Fic Repost: We Are Young (HP, Harry/Draco, NC-17) 1/2

[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. :)



- 13 April, 2010 -

Whitechapel. Crowded pavements filled with haggling vendors selling everything from phone cards to nearly fresh produce to baby clothes hung on twine strung between awning poles. White-haired shopkeepers from Kenya who remember a youth spent constantly carrying a British passport just in case they were stopped by police now suspiciously eye rowdy teenagers in pristine hoodies and rustling trackie bottoms as they throw down coins to pay for cheese-and-onion crisps and technicoloured cans of Fanta and threaten to ring those same police if the bastards don't stop loitering. The mouthwatering smell of small curry shops wafts down a row of brightly painted storefronts at midmorning. Muslimahs in long skirts race for the Tube, England flags twisting above them in the damp breeze, rippling against dirty neon business signs. The rumble of traffic barely drowns out the constant pounding from the construction of the new Royal London Hospital, the worn, dirty elegance of the old building's arched columns eclipsed by the soullessly modern columns of blue glass and white steel that are slowly clambering up from its shadows. Yank tourists in bright t-shirts, expensive cameras slung incautiously over their shoulders, wander past the infamous Blind Beggar pub, where in 1966 Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell, allegedly for calling him a " big fat poof"--which, really, to be honest, was just stating the bloody obvious.

For the past five years I've had a tiny office here with a brilliant view of the Gherkin—as long as you lean out the window over Whitechapel Road. The Tube station's just below, two storeys down, and the offices of Suriya and Co, Solicitors between my floor and the Tube entrance muffle the comings and goings of East London Muggles. Somewhat. A Muffliato or two helps. Heading a pressure group, even if you're the Saviour of the Wizarding World, doesn't pay well. Don't get me wrong—I like my job, for the most part. Unlike the streets of Whitechapel, my work may not be as far from the hallowed corridors of Whitehall as I'd like, but there's something utterly satisfying about throwing a wrench in the workings of Government from time to time. Particularly since it annoys the Minister's office so thoroughly.

I've just sat down with a takeaway container filled with chicken karahi keema and two gulab jamuns from Tayyabs when there's a knock on my door and my assistant peers around the door frame. The scattered beads sewn across her brown and cream silk hijab shimmer in the late afternoon sunlight and her perfectly groomed eyebrows draw together in a way that makes me put down my fork and lean forward in my chair, suddenly unsettled.

"What is it, Aisha?"

Her frown deepens. "Sorry, Harry, but you've another visitor who insists upon being seen."

The door hits the bookcase on the other side of the frame, and my Order of Merlin, first class rattles on the wall. Bright blond hair, cropped short and rumpled, and a black robe—neatly tailored and buttoned over a spotless white shirt and Windsor-knotted grey tie—push past an annoyed Aisha.

"Mr Malfoy," she says sharply, but Draco ignores her. As usual. Instead he drops into the worn leather chair opposite my desk and crosses his arms over his chest, manicured fingernails tapping against his elbows. Sometime in the past few months he's taken to wearing thick rectangular black metal glasses. I hate that they look good on him.

"What did she mean by another?" he asks.

I sigh and close up the takeaway, casting a warming charm on it. My stomach rumbles; I haven't eaten since I left home before seven this morning. "Thanks for trying," I say to Aisha, and she flaps her hand and closes the door behind her. Both of us are fully aware that trying to keep a determined Malfoy out of my office is impossible if I'm actually in. I look at the Floo wistfully, then back at Draco. "When'd you start wearing glasses?"

"About two months ago," he says. "Has it really been that long?"

"January," I say dryly. Draco has a talent for dropping in and out of my life depending on whom he's dating. Or more precisely, for dropping in and out of my bed. "Susan Bones, remember?" She hadn't been overly fond of me and Draco spending time together once they'd started going out. Nothing against me, she'd said politely when she'd pulled me aside, but it was a bit odd to have dinners out with your boyfriend's fuckbuddy tagging along. I hadn't been able to blame her, really. Most of the girls Draco goes out with don't notice me in the wings; Susan, however, has a solicitor's keen eye.

Not that he'd cheat on her, mind. Whatever this thing is between us, it's always ebbed the moment one or the other of us starts dating someone. This has been the longest, though, that I've gone without actually seeing the bastard. It annoys me that I've missed him.

"Oh." Draco looks nonplussed, then he shrugs. "She left me last week. For Millicent of all people, if you'll believe that." He doesn't seem brokenhearted. Then again, he never does. "They're happy enough, Pansy tells me. I really ought to have known given how often she wanted me to--" He catches my sharp look, and an amused smile quirks his lips. "Anyway. As for the glasses, they're mainly for reading briefs—fucking bloody Wizengamot refuses to increase the font size on printed materials—but Pans thinks I look distinguished."

I close the file jacket on my desk blotter that the bastard's trying to read upside down. "You look like an utter ponce."

"Don't be ridiculous." Draco frowns at me. "And again, I ask, what did the lovely, lovely Aisha mean by another visitor?"

The sheer white curtains at the open window flutter in a slight breeze. It's a gorgeous spring day—nearly warm enough to go without a coat. "She's seeing someone; flattery will get you nowhere."

"I disagree, but really, Potter, I do believe you're avoiding my question." Draco leans forward, resting his arms on the worn wood of my secondhand desk. He slips off his glasses. There's a slight pink indentation on the bridge of his nose. It's been five years since we last worked together, he and I, and nearly four months since we last slept together. The sage-and-sandalwood scent of him never fails to make my stomach flutter.

With another sigh, I stack file jackets. "Yesterday Brown announced the Queen had agreed to the dissolution of Parliament and set the date for a general election—or at least that's what Auntie Beeb told me last night as I was heating up a leftover curry. According to the Wizarding Electoral Reform Decree of 2003, the Wizengamot now falls under the same Parliamentary election schedule, and as the Prophet reported this morning that the Wizengamot general election would be held on the sixth of May in accordance with the Muggles…" I look up at him. "Your father's already been by this morning trying to secure my support."

Draco swears loudly. "Tell me you told him no."

That earns him an irritated glare. I stand up, gathering the file jackets before I turn to the heavy walnut cabinet behind my desk. "Lucius Malfoy is the last person on this earth—reformed or not—I would throw any political weight behind." I tap the files with my wand and they fly into their respective drawers. "You of all people should know that." I look back over my shoulder at him. "I thought he'd stick to fundraising for the Omps, not actually standing for the Wizengamot."

"It's all your fault." Draco steeples his fingers and scowls. "He's been on about it since you had Kingsley push that ridiculous legislation through reinstating convicted felons' right to political expression. Are you utterly mad, by the way, or has being out here among the Muggles just rotted your brain past rational thought?"

"Human rights, Malfoy. They're important. Do you know what Azkaban--"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Yes, I do. Father spent four years there; I'm rather certain it did him a great deal of good, given he's only half the raging arsehole he was before, but he's still a complete and utter tit, and of course, Cousin Sirius, blah, blah, blah, terrible miscarriage of justice, blah, blah." He pinches the bridge of his nose before he slides his glasses back on. "Really, Harry, must we go over this again?"

"Yes," I snap. It's an argument we've had since the last election we worked on together, the one that sent Kingsley from Head Auror to the Wizengamot. The one in which I finally saw the real Malfoy, the Malfoy willing to fight against his father and his beliefs, the Malfoy broken by his mother's death. The Malfoy I'd fallen into bed with the day after the polls closed. "The legal system in the wizarding world is absolute shite. Twelve years we've been asking to move the Dementors from Azkaban, and neither the Popular Magical Party, better known as the Pomps, nor the Optimate Magical Party--the Omps, what can I say, we Brits tend to have an odd sense of humour, just look at Brian Blessed--anyway, neither will budge an inch on that. You can still go to Azkaban without trial; you can still have your soul sucked from you on nothing but the fucking Minister's orders. You're not guaranteed a hearing, much less an appeal, and we've only had defence counsel for three years now." That last is one of my greatest accomplishments, I think. The Black-Grimmauld Trust for Penal and Legal Reform's less than five years old, but already it's become a thorn in the side of Minister McLaird. Hermione tells me every time my name's mentioned now, smoke comes out of the tip of his wand.

"In the choir, Harry," Draco says wearily, holding up his hands. "You know the Modern Wizarding Reform Party support all—" He stops for a moment, considering. "Most of what you're advocating. And since Kingsley's been elected party leader, he's been bringing your concerns to the Dispatch Box. Last Minster's Questions he asked about the Dementors again. The Chief Warlock had to shout down McLaird and Thicknesse so he could be heard."

I'm inordinately pleased about that fact, even after several days. "I heard." I sit back down. "I'm trying hard—"

"You could do more inside the Party." Draco examines his fingernails. "Inside the Ministry, even."

"No," I say sharply. "I left those politics behind after the last election."

"Balls." Draco crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair. His white-blond hair curls over the curve of his ear. "You're still in politics, Harry. Just in a completely ineffectual way." His eyes narrow at me. "Kingsley wants you back. You're good with policy."

"And the name recognition won't hurt."

Draco watches me. "You miss it." At my snort, he smiles faintly. "Being in the thick of it, the adrenaline pumping through you, all the fighting and backstabbing—" He leans forward, his eyes bright. It takes my breath away. "It was brilliant fun, Potter. You must admit that."

It was. Still. "I'm not giving up the Trust." We both know I'll have no choice but to do just that if I go back.

"Put it in Aisha's name. She does most of the work anyway."

Bastard. I hate it when he's right. "I like what I do, Draco. We're making inroads. More than I could writing policy briefs for a third party—"

"We could win this one," Draco says abruptly. I just look at him. He meets my gaze. "We've been doing a bit of research. The Pomps are losing favour, and the Omps aren't picking up their losses. We are. Not many, mind, but there are enough uncertain seats that if the Party run a damn good campaign we might actually gain a majority in the Wizengamot."

I can't look away. "And the Ministry."

Draco nods. His smile widens. "Kingsley as Minister. Think of it, Harry. What you could do…"

I'm tempted now, just like the bastard knew I'd be. "Fuck."

"More or less." Draco stands up, reaching for a gulab jamun on top of my takeaway. He bites into it. "Kingsley wants to meet with you at Party headquarters Thursday. Half three. Be there or he'll be annoyed. We've three weeks to the polls. That's not much time." He walks to the door, still chewing. "Oh, and Harry?"

"What?"

Draco opens the door. "Because I know you're dying to ask...if there were a competition between you and Sus as to who gave the best blow job--"

I restrain myself from throwing an inkwell at his smirking face. "Fuck off, Malfoy." He knows I hate it when he compares me to his exes. It never seems to stop him though. Fucking bastard.

"You'd win. You always do." Draco finishes the gulab jamun and wipes a thumb at the corners of his mouth. I don't bother to tell him he's missed a few dark crumbs. "Thursday afternoon," Draco says, his hand on the doorknob, and then he's gone before I can object.

Aisha leans against the door frame. "You all right, boss?"

I run my hands over my face, pushing my glasses up my forehead. "Probably not."

She lingers in the door, hesitant. "Is Mr Malfoy...?" She glances back behind her cautiously, even though we've already heard the whoosh of the Floo. Draco has that effect on people. "You're not going to...in the office..." She clears her throat. "Again."

I peer at her between my fingers. "I'm not interested in Whitehall," I start to say, but the flush that rises on Aisha's cheeks pulls me up sharply.

"No," she murmurs. "But you are interested in Mr Malfoy..." She trails off discreetly, and it's then I realise what she's referring to. My face burns, remembering the time she'd walked in on us in my office, me clinging to the desk and Draco balls deep inside of me. Her shriek and the flutter of papers she'd thrown towards the desk as she'd slammed the door shut had nearly put Draco off his stroke, at which point I would have cheerfully killed him.

"Oh, God, no." I shake my head vigorously. "I'm still sorry about that by the way."

Aisha flaps a dismissive hand towards me, her eyes averted. "It's not whether he's a Mr or a Miss Malfoy, you know." Her flush rises. "It's just...well. One generally doesn't want to hear one's boss urging his..." She hesitates. "...friend to..." The look she gives me is enough.

"No," I say chastened. "One very much doesn't. But you needn't worry about that at the moment."

Aisha gives me a sceptical look.

"It's true," I protest. I pause, considering. It's mad that I'm even considering this, but... "In fact, how would you feel about taking over the Trust for a few weeks?"

She answers with a brilliant smile.

***

I hate Whitehall. It's crowded with politicians, their flunkies, and gloomy civil servants forced to endure the idiocies of the former. Still, I take my time walking down the broad, tree-lined street from the Westminster Tube station, nodding politely at the queue of American and Japanese tourists peering through the tightly closed wrought iron gates of Downing Street. The armed Met officers at the fence look bored, their gun straps looped over their shoulder, the barrels pointing towards the granite stones of the pavement, the radios hooked onto their stab vests squawking softly.

The Ministry's further down, past the tall, gleaming buildings of Muggle Government towards the scruffier, older buildings near Trafalgar Square. I cross the street at the Old War Office, then pass the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, not even ten years old now and tucked out of the way of the rest of Government in two small buildings dwarfed by the Ministry of Defence complex. A quick right onto Great Scotland Yard, and then I duck behind a pub's overflowing skip to a forgotten red telephone box. The graffiti on the brick wall behind me's changed over the years, but several panes of glass are still missing from the telephone box and when I pick up the receiver, it clicks and hums loudly in my ear as I dial the proper code. I suppose I could go through the worker's entrance, but when I'd suggested that this morning, Draco'd rolled his eyes, the green flames from the Floo fire twisting through his blond hair, and informed me that he'd rather not get a bollocking from the DMLE for allowing unauthorised Ministry access to any wizard waltzing by, even if said wizard was me. It'd just been easier not to argue. I've learnt to pick my battles with Draco over the years. It's far less likely to cause me an embolism one day.

Just as I hit the final two on the dial pad, a woman's voice echoes in the telephone box, crisp and calm. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

I shift my satchel over my shoulder. "Harry Potter to see a Member of the Wizengamot. Kingsley Shacklebolt, please. He's expecting me."

There's a long pause, then the woman coughs lightly. I roll my eyes. It's not as if I don't come to the Ministry at all, even if I prefer doing most of my political lobbying outside of the building. "Thank you. Please attach the visitor badge to the front of your robe, and have your wand ready for inspection." A square silver badge tumbles into my hand from the coin chute, and I pin it to the lapel of my suit jacket—the one concession I've made to formal attire. At least my jeans and trainers are clean.

I lean against the side of the telephone box as it rumbles into life, slowly sliding down into darkness before it clunks into place at last, the door creaking open. I step into the Floo hall, the shadows from the hearth fires stretching across the polished dark wood floor. It's mid-morning, so there are few wizards and witches queued up to use the Floos, but the ones who are watch me as I stride down past the Fountain of Magical Brethren and whisper behind Prophets and inter-departmental memos.

Draco's waiting for me at Security, and as they inspect my wand, he crosses his arms over his impeccable black robe and taps his foot impatiently. I'm impressed at how shiny his shoe is.

"I thought I told you to dress up," he snaps at me.

The security wizard rips off a scrap of parchment from the scales and hands my wand back to me. "Nice wood," he says.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes. Lovely wand. Killed You-Know-Who, you know." He grabs my arm and drags me through the golden gate, ignoring the security wizard's blink. "Honestly, Potter. Jeans. To meet the next Minister for Magic."

I snort. "I've known Kingsley since I was a fifth year, you tit. And you don't know he's going to be—"

"He will if I have anything to say about it," Draco says grimly. "Merlin knows the last thing any of us want are the Omps back in power." He narrows his eyes at me. "They've taken my father in, Harry. With open arms. I really think that's all that needs to be said on that score."

"They're not all that bad," I protest. "I mean, it's not as if I agree with most of their policies, but it's not as if they stood Voldemort for office."

Draco flinches at the name. "No. Just Fudge." He pushes me towards one of the lifts. "And don't be all House unity on me. Not today."

My mouth twitches to one side as he leans across a pretty, plump witch laden down with a high stack of purple parchment and punches the button marked two in curling script. The lift shudders as it rises slowly. Draco settles against the corner, his eyes flicking towards the woman.

"Margo," he says warily.

She sniffs at him and looks away. "I'm not speaking to you."

"Oh, don't be like that." Draco flashes her a wide smile, one I recognise as his usual attempt to charm his way out of an awkward situation. "I said I'd Floo and I did."

"To tell me you were cancelling our date because you had dragonpox." Margo turns on him, her dark brown curls bouncing against her cheek. "Honestly, Draco."

"It all worked out in the end, didn't it? You and Rafe are the talk of the office."

Margo's cheeks pinken. "Hush, you." The lift dings on Level Three, the doors sliding open, nearly silent. She steps out, then glances back in at Draco, smiling. "You're still horrid."

Draco blows her a kiss as the doors close.

"You're still a complete shit, aren't you?" I ask, amused. "Did you shag her?"

"Twice and then again in the morning. It was a rebound thing last weekend. Horribly thought through as such things generally are, and meant just to renew my flagging male ego." I snort. Flagging indeed. The lift opens onto Level Two and Draco steps out, not bothering to wait for me. I jog a few steps to catch up to his longer legs—bastard—my satchel hitting against my hip. "And on Monday I sent Rafe her way." He shrugs. "I knew they'd hit it off."

We walk through the heavily carved ebony-and-glass doors of the Wizengamot Administrative Services. My feet sink into thick burgundy carpet. The walls are paneled in dark wood; the gleaming white ceiling arches high above us. Portraits of various high-ranking Wizengamot members from throughout the years scowl down at us. They're mostly men, though towards the end of the hall, I recognise Amelia Bones, Susan's aunt. She gives me a small smile, and a nod of her head.

"Lovely to see you again, Mr Potter," she murmurs. "Draco's told me so many good things about your recent work with the prison."

I'm surprised to see a faint flush rise on Draco's cheeks. "Lying bint," he says loudly, but there's a small smile at the edge of his mouth. "I've done no such thing. Although I might have complained about how awful his hair is." He glances at me. "Really, Potter, I could recommend a proper stylist for that wretched mop of yours."

Amelia just laughs affectionately at him. "On with you, Draco, dear. Kingsley's a bit impatient."

Draco leads me down another hall, and the carpet's slightly less plush here, though the panelling is more ornate. He pushes open a door and I can hear a familiar voice raised in exasperated irritation.

"—if you call me that one more time, Blaise Zabini, I'll—"

"You'll what? Hex my prick to my face again? Hate to tell you, lovely, but that just means it's closer to my mouth to suck, so really—"

"Must you be so commonly vile?" Hermione's back is to me, but I'd recognise that annoyed tone anywhere.

"It's part of his charm," Draco says dryly, and they both turn to look at us.

"Harry," Hermione says and she throws her arms around me, pulling me down slightly to kiss my cheek. It's been a few weeks since I've seen her, though we've firecalled a few times. She's been busy lately as a policy adviser for Ian Berwicke, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and former Pomp. He'd given up his party affiliation to take on the role of Chief Warlock a year ago when old Branning stepped down. He'd been unanimously elected by the Wizengamot—almost unheard of for that position. And now Hermione's shot up into the political stratosphere; the last time we'd talked she'd told me she'd taken on liaison duties with the Muggle Parliament.

I squeeze her tight before I pull back. "What are you doing here?"

"Utter fucking madness on Draco's part." Zabini drapes himself across a chair, his black robe falling open over a pair of neatly pressed trousers and a pinstripe waistcoat. There's still a faint trace of a Scottish brogue in his voice, despite how he's tried to excise it since our school days. "He actually thought the ignorant cow might convince you to hie your mouldering balls back to the Ministry, but we all know he'd have better luck with—"

"Blaise," Draco says calmly as he takes a seat at the conference table. "Shut up."

To my surprise, Zabini falls silent, though he shoots Draco a baleful glare as he pulls out a small notebook and quill, flipping through it with a frown. I sit down beside Hermione, setting my satchel on the floor beside my chair. It's the first time I've actually seen the director of communications for the Modern Wizarding Reform Party--just call us the Mods, the Prophet does--cowed.

"What do you think about all this?" I whisper to Hermione. "You're supposedly non-partisan. Do you think Kingsley has a chance?"

She shrugs and crosses one leg over the other, her high heel catching on the drape of her long over-robe. Her red skirt beneath it is surprisingly short. No wonder she landed on the top of the Prophet's best dressed list last year. "Well enough, I think. It'll be tight, but Draco's right about the Pomps' loss of support. People aren't happy with McLaird's stance on legal reforms. He's not moving quickly enough, and there's a push among the younger generation to take up the Mod platform. I mean, look at us here. Two Gryffindors and two Slytherins, and all of us remember the war too well to want anything other than complete reform. Even Zabini, utter Muggle-hating bastard that he is."

I glance across the table at Zabini. He scowls into his notebook as his quill scratches across the paper, leaving behind a thick trail of black ink and exclamation points before it shimmers and disappears, whatever bile he's just scrawled out making its way to the intended recipient. "I think he's more humanity-in-general-hating lately."

Hermione huffs in annoyance. "The next time he calls me a fucking blood traitor because I happen to disagree with his party line I'll knock him down." Her mouth purses into a tight bow.

"Don't take it personally," Draco says from my other side. "He's called me that too. Bastard."

"Potter." The door hits the wall as Kingsley strides in, tall and broad and impressive as ever, his royal blue robe fluttering behind him. I stand, and he grabs my hand, his fingers thick and firm against mine. "Good to see you again."

"And you, sir." I sit as he takes his seat. A rabbity-looking older man with pale blue eyes scurries in after him, closing the door. He casts a disgruntled look Draco's way.

"Glenn," Draco says, and the smile he gives the older man isn't pleasant. I take it there's little love lost between them.

Kingsley ignores them both. "Tell me you're coming back," he says to me. "As a favour to me."

I sigh. "I told Draco I'd come listen, but I'm happy where I am. We've still a lot of work to do at the Trust—"

"You could do it here in the Party," Kingsley says bluntly. "And better. Let's be honest, Potter. That little charity of yours does well enough when you get off your arse and press the issues. Your name still has a certain amount of political cachet. It always will. But working outside the system isn't helping you. How much have you accomplished so far?"

"Defence counsel," Hermione says sharply, before I can answer. "And if the Pomps hadn't blocked the private bill regarding the Dementor's Kiss coming before the assembly—"

Kingsley waves a hand. "Wouldn't have passed anyway. You Young Turks might have supported that sort of measure, but there are plenty of your elders who still believe in capital punishment."

"Fucking beasts, they are," Zabini mumbles, not looking up from his notebook. "Like to have seen them at Hogwarts with those ghastly, soul-sucking cunts." He rubs a hand over his close-cut hair. "Even a half-wit fuck like Potter didn't deserve having them trailing shit after him."

"Thanks ever so," I say with a snort. Zabini just shrugs.

Kingsley leans back in his chair. "But still. It wasn't the right time."

"And now it is?" I eye him sceptically.

There's a silence around the table, then Kingsley sighs. "Does he know?" he asks Draco.

"I haven't told him," Draco says, and he glances at Hermione who shakes her head.

I sit up in my chair. "Told me what?"

Zabini puts down his notebook and looks at me. "The fucking Prophet's running a fucking story on Sunday about fucking prisoner abuses."

I tense. "The Azkaban ones I've been trying to get people to acknowledge for years?"

"No." Zabini leans over the table, his narrow shoulders hunched, the angles in his face sharp and set. "Pansy's given us a heads-up about it. Seems like there's been some very naughty boys across the hall in DMLE lately. Nasty shit, Potter. Very much up your alley. Some of the fucking night Aurors have been playing whack-the-dirty-wizard in the fucking holding cells, only this time they were moronic enough to beat the fucking spunk out of a junior minister's son badly enough to land him in the locked ward at St Mungo's and now Daddy's not best fucking pleased, is he?"

Hermione touches my arm. "It's bad, Harry. I've seen the reports. Berwicke's already planning on a full hearing before the Council of Law after the election."

I don't know what to say. Instead I just look at Draco. He meets my gaze evenly. "We need you, Harry," he says after a moment. "This election's going to get incredibly dirty. When news of the scandal gets out—"

"And the hearing," Hermione adds.

Draco nods towards her. "The Omps are already planning on going after McLaird. I'm sure you've no idea, but Phoebus Penrose just won their leadership election—"

"I do read the Prophet, Malfoy," I say with a sigh. The Omp leadership battle had been a bloodbath a month ago. The sheer amount of bile and career-ending gossip soaking through the politico columns had been astonishing. Even the Muggles weren't capable of that kind of vitriol, although I suspect Alastair Campbell may have come close a time or two.

"Oh, do you?" Draco raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk lighting his sharp features. "Given the stack of Guardians strewn across your desk…"

I flick two fingers his way. "Didn't your father support Penrose?"

"Which is why the limp-pricked horse cock—sorry, Draco—is now standing for the Wiltshire seat," Zabini says, before Draco can answer. "The point is, Potter, that Kingsley here would like to know you're fucking supporting him." He glances at Kingsley, who nods. "Because for some Merlin-only-fucking-knows-why reason, despite your mostly moronic life choices, the British wizarding public seems to, God help us all, still respect you."

"Glenn. The manifesto draft." Kingsley snaps his fingers and the pale-eyed assistant—whom I've nearly forgotten about—slides a thick sheaf of papers clipped together across the table at me. I take it silently, flipping through. It has the usual party jargon. Jobs. Taxes. Positive interaction with the EU Wizengamot. Good luck with that. Frankly, as far as I can see all Brussels is good for is cocking up cauldron thicknesses. Education—I see the leadership's asking to increase the scholarship funding for Hogwarts again. That'll be a pitched battle with MacLaird's Pomp camp, I can guarantee.

Draco leans over my shoulder. I can feel his breath huff softly against my cheek. "Page twenty-one."

I turn the pages silently. "Systemic penal and legal reform," I say quietly. The black text is bold against the white paper.

"Including the dissolution of the Dementor Guard." Kingsley leans over the table, his hand settling on my wrist. "It's a key component of our platform. Along with your statement of prisoner rights, and a push for legal code reforms to require trials by a jury of peers in a timely manner for all wizards and witches accused of a crime."

"And an appeal system, Harry," Hermione says, her eyes bright. "It's almost everything you've been fighting for. Brought to the table."

I look down at the manifesto draft. "You're actually incorporating it into the party platform?"

"Once our last member of the Wizengamot signs off on it this afternoon," Glenn says, "I'll send it to the printer." His voice squeaks slightly, then he clears his throat. "It should go out to the party as a whole by owl post this weekend. After we leak it to the Prophet, of course."

"Pansy thinks she can convince Cuffe to run a short piece on it a few pages in from the article on the Auror scandal," Draco says. He shuffles a sheaf of papers in front of him. "It'll give people something to consider in their righteous anger."

I snort. "Some people. The ones who might actually think beating a man who hasn't yet been charged with a crime is a bad thing."

"They exist," Draco says lightly. "I think." At my frown, he slaps my arm with his stack of papers. "Get a sense of humour, Potter."

I look over at Kingsley. "You actually do this, and I'll come on board for you."

Kingsley grins and pushes his chair back. "In that case, Harry, I'll see you at party headquarters Monday morning." He holds out a hand, and I shake it, nearly getting my fingers crushed in the process. "Good to have you with us."

As Hermione throws her arms around my neck, I can't help but laugh. My eyes meet Draco's. "I'm back, baby."

Draco just laughs.

***

I wait for him in the hall after the others have left for their respective offices.

"Hey," Draco says, giving me a surprised look. "Lost already, are we?"

"Fuck off." I fall into step alongside of him, my hands shoved in my jeans pockets, my satchel banging lightly against my hip. "I just thought we should talk."

Draco stops, turning to me. "Talk."

"Talk," I say firmly, and I nudge him towards a small alcove, almost hidden from the main corridor. "Might we have some privacy, please?" I ask the portrait hanging there, and a rotund old man with a scraggly grey beard pushes himself out of his chair, complaining loudly about being rousted from his nap.

Draco drops down into one of the brocade-covered armchairs and crosses one leg over the other. "What should we talk about then?" He pushes his black glasses up his nose and eyes me curiously.

I take the chair across from him, sitting uncomfortably on the edge, my legs spread wide, elbows on my knees as I hunch forward. "You know."

"I honestly do not." Draco looks confused, then wary. "Oh, God. You're Confunded. Again."

"Oh, for Merlin's--" I roll my eyes. "That was only once and it was entirely Zabini's fault."

"I did tell you not to pester him," Draco says petulantly. "You know he hates being interrupted mid-rant."

I take a deep breath. Honestly, talking to Draco at times is worse than having a conversation with Luna. I can see the family resemblance now, as much as they'd both like to forget their cousinly connections. "Draco. You just broke up with Susan last week."

"Yes?" He frowns. "What does that have anything to do--oh." His mouth purses. "I see."

I throw my hands up. "And so the penny drops."

A small smile curves Draco's lips, and he leans back in his chair, his fingers slipping over the curved arms. His narrow hips shift. "Usually it takes you a few more weeks before you want to do anything."

Sometimes he can be infuriating. "I don't want to."

"Really?" Draco sits up in surprise. "You always want to."

He has a point. Then again, I've had almost four months to think about this. "I don't this time." At the furrow of his brow, I sigh. "Look. If I come back on staff for this campaign, we're not..." I trail off. "You know."

Draco's mouth twitches. "Do I?"

"Oh, come off it." I kick his foot lightly. "You know as well as I do it's an awful idea to mix sex with a campaign."

"Particularly our brand of sex," Draco murmurs, looking at me through heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is slightly rumpled from his running a hand through it, and it's all I can do to will my cock to stay in its place.

I shift in my chair, settling my satchel on my lap. "No sex, Draco. I mean it. If I'm going to do this for Kingsley, you can't be distracting me."

"But I'm terribly good at it." Draco leans forward. "And you've never complained." I just look at him, and he sighs. "Fine," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "It's not as if I asked you to drop your trousers anyway. The question is more whether or not you can keep them done up yourself."

I stand up and pull the strap of my satchel over my head, settling it against my hip again. "I have missed you, you bastard."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't me not returning firecalls," he says lightly, but I know my disappearance hurt him. Still, I've no wish to tell him that Susan wanted me to keep my distance--or that I'd agreed with her. I can't help but wonder if that makes me a coward. But I'm not just falling into bed--or on whatever available surface--with him again, of this much I'm determined. We both need different things.

"Hermione's been after me to ask Tony Goldstein out," I say after a moment. "I'm thinking of actually doing it."

There's a flicker of something in Draco's eyes, quickly suppressed before I can read it properly. "You should. He's smart, funny and has great hair. Nearly as good as mine." He steps out into the corridor again, almost running into a harried-looking administrative assistant. "Really, there's no reason not to."

"No," I say, following him. "I suppose there's not."

We stand there for a moment, looking at each other, then Draco pulls his stack of papers closer to his chest. "I should get back to work."

"Yeah. I need to get Aisha up to speed."

Neither of us move. I want to brush back a short lock of hair that's fallen over his forehead. I don't. His eyes meet mine, clear grey and bright. He licks his lips, which are pink and slightly parted. I'm not certain either of us are breathing.

And then Draco pulls back, stepping away, breaking the spell. "Monday then." He turns away. "See you then, Scarhead."

"Monday." I stand there, watching, long after he turns the corner.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

***

Four days later Pansy bloody Parkinson blows my resolve out of the water, bitch that she is.

I'm sat at a back table at the Leaky Cauldron, hidden away behind one of the heavy blackened pillars and nursing a pint of bitter. The pub's changed in the past few years, mostly thanks to Hannah Abbot. We'd all been shocked when old Tom had passed away and left it to her; no one had realised he was her great-uncle. She moved in with a broom and a dustpan and what Ron termed a wicked ability to cook--a high compliment from a Weasley, given Molly's legendary dinners--and Diagon found itself with its first and only gastropub. The changes caused a huge stir, of course. Most of the old regulars buggered off to one of the more run-down pubs deeper down both Diagon and Knockturn, at least for a while, before a few here and there returned for the food, not to mention the thirty different ales, bitters, stouts, and lagers on tap--wizarding and Muggle. If there's one thing Hannah knows other than food, it's her beer. Thank God for that.

"Mind if I sit?" Pansy's already in the chair before she asks. Her glossy black bob swings forward, brushing the sharp angles of her jaw. She's a beautiful woman now: luminescent skin, heavy black eyebrows that arch just so above hazel brown eyes, a curving slash of crimson lips in her pale face, a narrow nose turned up at the tip, the last lingering remnant of the pug-faced girl she once was. We've all changed, I realise. It's a disconcerting thought.

"I'm meeting Ron for lunch," I say, setting my pint down. "He'll be here any minute." There's a small purple bruise on her throat just below her jaw. "What happened to you?"

Pansy rifles through her purse, pulling out a leather-bound reporter's notepad and a quill. Discretely small gold hoops in her earlobes glint when the sunlight from the windows hits them. "What?"

I gesture towards my jaw. "You're bruised."

She looks up at me. "Oh. That. Nothing really. Just the relic of a fall."

That sounds ridiculous. No one can get bruised that way. Not there. I meet her eyes. "A fall."

"Don't be a Gryffindor, Potter," Pansy says sharply. "And don't worry." She sets the pad on the table. "I'm having lunch with Draco. I just wanted to--"

"Where's he been today?" I ask abruptly. Draco hadn't been at the Party headquarters this morning, or at least I hadn't seen--or heard--him.

"Work, I would assume," she says, raising one of those perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Which is what I wanted to ask you about--"

The Leaky Floo bursts into life and Draco stumbles out of it, his robe askew. He catches himself on the mantel before he pitches forward, scowling as he straightens his robe and catches sight of us. He heads straight for my table; I glance towards the door nervously. The last thing I need is Ron coming in right now.

"Merlin's fucking saggy balls," Draco spits out and he drops into the seat next to me. I silently push my pint towards him; he picks it up and drinks half of my bitter in one swallow before setting it down with a thud. "My father's a bastard shit."

"Not literally," Pansy says. Draco just gives her a baleful look. She wrinkles her nose. "Is it that horrid woman again?"

"Beatrice?" Draco reaches for my pint again, and I pull it away.

"Get your own."

Draco groans and drops his head onto the table. I'm mildly concerned now; despite Draco's usual melodramatic fits, it takes a lot to disturb him enough that he'll allow his skin to come into contact with any sticky substance that he can't identify. "Draco."

He turns his head, his glasses askew, and looks up at me. "I hate him. Hate. Hate. Hate." He bangs the table with every syllable, rattling my glass.

"I know." I pat his shoulder and look at Pansy. "Beatrice?"

"Lucius's new ladyfriend--"

"Whore," Draco says, his voice muffled by the crook of his arm.

Pansy rolls her eyes. "She's not a whore, she's an MW." she clarifies. "She's also the woman who might possibly be Draco's new stepmother sometime in the not terribly distant future."

Draco moans. I pat his shoulder again. "Is she that bad?"

"Oh, dear," Pansy murmurs.

Draco raises his head. "Bad? Potter. Honestly. My father is sleeping with Beatrice Spebbington--and really, who the hell keeps the last name Spebbington after her fat old husband dies--who happens to be very high up in the Omp party. She's been in the Wizengamot for years." His eyes narrow. "And she hates me. Loathes me. Despises me--"

"I get the idea," I say.

"--Wants me out of the house so she can work her awful wiles on my ridiculously stupidly besotted father and really, she's a cow. I don't understand what he sees in her; she's nothing like Mother--"

"Draco, darling." Pansy lays a hand over his. "I'm sure she doesn't want you out of the house."

He looks at her miserably. "Father told me this morning at breakfast."

"Oh," Pansy says.

We're all silent. I push my pint back towards Draco and he takes it, lifting it to his mouth.

"What happened?" I ask finally.

He sets the near-empty glass down. "It's only practical, he says." His voice is bitter. "Beatrice thinks he and I are arguing too much over politics and given that I'm working for an opposing party whilst they're both running again, well..."

Pansy gives him a gentle look. "Are you arguing too much?"

"Of course we are," Draco snaps. "Father and I live to argue. It's our raison d'être. Dum spiro altercor and all that." He looks at me. "You know."

"I do." I don't push Draco away when he leans against me despite Pansy's yet-again raised eyebrow. After five years I've got used to it, mostly, those curious looks from his friends and mine. Draco doesn't usually want to be touched. With me, though, he doesn't seem to mind.

Draco sighs into the last of my bitter. I watch it disappear wistfully. "Anyway," he says over the rim. "I am now expected to find my own way in this cruel, cold world, thanks to that wretched cunt. At least until after the election."

"She does have a point, though, darling," Pansy says. "Not that I'm defending Beatrice--"

The empty glass hits the table with a loud thump, turning heads near us. "Quiet, you awful Omp bint, you," Draco retorts, and Pansy just rolls her eyes.

"My political views are not at issue here," she says primly and when Draco snaps out a sharp Theo Pansy turns a gimlet eye on him. "Nor are my husband's, thank you ever so. Draco, honestly, I've seen you and your father turn on each other, and frankly, I wouldn't want to put up with it for the next few weeks either. I realise we're all supposed to loathe Beatrice because she's not your Mother--and I do miss Narcissa as well, darling, I really do. But in this case Beatrice might have a wee, small point."

Draco points a finger at her. "You are a traitor." He looks at me. "She's a traitor."

I snort. "I don't know why you still live at the Manor anyway."

"I'm a Malfoy." Draco picks up the empty pint glass and looks at it woefully. "Where else am I supposed to live?" He sighs heavily and puts the glass down again. "Pans, can I stay in your spare room?"

Pansy looks genuinely regretful. "Theo," she says simply.

Draco frowns. "I told you not to marry him. He never likes any of us coming over anymore." He chews on his bottom lip. "I can't stay with Blaise; I'd be in front of the Council of Law on homicide charges within a week. Or dead and floating in the Thames. Greg's too much of a slob, and Millie's simply out of the question now that she's stolen my girlfriend."

"Who you were practically throwing at her by the end," Pansy says dryly, then she winces. "Ow, Draco, that was my shin."

"Good," he mutters, and I try not to laugh. I fail, although I do manage to turn it into a cough. They both glance at me.

"What about Potter?" Pansy gives me an even look. "As I recall you've spent some, ah, quality time shall we say in his flat over the past few years."

I freeze. "Oh, no you don't."

"You see, Harry doesn't want to fuck me right now, Pans," Draco says calmly. "Or me to fuck him. It might affect his ability to actually work for some reason." He tilts his head, regarding me. "My spunk is quite potent, you know. Kills neurons, or so I'm told."

Pansy snorts. "Thank goodness I've only had mild exposure. And you know, offering someone a spare room generally doesn't involve one's cock."

"More's the pity." Draco looks more cheerful. They've always enjoyed taunting me in tandem. Slytherins are pure evil. Really. They are. "It'd make having houseguests so much more enjoyable." He eyes me. "You do have a nice spare room."

"I really hope we're actually talking about the room," I mutter.

Draco's smile is blinding. "Perhaps."

"So it's settled then," Pansy says brightly. "Draco will stay in your spare room until the end of the election, Potter."

"Hey," I protest, but they're both looking over my shoulder. I turn to see Ron making his way across the pub towards me, his eyes narrowed, two pints in his hands. His dark grey and red Auror robe is pressed and buckled to regulation standards and his black boots gleam with each step he takes. Surprisingly, Ron had flourished in the Auror force. I'd lasted less than a year out of training; Ron's about to wrap up his first decade, the last year of which he's spent leading his own team. Rumour has it he's on the fast track to reach Head Auror before he's forty. If he does, he'll be the youngest Head Auror the force has seen in nearly three centuries.

Pansy gathers her pad and quill, tucking them back into her purse. "Must go. Potter, we'll have that chat soon, shan't we? I've a few questions my editor is dying to have answered. Draco, darling, I'll be happy to help you pack--"

"I never said," I start, but Draco's pushing back his chair and standing. He leans in to brush his soft mouth against my cheek. The back of my neck prickles.

"I'm assuming the wards still let me in," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, and I find myself nodding like a fool. "See you tonight." He pulls back, only to smile at Ron. "Weasley. Lovely to see you again."

"Yeah," Ron says as he sets a pint down in front of me, but he's looking at Pansy. "Parkinson, we need to talk about that article--"

Pansy lifts her purse onto her shoulder, wincing slightly. "Later, Ronald."

"You took my quotes out of context--"

But they're gone, both of them heading towards the Floo, and when Draco looks back over his shoulder at me, grinning, I can't help but laugh. "Slytherins, eh?"

"Poncy bastards, the both of them," Ron says, and he sits in Pansy's vacated chair. The scent of her perfume--tuberoses and gardenias--still hangs in the air. "Parkinson's a bitch."

"Yeah." It's actually one of the things I like about Pansy--and I'm fully aware that Ron doesn't exactly disagree, as much as he claims to. I might be mostly gay, but even I've been known to sneak a peek or two down Pansy's rather lovely décolletage after a drink or two or five. Ron's nowhere near as discreet.

Ron glances back at the Floo. The green flames die back into red-orange. "You and Malfoy aren't..." He gives me a significant look. "I mean, again."

"No," I say a bit too quickly, and Ron's ginger eyebrows go up as he reaches for his pint. I wince. Part of what makes Ron a brilliant Auror is his analytical mind. "Stop it, Ron. I know what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking anything," he says over the rim of his glass. "Just that you're here and he was here and Justin told me that he and Susan broke it off." Ron frowns. "Something about Bulstrode?"

Justin Finch-Fletchley---McLaird's liaison to the DMLE--is a horrid gossip--which means the entire thirty-and-under network at the Ministry knows that Draco and Susan are over. "Has the betting pool started yet?" I ask, resigned. Every time one of Draco's relationships ends, our entire set starts laying wagers on how long it will take for him to end up in my bed. I've stopped protesting; Draco thinks it's terribly amusing, and I've learnt my objections carry absolutely no weight with any of my so-called friends.

Ron sets his glass down. "Dean set one up in the Prophet office. Everyone's been owling over their ten Galleons." He leans forward, his elbows on the table. "Gin said she put in three dates just to be safe."

I run a hand through my rumpled hair. It curls around my fingers and falls into my eyes. Draco's right--it does want cutting. I sigh. "When even my ex is betting against me..." Gin and I had parted amicably for the most part six years ago--she'd been the one to tell me gently she was fairly certain I was, as she delicately put it, "a gigantic nelly pouf, sweetheart"--but I know my friendship with Malfoy perplexes her. One of the worst arguments of our relationship had been over my decision to ask for clemency towards Lucius Malfoy when his parole had come up. She'd never entirely understood that I did it not for Draco but for Narcissa, or, rather, the memory of her. She'd been killed a year earlier by a mad vigilante who'd resented her absolution after the war. The request for mercy was the least I could have done for her. She's the reason Draco and I managed to become friends, after all.

"Five years of you and Malfoy being on and off again?" Ron shrugs and looks over towards the bar where Hannah's just placed two plates. "Seems a fairly safe wager, mate. Eventually you'll both get pissed, fight, and end up in bed together. Just for my sake, if you could last until the first of May, that'd be brilliant. I'm a touch short on cash this month, and it'd help with the rent."

I give him a baleful look. "I hate you."

Ron grins. "And on that note, food's ready." He stands up and claps my shoulder. "Ordered the usual."

"Thanks." I pick up my pint with a sigh, watching as he makes his way over to the bar, leaning in to flirt a bit with Hannah before he takes the plates of steak and onion sandwiches and piles of freshly fried thick-cut chips sprinkled lightly with rosemary. It's been three years since he and Hermione split up, but I still have a hard time not thinking of them as a couple. Sometimes I wish they'd get back together, but I know that's not going to happen. Ron spent too much time and effort trying to avoid making a permanent commitment. When last summer he finally figured out how he'd buggered it all up, he'd shown up at Hermione's office with an engagement ring. She'd turned him down flat. I think it was then that he and I both realised things really weren't going to go back to the way they'd been, that Hermione wasn't going to come to her senses and move back in with him and their overgrown Crup, Florrie. Sometimes you make the wrong decision and life moves on without you.

Ron walks back, plates in hand, and sets one down in front of me. "So, speaking of Malfoy," he says.

"Were we?" I pop a chip in my mouth. It's hot and oily and salty, and it melts on my tongue. I think I'm in heaven.

"Yes, you tit." Ron cuts his thick sandwich in half. "You've heard his father's standing."

I nod through a mouthful of chips. "Penrose is rewarding him for funding the Omp war chest."

"Of course he is." Ron takes a gulp of beer and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. There's ginger stubble on his cheeks and jaw; his adherence to the Auror dress code only goes so far. "Look, you know, don't you, that there's a lot of support for him in the Auror rank and file?"

"Lucius?"

Ron shakes his head, reaching for his sandwich. "Penrose. The lads like his position on law and order. Extra funding for the force and all that. And then there's the promise of promotions to Hit Wizard rank."

I eat another chip. "Don't they usually pull from the Unspeakables?"

"Yeah, but Dawlish has been putting about that he'd be willing to send them down birds and blokes who are a bit more..." Ron hesitates, wiping his hands on his napkin, then sighs, leaning over his plate and dropping his voice. "Willing to do what's necessary. And, Harry, Parkinson's got it wrong with this article of hers. It's not like it's the whole force. Just a few bad apples taking it to extremes."

"Right." I pick up my sandwich and bite into it. Thick brown gravy with just the hint of red wine. Tender steak. Caramelised onions. Christ, Hannah's a brilliant cook. My eyes flutter back open and I look at Ron. "Bad apples who are desperate to be noticed by the Unspeakables."

Ron shrugs. "Something like that." He doesn't meet my eye; he knows what I think about a certain segment of arseholes on the Auror force. My year in the Aurors had soured me on post-war Auror tactics. And that was with Kingsley at the helm, who'd come down hard on almost every single Auror on whom he'd found evidence of strong-arming. I should know. Dawlish, on the other hand, has always turned a blind eye. At least. Two years ago, I had a huge argument with the bastard over one incident in which I'm almost positive he protected the Auror at fault. Somehow the spells that monitor each interrogation had failed that night--an almost unheard of event--and a prisoner managed to run into a door. Several times.

He'd called me a hypocrite. And as much as I still don't like to think about that, he'd been right.

I sigh. "You know what they're doing."

He looks up at me, his chin set mulishly. "My lads are good lads, Harry. They tell me they didn't participate in what happened to young Caxton, and I believe them."

"Ron. Come on."

"You're a politician, Harry," Ron says quietly. "You don't know what it's like any more. Maybe you think it's just kids out there, playing Death Eaters, but after the Wolton incident..." He falls silent, staring down at his plate. I roll a chip between my fingers.

There've been attacks since the end of the war, here and there, usually chalked up to the children of some of the more fanatical of Voldemort's followers now residing in Azkaban, but they'd tapered off until last year. The Wolton family--mother, father, four kids and a set of Muggle grandparents--had been killed in their own home, their bodies vivisected by a Dark curse. A group calling itself--cheek, really--the Knights of Walpurgis had claimed responsibility, and the whole country had been thrown into a panic until two nineteen-year-old boys had been taken into custody. They're in Azkaban now. I've spoken to one of them. I won't tell Ron this, but I doubt Quintin was actually responsible for the deaths. He's too young, too scared; his mind's easily broken by the Dementor's presence. Someone used him, twisted him, set him up and now he's sitting in a tiny, excruciatingly cold cell, never having had a fair trial, convicted by circumstantial evidence, waiting for his Dementor's Kiss to be scheduled whilst the person actually responsible...well. Merlin only knows where he or she is now.

Ron looks up at me. "You didn't have to see those bodies. Those kids. The little one wasn't even two yet, and her chest--" He presses his lips together and pushes his plate away, his arms folded on the table, tight against himself. "We have to be harsh. We need to make examples--"

"By stripping a eighteen-year-old boy naked, putting a burlap sack over his head, and beating him senseless?" My voice rises slightly. "Caxton didn't deserve that."

"I never said he did." Ron rubs a hand across his face. "Look, mate, let's not go down this road again. You left the Aurors. I didn't. As much as you might like to have the gates of Azkaban thrown wide open--"

My temper flares. "Oh, for fuck's sake. You know that's not what I'm advocating--"

"Do I?" Ron leans forward, his mouth tight. "Seems like every time I talk to you, you're grousing about some fucking Death Eater not being kept in four-star hotel treatment--"

I clench my fists tight. "There's a difference in treating someone like a fucking human being--"

"Maybe they're not!"

The pub grows silent; I can feel all the eyes looking our way. Ron's breathing hard and his cheeks are flushed with anger as he bites into a chip. I reach for my pint and take a slow sip, letting my irritation ebb away. After a moment, conversations pick up again at the tables around us. A heavy, tired sadness fills me as I look across the table at Ron. He's still my best mate. He always will be. But we're different, and I'm old enough to recognise that now. We're both idealistic in our own ways. Jaded in our own ways. And there are moments when the gulf between us seems absolutely enormous.

Ron glances up at me. "How are Spurs doing?" he asks finally, and I know he's making an overture. He could care less about Muggle football. He generally tunes Dean and me out when we start in on the subject.

"Fourth in the League after Saturday's win against Chelsea." I rest my chin against my fist, watching him. "We'll see how that stands after going against Man United this weekend." I give him a wry smile. "Had to give my tickets to Dean, thanks to the campaign. I don't even want to hear what Blaise would have to say if I buggered off to football."

Ron snorts. "Reckon there'd be at least one ‘fucking fuck' in there." He looks down at the chip in between his fingers. "How's Hermione? Have you seen her?"

"Last week," I say slowly. "She looks...good. Happy. I think."

"Great," Ron says, and he sounds too enthusiastic. "Did she ask about..." He squirms a little in his seat. "You know."

"Oh, yes. Of course," I lie. "I told her you were great. Fantastic even."

Ron looks relieved. "Great,' he says again, and he pops the chip into his mouth and looks away.

"Seamus says you two went down for the Cannons match Friday night?"

"Yeah," Ron says, and his face lights up. He looks like the Ron I used to know. "Against the Harpies, and you know with Gin as their Seeker they trounced us. But still, you should have seen Diego fly. Best Galleons the team ever spent, wooing him away from Madrid."

I take another bite of my sandwich, listening to Ron go on about the Quidditch standings, and I wonder if this awkwardness between us will ever get easier.

Sometimes I can't imagine how it could.

***

My flat is in Tower Hamlets, specifically on Stepney Green, just down Whitechapel Road from my old office. It's not the best of postcodes, the E1, and there are elements that don't particularly care for blokes of my inclinations and make their displeasure known, but there are idiots like that all throughout London. Besides, as I told Hermione when she fretted over me the day I moved in, I've faced down Voldemort. I'm not really all that bothered by some moronic Muggle toughs. There's council housing two streets away, and if you walk back towards the Stepney Green Tube station, there's a row of cheap flats that house students from Queen Mary, University of London. On particularly warm Friday nights the smell of cheap lager and the urban beats of ChoiceFM drift down the road as the student parties spill out into the street.

None of that matters; I'm terribly fond of the tall wizarding townhouse I live in, across the street from a narrow swathe of green, iron-gated park and ancient oaks. It's a thin four storeys with a wrought-iron gate opening onto a small concrete patch filled with heavy terracotta planters stuffed with flowers of every hue, tended by old Mrs Owiti who lives on the lower flat beneath me. She sits beside her open font window as I climb the four steps to the glossy blue front door, her knitting hovering beside her. The needles clack against each other as a new lacy scarf for one of her myriad grandchildren ripples out beneath them. Ron would have a fit if he saw her doing magic where any Muggle might notice. Statute of Secrecy and all. I don't have the heart to say anything to her about it.

"Evening, Harry," she calls out, leaning over the windowsill. A lace curtain billows out behind her in a wisp of breeze, pristine white against her dark skin and curly grey hair.

"Mrs Owiti," I say, raising my hand. Her ancient tabby Angus lies sprawled over the top step. He opens one eye, then stretches and curls back in on himself.

She watches as I unlock the door, my keys rattling in my hand. "I see that lovely boy's back again. Pretty one, with the nice hair and the manners."

For a moment I wonder who she's on about, then I sigh. Draco's always managed to charm Mrs Owiti. It's a fondness on both sides that I've never quite understood. Not that I mind Mrs Owiti, but it'd been Draco last year who insisted we buy her a Dietes iridioides last Christmas.

"Glasses now," she says, and her approval is unmistakable. "Very dashing." She eyes me. "I hope he stays around a bit longer this time."

I push the door open. "Just until he finds a place of his own, I'm afraid."

Her face falls. "Pity that. He's a settling down type of lad, you know. Can't do much better, I'd say. Reminds me of my Samuel."

"Night, Mrs Owiti," I say as I step into the cool, dark entry hall. I've no interest in dashing her hopes by telling her Draco was far more likely to marry a woman. Girls are for dating, boys are for fucking, he's always said--and cheerfully at that. I climb the stairs, my hand trailing along the curved banister. Light filters down from the diamond-paned window at the landing, and I stop to look down into the courtyard shared by the four rows of townhouses. The leaves on the enormous oak in the centre have started to fill out, shading most of the garden in a bright green canopy, and the young couple across the courtyard have pinned up their laundry on the line stretching from one corner to another. They've just had a baby and tiny cloth diapers and pyjamas flap lightly in the breeze.

That's the one thing about being gay that makes me sad, I'll admit. I've always wanted kids--maybe two or three--and whilst it's not impossible to adopt or have a surrogate, it does make it hell of a lot more difficult, not to mention expensive. And I've yet to find a bloke who's truly interested in that sort of thing. We're young, and the bent boys I know are more interested in sex and clubbing than settling down in a nice three-bedroom terrace house in a suburb with two-point-four kids, a Crup or two, and family-sized Floo.

When I push open the door of my flat, there's a muffled oof as it stops mid-swing. Greg Goyle peers around the doorframe.

"Hi, Harry," he says affably and steps out of the way, letting me into the sitting room. "Thought you'd be out a little longer." His wand's out, and I eye it suspiciously.

"You're not doing building charms are you?" Goyle owns his own business out in Lancashire, specialising in historic wizarding restorations. He's quite in demand, but the last thing I want is anyone faffing about with the structure of my flat, no matter how well recommended they might be.

Goyle looks guilty as he shoves his wand back in the utility belt wrapped around his dusty, paint-spattered robe. "Not really." At my raised eyebrow, he sighs. "You know Draco. He wanted me to widen the spare room a bit."

"A bit." If I know Draco that means his room's probably twice the size of mine by now.

"Don't worry." Goyle scratches behind his ear. "I set the charms so that it'll shrink back down when he moves out. And I fixed a bad joint in the ceiling whilst I was at it."

I sigh and walk into the sitting room. Draco's sprawled across the leather sofa, a stack of file jackets piled beside him, his glasses slipping to the ends of his nose as he frowns down at a report he's scrawling notes on in glaring red ink. A bottle of Wychwood Hobgoblin ale floats beside him.

"Raiding my refrigerator already, are you?" I drop my satchel on the floor and slip out of my jacket, tossing it on the tufted ottoman before I drop into the chair beside it.

Draco sets his quill down and pushes up his glasses before looking over at me. "Can we please send George Weasley over to Brussels to incinerate the Espace Léopold with one of those ridiculous exploding charms he came up with during the war?"

"Reading EUW briefs again?" I flick my wand towards the bottle of Hobgoblin, but Draco catches it before it can zip my way. Fucking Seeker reflexes. I glare at him.

He takes a long swig, then lets his head fall back against the arm of the sofa. His blond hair sticks out every which way. "I recognise that Kingsley honestly believes in intermagical cooperation, but Merlin's beard, on this particular issue I think he's an idiot."

I can't say that I disagree.

"That's me, then," Goyle says, sticking his head around the corner. "Your mother's chandelier's hanging straight now, Draco. Ta, Potter." For a large man he can move surprisingly quickly. He's got the door closed behind him before I realise what he's just said.

I stop waving at the closed door and look at Draco. "Chandelier?"

Draco flaps a hand. "You certainly couldn't have expected me to keep that tacky plastic fixture." He frowns at me. "It was Muggle. And atrocious."

"There's not enough room in there for a chandelier." This conversation has quickly taken a turn into the surreal. What was I thinking, letting Malfoy stay with me? It's like inviting a vampire in, at least according to the lurid novels Hermione reads when she thinks we aren't looking. I peer at Draco, waiting for him to sparkle.

"It's a small one." Draco sits up and the file jackets next to him slide to the floor, scattering papers. He flicks his wand at them and they sort themselves. "And there's enough room now." He pushes himself off the sofa and pads towards the kitchen in stockinged feet, draining his bottle as he goes.

"Bring me a beer," I call after him. I can hear the refrigerator door open, then close, and Draco's back, empty-handed.

"You're out," he says as he drops back onto the sofa and reaches for another file.

I frown. "There were three in there this morning."

He glances over at me. "I had to offer Greg one. He was working for free."

"Then where's the other one?"

Draco shrugs and pushes his glasses up again. "I was thirsty." He reaches for his quill. "Isn't there a market or an off-licence nearby?"

This is why I don't live with Malfoy. This. With a huff of annoyance, I stand, reaching for my jacket. "You could go."

"In this neighbourhood?" Draco all but clutches at his chest. "Me? Wandering like a lost lamb?"

"You are such a shit." I pull my jacket back on and make certain my keys are in the pocket.

"Get crisps, too. I need something salty." Draco says absently. He scrawls a note across the margin of the report he's reading. "Oh, and some Ribena?"

I look at him. "You have got to be kidding."

He blinks at me from behind those pretentious but oh-so-fetching glasses. "I like it."

When I leave, I slam the door so hard the panes in the landing window rattle.

Bloody Malfoys. Christ.

***

We bump into each other next morning in the bath. I'm not used to sharing my shower, or my sink, and wandering in sleepily to see Draco nearly naked save for the towel wrapped dangerously low over his bony hips, bent over the sink brushing his teeth, makes it impossible to walk around in my pyjama pants.

He's still drinking coffee in the morning, not tea, which surprises me. It's a habit he affected when he was shagging some Italian attaché last year, right about the time I was seeing Lee Jordan's cousin Peter. I stick to my P.G. Tips which he mocks me for--so plebeian, Potter, he says with that annoying smirk of his, as steam pours ominously from the espresso maker he's installed in the kitchen--but we compromise on a breakfast of bangers and porridge before grabbing our satchels and Flooing to the office.

No one blinks an eye when we arrive together.

"Potter! Draco!" Zabini bellows from down the hall, and we exchange an exasperated look before he catches up with us.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Draco says, and he takes a sip of coffee from the bright yellow aluminium mug--emblazoned with the Mod logo, a flaming orange phoenix--he's brought with him.

Zabini pokes a finger in his chest. "You. Don't start with me you fucking wanker. Since you stopped licking the knob of that Pomp tit all of our advance intell on economic policy has dried up--"

"Intell?" Draco rolls his eyes. "You've been talking to Granger again, haven't you?"

"Shut up, you nelly traitor." Zabini barely stops to breathe. "Who the fuck told you to break up with him? I thought I specifically said to fuck his arse as often as necessary to make him lay the fucking golden egg."

Both Draco and I wrinkle our noses. "Ew," I say.

"Subtlety thy name is not Zabini," Draco murmurs. "Besides, I only screwed Julian because Sus and I were taking a break."

"You took a break?" I ask incredulously. "When?"

Draco doesn't look at me as he takes another sip of coffee. "A few weeks before Easter. We reunited for the Bones family luncheon."

I blink. "Easter was two weeks ago."

Draco shrugs. "Evidently Millie stepped in my stead. Sus and I only lasted a little bit longer." He gives me a small smile. "My tongue skills weren't up to par."

"Am I standing here?" Zabini demands. "Am I fucking standing here? Because I appear to be having a conversation with my dick whilst two fucking wanking cunts--"

"Can you fuck and wank a cunt at the same time?" I ask Draco.

He purses his lips. "I certainly can."

"Susan might disagree."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Zabini snaps. "If you ladies are done trattilling, we've work to do," He whirls on me. "Policy brief draft on the fucking Red Army's fucking tax proposal--"

I shift my satchel to my other shoulder. "As in tax the fuck out of everyone to pay for social programmes meant well but so horrifically bureaucratic and mismanaged by politically appointed imbeciles who know absolutely nothing about the situations they're meant to be easing thus making all the actual work of the civil servants--or the competent ones at least--practically worthless?"

"That would be the fucking one, yes," Zabini says. "On my desk by lunch." I salute him and Draco rolls his eyes again. Zabini glares at him. "As for you, bastard, as much as I'm tempted to tart you up and send you out whoring to any fucking member of the Opposition's economic team whose prick or fanny tingles at the sight of Malfoy cock--"

"They are legion," Draco says smugly. Zabini smacks his head with a file jacket and Draco yelps.

"Get to fucking Kingsley's office, you slag," Zabini orders. He starts down the hall in the opposite direction before turning around. "Potter, have you fucked him yet?"

"No, but he drank all my beer last night."

Zabini swears. "See that you get a leg over before the end of the day. I have Galleons riding on it."

"I wouldn't mind riding on it," Draco calls back over his shoulder, loud enough so everyone can hear, "but Potter won't have me. He's saving himself for his true love again."

There's a titter from the administrative bullpen behind me.

"I'm saving us all for the election," I shout back at Draco, but all I get is two fingers flicked back at me before he turns the corner. Bastard.

"Tea, dear?" A small, dark witch hands me a steaming mug with a small smile. Terri, I think her name is. She's new, I think. At least she wasn't around for the last election. "You look like you could use some."

I take it gratefully. "Which way is my desk again?" I ask quietly, hoping no one overhears me. Second day and I'm still not used to the lay of the new offices. It's only been in the past year Mod have been able to expand into an entire building of our own. Before we'd been sharing space with a Chinese restaurant and a charity for underprivileged wizarding youth that'd been shut down when the married director's relationship with a seventh year Hogwarts girl had been broken in the Prophet. More of Pansy's work, I believe. If you'd told me fifteen years ago she'd be one of wizarding Britain's best investigative reporters, I'd have laughed in your face.

Terri pats my arm. "End of the hall, take a right, then a left again, love. Window corner, bit of a view of Diagon, but not the nice bit, I'm afraid."

She was trying to be kind. I'd an excellent vista of a drunk wizard pissing against a pub wall yesterday afternoon. With a sigh, I raise my tea mug to my mouth and wander through the warren of cubicles and corridors to my desk. I've a stack of policy briefs to write.

***

The rest of the week passes in a blur of meetings, screaming matches with members of the Government and Opposition--mostly conducted by Zabini, though Draco and I both join in at times just for the fun of it--and campaign visits to the constituencies of various Mod MW candidates, coaching them on how to present the party platform as photographers from the various print media outlets swarm over us, trying to snap photos of them with me, much to Zabini's delight since having the Saviour of the Wizarding World as a dues-paying party member is enough of a public relations boon to make him spunk his trousers.

It's half eight on Friday night when a balled up scrap of parchment hits me in the back of the head as I'm hunched over yet another policy brief. I turn around. Draco and Seamus are walking down the hall towards my desk, jackets and satchels hanging from their shoulders.

"Stop working, Harry," Seamus says cheerfully. He pushes sandy curls back from his eyes. "You'll make the rest of us look bad, and since we outrank you..." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, mate. Drinks at the Leaky, what say you?"

"I say I've another two hours of work on this brief." I stretch in my chair, cracking my back. "Particularly since a certain foul-mouthed director of communications wants it on his desk first thing in the morning."

Seamus snorts. "I'm assistant director, and I say you can have until lunch. Leave the Scottish devil to me."

"He's not really a Scot, you know," Draco says as I reach for my jacket. "He just grew up in a castle near Inverness. I think it was when his mother was married to her third husband?" He ponders. "Must have been. Blaise was two then. He actually liked that stepfather. Old Archie. He was brilliant. Utterly mad, of course. Used to take Muggles out to Loch Ness in the summer to see the monster and leave them stranded out in the middle of the lake certain Nessie was going to nosh on them just for the amusement value. As if she could. Poor thing hasn't had teeth for a good two centuries." At my frown, he protests. "I didn't say he was kind. But he was funny. Archie hung around for about eight years, I think? He finally managed to kick it the Christmas before we started Hogwarts, and somehow Blaise managed to talk Althoria into letting him stay at the castle with Archie's sister until school started. That's where he'd go during hols as well unless Althoria needed to use him to impress her latest husband-to-be."

"And now so much is explained," I murmur. I pick up my satchel. "Malfoy's buying the first round."

Draco scowls. "Why me?"

"Because I've been to the off-license twice this week to replenish the beer at home."

He can't argue with that. "I've been mourning the loss of the Manor. Going from a palatial suite of rooms into one tiny cramped--"

I look at Seamus as we head to the bank of Floos in the lobby. "He had Goyle expand the spare room. You walk into it now, you'd swear you were in a ballroom. With an enormous bed."

Seamus eyes me. "Tried it out yet?"

"Fuck off," Draco and I say in unison. Seamus just laughs.

When we get to Leaky, the devilish pseudo-Scot is already there, hovering over a wide, high table currently occupied by not only Hermione but Susan and Millicent as well.

"Shit," Draco says, but before we can grab another table in the crowded pub, Zabini catches sight of us.

"Over here, you twats," he calls over the din, and Draco's shoulders slump.

He pushes his satchel at me. "Here. I'm going to the bar. I need alcohol for this. If I know Millie--and I do--she'll be relentless." He turns on his heel and shoves his way back through the throng.

Seamus looks after him. "Poor bastard. Although if he's actually buying I'm going to follow his lead. What'll you have, Harry?"

"One of the ciders Hannah has on tap. Draco'll know which." I make my way over to the table and slide onto one of the stools, nodding to Susan and Millicent before I peck Hermione on the cheek. "Hey."

"Hey." Her eyes are bright; judging from the two empty pint glasses in front of her she's been here a while. "You know Sus and Millie."

I hide a smile. Hermione slightly pissed always amuses me. "I do indeed." I look at Millicent. "How's Hogwarts?" She'd taken on a one-year appointment at the school to teach ancient runes whilst Professor Babbling was on sabbatical in Iceland.

"Filled with horribly annoying children, I'm afraid," she says, tucking a lock of her straight, shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. "I'm starting to see why Snape hated us all. I'll be glad to be back to my own research this summer."

"Seven more weeks." Susan squeezes Millie's hand and they smile at each other. Christ. They seem revoltingly happy.

I eye Zabini. "You're cruel, you realise."

"It'll do him good." He shrugs. "Hopefully drive him into your open arms tonight."

"My arms aren't open. Tonight or any other night. How many wagers did you place anyway?"

Zabini downs half his stout. "Fifteen or so? Thought I'd spread my chances out."

"I placed three," Susan says, lifting her glass of wine. "Strategically chosen based on inside knowledge of your particular arrangement." She beams at me.

My jaw tightens. "Draco has a big mouth."

"Or I'm an excellent solicitor," she says over the rim of her glass. "Which the Council of Law seems to believe."

"More fool they," Draco says as he puts a pint of cider in front of me. He slides onto the stool at my side, a snifter of brandy in his hand.

Seamus sits next to Hermione. "Hey, beautiful." He blows a kiss at her, and she smacks his arm lightly, smiling.

"I told you last time I wasn't going home with you," she says.

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. "I'll settle for the loo."

Zabini glares at them both. "Keep your fucking trousers done up, Finnigan. She's the Chief Warlock's assistant. In purdah, particularly in an election cycle. Remember? Chinese wall and all that fucking shite."

"It's not information I want to flow between us," Seamus protests, but at the look on Zabini's face he leans back. "Sorry, darling. Daddy says no fun tonight." Hermione rolls her eyes and reaches for his lager, taking a sip.

"Don't make me hex your prick off," Zabini mutters, and when he catches me watching him, he scowls and jabs a finger my way. "Or yours. Because I will, Draco be damned."

Draco slams his glass against the table. Brandy splashes over the rim and onto his fingers. "Christ, Blaise, we're not fucking." He looks around the table in disgust as he shoves his stool back. "What is wrong with you lot?"

We're silent as he stalks off. When Zabini starts to stand, I grab his arm. "Let me." He just nods.

As I'm walking off, cider in hand, I hear Hermione murmur I give them two weeks, and I sigh.

I find Draco next to the bar, ordering another brandy. I lean against the counter, elbows on the metal-rimmed edge and watch as the barkeep Hannah hired off a Knockturn pub pours it into a wide-mouthed snifter for him.

"You all right?" I ask finally. I sip my cider.

Draco takes the brandy, dropping two Galleons onto the polished wood of the bar. I remember when it was nicked and scarred by hex burns. Sometimes I miss the old Leaky. "Keep the change," he says before looking over at me. "I'm fine, Potter."

"Harry," I say lightly. "You gave up on the Potter bit our second go around."

"Was that after you stopped seeing Justin or after I did?" Draco gives me a small smile. He turns and leans against the bar, his snifter cupped in both hands. His dark blue frock coat falls open to reveal a long line of grey wool trousers and a lighter grey cashmere jumper.

I have an urge to press my mouth against the warm, pale skin in the open vee of his crisp white shirt, to snog him pink and breathless and then, well then, do what everyone and his aunt is expecting and carry him off to bed. I've always loved taking Draco in a rotten mood. Instead, I take another sip of cider and consider. "Me. You started sleeping with him a year later just to piss me off."

Draco pushes his glasses up. "Oh, right." He lifts his brandy to his mouth. "You'd managed to talk Burton into blocking Kingsley's private bill regarding Manchester Floo access improvements."

"Had not." I take another sip of cider. "That was all Burton's doing. I just let it drop it was coming up in committee."

Draco's mouth twitches. "Knowing that he hates Kingsley enough to go after anything he introduces."

"Not my fault," I say calmly. "Kingsley shouldn't have called him McLaird's pocket toad."

"He is." Draco turns towards me. His eyes are dark behind his glasses. "I've missed you on Friday nights. Haven't much liked you hiding out in the East End."

I look at him, lowering my pint. "Susan made it clear I wasn't welcome."

Draco turns his glass between his hands. "How ironic is it that I've always managed to be faithful when I was dating someone, even with you right there, and she cheats on me?"

"I thought she and Millie started when you were taking a break," I say softly. I know how important fidelity is to him. Of all people, I know that.

He lifts his snifter to his mouth. "They're why the break was necessary." He glances towards the table and his eyes are hard. "No more solicitors, Harry. I mean that." When he looks back at me, his mouth is wet with brandy, and all I can think of is how he'd tasted of brandy the first time I had kissed him.

It'd been during Kingsley's first campaign. There'd been a get-together in the office, the top MWs of the party piling into our too-small reception room to wish Kingsley luck a week before the polls opened. We'd been young and stupid, eager to impress the founding leadership, and we'd drunk far too much brandy and talked far too much for our own good. The others had gone into a meeting; Draco and I'd been left to gather the snifters and brush away the crumbs and cigar ashes from the tabletops. I don't know what had set me off--too many late nights and not enough sleep, days of having to deal with Malfoy's poncy, snotty attitude, or perhaps just the way the sun filtered through the windowpanes, lighting up his hair like a halo.

I'd kissed him, cupping his face in my palms, and when he didn't pull away, I'd swiped my tongue across his lips, pressing between them until he opened to me, his fingers digging into my hips as I tasted the sweet bitterness of the brandy until we were both breathless and hard.

And then he'd pulled away, his mouth swollen and wet, and when he'd touched his lips with his fingertips, he'd just looked at me and said--

"Harry." Draco eyes me curiously over his snifter.

I blink at him. "No more solicitors," I murmur. My body thrums and burns, and I can almost feel the press of his mouth against mine. I'm aching to feel it again. "Right."

Draco sets his glass back down on the bar. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," I say. "Not used to Zabini's lash."

"I'd say his bark is worse than his bite, but I'm afraid that's not true." Draco gives me a faint smile that fades into a serious look. "Look, Potter, are we really not doing this?"

"What?" I ask, even though I know what he's talking about.

Draco quirks a blond eyebrow. "You. Me. Shagging each other senseless in an attempt to keep out of other relationships given that we seem to be utter and complete shit at them."

I can't help but laugh. "You're shit at them. I'm--"

"A hopeless romantic who runs every potential shagmate off once they realise you're the only queer in Greater London who hates glitter, clubbing, and nonmonogamy."

"I look a right tit when I dance."

Draco snorts and picks his brandy back up. "That you do."

"And what about you?" I retort. "You with the proper Malfoy wife checklist that no woman you date can ever meet because she's not your mum." I ignore the furrow creasing Draco's brow. "Your longest relationship has been a non-relationship with the bloke you hated and tried to kill in school."

"I never tried to kill you," Draco says. At my incredulous look, he pauses. "Well, all right. Maybe once or twice. But you really deserved it for being such an utter wanker."

I drain my cider. "I'm not the one who let Death Eaters into a boarding school."

"Not my finest moment," Draco admits over the rim of his snifter. "But there were extenuating circumstances."

I just look at him.

"Shut up," he says.

"I didn't say anything."

He scowls at me. "You were thinking it loudly. Sometimes I don't even know why I'm friends with you."

"Because your mum had good taste."

Draco's frown eases into a smile. "Father always thought you must have Confunded her."

I snort. "As if anyone could have Confunded Narcissa Malfoy." It'd been in the few years between the war and her murder that I'd come to know Narcissa. It'd been an odd friendship, formed when we overlapped in our Saturday visits to Grimmauld Place. I'd given Sirius' old house to Andromeda after the war, a place for her and Teddy to live that wasn't over-run with memories of her husband and daughter. We'd started talking, about the war, about my parents, about her husband and son, about everything and everyone we'd both lost.

She'd begun to invite me to the Manor for tea to Draco's horror. He'd refused to come down from his bedroom for the first few visits, but then we'd run into him when Narcissa was giving me a tour of the Long Gallery, pointing out the various Malfoy ancestors and telling me amusing histories of them. Draco'd fallen into step behind us silently, just listening to her. He'd told me later it'd been the first time he'd heard her laugh since the end of the war. Two days later he owled me, asking if I wanted to perhaps meet up for a drink at the Leaky.

"Do you remember how awkward you were that first night we met?" Draco asks, and I realise his thoughts have drifted along the same lines.

I motion for another cider. "Me? It took you half an hour to speak in more than monosyllables."

Draco sniffs. "I was suffering from post-traumatic stress. You know, from having a psychopathic madman taking over my house and threatening to off my parents every morning over breakfast. And let's not even bring up Aunt Bella and Uncle Roddy. Between him drinking himself into a stupor and the screaming arguments they had about whether or not she was licking His Lordship's snake, if you catch my meaning--"

"Ew," I say. "I really didn't need that mental image."

"Her bedroom was next to mine." Draco shudders. "Let's just say Christmas that year was rather a nightmare."

The barkeep pushes a cider my way and I dig a Galleon out of my pocket and toss it his way. "They're watching us," I say, glancing back towards the table of our friends.

"For a good ten minutes now." Draco picks up my cider and drinks a sip before handing it to me. "Blaise tells me none of them can figure us out. I have to say that pleases me."

"It would." I lift my pint towards the table, and Seamus raises his in return. "Can't say I blame them, given I can't figure us out either." I look back at Draco. "You have to admit, it's weird."

Draco shrugs and leans his elbow on the bar. "No weirder than me and Susan. Or you and Goldstein. Have you asked him out yet?"

I shake my head. "Too busy."

"Maybe you don't want to," Draco says softly. I can see my reflection in his glasses, light from the heavy iron chandelier above glinting off my own frames. His eyes are wide and grey and fringed with pale gold lashes.

"Of course I do." My voice catches in the back of my throat. "Even you said it was a brilliant idea."

Draco moves closer. I can smell his after shave lotion, the faint citrusy scent of orange and bergamot mixed with musk that I know comes from the small glass-and-silver bottle in the bath with the red and white Italian label. "Maybe," he murmurs. My heart thuds and a shiver of want goes through me. When he touches my hand, I step back, bumping into a small, round witch behind me.

"Sorry," I say to her, and I glance back at Draco. He looks amused. Relaxed even. I drain half my cider in one swallow and set my glass back down. "Look, I need to get back to work. I'm still not half through Penrose's remarks on Muggle-wizard relations..."

"Harry, it's Friday night," Draco protests. "We get twelve hours off once a week--"

I give him an apologetic smile. I'm certain it doesn't reach my eyes. "I'll see you in the morning," I say, and as I make my way through the crowd to the Floo I can feel his eyes following me.

It's only when I get back to my desk that I realise I've left my satchel back in the pub, sitting next to Hermione's stool. Groaning, I lean my forehead against the edge of my desk, my elbows on my knees, and I try to breathe. I'm not going back. I can't.

With a sigh I fish my mobile out of my jacket pocket and call the only witch I know who has one as well. When Hermione answers I have to shout to be heard above the din of the Leaky, but I manage to finally get her to understand what I need, and ten minutes later she's tumbling out of the Floo, my satchel in hand.

"Why'd you leave?" she asks, handing it over to me as she smoothes her short black jacket over the waistband of her trousers. She follows me down the hall, only stumbling once when her heel catches on the edge of a rug. I catch her.

"How much have you had to drink?"

She frowns at me. "It's Friday. And you didn't answer my question."

"Neither did you." I drop my satchel next to my desk and manoeuvre her into a chair.

Hermione kicks off her heels and stretches her bare feet. Her toenails are painted a bright teal blue. "I lost track. Seamus and Blaise kept buying." She grins. "I think they fancy me."

"God help us all." I reach into my satchel and pull out the copy of the speech Penrose is giving tomorrow morning in Edinburgh. I don't know how Zabini got a copy of it, and I'm intelligent enough not to ask.

"So why'd you leave?" Hermione pulls her feet up into the chair, sitting cross-legged. "Malfoy?"

"No." I frown down at the parchment in front of me. Half of it's covered in my notes. Penrose is treading mostly moderate ground, not advocating complete separation from the Muggle world--as if that's possible after the last war--but expressing valid concerns about the state of the Statute of Secrecy. I don't agree with his conclusions, but I have to admit he raises some questions that need to be brought into discussion. "He's not ineffectual, is he?"

Hermione catches her hair at the nape of her neck, twisting it into a knot and reaching for a quill on my desk to secure it. "Malfoy?"

"Penrose." I look up at her. "Draco's just annoying."

"Less so than his friends." Hermione leans over the corner of my desk. Her tailored red silk shirt gapes open, giving me a glimpse of black bra and pale breasts. No wonder Seamus was plying her with drink. Zabini on the other hand surprises me, but then again everything's a competition between him and Seamus, I've discovered. "What's he on about? Penrose, I mean."

I hand over the parchment. "Muggle relations."

She skims it, stopping once to hiccough, her hand over her mouth. "Sorry."

"It's not like I haven't seen you pissed before."

"True." Hermione squints at the parchment for a long moment. "Oh, Penrose is good. That question he raises about how to accommodate Muggle relatives within the wizarding world?" She looks up at me. "I've wondered myself how to juggle that and the Statute of Secrecy and I'm on the complete opposite side of the political spectrum, in my personal convictions."

"I know." I run a hand through my hair. "That's the problem. He's not unreasonable on some things."

Hermione hands the parchment back to me. "And you have to write a response brief by tomorrow morning."

"So that Kingsley can go on WWN in the evening and rip Penrose's speech to shreds in that oh-so-politely understated manner of his," I say. "Only problem is that Penrose isn't really being outrageous, and he's not saying anything any of us hasn't argued at one point or another over a pint."

"I see your point." Hermione purses her mouth. "You know I can't officially help you. Chief Warlock's office and all."

"Not that I'm officially asking you to."

Hermione laughs. "Show me what you've written so far?" She glances up the clock that hovers above my desk. "It's not as if I've anywhere to go tonight, right? It'll do Blaise and Seamus good to wonder where I've gone."

I reach for a sheaf of papers and smile.



- 26 April, 2010 -

"The leaders' debate will be held in Hogsmeade," Seamus says, slapping thick, bound files of parchment in front of each of us. The conference room is filled with staff, most standing behind the core group of us at the table, notepads and quills at the ready. "That's your overnight reading."

Draco picks up his copy, flipping through the pages with a frown on his face. "I still don't understand why a debate is necessary. We've never had one before."

Seamus stands at the front of the room, straightening the lapels of his open over-robe. "It's something the Muggles picked up from the Yanks this year. Thank McLaird's weekly meetings with the PM. Brown wouldn't fucking shut up about it. And once Penrose agreed, we didn't have a fucking choice in the matter, did we?" His long, angular face takes on a sour expression. None of us are best-pleased about this turn of events.

"It's ridiculous," Follywolle says from across the table. He's thirty-year Wizengamot, but it's his first election standing Reform. He's understandably nervous, even though he's tipped to win in all of the polls and insider wagers. "We're taking time away from serious campaigning for what? Ninety minutes on the WWN?"

"Ninety fucking minutes I can use to make your life a miserable hell, Follywolle," Zabini says from the doorway. "Your arse, a few Blast-Ended Skrewts; everyone has a fucking good time." He looks at me over the heads of three interns and jerks his chin towards the hall. "Potter. You. With me now."

I push my chair back and stand, gathering my file jackets and papers. Draco gives me a sympathetic grimace as I push my way through the throng of staffers.

"What is it?" I ask, but Zabini shakes his head, glancing back towards the crowded room.

"Walk, then talk."

I follow him down the hall. From one office I can hear a shouted argument; when we pass I see I see the face of the Shadow Treasury Head floating in the green flames of a firecall.

"Don't ask," Zabini says grimly, and he pushes a door open, motioning me in to his office. It's a good three times as big as my tiny corner, and the windows that stretch high to the ceiling are sparkling clean and look out over a picturesque bit of park midway down Diagon. "Sit."

I sit, waiting. Zabini pours a mug of tea, not bothering to offer me one, then takes the leather chair behind his enormous mahogany desk. I can't help wondering if it's grander than Kingsley's. He sips his tea, watching me. I don't look away.

"You're going to Hogsmeade," he says abruptly, setting his mug down onto a stack of newspapers. "Alone."

"I thought you and Draco were going."

Zabini huffs softly. "We were. Until Saltonstall decided to bugger up his entire fucking campaign, thus requiring us both to spend tomorrow at a function in Essex of all fucking places, attempting to yank that cocksucking chav's head from the depths of his arse."

"There's nothing wrong with cocksucking," I point out. "And given that Saltonstall's fathered seven kids I'm pretty certain it's not an activity in which he engages."

"You can't be sure of anyone these days." Zabini reaches for a file jacket and shoves it towards me. "Here's the schedule and the debate questions. You're responsible for prepping Kingsley along the way. Be here at half six tomorrow morning. You'll have two hours with Kingsley, then you'll both Portkey along with an Auroral security detail to Edinburgh to take a meeting at Holyrood with the Presiding Officer--"

I blink. "We're meeting with the Muggles?"

"Kingsley knows Fergusson. He's a connection through one of Alex's relatives who belongs to our world. He's hosting a fucking luncheon for a handful of Muggleborn supporters and a few select pure and halfbloods who don't mind rubbing elbows--or other more happy bits for that matter--with Muggles and Squibs."

"How forward-thinking of them."

Zabini snorts. "Don't fucking go radical tomorrow, Potter. Even if you are in fucking Scotland." He leans back in his chair. "The subject of magical devolution will likely come up in Edinburgh. Do not let Kingsley go off in unadulterated, post-orgasmic bliss support of it. Keep him measured. You know. Something along the lines of it's something we believe is necessary--fuck only knows why--to put before the entire fucking Wizengamot, but we believe even the sheep-fucking Highlands should have a say in their own fucking Government, unless, of course, they actually want to fuck their sheep, in which case I strongly suggest they move to the fucking Isle of Man where such things are looked upon more fucking favourably."

"Are you done?" I ask. "Impugning Scottish and Manx morality, I mean, which seems a little self-loathing of you, given your Inverness connections--"

"Shut up, Potter."

I grin at him. "So after lunch, Hogsmeade?"

"Portkey to the Three Broomsticks," Zabini says. "You should have a few more prep hours, time for supper, and then Lufkin Park where the fucking WWN, Merlin love their fucking black souls, will brief you before the debate. Got it?"

"Got it." I stand up. "Anything else?"

Zabini gives me a pained look. "Cut your fucking hair. It's too long. I've never seen hair on a human fucking head that actually looks like squid tentacles. I swear to fucking Christ it moves on its own."

I smooth my hand over my messy hair. It pops back up again. "I like it."

"You look fucking French," Zabini snaps.

"I'll Floo you from Edinburgh," I say, heading for the door.

"Vous devriez, mon petit crapaud poilu," he calls after me.

I flip two fingers at him, biting back a laugh.

***

The only decent thing about Scotland is that Ron's assigned to Kingsley's security detail. I barely speak to him in Edinburgh, other than a rushed hello-how's-things and a nod or two across the room during the luncheon, but I do get to watch him in action, discreetly directing his team to scan the room, wands always at the ready beneath their pressed wool robes. They're not in uniform today, but it doesn't matter--their alert readiness screams Auror elite.

The meetings go well; I hover behind Kingsley silently, only stepping forward whenever he turns my direction for verification of a policy or statistics. When we finally make it to our private suite in the Three Broomsticks, I sit with him next to the Floo, Draco's face hovering in the fire for half-an-hour until Zabini calls him away to deal with Saltonstall, both of us going over every possible issue on the Wizengamot Order Papers that might be brought up by Penrose or McLaird tonight.

It's exhausting work, but by the time seven o'clock rolls around we're behind the stage in the park, several hundred witches and wizards being seated in the rows of white chairs across the green park. A contingent of seventh years from Hogwarts fills the front left, accompanied by several Hogwarts staff. I'm fairly certain I can make out Neville in the twilight, and Millicent as well. Thank God Draco's trapped in Essex.

"Nervous?" Ron asks from behind me, and I turn, smiling at him.

"Always." My eyes drift over to Kingsley, tall and broad in his dark blue robe. He'd asked for some time alone to focus himself. "I think we're prepared, though."

Ron leans against the edge of the stage. "Hope so."

"Where's your team?"

He waves vaguely. "Here and there. Don't worry--your bloke's safe."

"Our bloke," I say firmly, and Ron just gives me a half-smile.

"Haven't decided which party I'm voting for yet," he says. "Your candidate in Devon is a bit of a git. Not sure I want him representing my interests."

I settle against the stage next to him. "Moot point anyway. That seat's not likely to swing from the Pomps. Besides, Wensley's a complete nutter. Don't tell Zabini I said this, but I wouldn't vote for him if I lived in Devon."

"Bucking the party line." Ron whistles softly, his arms crossed over his chest. "Dangerous living, that, what with Zabini as your attack Crup."

"And he's a vicious little bastard." I lean my head against a wooden support. "Your department's getting hit by the Prophet rather hard lately."

Ron rubs his palm against the scruff of his jaw. "Yeah."

I just look at him. "I never bought that line about Dawlish being Confunded during the war."

"Harry," Ron says. "Not here, all right?"

"I'm just saying he's a bad egg." I sigh and run my hands through my hair. I don't even care if it's standing on end. Fuck Zabini. "He transported Muggleborns to Azkaban, Ron. For Christ's sake, he went after Neville's Gran--"

"John didn't know what he was doing," Ron snaps. "That's what a Confundus Charm does, Harry, or have you forgotten everything we learnt in Defence? Fuck. You were the best of us at it. You knew what had to be done, and you fucking did it. What the fuck's happened to you, Harry? Where's the bloke who went after Voldemort, knowing one of you had to die?"

We just look at each other. Ron turns away and rubs his hands over his face.

"John," I say. "I thought he was just Dawlish to you."

Ron sighs. "We've had drinks. He's talking about putting me up for Deputy Head this year."

I know I'm supposed to be thrilled for him, but I've spent years at loggerheads with the Head Auror. I don't want to go through that with my best mate.

"I have to go out front," Ron says finally. He pushes himself away from the stage edge. "Look, Harry, I'm sorry. But you've got to stop treating me like I'm the enemy. You say you want a strong Auror force--"

"Come on, Ron." I touch his arm. "You know I support defence."

Ron looks back at me. "I don't know," he says after a moment. "All I know is that every time you look at me, you can't see past your own prejudices towards the uniform. You're an idealist, I get that. And that's fine. You always have been, even when we were kids. People disappointed you, acted in ways you couldn't understand, and you wrote them off." He grabs the back of his neck, rubbing his fingers across his pale skin. "I did too, I suppose. But now..." He trails off.

"What?"

His eyes meet mine. "I think you've gone through so much shit, Harry, that you really want to believe people are good again. And maybe they are, more than we used to think. But there are some..." He sighs again. "Not everyone's Sirius. Some people...are bad. Really bad. And they need to be punished. You used to know that."

"That doesn't mean we can treat them like they're not human." I lift my chin. "No matter who they are."

"You don't have to deal with them anymore," Ron says quietly. "We do. Every day, Harry. Every damn day." He turns on his heel and walks away, his ginger hair gleaming under the hovering Lumos charms.

I don't stop him.

***

It's nearly two in the morning when the Floo in the suite sitting room flares green. I look up from the files spread across the floor in front of me. I've pulled on a thick cardi over my pyjamas; even in late April it's still cold up here.

"Hey," Draco says from the fire. His hair is tousled, bits of it sticking to his forehead, bits of it standing straight up. "You're still awake."

"Yeah." I move closer to the hearth. "Kingsley's sleeping though. Just went in half an hour ago. I thought I'd stay up and go through those briefs you owled. Why are you still up?"

Draco yawns. "Can't sleep without you in the flat. Utterly terrified."

"Ha, ha."

"No, really." Draco rubs at his forehead, dislodging a short lock of pale hair. "I think the uni students are exploding things down the street, and I don't trust your fire wards."

I pull my jumper tighter around me. "Set new ones."

Draco makes a face. "I don't know why you like living in this part of London. You could afford Chelsea."

"No, I couldn't." I don't want him to know how much of Sirius's inheritance I put into the Trust.

"Islington then." Draco yawns again. "Everyone can afford Islington."

"Honestly, I don't know what world you live in."

Draco disappears for a moment, then comes back with a huge white ceramic mug. "Also, P.G. Tips, really?" He sips the tea and grimaces.

My mouth twitches. "This from the man who drinks Ribena every day."

"I mix it with sparkling water."

"That doesn't make it posher, Draco." I can't stop my laugh this time.

He sniffs haughtily. "Fuck off, Potter."

"You wish." I tuck my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my plaid flannel-clad legs. "Have the polls come back from the debate?"

"Tight between our boy and Penrose, at least in the prelims," Draco says. The flames flicker around his face, casting long shadows beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted. "Blaise'll owl the finals in the morning. You're stopping off in Manchester tomorrow?"

I nod. "Another night alone in the flat without me, I'm afraid. If you can survive the terrifying teenagers."

"You mock," Draco says darkly, "but I'm telling you, Muggle gangs can do horrible things to each other--I've seen those films of theirs--and if they bring in any of that shite down this way, I'm going to set Mrs Owiti on them."

"I told you before, West Side Story wasn't a docu, Draco."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I'm shocked. Shocked, I say."

"I feel pretty," I sing to him, off-key, "Oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay..."

"And suddenly I have no desire to ever sleep with you again, Maria." He tries to hide a huge yawn behind his hand.

I grin at him. "Go to bed, Tony."

Draco disappears in a flare of green flames, and I sit on the cooling hearth for a moment, still smiling.

***

Manchester is a day spent at a health quango that provides access to mediwitches and mediwizards, as well as General Healers for the whole of the North. They're worried about their funding being cut, and Kingsley does his best to tell them that whilst quango efficiency will be taken into account by the Wizengamot, the Mods have no intention of cutting health funding, either to St Mungo's or to the local quangos that provide medical care outside of London.

Zabini sends up the final debate poll results, and I hand them to Kingsley as we drive to the hotel after a reception for our currently seat-holding (but barely) candidate in Lancs and Cumbria at her surgery. He frowns as he flips through them. "We're definitely above the Pomps," he says. "Across the country."

"By twelve percentage points." I lean back against the leather seat and watch the Muggle street lamps zip past us in a golden blur of light. "We expected as much given the Auror scandal and how it's reflecting on McLaird's Government. Penrose has been using him as a punching bag every time he speaks."

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. "Better him than me."

"That's what Draco and I think."

"The Omps are two points ahead."

I push my glasses up and pinch the bridge of my nose. "They could be as much as six. There's a four-point margin either way."

Kingsley grunts and flips another page. "London's a stronghold for us"

"Parts of it." I look over at him. "We poll well in the young and urban demographic, but there are only three London Wizengamot constituencies. What we need is to make a stronger impact in the countryside. There's fifty seats in the Wizengamot; an absolute majority of twenty-six and we'd definitely take the Ministry. With a three-party split, I don't know if we'll get those numbers. That's the sort of thing the Omps or the Pomps could pull off. Not to mention we have to consider the national parties for Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland taking at least three seats, if not more. That's going to affect the percentages. But we're polling higher than usual, and the Pomps are polling lower--not surprising since they've been in power since the war and they were statistically likely to start to dip at some point in the next five to ten years, if you take into account voter realignment theory. This could be the start of that, or it could just be that McLaird's narked the whole country off."

"So we're looking at the possibility of a hung Wizengamot," Kingsley says grimly. "And a coalition Government which might or might not include us."

"Depending on how the Omps shake out."

Kingsley looks at me. "And they're two points ahead."

"They're out there canvassing the hell out of the countryside, sir," I say bluntly. "I think we need to put you out there more. Penrose is savvy, and he's as likable as a politician can be, but he's not a war hero. You are."

"As are you."

I give him a wry smile. "But I'm not standing for the Wizengamot, sir."

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. "Not at the moment, at least."

"The point being," I say, ignoring his implication, "that we want to play that up. Brand you, if you will. Zabini's going to sit down with you when we're back in London to talk about that. I know you don't like bringing up your Order of Merlin, but you're the only party leader in this election who has one. We need to use it."

"Fine." Kingsley sighs heavily and flips another page in the report. "How many safe seats do we have?"

"Research tells me right now according to their latest numbers, we're assured thirteen, mostly around the more metropolitan areas, and up in the Highlands and Wales. We've another four that look as if they're likely to go our way."

Kingsley lowers the report. "So we need to swing another nine seats."

I nod.

"And Zabini thinks we can do this."

"Absolutely not." I shrug. "But Draco and I have crunched the numbers with research. Repeatedly. And we're almost positive we have a shot--if not at an absolute majority, then at a coalition." I meet his gaze. "And that's a start."

Kingsley gives me a long, searching look as we pull up to the hotel. "All right," he says finally. The car door swings open. "Let's see what we can do."

I follow him out into the cool night.

***

When I open the door to my flat, a small bundle of grey and white fur comes charging through the sitting room towards me.

"Shut the door," Draco shouts, and he whips around the corner, barefoot and wand out. "Levicorpus!"

The furball squeaks and rises into the air, dangling upside down, tiny paws batting at nothing. A pink mouth full of tiny pointy teeth yawns impressively. I close the door behind me and set my satchels beside the post table. A copy of yesterday's Prophet slides off and scatters across the parquet floor. "What is that?" I ask.

Draco reaches the furball, and the jinx breaks. It drops into his palm with an annoyed miaow. "This is Mimsy." He adds unnecessarily, "she's a kitten."

"I noticed." I eye the little scrap of grey fluff and white ears that peeks at me over Draco's thumb. "Mimsy? Isn't that your favourite house elf?"

"And now she's my favourite kitten." Draco looks down at her adoringly. She miaows again, and tries to crawl up the sleeve of his jumper.

I walk into the sitting room and throw myself onto the sofa. "How did Mimsy end up in my flat?"

A tiny pink nose peeks out of Draco's sleeve. "Mrs Owiti rescued her from those wretched thugs down the street."

"The uni students."

Draco glares at me. "They were tossing her between each other."

I wince. "Bastards."

"My thoughts exactly." Draco rubs the tiny kitten's ears and she begins to purr loudly, rubbing her head against his hand that is almost as long as she is. "I think she's the runt."

"She's definitely small," I say, watching the kitten curl in the crook of Draco's arm. He cradles her, scratching her small white chin, his white blond forelock falling into his face. He looks far too fetching like this, honestly, and I'm ashamed at how happy I am when little Mimsy decides to chase his hair. She reaches a tiny paw out, misses, and swats him on the nose.

Draco yelps and drops the kitten, who lands perfectly on her feet. "She keeps doing that." He rubs his nose. "Is it bleeding?"

I suppress a smile and focus on Draco's long pointy nose. The damage is minimal, if a tiny pink scrape counts as damage. "I don't think we have to Floo to St Mungos just yet," I say.

Draco wrinkles his nose. "If it starts swelling...."

"I'll take you right in," I say with a grin. "Or you can ask your Father to firecall Healer Fenton."

"Jesus Christ. He's three hundred years old and smells like day-old cabbage." Draco starts towards the kitchen. "Speaking of which, are you hungry?"

I eye him. "Not for cabbage." The kitten pads alongside Draco's bare feet, her small grey tail flicking his ankles.

Draco looks back. "I had the Manor elves send over supper."

"No cabbage?" I say suspiciously, following the pair of interlopers into my kitchen.

"Not since my grandfather died." There's a pot on the hob, simmering away. "Boeuf bourguignon."

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since midday when we left Manchester for a quick swing through Leeds. "Marry me?"

Draco smacks my arm with a wooden spoon. The little furball at his feet starts purring and rubbing up against him excitedly as he lifts the lid of the pot. "That goes against the natural order."

"Yeah," I say sotto voce, "and having elves fetch you food is so natural."

"Stop complaining and eat." Draco hands me a bowl, filled with a rich stew over thick egg noodles. "I've got work to do."

I have to admit, it smells divine. I follow him back into the sitting room and settle on the edge of the sofa, watching him as he takes the other end, his papers spread over the floor in front of us. The kitten pounces on them, digging her sharp little claws into the parchment. I'm amazed when Draco just shoos her away instead of shouting. Little Mimsy seems to have wormed her way into his heart faster than any human.

I eat whilst Draco works, then I take our bowls back into the kitchen. Mimsy follows me at a distance, stopping to watch me in the doorway as I rinse the dishes and set them in the drainer. "What do you want?" I ask, and she just miaows.

"There's milk for cats in the refrigerator," Draco calls out, and I eye the small cat. "Hagrid owled it. He has a special formula."

"Since when do you correspond with Hagrid?" I ask, opening the refrigerator door and reaching for one of the small glass bottles. The kitten twitches expectantly.

Draco appears in the doorway. "I sent your owl asking how to care for her. You weren't here and I didn't know whom else to ask." He hesitates. "I may have forged your name."

I sigh, and uncap the milk, pouring a small amount into a bowl and setting it on the floor for Mimsy. She nearly tumbles over herself to get it, her back feet moving faster than her front. "I thought I told you not to do that again."

"It was an emergency," Draco says. "It's not like I do it often." At my look, he rolls his eyes. "All right. Once more when I wanted to get in to have Jean-Phillipe cut my hair."

"Not again," I say, and he throws up his hands. "And why didn't you ask Mrs Owiti how to take care of her? She's got Angus."

Draco looks horrified. "Have you seen that brute? Besides, he's an outdoor cat, and our little precious Mimsypants is staying inside the bloody flat." He bends down and scritches behind her ears. She barely stops lapping, but she rubs against his hand and starts to purr loudly. "Aren't you, sweetness?"

I get a beer from the refrigerator. "Mimsypants. Really?"

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco says in that stupid sing-song tone he uses on the kitten. "She's a baby."

With a snort, I uncap the beer bottle and lift it to my mouth, taking a swig. "I'm showering and changing clothes. Twelve hours is too long to be wearing a tie."

When I come back into the sitting room, hair wet and pyjama trousers on, pulling a t-shirt over my head, Draco's sprawled across the sofa, purportedly reading a policy brief whilst Mimsy rolls around the floor, chasing a small fuzzy ball. The telly's on BBC Three, and I swat at Draco's bare ankles. "Budge up."

He lifts both feet, and I sit down, his feet landing on my thighs. "Russell Howard's just on."

"I noticed."

Draco eyes me over the rims of his glasses. "He's a bit your type, isn't he? Blond, snarky..."

"Relentlessly straight," I complete. "Yeah, I guess."

"You do have appalling luck." He turns back to his brief, but his eyes keep drifting to the screen. Finally he sets the paper aside and stretches, wiggling his toes.

"What?" I look at him, knowing already what he's going to say.

Draco sighs. "My feet hurt." He sounds petulant. "After I slaved away getting you food..."

I snort. "Firecalling the Manor must have been very taxing."

"I had to be sneaky!" Draco frowns at me. "What if the Whore had caught me?"

A horrible thought hits me. "Draco. You didn't take their supper, did you?"

Draco studiously looks at the telly. "The elves will make something else, so no, I took our supper." I smack the bottom of his foot and he yelps. "I left the wine," he says. "We're working tonight."

"Sometimes I cannot believe you." I honestly can't. I'm almost speechless at his presumption, although the thought of Lucius Malfoy and a senior Omp MW having their supper nicked is highly amusing.

He settles back down on the sofa. "At least you're not making me send it back."

"How?" My voice rises. "We ate half of it."

A smirk brightens his face. "Hush, I'm trying to watch telly." He wiggles his toes again. "Rub my feet. Please."

He knows he'll get me with that last word. Draco never asks nicely for anything. Well, almost never. I press my knuckles into the arch of his foot and he sighs happily. Slowly I drag them up, over his soft, warm skin, twisting them lightly. I stretch his foot, sliding my thumb between each of his toes, and Draco's breath catches.

My fingers work across Draco's skin, over the tendons and the muscles, kneading out knots and smoothing across his arches. We go back to watching Russell Howard, and I'm laughing at some ridiculous video clip when Draco moans softly and twists, his heel pressing into my cock.

I look down at him. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyes closed. His t-shirt has ridden up his flat stomach, showing a swathe of taut, pale skin and jutting hipbone. His breath catches again, his hips thrusting slightly, and I can see the swell of his prick against his soft cotton trousers.

Slowly I drag a thumbnail down the arch of Draco's foot. "We're not doing this, Draco."

His eyes flutter open, pupils wide. "What?" he murmurs.

"You know," I say. I'm getting hard, and I know he can tell. "Go to your room and stick your finger up your arse."

He lies there for a long moment, just watching me, then his hand slips down his stomach, brushing lightly across his cock before he rolls up, pushing himself off the sofa. "Back in a moment," he murmurs. I can't take my eyes off the tented cotton at his hips. It's all I can do not to lean forward and press my mouth to it. I want to fall on my knees before him, but I wouldn't want to live with myself afterwards. It's easy to fall for Draco; it's getting back up that's hard.

I wait until I hear the soft click of the spare room door before I press my hand to the front of my pyjama trousers. I bite my lip, feeling the throb against my palm. And then I hear him. I know it's not on purpose--it's too quiet for that. The acoustics of the flat are far better than I realised. Soft, heavy breathing, at first, then a long groan, and I know how he's touching himself now, his pants around his knees, one hand cupping his balls whilst the other strokes lightly along the underside of his prick.

My eyes close. I slip my hand into the waistband of my pyjama trousers, letting my fingertips brush the swollen head of my cock.

And then I can hear the soft squeak of his mattress, the steady thunk of the headboard against the wall, along with his quiet grunts. How many fingers does he have inside of himself, I wonder, and my whole body shudders. Two, perhaps, but I've seen him take three, or four, when he's truly greedy, his slick, oiled hole grasping at them with each thrust.

I curl my fingers around my cock, wanting to stop its swelling, but the moment I touch my heated skin, all I can do is press up into my fist with a groan. I bite my lip, trying to even my breathing. My hips buck up again, and I tense, imagining him finding me like this.

Or hearing me as I can hear him.

A soft whimper escapes, and I twist my hand down my shaft, pulling back up as I hear Draco swear, his voice rising as the bed thumps. I want to be in there with him, want to be inside of him, want to have his legs tight around my hips as I slam relentlessly against his arse, my whole body shaking as I--

"God," I whisper, spunk streaking through my fingers, spattering against my pyjama trousers. My breath comes in deep, soft gasps which I struggle to control. I can still hear Draco, can still hear the mattress springs as he presses into them. I pull my hand out, wiping it on my t-shirt without thinking. The blotches are dark against the grey heather, and I swear quietly, reaching for my wand to do a quick cleaning spell.

Mimsy watches me from the floor, her head tilted, her eyes blinking. She's just woken up and she looks like she's wondering why the humans are acting strangely.

"Shhh. Don't tell him," I say, and she stretches and yawns, twisting to curl around on herself again. Within seconds her heads back on her paws and she's fast asleep again.

I flip the telly to Sky Sports, blindly staring at the cricket highlights from Middlesex's match against Durham. Finny bowls, nearly stumbling forward, and I frown at him. He looks nothing like me, no matter what Draco says.

The door opens and I reach for a brief, flipping through it. I look up as Draco walks back into the sitting room, his hips loose and his body relaxed.

"Feel better?" I ask.

A small smile plays around his lips. "Infinitely." He takes the brief I hand him and sits back down on the other side of the sofa.

We go back to work.



- 3 May, 2010 -

Three days before the election and we're in Zabini's office, hunched over his desk, prepping a report on potential swing constituencies for the party leadership.

"Mark Wilts off the list." Draco frowns down at his notepad. "Father's numbers are running too strong. Unless he does something to annoy all of his old cronies in the county--which is always possible, knowing him--I'd say he'll take the constituency. In any case, we shouldn't waste the resources."

I shift in my chair, biting back a yawn. My back's killing me; Mimsy decided to sleep in my bed last night, curled up behind my shoulders, and I'd dozed fitfully for hours, stiff and tense, certain I was going to roll over and crush her. I'd finally woken up just after dawn to find her sitting on my chest, delicately licking one pink and white paw. "Same for Hants, although I'm going to go out on a limb and predict we'll take all of Yorkshire--including the East Riding."

"My joy is inexpressible," Draco says flatly.

I poke him with my quill. "You'll be glad of those two seats by Thursday evening."

"Somerset." Zabini looks up from his list. "Etchingham's in the lead. What do we know about him?"

"Pomp. One of McLaird's younger advisors. Last year the Prophet called him a rising star in Whitehall." Draco slaps a file jacket on the desk. "And we've got him."

"Excellent," I say. We've been worrying about this constituency, and at this stage in the game, almost anything can help us now. "What's come up?"

"I've been having Rowles follow him--"

"Rowles?" I assume he means one of the interns, although it seems a rotten assignment.

Draco gives Zabini a long look, then turns back to me. "Don't go all yoghurt-knitter on me."

"If it can win us the seat," I say boldly, "I hardly think I care at this point."

He hands me the file jacket. I flip it open. There are photographs of a dark-haired wizard with a young witch. Maybe twenty-five. Tall. Willowy. Gorgeous tits. "Three-year affair with his wife's sister; just broke it off before he started the election campaign. And get this--his children are six, three, and one. They started sleeping together when his wife was nursing his second child."

"Bastard," Zabini says, bored.

"How'd you find this out?" I ask, suddenly regretting my brash words. I have no stomach for this sort of thing. Maybe it has to do with being gay, but I don't like throwing stones to wreck other people's houses, glass or no.

Zabini leans back in his chair. "Rowles works for the Prophet. Off the payroll, if you get my meaning."

"I don't think I do quite." I watch Draco's face carefully. Even though it's smug, he's unusually guarded.

"Pansy pays him for information," Draco says after a moment. "Sometimes she passes it along to us--"

Zabini interrupts. "Or to her Omp friends, depending on the dirt."

"Why would Pansy care about Etchingham?" I ask. "Somerset's a minor seat in the scheme of things. It's only important for our overall percentage."

Draco doesn't meet my gaze as he reaches to take the file jacket back. "It's a close contest--"

"Because Draco asked her to," Zabini says bluntly. "You both know how tight they're polling. Draco asked Pansy to find him dirt."

"Does it matter if they're not still sleeping together?" There's a sour taste in my mouth. "Shouldn't we focus on how weak Etchingham is on local agriculture? I think we still have some ground we can make up there if we push to small farmers and the younger set who are more likely to shop locally?"

Draco pushes his chair back. He walks over to the window and looks out of it, hands in his pockets. "We'll get half a percent tops on that." He glances back at me. "This will sink the campaign."

"And destroy his life," I say quietly. "And his wife's. Not to mention his children--"

"Who won't remember it." Draco shrugs and turns, leaning against the window sill. "This is his sister-in-law, Harry. It's practically incest."

Zabini snorts. "In which case half the Wizengamot is fucked. Literally and figuratively." He eyes Draco. "Do we know for certain this happened?"

"Rowles slipped the sister some Veritaserum in her tea." The way Draco says it so matter-of-factly horrifies me. There are rules governing the use of Veritaserum and evidence obtained under its influence. For one, it can be very harmful on the emotional state of the person receiving it, depending on the strength. If Rowles was acting quickly, he might have used more than three drops at a time, which is technically illegal but common in investigation.

"Could be worse." Zabini purses his mouth. "Did he Obliviate her afterwards?"

Draco shakes his head. "After the bollocking Pansy gave him last time, he won't do that again."

I look at them both. "None of this is admissible, lawfully obtained evidence--"

"This isn't a court of law, Harry." The look Draco gives me is condescending at best. "This is politics and all that matters is what Esmeralda M. Keckilpenny of Barrow Gurney thinks when she picks up her Prophet tomorrow morning and finds out that her duly elected MW just screwed his wife's sister on the desk of his constituency surgery--"

"Listen to yourself," I snap. "Is it really worth winning a seat by ruining lives? Is this the sort of politicians we want to be?"

"You mean the ones who win?" Draco's nearly in my face. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes bright. "Then yes, Harry. That's exactly the kind of fucking politician I want to be."

I clench my fists. "Your family was ruined by politics. Who knows if what happened to your mother would have happened if public opinion hadn't been fanned by those awful Sunday tabs--"

"Leave my mother out of this," Draco says, and his voice goes low. Dangerous. Even Zabini looks away.

"Potter," he says.

I'm too far gone to stop. "But you know what it's like, even if it's not exactly the same thing. How can you risk someone's life like this?"

Draco's silent for a long moment, then he turns away, looking back out the window. His shoulders are tight. "It's a nice bloody fairy tale you live in, Potter," he says finally. "Full of ideals and meaning. But some of us live here in the real world, where things fall apart, no matter what you do. And we're the ones who put them back together." He takes a deep breath. "However we fucking have to."

"How can you live with yourself afterwards?" I ask. I want to reach out to him, to touch his arm. I don't.

He looks at me, his pale face hard. "Some of us never had the luxury of moral superiority, you self-righteous ponce." He grips the file jacket tightly. "I'm telling Pansy to run the story."

When he brushes past me, I don't stop him. Zabini watches us both for a moment, an inscrutable look on his face, then turns back to his coffee. The office door slams and Zabini's bookshelves rattle.

"Don't tell me I cocked up," I say.

Zabini looks at me over the rim of his mug. "Far be it from me to tell you the fucking truth."

When I slam the door behind me, Zabini's assistant Malcolm doesn't even look up.

***

The late afternoon light slants in the small window, casting shadows across the parchment on my desk. I glance at the clock as I rub my face. It's nearly six. I've been sitting here for five hours without moving. I stretch my shoulders, and my back protests, cracking loudly. The rest of the office is nearly empty; there are at least four campaign events tonight that I know of, and I'm fairly certain I heard Zabini shouting two hours ago about another fucking one being added and could he fucking turn back time, is that what they wanted of him, because if it was they needed to get him a fucking Time-turner to shove up their arses. Sideways.

Or something like that. I wasn't really listening to the particulars.

A file jacket falls over my shoulder, hitting my desk. A photo of a dark haired wizard and a young witch falls out. I pick it up. Etchingham. I turn in my chair.

"Don't even start," Draco says, his mouth a thin line. "Just sit there and shut up."

"All right." I glance at my mug of tea, thinking to take a sip, but it's gone cold again.

Draco moves closer, leaning in, one hand on my desk and one hand on my chair. "That's not shutting up, Potter."

I can feel his breath on my cheek. It smells like coffee and mints. "Sorry."

He huffs. "I had Pans pull the story, and I sent an entire lot of imbecilic interns out to Somerset to canvass farmers at a fucking parish fair. I'm also putting out a rumour that Etchingham hates cider. That ought to buy us some votes in the West Country. At least from the bloody members of the Wurzels, if nothing else, and I swear to God, Harry, if you start singing that fucking song I will hex you right here in this chair and not think twice."

I immediately close my mouth, even though a slight hum escapes my nose. I'm not thinking about combine harvesters. I'm not.

"So, are those tactics acceptable to you?"

"I'm not objecting." His mouth is inches away from mine. I can barely think. "I'm sorry about your mum. I mean, what I said about your mum."

A muscle twitches in Draco's cheek. "I know. You're still a shit. And I'm going to remind you for weeks." His eyes narrow. "And drink your beer with impunity. I love well-meaning liberal guilt."

"Acceptable." I reach up and brush his hair back off his forehead. He shivers slightly. "Your tactics, I mean."

"Harry." Draco raises a hand, then drops it. He tilts his head. "You look tired. Maybe we should--"

I kiss him, soft at first, then harder, my fingers catching his wrists and pulling him closer, off-balance. He sprawls across my desk, and I stand up, leaning over him, my mouth moving across his until he gasps.

Our glasses clink against each other, knocking askew, and he laughs softly against my lips. "We've never had that problem before." He draws me back in towards his mouth. His hands slide over my shoulders, and he kisses me back, our teeth and tongues messy, sloppy, desperate.

Draco's fingernails dig into my back, and I pull his hips into mine. We're both hard, achingly so, at least in my case, and I groan. He's making small sounds underneath my mouth that should be illegal. I don't even care who hears. Or watches us through the window. I hold him against me and grind into him, my mouth locked onto his in a breath-stealing series of deepening kisses.

The sound of laughter from the stairs pulls us apart. I step back, my eyes wide, my pulse pounding. His hair's mussed; there's no telling what shape mine is in. And his mouth. Christ.

Draco brushes his fingertips across his swollen, wet lips. "Harry," he says in rasping voice, but I'm already reaching for my coat, panicked.

"I have to go," I say, and I look at him, half sitting on my desk. I want him. I don't know why I'm running. I want him so much. But I can't stay.

He reaches for my hand.

I pull away. "I'll see you at home. Later."

I turn tail and flee.

***

I walk for two and a half hours, along the Thames, down the Victoria Embankment, then over the Vauxhall to the Albert, up to Lambeth Palace then to Waterloo and on past the Tate to Southwark and Tower Bridge until I find myself wandering through the crowds of Whitechapel. I've only been away two weeks; it feels an eternity. I stop for a curry at Tayyabs, sitting in the green painted window and looking out at the passersby as they hurry through the lamplit streets to the sanctuary of their flats.

Sitting here in the middle of one of the world's most powerful cities--Muggle or wizarding--and all I can think of is the feel of Draco's lips against mine. The press of his hips, the smell of his skin, musky and oddly sweet. Christ.

I throw three fivers on the table and leave, not even waiting for the receipt. I wander down Whitechapel Road, my hands in my jeans pockets, satchel banging against my hip. Outside the Blind Beggar, two scruffily-bearded and far too thin young musicians stand in the shadows, one strumming a battered guitar, the other beating out a soft rhythm against the brick of the pub wall with two scuffed drumsticks.

And so she woke up, woke up from where she was lying still, said I gotta do something about where we're going...

I stop and watch as the guitarist picks out the chords of a U2 song that I remember from my childhood. When we were fourteen, Dudley'd nicked The Joshua Tree from Piers' older brother, only to impress some girl two houses down. It'd bored him after a week, and I'd managed to rescue it from the bin. I'd spent most of that summer listening to it.

The guitarist looks right at me, and his eyes are a piercing silver grey. My breath catches, and he smiles, stepping towards me, singing to me in his rough gravelly voice.

You got to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice...

I stand there, fixed in place, unable to look away as the quiet melody fades into the rumble of buses and horns of taxis.

"Is she worth it, mate?" the guitarist asks softly. His voice has a tinge of Manchester in it.

Yes, I want to say. He is. Instead, I just look at him. "I don't know," I say finally.

"Probably best figure that out." He strums his fingers across the guitar strings, and he hums beneath his breath, his friend drumming lightly behind him.

"Yeah." I drop several pound coins into the bowl at his feet before I walk on. I glance back at them both. "Thanks."

The lights are off in the flat when I come in, save for a small glowing sliver beneath Draco's closed door. I drop my satchel next to the sofa and take the last beer from the refrigerator, opening it on the edge of the counter and flipping the bent cap into the bin.

I stop outside of Draco's door. I can hear a soft miaow and his answering laugh and muffled classical music from the WWN's Radio 3. For a moment, I think about knocking--I raise my hand, even--and then think better of it. I turn towards my bedroom, and my hand's on the doorknob when Draco's door flies open. I look back at him, his pale hair lit up like gold by the light behind him, his grey eyes narrowed at me.

In through a doorway she brings me white gold and pearls stolen from the sea, she is raging, she is raging, and the storm blows up in her eyes...

"Are we going to talk?" he asks quietly. Mimsy rubs against his ankles, settling against one bare foot.

I hesitate. I want to. I want to walk across the hall and push him against that bed and make him moan my name.

Suffer the needle chill...

"Harry?"

I look back up at him. "No," I say finally, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it, my eyes closed, my body aching to go to him.

God help me. I am running to stand still.

***

We go to work separately the next morning. Draco's gone when I wake up. Even when I'm in the party headquarters, I don't see him at all, other than a flash of short white-blond hair at the end of a corridor. I throw myself into my brief reports, finishing three before half-eleven, and when Zabini sends for me, I assume it's to applaud my effort, or more likely to tell me what a complete and total stupid wanker I am for missing something important in one policy or another.

"Sit," he says, and I sigh, taking the chair furthest from him. Judging from his tone, applause is not on the menu.

"What'd I do this time?" I ask wearily. I'd stayed up until three in the morning drafting a speech for our Derbyshire candidate, and I'm worn out, physically and emotionally, not that I'd ever admit the latter to Zabini.

He steeples his fingertips against his mouth, just watching me.

"What?" I ask again, not bothering to hide my annoyance. I'm not in the mood to deal with Zabini's games.

"The Prophet ran the Etchingham story."

I tense. "Draco told me he wasn't giving it to Pansy."

"He didn't." Zabini scowls at me. "I fucking did, with Kingsley's approval, so don't get on your fucking moral high horse, you self-righteous twat. Draco fucking knew better than to not let something that tasty slide by just because he's wanting another ride on your fucking sherbert spunk fountain. We're trying to win a fucking election, not keep I-sucked-my-spunk-off-my-sister's-tits Etchingham in office."

"Sister-in-law," I say blankly. I can't believe Kingsley agreed to this.

Zabini flaps a hand. "Whatever. Etchingham's stepping down."

"Are we done here?"

We look at each other, the tension between us sky high. "In addition to contributing to fuck-poor political decisions, it's not doing either of you any fucking good, you know," Zabini says finally.

"I have no idea what you're on about."

Zabini leans forward, letting his long, elegant hands fall onto his desk blotter. "Fuck him, Harry."

Oh, Christ. "Not this again," I say, rubbing my hands over my face and pushing my glasses onto my forehead. "Look, I frankly don't give a damn about your stupid wager--"

"I don't either," Zabini says, and I look at him through splayed fingers.

"You're lying."

He sighs and picks up a quill, frowning down at it. "Do you know how long Draco and I have been friends?"

"No?" It unsettles me that he's used a sentence that doesn't have a profanity in it. Twice. In a row.

"Nearly twenty-three years." Zabini glances up at me. "My mother took me to his seventh birthday party. I upended the fucking cake on his head."

I can't help my smile. "I'm sure he appreciated that."

"It took him another ten years to not bring it up every fucking fifth of June." Zabini scowls and I relax. "The fucking point is, Potter, that I know him very well."

"And I'm not sleeping with him," I say determinedly.

Zabini gives me an exasperated look. "Why?"

"Because..." I sigh. I don't really have a good reason--at least not one that I'm about to tell Zabini. "I don't think it's a good idea. He only just broke things off with Susan--"

"And when he ended things with Astoria, you were sucking his cock two nights later." Zabini snorts. "Even thought you both pretend it was later. Don't feed me shit excuses, Potter. You can talk bollocks to other people but don't you fucking dare talk bollocks to me."

I don't say anything; I just rub my palms against the chair arms and look out his window.

"Look, Potter," Zabini says, and his voice is almost kind, "you're not really fooling anyone. Either of you. For five fucking years, it's been the two of you--the only constants in each other's lives, really. Even more than the fucking rest of us. It's each other you come back to every time, and I'm not fucking stupid enough to think it's because you're both brilliant fucks or your cock's some fucking line of china white."

I push myself out of the chair. "This isn't something I'm going to discuss with you."

"You fucking well better," Zabini says, standing, and I stop at the door, looking back at him. "If you're spending all your time trying not to fuck his pretty little arse, Potter, then you're not on the top of your game. And as much as it rips my heart out of my fucking chest to admit this, you're good at what you fucking do. So is Draco. Fuck him. Whip out your dick for the sake of the party. Get this out of your systems and then come back and fucking get to work. Two fucking days. That's all we have, and I'm not putting up with Wanker A and Wanker B refusing to be in the same fucking room--"

"I haven't refused," I say hotly.

Zabini runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. His dark orange tie is askew beneath his dark brown waistcoat. "He fucking well has."

That draws me up short. Something inside of me aches.

"He didn't tell you, did he? You were supposed to be in this morning's fucking leadership meeting." Zabini meets my eyes. "Fuck him, Harry. For the sake of this fucking campaign."

I answer by slamming the door behind me.

Malcolm just waves me on without looking up.

***

I spend the rest of the day furious at Zabini, at Draco, at myself, hiding out at my desk. The one time Seamus comes looking for me, I snarl at him so badly, he throws his hands up and tells me just to send my notes via interoffice memo.

At quarter to ten, I give up on brief-writing. My fingers are numb and stained with ink. All I can think of is what Zabini said. His words have been running through my head all day and it's driving me mad.

The office is still packed--the Tuesday before an election means most people won't leave before midnight, if at all--but I grab my jacket and satchel and head for Draco's office. He's still there, like I thought he'd be, and when I knock on the door frame, he looks up.

"What?" he snaps, and from the way he's sitting I can tell he's so tense he's coiled like a spring. For a moment I'm afraid he'll jump at me, his eyes are so wild. "I really don't have time for this, Harry--"

I pick up his jacket and toss it towards him. He catches it as it slides across the desk. "Get your coat," I say, not looking away. "I've pulled."

His eyebrow raises. "Really."

I lean over his desk, my fists resting lightly on the piles of parchment spread across his blotter. "Really."

Draco puts down his quill. "And what makes you so certain, Potter? I mean, you've been making it perfectly clear you don't want me for weeks."

"The fact that I'm either going to kneel down and suck your cock here in the middle of everything or on that bloody big bed of yours and really, given how loud you are, I think you might want to come home with me. Now."

He just looks up at me. "Why should I let you?"

This isn't what I've expected. I blink. "What?"

Draco picks his quill back up. "I'm not here at your beck and call, Harry."

"I never said you were."

That earns me a glare. "You're the one who kissed me and then ran off last night. Not to mention refused to even acknowledge--"

"What are you?" I give him an incredulous look. "A bloody girl?"

He throws his quill at me. It bounces off my forehead, point first.

"Ow." I put my hand up to my head. The quill is sticking in my hair.

"You're an idiot," Draco says, and he Summons his quill back. "And so's your stupid hair. I'd like you both out of my office." I stand there for a long moment, just watching him. He looks back up at me. "I said go."

"Draco, I've always wanted you." I hold my hands out, palms turned upward. "Always."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Draco looks annoyed. "At least make an attempt to sound believable. Otherwise you just come across as pathetic."

I'm offended. "I'm trying to be vulnerable here."

"You're being a twat is what you're being." He eyes me. "Fine. If you're so desperate for my cock, then strip."

"Here?" I glance back at the half-open door. Draco flicks his wand at it and it slams shut.

"Go on, Mr Vulnerable." Draco leans back in his chair. "Show me that you mean it."

I hesitate, then reach for my belt, unbuckling it. "What the hell." I pull it from the loops and coil it in my hands. Draco's staring at me with his mouth slightly open. "Catch." I toss the belt to him. It uncoils in mid-air and slaps lightly against his palm. I bend down to untie the laces of my red Chucks, then toe them off.

"Harry," Draco says, and his tongue flicks across his bottom lip. My hands are already halfway through the buttons of my shirt. "Stop trying to prove a point--"

I walk around the corner of his desk, pulling my shirttails from my trousers as I finish unbuttoning it. It hangs open as I lean in over the side of Draco's chair. He draws in a shallow breath as I turn him to face me. My mouth brushes the angle of his jaw. He hasn't shaved today.

"Oh," Draco whispers, and my teeth nip down the curve of his throat. I nudge his knees apart and slowly slide to the floor between them, letting my mouth trail across the buttons of his shirt. His hands settle on my shoulders, twisting in the dark blue cotton of my shirt, and when I press my lips to the wide leather threaded through the silver buckle of his belt, he groans, flexing his fingers as they slip beneath my shirt and onto my skin. "Jesus Christ, Harry. What are you doing?"

I slowly tug at the buttons of his fly, working each one loose as I look up at him. "It hasn't been that long. I would hope you remember."

He huffs a soft laugh, that turns into a soft moan as my fingers slip between the placket of his trousers, brushing across the soft cotton of his y-fronts. He's already swelling, his skin hot at my touch. He watches me behind those rectangular glasses, light from the wall sconces glinting off the lenses. His palm slides over the back of my neck. "Someone could walk in," he says softly.

"I know." I coax the head of his prick out through the slit in his pants. He shudders when it peeks through his fly, the head already red and damp. I want so fucking badly to taste him. It's been too long. I hate everything and everyone who's kept us apart, including myself.

When I close my lips around his cock, he hisses and tenses beneath me, his fingers pressing into my skin. "Harry." His breath catches and his hips thrust just enough. I catch them, holding him still as I slide further down his shaft. I love doing this, love tasting him, love feeling him move beneath me, love hearing the groans that escape his lips, despite his biting down on them. I love how much he loves being sucked, how he responds, begging me to suck harder, to lick, to let him fuck my pretty mouth.

I love the string of expletives that pours from his mouth, rivalling Zabini at his best--or worst, some might say. Draco's fingers card through my hair, tangling it, twisting it around his hands as he gasps. His hips keep trying to escape my hold; I can feel the tightening of his thighs beneath my hands, the rocking of his heels as he tries to push forward.

And then I pull away, a string of saliva connecting his prick to my mouth for just a moment, and I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. His cock sticks up, stiff and wet and ruddy, from his trousers.

"You bastard," he says weakly as I clamber to my feet. "If you leave me like this--"

I reach out a hand, and when he takes it, I pull him up from the chair, tugging him up against me. "Why would I do that?" I murmur into his ear, pressing my mouth against the skin below as I roll my hips into his, letting his cock slide against the front of my wool trousers. The sensation takes him by surprise, and he grabs my arms with a loud groan that I'm certain everyone down the hall can hear. I catch his mouth with mine, pushing him into the edge of the desk as I rock into him again, and Draco wraps his legs around my hips, kissing me greedily.

"I'm not going to last," he says against my mouth, his breath ragged. "I can't--"

My hips buck against his again. I'm hard--so fucking hard--but I want his spunk over my trousers. Now. Draco grabs my shoulders and throws his head back, moaning.

"Jesus fuck, Potter, you arsehole--" His whole body tenses, and I jerk him closer, wrapping myself around him as I Apparate us into the hall of my flat. We stumble into the post table, sending papers flying across the hall, and Draco's keening, his legs tight around my hips. I bite his throat as we land against the wall, and my hips snap forward, my wool-covered cock sliding across his. His fingers pull at my hair, roughly and painfully twisting in the wild locks to the point I'm sure he's going to pull entire chunks out, but I don't care because he's loud and he's gorgeous and he's begging me to let him come--oh Christ--to let him come, fuck, and with another rough shove of my body against his, he cries out, my name echoing in the silence of the hall.

We slide to the floor, still kissing. There's spunk across the wreck of my trousers, and Draco's draped across me, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His blond hair is sticking up and his glasses are crooked. I've never seen anything more beautiful, not because he's perfect but because he's in my arms and here and mine.

He brushes my aching cock with his fingertips. "Your self-control's better," he whispers, pressing his mouth across the corner of mine.

"Only because I intend to fuck you on the floor." I roll us to the side slightly, away from the wall. I manage to push his shoes off with my feet. "Get naked."

Draco smiles, and he starts to unbutton his shirt. "Lube." He unbuckles his belt and pushes his trousers and pants down, kicking them free.

I sit up and summon the phial from the bath, shucking my clothes as I do. When I look back at Draco, he's stretched out beside me, watching me undress.

"You're gorgeous," he says, reaching out to touch my hipbone. My cock bounces slightly, and I hiss. His mouth quirks to one side. "And randy."

I reach for him, pushing him onto his stomach. "You don't want to know how long it's been." I slap his hip. "Arse in the air."

"But I do," Draco says as he complies, bracing himself on his forearms. I lean in and run my tongue along the bend between his thigh and left arsecheek. He groans and flexes his toes. "Surely there was someone--"

I bite his skin lightly. "Once in February." He trembles as I spread the pale globes of his arse, leaning in to drag my tongue through his crease. Draco lets out a soft groan. He loves this. Given more time and more patience I'd do it properly. But that will have to wait for the second--or third--time. Right now I just want to come--on him, inside of him, all over him.

"Who?" His voice cracks as I flick my tongue across his hole, stopping for just a moment to press it deeper before pulling away. He looks over his shoulder at me.

"No one you know." I open the phial with one hand, drizzling the oil over my other before I let my fingers slide over him again. He tenses and swears under his breath. "No one I know either."

Draco spreads his knees wider, opening his arse to me as I push a finger into him. He shifts, lowering his head to his folded arms. "Cottaging in the parks again?" His voice is muffled. "Not the wisest--"

I smack his arse, and the sound echoes through the flat. Draco hisses; I push another finger into him, twisting it slightly to reach further inside him. "Bar."

"You don't club." Draco pushes back against my hand.

"Wasn't a club." I smear my prick with oil as I fuck Draco slowly with two fingers. He's surprisingly pliant for a purported straight boy. He's always loved this. "Muggle gay bar. In the loo." I lean in and press my mouth between his shoulder blades. "He sucked me off, and then fucked me in the stall."

A shudder goes through Draco's body. "I love the thought of you with a prick up your arse," he murmurs.

"I know." I stretch across him, whispering into his ear. "Legilimens."

He cries out as I let the memory of that night flood his mind. The tight stall, the slender, blond Muggle bent over my cock, the feel of his condomed prick as he pressed inside of me, stretching me, making me shake with want and the effort of keeping myself upright.

"Oh, Christ, you fucking whore," Draco says, and then I pull my hand away, reaching down to push my prick against his hole, slowly sliding in. He's tight. He hasn't had the full girth of a cock inside of him in a while.

I bite his shoulder. "You didn't fuck the Pomp, did you? Or rather, he didn't fuck you."

Draco pushes into my thrust with a gasp. "Fucked him." He groans. "You're the only one who does this."

"Damn right I am." I dig my fingers into his hips, jerking him back onto my cock roughly. Draco throws his head back and swears again, his body strung taut like a wire. When I reach beneath him, I'm not surprised to find his prick swelling again, the head slick and wet. "Who's the whore, Draco?" I murmur into his ear, stroking him in time with my thrusts, and he groans. "You always roll over like a bitch in heat."

He moans and spreads his knees wider, rocking forward on his arms. "Such a filthy mouth, Potter. I like it."

I tug him up, pressing into him as I lift him over my thighs. He reaches back, hooking his arm around my neck as he turns his head to kiss me, our glasses catching again. I pull his off and toss them onto his shirt. Mine follow.

"You feel good in me," Draco says against my mouth, and when I pull out, he protests. I hush him with another kiss, turning him to face me.

"I want to watch," I say, my words breathless into his hair as I push him back onto the floor, my hips between his thighs. Draco just moans when I press into him again, and he wraps a leg around my arse, pushing me deeper.

We fuck slowly, kissing now, and I slide my hands up his arms, pushing them over his head as I rock into him. Our tongues tangle, our teeth click together, and the slide of his soft, hot skin against mine almost sends me over the edge, but he feels so amazing, I don't want it to end.

He bites my lip, then licks it, turning his head to press his mouth against my jaw. "Missed you," he whispers. His hands slide over my shoulders, his short nails scratching across my skin. "Missed this."

"Yeah, me too," I breathe over his lips. I'm so close and I could go on forever. "No one's like you, you know."

Draco arches beneath me with a small groan. "I'm terribly good, aren't I?" He laughs, a soft huff against my throat, and I know he's remembering our first time together and how awkward we'd both been. Sex has never been just spectacular with Draco and me--we've both been with people who've rocked our worlds harder, I think, on the purely physical plane--but it's always been different with him in a way I can't describe. We do things with each other that we'd never consider with other people, and also things everyone does, and somehow, at the end of the day, it's still the most amazing sex I've had. The way he smells, the way his body moves against me, the way he feels is like an addiction. Zabini's wrong, I think. Draco's my drug of choice. I think he always has been.

His hips twist beneath mine. He's breathing hard; there's a sheen of sweat on his flushed skin. "God, I can't get enough," he says and then he breaks off, kissing me, his fingers pressing into my shoulder blades as he bucks against me, his arse clenching around my prick. "Fuck me, you stupid cocksucker. Just fuck me."

I lose myself. A rough shove, then another, and I'm lifting his arse from the floor as he howls for me to fuck him harder--to fuck him like a real man for Christ's sake, Jesus fuck--and his hand is between us, jerking at his prick frantically, his body arched and tight, his thighs spread wide, both feet on the floor now as he slams up to meet my hips.

My whole body aches, is stretched beyond the breaking point, and I know I can't stop myself, even if I wanted to. Muscle motion takes over, and then I'm falling, trembling, grasping at him as my spunk spatters into him, out of him, across his soft skin with each shuddering thrust.

I fall onto him, barely aware of the movement of his hand between us or his sharp cry. I slide to one side blankly. Between sleepless nights and the force of what we've just done, I couldn't form a coherent thought if I tried. We lie there, sprawled together, breathing hard for a long moment.

A soft miaow catches my attention, and I turn my head. Mimsy sits at the doorway to the sitting room, watching us curiously with unblinking eyes. "Oh, God," I mumble, and Draco shifts against me, pressing his face into my armpit.

"Tell me the kitten didn't just watch us fuck."

I eye Mimsy. "She didn't," I lie.

Draco kicks my leg weakly. "You're just saying that to make me feel less perverted."

"I like you perverted." I kiss his rumpled hair. It's sticking up in all directions. "I think she's hungry."

At that Draco pushes me away and clambers to his feet. I watch him, enjoying the view of his arse and balls until he's far enough away that my vision blurs. I reach for my glasses, sitting up. I can hear Draco in the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and talking to the kitten. She miaows loudly, and I push myself up, grabbing his glasses as I do.

I walk into the kitchen to see him crouching naked next to her, stroking her tiny back as she laps up the cat milk. She arches into his touch, her face almost submerged in the bowl.

"This is oddly kinky," I say, leaning against the door frame.

Draco looks up at me with a scowl, and I hand him his glasses. "At least I have socks on," he says.

"Because that makes all the difference."

He pulls one off and balls it up, tossing it at me. Mimsy looks up from her milk, eyeing us both for a moment before nearly falling face-first back into the bowl. I never knew a kitten could drink so loudly.

I step closer, holding my hand out. Draco takes it and I pull him up, leaning in to kiss him. "Shower?" I ask.

Draco quirks an eyebrow. "In the past that's always been an offer to..."

"Eat your arse out, yes." I drag my tongue along the curve of his bottom lip. "We could also just shower."

"The hell we can." Draco's fingers slip down my stomach, brushing against my limp prick. "I want you on your knees with your face between my arsecheeks, Potter." He stalks off towards the bath, knowing I'll follow.

I just laugh and walk after him. Have I mentioned Draco's insatiable?

***

We're back at headquarters by five in the morning, both giddy from a night of sex and little sleep--yet strangely energetic. No one seems to notice we've been gone; there's too much to do in the next twenty-four hours. Zabini watches us both with narrowed eyes, but he's too busy to do more than clap me on the shoulder when walking past one time whilst I'm bent over a map of Southern England, trying to calculate sums on the back of a paper napkin from Caffè Nero. We're exploding in all directions at once as a campaign, and yet, it's brutally efficient. Every last bit of energy is accounted for, every last spurt of effort planned. We're at a blistering pace and we only need to hold on until midnight. Polls open at seven tomorrow morning, and the Prophet's reporting today that we're five points ahead of the Omps, nine ahead of the Pomps. Not a large margin, but enough to give us courage.

Draco's at Kingsley's side, helping him to write a speech for his final appearance tonight, here in London. They've gone through at least five drafts by lunch, in between engagements, and when I pass Draco in the hall on my way to get the latest polling numbers from research, he gives me a wild-eyed look and mutters, "Tell me not to drown our future Minister for Magic in an enormous pot of tea, because every time I look at my mug, I'm considering an Engorgio."

I laugh. "Save that for your prick."

"As if I need it, you size queen." One of the sleep-starved interns passing gives us a startled look, shakes his head, and moves on as if he must have imagined it. Draco grabs my tie and pulls me into an open office, leaning in to kiss me quick and hard. "When this is all over, you're going to bend over the nearest piece of furniture and let me fuck you senseless."

I kiss him again. "No objections here. Although in the meantime, there are polls waiting..."

Draco groans. "And I've a Portkey to the Midlands." He wrinkles his nose. "Why people insist on living there is beyond me. I mean, Birmingham? Really?"

"Heart of the Industrial Revolution," I say, heading for the door, and Draco snorts.

"Yes, and a city that produced Neville Chamberlain." He follows me out into the corridor. "I rest my case."

It's hard to argue with history.

***

Election Day dawns wet and drizzly in London. Draco and I are up by four and queuing at our respective polls by seven, me in Diagon and him in Wilts. Pansy shows up at my polling place with a photographer in tow--"Smile, darling, you're the Saviour of the Wizarding World and influential politician's aide about town", she says airily as he snaps a shot of me casting my ballot--and she waits for me outside, stopping me on the awning-covered steps.

"Have you fucked him yet?" she asks, tapping a cigarette out into her hand, then lifting it to her mouth and lighting it with the tip of her wand. "Blaise says he told you to."

I roll my eyes and open my umbrella. "None of your business, Pansy." The fact that I sucked him off an hour ago for the second time this morning is neither here nor there.

"But it is," she says, ducking beneath the umbrella and walking down the stairs with me. I'm a bit worried about the short queues of voters. "I've money on last night."

I stop on the pavement and look at her. "You lot do realise that we're not doing this for your amusement, right?"

She tucks her hair behind one ear. "I sincerely hope not, darling. I'd like to think you were getting a lovely little zing from it as well." At my frown she blows smoke into my face, then offers the cigarette to me. "On another subject entirely, mind if I talk to your Weasley? The Auror, not the Quidditch player."

"Ron's not mine, and why do you want to?" I take the cig from her and lift it to my mouth.

Pansy smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Just a few questions about the scandal. I've heard reports that he might know something."

My heart thuds in my chest. "He didn't do anything. You know he didn't."

"He knows people who did." Pansy's mouth thins. "I'd think you'd like the truth, Potter. Of all people, given what you advocate."

I exhale a thin stream of smoke. "The truth is complicated, Pansy. You of all people should realise that. Given what you advocate." I hand her back the cigarette. "I want to get back to work."

"It's only waiting from here on out," she say, waving her hand. "The polling day is the same length no matter what you do."

"And I've a nervous MW to sit with." I give her the umbrella. "Perhaps I'll see you at the victory party?"

She smiles faintly. "Only if you give me a quote I can use."

I step out into the rain, pulling the collar of my jacket up against it. "How's this? The Modern Wizarding Reform Party are looking forward to implementing our political manifesto within the Wizengamot over this coming term. We hope to reach across both aisles to work with all parties for the betterment of British wizarding society."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "You're a natural politician, Harry Potter," she says over the hubbub of the rain and crowd. I laugh.

"Later, Pansy." With a wave, I Apparate back to the chaos of party headquarters.

***

The ballroom's full of Mod party members, cheering and talking at loudest volume. When it becomes clear that we've taken absolute majority with the count in Northumberland, Kingsley stands up to give his usual give-'em-hell speech, followed quickly by Zabini, who's had so much wine by this point he only swears through half of his remarks.

Sometime during the fifth speech, Draco looks at me with that bright gleam in his grey eyes. We're both too wired to be properly pissed, although we're certainly drunk on success. This is a bigger high than anything I've ever experienced.

Draco leans over, by all appearances whispering some titbit of insider information into my ear. "Do we have to wait for the announcement tomorrow, or can we shag now?"

I give him a considering look and then take in the crowd. Everyone around appears to have crawled far enough into the party's spirits supply to be oblivious to our comings and goings. "Now would be fine with me."

He barely glances at me. "I'll see you at the cloakroom in five minutes."

I wait, sipping the watery end of my whisky. I'm already eager for what's to come, but maintaining a general air of bonhomie. After four minutes, I set my glass down and move swiftly to the exit. Zabini raises an eyebrow as I pass by him. He's at the centre of a knot of revellers that includes Hermione, Seamus, and Pansy and the aides to several MWs.

By contrast the anteroom outside is quiet and virtually empty. I hadn't realised how loud the din in the crowded ballroom was until I left. I saunter down the hallway to the cloakroom. The attendant's nowhere to be seen. I look left and right and then walk through the open half-door into the cramped space beyond.

"What took you so long?" Draco grabs me and pulls me to the side of the small space, where we are relatively hidden by hanging cloaks. "Fuck, Harry, I've been hard for hours.' He pushes me to my knees in front of him.

I don't bother replying. I'm too busy unbuttoning my trousers as Draco makes swift work of his own flies. The silk of his pants appears at the vee of his trousers, the head of his cock pressed against it, leaving a small wet spot, and I stop for a moment to mouth at it.

"Wait a moment." Draco pushes his pants down, his trousers slipping slightly. The elastic catches beneath the swell his balls, pushing them and his prick up towards me.

"Christ," I breathe, and Draco shivers at the soft huff of my breath against his cock. He leans back into the row of cloaks behind him as my mouth finds his prick. He tastes amazing. A thrust of his hips and his cock slides almost all the way down my throat. My eyes water, but I've been waiting for this all day. I blow him hard and fast, stopping only to adjust my own prick in my hand to get a better angle with my wrist.

"You look brilliant with a mouth full of my cock," Draco murmurs. I look up at him then and I can feel his prick jump against my cheek as our eyes meet.

He curls one hand in the hair at the nape of my neck and cups his balls with the other, squeezing lightly as his breath grows more ragged. This is an efficiency fuck, the best sort after an entire bloody day of waiting.

A slight rustle behind us and Draco stops thrusting into my mouth. I can't see what's behind us, or who. I can only feel my hand on my own throbbing prick and the stretch of my mouth around Draco's. There's nowhere to hide here.

"So this is where the fucking party really is," Zabini drawls. My mouth goes dry and my throat constricts. I start to move away, but Draco holds me in place with his hand. His fingers trace small circles against my hair.

"You're welcome to stay for the show," Draco says, shifting his hips to push in and out of my mouth with a shallow thrust, "as long as you keep an eye out. I think the attendant will give us another couple of minutes. I certainly paid him enough."

Zabini raises a lazy wand and murmurs a Notice-Me-Not. "There. Did either of you randy fucks think that you might just use a little fucking magic? You're such a show-off, Draco."

Draco cocks an eyebrow, but then I take him down my throat again, and he makes a slight moaning noise, bitten off by his teeth in his lip. His eyelids flutter shut. I continue, my prick so hard in my hand I can barely think of anything else.

I can hear Zabini behind me. From the sound of it, he has his own prick out--I hear the familiar sound of palm against flesh and a slight grunt when he hits a good rhythm. Draco twists his fingers in my hair. "Harder, Harry."

I open my throat and let him fuck it, choking back my gag reflex. Zabini's hand slaps on his own cock behind me, speeding up with the thrusts of Draco's prick into my mouth. I can only hear him and can see nothing except Draco's hips and the creased, spread tails of his white shirt. My knees ache on the hard stone floor as I shift, letting myself find it normal that I'm here, bare-arsed, sucking Draco's cock in front of one of his oldest friends.

Draco pulls out of my mouth so suddenly, I almost fall. I sit back onto my heels as he wanks the hard, wet length of his prick in front of me. He swears loudly and spunk hits my glasses and my open mouth and dribbles down my chin. Behind me, Zabini grunts and I hear his muffled curse as he comes. Draco smears his spunk across my chin with his cock and I lose it, pulsing in hard waves onto the grey stone floor, spattering it.

The small space smells more like fresh spunk that most bars I've had the pleasure of shagging in. Zabini and Draco cast cleaning charms leisurely as I tuck myself back in and clean off. The floor takes a few passes and someone's managed to hit a silver trench coat that'll be a bitch to get clean, Hermione's, I think with a strange urge to laugh. The entire situation is so surreal and yet, the relief is marvellous.

I push myself up, my knees cracking. Draco nods at me. I turn around.

Zabini's standing there quite calmly, looking as put together as ever, if infinitely more relaxed than he has all evening. "Draco, you fucking whore, I think you're going to have to Obliviate me. I'm not bladdered enough to forget this." Zabini regards me. "Although it's a shame to lose the image of the Golden Boy with a face full of spunk."

"I didn't know you were into this sort of thing," I say, including all of us in a general wave of my hand.

"I'm not, really," Zabini says lazily. "I mean, I'm not a bloody dick-licker. I just like watching men come." At my incredulous look, he just shrugs. "Slytherin House legacy. Christ, Potter, you'd think you didn't go to fucking boarding school. What? Strapping Gryffindor lads too fucking straight-laced to whip their pricks out at night and play a little suck the sausage?"

"It's not just the boys who liked watching. Millie assures me she and Sus watch gay porn all the time," Draco offers with a feral smirk. These are things I really, really don't want to know.

Still, a tendril of jealousy slips through me. "Do this often, do you two?"

Zabini straightens his collar, checking the ends of his purple tie. "Often enough."

"Don't start, Blaise," Draco warns. He glances at me. "He's just being a prick. It's only for special occasions. Like taking control of Government." His mouth brushes my ear. "And I never touch him. Especially not the way I'm going to touch you tonight when I'm impaled on your cock."

I feel oddly pleased. A stupid grin splits my face, and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Far too easy, Potter." He shoos me into the hallway, then beckons quietly to Zabini, wand raised. "Come here, you evil faux-Scottish pervert."

From the hallway, I hear Zabini's defence of his national pride, followed by a quick flash of light. I walk back toward the ballroom we've just left. Hermione is out in the hall. "Have you seen Blaise? He just wandered off and Berwicke is looking for him."

I nod my head back toward the general direction I've come from. "I think he and Draco had something to discuss."

I walk back into the party, trying to keep a smug grin off my face, although given the circumstances, a little smugness isn't out of place.

We've won.






- 2 June, 2010 -

I don't return to the Trust after the election.

Much to all of our surprise--even Draco's, though he refuses to admit it--we actually do take the Ministry, by a majority of twelve constituencies. Twenty-six seats Mod to fourteen seats Omp--mostly in southern England--to six seats Pomp in their usual strongholds of the Midlands and the North. The remaining four are split between the Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish national parties, with two going to the Cymrics of Wales. Scotland's other two seats both go Mod, with the Highlands swinging our way.

Kingsley asks me to stay a little longer, to help put together the new Government. He's attempting to reach across the aisles to the more moderate Pomps and Omps, even offering them some of the minor leadership positions. And since the Muggles are up in the air after their election, scrambling to form a coalition government between either their Tories or Labour and the Liberal Democrats, as there was no clear majority taken in Parliament, he wants Hermione and me to liaise with the Speaker of the House until Cameron finally takes Number 10 in an official capacity five days later.

We're thrown into a flurry of Government-building, moving offices from Diagon to Whitehall as McLaird and his staff move back out to the Pomp headquarters in Chelsea. Civil servants follow us about with thick sheaves of parchment, bringing us up to speed on Goverment policies and procedures. Draco and I both get offices across the hall from each other--with tall windows, charmed to appear as if they look out over Whitehall, towards the Palace of Westminster, and thick purple carpets that one sinks into with each step. I've even got a small seating area with a comfortable leather sofa and chair and bay windows that look out over the Atrium below.

The Auror scandal follows us; we may not have been the Government responsible for its occurrence, but by God, the papers are going to hold us accountable for solving it. In the Wizengamot Kingsley calls for pushing the Council of Law hearing earlier than August, but we're blocked by both the Omps and Pomps from the two-thirds majority we need.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

It begins like a normal Wednesday, or as normal as they've been since we took Government. Zabini stops by my office to shout at me for wasting his time on a report regarding the restoration of buttercrosses in Hampshire and West Sussex and suspiciously rapid improvements.

"What are we," he bellows at me, "the fucking Village Green Preservation Society?" He throws the report back across my desk. "Send it to Crowley in the Improper Use of Magic Objects. Christ knows the limp-dicked bastard needs something to do other than annoying me every five minutes about what types of Impervius on umbrellas count. Does it look like I give even half a shit about umbrellas that repel small animals? Frankly, whomever comes up with an umbrella that'll repel useless ball-biters like Crowley I will fucking suck off on the Wizengamot floor in full session." He stalks out of my office, waving his arms.

I settle back down to writing after sticking the parchment in a tube to Crowley. When I look up, Zabini is back at my doorframe. "What now?" I ask, waiting for the inevitable tirade. "Should I summon the report back and bump it up to top priority?"

"No. Let Crowley stick it up his arse. But now that you two bastard twats are fucking each other senseless every fucking night, have you thought about Draco's birthday yet?" He points a finger at me. "It's his fucking thirtieth on Saturday."

I lean back in my chair. "Which he's reminded me of every morning over coffee for the past week and a half. Don't worry, I have it covered."

"You haven't even made fucking reservations, have you?" Zabini rolls his eyes. "Potter, do you know who's going to have to put up with his fucking whinging if you cock this up the way you always fucking do? Me. Fucking hell. Not to mention having to work with you when he decides you have to wear a bloody French maid's kit for a month to make it up to him. Christ, have some fucking pity on the rest of us arseholes who have to watch you two tossers and your arsebuggering games."

"Back room of the Leaky." I set my quill down. "Half-eight, and Pansy's sending out the invitations for me this afternoon because I evidently don't have enough taste to pick a proper font."

Zabini eyes my scarlet tie. "She's not half-wrong." He scowls. "Guest list?"

"Pansy again."

"I'll owl her. Christ fucking knows if I leave it up to her, the whole shit affair will be nothing but arse-licking Omps trying to suck Draco's cock for a favour--" He breaks off at my look. "Not literally, you asinine tit. Everyone knows you and Draco are joined at the arsehole for now, even his fucking twat of a father, who, by the way, doesn't like you much, now does he?"

I sigh. "That's not exactly breaking news."

"It is when he's in the fucking member's lobby when Draco walks through."

"Shit." I rub my face. I forgot to shave this morning; Draco'd surprised me by blowing me whilst I brushed my teeth and I'd been so relaxed, I'd walked out without casting a shaving charm. "What'd he say?"

Zabini shrugs. "Ask Draco. All I fucking heard was that at some point, you were referred to as a shirt-lifting arsewipe--and that's a direct fucking quote." He looks at me. "Talk to him."

The slam of the door rattles the mock Time-turner Hermione gave me the day after the election, sending it sliding to the floor. It breaks in a wisp of smoke and sand.

This is turning out to be a lovely day.

***

"It wasn't anything," Draco says, annoyed, as we walk down the hall towards the Wizengamot chambers. He holds a stack of file jackets close to his chest. "Just Father being Father. I don't know why you care; he hasn't liked you since you survived that bloody curse."

I have to hurry to keep up with him. "It's disturbing that he hated an infant--"

"He doesn't hate you." Draco pushes his glasses up his nose. "He thinks you're an idealistic tit, although he's quite grateful to you for arranging it so that he can now hold a seat in the Wizengamot." He scowls at me. "Which, by the way, I'm ever so thrilled about myself."

We climb the steps to the Strangers' Gallery. Every Wednesday afternoon Kingsley answers Minster's Questions put before him by the entire Wizengamot. It's our job to be on hand in case he needs clarification on a Government policy or recommendation. We've already gone over the thick briefing notebook with him. Chances are nothing major will come at him unexpectedly, but one never knows for certain, which makes the entire proceedings mind-numbingly tedious and far too exciting at the same time.

Our seats are at the end of the first row. Pansy's two rows back from us, her legs crossed and a notebook perched on her knee; she lifts a hand in greeting. Draco waves back.

"She's having problems with Theo," he says through a tight smile her way. He looks back at me. "Not that you're allowed to know that."

I nudge him with my elbow. "I always get the best gossip when I start sleeping with you again."

He snorts. "You just start paying attention to what I tell you because you're hoping it'll include the words blow and job ."

"I do like that combination." I watch him as he watches the Wizengamot floor below. He's wearing a wine-coloured Muggle bespoke suit since he went to 10 Downing with Kingsley at lunch for an update on Cameron's PMQs that morning. On me, it would look atrocious but it looks good on him, especially with the black shirt and tie that sets off his pale skin and blond hair. I want to lean over and press my mouth to the curve of his jaw, to nip down to the swell of his Adam's apple.

A rolled up scrap of parchment hits me in the back of my head, then falls down over my shoulder into my lap. I glance back at Pansy, who studiously ignores me, then I unroll the parchment, frowning down at it.

Stop eye-fucking him, you pathetic bastard. There's a heart drawn at the bottom. I snort, and Draco looks over at me, eyebrow raised. I hand it over. He reads it, then looks back at Pansy with a grin. She blows him a kiss.

"I hate you both," I whisper, and Draco nudges me, nodding down to the floor where Boris Collingwood, the Shadow Head of the Education Department and staunch Omp, stands up to query Kingsley on the hiring of new Hogwarts professors. Draco mimes a yawn. I catch myself looking at the swell of his lip. Pansy's right; I can't keep my bloody eyes off him.

Another twenty minutes of boring questions by third-rate politicians and I'm almost about to nod off in my chair. Until, that is, the newly elected honourable member for Wiltshire stands, and the Chief Warlock calls out, "Order! Order! Question to the Minister, Mr Lucius Malfoy."

"Chief Warlock," Lucius says with a small smile and a nod to Berwicke, and Draco suddenly sits up next to me, leaning forward in his seat, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

"I don't like this, Harry," he murmurs. "He looks far too pleased for his first time bringing a question."

Me either. I tense, eyes fixed on Lucius. He looks so much like Draco it's disconcerting, particularly since he's kept his hair short on his release from Azkaban. He has the same sharp jaw, the same high cheekbones, the same bright grey eyes that can discern an opponent's weakness with just the flutter of a pulse. And Draco's right. He does look far too pleased.

Kingsley waits, his face calm. I can see Zabini hovering behind the Chief Warlock's chair, his arms crossed, one fist pressed to his mouth as he watches Lucius intently. Hermione's behind him, whispering in his ear, and Zabini just nods tightly.

"Can the Minister state," Lucius says, and his smile widens, "in regards to the ongoing situation in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in which certain of our illustrious Aurors have been accused of brutal acts, how exactly do the Government intend to pursue justice for those whose rights have been violated in such a savage manner?"

Draco leans closer to me. "What is he up to?" he asks quietly. I just shake my head, focusing on the tall figure speaking.

Kingsley frowns slightly, then stands again, stepping towards the box. The usual rumble of the Wizengamot benches has faded into a soft buzz. "I thank the honourable Gentleman for his question and laud his sudden and most unexpected support of social justice concerns, given his historical endorsement of shall we say, more totalitarian regimes."

"Ouch," Draco says, and I snort.

Lucius, however, doesn't flinch. "I think the Minister will find that my honourable Friends share my interest in his answer."

"Of course." Kingsley's eyes narrow. "The honourable Gentleman will find that my record as Head Auror supports my abhorrence of violence and torture as a method of law enforcement, and I am certain I speak for all Heads of Departments when I say that such actions will not be tolerated by this Government, regardless of whether or not the previous Government--" He's interrupted by a cacophony of jeers from the Pomps across the aisle. "--whether or not the previous Government turned a blind eye."

"How very glad I am that the Minister brings up his record as Head Auror," Lucius says. "Might I take a moment to share with my honourable Friends the story of a certain Charles Ludsthrop?"

My heart chills. "Fuck," I say, almost too loudly, and Draco looks at me, his brow furrowed.

"Ludsthrop?" he asks.

I shake my head. Christ. I'd been six months out training, and I'd been stupid. So fucking stupid. Kingsley glances up into the gallery, our eyes meeting. We both know what this is about. Several heads swivel to follow the Minister's gaze.

"Charles Ludsthrop," Lucus continues, and his eyes are fixed on Kingsley, "was brought into the Ministry holding cells on the fifteenth of August in 2000 on the charge of being a sympathiser with the late Lord Voldemort." Lucius only hesitates slightly on the name. I wonder how many times he practised in front of the mirror to get it out. Draco still can't manage anything other than the Dark Lord most of the time. "I would like to ask the Minister if he remembers the details of this particular case?"

Kingsley nods curtly. "Yes."

"And the Minister would also remember, then, being called to the holding cells at--" Lucius looks down at his notes. "--twelve past eight that evening?"

"Yes." A muscle in Kingsley's cheek twitches. The Wizengamot is near silent.

Lucius lifts his head, looking directly at the gallery. Directly at me. "And would the Minister also remember the Auror responsible for interrogating Mr Ludsthrop?"

Kingsley hesitates. "Harry Potter."

A murmur goes around the benches. Heads turn in my direction. Draco looks at me. "Harry," he says quietly. I want to get up and run. I can't. My body won't move.

"Harry Potter," Lucius says. His eyes are fixed on me. "Our Saviour. Except he wasn't Mr Ludsthrop's saviour that night. Nor was the Minister. I would like to further ask the Minister if he recalls the state Mr Ludsthrop was in when he was called to the holding cell?

Kingsley just looks at Lucius defiantly.

"Answer," someone shouts from the Opposition benches, and the cry's taken up by both the Omps and Pomps. Kingsley looks up at me again, a question in his eyes, and I take a deep breath. I nod. He sighs, and looks back at Lucius.

"He'd been beaten," he says, and the murmur in the benches grows to a near shriek. Kingsley raises his voice. "It was the mistake of a new Auror--"

"One who now writes policy for the Government," Lucius says smoothly.

Kingsley's temper flares. "One whose work on behalf of legal and penal reform allowed my honourable Friend here to obtain his seat--"

"For which I am eternally grateful." Lucius bends slightly in my direction. "But the fact remains that this Government which will not tolerate such abuses as the one ongoing in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement itself covered up an instance of abuse--"

There's a roar of shouts from the Government benches, drowning him out.

I can't even look at Draco. "I have to go," I choke out, standing up, and coward that I am, I flee.

***

He finds me at the flat.

"You left your satchel in your office," Draco says, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. He drops it on the floor.

I hadn't been able to face going back to the office. "Thanks," I say, and I take another swig of firewhisky from a bottle of Ogden's Old.

"At least you're not sucking down the good whisky." Draco walks across the room, his hands in his pockets. He just looks at me. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I look like hell, I know, sprawled across my bed in nothing but a half-buttoned shirt and my y-fronts. I don't care. "Do you want to talk?"

"No."

Draco sits on the edge of the bed. "Tough shit, Potter. You're going to." I sigh and lift the Ogden's again. Draco stops me, gently prying my fingers away from the bottle. He sets it on the floor. "Harry."

I let my head fall back against the headboard. "I'll write my resignation letter tonight"

"Why?"

"Because Zabini will want to hit the news cycle in the morning." I glance over at Draco. "I suppose you'll want me to give Pansy a quote."

He gives me an exasperated look. "I want to you sit up and stop assuming the whole Government wants you out on your ear, you fucking stupid git."

"You sound like Zabini."

Draco pokes my leg. "Trust me when I say Blaise would be a bit more forceful." His hand settles on my thigh. I don't push it away; there's something oddly comforting about his skin against mine. I take a deep breath for the first time in hours. "The Cabinet met this afternoon."

I don't say anything. Draco's thumb traces small circles over my knee.

"With the exceptions of Gibbs and Scolfield, everyone's standing behind you," he says. "And they're right tits anyway, so it doesn't matter what they think. Blaise is already out there spinning in your favour--Pansy owes him one--and Kingsley told me flat-out to inform you that he's not taking your fucking resignation even if you're moronic enough to offer it."

I just look at him, trying to imagine how what he's saying is possible.

Draco touches my face. "You idiot," he says gently. "This is why you became a crusader, isn't it? The guilt?"

"I watched them do things in interrogation," I say after a moment. "I told myself I wouldn't. Kingsley had already started coming down on the Aurors who were too rough. And then one night they brought Ludsthrop in--"

"Kingsley's already told me this," Draco says. "You don't have to--"

"Yes, I do." I grab his wrist, turning his palm over. I trace his life line, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. I stop at the edge of the mottled black mark on the inside of his forearm. "I haven't talked about this since that night."

Draco twines his fingers between mine. Our hands together feel warm and heavy. "Surely Granger and the Weasel--"

I shake my head. "They don't know. Or they didn't. I suppose they do now." I don't want to think about what they'll say. What they'll think of me. "When Kingsley came down, Ludsthrop was..." I hesitate. "He'd said things to me. Told me things he'd done." My hands tremble, and Draco pulls me closer, settling against the pillows, wrapping his arms around me.

"What?" he murmurs against the top of my head, and I turn my face against his chest.

"He wanted me to hit him," I say finally. "I know that sounds like an excuse, but the things he said..." I trail off, remembering. "The people he'd hurt. How I couldn't save them no matter what I did now. He bragged about raping Luna."

Draco makes a soft sound, and his hand touches my cheek. "At the Manor."

I lift my head, my throat is tight and raw. "And Narcissa." Draco stills. He doesn't look away from me, but I can see his shoulders tense. "He wanted to hurt me," I say quietly. "To push my buttons. It was all over the press that I'd just testified for your mother."

"He..." Draco's voice cracks. "She didn't say--"

"Your father must not know either." I run my hand through my hair, pulling back from him. "Not even Lucius would--"

"No." Draco leans back against the headboard. "He loved her. Desperately. He would never..." He presses his lips together and inhales a ragged breath.

"I cracked when he said if my mother hadn't been dead he would have raped her too." Hot tears flood my eyes and I try to choke them back. I can barely speak; my voice comes out like a croak but I just can't stop. "I just lost it, Draco. I don't know what happened entirely. I remember wanting to kill him and then Kingsley was pulling me off of him and his face was a fucking bloody pulp. I was so sure I'd killed him. And I wanted to have done. I'm so ashamed."

Draco leans in and kisses me, roughly. "You idiot."

I'm taken off guard. "What?" Without waiting for his answer, I kiss him, blindly seeking the warmth of his lips as if on instinct.

He smiles against my lips, pushing me away slightly and peering into my face. "You only have one fucking thing to be ashamed of? What an incredible luxury." He holds his marked forearm up to demonstrate, and I suddenly remember who I'm talking to.

"I've done other things. In the war." I think of my Crucioing of Amycus Carrow. "And to you." I press my hand against his chest. It still bears the scars of my Sectumsempra. "Maybe it's just who I am. Maybe at heart I like being violent."

"You really are an idiot." He's still smiling, and his eyes are soft, fond almost. "Everyone can be violent, Potter. It's human nature. What matters is if you can control it--and you can."

"That doesn't make me any less ashamed," I say quietly. "Dawlish was right. I am a hypocrite. All that I stand for--"

"Oh, shut up, Harry." Draco rolls his eyes. "That experience made you who you are today."

I just look at him.

He sighs. "I could give you a lesson in things to be ashamed about and living through them."

"Perhaps you should," I say, finding his mouth again.

Draco pushes me back onto the bed, sliding over my hips as he kisses me, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. "There was that time Blaise caught us fucking in the future Minister for Magic's supply closet."

I laugh into his kiss. "Point taken."

"Finally, Harry Potter listens to me." Draco straddles my hips and sits up, drawing his shirt off his shoulders. He tosses it aside then reaches for mine, sliding it over my head without bothering to unbutton the last few buttons. He kisses me again. I don't think I can ever get tired of his mouth on mine. "You just need to have this shagged out of you, really. It's the only way."

I moan against his mouth, my balls tightening. "Christ, Draco."

"You're so easy, Potter." His hips grind into mine. "If anyone knew how much the Saviour of the Wizarding World liked to have his arse fucked, that might be a scandal. And by a former Death Eater at that."

"That's not who we are now," I protest, my hips wriggling under him and my head thrown back. "And that's not how I think of you."

"Mmmm." Draco nips at my throat. "But it's still true, for one way of looking at the truth. Besides, you have to admit you do. Like being fucked by me, I mean."

The wicked rocking of his hips makes me gasp. "Oh God, yes. Yes, I do."

Draco's smiling. "Turn over and spread your legs. You'll feel much better, I promise."

I squirm beneath him as his fingers slide under the elastic of my pants. "Need a little help here."

Draco leans back and tugs my pants over my hips, dragging them down my thighs as I turn. "Jesus, Harry," he murmurs, and I feel his mouth against the swell of my arse. "You should feel guilty more often."

With a groan, I spread my thighs wider as his tongue slips through my crease. "I like you better when you're not talking."

My head ends up in the pillows, Draco's hand on the nape of my neck. "Shut it, Potter."

I shudder as his tongue flicks against the back of my balls. Tendrils of want curl in my stomach and my breath quickens.

Draco reaches over to my side table, one hand on my arse. "Where the hell did we leave the lube?"

"No idea," I say. "There should be more in the loo."

With a curse, Draco stands up. I hear him stalk out of the room, and I flop over onto my back. Might as well be comfortable whilst I wait. My fingers circle the head of my cock lightly, and my breath catches just thinking about what's going to happen next.

He comes back and leans against the door frame, watching me. He's shucked his trousers, and the sight of him completely starkers makes me sit up and reach for him.

"Needy, are we?" He drops the phial onto the bed with a wry quirk to his mouth.

"Just come here," I say. He climbs onto the bed and we grapple with each other in a rough kiss, his hand in my hair tugging roughly at the roots, my hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Our teeth clack against each other and we stop for a breath.

He presses me back onto the bed with a palm in the center of my chest. I watch as he uncaps the phial and pour oil onto his palm, and then he has a finger inside of me, and now another, twisting and pressing as I writhe against him, desperate for more. When he pulls his hand away I whimper softly.

Draco smiles. "Hold on." He thrusts his hips forward, slicking his prick with the circle of his fingers. I bite my lip, knowing that he will be thrusting it into me in a moment.

We've done this before, of course, but it's been a while--not since last September or October, at least. My body aches in anticipation and, truth be told, I'm a bit nervous, not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me, but because I'm so exposed when I let him do this. It shouldn't be any more intimate than anything else we do, but somehow the longer we know each other, the more so it is.

And then my ankles are over his shoulders and he's leaning over me, pressing my knees into my chest. "Relax, Potter." He takes off my glasses and sets them on the side table along with his.

I can still see him looming over me, if less distinctly. His narrow hips are between my thighs. He leans back a little, furrowing his brow as he positions his cock between my arsecheeks, and as he pushes into me slowly I grip the sheet with my fingers and exhale shakily.

"Oh God," I say, because it's too much and yet perfect. I'd forgotten how much this burns and how enormous a prick is when it's splitting you open, but it's Draco now, and I want every inch of him, everything.

"Shh." He stills, pressing into me with a slow rock of his hips. He stops when I gasp. "Too much?" His thumb is on my cheek, then tracing my mouth.

"No," I lie. I want it to be too much, want him to go too quickly, to take me too roughly.

I think he knows this. He leans into me and thrusts harder the next time. I see stars and can scarcely breathe. It's glorious to have him bending me nearly double, his weight pressing into me as his body takes possession of mine. Giving myself into his control, somehow, as I always do with him, I have an incredible sense of safety.

Draco's hands come down to either side of my body as he sinks into me. His forearms spread my thighs apart, leaving little resistance to his prick. With each roll of our hips, the bed shudders beneath us. He finds the balance between too much and not enough, effortlessly opening me up with one long thrust after another. He's surprisingly silent, focused even, breaking the stillness of our bodies only with the occasional cry or groan. I, on the other hand, cannot stop making noise, a stream of gasps punctuated by expletives rushing from my lips as he slams against me, his fingers digging tight into my skin.

When I can't stand it any longer, I grab my own dripping cock and almost immediately the pressure builds in my balls. "Going to come," I choke out, my hand twisting around the head of my prick. My whole body tenses. I can barely breathe.

"Don't let me stop you," he says. Draco's mouth finds the tender arch of my foot and he bites. A shudder of electric want runs through me, and Draco picks up the pace of his thrust, pinning me breathless and moaning, fucking me as I wank wildly, my shoulders pressed into the mattress, my feet flexing in mid-air, my fingers pulling and jerking at my slick prick.

I come so hard I think I've managed to hit my own hair with the first shot. A stripe of spunk splatters my chest, and then another. Draco scarcely gives me a chance to breathe before his mouth is devouring mine.

"Christ, how you look, spread out like this," he says against my lips. "I don't want anyone else to have you like this." I know how seriously to take the things we say during sex, which is not at all, but I treasure the sentiment for the moment.

A warm glow flushes my face and chest. Once the urgency of my own climax is over, I can enjoy the thrust of his body into mine, the tension on his long features as he comes close, the shift and harsh cry as he tips over the edge, the strange sensation of his spunk inside of me, sliding out of me and smearing across my arse with each slow roll and thrust of Draco's hips. He pulls out slowly and collapses on his side, hand over his face.

"Fuck, Harry," he murmurs. "One of these days you're going to kill me."

I trail a finger along the sweaty plane of his chest, scratching lightly at the faint, pale gold fuzz on his skin. "I can think of so many better things to do than kill you." I'm fascinated by the fading flush around his nipples. I circle one with my fingertip.

He exhales a quick laugh. "Give me a moment to recover."

"Four years ago you wouldn't have needed a moment," I say with a grin, leaning in to flick my tongue across his chest. I love the taste of sweat and skin, the smell of him in my nostrils.

Draco's hand smoothes back my hair. "We're getting old, are we?"

"Terribly." I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in. I can remember the first time we did this, five years back, how awkward and unsure we were, here in this very bed. It's always been my flat, always Stepney Green. Neither of us has ever considered his rooms at the Manor.

He'd been so nervous and jumpy at first, even though we'd known we were coming back here to fuck. But this--lying here wrapped around each other, our bodies shuddering together, our lips brushing over soft skin and warm mouths--this would change everything. The moment we'd fallen into bed, our friendship had been solidified. There was no walking away from it, no pretense that we were anything but mates now. It wasn't wild, impersonal sex we'd had that night. It never would be.

We'd touched each other slowly, carefully, almost shyly that night. It hadn't been earth-shattering, but I will never forget the way Draco looked when he came that first time with me, his skin flushed and damp, his hair--longer then--sticking to his cheeks, his eyes bright and wide and looking deep into mine as I moved over him. He'd been beautiful then.

He still is.

I pull back, looking at him, and brush my fingertips across his lips. He kisses them lightly. "Thank you," I whisper.

Draco slides closer, his leg draping over mine. "Always." He press his lips to my forehead. "Rest, you idiot. I'll wake you up in an hour or so for another go, shall I?"

I nuzzle my nose against his collarbone. I could lie here like this for ages, listening to the beat of his heart.

"You really need a haircut," he whispers into my hair, and I smile.

I close my eyes and sleep.

***

The back room at the Leaky is done up in Slytherin house colours, dark green and antiqued silver rosettes. There's a Slytherin banner with a Gryffindor lion tacked on at the bottom - Hannah's little joke I'm sure. Angela and Mercury bustle around, setting up the buffet, checking their localised warming and cooling charms, and straightening the folds on the table linens. Moth-white orchids and blue hydrangeas adorn every table.

The scents wafting from the kitchen are fantastic. We're having Draco's favourites - seared scallops with citrus, lamb's lettuce with apricots and soft cheese, Hannah's incomparable fishcakes, a lovely summer vegetable risotto, and roast chicken with thyme. There's berry tart and custard for afters and a large chocolate cake. Becker at the bar has finished chopping garnishes and is now surveying his glassware again, preparing to flood the room with prosecco, mojitos, several wines, and real ale.

And we are expecting everyone. Most of Slytherin house will be here, all of our office--Kingsley might even make it--and Pansy's promised a smattering of wizarding world celebrities. I suppose I rank in those, but tonight I'm only the pseudoboyfriend, or the best mate, or something. Whatever it is I am to Draco that has me throwing this party tonight and refusing the offers of his friends to pay for part of it, if not their much-needed planning help.

In a very real way, this party could not come at a worse time. We've all been in the office non-stop since Lucius's political explosion on Wednesday, the mood tense. I've recovered somewhat from my initial resolve to flee Government, but I'm still wandering in a fog from the prospect of the next weeks and what could come of them.

Lines are being drawn and the parties are rustling up their support. None of us were prepared to catapult from the election into the inquest, except perhaps the Omps who helped dredge up this mess. I know for a fact Draco hasn't spoken to his father and doesn't intend to any time soon. As for Zabini, he'd been over the attendees' list several times already, pencilling in advantageous invites and underlining potential problems. I'm sure he's got a battle map of the entire evening, not that I've seen it. But I know he's been driving Pansy mad.

"Knut for your thoughts, Potter." Pansy appears at my elbow in a dangerously short black cocktail dress with long sleeves. She wears it beautifully, of course, teetering slightly on heels that must be over four inches and look to be the latest in bondage wear.

I rub the back of my neck with my hand. One of Draco's birthday "presents" had been a haircut, and I'm still convinced Jean-Phillipe took far too much off. "I don't know that I have much worth a Knut." Her red, red lips purse. "This is lovely, of course. You're incredible." I kiss her gently on the cheek, and as I do, I see the pale purple edging on her arm where her sleeve slips.

I never know what to say, but I'm going to say something now. "Listen, Pans, are those bruises consensual or did Theo perhaps not know his own strength? Repeatedly."

Her face almost hardens, then slips into resignation. "Whatever you like, Potter. Not that it's any of your business."

"Right," I say. "Might want a sticking charm for those sleeves then. I've no good currency with the Aurors these days, but I'm still fairly certain spousal abuse is frowned upon. I used to know some people in the domestic unit."

Pansy freezes, her eyes widening. I've gone too far. "Don't you dare, Potter. I can't take this on top of everything else."

I hold up my hands placatingly. "All right, Pans. Don't worry." I give her a searching look. "But if it's not consensual, I'll fucking deck him--"

"You're already in trouble for that sort of thing, Potter," she says lightly.

I drape an arm around her shoulders and pull her up against me. "You deserve better," I whisper, and I feel her relax slightly against me.

"It's not what you think," she says against my robe, and I know she's lying. But she pulls back and takes a deep breath, giving me a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Anyway. We've a party to host tonight."

"Yeah. And a very demanding birthday boy." My arse still twinges slightly from this afternoon--Draco decided to take me over his desk for lunch.

"Mmmm. Aren't you the lucky one, then?"

I can't help but grin a little. "Yeah. I am."

"Get a hold of yourself, Potter. You're besotted and it won't do to appear so." Pansy scans the place settings, the formal and informal seating sections of the room that will facilitate mingling and conversation. We're going to be at the centre of the political back rooms tonight.

"I'll do my best to look jaded." I bow slightly.

A slight quirk lifts the corner of her lip. "As if either of you truly could. I'd be envious if it weren't so nauseating to watch."

"Don't worry." I catch a glass of wine from a tray floating past and hand it to her. "Another few months and he'll be dating someone else. The nausea will fade."

Pansy studies me over the rim of her glass. "I don't know how the two of you manage this on-again, off-again."

I shrug. "We're friends. Sometimes we fuck. It's not that complicated."

The look she gives me is pitying. "Darling, the very definition of complicated is you and Draco." The arrival of a guest catches her eye. "The sooner you figure that out, the happier you'll be." She teeters off on those ridiculous shoes to direct presents to a green brocade-bedecked table. The party's started.

From all I can tell, the evening's a resounding success. Even Zabini and Hermione aren't sniping at each other too terribly, and Seamus is flirting with any skirt that walks past. Draco's thrilled with every detail, which is all that matters to me. He grabs me at one point in the evening and pulls me into an alcove to kiss me thoroughly.

"You," he says throatily, "are going to be well rewarded tonight."

I just laugh and clink wineglasses with him, leaning back in to kiss the tip of his nose.

For all the difficulty that's coming--and I know it can't be avoided, not in its entirety--I'm happy. It's a brilliant feeling.

I wish I thought it would last.


- 12 July, 2010 -

Hermione's late to our lunch date. When she finally makes it to the Leaky, her hair's a bit rumpled and I'm almost certain there's what looks to be a fresh love bite on her throat.

"Sorry, Harry," she says, sliding into the chair across from me. I push a plate of chips I've saved for her across the table. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "My meeting with Blaise ran over, and honestly, he's such a prick."

"Mmhmm." I look at her over my pint glass. I've gained sudden insight into Zabini's fit of good temper the past month. I don't know whether to be amused or absolutely horrified. "He can be. Although it looks like it wasn't so much being as...well, you get my drift."

Hermione looks at me blankly. "I have no idea what you mean, Harry."

I wave my glass in the general direction of her collarbone. "You do know you forgot to cover that love bite after you left his office, right?"

"Oh." Her hand flies to her neck and she flushes. It's been a while since I've seen Hermione so discombobulated. "Damn."

"When'd you two start up?" I steal a chip back from the plate and pop it into my mouth, chewing. "Can't have been before the election."

She sighs and pulls the collar of her shirt further over. "Draco's party. And don't give me that look, Harry. Everyone knows full well what the two of you got up to in the loo."

"It's not my fault Draco's a screamer." I grin, remembering the sight of him up against the stall door, arms spread, fingers gripping the top tightly as I sucked him to within an inch of his life. "Besides, it was his birthday. Who there didn't think he was going to get a celebratory blow job?"

"Honestly, the amount of effort the two of you spend on sex is ridiculous." Hermione frowns at me and reaches for my bitter. "Anyway, you kept Kingsley waiting for the loo for ten minutes."

I let her take the glass. "Which we both heard about the next morning. In the middle of a Cabinet meeting, thanks to your stupid boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Hermione snaps. "We're just..." She purses her mouth. "Seeing how long it takes before I stab him through the throat with a letter opener."

"I'm sure that turns Zabini on immensely."

She gives me a very prim look. "Unlike you, I don't make a public display of my sex life." Her eyes narrow. "And if Blaise does, he'll regret it."

"Unlike you, I'm not shagging across a Chinese wall," I point out, and I take my glass away from her.

Hermione just studies me for a long moment. "Is everything all right between you two?"

"It's fine." I take a sip of beer. I don't want to tell her that Draco and I've slept in the same room every night for a month now, which we've never done, not in five years. I don't know what it means; I just know I don't want him to leave my bed.

She doesn't press me. "Blaise is working on another response to the Prophet editorial from yesterday."

"I know." Zabini's original response to Lucius's bombshell last month had been to suggest that Lucius was seeking to protect one of his old Death Eater cronies. The elder Malfoy had turned that around with ease, writing a letter to the Prophet in which he suggested that his true intention was justice for Ludsthrop's victims, given that my actions that night had lead to the Ministry's inability to seek prosecution for the bastard--my term, not Lucius', of course. His letter was an eloquently worded masterpiece of political bollocks that had turned public favour in his direction the past two weeks. Yesterday's editorial questioning my emotional state had just been a culmination. "I'd like to know how they got my final evaluation from the DMLE's Mind Healer, though." That'd been the most horrific part of it. I don't particularly care what that rag says about me--I'd stopped worrying about that in my fifth year at school. But there's something demoralising about seeing your diagnosis of post-war trauma being bandied about in newsprint for all the world to cluck over.

"Have you spoken to Ron?" Hermione asks carefully.

I give her a sharp look. "I don't care about the history between you two, but he didn't leak it and you know that. If anyone would, it'd be Dawlish."

She doesn't look convinced. I don't care. Ron and I may be careful around each other at the moment, and our weekly lunches may be slightly strained, but he would die before putting anything about me in print, especially not something as private as that.

"Is he still defending those bastards?"

I sigh. "They're his mates."

"You're his best friend."

Sometimes I wonder about that. It seemed a much more certain thing at seventeen than it does at thirty. "Yeah, but he doesn't have to work with me. If anyone knows how difficult the work he does is, I do. And he's good at it, Hermione." I'm tired of pointing out to her how competent Ron is. She still sees him as the gangly, goofy teenager he used to be. Their breakup was really hard on her, but I want her to be a fucking adult and get over it.

Hermione waves her hand. "Never mind that. Do you feel adequately prepared for Thursday? I know about your testimony--Blaise mentioned you had special coaching from counsel."

Talking to Hermione at times can give you whiplash; she changes course incredibly quickly. "I'm supposed to have more. Evidently I'm utter balls at it. Draco's even firecalled Susan to get pointers, and you know how desperate he had to be to do that."

Hermione looks impressed. "He really would do anything for you, wouldn't he?"

"It's for Kingsley," I point out. "In the long run."

"Perhaps." She eyes my beer. "Buy me a pint, Harry, and I'll tell you Blaise's weak points."

I laugh. "You're an awful girlfriend."

"Just as well I'm not one then."

In the end, we drink three pints and I learn a few things about Zabini I didn't know. I'm fairly certain he doesn't need to worry about a letter opener any time soon.

The thought that I've scooped Draco on the gossip front for once cheers me immensely.

***

Although my brief, Phineas Doorstone, and his colleagues have made it very clear that the inquest is not a formal trial by Wizengamot, I'm still knee-knockingly nervous when Thursday dawns. I was even too jumpy to respond to Draco's cautious advances of the night before, and he stroked my back for what seemed like hours until I fell into fitful sleep.

Now I'm here in the familiar dungeon with my best robes on, my hair slicked by something lemony that Draco uses, and I have the strange, childish hope that Dumbledore will appear to rescue me. I had almost forgotten that long-ago trial, which was so enormous then and which seems so laughable now.

The members of the inquest committee are seated by party, Pomps on the right and Omps on the left with the Mods in the center. Lucius is prominent in the front row, a rare honour for a newly elected member.

The hearings are closed to the general public and even to other members of the Wizengamot until the recommendations come down. Kingsley and Draco will be testifying today as well, so they are in the gallery behind me. At least there's that. I feel Draco's presence here, as much as I feel anything, and I hope I don't balls this up. For him, for me, for Kingsley, for anyone. Even though I've been assured I can't be convicted solely off of this testimony, I have already been convicted and found guilty in my own inner court. I know I'm an example of police brutality. I know I've done wrong. Nothing I've done to repent will take that away.

It's over before I know it, almost. Doorstone stands up with me, ushering me into position, and then I walk before the bench. I take the oath and someone speaks who must be me. Afterwards, I find out it lasts an hour and a half. It is over in an instant.

There is a brief recess after my testimony. Doorstone pulls me to the side of the hall, whispering into my ear. I have a few more questions to answer, but the main section is over. He frowns at me. "That could have been worse."

I'm wrung out, as though I've flown for hours against a stiff wind. "Oh. Good."

I crane my neck to look for Draco, but I can't see him. There are dark robes in small groups scattered around the room, whispering. I think I catch a flash of Kingsley's purple robe out of the corner of my eye.

There's a sudden explosion behind us. I don't hear it as much as I feel it, propelling me to the floor. The shock wave travels through my entire body. My ears don't work properly. I instinctively roll to the side, pulling Doorstone with me. The force bounces off of the high stone walls, creating a flurry of parchment and splinters of wood and a cloud of what might be shreds of cloth. I hear someone shrieking. I try to focus on my surroundings. I have no wand, having surrendered it to the guards at the door. I have no idea what I can do, but I have to try to do something. We're shielded by a wooden bench for a moment but I have to try to get up. My left hip hurts fiercely.

There's a knot of robes at the side of the room. Most are on the floor, holding their heads or lying still. My ears are ringing. I can't see anything actually happening. There's a splatter of blood on the back wall. Then the high doors fly open and a sea of red and grey robes appear, led by a tall ginger figure.

At least Ron's here, I think in my addled state.

And then I hear a name over the ocean rushing in my ears. "Malfoy. Malfoy's been hurt."

Draco. Draco was standing with Kingsley. The last glimpse I had of them was in that corner of the hall.

My chest is seized with terror.

The room darkens as I lose consciousness, my last sensation the soft sink of my head onto the already prone figure of my barrister.

***

I wake up in hospital, a mediwitch dressed in a pale blue and white-piped robe hovering over me, fiddling with the potion drip that floats next to my bed. Her small, silver pocketwatch hangs from her robe, and when my eyes focus enough, I can just barely make out it's almost half ten. From the shadows that fall across my room, it must be night.

At my slight groan she pulls back, her hand dropping to my shoulder in order to keep me in bed. "Mr Potter."

I blink at her. My head hurts. Badly. I move my lips, but nothing comes out of my dry, cottony throat but a croak. I try again. "Draco."

She hesitates, and suddenly I can't breathe. He can't be dead. He can't be. I struggle to sit up, and she catches my arm. "Mr Potter, please. You've a broken hip--"

I grab her hand, and I don't care if I look utterly mad. "Is he dead?"

"No." She pushes me back against my half-raised bed. "You have to rest, sir. You've been hurt."

"I need to see him--"

She keeps her hand on my shoulder and reaches over me to turn a knob on my potion drip. "You need to sleep."

Before I can object, a heaviness settles over me, pulling me back into darkness.

***

When I wake up again, my room's flooded with bright sunlight. There are three other beds in the ward, all of them empty. I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, but before I can stand, there's a mediwizard in with me, reaching out to steady me.

"Careful, Mr Potter," he says. "You shouldn't be up just yet."

I use his arm to pull myself to my feet. "Where's Draco Malfoy?"

That earns me a long, careful look. I suppose I ought to inquire about Kingsley first to be politic, but I don't really give a damn at the moment. My heart thuds softly in my chest. "Down the hall," he says finally.

"Please," I say, and the mediwizard just nods, offering me an elbow to cling to as I shuffle carefully across the room. I'm suddenly grateful for wizarding technology--in particular hospital gowns that don't expose your arse when you move. We beat the Muggles on that score by a good ten years or more.

There's an Auror posted at the door, and I recognise him as one of Ron's younger subordinates. "Mr Potter," he says, and I nod back. Several of the other rooms have other members of Ron's team standing grimly at attention in front of them, hands on their wand hilts, and the ward doors have at least another two or three, from what I can tell through the frosted glass, as well as the haze of Grade 1 shielding charms. I look back at the Auror in front of mine.

"What's going on?"

He hesitates. "Attack on the Government, sir. In particular an attempt on the Minister's life, from what we can tell." His mouth tightens. "Rogue guard."

I suddenly understand the grimness. One of their own, then. Christ. That won't play well in the press, and the very fact that my first thought is for how the situation might be spun irks me. Fucking Zabini and his fucking ability to get in your fucking head. I am, however, silently grateful that it might, just might eclipse my own testimony, as much as the sentiment shames me. "The Minister?"

"Alive," the Auror says. "We've had him under heavy shielding charms since the election. He was a bit shaken and banged up, but no major injuries. The Healers had him out of here by last night and he's recuperating in the wing of Chequers reserved for our use. Auror Weasley's with him right now, setting up a guard under Mr Zabini's guidance."

"Good," I manage. Part of me almost wishes I could see Ron and Zabini going at each other in front of Kingsley. "If he's at Chequers, then the PM's been notified, I assume."

The Auror nods. "Immediately after the Ministry was placed into lockdown." His mouth thins. "It didn't take us long to find the responsible party."

I touch the Auror's arm. He doesn't flinch away, which surprises me, given my now all-too-public history with the force. "Thanks." I pause, looking at him. "What's your name?"

"Wade, sir. Dorian Wade."

I nod. "How long have you been on the force?"

"Three years." He looks proud. "All under Auror Weasley's command. He's a good officer, sir."

I smile faintly at him. "I know."

"Mr Malfoy's three rooms down, sir," the mediwizard says, interrupting us, and with a final nod at Auror Wade, I let the mediwizard--whose name I discover in the process is Alfie--lead me down the hall. My hip aches with each step, and I can feel the mending spells still knitting together the bones that I must have cracked in the fall.

"How is he?" I ask just outside Draco's door.

Alfie hesitates. "Stable. The outlook isn't poor, and he's made it through the first twenty-four hours."

The knot in my chest loosens just a bit. I have a sudden visceral urge to go to him. "Can we have a few moments alone?" I ask.

The Auror and Alfie exchange a long glance. "Five minutes," the mediwizard says finally. "The potions trolley will be coming around soon."

I push Draco's door open, knocking lightly. He glances up from the copy of today's Prophet someone has brought him. "Hey," he says. He looks exhausted, deep black circles under his grey eyes and livid bruising across his jaw and right arm. A tangle of potions lines hangs above him, feeding into his other arm, just above the mark. I can't help but wonder what the Healers thought of that, though I suppose they've seen everything.

He notices my look and grimaces. "One Healer already asked to be excused from treating me," he says calmly. "Although Father's had three, from what I've heard, so I suppose that's a win on my end."

"How is he?" I ask. I hadn't even realised Lucius was in hospital. Stupid of me. I ought to have known. When they'd said Malfoy was hurt, I only thought of Draco but there was another Malfoy in that room.

Draco leans back against his pillows. He looks away, out the window. "Unconscious. From what the Head Healer told me during rounds. I know they can't say much, and of course, that worries me."

I nod, my hand reaching to stroke his pale hair. My chest tightens again. "I'm sorry."

He glances back to me. I can't help the overwhelming relief that pours over me now that I can see him here, talking and looking like Draco, even if he's clearly not well. "Yeah. Thanks."

"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper past the lump in my throat. "I couldn't believe--."

Draco raises one sardonic eyebrow. "Melodramatic as ever, Potter." He falls silent, and for a moment I don't know what to think. He sighs, and the Prophet slips to the floor, fluttering on the pristine white linoleum. There's a photo of yesterday's chaos at the Ministry--Aurors running through the Atrium with an enormous headline beneath them: Assassination Attempt in Heart of Ministry. "He pushed me out of the way, you know. Father did. That's why he was hit instead of Kingsley."

I sit on the edge of Draco's bed, wincing as my hip protests. "I didn't know."

"That's what Henderson tells me." At my blank look, Draco sighs. "The Auror outside my door. I'm assuming you have two, being Harry bloody Potter."

"Just one." I let my fingers brush his knuckles. It's taking everything I have not to crawl up in the bed beside him, wrapping myself around him as tightly as my injuries and his will allow.

Draco turns his hand, letting his palm face up and his fingers slide through mine. "From what they've stitched together, the guard broke rank during the recess and Father must have seen him raise his wand. All I remember is Father saying my name and pushing me aside. If there hadn't been separate shielding charms on the inquest members..." He looks away, swallowing hard. "It's all like Mother, you know," he says after a moment. "This same feeling inside. Like I'm not quite alive any more. Like something's missing."

"He'll be all right," I say, but I know I sound hollow and insincere. I can't even imagine losing a parent like this, having lost them before I was old enough to understand. "He must be. And we're at the best place possible. They'll take care of him."

"Yeah." Draco draws in a slow breath, then he looks back at me. "Harry," he says, his eyes bright, and I slide closer to him, stretching alongside him, my fingers stroking his face gently, carefully, trying not to skim a bruise. His skin's warm. Soft.

We lay there together until Alfie sticks his head in, shooing me back to my room. "Time to go, Mr Potter. I finagled you fifteen minutes, but I can't keep the trolley away any longer without trouble."

I don't want to leave Draco. I lean in and kiss him lightly, not caring who's watching. "I'll be back," I whisper.

He nods and trails his fingers along the side of my face, then lets me go.

***

Ron comes into my room to take my statement in the afternoon. He hunches by my bed, the red and grey robe of office almost a part of him now. He's worn it for a decade now, although I can scarcely believe we're old enough for that to be true.

"You look okay, mate." He looks me up and down. "How do you feel?"

"Okay. I guess." I'm not entirely sure how I feel, although the Healer's told me I'm going to be fine. "Do you know how Malfoy's doing--Lucius, I mean."

Ron taps his quill against his hand--a nervous tic I recognise from our school days. "Yeah. He's alive and the Healers seem to think they can keep him that way." He sighs. "Bloody fucking mess all round."

I nod. The tension streams off of him. I don't think he's slept much--he looks wary and alert, but worn from the events of the past day.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" he asks. I can't imagine he's been taking down everyone's statement personally, so I'm slightly pleased he's in here to talk to me.

I narrate my patchy recollections of the morning, with little interruption. Occasionally Ron will ask me to describe something I saw. He seems particularly interested in my interactions with the guards when I handed over my wand and how, exactly, everyone ended up in their positions during the intermission.

"It was random, from what I could tell," I say. "Phineas just wanted to prep me for the last recap of my testimony, so he pulled me off to the left side of the witness bench, where we could talk. The members were milling about on the floor. I assume some of them were going over to talk to Kingsley, at least the Mod members. The Pomps were in a sort of loose block at the back, not talking to anyone except each other.

Ron nods. "What was Draco doing?"

I sigh. "I don't know. We couldn't be seen together that morning, not in that room. He had been prepping with Kingsley and helping staff him."

Ron wrinkles his brow. "What does that entail?"

"Oh, holding his satchel and effects and being up to the minute on all of the necessary issues and briefs, that sort of thing. It's part moral support, part advisory capacity, and part acting as a porter."

Ron nods and takes it down. "Did he do that often for the Minister?"

I think back. "Yes, we all traded off during the campaign. Blaise might have done it as well, but he's too busy right now running the spin machine and keeping the press from eating us whole. Kingsley has only wanted his closest people on this affair."

"So the fact that Draco's your... boyfriend and you were testifying had nothing to do with the Minister's choice of aide?" Ron looks away from me.

I sigh again. "One, we're not dating. We do have intimate relations--" I try to ignore Ron's eye-roll. "But, well, we're not dating. Two, if they did decide that, and I can't speculate but it does seems moderately conceivable, then I wasn't part of the conversation. I was too busy working to save my own arse with Doorstone and his legal team."

"Did you see Lucius Malfoy go over to them?"

"No. I didn't. I'd no idea Lucius was over there, in fact." I hesitate. "You don't think he..."

Ron just grunts and makes a few notes in his notepad before he looks up at me. "No. I don't think he planned it at all. I actually think--and so help me, Harry, if you tell Malfoy this, I will gut you myself--I actually think the bastard was a hero. All the evidence points in that direction."

I pleat my sheet between my fingers. "What do you think happened?"

Ron heaves a heavy sigh. "I think he has pretty quick reflexes for an older gent." He glances over at me. "And nobody takes that sort of blow for a lark. Look, Harry, I shouldn't be telling you any of this, but..."

"What?" My voice is gentle. Something is eating at Ron from the inside, I can tell.

"The guard who went after Kingsley was Imperiused." He turns the quill between his fingers. "We can't trace the magical signature, and whoever sent him had Obliviated him beforehand. He doesn't remember anything from yesterday afternoon through this morning. And there's no trace. No fucking trace."

I sit up. "An Unspeakable?"

Ron shakes his head. "They're helping us with this thing. If they thought it was one of their blokes--yeah, no. They have ways of finding them. And dealing with them." He looks troubled. "They've assured me there's no chance of the attempted hit coming from their department."

"They could be trying to cover up--"

"No." Ron's blunt. "I'm not an idiot. I have a mole in the department who's confirming everything the higher-ups are passing on. She says there's nothing in the register regarding an Imperius, and every Unspeakable is linked to the registry. There've also been no anomalies in reporting in the past two weeks."

My mind whirls. "Leadership in the other parties--"

Ron stops me before I go down that road. "Harry. Not a chance in hell. To get that sort of unregistered, unsignatured magic you have to be very high up indeed. They don't give that sort of clearance to politicians, for obvious reasons." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "It was a civil servant. Access to the Ministry. Access to this type of Imperius Charm. Access to Courtroom Ten. Access to the Tracing Centre itself."

"I have access to all except the Charm and the Centre," I say, "but I could wrangle my way into the Centre most likely and as for the Charm..." I don't want to say it, but both he and I know I could do that sort of thing if I had to. No one's ever actually tested the higher levels of my magic, and I broke most of the usual testing instruments in my first year of Auror training.

"Yeah." Ron's mouth quirks slightly. "But you're a lazy sod, and besides, Malfoy was there. Everyone with half a brain knows you'd never put him in any harm. You'd throw yourself in front of him--we were just lucky Lucius was there instead so your usual heroics were thwarted." He gives me a sharp look. "And before you ask, no, Malfoy wasn't the target, you idiot. I know how your brain works. Kingsley was. We have a confession. Well. As much of one as we can get from a poor fuck who's been that thoroughly Obliviated and Imperiused."

"Can you even talk about who you think has that kind of access?" I ask.

"Not really. Not even to you, mate. Sorry." He pauses, his face taking on a firm set. Ron can be incredibly stubborn when his mind is made up, and I don't think I've ever seen him look quite this intent. "But I do know this has gone too fucking far. We can't have anyone attacking the blasted Minister for Magic, especially not from within. This needs to stop. Here."

I study him. "You're going to do something utterly Gryffindor, aren't you?" I have always respected Ron, but I'm finding I have a new sense of awe for what he's willing to do.

Ron snorts. "Someone has to do something." He prods my arm. "And you had to go get yourself blown up, you bastard. And in Government. Sometimes I wish I had you with me on this."

"I was a shit Auror," I say with half a smile.

"Completely shit," Ron agrees. "Still..."

There's a knock on my door, and Alfie comes in with a huge bouquet of white flowers that he sets on my windowsill. "Sorry, Auror Weasley, but the monitoring team'll be here in a few minutes."

"Who're the flowers from?" I ask.

Alfie looks back from the door. "Phoebus Penrose's office."

Ron's eyebrows go up. "Omp leadership sent you flowers?" He picks the card out from between glossy leaves and reads it. "With sincere wishes for your speedy recovery from your friends in HM Loyal Opposition."

"It's the little thoughts that count," I muse.

"I've decided to testify," Ron is looking out of the window again. "At this point, I owe it to my men and to the Government."

That takes me by surprise. I knew he was going to do something but I had no idea it would be on that scale. "I thought Dawlish was your great chum," I say lightly.

Ron glowers back at me. "Those sorts of things don't matter any more. And maybe I've been listening to some of your prattle." I laugh softly, and his face relaxes a little. "I believe in laws, Harry, and lawful government. We didn't fight a tyrant to have this."

"I believe in nostrils on our public officials." I think perhaps my pain potion is kicking in again. "Can you imagine what that noseless fuck would have looked like on commemorative china?" I pause. "Or tea towels. Think about wiping out your tea mug every day with that bastard's face."

At least it makes Ron laugh. He moves closer to my bed. "You know, we're never going to agree entirely on the reforms you want to make, right?"

"Keep acting the way you're doing and I might not have to make as many reforms." I pretend to look concerned. "And you might put the Trust out of business. Think of poor Aisha."

Ron knocks his knuckles against the back of my hand. "I still think we need a strong defence."

"And I still think we need a legal appeals system," I retort. "But at least we both believe it should be done within the constraint of law."

"Constraints that include nostrils." His lips are turning up, although he's trying to keep a straight face.

I grin at him. He grins back. "Nostrils are non-negotiable."

I've missed this. Missed him and the easiness of our friendship.

We're still making bad nose jokes when the Auror outside my door knocks, calling him back to work.

"Ron," I say, and he looks back at me, his hand on the door frame.

"Yeah?"

I rub my thumb across the waffle-weave of my blanket. "Look, will you do something for me? Discreetly?"

"Maybe." He frowns. "What?"

"I think Pansy Parkinson-Nott's being roughed up a little by Theo," I say after a moment. "She brushed me off when I asked, but Draco said she and Theo have been having problems, and well..." I look up at him. "Something's not right, but I don't want to make things worse for her. Any suggestions?"

Ron's silent, then he heaves a sigh and runs his hand through his hair. "And Malfoy's in no shape to push her on it."

"He's tried. She shuts him off as well. He was going to sic Zabini on her, but I don't know if he talked to him yet. And with this..." I trail off.

"Yeah." Ron crosses his arms over his chest and ponders. "Let me see what I can do."

"Thanks."

Ron glances back at me. "Whilst we're spilling secrets...you know I didn't leak those Mind Healer evaluations of yours, right?"

"I never thought you did."

His mouth quirks slightly. "Hermione did. She firecalled me Tuesday to tell me off."

"Oh, God." I close my eyes for a moment. "What'd she say?"

Ron hesitates. "Lots of things. Some of which I deserved. Maybe I've let this job get in the way of more important things, you know? Like her. And you." He rubs the back of his neck. "Anyway, we had drinks Wednesday night--" At my look he shakes his head. "Not like that. We're not good together, her and me, at least not dating. We drive each other too mental. But we think maybe we can be friends."

My throat tightens. "That'd be great."

"Yeah." He smiles faintly. "I think so. Did you know she's seeing Zabini?" I nod, and Ron just shakes his head. "Weirdly, I think they might work. Better than she and I did, at least."

"Stranger things have happened," I say.

Ron snorts. "You and Malfoy for one." He gives me a grin. "Speaking of, I have to go annoy him now--and get paid to. Christ, I love my job."

With a laugh I throw a pillow at the closing door.


- 29 July, 2010 -

I'm released from hospital quickly, though my Healer informs me that my hip will still ache for at least another couple of weeks, due to the bone remodelling. Hermione thinks I should take a few days off work, but Draco's still in hospital and Zabini needs me in the office. The next two weeks pass in a haze of work and mild pain potions, and even when Draco's finally released from medical care, he's still spending the time he isn't in the office at St Mungo's with his father, who'd woken up a few days ago, so I'm frequently there as well, even if just for five or ten minutes at a time, making certain he's all right.

This morning I've brought him a latte from the Caffè Nero in Trafalgar Square, along with his favourite pain au chocolat. I'm to collect him for a meeting with the Opposition leadership, and Zabini has threatened to separate me from my cherished and somewhat lonely balls if I don't return in time with Draco in hand.

When I get to Lucius's room, I'm a bit taken aback to see Astoria Greengrass next to Lucius's bedside, gently lifting his leg and pressing it towards his chest.

"Oh," I say, and both of them look at me. "Where's Draco?"

"Potter," Lucius grunts. Not that I can blame him given that his knee's nearly at his armpit. "Hopefully finding someone to drag this mad woman off me."

"Hello, Harry," Astoria says, pushing Lucius's leg further up. "Don't listen to him, he's just cranky. Draco went off for tea."

"Oh," I say again, looking down at the paper cup in my hand, then back up at Astoria. She looks beautiful, even in that ridiculous pale green robe. The colour oddly suits her dark brown hair and delicate bone structure. "I thought you were in the States on a research fellowship."

She lets Lucius's leg go, much to his obvious relief, and walks around the corner of the bed to the other side. "I was. I've been back a month or so. What with the Muggle credit crunch, the hospital in Boston lost their project funding." She pushes Lucius's other leg up to his chest and he swears under his breath. She glances back over her shoulder at me. "Mummy and Daddy'd be pleased to see you again, you know. They're terribly sorry you couldn't make their last dinner party. You know Daddy always enjoys talking politics with you. Your range of motion is much better, Mr Malfoy. I think the therapy sessions are working."

He just glares at her, sweat on his brow, and grunts again.

Mr Greengrass had spent several years in Azkaban after the war, and his legs had been crushed in a riot. I'd helped him get compensation from McLaird's Government after we'd proved that the guards had denied him access to proper medical care, thus turning an injury that might have been fixed into a disability that he'd have for the rest of his life. "How is Robert?"

"Well, thanks." She lets Lucius's leg slide back to the bed, and reaches for his chart, making notes. "I think you'll be working on walking in a few days, Mr Malfoy."

"Brilliant." Lucius scowls. "Having to relearn something every two-year-old knows how to do."

Astoria flips the chart shut. "Bipedal motion's trickier than you think."

"Harry." Draco's voice causes me to turn. He has a white porcelain mug of tea in his hands, and a tall, regal brunette woman follows him in. "I didn't think you'd be here yet." I think he looks happy to see me, but when I lean in to kiss his cheek, he sidesteps it, moving around me to hand the steaming mug to his father. "It's not your usual Assam, but it's tea."

"Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose." Lucius looks at the woman with Draco and a genuine smile crosses his face. "Beatrice."

So this is the infamous Omp Whore who'd been defeated by one of our candidates. She reaches out and catches Lucius's hand in both of hers. "Darling, Draco and I've just been talking arrangements for when dear Astoria here decides you're ready to come home. He'll be moving back in to help for a bit."

I nearly drop the latte I'm still holding. Draco gives me a sharp look, then takes my elbow. "I need to talk to Harry in the hallway. I'm sure something's up at the office."

He leads me out, down to a small sitting area beside a huge window overlooking the courtyard. I sit, blankly, then look up at him. "I brought you a pain au chocolat," I say finally, holding out the bag. "And a latte."

"Thanks." Draco sits next to me, taking them both. He doesn't look at me. "It's only for a little while. And they need the help. The house-elves can only do so much."

I run a hand through my hair. "What about hiring help?"

"Father doesn't like having strangers in." Draco glances at me. "You're angry."

"I'm not." I am and we both know it. "Just surprised, that's all. I thought we hated the Whore, since she threw you out of your own house."

Draco picks at the corner of the pain au chocolat. "Beatrice and I have become closer over this whole thing. She's not as bad as I thought. I think she might actually love Father."

"She threw you out of your house," I say again. I don't quite understand what's happening here.

Draco sets the latte down without drinking it. "And my father nearly died. He's the only parent I have left. Surely you can understand, Harry."

I nod. I do, in a way, but I'm still baffled as to what's actually going on. I have a sense that there's far more to this than I can see. Something is churning in that brilliant head of Draco Malfoy's, and until he's ready to tell me, all I can do is take his hand, as I do now, and squeeze it gently. "Zabini wants you back at the Ministry for a meeting with Penrose," I say after a moment. "I'm not allowed to take no for an answer."

A small smile twitches Draco's mouth. "Are your balls in danger?"

"Mortal peril." I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb. He leans against me, resting his head on my shoulder.

"Can't have that," he says lightly.

I turn my head and let my mouth brush against his. "Are you okay?"

Draco nods. "It hasn't been easy. But yes. I think so." He sighs. "It's an odd blessing that Astoria's back. She's the only Healer who can tolerate Father at the moment. You know what he's like when he's incapacitated."

"An utter beast."

He laughs softly, then pulls away, standing up. "We should get to the office before Blaise sends out a remote tracking hex."

"Last time he tried that, he embarrassed himself in front of the whole Cabinet," I point out.

Draco picks up the latte as I stand. "Serves him right. He ought to have guessed what we were up to. I mean, good God, the man knows us." He takes my hand as we start down the hall. "Thank you," he says after a moment.

"For what?"

He just looks over at me. "For being Harry bloody Potter," he says simply.

I can't stop my smile.


- 16 August, 2010 -

The Wizengamot summer recess only lasts two weeks this year instead of the usual six. Between the election and the more recent events, Kingsley's decided to recall the Wizengamot in mid-August. There's grumbling from some of the older members, but it's more subdued than usual. I suppose the Minister nearly being assassinated will do that.

My thirtieth birthday passes quietly. I have lunch with Hermione, a drink after work with Ron, and then I meet Draco at our favourite Greek restaurant in Diagon for dinner before we go home and shag each other senseless, a bit less vigorously than normal because of our injuries but the eagerness of being with each other again more than makes up for it.

We don't see much of each other after that, or at least not as much as we did before. Draco's not moved back to the Manor yet--we're decidedly not talking about that possibility--but between work and hospital duty, he's coming home at nearly midnight. Sometimes he falls into bed with me. Sometimes I find him sleeping on the sofa the next morning, still dressed, Mimsy curled on his chest. Sometimes he doesn't come home at all.

He feels distant to me, and a little lost within his own thoughts. I didn't realised I was used to receiving his full attention again until I only received half. As much as I'd like to deny it, I'm recognising the signs. He's pulling away from me. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops, but I can't seem to steel myself for that foregone conclusion as I have in the past. Usually I pull away from him when he pulls away from me, but now I just try to let him be and spend what time we have together. I know I'm a fool--God, I know it ten times over--but I can't help myself. I just want to be close to him. The nights I can lie beside him, his soft hair against my cheek, I don't care about anything else.

Today, we've been at work for perhaps an hour when Zabini comes shrieking down our hallway, threatening to rip the cockhead off anyone fool enough to cross his path--regardless of biological sex.

I get up from my desk and walk over to Draco's office just as Zabini storms in. We exchange a long look, then Draco turns to him and carefully asks, "Something the matter, Blaise?"

He throws a scrap of parchment down on Draco's desk, apoplectic with fury. The day Blaise Zabini can't curse fluently is the day I'm afraid.

Draco picks it up and looks at it. "A confidence motion."

"A what?" I jerk it out of his hands. "Against Kingsley?"

Zabini finds his voice. "Against fucking all of us. Those treacherous, lily-livered, split-dicked whoresons in the Pomps sold us out."

"They're tabling it this morning," Draco says. "With no advance notice?"

"That fucking pecker Peckham," Zabini spits out, "brought it to the floor at the beginning of the sitting. This is our advance fucking notice, Draco."

Draco just looks at him blankly. "That's not how it works. It's supposed to be in the Order Papers."

Zabini scowls. "Tell that to fucking Berwicke. He let it in."

I drop into a chair and run a hand through my hair, thinking as hard as I can. "Most of these motions fail," I point out.

Zabini turns on me. "I don't fucking care, you bleeding Muggle-bred cocksucker. I don't care if they fuck your mother on Tuesday and your father on Wednesday. It's still a fucking vote of no confidence and it could still fucking destroy us, or haven't you fucking noticed, you stupid fucking twat, that we've only a majority of one--one--moronic member of the bloody fucking Wizengamot, may they all choke on their own dicks and cunts, and I can think three idiots in our own goddamned party who would be brainless enough to vote with the sodding Pomps and their sodding cowardly cunt party motion, and let's not even bring the Omps into this, shall we because it's not like his--" At this he jabs a finger towards Draco. "--bastard cunt father--the fucking martyr of Wiltshire who'll be canonised by those boys in skirts at Lambeth Palace before we fucking know it--his father tried to smear his faeces-stained pants all over Whitehall--"

I stand up. "Zabini, shut the fuck up." He opens his mouth, and I grab the front of his robe and slam him up against the bookshelf filled with binders. I have a splitting headache and I can feel my magic surging like it hasn't since right after the war. The papers on Draco's desk rustle, and he tries to catch them as they begin to swirl up in the air. The glass of a Sneakoscope on Draco's shelf shatters.

"Harry," Draco says quietly. "Stop."

Zabini just glares back at me, a mulish twist to his mouth. A light in the hallway explodes. Someone curses.

"I don't care what you say, but shut the fuck up about his father." I let him drop and step back.

Before Zabini can say anything, Draco steps forward. "Both of you. Stop. Now. This isn't going to save Kingsley or the Party. In fact, I think there's very little we can do about this today. It's up to the Wizengamot now."

Zabini stalks off with muttered imprecations about ‘your little girlfriend' that I pretend not to hear. I rub my temples.

And so we wait. A pall settles over the offices, all normal conversation ceasing as if we fear talking could influence what is happening in the hall. Blaise goes and installs himself in the Stranger's Gallery, peering down like a malevolent Scottish gargoyle, scrawling grudge notes into a long roll of parchment.

Draco and I alternate between pretending we're doing work for the following day's business and hovering in the Gallery, trying to get a sense for the mood of the Wizengamot and knowing it could determine whether we'll have business to conduct on the following day or not. By three in the afternoon we've given up all pretense of work and are parked near Zabini, with a two meter safety zone between us. Behind us is a wall of press and civil servants, all watching intently.

At five there's an attempt at a motion for cloture, but Berwicke quashes it. The Stranger's Gallery is jammed full; Draco now sits between me and Zabini. All eyes are fixed on Kingsley, sitting calmly in the Government front benches.

At seven, Penrose stands on the Opposition side. He's been silent the entire day, just listening. When Berwicke calls on him, I tense and look at Draco. His fingers are twisted together, and he's rocking in his seat slightly, the way he always does when he's nervous.

"Chief Warlock," Penrose says slowly, and he looks around the Wizengamot benches. "I have sat here today and listened to the discussion amongst us--at times erudite, at times most common--and I must express my absolute dismay at the display that has been conducted in this chamber. I believe my opinions on the Minister's politics are quite well known. Neither he nor I see certain issues in the same light." He nods at Kingsley who nods back.

"And yet," he continues, "I fail to see why in this time when we need national unity most, we are threatening to split the instrument of our very Government on what is, at most, a technicality. Nothing was proved by the inquest, and I can state with the full backing of my Party that we are entirely satisfied with the innocence and right conduct of the Minister for Magic during his time as Head Auror." His dark eyes fix on the Pomp benches. "To now say otherwise is, in my opinion, equivalent to a statement of treason. This is not the time for opportunistic behaviour after others have paid the price for honesty. It is a time to conduct Government business with the solemnity and undivided attention it deserves."

The entire Strangers' Gallery is silent, in rapt attention. All except for Zabini, who adds Penrose to his grudge list. "Opportunistic behaviour, my arse," he mutters. "Who's being opportunistic here, you shrivelled old shitsack?"

Draco elbows him.

Zabini glares at him. "It's true."

"It's politics," Draco murmurs, "which you know damned well. And at least he's on our side."

"Today," Zabini mutters. "And what will it cost us tomorrow?"

I lean over Draco. "Fuck tomorrow. At least we might survive today."

When the vote is taken fifteen minutes later, not a single Omp votes in favour of censure. Only one of our MWs dares to, and Blaise scrawls his name on his parchment, scowling down at the old bastard as he does. Personally, I think it must have been deliberate career suicide.

Almost the entire Party ends up at the Leaky afterwards, buying drinks for anyone who walks past. I lose track of how many pints I've had. All I know is that at some point, I'm kissing Draco against the dartboards, my hands running up and down his back.

"We need to go home," Draco murmurs against my jaw.

My fingers dip into the back of Draco's trousers, curving over the swell of his arse. "I'd fuck you right here, but I don't think they deserve it. Not even today."

Draco smiles against my skin. "Home, Harry," he says again.

I Apparate us both, not caring what anyone might think or say. I'm still sober enough to get us home, at least, without Splinching. Thank God. I couldn't have managed the Tube ride to Stepney Green. Or a fucking cab.

We stumble down the hall, kissing desperately, fingers at each others' clothes. By the time we make it to my bedroom, we're both naked save for socks, our pricks bobbing together with each step we take.

Draco lands on my bed, barely missing Mimsy. She lifts her head with a miaow, yawning and blinking at us. I pick her up, carrying her out to the hallway. "Sorry, love," I say. "I'd rather not have a claw in my arse at an inopportune time. Again."

She stalks off towards the kitchen, her tail raised high, offence radiating from her tiny grey body. Draco laughs behind me, and when I turn around, he's stroking his swollen cock--too quickly for my intentions. I swat his hand away. "Not yet, greedy thing."

Draco stretches out, basking in my gaze. "Make it worth my while then."

"So many possibilities." I stroke my prick thoughtfully whilst I consider him. "What would you like?"

"Come here." He reaches out his arms and I lay my body over his, my legs between his. Our lips meet and we kiss slowly. He wriggles against my skin, his prick hot on my belly.

I stroke a thumb over his lips. He bites it, then licks it again, the picture of innocence. I'm going to miss him, I realise. Whenever he goes. I touch his face, letting my fingertips slide along his jaw and down his throat. He watches me through half-lidded eyes.

His skin is soft and warm, and I'm fascinated by the hardness of his pink-brown nipples, by the soft pale gold hairs scattered across his chest, over his taut stomach, forming a narrow line down to his swollen cock. "You're beautiful," I tell him. I want him to know that, to remember that I thought that. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Draco's hands slide over mine, pulling them from his body. He presses me back into the mattress, rolling over onto me. His cock is hard and heavy against my hipbone as he pulls my hands above my head, casting an Incarcerous that wraps loosely around my wrists. "So are you," he says, and when he catches my mouth in a deep kiss, I give myself up to it.

To him.

He kisses me, trailing tiny nips down my jaw to my throat, repeating the pattern exactly of the way I'd touched him. When he straddles my hips, his arse brushing the head of my cock I groan, and he laughs softly.

"God," I say, "I want you."

Draco watches me as he touches my skin, letting the flat surface of his fingernails skim across my chest, through the hair underneath my arms and up over my shoulders. I can't stop the shudder that goes through me; every inch of me that he touches tingles sharply.

The look on his face is wistful, gentle, deliberate, as if he's memorising the shape of my body, the feel of my skin, and how I move under his touch. He's pale in the moonlight from the window, all silver and white above me, and when he draws off his glasses and sets them aside, he looks like one of the Grecian statues in the British Museum.

My senses are heightened by arousal. I can hear the faint scratching of Mimsy at the door, trying to get in, the rush of wind outside of the window, the soft thump of the radio two doors down, and each halting breath that Draco and I take.

He leans in and kisses me as he reaches up and undoes the Incarcerous, letting my hands free. "Touch me, Harry," he whispers against my mouth and I'm already doing so, my fingers stroking across the ridge of his spine, over the warm skin of his back, the tender bumps of his ribs, the smooth curve of his arse. Our kisses grow harder, more eager, and then he's breathless, gasping against my mouth as we rut together, our bodies sliding against each other.

If he's going to leave, I think, I want him to remember tonight.

I roll us again, my mouth at the pulse point of his throat. He sighs softly, his arms draped loosely over my shoulders. "Christ," he says, "That's lovely."

Slowly I inch us up the bed, kissing his throat, his hair, his jaw, his mouth. When I pull back, he reaches for me, but I'm already rifling through the side table, looking for the phial of lube. I find it and uncap it, pouring a small amount on my fingertips. Draco starts to shift beneath me, rolling to one side. I stop him, my hand on his hip.

"No," I say, and then I reach behind me, pressing an oiled fingertip into my arse. Draco stills, looking up at me.

"Harry." My name's a soft whisper of breath on his lips. When I slide another finger into myself, I groan, and Draco's eyes flare, bright and hot. "Show me," he says.

I roll my hips, lifting them so he can see me, balanced on one hand, my other twisting and pressing deep into my body, stretching myself for his cock. "It's been a while since I've done this." My fingers slide out of my arse. It's not an easy angle and my hip still aches slightly.

"Let me help." Draco pulls at my hips, and I slide towards him, my knees pressing into his arms. I catch myself on the headboard as he tugs at me, and then his mouth is on my hole, his tongue pressing into me. I arch over him, my fingers digging into the wood of the headboard as he licks and laps at my arse, sending shivers of want racing through my body. It's too much and I need to pull away before I come.

His mouth is slick with oil. When I lean in to kiss him, I can taste it on him. Can taste me. I groan again, against his mouth, and his tongue slides over mine, flicking lightly at my teeth. I hear the pop of the cap to the phial and then Draco is sliding slick fingers into me as his tongue possesses my mouth.

I can barely breathe. My body jerks against his, and I reach down to touch my cock. It's wet and sticky already. I don't know how much longer I'm going to last. "Draco," I say as I pull back, and he looks as lust-mad as I feel. His hands skitter across my skin, pulling, pushing, positioning, and then I'm over him, my hand holding his prick steady as I slowly sink down onto it.

"Fuck," Draco says, and his hips buck slightly, forcing his cock deeper into me. It hurts--Christ, it hurts--but the pain fades into a warm burn that makes me slide further down his shaft, my thighs spread wide so he can watch me take him in.

His nails dig into the flesh of my side. He's swearing and gasping now, and then I realise I am as well. I shift my hips awkwardly until I'm flush with his body, my arsecheeks resting on his upper thighs. His hands slide over my knees, grasping as he rolls his body slightly, pushing against me. "Move," he says. "Fuck, Harry. Come on. Move. You're going to kill me--"

He breaks off into a cry as I push myself up, then back down on his cock. I reach for my prick, curling my fingers around it and tugging roughly, smearing wetness down my shaft. Draco tells me to wank myself harder, and I do, riding him as I twist my fingers around the head of my cock, pushing back the foreskin so he can see it before I slide it back up, tugging at it, pulling it over the head with a groan. It feels amazing. "I'm close," I choke out. "I'm so fucking close--"

"Come," Draco says, rolling his hips into me. "Come all over me, Harry."

I shudder and obey, my body seizing around his cock. My spunk spatters across Draco's stomach in thick white strands. The noises I'm making-- And it just goes on and on.

"Jesus Christ." Draco grabs my hips, pulling me hard against him as he thrusts up into me. And then I'm on my back, my knees at my shoulders, my head hanging off the bed, my hands grasping for purchase in the duvet, and Draco's fucking me harder than he's ever fucked me before. I know I'll pay for this with soreness tomorrow and nothing could stop me now. My shoulders press into the mattress; my feet bounce above me. Draco's face is flushed and damp, and his fingers make marks in my skin. His balls slap against my arse, and when his stomach clenches, I know he's about to lose himself.

With a loud cry he tenses, his face contorting, his hips bucking into mine. He falls against me, his whole body shaking. I roll back onto the bed, sliding my arms around him, stroking him, pressing my face against the curve of his throat, wrapping my sore legs around his hips, holding him tight through the small shudders that send his hips moving again until his breath begins to even.

We lie there quietly, listening to each other breathe, and then Draco shifts, his prick sliding out of me. I sit up and slide off the bed, going to the loo, then checking on Mimsy in the kitchen. She pads back with me into the room. Draco's sitting cross-legged on the bed. I hand him a glass of water. "All right?" I ask.

He drains the glass then sets it aside, not meeting my eye.

"Draco." I sit on the bed next to him. I know every move of his body and I can tell he's holding something back. "Whatever it is, just tell me."

He glances up at me, running a hand through his mussed hair. The look in his eyes tells me what I need to know. "I have a date with Astoria," he says quietly. "Wednesday."

It's not like an explosion, hitting me in the chest. It's like a vacuum, sucking the life out of me until I feel hollow. "Oh. So you're going, then?" My voice sounds brittle, artificial and far away in my ears.

"Yeah." Draco draws his knees to his chest. "It seemed..." He presses his lips together.

"What?" I ask, wondering how many more words we will exchange this time.

Draco rubs a thumb over his shin. "We worked, she and I. If it hadn't been for that fellowship, she would have stayed and..."

"And what?" I feel like a broken record. "Married you?" It's the logical conclusion to Draco's worldview as I see it. Date a girl. Marry a girl. Have an heir. And somewhere in there fit in the fact that you like sucking cock--but only sometimes.

His head shoots up. "I don't know. Maybe. Why do you care?"

Draco might as well have punched me in the gut. "I'm starting to ask myself that same question."

He knows he's touched a nerve now. He holds up a hand. "Harry..."

"Go on then," I say, my voice catching in my throat. "Have your heir and spare. Make your father happy."

"Why don't you ever ask me to stay?" Draco asks me, his eyes bright in his pale face.

I shrug. "You always leave anyway. Would it even matter?"

There's a long silence between us, then Draco slides to the edge of the bed. "Maybe not," he says quietly. He scoops up Mimsy, who's curled up on the end of the bed again. "I'm going to bed."

My heart aches. He's almost at the door when I turn slightly. "You can sleep in here."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I can anymore."

I nod, and he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.

I don't fall asleep until almost dawn. When I wake up, Mimsy's on my chest, licking my nose and miaowing pitifully. I push myself out of bed, gathering her up. I owe Draco an apology, I think. I pull on a pair of pyjama trousers and cross the hall to knock on his door. It opens at my touch and I peer in.

The room's empty. Everything's gone, and it's shrunk back to its original size. Mimsy miaows again in my arms, batting at a lock of my hair. I set her down and she explores the new space uncertainly. She walks into the middle of the room and looks back at me, miaowing again.

"He's gone," I say to her, my voice echoing through the room.

My heart feels as empty and as unfamiliar as the space he's just left.

To Part Two