A Test of Character

by SilentAuror_HPworks

Summary:

Draco Malfoy is nearly finished his Auror training. However, something comes up in his character testing which may prevent him from qualifying: he is required to befriend an old enemy.

Notes:

Originally posted in January, 2007.

**Please note that I will not be answering comments on these stories for the most part. (You're still welcome to comment if you wish!)

A Test of Character

For Emma Grant

A shower of red sparks flared somewhere above Draco's head to the right. He was ready, every muscle tensed, poised to spring. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, go. He darted from the thicket into a patch of shadowy trees to his right, careful to keep low to the ground. Wand clenched against his thigh, he dropped to a squat against a large oak and listened. The trees rustled around him in the light evening breeze. It was difficult to move quickly and quietly in the heavy winter cloak, but the late November evening was cold and there were long pockets of waiting, unmoving. He listened hard, straining to hear anything that might reveal his target's location, for it had surely moved by now.

Something rustled and he went even stiller, listening. Another movement. Draco focused hard on the nonverbal incantation for a Disillusionment and watched his legs and shoes fade into the underbrush. Slowly, he crept forward, keeping himself tight in order to make as little noise as possible. The rustling came again, much closer. Draco took a split second to narrow his focus, then lunged. "Stupefy!"

There was a truncated yell of surprise and a crash as something heavy fell to the ground. Draco, heart pounding, pushed gingerly through the brush and peered at his prey. A large human male, nearly two meters in height. Or length, rather; the man was sprawled on his front. The backs of his hands revealed him as non-Caucasian, and Draco recognised his stalker. Swiftly he knotted Incarcerus spells and formed a magical net, preventing escape. "Accio wand," he whispered, and held out his left hand to catch it. Satisfied, he sent up a shower of blue sparks.

It took several minutes, but then footsteps were crunching across the forest floor, wand tips flaring blue/white against the dark. Draco straightened his shoulders and turned to face them.

"Well done, Malfoy, well done," came Moody's gruff voice. "Excellent work. That must have been a record. Under ten minutes."

Draco released his breath slowly, relieved. If Moody was pleased, then the others would be, too. He glanced at Postwick and Dawlish, who were nodding.

"Very good," Postwick said. "Top marks."

Top marks! Draco's pulse quickened again. "Thank you, sir."

"You'll make an excellent Auror," Dawlish said. His Lumos faded as he aimed his wand at the fallen man. "Ennervate! Give Shacklebolt his wand back, Malfoy."

Draco waited, watching Shacklebolt look groggily around his magical cage. He chuckled. "Very impressive, Malfoy."

"Thank you, " Draco said again. "Finite. Here you are, sir." He moved forward and handed the wand over.

"Great timing. I was just about to attack." Shacklebolt got to his feet with impressive speed and agility, considering the strength of Stunner Draco had used. Another reminder of how far he still had to go. "He has excellent instincts, wouldn't you say?" he asked of his co-examiners.

"Very good," Moody agreed, eyeing Draco with both eyes. "I agree. Full marks."

"That's my vote, too," Shacklebolt said. "Congratulations, Malfoy." He held out a hand. "You've progressed to the final stage of training."

Draco shook his hand and tried to keep his voice calm, but in truth, he was as excited as a child. "Thank you."

"Don't thank him just yet," Moody growled. "The final stage is the most difficult for people, Malfoy. For everyone. Skill and training won't get you anywhere in character testing. This is about you, personally, and whether or not we think you've got what it will take to survive as an Auror. You'll be forced to look hard at yourself, and few people enjoy that. Or know how to do it honestly. You'll be made to do it honestly."

"Let him enjoy his victory tonight," Dawlish said, chuckling. "Everyone knows the character testing is the worst part. You've got until tomorrow afternoon, Malfoy. Take the morning off."

"Okay," Draco said, looking from one to another. "Where do I need to go?"

"Meet us in the conference room in the Auror Department," Shacklebolt said. "We'll spend the morning reviewing your personal information and so forth. It will work like an interview, at least at first. Let's say two o'clock."

Draco nodded. "I'll be there."

"We know you will. Well done tonight," Dawlish said. "Now go and unwind!"

Draco smiled. "See you tomorrow." He Disapparated first, which was mandatory, and reappeared in the foyer of his flat. He had no plans whatsoever to go out, but his mobile phone was blinking messages. He picked it up and looked. Pansy, three times. He listened to all three messages and erased them, going into the tiny kitchen to find something to eat. Maybe pasta. He rarely indulged in carbohydrates, but he was hungry. After five hours of waiting and stalking and crawling through underbrush, he was tired, soaked, and starving. Thank God the last test had been the shortest. It hadn't even been all that difficult.

There was a nice Piat D'or in the fridge and he uncorked it to breathe. Pouring it, he decided that he wanted a shower before he did another thing. He sipped the wine and left it on the counter, peeling off his clothes as he went. The shower was blissfully hot and he stayed in the hot water for ten minutes, doing little other than breathing in the steam and letting his tight muscles uncoil. Eventually, he started to feel good. Stealth and Tracking was generally considered the hardest level of Auror training. He didn't know what the character testing involved, but passing his final set of S & T tests felt good. Full marks and record time! He squeezed shampoo into his hand and massaged it into his head, enjoying it thoroughly. And he could sleep in the next day, too. Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd had time to sleep more than five or six hours in a night. He tilted his head back, rinsing, and reached for his conditioner. It was high quality, the sort of thing everyone but Pansy gaped at him for buying, but he didn't care about the price tag. It was silky in his fingers, against his hair, then lower, on his cock. He turned to face the water, letting the conditioner set, and jerked off under the hot spray. He used both hands, sliding one hand between his legs to cup his balls while the other flew along his cock. The build up felt so good, his balls tightening, his breath steaming in the hot air. He came seconds later with a soft grunt, and spared a second to wish that he actually had someone else to get off with, but it didn't really matter. The release felt great after the long day and the pressure of the testing. He rinsed out the conditioner and turned off the taps.

The mobile was buzzing against the counter as he emerged from the bathroom, a small towel wrapped around his waist. He sighed and picked it up. "What?"

"'What?' What do you mean, 'what'? Why haven't you returned my calls, if you're home?"

"Pansy. I just got home, and I just stepped out of the shower."

She sniffed, unimpressed. "What are you doing now? I assume you have no plans, like always."

Bitch. "I'm about to make dinner," Draco said acidly. "Why have you been calling?"

"To find out how your tests went, of course," she said, ignoring his tone. "And since you haven't eaten yet, why don't we meet somewhere and you can tell me about it."

Draco considered the possibilities. In all honesty, he'd known this would be how his evening would go. Possibly even hoped for it. The solitude of the past three months of his training was starting to get to him. He thought of Giannetta's, the linguine tossed in brandy cream with prawns and fresh tomatoes, the pungent garlic and fresh basil mingling on his tongue. His mouth watered at the thought. "Fine," he said begrudgingly. It was part of the ritual. "Giannetta's at ten. Don't be late for once in your life. I'm tired and I want to get to bed within the next ten hours."

"You're such a bitch, darling," she said affectionately. "Of course I won't be late. See you there." She hung up.

Draco closed the phone, raked fingers through his wet hair and remembered his wine.

__________________

 

Feeling only a little apprehensive, Draco finished his latte and tossed the paper cup into a rubbish bin before stepping into an alley beside the Ministry building to Apparate into the foyer. It had been so long since he had been so very well-rested that it was difficult to worry too much about the meeting. He was uneasy, though. It was strictly forbidden to discuss the contents of the character testing, as each test was individualised to pinpoint the character flaws of each trainee. Draco rode the lift in silence, noting to himself that the orange pinstriped robes of the wizard sharing the lift with him were quite ridiculously ugly. He'd had a little too much wine the night before, which had mellowed him considerably but left a slight, dull headache in its wake. Dehydration, his favourite. Draco exited the lift and strode down the corridor to the Auror Department. He wasn't nervous. Just apprehensive. Anyone would be.

Moody and Shacklebolt alone sat on one side of the long, highly polished mahogany table. Shacklebolt unsmilingly indicated the other side of the table. Draco pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Good morning," Shacklebolt said soberly.

"Good morning, sir." Draco nodded at Moody as well.

The two older men exchanged a look. "There are a few things we need to talk about," Shacklebolt said. "As you know, I am the Auror responsible for overseeing this section of your qualification, but I do it with information and observations that my colleagues in the Department gather throughout the training process. For the past three years, as you know, a record of personal information has been kept on each one of the trainees. Specific, detailed information. The way you move your head when being given information. The direction your eyes shift at certain points of a conversation. Exactly which muscles in your face tense when you're attacking an opponent for a training exercise. All of these little things are fair game. We analyse them. We discuss them. And finally, at the end, we share our findings with you and discuss them together. The reason we save the character testing for the end is that in many ways, it is the hardest level of the training. To become an Auror takes more personal integrity, as well as your many considerable skills, and it takes in turn a great deal of willingness to be fully honest with yourself about yourself."

Shacklebolt paused for emphasis. "I'm sure you're aware that many trainees reach this point and fail to qualify because of this level of the testing. We don't take pleasure in their failure, but it has proven over time to be the most effective method of weeding out the people who will break on the job, who will let personal agenda take priority over safety or a successful mission. Are you prepared to enter this level?"

It was the question they asked before the commencement of every training level. For the eighth and final time in three years, Draco nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good man, Malfoy." Shacklebolt opened a three-ring binder and turned paper, rather than parchment, pages. Moody consulted his own small notebook. "All right, then. Let us begin. All in all, Malfoy, you're a very strong candidate. I think you know that."

Draco felt a knot of worry coil into a knot in the base of his stomach. There was a But coming. He couldn't speak, so he just waited.

"Our concern," Shacklebolt said, "comes from a quality that we actually look and hope for in Aurors, ironically. In your case, we wonder if it doesn't go a little far."

Draco tried to work a little moisture back into his mouth. He could see it all slipping away. Three years, wasted. "What is it?"

Another exchange of looks. "We do admire your overall equanimity," Shacklebolt said. "But sometimes an outward calm can hide turmoil beneath the surface. In fact, quite often when people are that good at keeping up the impassive look, it's a cover. We've spent a good deal of time in the past three years trying to uncover your turmoil. Your turmoil is your weakness, the factor that will undo you. We have to drag it out into the look and examine it, find out why it's there and what it's doing to you, your life, your work."

Draco finally found his voice. "What if there's no turmoil? What if I'm just quiet?"

"You're not that quiet, Malfoy," Moody said, with a gruff chuckle. "In fact, you can be quite vocal, especially when provoked. No, there's turmoil. Unresolved issues. We have no doubt of this. In fact, we've even made a list of your trigger points. Listen."

He had no choice but to do so.

"Your parents," Moody began. "Fair enough." The magical blue eye rotated upward from where it had been focused on the notepad and looked at Draco long and hard. "Nearly everyone reacts badly to their families being insulted or wronged."

Badly, Draco thought. Not five minutes in, and they'd used that word. He was doing badly. The knot in his stomach hardened.

"Your ancestry. Same thing. Your performance. You have a lot of pride, Malfoy. Possibly too much. Arrogance is only arrogance when it outweighs the amount of talent supporting it. Luckily, you're very talented. But talent alone, and we cannot stress this highly enough, will not get you where you're going." The brown eye joined the blue, looking up from the notepad to Draco's face. "You're not arrogant, but it comes close to the line sometimes. Granted, it's justified. You're one of the best wizards your age around."

Draco nodded. He'd heard this before. What was the bomb they kept ducking around?

Shacklebolt exhaled loudly through nose and put the binder down. He slowly interlocked his fingers and looked Draco in the eye. "The biggest issue, though, at least as we see it, is Potter."

Draco felt his face turn to stone, his mind numbing in outraged denial. Potter. No. Fucking. Way. Trying to speak over his fury, mustering all the cold politeness he could, he asked, "What about Potter?"

"Your feelings for Potter," Shacklebolt said. "It's always been a trigger point. Had been since before either of us met you. The jealousy. The resentment. The outright hatred, if I may. You may have fought on the same side of the war, but that doesn't make you friends."

The rage was building. "Since when has it become law to be Potter's friend?" Draco bit out, hardly able to get the words out through his wrath. As if Potter was truly capable of fucking up his life even like this. It was beyond belief. Since when were his personal preferences as far as other people were concerned related to his certification in any way whatsoever?

Moody looked at Shacklebolt and then Draco. "This is exactly the point, Malfoy. It's not a law. But it is a personal weakness, and one that could be exploited to your disadvantage. We're not saying that you have to be friends with everyone in order to be a good Auror. But this particular vendetta goes so far back and runs so deeply that we think it would cloud your judgement. That's the concern."

Shacklebolt leaned in. "Could you work with Potter if you had to, Malfoy? Be honest. Could you be civil and professional and not allow any personal history to get in the way?"

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but for a split second a mental image of Potter stuttering over something he was trying to say came to mind. Before he could respond, Shacklebolt continued.

"Precisely what I mean."

"If it's just a hypothetical question, why does it matter?" Draco asked, struggling to control his temper, furious with himself for the hesitation.

They glanced at each other. Shacklebolt nodded. "It's not strictly hypothetical," Moody said. "Potter's actually an Auror, too."

Shock. "I didn't know," he mumbled, staring at the table.

"We know that." Shacklebolt was gentle. "It's not public information. Potter has been living undercover among the Muggles for nearly two years now. I trust you'll keep this confidential. The fact of the matter is that you may very well be one of the few wizards skilled enough to partner him. We haven't thought it through or anything that detailed. It's a possibility, that's all. But before we get as far as even thinking about assignments, you can see why your personal relationship with Potter matters to us."

Draco did see. It didn't help anything, but he understood. Numbly, he said, "So I can't qualify."

Shacklebolt sounded surprised. "Who said anything about that?"

Draco glanced at Moody. "I thought…"

"We're showing you some of your weaknesses," Shacklebolt said. "If you can prove to us that you can deal with your issues sufficient to the task, as we see it, of becoming a fully qualified Auror, then you're on your way. It is difficult for most people, though. As we said earlier. It requires a level of self-honesty that most people don't want to get into. It's not comfortable, looking at ourselves on the deeper levels. I think this is a deep-seated issue for you that probably extends all the way back throughout your childhood. It's perfectly understandable: your father was a Death Eater, you were born in the same year as Potter, went through Hogwarts with him as his rival and, by pure circumstance, his natural enemy. Until you left your family, of course, but by then, the two of you had developed a bad history and it's never been resolved. If you pass your character testing, I won't lie to you, Malfoy. You'll be one of the Ministry's top Aurors and we'd be privileged to have you. Potter is one of our very best and if we can't trust you to comport yourselves professionally together, then we simply can't have you on staff."

Draco wanted to ask if they'd put Potter through the same rigmarole, but he knew better and held his tongue. "I understand," he said, unable to look at Shacklebolt.

"You have great inner strength, Malfoy," Shacklebolt said. "We have confidence that you can complete this final assignment successfully. I think you'll be a happier person for it if you can learn to leave this childish rivalry behind. You're twenty-seven years old. It's time to move on."

"What final assignment?" Draco asked, hearing only this.

Shacklebolt leaned back and drew the binder back, almost as though for protection. As though he knew that what he was going to say would not be met with a favourable result. "We want you to become Potter's friend," he said. "Genuinely. Not just friendly terms, but a true friendship. Get to know him. Find out what he's like one-on-one. What he likes to do in his spare time. How he likes his current assignment. Whatever. You don't need to like all of his friends and acquaintances, though it would obviously make it easier. I'll let you in on something. When Potter went through this training, we made him enrol in anger management classes. He learned a lot about emotional control and processing things slowly, and it's done him well. Before that, we didn't think he necessarily had the emotional fortitude it would take. He could learn more of that from you, we think. It would be a beneficial friendship as far as the Ministry and particularly the Auror Department is concerned."

He stopped, watching Draco closely. "I know you don't like it," he said. "We're not asking you to. But that's the assignment."

Moody flexed his claw-like fingers. "It could be much worse," he volunteered. "Sometimes - often - we've had candidates get up and walk out of the room before the explanation of the assignment was even finished. People don't like this part. I personally think you've got one of the easiest assignments we've ever given."

"We do know that it will be harder that it sounds," Shacklebolt acknowledged. "I'm glad you heard it out. What do you say?"

Draco searched for something to say. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Three years he'd put into this. All to culminate in a mandatory friendship with the one living person he could happily do without ever seeing again. His mind was blank. "I'll do it," he said, his voice entirely devoid of expression.

"Good man." Shacklebolt closed the binder with a look of satisfaction. "We thought you would. We were hoping you would, I should say. Now, some of the finer points. You have six months. We'd like to check in with you then and see how things are going."

"That's longer than most people get for the final assignment," Moody added. "We know that friendship doesn't happen overnight, so we figured the extra time might be helpful. We'll check in once a month or so and see. It's the twenty-fifth of November today. See what you can do. In the meantime, we trust you'll recall that the final assignment, as the others, is completely confidential. Not a word, not to a soul. Obviously if Potter finds out, the whole bet is off, and no one wants that. You'll remember?"

Draco nodded, still feeling half as though he'd been turned to stone.

Moody pulled something out of his file folder and handed it across the table to Draco. "Good man, Malfoy. This is an invite to the annual Minister's Ball. I don't know whether you've already been invited or not, but it's become more exclusive in recent years. Potter will be there. It might be a good place to start."

Draco took the invitation and thought of Pansy's inevitable envy. His smugness lasted only until he realised he would likely be expected to bring a date, and… well. The Minister's Ball was highly exclusive, and he wasn't exactly a member of London's high society these days. Potter had been invited? The bastard. Of course he had been. He took the invitation. "Thank you," he said stiffly.

"Bigger men have failed at smaller tasks," Shacklebolt said, with a wry smile. "We have every confidence in your social abilities as well as your abilities on the field, Malfoy. Best wishes." He held out a hand over the table and Draco shook it. Moody stood and leaned over the table to shake, lacking Shacklebolt's height.

"Good luck," he added.

Draco got himself out of the conference room and the Ministry and Apparated back to the safe confines of his flat, the invitation burning his fingertips.

__________________

 

On his sofa, Pansy had not yet taken off her coat or boots, though she'd sat down, one leg perched on top of the other. She was scowling. "You're really not going to tell me."

"No." Draco treated her to a hard glare. "You know that."

"I completely fail to understand how your assignment requires you to go to a ball."

Draco was getting tired of this. "Look, do you want to come or not? If not, I'm fine going by myself."

"As if you'd be caught dead going to the social happening of the year without a date. Even if it's only a fake date," Pansy said, examining her long artificial nails with feigned disinterest. "Who would you even take, if I didn't want to go?"

That was over the line. His headache grew to new proportions. He needed her to leave so that he could think properly, have a few minutes alone. He should have known better than to have answered the phone. He felt his eyebrows rise, his mouth tighten. "Believe it or not," he said icily, "being gay does not render a person entirely unattractive to the opposite gender. Just the contrary in some cases. In fact, I seem to recall an occasion about two years ago - "

"Spare me," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "You don't need to rub in it any more than you did then."

"You're the one who wanted to bet," Draco said nastily. "It's not my fault your gaydar doesn't work for shite. Fine, I'll take that as a no. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to do."

"Calm down." Pansy glared back. "I didn't say I wouldn't go."

"I'm rescinding the invitation." Draco turned and went into the kitchen to find something to drink.

He heard the rustle of clothing and then she appeared in the doorway. "Honey, don't be like that." The faux-sweetness was back, but she sounded tired. "I'll go if you need a date. I'd love to go to that ball. You know that."

Draco poured himself a glass of water and drank half of it, ignoring her. "Fine." He set the glass on the counter. "It's Friday night, cocktails at six. I'll be there for my assignment, so I might need to talk to some people. Whatever happens, just don't make a big deal out of it, all right?"

The eyes widened in calculated innocence. "Of course not," Pansy said. "Wouldn't dream of it. I'm very discreet. You do your thing, and I'll work the room." She came over and kissed the air near his cheek. "I have to go shopping. You look exhausted. Get some rest."

She was practically purring, the cat that got the cream, Draco thought. No wonder, though - the Minister's Ball was hardly a thing to take lightly. Every social columnist would be there. "Thanks," he said dryly. "I was thinking of having a nap. I'll call you or something."

Pansy positively beamed at him. "Splendid," she said. She let herself out and Disapparated with an audible pop in the hallway. Draco betook himself to the smallish balcony off the main room and went to stand in the chill air for a long time, turning over the entire assignment interview in his head.

He didn't want to believe it. That it could be such a stumbling block, the old rivalry with Potter. The vast majority of him refused to accept it, pushing back against what he'd been told with both arms, disarming it with disdainful words and contemptuous scorn. Fuck the character testing. There were other things he could do with his life, things that didn't involve being put through this. Fuck Potter. Why did everyone like him? It was hero worship, nothing more. The half-blind git was no better than anyone else. Without the rest of the army, he'd never have won the war, anyway.

The other, much quieter part of his mind knew that it was all true, if he was honest with himself. Potter was very talented. Sure, he'd been lucky. But virtually no one else, if anyone, could have survived that long. Or at all. And Draco wanted to certify more than anything else he'd ever wanted. He wasn't about to waste three years just because he was too stubborn to play nicely with Potter.

Only it was more than that. They would know if it was just put on. He would know. It did have to be genuine if it was going to accomplish the task they had set him: to get past his own personal weakness of character. He knew in his heart of hearts that it was more than just Potter. It was about turning tail when the going got tough. And while joining the Ministry's side of the war instead of waiting it out in Italy like Blaise or Switzerland like Pansy, he'd stuck it out in England and fought. Surely that had to speak well of his strength of character. Draco thought of Dumbledore, saw his wand wavering as his resolve crumbled before his eyes and clenched his jaw in remembered humiliation. They were right. It was a weakness, and a weakness that could betray him if he didn't take care of it. Potter was certainly the trigger he'd possessed the longest: the instant path to his own insecurity and consequent anger.

It occurred to Draco then that they must have known how Potter had rejected his offer of friendship in their first year. Of course. It made too much sense. This was about forcing him to swallow his pride and arrogance in his abilities and connections and get someone like Potter to accept and like him on his own merits. Draco experienced an intense moment of gripping self-doubt. Potter would never like him. He breathed deeply, forced the traitorous thought aside. He would just have to con Potter into it somehow. He decided that he was determined to certify, no matter what the cost. If befriending Potter was what it would take, then he would just have to put every resource behind the cause. Carefully, of course. Draco looked down at the invitation he was still holding, pinched between a thumb and two fingers and smoothed out the indentation he'd made. Friday. He turned and went back inside.

__________________

 

The glittering letters forming his name and Pansy's above their heads, Draco grimaced and tugged her off toward the bar. A drink was what he needed, first and foremost. Pansy refused to be towed, somehow maintaining that glide and seemingly weightless arm on his in an invisible grip of steel. She was not going to be rushed, dressed as she was and with all the media attention. The dress was something between silver and steel, shifting in the light. It matched his eyes and tie, which was no mistake - Pansy had informed him in a tone that brooked no argument that he was wearing that particular tie. Fortunately, he liked it. Pansy's face was a work of art; hours of careful layering and tweaking had produced an effect that was really rather nice. Draco elbowed his way to the bar and eyed the room, wondering who she would ultimately leave with, and simultaneously scanning for Potter.

Pansy left him immediately after he had procured her a glass of champagne and thereafter was only seen in glimpses, flashes of silver or smoke-grey satin gleaming through the crowd. Draco took his own glass, downed half of it at once, and gritted his teeth. Might as well get it over with. He wove through the room, searching for Potter. The grand ballroom was full, the circling waiters holding golden trays above their heads to avoid being jostled. The chandeliers glittered and swayed gently in a magic-induced breeze, crystals clinking above the chatter. Draco heard a familiar voice and turned to catch Longbottom just disappearing between bodies and caught the tail end of what he'd been saying: "… don't know, Harry, let's find somewhere to sit."

Draco dodged after him, trying to keep his distance but not wanting to lose Longbottom and Potter, either. He caught up to them when they located a small, round table in the corner, watched them sit down and quickly turned around before either one could recognise him. Another waiter appeared and traded his empty glass for a full one. Draco tipped him and set up an artful wander through the crowd designed to bring him back to Potter's table with a quarter of an hour. He knew few people, though he recognised many. All of magical Britain's highest society were there. And Longbottom. Teaching at Hogwarts must have its benefits after all. Draco finished his weave and found himself at Potter's table.

He feigned surprise when Potter's eyes found him. "Potter."

"Malfoy." Potter was curt.

Draco nodded at Longbottom. "Longbottom."

"Hello, Malfoy," Longbottom said, a little warily.

Draco made an effort to be civil. "Still at Hogwarts?"

"Yes, actually." Longbottom looked surprised. "I didn't know you knew that. I'm teaching Herbology now that Pomona's retired."

He could not imagine a less desirable career. Potting magical (usually carnivorous) plants and dealing with hopeless students all day, living surrounded by them - Draco managed not to shudder, but it was a close call. "Great," he said, and it came out sounding strangled. "Excellent. Enjoying it?"

Longbottom shrugged self-consciously. "It's all right, if you like that sort of thing."

He was being self-effacing. Probably guessing at his actual thoughts, Draco thought. "Sure, if that's what you do," he said flatly.

Potter pushed a glass of clear liquid away from himself. "What are you doing these days, Malfoy?" He sounded little friendlier, but there was a hint of interest, if a little too much emphasis on the you.

Draco shrugged, vague. "Oh, this and that. Trying to get my life sorted, that sort of thing. You?"

Longbottom looked at Potter, who did not notice, whether deliberately or otherwise. "I'm doing a few things," Potter said levelly. "Living among Muggles. It's decent."

"I suppose you grew up with electricity," Draco said. "Must make it easier to make the transition from living without magic." Damn it, it better not sound like it was trying to chat Potter up. He'd been aiming for small talk.

Potter looked at him properly for the first time, eyes nearly unveiled. "Actually, I'm still using magic - just carefully. But I did grow up with electricity, yes." He pushed a chair out with one foot. "Have a seat, if you like."

Draco looked at the chair and then at Potter. He pulled the chair further out and sat down. Was it really going to be that easy? Or was Potter just trying to being nice? "Thanks," he said. "Would it bother you to live without magic?"

Potter turned his glass in his fingers, marking it up with fingerprints. "Yes. I would use it when I wasn't even thinking about. I don't think I could do it for too long a time. Besides, I would hate feeling like a Muggle."

Draco observed him with care. Dark hair, still decidedly out of order, but in a way that seemed less obnoxious now, falling forward over part of a forehead that was rather pale. Hiding the scar, naturally. The glasses were newer and, thank God, no longer round, but a tasteful wire frame of a more adult style. The face had grown into the large jaw and Potter apparently learned how to control his limbs since they had left Hogwarts. Auror training, Draco remembered, and attributed it to that. There were very fine lines on the cheeks and near the eyes that had not been there prior to the war. All in all, it was an intriguing face. An attractive face, and with the nicely cut tuxedo, it was an alluring combination. Perish the thought. Potter was still waiting for him to respond, green eyes fixed on Draco's. He cleared his throat. "I can understand that."

Potter ran fingers through his hair, which left it more unkempt than it had been. "What are you doing here, Malfoy? Who did you come with?" His tone was slightly mocking, implying that Draco had come as someone's escort.

"I brought Pansy," Draco said, not rising to the bait. "She's probably off finding someone to take her home later."

Potter's brows rose. "Not you, then?"

Draco gave him an incredulous look. "Please. I haven't drunk enough for that to be funny yet."

Potter actually laughed, and was as surprised by it as Draco was. He didn't say anything, but Longbottom glanced at him again and began to slide around the table.

"Harry, I just saw Witherbee across there. I'm going to say hello."

"Tell him to answer your owls while you're at it," Potter called after him.

Longbottom's answer was muffled by the crowd, his departure leaving a strange silence at the small table.

Draco swirled his half-glass of champagne around in the flute, tried to think of something to say.

Potter was watching him. "This is strange," he said conversationally, though the carefulness was just a step behind it. "I don't think we've ever had that long a conversation before."

"Possibly not," Draco agreed, and said nothing more.

"It's not half bad," Potter said, obviously intending it as a joke.

Draco smiled and surveyed his glass. "So. I heard you weren't a fan of events like these."

"I'm not, generally," Potter said. His eyes went distant, scanning the crowd. "I just came to keep Neville company. He wanted to come."

A good turn. Of course. Still, though. Draco glanced at Potter's face again, quickly, and wondered if he was seeing Longbottom. Scratch that. The git was undeniably straight. Everyone knew that. That was only wishful thinking. Wishful? Draco caught himself. Speculative, he corrected himself mentally. "I see." He caught Potter's eye and thought he should make more of an effort. "I brought Pansy because she would have clawed my eyes out if she'd found out I had an invitation to this and didn't invite her."

Potter laughed. "I saw you two come in, actually. I just assumed you were dating. I didn't mean to - "

"It's okay," Draco interrupted, as Potter's cheeks were flushing. "I would have thought that, too."

"You're not, though?" Potter looked at him quickly. "Just curious. You don't have to say."

"I'm quite happily single, as a matter of fact," Draco said. He drained his glass and nodded at Potter's. "What are you drinking? Can I get you something? I need a refill."

Potter looked taken aback but recovered swiftly, his cheeks colouring again. Or perhaps they were still flushed from before. "This is just water," he said. "I wasn't planning to drink tonight, but I suppose one can't hurt."

Draco lifted his brows. "What'll it be, then?"

Potter nodded toward Draco's empty flute. "Champagne, if that's what you're drinking."

"I'll be right back." Draco ducked back into the crowd to seek out a waiter. He was talking too quickly, probably coming off forced and unnatural. Potter would notice, at least if he'd been any good at the Behavioural Observation unit. Why was he nervous? He couldn't possibly be that worried that Potter would refuse to be friends with him. So far it was going well, despite his stiltedness. Draco spotted a waiter and headed toward him, lifting his empty glass in signal and decided that it was anxiety about his certification. He nabbed two brimming glasses and went back to the table. Potter was waiting, leaning his chair back against a wall, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tuxedo.

Draco passed him a glass and sat down again. He had just opened his mouth when a woman dressed in violet satin approached. Potter evidently caught sight of the lapel mike first; his expression went blank and the legs of his chair thumped down on the hard wood floor with a final sort of a sound. Draco frowned, determining that he'd never seen the woman before. She ignored him almost completely, leaning across to speak to Potter.

"Mr Potter," she said, oozing faux-charm.

Potter nodded guardedly. "What can I do for you?" He was polite but not welcoming.

"Just a few questions, if you don't mind."

Potter didn't answer for a moment, then said, "Five questions, and I make no guarantee to answer anything. No Quick Quotes Quills."

"Certainly, certainly." She beamed at him and dragged a chair over. "Sharon Alexander, The Owl and Scroll. And your friend is… ?"

Potter was cool. "This is Draco Malfoy. I went to school with him at Hogwarts."

Draco found himself examined for the first time by measuring blue eyes. "The Draco Malfoy? Son of the notorious Death Eater Lucius M - "

"Yes," Draco said, cutting her off. "Obviously."

Potter shot him a quick look that Draco didn't understand. "That was one," he said firmly. "You have four more."

"Mr Potter," she protested, "the question was - "

"Four more," Potter repeated stubbornly.

Frustrated, she withdrew a small notebook and consulted it. "Now that the war is over, what are you planning to do with your life?"

"I can't answer that," Potter said, his face going impassive.

The reporter blinked. "May I ask why not, or will that cost me another question?" she asked dryly.

Potter didn't smile. "It's classified."

"Are you currently employed?" she pressed, quill hovering over her notebook.

Potter didn't move a muscle. "Same answer."

The frustration grew visibly. "All right. Will you take my head off if I ask about your personal life?"

"Have you heard it's dangerous ground?" Potter asked, his mouth twitching.

She hedged. "Possibly."

"It isn't. I'm single, and not looking to be otherwise." Potter gave her a charming smile and sipped his champagne for the first time.

"There are rumours that - "

"I don't respond to rumours," Potter interrupted. "Let's change the topic."

"Absolutely. What would you like to talk about?"

"Quidditch. My favourite team is the Chudley Cannons."

"Why them?"

"I follow them out of loyalty to my best friend," Potter said. He extended a hand. "This was fun. Enjoy the party."

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again at Potter's subtle shift in expression and looked at his hand. She shook it and smiled resignedly. "Thank you," she said. "You, too."

"I will," Potter assured her. It was an obvious invitation to leave, and she took it.

Draco watched her go with interest. He'd never seen Potter so socially dominant. He'd always been the type to react rather than instigate, as he'd noticed. He'd spent so much time angling after those very reactions himself, in another lifetime. "Nicely done," he said, reluctantly impressed by Potter's manoeuvring.

Potter's seeming good mood had vanished. "There was nothing nice about it." He stood abruptly. "Thanks for the drink. I'll see you later."

Draco got to his feet before he knew what was happening. "Potter - "

If Potter heard, he gave no indication, striding off into the crowd.

Draco looked at his retreating back and refused to answer the infuriating question of whether he was more annoyed by Potter or intrigued.

__________________

 

It was late and Pansy had disappeared. Draco had put the time intervening to good use, mingling with the influential and saying the things people wanted to hear. It was so easy, such a simple little game. Pity the rules didn't work on Potter, who had spent the entire ball avoiding him. Perhaps deliberately, perhaps not. Draco only saw him now and then, when then crowd shifted to allow him a glimpse of Potter being talked to by various and sundry guests. Draco took stock of the emptying ballroom and realised that Potter was gone. He cursed under his breath and set his (fourth? Fifth?) champagne glass down and went to get some air. It was stuffy and suffocating in every sense.

There was a side door near the kitchens that led outdoors. Draco slipped through it unnoticed and found himself in what could only be the back alley behind what appeared from the outside to be a large, derelict warehouse. Potter was sitting on an upturned crate, a bottle of Dom Perignon in hand. Draco glanced at it out of habit, but could not see how much was left in the dark. Startled, he said, "Potter. What are you doing here?"

Potter tipped his head back and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. "I could ask you the same thing," he said. His speech was just careless enough to indicate being somewhat pissed, but it was not yet the carefully precise speech of the outright drunk, a fact for which Draco was thankful. He wasn't sure he could handle Potter trashed.

Draco looked around and found another crate and kicked it over to where Potter was sitting. "I just wanted some air," he said. "You?" It was cool.

Potter shrugged. "Same." He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened the bow tie. "God, I hate those things."

"Do you?" He kept his voice neutral, reminding himself that he was pursuing a friendship with the hostile git. "Why do you always go, then?"

"Have to. You have no idea how snubbed people get when I don't show up for whatever charity ball they're throwing. Especially if I come without a date." He rolled his eyes.

"So bring a date," Draco said, but he was thinking of Potter's answer about his relationship status. "You don't have to like her, Potter."

Potter snorted. "It's not very likely that I would. The only people who would want to come with me are fame seekers. I don't want that, even if it's just a sham. I don't want that, either."

"What do you want?" Draco was curious despite himself. He leaned over and took the bottle from Potter's hand. "Give that here."

Potter watched him drink and held out his hand after. Draco passed it back and Potter took a long swallow, his throat bobbing. Draco's eyes lingered on the white skin of said throat and did not think thoughts that he would have to have himself castrated for thinking. "What do I want," Potter repeated with a short laugh. "That's a good one, Malfoy. I want to be left alone."

Draco was stung, regardless of the fact that he didn't even particularly want to be Potter's friend in the first place. He rose abruptly, shoulders tensed.

Potter interrupted him before he was able to think of a decent exit line, mid-sip. "No - I didn't mean now, Malfoy. I just meant in general." He lowered the bottle and looked at Draco. "Come on. Sit down. It's kind of nice having the company."

Draco sat. "If it's so nice, why did you take off before?" It was pointed and he knew it. Maybe this whole friendship deal was impossible after all. Maybe it wasn't possible for them to even be civil.

"Before?" Potter sounded surprise. "Oh, then. I was just pissed off about the reporter. I hate it when they come up to me at these things. I get it every single time. I can almost ask their questions for them. What are you doing now. Who are you seeing. We've been hearing strange rumours, could you address them. All that. Do you have post-war trauma, if they're trying to be creative."

Draco observed him with undisguised curiosity. He'd never thought of it that way. His entire life, he'd thought of Potter as an attention-seeking prat who was never satisfied unless he was in centre stage, full spotlight, all too happy to establish the image of the lone boy hero, saviour of the world as everyone knew it. He knew it just as surely as he knew, in some secret, scarce-acknowledged place that his lifelong dislike of Potter had far more to do with the latter spurning his friendship than it had to do with politics. So Potter hated the interviews and the attention. He made himself respond automatically. "So, do you?" he asked, intending it to be humorous.

Potter chuckled. "No." The laughter turned to a sigh. "I'm just trying to figure out how to live a normal life like a normal person. Do normal-people things and all that." He raked his fingers through his hair, which made him look even more disreputable, the champagne bottle dangling loosely from his other hand.

"How's it going?"

Potter glanced at him and looked away. "Hard," he admitted. "I could forget it, or at least let it be the past and stay there, but it's like the public won't let me move on and fade into obscurity. I never wanted people to know who I am. I was shocked when I found out that I was a wizard, let alone a famous one that people like you had been reading about their entire childhoods. I never did know how to deal with it, and now that it's all over, I still don't and I'm tired of trying. I just want to be."

The wine had loosened Potter's tongue, evidently. Draco held out his hand for the bottle again. He drank and considered what to say. Resting the bottle on one knee, he said, "Maybe you'll never be forgotten. But you could still live normally and do normal things."

Potter didn't look convinced. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Draco passed him the champagne. "What sort of thing do you want to do, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know." Potter avoided his gaze, taking another swig.

Draco thought. An idea occurred. "Do you really support the Cannons?"

"Sure," Potter said. "Why not? They're the first team I got familiar with, thanks to Ron."

Draco ignored the reference. "I have tickets to the Cannons vs. Tornados game on Tuesday. I don't suppose you would want to come. I have a spare ticket."

Potter gave him a look of open surprise, lips parting. For a moment he seemed lost for words. "Me?"

Draco took care to keep his tone casual. "I don't have plans to go with anyone else so far."

Potter wavered. "Are you sure? I mean, if there's someone you'd rather go with…"

Draco held out his hand for the champagne again. "Don't be a twit, Potter. Normal people go to Quidditch matches, correct? I'm offering. Don't take it if you don't want it. But if you do, then come. It's not complicated."

Potter gazed at him, looking very much as though he was deliberately filtering things out of his speech. "All right, then," he said offhandedly. "I'll come, then. I wanted tickets, but they were all sold out. And sometimes I work evenings - " He stopped, catching himself.

Draco waved it off with the bottle and passed it back. "I don't need to know what you do, Potter. Relax."

Potter accepted the bottle. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about it, that's all."

"It's perfectly fine." Draco nodded toward the bottle. "That's about empty, I'd say. Finish it off and let's get out of this alley."

Potter grinned and obediently drained the bottle. "Good stuff," he said appraisingly. "My favourite champagne."

That was a surprise, that Potter knew enough champagnes to have a favourite in the first place, but Draco reminded himself that if he was attending balls, dinners, and fundraisers every other week-end, of course he would know his wines by now. "I like it myself," he said. He got to his feet and offered Potter his hand.

Potter took it and pulled himself up with little effort. Draco could feel the lightness of his movement, the power tingling in his fingers, and was suddenly aware that this could almost be symbolic. This time, Potter had taken his hand. Stupid. That was old history. He pushed the thought away and let go of Potter. "I'm Apparating," he said. "You?"

"The same," Potter said. "So, Tuesday - where should I meet you?"

"The game's in Chudley," Draco said. "Why don't I meet you… outside the Ministry, say, and we can take a Portkey. I'll be in the neighbourhood and I can pick one up. Six-thirty?"

"Six-thirty," Potter confirmed. Suddenly, he smiled. "Thanks, Malfoy."

Draco didn't quite smile back; it was just a tightening at the corners of his mouth, but he was trying. Potter's enthusiasm warmed him, though. "You're welcome. See you Tuesday."

"Good night," Potter said. He looked for a moment as though he might say something else, then changed his mind and Disapparated.

The alley seemed twice as dark now that he was alone. Draco wasted no time and swiftly Apparated home himself.

__________________

 

Twenty-five past six, and Draco was jittery. Potter had better show, damn it. He'd had a bit of trouble getting the tickets after claiming to already have them in his possession, and besides, he hadn't seen a live match for over two years. Auror training was intensely time consuming and the opportunity simply hadn't presented itself.

A small pop a few meters away made him jump. Potter emerged from the alley beside the Ministry building and spotted him at once. "Hi," he said.

"Hello," Draco replied. He pulled a ticket from his pocket. "I have an idea. Why don't we Disillusion ourselves for the match? That way perhaps no one would recognise you and bother you."

He would have suggested a glamour, but supposedly only Aurors and Auror candidates knew how to do those, and he wasn't about to out them both. Potter's face showed similar signs of calculation, and then he nodded. "Great idea," he said. "I like it!" He pulled out his wand and indicated the alley with his chin. "Shall we?"

Draco followed them, withdrawing the Portkey with a handkerchief. "It's set to go whenever we want," he said. "We'd better Disillusion once we get there."

"Right." Potter reached for it. "On three?"

Draco smiled in spite of himself. "Just take it."

The instant Potter's fingers touched the cold iron of the key, Draco took it with his other hand and activated it. The tug of the Portkey pulled them together, legs bumping. He hoped Potter wouldn't think that had been intentional. He knew how Portkeys worked. They arrived seconds later outside the Chudley Quidditch pitch and Draco rapidly sheathed his fingers again, stowing the Portkey back in his pocket.

Potter moved away from him as though he hadn't noticed the sudden contact, but the faint touch of colour on both cheeks gave him away. "Let's Disillusion, then," he said, and without waiting, went ahead and cast the spell on himself.

Draco did his own, mindful to keep his eyes on Potter's precise location. He could see a shimmery outline, but little else. "Row ninety-seven," he said.

"Good thing I'm in shape," Potter joked.

Draco laughed and thought to himself that Potter was rather fit, indeed. "Good thing. Come on."

__________________

 

The match lasted three and a half hours and was very close, an exciting game that brought Draco back to his own Quidditch days, the sense of speeding through the air on your own power alone, coupled with the Levitation Charm on the broom. The thrill of the hunt for the Snitch, the rush of wind against his face as he spiralled into a dive. He'd nearly always caught the Snitch. Only Potter beat him every time they had ever played against one another. The adrenaline sang in his ears all over again. He didn't even have team loyalties any more, but he cast his lot with Potter's and hoped for the Cannons. They won, and it was exhilarating. Potter relaxed entirely once the match began, talking excitedly about the flying moves, the strategies, the Snitch. He even referred to moves Draco had made, back in their Hogwarts days, and Draco understood that Potter had dropped the cool front. When the Cannons won, the crowd on their side of the stadium roared their approval and, on their feet with everyone else, Potter spontaneously flung his arms around Draco.

Both Disillusionments faded. Potter let go quickly enough, but not so quickly that Draco hadn't had time to register Potter's closeness, his heat, his magic sparking in his veins with excitement, his hips colliding with Draco's in a way that was anything but painful. It was as exhilarating as the victory, little though Draco cared to admit it to himself. His body memorised the feel of it instantly and he knew that he was aroused by it. He let go awkwardly and Potter looked apologetic.

Above the noise of the shouting spectators, Potter called, "Sorry, Malfoy - I forgot myself, there. Thought I was with Ron or something."

If Potter's hugs made Weasley feel anything like what he was currently feeling, Draco made a note to himself to have Weasley dismembered post-haste. "It's fine," he said loudly, trying to be heard. "Forget it."

Potter had been turning away, but at this, he glanced back. His mouth moved, forming words that Draco couldn't hear, mumbling to himself, but he didn't repeat it and Draco didn't ask him to.

As the pitch and bleachers emptied, they filed down the steps with everyone else, Disillusioned again, but surrounded too closely to have a proper conversation. Potter's spell faded once they were on the grass and further away from the other spectators and Draco let his go, too. "You're going home now?" Potter asked, eyes flitting over his.

He hadn't thought that far. "I suppose I should," Draco said. "It's pretty late."

"True," Potter said. "I do have to get up fairly early."

"Isn't that classified?" Draco asked, with a sidelong smile.

Potter laughed and shoved him lightly, just a push against the shoulder. "Git. I think I can say that much, at least."

The contact burned, and Draco's spine was rigid with the knowledge of the touch. "All right," he heard himself saying, his voice strangely distant in his ears.

"We should do something like this again," Potter said firmly. "A drink or something. Dinner. Whatever." He hesitated, perhaps thinking this too forward, and backtracked. "It doesn't have to be anything formal. Just coffee, even."

Progress! Excellent. "Any time," Draco said, his voice still sounding strange to him. He was half-hard and prayed Potter wouldn't notice.

"I'll owl you," Potter said.

"Can you owl? Do owls come to your neighbourhood?"

"Sure," Potter said. "Thanks for this. It was great."

"Feel normal?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Stop that," Potter said, smiling. "Yeah. It felt good to get out and do something like this. I had fun hanging out with you, too. It's nice talking to someone who knows so much about Quidditch and flying."

His tone was overly warm and enthusiastic for his words, and his cheeks were flushed again. Poor git really does need to get out more, Draco thought. "I had fun, too," he said. He had never in his life said anything of the sort; he was not the type to reciprocate, at least not under normal circumstances. But this was far from normal: he was trying to establish a friendship. And besides which, he would have felt badly coming across lukewarm in the face of Potter's animated face. "Owl me, then."

"I will," Potter promised.

"Good night," Draco said.

"Good night." Potter smiled again, and Disapparated.

Draco went home, pulled off his cloak and opened his trousers. Not even bothering to take them off, he leaned back against the door of his flat and had one of the fastest, hardest wanks of his life, his fist jerking rapidly up the length of his cock. And as he did so, it occurred to him that he wanted to fuck Potter into the floor, be fucked by him until he was aching, consummate all manner of unnatural and perverse acts with him. His imagination had just raced ahead to the thought of Potter's tongue sliding into him, hot and wet and filthy, pushing against the tight ring of muscle and into his very core when his senses overloaded. He came, the wave of orgasm gripping him in a hot, prickling vise. A second later, the come spattered onto the tiled floor of his tiny foyer. He let his head fall limply back against the door, panting, his hand still circled loosely around his softening cock, and thought over what he'd just actively, deliberately thought about himself and Potter. Together. Really, he asked himself sardonically, but knew already that it was more than a perverse fantasy in the heat of the moment. He did want that. Potter was attractive. He couldn't deny it to himself if he tried. Disturbed by this, Draco went immediately to bed, troubled, and resolved not to think about it any more than he absolutely had to.

__________________

 

Potter owled him on Thursday, true to his word. All the note said was: Hi. Wondered if you'd be up for a drink tonight, unless you have plans. Let me know. HP Draco silently congratulated himself: the tables were turned now. Potter was seeking him out. He scribbled a quick reply with a time and the name of a lounge close to his flat and posted it. Everything was going to plan.

As for that other little thing, well, Potter didn't have to know that Draco had wanked several times since Tuesday night to thoughts of Potter's warm body and contagious enthusiasm. Some things were on a need-to-know basis. Pure and simple.

__________________

 

Potter's coolness seemed to have evaporated entirely. In fact, this entire assignment might be far easier than Draco had thought; Potter seemed almost starved for decent company. Not surprising, considering who his friends were - honestly, could one really expect stimulating company from the likes of Weasley and Longbottom? He would retreat behind carefully cultivated façades of disinterest whenever they broached a subject he preferred not to discuss, but otherwise he was open enough. Draco kept the ball in his own court, asking more questions than he answered. Potter sometimes gave him strange smiles, as though he knew exactly what Draco was doing, but he didn't question it or say anything.

As for himself, he was grudgingly forced to admit that he was discovering a far more interesting person in Potter than he'd expected, and it was disturbing. They had, despite sundry differences of personality, world view, and about a thousand other insignificant details, many things in common and conversation was not difficult. The fact that he found Potter so physically appealing did nothing to help; it filtered into his perception of Potter-as-friend regardless of how hard he tried to ignore it.

The drink ended over two hours later, with an agreement to have dinner at some point in the near future, and Draco went home feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. Potter made him laugh - his sense of humour was surprisingly sarcastic and edgy and he had a habit of making up bits of information about the various patrons in the lounge, none of which were remotely true.

"That bloke in the orange," Potter had said once, leaning in conspiratorially. "Hates his wife but would never leave her. He's too dependant on her inheritance. Plus, he's never learned how to do his own laundry."

Draco had observed the man in question. "What would he do if he was free?"

"Probably the same thing he does now, only more often," Potter responded promptly. "He goes to the sauna after work and pretends he's not checking out the younger generation."

Draco noticed the lack of gender specification and did not comment. At home later, despite his reluctance, he admitted to himself that he'd been listening for it.

__________________

 

The following Friday, Potter picked him up at home in his Muggle car. He'd insisted, once he'd learned that Draco had never been in one. He'd been in magical cars on rare occasion, but they had mostly travelled by Floo and Apparition in his youth. Cars were slow and unnecessary. He approached the navy vehicle with slight apprehension and opened the door.

Potter grinned at him. "It's okay, it's not going to throw you out or anything. No magical qualities whatsoever."

Draco scanned the interior of the car, found the gauges and stared at them. "I suppose your petrol tank isn't permanently full, by any chance."

Potter laughed, both looking and sounding guilty. "How did you know? That's your seat belt there - put it on - and if you want to know about anything, just say the word. So, where are we going?"

"You said you liked Greek," Draco said.

"I do."

"Then take us to Fulham Road." Draco slid his eyes to Potter's hands on the wheel and watched his every move.

Potter drove the way he flew, edgy and fast and with great skill. He was quick and aggressive, but never out of control. "So, I saw an old man in a store today."

Many of Potter's stories started this way: vague references to random people in unspecified places. Draco made a sound to acknowledge that he'd heard, waiting for Potter to carry on.

"A wizard, I mean." Potter looked at him, ignoring the traffic for the time being, one hand resting lightly on the bottom of the wheel. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"You always say that."

"I know. Anyway, he was trying to buy fruit at a stand outside this store, and some teenagers came up and tried to mug him."

"What did he do?"

"Well, he tried to Stun them, but I Obliviated him before he could. They forget sometimes, when they get older, how you're not allowed to do stuff like that. I was keeping him out of trouble."

"And you're allowed to get away with that?" Draco prodded, knowing that Potter wouldn't confess his actual profession, but enjoying the provocation regardless.

"One of the perks of being the Boy Who Lived," Potter reminded him, using one of Draco's own jabs. "Okay, we're on Fulham. Where to?"

Draco directed him, wincing as Potter swerved sharply to the left and then back to the right to pass a slower-moving car.

"Calm down, I'm not going to kill you. Not today, anyway." Potter grinned again, obviously in a good mood, and Draco felt his face reflecting it back before he could help himself. It was hard not to catch Potter's moods - when he was depressed, Draco was angry at everything. When he was happy, everything was radiant. Possibilities were everything. Colours were brighter. It was hopeless.

He knew it was a crush. A stupid, foolish crush that was only happening because there were no other targets around to distract him. But letting Potter find out would not only ruin whatever they had going on, but also any chance Draco still had of qualifying. It would weird Potter out to unspeakable degrees to discover that, just as he was beginning to get over his instinctive distrust and quite probable dislike of him, that Draco had some sort of perverted homosexual attraction for him. No. It absolutely could not happen. Draco clenched his jaw without meaning to and stared fiercely out the window of Potter's car, trying not to wince as the other cars came disturbingly close on Potter's side or the kerb on his own.

At the restaurant, Potter was quieter. He read the entire menu from cover to cover, then said that he was having the chicken souvlaki. Draco, who had opened the menu looking for chicken souvlaki in the first place, found this amusing but wouldn't comment when Potter wanted to know what he was smiling about. He hadn't known he was smiling.

Potter leaned across the table, elbows sprawled everywhere, which even he should know was bad manners by now. His eyes sparked from the tea light in the clay jar between them. "Fine. Keep your little secrets. You're probably laughing at me, and I don't know why, but you know what?"

He had no choice but to say it. "What?"

"I don't care," Potter said smugly. "You can go ahead and think whatever you want. But you're not fooling me."

Draco fought down his panic. "What do you mean?" He averted his eyes and took a sip of water to put something, some distance, a screen between them.

"Just that. You seem to want to be friends with me all of a sudden, and I haven't asked why, have I? But here we are, together again, and you don't seem to hate it enough to stop wanting to do it again every time, so I figure you couldn't hate it, or you wouldn't. You never did stuff you didn't want to do."

Draco put his water carefully down on the white-napped table. "What makes you think I haven't changed? You've changed."

"Have I?" Potter didn't sound surprised. "I guess war will do that."

"I guess it will," Draco said evenly.

Potter's eyebrows quirked up at that. "I take your point."

"I didn't particularly want to get involved in a war on either side," Draco said, watching the tiny candle flame flicker and jump. "But it happens, and you either have to rise to the occasion or find someplace to hide."

Potter was observing him acutely. "I always pegged Slytherins as the hiding sort. I hope that isn't offensive, after everything you… yeah. Sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

Draco shrugged. "I can't fault you for thinking that. That's what half my housemates did."

"You keep in touch with them?"

His mouth tightened. "Not much. Just Pansy."

"I heard she went to France."

"You have good sources."

"So, how does that work, for you?" Potter asked, still bent as far forward as he could get without actually lying on the table. "How can you be friends with people who ditched you during the war, left you to do the dirty parts and then came back once everything was okay again - thanks to thousands of people's sacrifices and deaths?"

Draco saw his fingernails, white on the water glass. "You're ranting," he said, without emotion.

Potter exhaled. "Sorry. I don't usually do that much any more. I just think it's a raw deal for you."

"What about you?" Draco shifted his gaze upward to meet Potter's serious face.

"What do you mean? Do I mind that all sorts of people who didn't bother about the war get to enjoy the peace now? No. Not really."

"Why not? Why do you get to be special?" Draco felt a twist of the old anger, the old annoyance, and for a moment it dimmed the newer feelings. "Or are you just that noble?"

"Nobility has nothing to do with it," Potter said, voice hard. "I did what I had to do because I had no choice about it. There was a prophecy. It was me or no one. What was I supposed to do, just sit back and let Voldemort destroy everything that makes life worth living? You chose to fight. I did it by default. It was the only decent thing to do."

Potter's hands were gripping the base of his water glass so tightly in turn that he might have broken it, but it didn't break. Draco dragged his eyes up to Potter's in the silence that stretched out between them. "I did it because it was the only decent thing to do, too."

Potter reached out and closed strong fingers around his wrist, wet with the condensation from his glass. His hold was firm and sure, his eyes almost too intense to bear. "Thank you."

A thousand thoughts ricocheted off each other in Draco's mind as he attempted to sort through Potter's words and the fact that he was touching him again as his own, disturbed emotions, eddying about like silt that had been stirred up again. A server came by then, asking something about them ordering, and it startled them both. Potter abruptly released his wrist.

"We'll both have the chicken souvlaki," he said. "And some wine, I think. What's your house red?"

Draco answered the server's questions and kept his burning face down as he handed over his menu.

__________________

 

In the car later, Potter was calm again and drove slowly. It seemed to Draco, less familiar with the twists and turns of London's streets, that he was taking a rather roundabout route back to Draco's flat. It was late, close to midnight, and the light from the streetlights was reflecting on Potter's face as they flickered past.

"I'm sorry about before," Potter said, moving his hands to the bottom of the wheel again, his fingers holding it loosely.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I didn't mean for things to get so intense, there." Potter kept his eyes on the road and turned to drive around the northern edge of Hyde Park.

"It's fine," Draco said. "I suppose we had to talk about the war sometime."

"It's that one topic," Potter agreed. "It's something that needs to be acknowledged, at least, if we're going to be friends. Obviously it was a huge part of our lives. I don't know what you do and you don't know what I do, but I think it's probably safe to say that the war has effected what we do with the rest of our lives."

Draco agreed silently. It was true, though he couldn't say so. "It couldn't really help but do that for most of our generation, I think."

"And you'd be the first to point out that we're not most people," Potter said. "You, the son of a famous Death Eater."

"You, the Boy Who Lived," Draco quipped humourlessly.

"Of course." Potter glanced at him. "Thanks for being willing to actually talk about it properly. So many people don't want to - it scares them, I think. Especially talk to me about it. They seem to think it's such a sensitive subject that I'll be angry at them for bringing it up or get mental or something. I mean, it's not like I really want to talk about it most of the time, but sometimes you do."

"I suppose you do."

Potter turned down Draco's street and stopped a short way from the entrance. "Well, here we are. I promise more cheerful topics next time. If there's a next time, that is."

"Any reason there shouldn't be?" Draco located the release for his seatbelt and pressed it.

"Not to my knowledge. Should I owl you?"

"All right."

Potter hesitated, then leaned over and hugged him. Draco had been half-expecting it, but even so, nothing could have prepared him adequately. He freed his arms and put them around Potter, feeling a decade younger and far less sure of himself than he needed to be. Potter had had all sorts of specialised training during the war. If he had any skill in Legilimency, there was no way he could miss Draco's attraction and - well, whatever else it was - with the physical contact. He was warm and his magic touched Draco's tentatively, and it was electric. Draco felt his body respond, his cock tingling with the awareness of Potter's body, his magic. Potter's palms were hot against his back and Draco didn't know how tightly to hold. He'd never felt so out of control where situations involving physical proximity were involved. Potter shifted closer, his chest pressing into Draco's, and the hug was now officially awkwardly long. Should he end it? He didn't want to be rude or hurt Potter's feelings, but neither did Potter need to get any closer and find out just how much Draco was trying not to enjoy the contact. He was at least half-hard, noticeably so, a fact which he would have to find a way of hiding as soon as Potter let go. Potter turned his face and pressed a cheek into Draco's and it was unbearably intimate. Like a lover, not that he'd ever had one. He'd had people to fuck and little else. Emotion rose up around him like a cloud, and he had to let go now, or else it would choke him and come spilling out and then it would be over with Potter. Draco detached himself, gently but definitely.

"I have to go." He spoke quickly, avoiding Potter's eye. "I - sorry. I have to get up early, that's all, and I - you'll owl me?" He was babbling, but still wanted Potter's confirmation.

Potter was blinking and trying too obviously to look casual. Was he upset? "Yes. If you want me to."

"I - yeah. Owl me." Draco's face was hot with embarrassment at his own inability to hide this very simple thing.

"I will, then," Potter said. He hesitated. "Tomorrow too soon?"

Never might be too soon, at this rate. "Tomorrow would be great," Draco managed, sounding strangled.

"I'll see you, then," Potter said, too quickly. "Good night."

"Good night." Where was the door handle? Oh, there - Draco got himself out of the car, closed the door hastily and hurried inside, cursing himself mightily. God, how awkward! He couldn't have done anything differently, though. If he'd stayed any longer, he would have lost his ability to suppress his urge to kiss Potter, touch him, tangle his fingers in that impossible hair. How ridiculous! But the urge was there nonetheless. Furious with himself, he gave himself a talking to about the qualification, his assignment, and crawled into bed to sleep off his humiliation, his cock hard, the blanket sliding over it like a whisper. He wrapped one hand around it and tried not to think of Potter, but it was far too late for that. He came mouthing Potter's name into his pillow, rutting against his mattress as though he was a teenager again. After, he lay still and pulled the blanket tight around himself and knew that if it had been that close this last time, it would only get worse from here on in.

__________________

 

Potter didn't owl the next day, nor the next. Finally on Friday a short note arrived. All it said was something along the lines of his Saturday evening being open if Draco wanted to do something with him and to owl back if that were the case. Bugger put the ball in my court, Draco thought, staring at the parchment. He turned the scroll over, flattened it, and thought some more. He wanted to see Potter. He found it difficult to believe, but he wanted to see Potter very much. He was twenty-seven years old. Surely he could control his hormones. He picked up his quill and wrote back, instructing Potter to meet him at a café just outside Diagon Alley at eight.

He wasn't nervous. Being apprehensive was completely different. Draco picked up his coffee and stared disconsolately off into space.

__________________

 

Potter was there ahead of him, twisting up a paper serviette into unrecognisable forms in his fingers. He saw Draco at once and dropped the serviette. Draco picked his way across the crowded café to Potter's table.

"Hi," Potter said, standing up hurriedly. "Let me get you something."

"I can get my own," Draco said coolly. Potter knew. It was obvious. He was going to try to be nice about it, let him down gently and then tell Draco why they couldn't be friends, given the circumstances. He didn't need Potter's pity, however, and did not intend to accept it.

"No, let me," Potter insisted. He shoved his glasses agitatedly up the bridge of his nose. "Please. What do you like?"

The palms of his hands had not gone clammy since he'd been about sixteen, but they were clammy now. He tried to stay calm and spoke over the buzz in his head. "A latte would be fine. Low fat."

Potter's eyes skated down over his front and it looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind. "All right. I'll be right back." He bolted, leaving Draco standing by the table.

He sat down and attempted to gather his thoughts. Where had his sarcastic inner monologue gone? The one that was meant to be talking about how he didn't care what Potter thought of him, how he was just a bespectacled git who'd lucked his way through an entire war, how he was only doing this to satisfy a requirement. All that. It wasn't working, though. The monologue was playing now, feeding him a steady montage of reasons to discount Potter's opinion of him, but it wasn't connecting or something. He cared. He did, and it was a problem, because how was he going to get through this ordeal if he was thinking that he cared about Potter for some misguided reason? He was not the type to fuck up his assignments, and he was fucking this one up royally. Draco gritted his teeth together and told himself get it under control, force Potter to believe it was all in his imagination. There hadn't been any untoward feelings on Draco's part whatsoever.

Potter came back and held one of the paper cups out to Draco, shifting his weight. "Uh, I got them to go - I was wondering if we could actually maybe go somewhere else. I sort of think we should talk, and I don't really want to do it here." He cast a look around the café. "Too crowded. Would that be okay?"

That confirmed it. "Whatever you like," Draco said, his stomach like lead.

"We can go to my flat," Potter said, shrugging on his Muggle jacket. "I live pretty close by, but we can Apparate."

Draco followed him silently out of the café, the latte steaming gently through the hole in the lid of the paper cup.

Outside, Potter told him the address, refusing to meet his eyes. Indicating they should Apparate separately, Draco knew. His organs clenched. Potter went first; Draco second. They were in the corridor outside the door to a flat. Potter put a thumb and third finger on the doorknob and a series of locks clicked, wards popping silently against Draco's eardrums. Potter went in and held the door open for Draco, pulled off the jacket and tossed it on the back of a wooden chair in the narrow front hall. "Come in," he said, and went into the large room directly ahead.

Draco trailed after him and sipped the latte, glancing around at Potter's walls. He'd wondered what Potter's abode looked like. Potter had surprisingly good, if eclectic taste. The furniture was mostly modern, the art a mix of personal curios, something that looked like a scarf or possibly a sari draped across one section of wall. He recognised Dean Thomas' style in another section, paired with a series of photographs of Italian Renaissance sculptures. Potter sat down at one end of the sofa and sort of waved generally at the other end of the sofa and the armchairs near it.

Draco sat down near the farther end of the sofa. The entire flat was open, the kitchen separated only by the tile flooring distinguishing it from the common area. The bedroom was hidden by folding rattan screens. Draco caught himself and shifted his gaze from the screens, picked something off his trousers and waited for Potter to talk.

"I'm not upset with you or anything like that," Potter said hastily. "I just - there's something we should talk about."

"Get on with it, then," Draco said, his throat tight.

Potter took a long drink from his cup. Was he stalling? He rested the cup on his knee and swallowed. "Er, I think I've made a mistake. I think I've been sending messages I shouldn't have been sending. And, uh - God, I'm really bad at this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

The cup was hot against Draco's palm despite the cardboard sleeve. He didn't know what to say and couldn't remember when he'd been more embarrassed, though that wasn't the right word to describe the burning in his belly. "I'm sorry, too," he mumbled, face growing hot. It sounded rather lame.

"I mean, here we are, getting to be friends," Potter said. "And I go and fuck it up like that. I probably made you completely uncomfortable and I'm really sorry. I just realised it had gone too far last time and should either explain myself and be up front with you or else stop trying to pretend this is something it isn't."

Draco shook his head. "You didn't make me uncomfortable," he said quietly.

"Maybe not, but I would have," Potter said miserably. "It would have gone a little further every time until you were finally so freaked out, I don't know what would have happened." He pushed his hand impatiently through his hair and exhaled gustily. "I should have told you how I felt from the start."

The pressure to respond properly was growing. To confess, much as he didn't want to. "I suppose I should have, too, but it wasn't like that at the beginning."

"That's exactly what makes it so uncomfortable now," Potter agreed. "I mean, it was I could do to keep from - well - the other night was weird for me."

"I'm sure it was," Draco said, trying to disguise how upset he was. He had been hoping that he had been exaggerating Potter's discomfort to some extent, but apparently he had not.

"Weren't you uncomfortable?" Potter pressed.

Draco gave a short laugh. "No. That's the whole problem."

Potter went completely still. Then: "What?"

"Obviously, that's the problem," Draco repeated. "For some reason I will never understand, I seem to want this to be something it's not going to be, and since that can't happen, we have a problem."

Potter blinked. Then slowly, he said, "I think I missed something. I'm completely confused."

Draco's brows came together. "What? What are you confused about?"

Potter spoke slowly and clearly. "I've been trying to tell you that I'm - that I'm interested in having more than a friendship with you. I'm attracted to you. I'm sorry, but I am. And you're probably straight and not at all interested that way. I mean, we've barely started being friends, so for me to suddenly - "

"What?" Draco couldn't believe his ears. "I thought you were trying to tell me you weren't interested and that you were uncomfortable with the fact that I am." Oops. He hadn't meant for it to come out quite that blatantly, but there it was.

Potter just stared at him for a second, then gave a bark of surprised laughter. "Fuck that," he said succinctly. "I've been interested in you for years! I thought - never mind. Never mind what I thought, it doesn't matter. I want you. I like you. I thought this was going to end our friendship completely." He moved much closer to Draco, eager. "You're really interested in me?"

He could hardly speak and muttered something about aberrations on his paternal side and Potter snickered and took his latte away, setting both cups on the floor and his hands on Draco's thighs. The tension in Draco's belly shifted down directly into his crotch as all of the blood in his body rushed south. Something fierce flashed hotly through him and he couldn't even acknowledge to himself how worried he'd actually been. He was dizzy and there was something hot roiling about in his middle in the very best of ways. "You've always been an idiot, Potter," he said, his mouth dry, the relief making him sharp. "Why should I have expected anything else from you?"

Potter just laughed. "I'm the idiot? If I hadn't brought this up, how long would you have let it go, wanting it and never saying anything?" Draco had no decent answer for this and Potter knew it. "Never mind. I don't care. It doesn't matter any more." His eyes were full of heat and his face came closer. He paused, eyes burning into Draco's, silently waiting for permission. He must have heard something, because then his mouth coming to touch Draco's, slow but unhesitating. Draco found himself responding, leaning into Potter, dizzy with some unnameable good feeling that was curling through him like smoke, like a firework in slow motion. His fingers were digging into Potter's unkempt hair, Potter's arms wrapped around his back in a strong grip. He heard a sound that sounded something like desperation, and realised with not a little horror that it had come from him. Potter's mouth opened against his, his breath hot and tasting like coffee. Draco's own mouth probably tasted like coffee, too, so they were even there. Their tongues touched, then pressed together and Potter's hands were moving down his back, untucking his shirt and sliding up, warm from the coffee cup and Draco's arousal became so acute that he could actively feel his self-control slipping from his grasp. He gasped into Potter's mouth and clutched at his shoulders, his chest, then dropped a hand to Potter's lap and squeezed. Potter was firming up in his pants and he moaned against Draco's neck, his hand coming back around the front to grab at Draco's cock. It was all happening so fast that he scarcely had time to think about it, but it was exactly what he wanted and Potter hardly seemed disinclined.

Potter pulled away after several disgustingly wonderful minutes of this (ten? Twenty? Draco had no idea) and gave him a rather penetrating look. "I can't believe I got it so wrong."

Draco would have preferred not to talk at this point, but it seemed rude to say so and the last thing he wanted was to fuck this up. "You thought I was straight?" he said, aware that his hair was dishevelled, his mouth wet with Potter's saliva. "I thought everyone knew I was gay. I thought you were straight."

Potter snorted. "Don't you read the gossip headlines? Sometimes the rumours get it right, you know."

"How foolish of me," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "No, I don't read anything of the sort. You couldn't have just said something, just to let me know?"

"I was trying not to," Potter said. "You have no idea how close I was to making a serious pass at you on Tuesday after dinner."

"You should have," Draco said.

Potter took him by the back of his head and kissed him again, his mouth strong and sure, the fierce feeling growing unmistakeably stronger. Potter's hands were scrabbling at his trousers, unzipping them first, then finally getting the button. He pulled Draco's cock out and curled his hand around it, tight and warm. Assured. Experienced. Draco felt a stab of jealousy, but it was secondary to everything else he was feeling at the moment. When he could breathe again, he got Potter's trousers out of the way, his fingers pulling Potter's stiff cock out. It was an angry dark red and jutted out in demanding fashion, all but ordering Draco aloud to touch it. He stroked it, relishing just how hard Potter was, watched it grow subtly even larger in his palm. God. He swallowed and met Potter's intense gaze. A second later, their mouths came together violently again, and Draco didn't know when he'd last felt as good. Potter knew exactly what he was doing; that little jerk he gave with his wrist at the end of every pull was sheer genius. Oh, to see him wank! Potter's teeth dug into his lower lip and Draco bit and licked at his mouth, his tongue, humping Potter's hand wildly. Potter's hips snapped forward, his cock pulsing in Draco's fist. Draco began to jerk Potter's cock rapidly. It was slippery with precome and Potter made an agonised sound, panting against his neck. One of his arms was clamped around Draco's shoulders and the other was pumping furiously at Draco's cock and it was heaven. He was going to come, but he wanted to prolong this for as long as possible. Potter moved the arm holding him down to his thigh, back up to thumb Draco's protruding nipple, then to his face in a fiercely tender gesture. It was overwhelming. Draco could feel Potter's orgasm building - even his magic was sparking and prickling, as though something in the room might just explode along with Potter's cock when the time came.

Potter's grip on his cock tightened and then he was tugging at Draco's balls, just hard enough to barely escape being painful, and that did it. Draco's breath turned to fire in his lungs and for a moment his entire body hung suspended in the heat of his orgasm. The wet rush followed, spattering Potter's torso in thick globs of white. After a second, he remembered to keep going himself, pulling at Potter's cock. Potter threw back his head and breathed deeply. There was the telltale spasm in his thighs and then he made a tight sound in his throat and thrust up once, a long, single push into Draco's encircling fist, and came.

All of the books in the top row of his bookshelf threw themselves spontaneously onto the floor. Draco would have been startled if he wasn't feeling so satisfied, but Potter, through his half-closed eyes and panting, laughed.

He was out of breath, himself. "What?" Draco demanded, pushing his hair out of his face.

"They've never done that before!" Potter's face was red, as much from embarrassment as from the orgasm.

Draco's mouth twitched. "Nice," he said, as dryly as he could manage when what he really wanted to do was, horror of horrors, snuggle. He never snuggled, but there was something about the moment that felt strangely as though curling up against Potter's chest might be just the ticket.

Potter stopped laughing and kissed him again, a long, slow kiss with a lot of tongue and fingers in his hair, and it was precisely what he wanted. After, Potter opened his eyes. "Dare I ask if you have somewhere to be tomorrow morning?"

Other than a check-in with Shacklebolt and Moody at noon, Draco's schedule was open. "I don't. Are you asking me to stay?"

"Do you want to stay?" Potter's eyes were very clear and open and direct.

Damn him. "Yes," Draco said honestly, and it felt strange to be so forthright.

"Then please stay."

__________________

 

They mixed drinks and made food and after, went around the screen into what there was of Potter's bedroom. While Potter was fetching their clothes from the other room, Draco got into the bed and shifted over to the far side, leaving room for him. Potter came back and started taking things out of his trouser pockets and lining them up on the dresser. "I see you managed to find the bed," he joked. There was nothing save the bed, the dresser, a floor lamp or two, and a large potted plant in the sectioned-off area.

"I did."

"Shall I join you?" Not waiting for an answer, Potter lifted the blankets and moved over to him, stretching out his legs to push between Draco's. "I can't believe you're actually here. In my bed."

"Willingly," Draco added.

Potter hit him. "I never would have - if I'd never found out you weren't straight, or interested in me, I never would have said a word!"

Draco let his eyes be met. "I know," he said, and Potter kissed him spontaneously.

"I just can't really believe it. It seems too good to be true or something."

"Don't say things like that," Draco said, suddenly sharp. "It's not that complicated. We both wanted in each other's pants, and here we are."

"That's not all there is to it." Potter was very definite. "Not for me, at least. I don't really know about you, but there it is. I like you. I've wanted this for such a long time."

A knot of something hot and tight returned to the pit of Draco's belly. It felt good and warm and anxious all at once. As though danger signals should have been flashing, but for whatever reason, weren't. It shouldn't be this easy. Potter was right. He very much wanted to suppress that thought, though. And Potter liked him. Genuinely liked him. Surely this was going above and beyond the assignment, not that he'd spared that a passing thought in days. He couldn't find the right words because he didn't know what to say. He felt good. Yes. He decided that good was the overriding feeling and went with it. "I wanted this, too." Maybe it wasn't true for before, but it was certainly true now.

It was evidently the right thing to say, because Potter's eyes grew impossibly more intense. He swallowed hard, put a hand on Draco's ribcage and put his mouth on Draco's. It was the most leisurely kiss Draco had experienced, and yet there was nothing leisurely about it other than the tempo. Every infinitesimal movement of lip and tongue seemed magnified, intensified, every lingering touch, and Draco was rock hard again within minutes. Potter slid over, leg coming up to curl around Draco's thigh, gradually shifting until he was lying directly on top of Draco, their cocks rubbing together between their torsos. It occurred to Draco to if Potter fucked like this, this slowly and deliberately, the fact that he was single was astounding, because he could not imagine anyone not wanting that all of the time once they'd experienced it. And he wanted it.

Draco pulled his mouth free. "Fuck me," he said, directly against Potter's throat. The words were mangled and half incoherent, and he was burning with embarrassment at having asked - demanded, he mentally rephrased - but also with the sheer, incomprehensible need. For Potter's cock, in him, claiming him, possessing him.

Potter didn't stop moving, but the air around them both seemed suddenly sharper, more aware. "What?" His mouth was near Draco's ear, his breath warm.

He couldn't repeat it. Except he had to. Draco raised his face, eyes blazing. "Fuck me," he said, very clearly.

Potter looked at him for a long moment. "Okay." No argument, no "are-you-sure"-ing, no "did you bring lube, because I don't have any", just a simple "okay". He buried his face in Draco's neck and his hand slipped between them to cup Draco's cock, his balls. The fingers travelled back, the long middle finger seeking. His face came up, eyes connected for a second, and then Potter kissed him again. There was more urgency to it now, a little more speed, but it was still slow enough to be deliberate. As though Potter was relishing every molecule of Draco's skin, tongue, lips with every molecule of his own, storing aside memories of every tiny thing to remember at some later date. Because, Draco realised with a sudden flash of insight, he's worried it will never happen again. A powerful surge of emotion came over him and left him feeling something he'd never felt before and did not understand.

The finger was pressing against his hole. Potter was massaging it without hesitation of any sort, which was nice. It was a pet peeve of his, fucking blokes who weren't even sure yet whether or not they were squicked by the thought of arse-fucking and the requisite actions that went with it. Potter seemed not only comfortable, but quite happy playing with his arsehole, gently stretching it, his finger dipping in just an inch or so every so often. His preparation was as thoughtful as his kissing, and when he moved away from Draco to reach for a tube, he gave Draco a serious look but said nothing at all.

His fingers were coated in the slick stuff, cool within Draco but warming quickly. The fingers plunged deeply this time and he groaned, spreading his legs, his reluctance having disappeared after the difficulty of the request. When he couldn't take Potter's skilled finger fucking any more, Draco grabbed his arm. "Enough," he said hoarsely. "Fuck me." He found the tube and squeezed some lube into his own shaking palm and rubbed it over Potter's hard cock as Potter pushed himself up on one elbow. He watched Draco's face as he did it, save for when he closed his eyes to moan softly. Draco watched him just as hungrily, drinking in the expression of wanton need on Potter's face as he stroked him again, fingers slipping with the lubrication. "You like that?"

Potter's eyes opened. "I love it," he said, and his voice was strong, but Draco could hear the need.

"Put it in," Draco ordered, spreading his legs even wider.

Potter wasted no time obeying. In seconds, he had positioned himself, then gave a long, slow push and was seated as deeply within Draco as he could be. They both moaned and Draco clenched Potter's hips with all ten fingers. Potter began to move, not quite as slowly as Draco had thought he might, but still - it was agonisingly good. Potter's cock was thick and filled him satisfyingly, hard and just brushing by the - oh - Draco gasped, red blooming behind his eyes like fire as Potter nudged his prostate. His cock grew harder even before he let go of Potter to clutch at it, pulling hard. Potter pushed impatiently at his hand. "Let me," he breathed, and Draco allowed Potter's hand to replace his. Potter matched the rhythm of his hand to the speed of his thrusting and it was already good enough to make the best fuck of his life pale in comparison. For one thing, no one else was as thorough as Potter, as concerned that he get as much out of it as possible. He'd bottomed before, but he had to be damned attracted to whomever it was if he was going to come from it. He had no doubt that Potter would see to it that he did.

Potter grunted softly and the speed increased noticeably. There were no words between them, just the sounds from their throats, of their bodies. Potter was pulling out further with every thrust and fucking him harder, deeper, faster. It was all building to something rather incredible, tendrils of it beginning to shoot out to every nerve ending in his body. Potter said something to him then, a question, and he barely heard it but his cock certainly understood and he nodded frantically, echoing it aloud and then Potter really fucked him. It was hard and at that speed, anyone else would have been desperately out of control, but Potter's rhythm didn't even falter. His hand was so tight around Draco's cock that he was nearly squeezing the life out of it, but no amount of grip would have been too tight just then. Draco heard himself gasping, like a fish out of water, and Potter's breath caught. His hips drove forward so far that his pelvic bones jammed into the backs of Draco's thighs and stayed for a long moment as he came. As the wetness spurted into Draco, he began to move again, strictly, Draco knew, for his benefit. Neither the fact nor the effect were lost on him; he was almost there and needed only a little more - Potter's fist was jerking him again, his cock nudging him from within, and then the heat was spreading through him like a wave, the first drops spattering out onto his stomach. Potter bent to swipe his tongue through it, slipping out of him. His tongue and hand together urged the last of it out.

He was spent, and Potter was still licking him, moving upward, tongue flickering over one nipple, then the other, finally ending up at Draco's mouth again. He let Potter kiss him. No. That was not entirely correct. He lost himself in the kiss and was glad when Potter pulled him close and held him.

__________________

 

In the morning, Potter was a little shy, but didn't seem to have any particular regrets. He was awake and moving quietly around the flat when Draco woke. Draco came around the screens and saw Potter picking up the books scattered over the floor and stowing them back on the shelf. He saw Draco and smiled, cleared his throat. "Morning."

"Morning," Draco said. "What time is it?"

Potter glanced at a clock on the wall. "Almost eleven."

Draco rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I didn't realise it was so late."

"Well, we were up fairly late," Potter said, eyes glinting.

"True." Draco spotted his clothes hanging on a hook on the wall. He certainly hadn't hung them there himself during the rush to get them off the previous night. Going to them, he found his wand and Charmed it all clean and dressed himself, knowing that Potter was stealing surreptitious looks in his direction. Potter was already dressed and busied himself at the counter in the small kitchen, making coffee. The kettle was steaming on the range as well, and Draco noted Potter's thoughtfulness again. He admitted to himself that he'd had a mistaken impression of Potter. Then again, they were both a good deal older. Potter hadn't exactly been at saint at school. Strange how that was now an enticing feature rather than an annoying one.

Dressed, he tossed his coat on the sofa and went to Potter. He'd never done it before, but he put his arms around Potter's waist and kissed him on the cheek.

Potter's hand came up to clutch his arms, his face turning toward Draco's, smiling. "Do you have to go?"

"Not right away, but I do have a meeting at noon."

"Okay." Potter's eyes closed and his head tilted, and Draco kissed him. After a minute, Potter turned around and slid his hands down to Draco's arse. Not trying to instigate anything, just rubbing gently as they kissed. Their hips were very close together and Draco was half hard by the end of it, but there was no rush. He felt good.

"Are you free tonight?"

Potter shook his head, regretfully. "There's something I have up. Work related," he added. "Sorry. Tomorrow night?"

"Could work," Draco said, face already closing in on Potter's again. The kiss went on for quite awhile, both of them frotting against each other, but it was far more about the kiss itself, for perhaps the first time in Draco's life. He knew an urge to babble ridiculously romantic things, but also knew enough not to. Potter's eyes were hazy when he opened them next, and Draco saw the same urge written there, also unspoken, and that made him feel warm, too.

Their hands massaged through trousers, and when Potter got down on his knees, Draco conveyed his appreciation (albeit silent) by combing rough fingers through Potter's hair. It was perfect. That elusive thing he'd never known he'd been looking for, under his nose for the past sixteen years. Later, as he returned the favour, he had time to notice that, while he'd enjoyed giving head before, he'd never wanted so much to do something for another person. Strange that that person was Potter, but there it was.

__________________

 

The next week passed like a strange dream, as though Draco was living someone else's much happier life. He hadn't been complaining about the life he had, but he honestly had not known just how good life could be. Not before now. He'd barely noticed Christmas approaching in the past few years, just that the shops got busier. To say nothing of Boxing Day sales. But now it was all around him. Everything smelled of cinnamon and balsam and even the sudden snowfall was a pleasant diversion rather than an inconvenience. How perfectly ridiculous. But there was no escaping the fact that life was simply nicer now. Potter had somewhat insisted he start calling him by his given name, which lent the entire affair a certain unspoken officialdom. Draco was aware of the fact, though nothing had been said about relationships or length of term or anything such thing. They just went on as they had, and it was so unspeakably wonderful that Draco half avoided thinking about it sheerly out of an equally unspoken dread that it was all very temporary, that something was bound to happen to destroy his illusion of how perfect the whole thing seemed to be. Potter wasn't clingy or demanding of his time. He continued to be an exceedingly generous lover, he didn't talk during movies except in those rare moments when it was actually acceptable, and he seemed to have an instinct for which moments were the acceptable ones. They ate together frequently, usually out, but occasionally they cooked in Potter's tiny kitchen. The sex was fantastic. Nobody said anything about meeting friends or public appearances or any such thing, and Draco didn't know what he thought about that. He'd told Shacklebolt and Moody that the friendship was progressing excellently. He'd said nothing of the parts that were decidedly not platonic, and if they knew somehow, neither one said anything about it.

It transpired that it was Wednesday night. They had gone to see Les Misérables, a first for Potter, then come back to Draco's flat to kiss and suck and fuck, and now they were lying together, unwinding. Potter had discovered a bottle of Merlot he had all but forgotten, dusted it off and opened it. Draco reached for his glass and sipped. "What are you doing on Friday?" he asked cautiously, having debated asking about it all evening already.

Potter stirred and turned away from him to reach for his own glass. Deliberate evasion? "Friday?" he repeated carefully.

"Yes. This Friday."

"I have something," Potter said, rather vaguely.

"What? Is it work-related?" This meant an automatic non-answer, but if it transpired that Potter was also attending the Ministry fundraiser, then awkward questions would surely be asked.

"Yes," Potter said slowly. "I've… been invited to something at the Ministry."

"The Christmas fundraising dinner?"

"Yes." Potter looked at him. "Why?"

"I'm going, too."

Potter stiffened. "Were you invited, or are you going with someone?"

As Potter didn't know he was an Auror candidate, he wouldn't know that Draco had been invited. Draco thought quickly. "I ran into someone and got invited," he fibbed. "If I have a date, it's - well." He stopped, still unsure as to what he wanted to say about that. It wasn't that he wanted to go as Potter's date. He just didn't want Potter taking anyone else, sham or not. "I don't have a date and don't plan to find one," he said, choosing his words with care.

Potter relaxed. "Same here." He hesitated. "I'll see you there, then."

Draco felt a touch of annoyance. "How, Harry? Don't be a prick about this."

"About what?" Potter got immediately defensive. "I'm not being a prick!"

"You know what I'm asking about," Draco said pointedly. "What do you mean, 'you'll see me there'? How? As a couple? As people who always hated each other now trying to be civil in public? As people who fuck around and whatever else but don't talk about what it is, what?"

"I'm not the one who doesn't talk about it!" Potter set down his wine with a bang. "I didn't realise there was a need. I thought it was obvious."

"To each other, maybe," Draco said. "And even then, it's not exactly spelled out in stone, is it? That's okay. I just want to know how you plan to be in public."

"I could ask the same thing," Potter said, still defensive.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't get like that. That's precisely why I brought it up. I don't really like talking about things like this, but I figured you might be there - Boy Who Lived and all - and I thought it might be awkward if we hadn't talked about it first. Calm down."

"I am calm." Potter said, but he relaxed.

"So," Draco prompted.

"How do you want to be?"

"Let's go with being friends," Draco said, making up his mind as he said it. "You can talk to whoever you want, but let's not avoid each other." The better for Shacklebolt and Moody to see evidence of the friendship, too.

"Friends," Potter repeated. He sighed. "All right. I guess that's what I get for not having a big, splashy, public coming out."

"What?"

"Not getting to be what we really are in public," Potter said, shifting closer.

Draco found Potter's fingers and wove his own into them, reflecting that he had never done any such thing before Potter. "Yeah. That's how it works. Besides, do you even want that?"

"I don't know," Potter said. "I don't want you coming with some girl just to keep up appearances, though."

"Pansy is not just 'some girl'," Draco said edgily.

"That's not what I meant. I have nothing against Pansy. I just meant in general."

"Fine." Draco sighed. "Let's not talk about this any more."

"Okay." Potter pressed closer and kissed him on the chest. "Busy tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Nothing exciting, just a meeting with my solicitor."

"Can we have breakfast together?" Potter gave him a winning smile.

"Definitely." Draco smiled back.

Potter clambered onto him, straddling Draco's waist, and bent to kiss him again. As usual, it got rather quickly more involved and the uncomfortable conversation dissipated into a far more pleasant blend of pleasure and what Draco suspected might be an emotion he had yet acknowledge to himself. They were together. They were what they were, and all was well.

__________________

 

The grand ballroom was packed with people and media. Important persons were everywhere amidst the holly and fairy lights, talking loudly and self-righteously, and Draco saw the comparison between them and Potter. While Potter had long since stopped being awkward in his public appearances, though he had cultivated a rather smooth façade, he had never become something he wasn't. There was a wall, but there was also no chasing the spotlight. When he arrived, the cameras went wild. Potter merely adjusted his bow tie and Draco saw his lips forming the words No comment over and over again. He looked bothered. Angry, even. Draco wondered why; Potter surely wasn't that upset over what must be a routine entrance at such an event. He stood near the fountain across the hall from the main entrance and waited, champagne glass in hand, for Potter to come and find him.

He had a long wait. Potter circled and fulfilled social obligation after social obligation. Granger was there, along with Weasley, but Granger in particular stuck rather close to Potter, to Draco's annoyance. Had he forgotten that they were supposed to be acting like friends? An hour went by and there had not even been a suggestion of eye contact. Draco's frustration turned anxious despite himself. He would not act like a clingy, desperate, jealous boyfriend. He wasn't even officially with Potter. Then he thought, officiality be damned. The kiss Potter had given him, heavy on tongue and arms, after they'd left the breakfast café the day before was not the kiss one gave a casual lover or fling. He knew that Potter cared for him rather seriously. So why this?

It was eleven by the time Draco got tired of waiting and went to find him, vowing to get to the bottom of this first and then give Potter a royal display of temper in private. Potter was as far across the room as he could be, standing near some potted palms with Granger glued firmly to his side. Any hope Draco had entertained that Potter's foul temper might be unrelated to him evaporated when he saw Potter notice his approach. His face darkened and Granger turned to murmur something to him, her back half turned to Draco. The stab of anxiety grew, equal to the stab of his own anger. Potter said something to Granger that she clearly did not like. She argued, shooting Draco a glare, and Potter spoke again, insistently. Granger sighed deeply and took herself off. Was she that angry that Potter was seeing him? She obviously knew. Draco ignored her and looked at Potter.

"Hi," he said, rather pointedly.

Potter flushed even darker. "You've got a lot of nerve, even coming to talk to me, Malfoy," he spat.

The anxiety turned into panic. Draco stopped, leaving a good space between them. "What?" he asked, confused and very uncertain.

"I can't believe you," Potter said, obviously trying to keep his voice down, but struggling. "I thought you were completely genuine. I thought you were actually as happy as I was about what was happening. I can't believe you deceived me that convincingly - and for so long! How long would you have let it go, Malfoy? Were you planning to out me publicly? Did someone pay you? What? I don't understand. Even you. How you could do this?"

The panic almost drowned out his ability to think clearly, to speak. "What? I don't know what you're talking about," Draco said, trying to sound cool at the accusations, but his mind was whirling uncontrollably. He should have known it was too good to last. The little voice in his head was mocking him for his sentimentality, for thinking he was in love and that it could really work. "Harry, what are you - "

"Don't call me that!" Potter snapped. "I can understand friends, Malfoy, but why would you do this to me?"

"What? What are you talking about?" Draco repeated, staring at him. The Malfoy hurt more than he cared to think about. "I haven't deceived you and I would never out you like that!"

"Like how, then?" Potter challenged, his eyes darkening. "I can't believe a word you say. I - I have never been this hurt, ever. I can't believe you would do this."

"Potter, if you don't start backing up your random accusations with something real, I'm going to get really angry soon," Draco said, his temper coming to his rescue. "What the fuck are you going on about?"

"Your assignment," Potter hissed, eyes narrowed in fury.

Shock hit like a wave. He had actually almost forgotten the assignment. How the hell did Potter know about that?! His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Through his anger, disappointment shone through Potter's expression. "So it really is true," he said flatly. "You can't even deny it. This was all a ruse so that you could pass your character testing. Well - " he choked for a second, then spoke bitterly. "At the very least, I'll have the satisfaction of having outed your tiny, ugly little personality. No person with any sort of moral integrity would get involved with someone like this all for the sake of passing a test. And I'm glad the Aurors know, before you duped them, too."

Draco gritted his teeth together and found words. "Potter, I haven't duped anyone. Yes, I had an assignment to get to be friends with you. Genuinely friends."

"This is genuine, all right - " Potter cut in.

"If you would let me finish," Draco continued, his voice rising, "I wasn't allowed to tell you, obviously. Hard to establish a friendship that way, when one person knows it's just an assignment for the other person. I didn't fake any of it, though, not after the first day."

"When we were in this very room," Potter said dully. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you were for real."

"Are you even listening to me?" Draco was furious. "It wasn't part of my assignment to fuck you, you know!"

"I know!" Potter said, eyes flashing. "That's exactly what makes it so despicable, you creep!"

"Potter, would you shut up and listen to me?" Draco hissed. "It so happens that - "

Potter interrupted again, before he could say it. "Do you know how I feel - felt - about you? I don't ever want to see you again. Don't contact me." He all but threw his champagne glass on the table and strode swiftly from the room, Granger running after him.

The people watching the argument had at least been too far to hear exactly what was being said. It was little comfort to Draco, who was suffering under the weight of a depression he could already feel descending upon himself. He put his own glass down, glared at the crowd and slipped out a side door and into the sanctuary of his flat.

__________________

 

Potter returned all of his owls unopened.

__________________

 

Even the one where Draco gritted his teeth and said that he loved him.

__________________

 

The week leading up to Christmas was the opposite of what the past two had been. The cold seemed colder, and Draco resented everyone in the world who was happy when he so very patently was not. His bed was colder and bigger without Potter snoring lightly beside him in it, and suddenly his days had become unspeakably empty. He avoided Pansy like the plague and refused to go out when he didn't have to. Potter had only been in his flat a handful of times, but even so Draco had memories of him all over it. In the kitchen, fiddling with his espresso maker. Examining his inherited china in the cabinet in the hall. In the shower. On the sofa, watching some movie that they only saw parts of. In the bed, of course. The time when they had gone to the Indian place and Potter had wanted to wear his scarf. Draco hung the scarf over its hook and smelled it to see if it still smelled like Potter. It did, and he slept with it that night, angry at his own weakness but not angry enough to put the scarf away.

His life was bleaker than it had ever been. No doubt Potter had told the Aurors already, seeing as he was one himself. No one had contacted him yet, however. No doubt everyone was just busy with Christmas. Draco had personally hated the holiday since he was about fourteen and Christmas had become synonymous with meetings and revels. The childhood magic had disappeared, reappearing briefly when Christmas became temporary respite from the war. But the magic had not returned until very recently. It was as though he had lost it a second time now. As for Potter, it hurt far more than he could have guessed it might. Strange how quickly he had come to feel such deep things for him. He remembered little things, and the week seemed to take forever.

It wasn't difficult to imagine how Potter had found out, even without knowing the details. No doubt someone had said something where they shouldn't have, and Potter had caught a whisper of it or something. He was remarkably perceptive, more than Draco would have given him credit for. The thought was no comfort whatsoever. Potter would never forgive him for this. It was that simple. And why, now that Potter once again had very good reason to hate him, did Draco have to feel just the opposite?

He hated everything and became so taciturn even in the smallest of interactions that people seemed to instinctively given him a wide berth on the streets and in the shops. He was so miserable he barely knew what to do with himself. If Potter wouldn't even read his apologies, what was he supposed to do? Go to the door and beg?

He was just walking up Long Acre in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley as he thought this, and stopped cold. Perhaps Potter would listen if he showed that he cared enough to come in person and rail at Potter until he listened. Maybe once that temper of Potter's had settled a little, he would be willing to hear the truth. Draco was about to Apparate then and there, but first realised that he was still in Muggle London, that he wanted to clean up a bit first, and finally, that it was Christmas Eve. Potter might not even be home. God forbid, he might be with the Weasleys at their tiny hovel out in Devonshire. He gritted his teeth. Well. If needs must, he would hie himself to Devonshire and refuse to leave until they'd stopped throwing hexes at him and pushed Potter out the door to hear him out.

Indecision hit. Should he buy Potter a gift? Draco thought for a long time, paying no attention to the people jostling around him, and finally decided against it. If Potter rejected him again, he would just feel foolish. Well, he would feel worse than foolish for more things besides, but having a gift that Potter didn't even want would just make the entire sorry affair pathetic. But if he was going to the Burrow, then he might have already left. Draco checked the time. It was already past five! It was getting dark. Galvanised into action, Draco combed his hair with his fingers and abandoned the idea of going home first. He Apparated directly to the front doors of Potter's building. Confronted with the board of numbers, Draco gazed in confusion for a moment, but fortuitously, an elderly woman departed at that precise moment and held the door open for him. Draco thanked her hurriedly and bolted into the lift, whose doors were just closing.

Inside, he tried to gather his wits and figure out what to say to Potter. It didn't help; nothing came to mind. On the eighth floor, Potter's, the lift stopped and the doors opened. Potter stood there, his winter robes on, bags of what were obviously gifts in both hands. He froze, staring at Draco. Startled, Draco could only stare back, his heart suddenly pounding.

"Draco," Potter said numbly. "What are you doing here?"

"Harry - listen to me," Draco said, not caring how desperate it sounded. "Just let me talk to you. Please."

Potter shook his head. "I have to leave. I'm already running late."

"No - please don't go!" Draco found the "door open" button and held it down with one hand. "Just hear me out. Ten minutes, no more. Then if you're not convinced, you can go wherever you're going."

"I don't need your permission," Potter said stubbornly. "Get out of the way. I told you, I'm in a hurry."

"This is important!" Draco said, though there was ice in the pit of his belly at Potter's coldness. "I gave you time to cool down, and you won't read my owls, so I thought maybe I should come in person."

"Your timing," Potter said defeatedly, "stinks."

He seemed to have given in. Draco seized upon the opportunity. "Come on," he said firmly. "We can't have this conversation in a lift. Let's go inside."

"I don't want you in my place," Potter said softly, not looking at him.

Silence fell. Draco's eyes stung and he blinked despite himself. Potter did hate him. It was too late.

"We'll have this conversation in the lift," Potter said, still very quietly, "and then I'm going to go to the Burrow and try to forget this."

Draco swallowed hard. "All of it?" His voice was not quite steady.

"I need to." It was very clear and still very soft. Potter didn't touch him, but Draco found himself standing back to let Potter into the lift. Potter pressed the button for the eighteenth level, the highest. Terse, he said, "Talk quickly."

"Harry, I - it was my assignment to get to be friends with you." Draco didn't know what to do with his hands and it showed. He stuffed them into his pockets and tried not to think of touching Potter. "I didn't want to. I'll admit that. I didn't know what to make of you at the Minister's Ball, but after, when I found you outside with that bottle of champagne, something changed."

"You're a very good storyteller," Potter said, exhaling, eyes on the ascending numbers.

"It's true," Draco said, angry. "I didn't lie to you!"

"Oh, and not telling me you were in training - finished your training, whatever - wasn't a lie of omission?" Potter returned, colour staining his cheeks darkly.

"I told you, I wasn't allowed to talk about the assignment or that I'm - that I was a candidate," Draco retorted. "Did you have a character testing assignment? I bet you didn't - I'll bet they figured the entire war was your character testing right there. And maybe they were right, but it was for me, too. Why can't you give me any credit for having changed?"

Potter set down his bags and crossed his arms over his chest, looking as immovably stubborn as only he could. He looked as though he was regretting not having just gone straight down to the street level. He didn't answer.

Draco decided to press on, just for the sole satisfaction of at least saying what he needed to say. "So, things changed that night," he said quietly. "I actually wanted to get to know you better, and we did. I started fighting whatever this is from then on, until I found out that you had been, too. It had nothing to do with my assignment, Harry."

Potter still didn't speak or look at him. The lift chimed for the eighteenth storey and the doors opened. Potter got out, taking his gift bags with him. "Come on," he said briefly, and went down the corridor. Draco followed, his hopes lifting slightly. Unless Potter just wanted a convenient place to push him off a roof or something, surely this meant he had more time to try to change his mind.

Potter silently led the way through the door at the end of the corridor and onto the roof. In the summer, spring and fall, it was evidently a patio of sorts. Chairs, tables, and folded umbrellas dotted the snow-dusted patio stones. Potter set his gifts down on a table and went to lean against the wall. It came as high as his mid chest and he leaned his arms against it.

"That," Potter said, "was one of the best days of my life."

Draco went over, standing a careful distance away. He didn't face out to London but stood looking at Potter instead. "Mine, too," he said. "I was surprised by all this. But I… liked it. A lot." Potter said nothing, and he added, hardly audibly, "I've missed you."

Potter's expression thawed a trifle. "I've missed you, too," he said, looking down.

"I wish you had read my owls."

"What did they say?"

"Just what I said. That it wasn't about the assignment. That it was more. That I had almost forgotten that it began because of my training. That I wanted to see you and talk to you." Draco hesitated, but made himself say it. "And that I… loved you."

Potter went very still. Then he said, so quietly that Draco could barely hear him, "You did not say that."

"I have the owl at home somewhere, if you need proof."

Potter still didn't look at him. "Did you mean it?"

Draco took a deep breath. "Yes."

Potter didn't move a muscle for the longest time. Then he lifted his head and looked out toward the Thames. "You don't know that. We've hardly been together three weeks, if you count the part right before we actually got together. You've probably never even been in love before."

"I haven't." Draco shrugged. "But now I am."

Potter shook his head. "Sometimes, things are just too complicated for that to work. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"You can accept it and do it anyway," Draco said. He took a step toward Potter. "Come on, Harry. I know you feel the same way. I'm sorry. I fucked up and that's the last thing I wanted to do. But I never lied to you about wanting to be with you. I do. I want to."

Potter's resolve wavered visibly. Biting his lip, he said, "I heard Kingsley talking about it. I wasn't supposed to have heard." He glanced at Draco. "I guess I made a big deal out of something that wasn't fair for me to know about in the first place."

Exactly, Draco wanted to say, but didn't. "It's understandable. You did hear, whether or not you should have, and I would have been upset, too."

Potter began a slow smile and finally turned toward him. "You really love me?" he asked again.

"How many times are you going to make me say it?" Draco could hear how annoyed he sounded.

Potter laughed. "A lot more, now that I know!"

The laughter was magic. The warmth came back into Potter's eyes. "I do feel the same way," he said. "Come here."

Draco came obediently. He tried not to clutch at Potter but lost the battle instantly. The urge to babble grots of nonsense returned with a vengeance and he settled for the longest single kiss he had ever had with anyone. Potter's arms were all the way around him, despite his cloak and Draco's coat, his magic embracing Draco like a warm ring.

After, Draco said, rather wistfully, "You have to go. I've made you late."

Potter put a gloved hand in his. "Come with me," he said.

"To the Weasleys' house?" Draco couldn't hide the dubiousness.

"Yes," Potter said adamantly. "It's time they met you properly."

Draco kissed him again.

__________________

 

Late that night, an owl arrived at the Weasley twins' old bedroom window. Draco heard the tapping and went to retrieve his package. The seal was the Ministry of Magic Auror Department's. He opened it with nervous anticipation churning through his veins.

A single sheet of parchment fell out.

~ Draco L. Malfoy ~

Auror

Certified, Class A Honours

Signed:
Kingsley J. Shacklebolt
Alastor Moody,
Senior Aurors and Administrators

Something heavy seemed to click into place within him. Potter hadn't said a word to them. And now, despite everything, he had achieved what he had been working toward for the past three years. Draco experienced a brief glimpse of himself out in public, somewhere with Potter, perhaps, the headlines the next morning about Aurors Potter and Malfoy and whatever else people wanted to say, the stigma of his past fading into obscurity. And Potter beside him. Yes. That was important.

The narrow bed was warm with both of them squeezed into it, and as Draco felt himself drifting back into sleep to the steady cadence of Potter's breathing, he thought that life could only get better from here on in.

-fin-