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2013-04-08
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2013-04-10
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The Pure-blood Enigma

Summary:

HP/DM slash. A drunken bet with Blaise means Draco now has a very difficult task ahead of him. To train Harry Potter and pass him off as a pure-blood, all within the space of two weeks. But things become somewhat complicated when he finds himself falling for the git. And does Harry return his feelings? Canon-compliant for all seven books/EWE. Written for the 2013 bottom!draco fest. Adapted from Pygmalion, by George Bernard Shaw.

Notes:

Harry Potter and all its indicia are owned and copyrighted by JK Rowling and various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic, Books Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. I own none of this copyright. This fanfiction makes no financial gain.

 

 

 

This was written for the 2013 bottom!Draco fest on LiveJournal. Author reveals were today, so here it is. The story is complete and I'm posting it in four parts over the course of this week. Total length is a couple of hundred words shy of 20k.

Chapter 1: Part One

Chapter Text

"He can't have been that bad!" Draco said, his words slurring slightly from the effects of a quarter-bottle of Firewhisky. He reached for the bottle with somewhat unsteady hands and poured himself another generous measure of the smoking spirit, before knocking the alcohol back in one, and handing the bottle to his equally-pissed drinking partner.

"I'm telling you, Draco, he was," Blaise replied. "Potter may be outstanding at slaying megalomaniacs whose ultimate life goal is to commit mass genocide, but he knows absolutely fuck all about blending into pure-blood society, despite spending so much time with that pack of Weasleys he's so fond of. Within ten minutes of the start of the meal, everyone at the St Mungo's Charity Dinner worked out that he wasn't my date, but instead he was just some bloke I'd hired for security. I've never felt so humiliated."

After the war, a small vigilante group of Muggle-borns calling themselves Ultio had begun to target pure-bloods, desperate to seek some sort of ill-acquired retribution for the wrongs done to them during Voldemort's reign. Numerous pure-bloods had found themselves on the receiving end of hexes or jinxes and, whilst they were nowhere near as sinister in nature as those that the Muggle-borns received from the Death Eaters during the war, they were very inconvenient and often embarrassing. Like Zabini, many pure-bloods hired bodyguards when attending social functions for self-protection.

"OK then, Blaise, what did Potter do?" Draco asked, reaching for the bottle of Ogden's Finest.

"Well, for starters, he didn't know which cutlery went with which course," Blaise said, and Draco winced. Maybe Potter was a total plebeian, after all. "Then, when the waiter came to take drinks orders, he asked for something called Coca Cola. Over dinner the conversation turned to foreign travel and he started prattling on about some place called Disneyland, which he apparently took his godson to last summer. He then took a set of keys out of his robes and showed us all a plastic keyring of this little black and white mouse that he bought whilst he was there."

Draco began to laugh. He couldn't help himself. Yes, Potter really was as pathetic as Blaise believed him to be.

"Okay, Blaise, I agree that Potter is a first-class knob. But you didn't get hexed, did you? And I heard that Ultio hit Theo Nott with the Bat-Bogey Hex that night. At least he stopped you getting cursed."

"If by 'stopped me getting cursed' you mean, 'caused me to feel so fucking embarrassed I left at nine' then, yes, I suppose he did do his job," Blaise replied drily. "You and I both know it's seen amongst our social circles as the ultimate weakness to hire someone to accompany us to these events."

"You'd have thought, Blaise that you, of all people, would have had the sense to coach Potter before you arrived at the dinner," Draco said. "You have only yourself to blame, in all honesty."

Blaise's eyes narrowed, and a dusky pink appeared on his cappuccino cheeks. "Draco," he replied icily, "not even you could teach that virtual Mudblood how to behave like a proper wizard. But if you think you're so superior, then be my guest. Try it."

Draco smirked, and cocked a single eyebrow at his best friend. "Why, Zabini, is that a challenge?" he asked. Blaise grinned back, just as cockily.

"Why not, Malfoy? Let's make a bet on it. You're so confident in your own abilities? What about the Beltane Ball in two weeks' time? I'll say you're the greatest teacher alive if you achieve this. Two thousand Galleons says you can't do it. And I'll pay for the lessons. I bet that you cannot pass Potter off as your pure-blooded date to all our friends." He held out his hand to Draco, daring him to accept the bet.

Draco never could back down from a challenge. It was his inner-Slytherin pride; to reject the bet would be as good as admitting defeat. He reached over and took Blaise's hand in his own, squeezing his fingers tightly.

"It's almost irresistible. Potter is so low, so uncouth. And I do so enjoy a challenge. Two weeks' time it is then," he sneered. "But you sadly underestimate me, Blaise, old friend. I'll take him anywhere and pass him off as anything."

"I look forward to watching your abject humiliation, Draco," Blaise replied with a wry smile. * Merlin, Harry Potter was tired. He sat at his desk in his office, a quaint, seventeenth-century building, a short walk away from the main shopping area in Diagon Alley, and removed his glasses, rubbing furiously at his exhausted eyes. He'd just returned from an undercover assignment protecting a pure-blood middle-aged man whilst at a business meeting with Muggle-born clients. There had been an altercation and Harry had had to intervene. The Ultio needed to stop; the war would have been over for four years in just under a month's time, and, besides, they were taking their 'revenge', as they called it, on completely the wrong people. Harry was inundated with pleas for help on a daily basis from terrified pure-bloods who hadn't had anything to do with Voldemort. From accompanying sweet old ladies as they did their shopping, to assignments like Zabini's, where he took on another persona (complete with Polyjuice), Harry had barely had a day off for two years. He was beginning to wonder whether he should have followed Ron into the Auror corps after all.

Harry had opted not to enter Auror training, figuring he'd fought enough Dark wizards to last him several lifetimes. On Hermione's suggestion, he'd opened his own business, a bodyguard service called Spellbound Security, offering magical defence to anyone who was in need of it, and it had become hugely successful. It played to his 'saving people-thing' strengths that Hermione insisted he had, and Harry had to admit he did enjoy his job. It was just that, thanks to Ultio, he had extremely little free time.

Harry was just contemplating going home for the night and leaving the paperwork until the morning when a tap at his window made him jump. His heart sank when he saw the owl; a huge, proud eagle owl with fiery orange eyes and razor-sharp beak like this could only belong to a pure-blood, to someone else begging for his help. He swore softly under his breath as he opened the window. He retrieved the letter from the owl, and sat back at his desk as he watched the majestic creature take flight into the golden-pink sunset that signalled late evening. Sighing deeply, he unfolded the letter, and laughed aloud when he recognised the name on the headed parchment. The note was short, curt, and written in an elegant script.

Potter, I require your security services at the upcoming Ministry ball in honour of Beltane, scheduled for two weeks hence. Please contact me at the earliest possible opportunity to discuss this. D. Malfoy.

Fighting the urge to simply write back fuck you, Harry retrieved a blank sheet of parchment from his desk, dipped his quill into a pot of ink, and scribbled out a quick reply confirming he could take the job. He sent it with his business owl, Aquila, and forced himself to make a start on his tedious paperwork whilst he waited for Malfoy's reply.

Aquila returned only ten minutes later with the reply, which instructed Harry to come to his Diagon Alley penthouse. the following evening. There was no please. Harry snorted when he realised it was an order, rather than a request. He really did want to tell Draco to make alternative arrangements this time. But the idea of posing as Malfoy's new plaything for the evening was, Harry had to admit, something that could turn out to be very amusing indeed. Grinning, he sent back an extremely short note saying he would be there, before really deciding to call it a night this time and returning to his flat. The following day promised to be very interesting indeed.

* "You're late, Potter," Draco sneered in lieu of an actual greeting, as soon as he opened the door. Harry sighed and checked his watch.

"It's two minutes past seven, Malfoy," he said.

"Which is late," Draco replied. "I asked you to be punctual and arrive at seven. If I wanted you here at two minutes past seven, I would have specified two minutes past seven, rather than seven o'clock. Whether you're a minute or an hour late, you are late, and therefore you are not punctual." He stood aside from the front door, in order to let Harry enter the spacious penthouse. Harry took a deep breath and counted to ten before he entered. He had just had a very sharp reminder why he hated Draco Malfoy so much.

Harry stepped into a sumptuously- decorated penthouse. The entrance hall and living area were decorated in pure white, giving the entire property a light, airy appearance, even at evening time in mid-April. Modern art in tasteful monochromic shades hung from the walls or graced the shelves, and the living room contained a glass wall, giving spectacular views of the setting sun over Diagon Alley. Harry sat down in a squashy-looking armchair close to the window, and rested one leg across his knee, forming a triangle shape. Draco made an irritated sound in his throat.

"Do you always just help yourself to seats in other people's houses uninvited?" he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "I know you were dragged up by Muggles, but even they know basic manners, surely?"

Harry completely ignored Draco's comments. "So, Malfoy, what did you want to discuss?" he asked, his voice as casual as he could make it.

"The Beltane Ball, obviously," Draco drawled, looking at Harry as if the other man was extremely slow. "What did you think I'd invited you here for? To discuss the weather?"

Harry felt the flicker of irritation he had experienced since setting foot in Draco's penthouse escalate into full-blown annoyance. "Yes, I know that. But what specifically about it that was so urgent?"

"Well, Potter," Draco began, "as you know, it is regarded amongst pure-bloods as the ultimate admission of defeat to hire somebody like you, and it is deeply frowned upon amongst my social groups. I require a competent bodyguard to escort me, and will require you to adopt a persona, complete with Polyjuice. You will also be required to pose as my date for the evening, and therefore I expect you to pass as a pure-blood."

"I can do that, Malfoy," Harry said. "And I know how to act like a pure-blood. Simply look down my nose at people in disgust like they've just trodden in Crup shit and are emanating a very unpleasant odour. I did this just last week for your friend Zabini. I still don't understand why the big drama over this."

"Ah yes," Draco replied, and there was the self-satisfied smug Harry remembered so well from Potions lessons at Hogwarts, "you see, here lies the problem. Unlike the result of your assignment with Blaise, I require you to not completely and utterly fuck it up in one huge giant fiasco." In response to Harry's look, which was a bizarre combination of incredulity, anger, and confusion, he continued, "You blew your cover within ten minutes with your woeful ignorance of pure-blood culture. If you're representing me, I will not be embarrassed by you, Potter. I've brought you here this evening to discuss your lessons in pure-blood culture, which you will be undertaking with me."

Amusement flittered across Harry's face. "You seriously expect me to take lessons in how to be a first-class toff from you?" he said, unable to keep the grin off his face. One look at Draco told Harry that, yes, the blond was deadly serious. Harry rolled his eyes. "OK, fine, I'll take your stupid lessons. But you fit your 'lessons'" - he made air quotes with his fingers when he said this – "in around my other clients, and I'm on the clock the whole time, plus I'm charging you maximum for my services."

"Potter, you sound like a common whore," Draco sneered. "How much do you charge, anyway?"

Harry thought for a moment. He didn't exactly charge by the hour; each job was priced according to difficulty and risk, but no way was he going to let Malfoy get away with not paying for these 'lessons', as he called them. "A hundred Galleons an hour," he said finally, "on top of the five hundred I'll charge for the Ministry ball appearance. Part hours will be charged the full hour." Draco made a nonchalant shrug, as if the amount was simply peanuts to him. "Oh, I'm sorry, Malfoy, was that my first lesson? In order to be a pure-blood, I need to act like some stuck up rich bastard who's better than everyone else just because my Gringotts account is full?"

"No, Potter, your first lesson will be how to dress with an ounce of decorum," Draco replied drily, as he looked Harry up and down with distaste on his face. "Blue hooded sweatshirts, denims, and something called Converse trainers doesn't akin you to a well-bred heritage, you know." He withdrew his wand and gave it a flick, removing all Harry's clothes and setting them in a pile by Draco's feet, leaving him sitting in only his boxers and socks. Harry was so outraged that words failed him. He just stared furiously at Draco, his jaw dropped open in disbelief.

"Sooki!" Draco called, completely indifferent to Harry's reaction, and instantly a house-elf dressed in a pink tea-towel appeared. "Sooki, take all Potter's clothes and burn them. Apparate to Twilfitt and Tatting's for new ones. Wrap Potter up in my black silk gown till they come." Sooki bowed deeply and Disapparated with Harry's clothes, returning a few seconds later with the silk robe. Draco took it from her and handed it to Harry, who still hadn't uttered a word since his clothing was forcibly removed from him. He Summoned a sheet of parchment and a quill, and wrote a list of items to buy on it, before handing to the elf, who disappeared with a crack.

Finally robed, Harry found his voice. "You do anything like that again, Malfoy, and you can shove the job up your arse and attend your pathetic little Ministry ball alone," he yelled. "I will accept your lessons, but I will not be humiliated by you, do you understand? I can do a lot worse to you than Ultio can, believe me. And you're paying for whatever monstrous outfit your house-elf comes back with."

"Potter, you wouldn't know decent attire if it slapped you round the face," Draco said. "You have all the style and grace of a particularly moronic mountain troll."

"Fuck you," Harry snarled. Draco sneered at him.

"And… point proven," he drawled with a smirk. Just then Sooki Apparated back into the room, which was a good thing, as Harry had just trained his wand on the blond.

"Master Draco! Mr Tattings is taking Master Draco's order, sir, and he says he will have Harry Potter's robes by tomorrow, but he is being sorry and he cannot get them this evening, sir."

Harry stood abruptly at the elf's words. "I'm going home," he said wearily. "Malfoy, if you wish to continue these lessons then, next time, I expect you to behave with a little more respect. It will be your last chance." He crossed the room to the small Floo located in the corner and threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames.

"What about my robe?" Draco called behind him. Harry smiled an insincere smile at him.

"Call it collateral. You'll get it back if - if - you buy me a decent set of robes to replace my clothes you destroyed." He stepped into the flames and disappeared, taking a final look at Malfoy as he left, and wondering how the fuck he was supposed to pull off being Malfoy's date in just two weeks' time, if they couldn't even hold a civil conversation with one another.

* Draco had blown it, he knew he had. What was he thinking, taking this bet with Blaise and believing he could actually turn a cave-dwelling peasant like Potter into a civilised member of society in just a fortnight? Oh right, he'd drank nearly half a bottle of Firewhisky at the time. Fucking Firewhisky. Damage limitation was what was needed now. Otherwise Potter was going to refuse the job and Draco would lose the bet before the challenge had even properly begun. It was time to unleash his Slytherin cunningness. He was going to have to be nice to Potter.

Harry arrived at the office a little later than usual the following morning, and found the proud eagle owl belonging to Draco Malfoy already waiting for him. He was sat atop a neatly-wrapped package, with Twilfitt and Tatting's emblem stamped on it, and a sealed note in its beak. He sighed; it was far too early in the day to deal with Draco sodding Malfoy. He sank down into his chair, took a large swig of the coffee he'd brought from the shop on the corner, and slid the envelope open.

Dear Potter,

My deepest apologies if you found my behaviour yesterday abrupt or impolite. I realise now that I made you feel uncomfortable, and this was not my intention. I want to be able to form a working relationship of mutual benefit. Therefore I propose we meet again, at your convenience, and wipe the parchment clean. A fresh start, if you will. I'm sure we can agree that we need to find a way to work with, and be civil towards, one another; after all, I do not wish to employ an alternative bodyguard for the Beltane Ball. As I know you're aware, I always desire the best. I have sent your new formal robes along with this letter. Please accept them both as an apology of last night, and as a peace-offering. You may also keep the silk gown, which was woven from the silk of the finest Bombyx mori larvae. Consider it a token of goodwill on my part. I await your owl.

In anticipation, Draco Malfoy.

Harry opened the package and let out a surprised gasp when a stunning robe in opulent bottle-green velvet slipped into his hands. He slid the garment on (a perfect fit, naturally), and, reluctantly, conceded that Malfoy knew what he was talking about when it came to clothes. It must also have cost a few hundred Galleons. Good, Harry thought. However, Malfoy was right. If they were to work together - and, even more challengingly, actually look convincing as a couple, they needed to put the past behind them and stop bickering. Smiling slightly to himself as he fingered the soft material of the robe with his left hand, he scribbled a quick note to Malfoy that said simply, 'Tonight. Same time, same place', and sent it with Aquila.

* Draco's first thought when he opened the door that evening was that it was bang on seven and Potter was exactly on-time. His second thought was that Potter was wearing the velvet robes he had chosen the previous evening. And Draco's third, and highly inappropriate, thought was that he looked absolutely mouth-watering in them. He blinked in an attempt to dislodge that thought from his brain, smiled at Potter, and extended his hand. The irony of the gesture wasn't lost on Draco. Apparently it wasn't lost on Potter either, who chuckled lightly before taking it. Draco laughed lightly in response.

"Always shake a gentleman's hand upon meeting them," he said. "It gives respect, but it's also a gesture of equality. It sends a clear message that, whilst you hold them in high regard, you do not in any way consider them your superior, and that you expect to be treated accordingly. When meeting a female, address them as 'Lady', not 'Mrs' or 'Madam', as this acknowledges their social standing as a high-society pure-blood, and kiss them on the back of the hand. This again shows respect. There, you've had your first lesson of the day and you're not even through the front door yet."

Harry's face was amused, but he was also thrown slightly by this version of Malfoy. "I'll try and remember that. Look, I'm not making any promises though, Malfoy. We'll attempt to be friendly towards one another, but I mean it - if you insult me, my blood status, or my friends, this whole job is off. And don't you dare try to take my clothes off for a second time."

And there's the inappropriate mental image again, Draco's brain helpfully pointed out, as Harry walked past him and into Draco's penthouse.

Draco was delighted to note that Potter waited to be offered a seat this time. So he's not completely un-trainable, he thought. "Would you like a drink?" he asked. Harry nodded, and Draco called for Sooki to bring them coffee. "Always wait for your host to pour your drink, once offered. It is considered rude to help yourself," Draco said, as he prepared Harry's coffee and handed Harry a cup. "And always leave half an inch of your drink in the cup; to drink it all implies your host provided inadequate quantities of refreshment, but to leave more suggests the beverage was not to your liking. Both are regarded as insulting towards a host or hostess in pure-blood culture."

"Ron and his family never do any of this," Harry muttered, and, inwardly thinking that so-called pure-blood etiquette was a load of bollocks, and longing for the informal, care-free setting of The Burrow where people helped themselves and drank as much as they bloody well liked, sipped his coffee. It was perfectly made, of course; expensive filter coffee made, no doubt, with lavish coffee beans harvested in some hard-to-reach area of the rainforest, or something. Draco rolled his eyes.

"That's because your Weasel and his family are -" But whatever they were, Harry didn't find out, as Draco caught himself just in time; remembering his promise to Harry not to insult him or his friends, he changed the subject. "Whilst we're discussing greetings, always refer to people by their surnames, until a mutual sense of familiarity and friendship has been achieved. For example, you would address my mother as, 'Lady Malfoy', not 'Mrs Malfoy' and certainly never as 'Narcissa'. Males require no title; simply call them by their surname."

"Oh!" said Harry suddenly. "Is that why you call me 'Potter'?" Draco laughed.

"No, I call you 'Potter' because I don't particularly like you. But in essence, I concede you're correct. We're not familiar with one another personally; therefore in my culture, we should address each other with surnames only."

"What about when I'm your 'date' at the ball, though? I need to call you Draco then, surely?" Harry said.

"Yes. Given that we're trying to convince the other guests that we're sleeping together, I think it would be inappropriate for you to address me in any other manner," Draco replied, deadpanned. Harry felt his face flush slightly at that.

"One thing I still don't get though," Harry said, his face serious. "Why is it so important that you would need to be dating another pure-blood? I mean, if you and I were to go to a hospital, and they X-rayed us, our skeletons would be identical. The same. Because we're the same, Draco, regardless of how 'pure' your blood is. We're both still human beings."

Draco looked at him blankly. "An X what?" he said. Harry sighed.

"An X-ray. You know? In Muggle medicine, where doctors -"

"Potter, stop," Draco interrupted, his voice full of exasperation. "It's talking about things like this that give you away instantly. Pure-bloods do not talk about Muggle medical procedures!"

Harry scowled and defiantly downed the rest of his coffee. "Can I have another cup, please? My host provided inadequate quantities of refreshment."

"Potter, you are an uncivilized, uneducated troglodyte," Draco said, but filled Harry's cup with more coffee anyway. Harry grinned at him and their eyes met for a second, and Draco's breath hitched. When did Potter become attractive? An instant later, however, he gave himself a mental slap. So Potter was good-looking. Big deal. He definitely did not compare Harry's eyes to emeralds, or a wide, spacious meadow in springtime, or any other soppy, poetic, Hufflepuff-esque metaphorical nonsense his idiotic brain could conjure up. Because no matter how pretty the packaging, it was still Potter inside. And Potter was a prat. And a half-blood prat at that. But still, a good-looking half-blood prat. And it was a long time since Draco had had a shag…

"We'll leave it there for today I think, Potter," Draco said abruptly, suddenly desperate to get Harry out of his penthouse, so he could take a long, cold, shower. Harry looked at him in mild confusion before standing. "Um, you're welcome to use the Floo again."

"Thanks," Harry replied. "And, Malfoy? I think this could work. Us working together, I mean. I've sort of enjoyed this evening, in a weird way. Seven tomorrow OK for you?"

"Yes. I need to teach you dining etiquette, so let's meet for dinner," Draco said. "But I can't risk someone seeing us together in the wizarding world, as they'll work out who you are at the ball. It'll all just be too obvious." An idea suddenly came to him. "Do you think you could find someone to Polyjuice into by tomorrow night? The same person you'll become at the ball. But, Potter, can you transform into a well-to-do Muggle? Aristocracy, if possible."

"Sure. That's easy. I'll just get the hair of Prince Charles, shall I?" Harry replied drily.

"Excellent! Is he rich?" Draco replied, in all seriousness. Harry bit back a laugh.

"Leave it to me, Draco," he said, trying Malfoy's name out on his tongue for the first time. It didn't feel too bad. "I'll meet you outside Le Jardin à la Française. But you're paying for dinner. See you tomorrow." He stepped into the Floo, called out the address of his office, and disappeared, leaving Draco to wonder what the fuckity fuck had happened this evening.

* "Harry?" Draco asked uncertainly as an unfamiliar man rushed towards him, his cheeks slightly flushed from the cool April breeze. "You're late. Again. The restaurant is holding our reservation for us for only another five minutes."

"Sorry, Draco," Harry replied, as a lock of auburn hair fell around his unfamiliar features. "Had to get the hair for the Polyjuice and it took longer than I thought." He licked his lips and smirked. "Want me to make it up to you?"

He stepped forwards and crushed his mouth onto Draco's, who surrendered instantly to Harry's mouth. "Fuck," he muttered against Harry's lips, which turned to a hiss of shock and delight when Harry began to rub Draco's rapidly-inflating bulge through his trousers. "Harry, what -"

"Shush, just let me take care of you," Harry said, and grabbed Draco by the hand and pulled him into the alley behind the restaurant. He slammed Draco against the wall and dropped to his knees, expertly unfastening Draco's trousers and freeing his erection, before licking a stripe from root to tip. Draco whimpered softly, which turned into a full-blown moan when Harry opened his mouth and took him in down to the hilt, licking and sucking, and driving Draco closer and closer to climax. Harry looked up at Draco and locked his eyes on his, just as Draco felt himself begin to come, and as his orgasm reached its peak, his vision was awash with magnificent green eyes that were all Harry's…

Draco woke with a start. His sheets were drenched in sweat, he had a raging hard-on, and his heart was pounding in his chest. "Bugger," he said into the darkness, as he slid a hand into his pyjama trousers to finish the job that Dream-Harry had started. "Fucking Potter." He came quickly, cleaned up the evidence, and fell back to sleep, where he slept peacefully, dreams mercifully not plagued by annoying, incompetent Gryffindors for the rest of the night.

* Harry stepped out of Twilfitt and Tattings feeling as if he'd achieved a small victory. He'd procured the hair of a Muggle (not Prince Charles', but Harry figured if Malfoy ever saw a photo of the heir to the throne of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth he'd think that was a good thing), and had just purchased a set of stylish - and very expensive - black dress robes with a gold trim that fit his alias perfectly. And he'd achieved it without Malfoy's help. It felt strange in his current body; the man whose identity he'd stolen was a couple of inches taller than him, which was throwing his balance off slightly, and he had very short, perfectly-styled light-brown hair that he was confident Draco would approve of, and piercing blue eyes that reminded Harry of Dumbledore's. Seeing clearly without his glasses was also a very odd experience.

He checked his watch. It was ten minutes until he was due to meet Malfoy, so he made his way to the entrance of the restaurant to wait for Malfoy who, predictably, arrived exactly at seven.

"Malfoy," he said, to make his identity known to the ex-Slytherin. Draco raised one eyebrow in appraisal, as his eyes took in Harry's appearance.

"Passable, I suppose," he muttered. "You don't look entirely hideous." He walked past Harry and opened the restaurant door. Behind him Harry grinned; coming from Malfoy, that was a compliment.

The maître d' showed them to their table, and handed them a menu. It was all in French.

"All upper-class pure-bloods are educated in French from a very early age," Draco said quietly, "and can at the very least understand a menu. It's a French sit-down dinner at the ball, so you will need to learn some French dishes before next week. To cast a Translation Charm, or to otherwise imply you do not understand the menu, will instantaneously expose your half-blood status."

Harry felt a combination of irritation and amusement at the way Draco spat the word 'half-blood' with contempt as others did 'Voldemort-supporter'.

Draco ordered an expensive bottle of Pinot Noir for them both, and demonstrated to Harry how to 'test the bouquet'.

"Never pour a full glass of wine," Draco said. "Half to three quarters full is acceptable. To fill your glass up gives the appearance of gluttony." Harry took a sip. It was full and rich. Delicious. "This is a red wine," Draco continued. "It goes with red meat - beef, venison, game such as pheasant, etc. If you're eating seafood, pork or poultry then order a white wine."

Harry looked at the menu, remembering Draco's earlier words about Translation Charms. He didn't understand a single word of what was written. "Um, Malfoy, can you recommend a dish?" he asked, and Draco smirked.

"Boeuf en Croute would be a safe choice," he said, somewhat patronisingly, Harry felt. "It's tenderloin of beef in puff pastry, served with vegetables and a meat jus. Nothing too fancy. And it goes splendidly with the wine."

"That sounds fine," Harry said. "Now, explain all this bloody cutlery to me, will you?"

"It's very simple, Potter," Draco drawled. "The cutlery is arranged in order of use, with the utensils to be used first furthest from your plate. Just start from the outside and work your way in. One set per course."

A small plate of hors d'oeuvres arrived, along with two glasses of an aperitif. Harry followed Draco's lead, mimicking his actions and how he consumed what was on his plate. The course was replaced soon afterwards with the fish course - a fillet of turbot served in a beurre blanc sauce. Harry had never eaten either before; he broke off a chunk of the white fish and popped it into his mouth with trepidation, but found it to not be too bad. It wouldn't be his first choice of food but, then again, none of this was. He was not a fine-dining type of bloke. But he doubted very much that he would be able to get a pizza and a bottle of Becks in here, so he'd have to make do with his pretentious fish and posh wine. He checked his watch; his Polyjuice was due to wear off in five minutes.

"Um, excuse me," he said, and left the table to visit the loo, where he took another drink of the disgusting potion before returning to the table. In his absence the fish course had been cleared and Draco had ordered their main.

"The thing you need to remember about pure-bloods, Potter," Draco said, once their mains had been served, "is that for us, our magic is our way of life. Our whole heritage is built upon our magic. For Muggle-borns, magical ability is just a tool that they use to enhance their pre-existing life, like an extra skill that may make jobs a little easier or quicker. It is not their whole life. I'm not saying it's inferior, but you cannot deny that pure-bloods and Muggle-borns use magic differently. How many Muggle appliances do you have in your home, Potter? You don't exclusively use magic, like I, or my family and friends do, do you? And that is why pure-bloods date other pure-bloods; it's nothing to do with the actual blood status, and everything to do with having a relationship with somebody who respects and upholds the pure-blood way of life. Pansy dated a half-blood last year who was learned in pure-blood ways; nobody batted an eyelid. But such people are rare. Likewise, we do not form relationships with pure-bloods who do not follow our traditions any longer, such as the Longbottoms or Weasleys. Otherwise our culture will become extinct in just a few generations."

Harry thought about what Draco was saying. He also thought of his refrigerator, television and dishwasher. It felt alien to him to use magic for everything, even after a decade in the wizarding world. What Malfoy was saying made sense to him, for the first time ever.

"Ninety-seven percent of wizarding wealth is owned by just seven percent of wizarding society - and every single one of them is a pure-blood," Draco continued. "Our economy, and therefore, the Ministry, St Mungo's, etc., would crumble without us. Our world needs my kind. All those that are independently wealthy come from the oldest, most respected families. It's a heritage we're proud of, and we're not going to let Ultio destroy us."

"I'm independently well-off, Malfoy," Harry corrected, as he swallowed a piece of succulent beef that was a bit too rare for his liking. "I mean, I might not have your millions, but I'm not short of a few Galleons. And I'm 'just' a half-blood. I don't need to work; I choose to. So you're wrong about that; it's not just pure-bloods that are rich." To his surprise, Draco laughed.

"And where, exactly, does your money come from? You inherited both the Potter and Black fortunes. Both of which were affluent, pure-blood families. There's no getting round it. Your money is pure-blood money. Pure-bloods hold the wealth. My kind of pure-bloods, I mean. I'm not counting riffraff like the Weasleys."

Harry's fists clenched at the dig at Ron and his family, but he otherwise ignored it. He set about cutting into his beef, taking another bite. It did taste good. He also thought he was beginning to understand Malfoy's heritage a bit more. What was even more startling was that Harry was finding himself sympathising with Draco. Draco had finally explained himself without retorting to (too many) digs at Muggle-borns; he'd focussed purely on the difference that, Harry conceded, did exist. Maybe Harry had had too much wine to drink, but he wasn't finding Malfoy's company too horrible after all.

The mains were cleared, which was followed by a salad course Harry didn't care for ("It's considered very impolite to leave a course untouched, Potter. Discreetly Vanish it if you really cannot eat it"), then, a cheeseboard with some delicious cheeses, and some that were… not so delicious, was served.

"What the fucking hell is this?" Harry exclaimed, foregoing all manners and spitting out a mouthful of half-chewed cheese into a napkin. "It's disgusting."

"It's a Bucheron. A goat's milk cheese," Draco replied, and Harry wrinkled his face, downing the remaining contents of his glass of wine in an attempt to remove the taste from his mouth. Which probably wasn't a good idea because he already felt a bit tipsy. "I take it that it's not to your taste?"

"It's horrible," Harry said. "It's all… goaty." The corners of Draco's mouth twitched in amusement.

"'Goaty'," he repeated. "Really, Potter, we really need to expand your vocabulary to a level higher than that of a three-year-old child's. Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespeare and Milton. Don't sit there crooning like a second-rate postal owl who's about to be put out of its misery."

"Yeah, well, it tastes like come," Harry said, unthinking. Unfortunately for Draco, he'd chosen that moment to take a large sip of wine, which he promptly spat all over the formerly-pristine white tablecloth, then spluttered. He quickly Vanished the wine stain from the linen with his wand.

"You have a lot of experience with semen, do you?" he said as casually as he could, which probably wasn't very casually at all, given his brain chose that moment to remind him of the previous night's dream. He was pleased to note that a deep blush had appeared on Harry's (well, the man Harry was Polyjuiced as, anyway) face, and he suddenly wished Harry's eyes were their usual emerald. Draco was quite sure Potter hadn't meant to let that nugget of information slip out. Was Potter gay? Or did he just have some very strange masturbatory habits? The last Draco knew, Potter had been involved with that Weasley girl. But that had been years ago, back in school. He himself hadn't realised his own sexuality until he was eighteen; it wasn't entirely impossible that Potter could be the same.

Harry didn't respond, other than to cock an enigmatic expression with his eyebrows on his unfamiliar face and return to his- not goaty- cheese.

Eventually the cheese course was replaced by dessert (a delicious crème brûlée which Harry had consumed with all the dignity and grace of a starving Manticore), and then the bill arrived.

"Never ask the person paying the bill what the total came to," Draco said, slipping seamlessly back into student-teacher mode, which had, somewhere between the end of the main course and the arrival of the bill, been all but forgotten, "as it implies you're worried that the cost is too high for your date to manage, which is very insulting. And if you're paying the bill you should always add thirty percent of the total as gratuity. It is way, way more than most wizards pay and emphasises your status."

"Yeah, status as a stuck up blue blood who flashes their money around," Harry replied, but the words were without heat. He stood and offered his hand to Draco. "Tonight hasn't been unpleasant. Apart from the very unpleasant Cheese Incident. I'll owl you about our next lesson."

"Tomorrow?" Draco said as he shook Harry's hand, and there definitely wasn't a twinge of hopefulness in his voice. Harry gave him a small smile.

"I'm not free for the next three days. I have other assignments," Harry said as the pair reached Diagon Alley, and as he said it he realised that spending the afternoon escorting Ernie Macmillan's grandmother on a trip to the matinee performance of Les Misérables in the West End wasn't going to be nearly as interesting as spending the afternoon with Malfoy would be. "Will Sunday be OK for you?"

"That will only give me six days to teach you everything; the Beltane Ball is next Saturday!" Draco protested. "I need to see you before then. I'll pay you double, whatever you want, but you're not going to make me lose - er, I mean, give yourself away and humiliate me."

"No," Harry said - not unkindly, but in a tone that left Draco under no impression as to where Harry stood. The Polyjuice was beginning to wear off now - Draco could see dark locks of hair beginning to appear amongst the brown. "Malfoy, I'm not abandoning my prior commitments just for you. Sunday was going to be my day off - my first in two months - and I'm offering to give that up for you. But if that's not good enough we'll call this whole thing off and I won't charge you for the lessons so far, OK?"

"No, Sunday is fine," Draco replied, somewhat petulantly. "Goodbye, Potter."

"Bye, Malfoy," Harry replied, giving him a smile. His face was almost back to normal now, Draco was pleased to see. Harry reached into his robes - which were now slightly too big for him - and retrieved his glasses and slipped them onto his face. I'll see you on Sunday." With that, he Disapparated. Draco sighed and headed off for the short walk back to his home. Yes, it was definitely just because he was worried about not having enough time to teach Potter everything that was making him anxious he wasn't seeing the git for three days, he told himself. It had nothing to do with anything else. Definitely, completely, categorically, not.


TBC...