire and throws her arms around me, kissing my cheek. For a moment, my world is filled with warmth.

There's a knock on my door, and we pull away as my assistant--a gangly boy barely out of Hogwarts named Patrick--sticks his head in. "There's someone to see you, Mr Potter," he says.

"Harry," I remind him, and he flushes and shifts nervously from one foot to another. I look back at Aisha in the Floo. "Firecall you later, love. Send kisses to your mum."

Aisha waves and the Floo falls back to flickering orange embers. I stand up, brushing bits of soot off my knees. "Who is it?"

Patrick looks down at the scrap of parchment in his hand. "An Astoria Greengrass?"

I still, my blood running cold. "Oh."

"No. Should I send her away?" Patrick asks, his voice low, his face a study in perplexity.

I run a hand through my hair. I'm not prepared for this, although I can't imagine a world in which one ever could be. "No. Of course not. She's an old acquaintance. Please send her in."

He nods and steps out; I go to the bank of windows behind my desk and look out over the Atrium, trying to steel myself for what's coming. I smooth my shaking hands over my suit jacket.

"Harry," Astoria says, and I turn, my hands behind my back. In her trim blue suit and matching coat, her hair pulled tidily back into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, she looks like a dark-haired Narcissa Malfoy. "Thank you for seeing me."

I flush slightly, remembering the last time we'd encountered each other. She doesn't look away. I set my shoulders, stepping out from behind my desk, and reach a hand out to her. Her grip is firm and regal, almost. "Astoria. Please sit."

She takes one of the armchairs in front of my hearth. I sit opposite from her. We're silent for a moment, awkwardly so, and then Astoria crosses one ankle over the other and leans back in her chair with a sigh. "Well. This is a bit awkward, I suppose."

"Yeah." I try to stop the bounce of my leg. It doesn't work. "Tea? I could have Patrick bring us some."

Astoria shakes her head. "I don't think I'll be here that long, but thank you." She twists her engagement ring around her left ring finger. It's enormous. I recognise it as the one Narcissa used to wear. "I just wanted to speak with you about some..." She hesitates. "Some changes."

I blink. It feels like Susan all over again, only worse. "I understand," I say finally. "I never should have come to the party. I'm sorry I was an arse and I promise not to bother either of you ever again."

"Don't be ridiculous," Astoria says calmly. "I was angry at first, of course, but now I'm rather glad you were there, actually. It made some things much clearer for me. It's not as if I didn't see it to begin with, but I suppose one edits one's truths to a certain extent, wouldn't you say?"

"Um." I have no bloody idea what she's on about. "Yes?"

She smiles, and it's an open and friendly twist of her pink mouth. "Oh, Harry. I do like you rather a lot. I think Draco's a lucky man."

The blood leaves my face. She's not cruel enough to be torturing me deliberately, and yet, the irony is too much for me to bear. I take a breath. "I'm not sure I understand you."

"I heard what you said," she says quietly. "And I saw the look on his face when you said it to him. And frankly, Harry, while I don't really believe in true love, I know I deserve a husband who's not arse over tit for someone else from the beginning."

"Oh." I'm completely gobsmacked by what she says, and by the complete absence of malice in her tone. She sounds matter-of-fact, as if she's discussing a simple problem with a friend, not the dissolution of her engagement with the man who's in love with her fiancé. "Oh." I don't really know what to say.

"I'm sorry to be this direct. You're obviously surprised." She smooths her skirt over her knee. "I thought you had a right to know why I'm breaking off the engagement. Since you're party to the reason."

My throat clenches. "You've talked to Draco."

"Of course." She nods. "He's...disappointed, I think. But not because of me, really. I think he had an image in his head that couldn't really be fulfilled. And while I wouldn't have minded being married to him, I'm perfectly happy with this decision. I've been offered a place in America--"

"In Los Angeles," I say, and this time she looks surprised. "Pansy said."

Astoria frowns slightly. "I didn't realise it was common knowledge. But in any case, yes, I've accepted and I'm going alone. Or mostly alone."

I wrinkle my brow. "I'm sorry?" I begin to wonder how many lives we've all been leading. I think wildly that nothing will surprise me now.

Astoria laughs softly. "It's not another man. At least not as far as I know." Her hand settles on her stomach. "I'm pregnant. Eleven weeks--it's why Draco and I pushed up our plans to marry."

And I was wrong. I'm completely surprised. "You're preggers." I'm caught between being horrified and strangely happy. "I mean, congratulations." I pause. "But, Draco's letting you leave? You'll need help, won't you?"

"It's not his decision whether I go," she says, her voice calm. "And he'll have primary custody of the child when he or she is born. I've assured him of that. It will be a Malfoy; it deserves to have that connection with his family." At my shocked look, she sighs. "I've thought this through, Harry. I'm a Healer. I could have aborted the pregnancy easily. I still could. I'm choosing to bear the child for Draco's sake. I doubt that he'll have a chance for an heir any time soon. And frankly, I want a child, but I also want my career. This will allow me to have both."

"A baby needs both parents," I object. "How can you just leave a child--"

Irritation flashes across her face. "I'm not leaving. I fully intend to have a part in this child's life. I'm its mother. But I know myself, and I know I'm not ready to change as much as an infant deserves, especially not in a new environment. And to be bluntly honest, Harry, I rather doubt this child is going to grow up without two parents or more, much less doting grandparents on both sides."

After a moment, I say, "I feel a horrible cad."

"You should." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "And at the same time you were just being yourself. Bless Gryffindor honesty." She stands, straightening her suit. "I'd appreciate your discretion on this matter, at least until it becomes public."

I push myself out of my chair. "I won't say a word to Pansy."

Astoria laughs. "Draco's probably already told her." She holds out her hand and I take it, then she pulls me closer and kisses my cheek. "Give him some time. Once he realises this is all for the best, he'll come to his senses."

Of that, I'm not certain, but I nod and walk her to the door. Closing it behind her, I slump against it, running my hands over my face as I ponder what just happened and what to do now.

Why is the worst thing in the world having your dreams come true?

***

The next week passes in a haze. The breaking of the Malfoy-Greengrass engagement comes out in the Prophet, and Draco doesn't come into work until Thursday. I'm secretly grateful. I have no idea what to do. No idea what to say.

Zabini tells me to stop being a slack-jawed pussy, but neither he nor Pansy will let me know what Draco's actually thinking. I'm not even sure if they have any idea. And Ron refuses to get involved. He's too happy shagging Pansy to be bothered by anything except a national emergency, and my love life doesn't qualify, as much as I think it could use its own emergency response team.

I see Draco once on Thursday afternoon, in the hallway. He stops when he realises I'm coming his way, and turns on his heel, walking as quickly as he can the opposite direction. I just stand there, letting him go, my heart aching. I've no desire to force a meeting that he's not ready for. It's not as though I'm ready either.

Friday I spend in Whitechapel with Aisha, going over files and policy briefs in preparation for our first Azkaban visit in January. It takes her until lunch before she looks at me slyly over our sandwiches and Walkers crisp packets and says, "Mr Malfoy's engagement is off, I hear."

I feel horrible, searing guilt. "Yeah."

Aisha studies my face as she pops a crisp into her mouth. "That was fast."

My eyes don't meet hers as I highlight two paragraphs in a brief. "I suppose."

"Harry," she says. "What's going on?"

I sigh and turn the page. "Nothing."

She throws a crisp at me. It lands in my hair and I have to fish it out. I throw it in the bin. "Don't be a tit," she says. "It's me. The one who's been working beside you for five years. I've been through all the breakups and back-togethers you've had with Draco."

"This one's different," I say.

Aisha nods after a moment. "Things change." She offers me the packet of crisps, and I take one. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

For the first time in weeks, I feel a bit of peace. "Thanks."

We continue working, and I'm almost happy.

***

Of all the things that await me at Ian Berwicke's Christmas party, I'm not expecting Lucius Malfoy. Hermione's brought me along as her date since Zabini can't be trusted not to start a riot or a coup d'etat.

The Chief Warlock's offices are decked with green boughs and silver icicles. There's a group of carollers wandering about, warbling Christmas favourites, complete with oboe and guitar, and I'm fairly certain someone poured an entire bottle of firewhisky into the punch, given how much I spluttered at my first sip. It's strong enough that some MW'll get caught trying to interoffice memo a facsimile of his or her bum by the end of the evening. Better that, I suppose, than to get caught shagging in the cloakroom by the director of communications.

God, I miss those days.

Hermione disappears into a knot of MWs at the far side of the room. I'm left standing alone with a junior researcher from the Welsh Wizarding Party trying to chat me up. I escape into an empty conference room.

Except it's not empty. Lucius Malfoy is sitting at the window with a bottle of Armagnac in his hand and a snifter in front of him. He pours a few fingers and looks at me. "Potter."

He's looking well. There's only a trace of the limp left. "Mr Malfoy. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Lucius waves the snifter at me. "Sit down. And close the door behind you, for Christ's sake. I'd rather not socialise with half that lot out there unless I'm forced to."

I shut the heavy door and sit stiffly on the edge of a chair. "Not fond of the Muggleborn MWs?" I can't help but snipe.

"Not fond of the stupid MWs," Lucius says over the rim of his glass. "Muggleborn or otherwise. How half of those idiots stood successfully is beyond me."

Sadly, I can't disagree. I raise my glass of punch. "To the Minister," I say carefully, and Lucius's mouth twitches into a smile.

"The Minister." He clinks his glass against mine. "And HM Loyal Opposition."

We both drink.

Lucius sets his glass down. "We have business to discuss, Mr Potter, seeing as how you dashed my son's wedding plans to pieces. The amount of Galleons alone we'd spent on the venue..." He shakes his head.

"Sorry." I don't know what else to say.

"Beatrice's already suggesting she and I take over the reservation." Lucius eyes me. ""We're going to wait to announce it though, until after the New Year. Propriety and all that."

I have no damned idea why Lucius Malfoy is telling me any of this. "That's nice."

"I suppose what I most want to know from you is, what your intentions regarding my son are." He's not really asking, and I'm not sure I'm willing to answer, so I just raise my glass to my mouth again and take a sip. Lucius pours another splash of brandy into his snifter. "I've seen you with Draco, you know."

"Have you?" Draco and I've--well, we've never been discreet, but it's not as if we've ever made anything too public either.

Lucius sips his Armagnac. "Narcissa made me aware of your friendship with our son and its effect on him. She always assumed you'd both end up together one day, once you could see past your own noses." He looks at me over his glass. "Mind you, this was long before either of you decided to grope around in each others' trousers."

I try to stop the heat that rises on my cheeks and fail utterly. Anything Lucius Malfoy says about this topic is far, far too much.

"I don't know why Draco tries to pretend he's strictly heterosexual around me," Lucius says, and there's a morose tinge to his voice. "It's not as if I didn't realise the moment he entered puberty that his preferences swung both ways. I tried to be a tolerant father. One of his uncles was bent, you know. Rabastan. Utterly off his nut in some ways, of course, but then again, he was a Lestrange. None of that family's been entirely stable for centuries. I'd hoped Draco would understand that he had choices and that his mother and I would support him in them."

My mouth's slightly open. I'd never thought of Lucius Malfoy and the word tolerant in the same sentence. "Er," is all I can manage.

"I don't expect you to understand a father's perspective," Lucius continues. "But it's hard to watch your only son suffer for preventable reasons and equally difficult to watch the most constant object of his affection ignore him. Which brings me to my previous question, what are your intentions regarding Draco?"

A bare tree branch sways outside the window. The charmed sky's grey and looks like snow. I take a deep breath. "I love him," I say softly.

"My nightmares have just been realised." Lucius frowns at me. "You certainly don't act as if you do."

"I've told him how I felt," I begin.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lucius snaps. "He's a Malfoy. And his mother was a Black. You expect him to come running to you with open arms? Idiot boy. He's waiting for the poison dagger in the back. You have to win his trust. Do you know how long I wooed his mother? Three years. Three bloody years, and twice in that time she turned my proposal down and returned my gifts, just because she could." He smiles, lost in a memory. "Fine woman. The love of my life. And an absolute fury when she was crossed."

"Rather like her son." I'm surprised to find myself commiserating with Lucius Malfoy of all people.

Lucius lifts his snifter. "Exactly like her son. Draco's more of his mother in him than me. Perhaps for the better. I've made mistakes in my life, Potter. Mistakes I shouldn't care to pass on. Not to my son or my grandchild."

"You know about Astoria then, I take it."

His mouth twitches. "Flew into a rage, that one did, when Draco told me about the baby. She thought she could be modern and keep it secret. As if the family trees weren't already showing the possibility."

I sigh. "I had no idea, of course. And I still find the entire situation quite difficult to understand."

"Buck up, Potter." Lucius sets his Armagnac down. "Welcome to the rest of your life. Mistakes will be made, others will be blamed." He glances at me. "How do you feel about the idea of a child?"

"I've always wanted one," I admit. I drain my punch. "And never thought it'd be possible. Most men I know don't particularly want to settle down like that."

Lucius motions for me to hold out my glass. He waves his wand to clean the glass, then pours a finger of Armagnac into it. "Malfoys do. It's inbred."

"As are many things pureblooded."

He laughs at that. "I suppose you've a point."

I finish my glass, then stand. "Thanks for the drink."

Lucius nods. "Don't tell them where I've gone to."

"I promise."

He calls my name when my hand on the doorknob. I turn back. "You'll do, I suppose," he says, looking me up and down like a horse he's considering purchasing. "Nicely, in fact."

I close the door behind me and ask myself what the fuck just happened.

***

On Saturday I go Christmas shopping. Perhaps it's mad of me, but I buy Draco a present, wrapping it up in silver paper tied with white curling ribbon.

When I send it off by owl, I resist the urge to call it back. I'm as terrified as school boy who's just sent a love note.

And then, I wait.

***

He appears at my door late on Sunday evening, wearing a black coat over a black jumper and slim black trousers. His white blond hair is tousled and windblown, and he hasn't shaved for a couple of days.

"Ribena, Potter?" he asks dryly, raising a bottle in his other hand. "Really?"

I smile and try to smooth down my rumpled hair. Even this late at night he looks put together. I, on the other hand, am wearing plaid pyjama trousers and a white Middlesex CCC hoodie with a marinara stain down the front. Posh, Potter. Simply lush. "I didn't know if you had a market in Wiltshire."

"Yes, because the only place Muggles shop in the entirety of Britain is London." Draco rolls his eyes. "Wrapping this and sending it as a present. Are you an idiot or just taking the piss?"

I lean against the door. "I thought you'd like it. Not something I'd imagine the Manor elves keep in the pantry."

A tiny smirk quirks Draco's mouth. "You wouldn't be entirely wrong. Father thinks it's non-M."

We stand there for a long moment, looking at each other, and it's awkward between us in a way that it's not been for years. Draco rubs the back of his neck. I don't know if I should ask him in or not. Eventually I step back, opening the door a little wider, letting him make the decision.

He hesitates, then he steps into the hallway. "Mimsy," he calls, and there's only the murmur of the telly in the sitting room, then the scratch of kitten paws skittering across the wood floor. Mimsy turns the corner, nearly taking down the post table, then barrels down the hall towards us in a blur of grey and white fur. Draco kneels and catches her before she hits the door. He cuddles her; she rubs her tiny face against his cheek.

"That really is the strangest cat," I say, looking down at them. Something warm blooms inside of me.

Draco rubs her stomach and she stretches in his arms, little white paws batting at the air. "She's brilliant. Aren't you, Mimsy Pimsy?"

Mimsy just yawns and curls happily up against his coat, shedding small white hairs over the black wool. Draco doesn't seem to mind. He stands up, then looks at me.

"That thing you said." He swallows. "At the hotel."

My heart's in my throat. "Yeah."

"You shouldn't have said it, you know." Draco's watching me carefully. He strokes the back of Mimsy's ears.

I lean against the wall, my arms crossed against my chest. "I know." I meet his gaze. "But I shan't take it back."

"Of course you'll not." Draco laughs. "You're Harry-bloody-Potter. Merlin forbid you back down from a challenge."

"Are you saying you're a challenge, Draco?"

He buries his face against Mimsy's belly, humming softly. She stretches again with a wide yawn, and Draco glances over at me. "Haven't I always been?"

I step closer to him. "Yes."

We look at each other. "I'm not ready to come back," Draco says quietly. "Yet."

So much depends upon a little word. "I haven't asked you to," I say. I meet his gaze evenly. "Yet."

He sighs. "That's not what I meant. I meant, I can't do it again the way we were."

I nod, hating myself for being happy to see him but happy nonetheless. It's a strange feeling, this combination of ache and joy. "I know. We'll get over it eventually. We usually do."

Draco's look of surprise surprises me in turn. He sets Mimsy down, stroking lightly along her back, and considers. "But I don't want to get over it. That's not what I meant either."

My mind draws an utter blank. I hear the traffic noises outside, the whirr of cars and the occasional horn, Mimsy's loud purr as she arches beneath Draco's touch. My heart is in my throat. I've no idea what I should say. "Perhaps you could explain. Er. What you meant."

Draco stands up again, and the space between our bodies is suddenly much less, although we haven't moved. I watch the pulse at the hollow of his throat. My mouth is open but nothing seems to be coming out.

"I meant perhaps we should do this properly." Draco leans in, giving me a hesitant look, then brushes his lips against mine. My body catches fire like a lit match to petrol from the light touch of his mouth. He pulls back, leaving me gasping.

"Properly," I manage to get out.

Draco's knuckles stroke lightly across my cheek. "In other words, you idiot, I'm asking you on a date."

I try desperately to think. The Knut drops. "Wait, you're asking me out on a date? You. Are asking me. On a date."

Draco pauses. "That's the general idea, Harry. How does eight tomorrow night at Alchimia sound?"

He tosses the name off casually, but I'm amazed he has reservations, and this close to Christmas too. Alchimia has been open for three months and has a booking queue of a year and a half. A suspicion steals over me and I can't help the grin that starts on my face. "Did you use my name?"

"Maybe." Draco studiously examines his fingernails.

"You just want to go there," I say, trying to comprehend the subtext I know I'm missing.

Draco looks back up at me. "I want to go there with you." His eyes are bright. He bites his lip and looks at me, suddenly shy. I've never seen him shy before.

I want him like I want breathing, like I want blood in my veins. There's a rushing in my ears. "Oh."

He turns to go, opening the flat door. I follow, holding on to the door frame like an idiot, utterly astonished. He pauses on the top stair and casts a glance over his shoulder. "You'll be there, right? Tomorrow at eight?"

"I'll be there," I promise. And he's gone and I'm on fire.

***

"Oh, God, Harry, not that shirt. It's horrendous." Hermione's sprawled across my bed with Mimsy lying in front of her. She waves Mimsy's tail in the air in front of her little pink nose. "Chase your tail, sweetie. Get it. Get it." Mimsy lunges for it, grabbing the tip between both paws and licking forcefully. Hermione laughs. "You're adorable."

I throw another shirt on the growing pile at the end of the bed. "Not when she claws you, she's not." I turn back to my wardrobe. "Must I wear a tie?"

"For Alchimia?" Hermione lets Mimsy play with her hair. Things will go dreadfully wrong soon, I suspect. "You could get by with casual. It's the new chic not to look try-hard, or so my assistant tells me. Just wear the cologne he likes and put that stuff in your hair to texturise it."

I make a face. "I hate hair wax. I wake up the next morning with the damned cat trying to eat my hair."

Hermione rubs Mimsy's stomach. "She wouldn't be that mean--ow." She pulls her hand back, frowning.

"Told you she'd scratch." I pull another shirt, this one blue and green striped, out of the wardrobe. "She doesn't mean to. She just gets excited." I hold the shirt up over my shoulder. "Yay or nay?"

"Nay," Hermione says. "I thought we said no more Paul Smith shirts."

I toss it onto the bed. "I like that one." I grab another one--this one white cotton which Zabini had sworn was hand-sewed by Belgian nuns dancing naked under the full moon until I'd shown him the made in Vietnam tag. Still, it's a good shirt. Not worth 180 pounds sterling, though. "What about this?"

Hermione tilts her head. "It's not screaming I want to fuck Draco Malfoy to me."

That gets me to turn around. "Who said I was?" Zabini was definitely rubbing off on her. Well, in addition to all the other sorts of rubbing also.

"Pansy set up a pool." Hermione flexes her bare feet and Mimsy jumps on them. "I have money on tonight." She hesitates. "We're going shopping, you know."

I blink. "You and Pansy?"

Hermione sits up and stretches her legs. She picks up Mimsy and rubs the back of her head. The little feline trollop goes limp and starts to purr immediately. "Is it mad? Blaise thought it would be a good idea."

"You know she's seeing Ron." I hold up a black shirt, and she wrinkles her nose. I toss it aside. Who the hell knew I had this many dress shirts?

"I know," Hermione says. "They seem happy, and I never much liked Theo."

"He's a twat." Fuck it. I pull out a cream Arran jumper. "Well?"

Hermione points at it. "Sexy. Yes. Wear it with those tatty jeans of yours."

"He'll mock me."

"No, he won't." Hermione gives me an even look. "You have no idea what your arse looks like in them."

I try not to show I'm chuffed as I hang the jumper on the wardrobe door and dive back in. "What do you think this date means?" I push through summer suits and robes to get to the high stack of jeans.

"That he likes you?" Hermione takes pity on me and sets Mimsy down, sliding off the bed to join me at the wardrobe. She pushes me aside and digs through my jeans. "What else would it mean?"

"We've been shagging for five years," I say. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Mimsy looks pitifully up at me. I sigh and pick her up. "I've declared my love at his engagement party--an engagement, mind, to someone else. And now we go on a date?"

Hermione pulls out a pair of faded jeans and tosses them at me. "And if you don't wear your Lobb boots, I will kill you myself."

"With jeans?" I ask, looking at the beautiful black and tan, cap toed boots she Summons.

"It's a fierce look. Trust me."

I don't doubt her. Somehow Hermione's turned into a style maven since school. She could model for Burberry, although her taste is much more nuanced than that. "I hate dating."

"It means you're making room for your relationship to become something else," Hermione says gently. "It's awkward because it's a new start."

Mimsy's asleep in my arms. I smooth a hand across her soft flank. "But can you really start again?"

Hermione sits next to me and leans against me, her head on my shoulder. "All the time, Harry. All the time."

"I'm nervous," I admit after a long moment. "This could go badly." I wish I could quiet the butterflies in my stomach. I'm not very good with change.

"If it does," Hermione says, "then at least you tried. Gryffindor, remember?"

"Gryffindor." I smile at her.

I hope she's right.

***

I stand outside Alchimia, fifteen minutes late, wrapped in my black pea-coat, a striped cashmere Paul Smith scarf that Hermione and I had compromised on tied around my neck. I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the door. It's dark inside, the restaurant lit by a large fireplace in the centre of the room and small white paper lanterns that float above the tables. A blonde witch in a short, tight black robe with no sleeves and a high neckline looks up at me. Her eyes flit to my scar.

"Booking for Potter," I say, taking off my scarf and coat, and she smiles. A waiter takes them for me.

"Window table," she says, leading me past the fireplace, through the maze of small tables. "Mr Malfoy's already waiting for you, sir."

Christ, I hope she's not placed a wager on us too. God only knows how far the betting pool's spread by now, given Pansy's running it.

Draco's looking out the window, his pale face reflected in the dark glass, a heavy onyx and silver ring on his hand. Outside the lights and Christmas decorations of Diagon glow as shoppers rush past, their arms piled with bags and brightly wrapped boxes. He's wearing a white shirt, artistically rumpled, with a black tie looped loosely around his neck and a short black jacket over a pair of jeans. He still hasn't shaved, though his stubble is neatly trimmed. I have an urge to rub my face against it.

"Hullo," I say, sliding into the seat across from him, and he turns his head, a smile brightening his face.

Draco reaches for his wineglass. "I was starting to think you weren't coming," he says lightly, but there's an uncertainty in eyes.

"Hermione and I argued over a scarf." There's already a waiter next to us, pouring me a glass of wine from the bottle that Draco's ordered.

"Who won?" Draco takes the menu the waiter hands us before he slides away again.

I flip open my menu, oddly nervous. "Neither. We...compromised." It feels strange, making small talk with him.

We're silent as we study the courses.

"How's Wiltshire?" I ask finally, setting my menu aside.

Draco lowers his. "Fine." He hesitates. "Cold."

The waiter returns and we order. When he walks away, we just look at each other. Draco folds a napkin, then unfolds it and folds it again.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I say finally. "This is ridiculous."

Draco's eyes flash. "You didn't have to come--"

I lean over the table and brush my mouth against his. His lips are soft and warm, and I hate to pull away from him. I don't care who's watching us, inside or out. When I settle back in my chair, he's staring at me.

"That's it," he says after a moment. "It's official. You've gone completely ‘round the twist."

But he's smiling now, and suddenly the awkwardness shifts, falls aside. This is me and it's Draco and we've been friends now for years. All we're doing is changing things ever so slightly.

I don't say anything until after our waiter sets our starters in front of us. "I thought you liked me mental."

Draco laughs. "Like is quite an overstatement." He picks up his fork and takes a bite of rocket. "Now. This new position? How goes it?"

I grin. "We have plans, Ron and I."

"To take over the world?"

"At the very least."

Draco just raises an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

I do.

***

We don't leave Alchimia for another three hours. We talk about everything--work, political gossip, our friends, our families.

Draco tells me that Astoria is moving to Los Angeles after the holidays. "She'll come back before her due date in June," he says, twisting his wineglass between his fingertips. "We both want the baby born in Britain."

"It's weird to think of you as a dad." I watch him. He flushes slightly.

"Does it bother you?" he asks. He doesn't look at me. "I mean, it's what you've always wanted."

I hesitate, considering. "Not particularly, no." I don't tell him I'm looking forward to the baby. That might seem a little strange, all things considered.

Draco takes a sip of his wine. His eyes meet mine, and I suspect he knows anyway. Sometimes he can understand me better than I can myself. "It's not what I planned, you know."

"I know." I drag the edge of my spoon over the remnant of Cambridge burnt cream in front of me, then lick it. "Did you love her?"

He doesn't answer for a moment. "We worked well, she and I," he says finally. "I could have loved her in a way."

"Oh." I set my spoon down. Something deep inside of me aches. I shouldn't have asked but I always realise such things too late.

"It's different with you, though." He sips at his glass and his grey eyes are shadowy in the light from the lantern.

"How?"

Draco just looks at me. He sets his wineglass aside. "The thing is, Potter, it's never been just about the sex, has it?"

"It hasn't?" I sound like an enormous tit. I've the romantic sensibility of a boulder. "I thought the sex was decent enough."

Draco snorts. "Don't get all insecure on me. The sex was amazing. I wouldn't mind another go at all." He smiles at me as his thumb rubs along the base of his glass. "But, you see, I realised recently it's more than that. I find that I miss you when you're not there, and I think we're better when we're together." He ponders. "I'm better when we're together."

"Are you?" My voice is low.

"Much," Draco says. Our eyes meet. "My father told me something the other day. He said it's not about love, really. It's about something more. Love fades. Love changes. Love's just a rush of emotion that's unpredictable."

My heart sinks. Fuck Lucius Malfoy.

"But," Draco continues, "you know you've found the right person when you want more than to love them. More than them to love you." He reaches out, brushes his fingertips across the back of my hand. "It's when you realise you want to wake up every morning next to that person. It's when you don't care if they irritate you because you know it'll pass. It's when you know what they're thinking before they say it out loud. It's when you're not afraid to fall because you know they'll be there to catch you. It's when you don't feel whole without them."

His fingers twine with mine.

"Draco," I say quietly.

"Wake up with me, Harry," he whispers.

I look at him. He's beautiful with the light in his hair, and the heat in his eyes is intoxicating. "I'm not afraid to fall."

He smiles. "Let's get our coats. We've pulled."

***

We Apparate into the flat. I take his coat and hang it on the rack in the hallway. It looks right, fitting, there next to mine. When I turn, Draco's behind me, his hands on the hem of my jumper. He pulls it off over my head, letting it fall to the floor. He leaves me in my white t-shirt.

"I like you in these," he says, his palms smoothing over the soft cotton. "Sexy minimalism." When his fingers find my nipple through the shirt, there's nothing minimalistic about my groan. I catch his face between my hands, leaning in to kiss him. Our glasses bump, and we both laugh into the kiss.

Draco steps back, his hand curling around my wrist. He leads me silently down the hall. When we pass his old room, he stops for a moment to look through the open door to the small, bare space beyond. "You left it empty," he says.

I can hardly speak past the lump in my throat. "Mimsy liked to lie there and mope."

Draco smiles a crooked smile. "No moping now." He leads me into the bedroom. Mimsy's curled on my pillow. He drops my wrist and scoops her up, petting her lightly as he sets her outside the door. "This isn't for kittens, little one." She miaows as the door closes. The look he shoots me is hot and full of promise.

I pull my t-shirt over my head and reach for him as he turns back to me. My mouth finds his, and I have his jacket off his shoulders, my hands fumbling with his tie as I push him against the door, kissing him slowly, our tongues sliding together, our lips wet and rough. His hands settle on my hips, and we stand there, sucking at each other's mouths until we're breathless. I manage to get his shirt open, but I can't let him go. My lips scratch across his stubble. I nip at the edge of his jaw, at his throat. He presses his hips into me.

"Christ, Harry," he whispers into my ear. His hands slide up my bare back, fingers splayed. "You smell incredible." He licks a small shaving scar under the curve of my chin. "Oh god. The limes." He presses his face against the skin of my throat, breathing in my cologne. "You're wearing the limes. I fucking love this smell and you know it. Devious bastard. It's not even summer."

A soft chuckle bursts from my lips in a huff against his ear, making him shiver against me. "Hermione suggested it. She said it reeked of I want to fuck Draco Malfoy."

"Brilliant woman." Draco groans and rubs his face against my throat. "Remind me to send her the largest bouquet of flowers I can afford tomorrow."

"She can afford her own flowers if she got decent odds for her bet tonight."

Draco pulls back, a wicked smile on his face. "So can I." At my appalled look, he shrugs. "On the positive side, Pansy inflated the bets for me so tonight looked to be utterly impossible."

"How'd she do that?" My thumb sweeps across Draco's collarbone.

"Some sort of angsty waffle about all of us." He smiles and pulls away from me. He shrugs his shirt to the floor and reaches for his belt, walking backwards towards the bed. "I left the details to her. Evidently we've been dominating the blind items this week."

I follow him across the room. "You're evil."

"Of course I am." He pulls his belt from the last loop of his trousers, tossing it on the chair. "I'm a Malfoy."

"I don't know," I say, watching him unbutton his trousers. They're tented, and my mouth waters at the thought of his cock. "I'm starting to question Malfoy deviousness."

His trousers ruche down his hips. "I'm offended, Potter." And then he's pulling me onto the bed with him, his mouth against mine as his trousers slip from his legs.

I groan and press him into the mattress, kissing him, my hands sliding up his narrow chest. "Jesus, Draco," I whisper. I'm so fucking hard for him. I slide his glasses off his nose, brushing my mouth across his cheek as I pull back. I set both our glasses on the side table, then reach into the drawer to pull out the phial of lube that's only been used when I've laid here, after thinking of him, wanking myself raw. I never thought he'd be in my bed again.

And then his hands are at the zip of my jeans, tugging and unbuttoning, and he pushes them off my hips, shoving them down my legs with his feet. "Do you know how fucking edible your arse is in these things?" he asks breathlessly, and I just laugh. I think I owe Hermione flowers too.

I roll over and lift my hips, wriggling out of my pants, and Draco half-climbs on me, leaning in to kiss my mouth, sinking his teeth into my lip.

"Fuck me, Harry," he says. "I've been waiting so long."

"Christ." I shift beneath him, pulling him over me, and together we manage to get his pants off. My hand's on his cock, stroking, both of us looking down at the way my hand moves on his heated flesh. I uncap the phial with my teeth, pouring the oil over my hand, between my twisting fingers, slicking him with each stroke until he's groaning and thrusting up into my fist, his hands behind him, keeping him from falling backwards across the bed.

Draco gasps, his hips bucking. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to get what I want."

"What's that?" I ask, rolling his foreskin with my thumb and finger.

"Come with you inside--" He breaks off in an almost pained moan, his head falling back, his long pale throat exposed. He breathes hard; his nipples are pink-brown nubs. He shifts his hips, widens his thighs. "Inside of me." When he lifts his head, the expression in his eyes is fierce. "Now."

I push him backwards against the pillows, and then my hand is between his arsecheeks, smearing oil across his skin, through his crease. Draco pulls his legs up, hooking his knees over his arms, spreading himself for me. The view is devastating.

"I said now, Harry."

"Fuck." My fingers slide into him, two at once and he tenses and moans before his body relaxes slightly. I press them deeper, twisting just the way I know he likes it, stroking his shaft lightly with my other hand. He falls apart under my hands, his thighs shaking, his head pressing into the pillows as he arches into my touch.

"Harry," he says. "Harry." His entire throat and face is pink, the flush spreading across his angular collarbones. One of his legs slips off his arm, and he reaches for me, his fingers sliding over the slick skin of my bicep. "Harry, in me." His voice rises and his hips buck forward.

I'd wanted to take this slow. I'd imagined opening him gently, just stroking him. But I can't. I need to be in him. It's been too long. I want him too much. I pull my fingers away, slicking them across my cock, once, twice before I shift over him. I can't touch myself any more. I want to come too badly.

With one careful push, I'm in him, and Draco cries out, his hands flying to my shoulders. He spreads his legs wide, canting his hips to take me more deeply. His eyes flutter closed and his breathing shallows.

With as much control as I can, I slide into him, watching his face as my prick pushes deeper. I can feel my pulse pounding through me. All I can think of is my cock inside of him. I try to remember the Quidditch scores from last weekend, the most recent policy brief that crossed my desk, the number of stupid figures in the bloody Fountain of Magical Brethren. None of it works.

I'm inside him and there is nothing else in the world that could possibly be as important as this.

Draco opens his eyes and looks up at me. His fingers stroke across the nape of my neck, then tangle in my hair. "This had damned well better be better than Goldstein."

He's lost his command of the English language, I see. I grin down at him. "I only have one Tony," I murmur, and I lean in to kiss him.

"Shut up and fuck me, Maria," he demands against my mouth.

"That's a new one," I say, and then my hips shift forward. He cries out again when I move, and then I can't stop myself.

I fuck him quickly, slamming into him so hard the headboard hits the wall and the bed rocks beneath us. Each thrust presses the breath out of him, and he digs his heels into the mattress, pushing up against me.

This is what I want. Him beneath me. Him on top of me. Him inside me. Him tight around my prick. Nothing sweet. Nothing romantic. Nothing flowery. Just him.

Just Draco.

I say his name, and he moans as he pulls me into a deep kiss.

"More," he chokes out.

I drive my hips into him and he wraps his thighs around me, his heels pressing into my back. He's close. I can tell. And I know I can't stop now.

"Draco," I say again, and my body trembles with each thrust.

His body shudders beneath me. "Do it." He gasps, and he reaches between us to grab his prick. One stroke of his fingers across his wet cock, and he shouts, spunk spattering through his fingers against his taut, tense stomach as I fuck him harder, my arms barely holding me up.

I come inside of him, hard and fast, my body jerking against his, shaking apart at the seams. I half-collapse onto him, spunk hitting his arse. The release is so intense it's almost painful. His nails digging into my arms are the only thing keeping me conscious.

We lie there, gasping, trying to recover our breath. My thighs are tight and shaking. Draco can't stop shivering. I hold him, stretching his legs out and pulling him against my chest. His hand flattens over my skin.

"I can feel your heartbeat," he says after a moment, his voice cracking.

I draw in a ragged breath. "I'm amazed it hasn't stopped after that."

Draco smiles into my chest. His hand slides down my side, slipping around to my lower back. He strokes his fingers across the curve of my spine, over my arse. "So," he murmurs. "Does this mean we're dating?"

"God, I hope so," I say into his hair. "You're amazing."

"I know." He sounds smug. "I'm irresistible."

My hand smacks his hip lightly. "If only it weren't so true."

He pulls away from me. "Admit it, Potter, you like me."

"Try ‘love', you daft bastard. And you know it."

Draco just smiles. He stands up. "Back in a moment."

When he opens the door, Mimsy dashes in, leaping up onto the bed. She settles next to me, sniffing as I pull the coverlet over me. I've dealt with too many scratches. We lie there, curled together until Draco comes back in. He hands me a damp flannel, then sits on the edge of the bed next to me, watching me as I clean myself off.

I look up at him. "What?"

He shakes his head, then touches my face. "You're not going anywhere?"

"Not unless you come with me," I say, setting the flannel aside. "It didn't really work so well last time, being apart from you."

Draco settles next to me, pushing me over until he can stretch out next me beneath the coverlet. Mimsy crawls over me to plop herself between us. She rolls over onto her back, her paws stretched above her head. Draco just looks at her in amusement. "Little minx." He strokes her fur lightly. He doesn't meet my gaze.

We're quiet, lying here together.

"Draco, is something wrong?" I ask.

His face looks almost pained. "No." He hesitates. "Not exactly."

I wait. He sighs.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he says finally. He gives me a defiant look. "Fuck it. I love you, okay? I have for a long time. I just didn't know what it was."

He takes my breath away. "Neither did I," I say after a moment. "It's rather odd, isn't it?"

Draco squirms. "You have no idea, Potter. I'm still trying to decide if I like it or not."

"Yeah."

We look at each other, then Draco's face creases into a wide smile. "On the positive side, I just won a great deal of money."

"I hate you so much," I say with a laugh.

Draco rolls over me, nearly smothering Mimsy. She squeaks and squirms, crawling up to the relative safety of the pillows above us. "No, you don't, Harry Potter." His mouth brushes mine. "No, you don't."

I pull him close. "How much do you want to wager on that?"

He looks into my eyes soberly. "Everything."

I don't know what the odds are, but, for him, I'm willing to take them.






- 24 December, 2011 -

"Scorpius," I say firmly. "Stop eating the ribbon."

My stepson, just turned six months old, looks up at me blankly from the blanket spread on the sitting room floor. Mimsy lolls next to him, her long body stretched out along the side of the blanket that's warmed by the late afternoon sun filtering through the bay window and the branches of the Christmas tree nestled within. She yawns and flicks her tail. I take the present Scorpius' somehow managed to filch and toss it back beneath the tree. He frowns at me, his small face screwing up, but before he can start to wail, I pick him up, smoothing his dark blue jumper and start making faces at him. He laughs and pats my cheek. I buss his forehead.

We've lived here in Gloucester Crescent since his birth this summer. The house had been a gift from Beatrice, and though she and Draco both would have preferred a better postcode--say Mayfair or Belgravia--I'd insisted on the rougher Camden Town. After an argument that'd lasted the better part of a day and had ended in truly spectacular sex in Draco's suite at the Manor--really, the things he can do with his mouth are definitely illegal in more than a few countries--we'd compromised on the very eastern edge of Primrose Hill, close enough for me to walk to Camden High Street with Scorpius in his stroller on Saturdays. Sometimes I can even coax Draco into coming with us.

I hand Scorpius off to his mother who coos softly at him and smiles at me. Astoria's back in London for the holidays and is staying with us in the guest room affectionately known as Astoria's Lair. She Portkeys over for at least one weekend a month to spend time with our son. Things are well in America, but I think she'll be back for good soon. She and Seamus have been flirting rather a lot recently, and Hermione tells me that Zabini's already setting up a pool on how long it takes the two of them to fall into bed. Evidently Draco and I have grown too boring and staid for our friends' wagering habits.

At least when we're not bickering, that is.

I look around the room. Our friends and family are gathered with us this evening. Ron and Pansy are sharing a wide armchair and a glass of wine. She looks at him the way I look at Draco. I don't think that Ron needs to worry about what she's going to think of the ring he's giving her Christmas morning.

Seamus hovers over Astoria. He's Transfigured a stray scrap of wrapping paper into a tiny butterfly that he's sending flying over Scorpius's blond head. My son laughs and grabs at it with his plump little fingers, and Seamus looks delighted. I can't help but smile, although the attentive look in Mimsy's eyes tells me the butterfly will be turned back to shreds of paper soon.

Kingsley's in the corner, talking to Lucius and sharing the bottle of Glenfarclas twenty-five year that Draco and I'd given our boss the day before. For a moment I worry about whether or not they'll come to blows over a political issue, and then I realise they're commiserating over the abysmal performance earlier in the week of their beloved Falcons in the match against Portree. Politics and Quidditch make strange bedfellows.

Andromeda's on the sofa with Beatrice, laughing. I'm not sure what's odder, the fact that her sister's replacement has become a good friend of hers, or that she's started seeing Kingsley this year. It's a puzzlement to all of us, but they seem to fit. And Christ knows Kingsley's more relaxed around the Ministry now--a fact for which Draco in particular is grateful. Teddy has taken to Kingsley as well, which is a relief to all concerned. Teddy's holed away upstairs now in my study, borrowing my laptop to look up spoilers for the Doctor Who special tomorrow. I can't believe he's thirteen now, and halfway through his third year in Ravenclaw House.

Hermione hands me a glass of wine. "You look pleased."

"It's Christmas." I smile at her over the rim of my glass. "Where's Blaise?"

"Justin just rang." We exchange a long look. The DMLE solicitors have not been best pleased by some of the legal reforms Kingsley's been pressing through the Wizengamot before the break for the holidays.

Blaise walks back into the room, Hermione's mobile pressed to his ear. "You have entered the amusement park of fuck, Finch-Fletchley. This is Fuck-Me-Land Paris, and you are on the proverbial helter skelter of ball sucking, my friend." He pauses for a moment, listening. Lucius and Kingsley look over, then keep talking.

"The baby," Hermione says to him, but Blaise waves her concerns away. Everyone else ignores him. Except, that is, for Scorpius, who bounces up and down in Astoria's arms, babbling excitedly at his godfather. At least we needn't worry whether our son will grow up with a colourful vocabulary. Draco and I have a wager on whether or not his first word will be fuck.

"Stick a giant mouse up your arse and get stuffed," Blaise snarls into the mobile, then he snaps it shut and hands it back to her. At her disapproving look he frowns. "What?" He takes Scorpius from Astoria. "Hello, my little arsewipe."

Hermione sighs and settles a hand on her swollen stomach. She's due in two months and wearing a stunning cranberry red cocktail dress with a pair of kitten heels. She looks phenomenal in love. "This is why I won't marry you," she says.

Blaise levitates Scorpius, letting him roll in the air. Scorpius kicks his feet happily. "I don't recall asking you, English wench."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I hope you're better with my parents tomorrow. Dad still hasn't got over the last time we had dinner together."

"I apologised for calling him a stupid Muggle fuck," Blaise says petulantly. He looks at me. "Didn't get my cock sucked for two weeks straight for that one."

I retrieve my son, setting my wineglass on the side table. One of our two house-elves whisks it away. "I remember." He'd been a complete beast at work. Poor Isobel, who'd taken over my old position as a policy wonk, had finally cracked and thrown a tea mug at him in a meeting, which had earned her a standing ovation and an office full of flowers by the afternoon.

Ron and Pansy come over. Pansy slips an arm around Blaise's waist. "Hello, darling." He kisses the top of her head.

"Bint," he says affectionately.

Ron and Hermione look at each other awkwardly for a moment, then laugh. He leans in to hug her. "You look enormous," he says. At Pansy's sharp jab into his arm, he coughs. "I mean beautiful."

Hermione makes a face at him. "Enormous is more like it," she says, but she smiles.

Ron looks at me. "You going back to the office after Boxing Day?"

"Yeah," I say. I disentangle Scorpius's hand from my hair, wincing in the process. The little bastard's a tighter grip than his father. "Why?"

"Just checking on when I can kick your yoghurt-knitting, bleeding-heart arse for that last proposal of yours." He gives me a wide grin. "Angus is working up a memo on why the Auror force won't be changing those policies. I think he's on page seven."

I laugh. "And where does the phrase national security come in?" As well as we work together, there are certain issues that Ron refuses to budge on. It's become a joke between us--after several raging arguments, that is.

"First page, you wanker." Ron smirks. "The Wizengamot will be eating out of our hands."

Blaise glances over at me. "It was a shit proposal, Potter. I fucking told you that."

"Don't take his side, you bastard Scot." I snort. Scorpius lays his head on my shoulder, his finger in his mouth.

There's a cough from the doorway. Draco stands there, Teddy behind him, nearly as tall as he is, with a shock of purple hair this hols. Draco eyes me and Blaise. "Before the Battle of Sark begins again in my sitting room," he says, "I think we're ready to eat."

"Finally," Teddy says with a whoop. "I'm famished."

"You're always famished," Draco tells him, and Teddy grins.

Draco takes Scorpius from me as we all file into the dining room. The table's set with silver and crystal and the old Black family china he'd inherited from his mother. There's another Christmas tree in the corner, boughs laden down with glass globes and silver balls and hundreds of tiny fairies, glittering brightly. They flinch slightly when they see Scorpius--he's already tried to eat one of them. Draco'd caught him just in time.

Mistelthwaite, our other house-elf, marches in as everyone takes their seats, an enormous roast goose on a platter floating behind him. Draco fastens Scorpius into his chair, then takes his own beside him. He's left me the head of the table this year--we've agreed to alternate.

The goose settles on the table, and I look around at the smiling faces surrounding me. It's been a good year, I think. I raise my wine glass. "Happy Christmas," I say.

"Happy Christmas," my family choruses, over the clink of glasses.

Draco leans across Scorpius. "Are you happy?" he murmurs.

"Without a doubt," I say, and I lean in to kiss him.

Without a doubt.