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Sometimes the tragedy of Severus was too much for Draco. He was operatic. Sex was devastating when he was in these moods, but the drama before and afterward was nearly unbearable.

It was because Draco was going to see Harry Potter again. Draco knew better than Severus did how Severus felt about Potter. There might have been a dignity to the intensity of his desire and his envy and his jealousy, but Severus was always at his worst when in the grip of strong feelings. He was a grown man with real scars, but he acted like a teenager in a snit. He pouted and glowered and slammed cabinets shut, going for hours without speaking.

"You want to have him," Draco said finally. "You want to have sex with him and he's the star-crossed love of your life."

"'Star-crossed' doesn't mean what you think it does," Severus said. "This isn't about Potter."

"Aha," Draco said.

"Oh, please. You're sitting there plotting out another trip abroad without me, deliberately putting yourself in danger, and you think I'm talking about Potter?"

Draco tried not to smile, since then Severus would mutter about smirking and so on. He continued diagramming the museum. "Come with me, if you like," he said. "You can brew polyjuice, if you think anyone remembers what you look like."

Severus shook his head.

"Fine," Draco said. "I'm going off to consult with another museum, you stay home and sulk. But it's not about Potter, is it? You merely think my work is risky, is that right?"

"I don't sulk."

"We could go anywhere, you know. That's what magic is for. It's your choice to stay here."

"If it's so difficult to stay with me, you can always leave."

"Just stop it," Draco said. He rose and put his arms around Severus from behind. The older man was long bodied and wiry, still all tight muscle—everything about him felt tense. He let his neck be kissed—he smelled good—before he moved out of reach and began some supposedly useful task. He always had things to do.

"It's only when I'm going to see Potter that you get this bad," Draco said. "Are you worried I'll leave you for him?" He had said it as a joke, couldn't call back the words. It had seemed like an absurdly silly thing to say, and now he couldn't decide whether it sounded like a threat to leave Severus or a threat to steal Potter.

Their arguments always ended this way, with Draco at a moral disadvantage having said something nearly unforgivable.

"He isn't even queer," Severus said. "You think you know everything. I'm going out."

He didn't bang the door, but that was only because he had apparated. He was probably going to take another lonely walk on the moors, his hair whipping about dramatically, and so forth.

Severus was wrong. Draco was sure Potter was queer. Every time they met, over a conference table in some city, he could feel Potter's eyes on him. Severus kept saying it meant Potter had found him out, or was close to it, but Draco didn't think that explained Potter's attempts not to look. There was nothing so surreal as sitting at a conference table with the famously green eyes of Harry Potter focused on his left shoulder, or his wrist.

He knew Potter was doing it because he did it himself. He didn't want to look at Potter's face, didn't want to notice his high coloring, his long eyelashes. He didn't want to check out Potter's arse as he left conference rooms ahead of Draco. What was safe? Not his mouth, with that curving upper lip, not his hair, still untamed—at every meeting in every country, Draco looked at his notes and at the faces of their clients, and not ever at Harry Potter.

His notes on the coming case in the Hague were promising. He loved this work, and not only because it had thrown him together with Potter. Of course they’d both played the same position at Quidditch, of course after school they’d both become known as consultants on magically potent works of art. Somehow he was meant to have to deal with Potter.

Severus popped back into the room. He began to open and shut drawers, a little violently, pulling out objects and sending them flying up the stairs. "I've changed my mind," he said. "I'm coming with you."

Harry loved being in the Netherlands. There were lots of people walking around or riding bicycles, and you could overhear quirky jokes in a strangely accented English, or try to understand the beautiful sound of Dutch. The food was brilliant—they even served chocolate and treacle at breakfast. It was like being at Hogwarts all over again. Since he had some time before the meeting, he sat in a café across from the museum, trying to read a Dutch newspaper as he drank his milky coffee.

"May I sit with you?" He looked up and there was Draco Malfoy, smiling down at him. There he was again.

Harry pulled in his feet. "Be my guest."

"Always only one biscuit with the coffee," Malfoy said.

"The biscuit comes with," Harry explained. "I didn't order it. It's chocolate." He thought perhaps this was Malfoy being friendly and tried not to be annoyed that he had to do it by being superior to everything.

Malfoy looked amused. "I see," he said. He raised a finger and ordered his own coffee. "Must see if they give me a free chocolate biscuit too."

"Git," Harry muttered.

"Suppose we're working together again, on the Escher Museum," Malfoy said. Why did he have to sound so relaxed and superior when Harry was on edge? It always felt like Malfoy knew something Harry didn't. He'd mastered this man's wand, he'd saved his life, he'd testified on behalf of his mother, and he still felt at a disadvantage.

"Potter," Malfoy said. "I was just teasing."

Harry's face heated. "It's fine," he said, and shrugged. It had been eight years since the battle of Hogwarts, and they'd had plenty of time to put the animosity and pain of the war behind them. Malfoy certainly had. Why was Harry so mistrustful? He didn't mean to be.

Harry smiled. "Let's have a look at the diagrams you've done of the palace," he said. "Do you mind?"

Malfoy looked chuffed. He had the plans on parchment in a manila envelope, the old kind with the strings that wound around little paper spools. Harry pulled them out carefully.

"I did my own map of the security," Harry said, "but your work here on the magical currents…" He tapped the parchment with his finger. "The staircases are interesting."

"It's probably an influence of the artwork," Malfoy murmured. He had a reputation for knowing the magical provenance of supposedly Muggle artwork. "Dank u wel," he said to the waiter bringing his coffee.

"Alstublieft."

Malfoy took the biscuit off his saucer and put it on Harry's. It clinked, and Harry looked up.

"Sweets to the sweet," Malfoy said nonsensically. "Let's see your map, then."

Harry brought it out of his bag. His specialty was defense against theft and enchantment, naturally. He had suggested different sorts of magical guardians local wizards could post at the entrances and so on. Malfoy took the map from him carefully with flattering attention.

They had an hour before the meeting, but the time passed quickly. Malfoy was being so pleasant that it was almost like they were friends. They crossed the Plein together, approaching the museum.

Harry braced himself for some typical snobby Malfoy comment about the size of the palace, but it never came. Instead, Malfoy stopped him right before they walked into the building, and reached for Harry's lapel. "May I?" His face was close to Harry's, and Harry could see his pale eyelashes.

"Um," Harry said. Malfoy muttered something in Latin and Harry's suit jacket was suddenly far less rumpled. "Mustn't let down the side," Malfoy said.

The security team at the Escher Museum was three young wizards, Jaap, Piet and Lena. They were not pleased the museum had hired two different wizarding consultants from Britain to "help" them—they didn't believe they needed help. Harry smiled and was conciliatory and they completely ignored him. Malfoy's imperious style suited them better, and they talked to him while Harry got on with his measurements. They didn't seem to realize that Malfoy wasn't Harry's partner. It was all right. Harry could listen and work at the same time.

Harry had never seen most of the prints, though Lena pointed out to Malfoy all the ones that had been popularized on posters and t-shirts in the Muggle world. She was a bit like Hermione, had Hermione been a tall frosty witch with a charmed chignon from which not a single blond hair would dare escape.

Jaap kept checking out Malfoy's arse when he thought no one was looking. Harry tried to concentrate on his work.

Magic came off some of the pictures in waves. Harry was able to feel how magical they were even before he cast the spell to measure it. All the original prints had some magic to them, and the ones that demonstrated ways space could be bent had the most.

There was one print that didn't have a high magical residue. Harry was puzzled.

"Why do you think this one is so much lower? Aren't they all made the same way?"

"Escher made the prints himself," Lena said. "They should all have the same magic count."

"Escher wasn't a wizard," Malfoy said.

"No, of course not," Jaap said impatiently.

"So the magic didn't come from his magic," he continued.

"Ah, so you think it's not a measure of authenticity," Harry said. "It shouldn't matter who made the prints, the image itself is magical."

"What's your point?" Lena asked impatiently. It was the first time she'd addressed him since they'd shaken hands.

"I don't want to hand over a security plan if one of the works of art has already been stolen and replaced."

"Stolen!" Lena began to sputter with outrage.

"Perhaps this is a less magical image," Malfoy said.

Harry didn't see it—in many ways, this one was his favorite. It wasn't an optical illusion or a tessellation, just a stark image of the artist's father looking through a magnifying glass.

"Just because you like a piece doesn't mean it's more magical," Malfoy said.

"I do like it," Harry said, in part to the three Dutch security wizards. Apparently that didn't make him sympathetic. Everyone likes Dutch art.

"I'll check the listing," Lena said finally. "I don't think this is a change in the magical signature."

They all seemed sure the piece couldn't be a forgery.

And if it were, the Muggle art experts would take care of it, wouldn't they?

He started to raise it with Malfoy on their way out of the building, after they'd handed over their maps and discussed security strategies.

"That print reminded me of Snape," Malfoy mused. "Something about the angular lines, the power boxed into a small place—the way the man in the image is peering into the glass was like him, too."

Yes, it was true—the angular figure was like Snape. He hadn't thought about Snape in months. Harry couldn't believe it; he'd really forgotten this person who had obsessed him for years since dying in his arms. Well, practically in his arms—on the floor in front of him. Harry should have held him in his arms. If only he'd known.

"Harry?" Malfoy said. "You were away with the fairies for a bit there."

"Sorry," Harry said.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said. "I've heard rumors that he's still alive, somewhere. It's hard for me to believe, but…"

"I could believe it," Harry said in a low voice. "Even though I saw him die. He faked everything else, why not fake his own death?" He took a sharp breath. Who was he to Snape? An inconvenient responsibility at best, the reminder of his mother's murder at worst—Snape wouldn't care that Harry thought he was dead.

"I didn't mean to—" Malfoy touched his sleeve. "I didn't know the loss was still so fresh for you."

Harry shook his head. "No, no, just—typical war trauma stuff. You know, he died in front of me. I'm still—" He felt his face heat. "Sorry that I'm not over everything that happened the way you are!"

"I'm not over it, either," Malfoy said. "Are you really competing with me about who recovers from the war fastest?"

Harry laughed. "Right, it's ridiculous! You went through horrible—"

"Now there's another competition I'd really like to avoid. Are you sure we can't play one-on-one Quidditch instead?"

"It's better working with you than I thought," Harry said. Malfoy looked right at him for the first time and Harry couldn't read his expression. Then he smiled, and Harry smiled back.

"You idiot," Severus began, but the word couldn't contain enough of his sudden fury and he had to take a breath and start again. "What were you thinking? You told Potter I was alive!"

"I didn't," Draco said quietly. He put his briefcase on the hotel room desk and opened it. He had to say a few charms before he could remove the Escher print. He unrolled it onto the desktop.

"Why did you take this one?"

"If you heard our conversation, you know already. How did you do it?"

Severus snorted. There were so many ways to be invisible—let him wonder.

"What are you doing, Draco? Were you really trying to distract him from asking about the print by raising my ghost?"

Draco kept looking at the print until Severus finally turned his shoulders so they were facing each other.

"I did it for us."

"What? I don't care about the stupid artwork, you arrogant—"

"Everything I have my eye on is for us."

Severus could feel the blood heating in his head. "Harry Potter is a person, a very dangerous person. He's not a thing you can roll up in your bag and bring home."

"Dangerous," Draco muttered.

"You think because he's naïve and nice that he's not an intelligent and immensely powerful wizard. You court disaster."

Draco shrugged. "If I were afraid of dangerous wizards, I wouldn't be with you, would I?" His voice was low and confidential, and the word "dangerous" took on a new and seductive meaning. All that hot blood seemed to race to Severus' groin.

Draco traced the curve of Severus' lip with a long finger, and Severus snapped at it as if to bite it before he sucked it into his mouth. Draco's intake of breath was satisfying. "A little danger is stimulating," he said.

"I'll give you stimulating," Severus said.

"I could do with a bit of stimulating," Draco said. He steered them toward the bed.

Severus swatted his arse with an open hand. "Strip," he said, gesturing with his chin, "and wait for me on the bed."

"Yes sir," Draco said.

"None of your insolence," Severus said. Good heavens, he was hard. He knew that Draco wanted a spanking, and he could live with that.

The boy's arse was round, the product of many hours in the gym. It was amazing what Draco was willing to do to get the attention he craved. You could bounce a knut off his buttocks.

Without taking off any of his own clothing he approached the bed where Draco was on all fours, head down. He began his methodical smacking. It wasn't the spanking that aroused Severus, but Draco's reaction to it.

"You want this," he said.

Draco said, "Yes!"

"Be quiet," he said, "be quiet and take it." Draco groaned through his clenched teeth. What about this did Draco like so much? His cock stood against his belly and he pushed his arse backward to meet the blows.

"You like to be beaten," Severus said. "You want to be at my mercy."

"Ah!" Draco cried helplessly.

"You want to be spanked until your buttocks are rosy and sore, and then you hope I'll fuck you."

"Yes!" Draco's ecstatic gasp was bitten off as Severus hit him harder. There was a pleasure in the ritual, it was true--the exertion, the play-acting.

"I told you to be quiet. The only danger you really feel from me is the danger I won't stick my cock in your greedy hole."

Draco's groan was almost a whimper. Severus decided to prolong the suspense by summoning the lubricant silently.

"What if I don't want to fuck you, pretty boy," he said savagely. "What if I don't want to loosen your tight little bunghole with my cock, to fuck the insolence out of you? Is there a danger that one day I won't make you my bitch?"

He undid his flies and took out his prick, stroking it with lube. Draco was used to bottoming and he didn't need Severus to finger him, but Severus believed in being thorough. He liked the feel of the silky skin around his knuckles as he pushed his fingers inside, the tight embrace of muscle. It was a way to tease himself--to imagine the moment when his cock would be in that squeeze.

"Please," Draco begged. Severus pulled his fingers out and left him open for a minute. "Please," the boy said again, "Please. I'll be so good."

Severus fit his cockhead up against the pink hole and grasped Draco by his sore arse for leverage, and shoved in.

"Oh!" Draco cried, and then he couldn't speak, not even to plead, because Severus was fucking him too hard. Severus felt himself completely carried away by his need. His trousers were around his ankles and his balls slapped the backs of Draco's thighs.

"Please," Draco said, and he grabbed the boy by his hair and pulled, seating himself in deeper. He licked Draco's neck and kissed and bit. Draco's arse clenched around him and he cried out and came.

Severus panted for a moment, and then thrust in twice and shuddered as his climax overtook him. After a few moments, he summoned a flannel from the bathroom and used it to wipe them off.

Then he got on the bed in his shirt and socks and put his arms around his boy. He knew he shouldn't think of this adult in his late 20s with his muscles and body hair as a boy, but it was something about his affection that made them both younger, in Severus' mind. They didn't speak. He stroked Draco's pretty hair, slowly.

"I just worry, you know," Draco said finally, "that when I bring him to you, you'll love him more than you love me."

Why did he want to bring Harry Potter into their relationship? It was ridiculous. Severus decided not to argue about the wisdom of Draco's strange plan just then, while they were lying there together. This was the closest he could come to happy. He didn't want to let his fears rule him, nor to reveal to Draco his desperate, habitual protectiveness, both of Draco and of Harry Potter. They could argue more about it later.

He said, "I'm not sure I'm capable of loving anyone more than I love you."

God, Severus. What a large hearted, generous, fucked up man he was. Draco couldn't believe his luck. His arse was sore for days. He didn't heal a thing afterward, though. He liked that ache.

He knew Severus wasn't into spanking, yet he played along with enthusiasm. Was it odd of him to feel touched that his lover was willing to beat him and say cruel things to him, to make him happy? There was a reservoir of kindness and steadfastness in Severus. Draco knew he was abusing it and that he should stop but he also wanted to be important to Severus.

He and Potter were both hired to do security in Otaru on Hokkaido in Japan. First they were brought in to secure a bank museum—Draco thought this would be dull, until he realized there were some Ainu owl statuettes that practically glowed with elemental magic. He stole them both, priceless things, and replaced them with copies.

It was a delightful little city, and to have the opportunity to fly along its little canal at night with Harry Potter—the little streets lit with Victorian gas lamps, the crazy buildings like something out of a Japanese comic—was sublime. He looked over his shoulder as they flew side by side. The wind blew Potter's hair off his forehead and his cheeks flushed with cold, and he whooped under the cover of his Notice-Me-Not spell.

He persuaded Potter to spend an extra day in the pretty town. They looked at music boxes and Venetian glass, and he had the pleasure of seeing Harry Potter bravely eating raw fish for the first time. "More wasabi?" Draco asked.

"Puts hair on your chest," Potter said.

Severus did not come along on that trip. Draco wasn't sure whether he was glad or sorry. Draco was definitely better at seduction—better at the slow enjoyment of letting Potter get to know him, as an adult. Severus didn't like anyone to know him. He would never enjoy a place as quaint as Otaru. He'd see the Ainu stone circle and think of the stone circles of Britain and begin to brood over the state of magic.

Harry didn't brood anymore. He was willing to be shown a good time. It was all Draco could do to stop himself from kissing the man on his smiling, beautiful mouth.

Another consulting job, another palace, another opportunity to see Draco Malfoy acting like the queen of everything.

He was swanning around the small 18th century Bavarian palace like he owned it. Now that Harry had started to like him, his foibles were more adorable than annoying. He used to love, Ron's loud laugh, Luna's eccentricities, the way Hermione bustled and was officious. Draco's little airs and graces had stopped being symbols of what he disliked about him and turned into an ornate signature of his uniqueness.

When you become someone's friend, you can forgive him a lot, Harry thought. When you like a person, really like him, he becomes like a portable sense of home in the world. You just want him to be who he is.

Even if who he is, is a thief.

He thought Draco could even be flirting with him. He was fucked, or rather, unfucked, because he hadn't said anything and now he'd have to get his friend arrested before—

He didn't know Draco was stealing the artwork. He didn't have to turn him in, either. He could just—persuade him to stop. That's what Hermione would do.

Fortunately, Hermione wasn't there with him in Germany to see through his motivations and tell him he was being an arse. He couldn’t decide Draco wasn’t a thief just because he liked him, any more than he should decide he was a thief out of the habit of suspecting him of dishonesty.

Harry had come to Bayreuth with Draco, so he knew Draco hadn't had time to go to the museum before their meeting with the staff to steal anything. After the meeting and a lovely supper out with Draco, Harry crept back to the building in his invisibility cloak. He was a little drunk from the wine Draco had chosen.

Draco knew a lot about wine. It was a white wine, Harry knew that much, and it was mellow, and Draco said it was a late harvest wine and compared it to different kinds of fruit. "Do you taste the pear flavours, Potter? The honeysuckle?" Harry hoped no one had minded how much that had made him laugh. He'd never had much wine before they'd begun eating together on these consulting jobs.

Draco had to be planning to come back to take one of the mirrors from the Chinese Mirror Cabinet. It couldn't be anything else—Harry had never sensed magic so strong coming from a nominally non-magical artwork before. It was actually difficult to tell which mirror it was. Perhaps it was the whole room.

Draco couldn't steal a whole room. Could he?

Harry stumbled around the fountain in the dark. Damn. He had no head for wine, at all. He had to pull himself together a bit. He muttered a sobriety charm, which helped him bring things into better focus. His tongue no longer felt as numb, and he wasn't quite so off balance, as though he'd had one glass fewer. It would have to do. He unlocked the front door with a charm and walked silently into the palace, through the rooms they'd seen with the Muggle guide this morning. It was dark, but with the great windows, light from the fountain and the gardens streamed into the building. In May the gardens were full of flowers.

Harry found the mirror room, his pulse pounding like his first moment in front of the Mirror of Erised. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with irregularly shaped mirrors. For some reason, the German princess who'd had the room made in 1715 or whenever it was, thought this was what Chinese people put on the walls. Because he was wearing the cloak, he wasn't visible in most of the mirrors—but in two of them, he could see himself. He stood, waiting quietly, facing away from the mirrors toward the door, willing his heart to be quiet in his chest.

It wasn't long before someone else followed him into the room—someone who was using some kind of invisibility potion or spell. He could hear the footfalls, even though the person had taken precautions to wear soft-soled shoes. He turned toward the mirror. It wasn't Draco—it was a dark-haired man with a slighter build.

He could feel the heat of the other man's body behind his before he made himself see the face he was looking at in the mirror.

It was Snape.

He turned and looked, but there was no one there. On the chance that Snape hadn’t developed an invisibility potion, Harry said "Finite incantatum!" out loud, and Snape appeared, right as he was pulling the invisibility cloak from Harry's head.

Harry stood there staring, unable to move or speak for a moment. Then, on some strange impulse, he reached out for Snape's arms and grasped them. He squeezed and felt the wiry triceps through his clothes. He was real.

Snape just looked at him, stunned, as though somehow he hadn't known Harry was alive. Then, because he had wished so long for the chance, Harry pulled Snape into his arms. He didn't know what he was doing, but he held on tight.

When he finally let go to have another look, he could see Snape's face in a hundred broken reflections, everywhere he looked, and then just Snape's eyes, as he bent his head.

And then Snape was kissing him and that was distracting, because it made more sense than it should have. It made more sense than seeing him alive. Harry was swimming in emotion, still giddy with wine mixed with anger, lust, tenderness and an upswell of grief. He couldn't stop thinking, "But I saw you die, I didn't tell you I loved you because I didn't know, and you died, and damn you—" and he hoped Snape had some new form of legilimency that required probing Harry's mouth with his tongue instead of looking into his eyes, because there was no other way to understand this kiss. He couldn't stop thinking, even though they were kissing desperately, like starving men.

When Harry finally came up for air, he realized someone had stolen the mirror, because his head emerged from nothing in all of the reflections in the room. He grasped Snape's hand. "Don't leave," he said.

"And hello to you, too, Potter," Snape said quietly.

If Potter hadn't kept hold of his hand, Severus would surely have splinched himself apparating away. What had he been thinking, kissing Harry Potter?

He'd thought, "Hug me, will you? I'll show you, I'll kiss you and see if you like it!"

But of course Potter had liked it, and what was worse, Severus did.

Severus had thought if Potter ever found out he was alive that he'd scream at Severus for allowing him to believe Severus had died. Or, to his mind an even worse scenario, Potter would weep and beg his forgiveness. Instead he seemed stunned. He wouldn't let go of Severus as they walked through the little town.

There was a bar open, and Potter followed Severus, still hanging onto his coat sleeve. Draco was there, of course.

"Harry!" he said. Then he looked at Severus, and put his hand up to flag a waiter and order two cups of tea.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked. It wasn’t clear which of them he was asking, and Severus didn't bother to respond. He had Potter clinging to his sleeve like a limpet, of course he wasn't all right.

"I have good news and bad news," Draco said. Potter was going to hold onto Severus' wrist while they drank the tea, Severus feared. He didn't want to draw attention to Potter's behavior. He tried to pretend it was perfectly usual for Harry Potter to hold on to him in this way.

"The good news is this, I've had an owl from Boston. From America." Draco passed Potter a letter across the rustic wooden table.

"The bad news is, they really wanted you, but since we've been working together so much, they assumed we were partners. I hope you don't mind I committed you to the job. Here's your tea," he said. He stared at Severus, who tried to keep his face composed.

"Harry," Draco said quietly. "You can let go of Severus now."

Potter removed his hand slowly and looked at Severus. "You bastard," he said. "How could you let me think you were dead?" These fits of self-righteousness had always made him resemble Lily even more. This time, however, Potter was so upset he couldn't speak. He stood up and looked at Draco, and shook his head. He clenched his jaw, and then took the parchment. "I have to get out of here," he said, and disapparated.

Sneaking into the Gardner Museum, even with a unique invisibility cloak, a silencing charm and a notice-me-not, was not easy. The Gardner staff and indeed the city of Boston had never forgotten the unsolved thefts of 1990. The museum vibrated with a sort of nervous energy, even when no staff members were there. Harry could be invisible to the guards, could trick them, but the place was still full of cameras and the sad pall the thefts had cast on the beautiful place.

Certainly, the people who stole the art in 1990 were Muggle thieves. Wizards would never have cut a canvas from the frame, no matter how stupid they were about art. Harry thought perhaps the thieves had fenced the artwork with wizards, though. His concern tonight was to make sure he knew which of the remaining pieces were magically active, and to do it when Draco wasn't in the building with him. When he finally met with the security staff, he’d have a map and a discussion of how to prevent magical thefts.

Harry walked through the reconstructed Spanish courtyard and stood before a dimly lit painting of a Spanish dancer. His shoes made no sound on the flagstones. Even though the painting didn't move, the image of the dancer was eerily alive. Dumbledore had said music was a greater magic than anything they would learn at Hogwarts. Perhaps all art was a form of magic, a way to defeat the limits of time and space.

The museum was built to look like a Venetian palace, with a beautiful courtyard garden. A glass roof made it possible for the place to be green year round. In May, there were flowers. Harry walked around the garden, looking at the statues and mosaics. He stopped at the column supported by an attacking lion crouching over a man. It looked a bit like the lion was fucking the man, who was lying on his side with his mouth open in pain or ecstasy.

He could feel that Draco was in the building.

He told his wand to point him toward Draco, and followed it. First it brought him out into the courtyard, where the green of the ivy in the purple dusk was incredibly lush to the eye, and the sound of the fountains was musical. He realized the wand was pointing him up to a second floor balcony, so he went back in to take the nearest staircase.

The lights in the museum were on low, and Harry bumbled past a room full of Raphaels. One thing about working in museum security, he saw a lot of pictures of mothers with their babies, and mothers with their dead sons. The wand pulled him into a smaller room, and there was Draco, standing before a portrait of Isabella Stewart Garder.

He pulled the cloak down. "You can't take that painting," he blurted.

"Oh, I would never steal from Mrs. Gardner," Draco said. The woman in the painting brought her arms down from where she was holding open the doors to her verandah.

"No, of course you wouldn't, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her low, musical voice marred by her strange American accent. Malfoy was her type, and she was flirting.

"Except, perhaps, your ideas, dear lady," Draco said. "Or a jot of your joie de vivre."

She laughed. "How amusing to hear about my joie de vivre decades after my death!"

"I didn't know you were a witch," Harry said tentatively.

"Oh, I wasn't," said the woman in the painting, flashing her eyes at Harry, too. "Or at least, not in the sense I suppose you mean. I didn't do spells while I was alive."

"Is this the Anders Zorn portrait?" Harry couldn't see a tag on the wall.

"You did your research, Potter," Draco said in a low tone.

Mrs. Gardner's wide, slightly crooked mouth always seemed to be smiling, even in repose. "There are no identifying tags on the walls, Mr. …?"

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, and couldn't help returning her warm grin.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter," the painting said. "I would say, 'welcome to Fenway Court,' but I always become confused. Am I in Venice? Or am I back in Boston?"

"Many visitors have asked the same question," Draco said.

"Oh, aren't you a charmer," Mrs. Gardner said. "But Mr. Potter wants you to account for the magic in the painting."

"Was Zorn a wizard?" Harry asked.

"No," Draco said, but the painting interrupted him.

"Of course he was!" she said. "They all were. Did you see that beautiful Sargent—"

"Do his portraits of you also move?" Harry asked.

"Move?" she said. She looked confused. Perhaps it was difficult for her to remember that she was a portrait. "I don't—no, I mean El Jaleo, the painting."

"Oh, the one in the beautiful courtyard," Harry said. "That was the other thing that made me think you must be a witch. It was just like the most beautiful place in Spain." Mrs. Gardner had imported tiles and statues from Spain, to set the painting where she thought it belonged.

Draco looked at him. "You see," he began. "This is just what I mean. You enjoy things so much."

"But how did she do it without magic?" Harry said.

"You can do a lot with money and determination," Draco said.

"And love," Mrs. Gardner added, "and the desire to share beautiful things."

Harry looked at Draco. "You'd better be telling the truth," he said. "You'd better not be taking a thing out of this place."

"On the contrary, Potter," Draco said, "I'm going to bring something back."

"Does she know about—" Harry wasn't sure whether he should mention the thefts. It was a lot of art to lose.

"She knows about the thefts," Draco said.

"That beautiful Rembrandt ship painting," she said. It looked like a tear had been painted on her cheek for a moment, but then she took her beautifully painted handkerchief and wiped it away. "How smug I was when Berenson bought that for me. It was nearly as much a portrait of me as this painting is—the drama, the light and shadow—that's what I've always loved."

"I would have thought the Vermeer," Draco said.

"Oh, yes, I loved that one, too," she said. "The subterfuge at the auction was tremendous fun. But you know, the main thing that bothers me—ever since the thefts, the atmosphere here has been different. The guards are always barking at people. I can't be disappointed, though," Mrs. Gardner said, "for I am determined to enjoy myself, no matter what the thieves have taken. Every day hundreds of children come past here, and they look up and see me and hear the story about the fireworks."

"She was telling her guests not to miss the fireworks," Draco explained. "With all the beautiful things she saw and collected, she was still excited about them." Harry could see the flash of the fireworks behind her on the canvas. If he were a painter, he’d want to capture this moment too.

Harry smiled. "That's really good."

"So you see, I'm not going to take anything away from here. The only thing I want in this museum," Draco said to Harry in a low voice, "is you."

Mrs. Gardner cleared her luminous, painted throat and raised her arms and stared out of her painting, her face slightly more flushed than Harry recalled from the reproductions.

"Good evening," Draco said, and bowed. He jerked his head and they walked out of the room to the balcony, where they stood together, looking down on the courtyard in the dusk.

"You want me," Harry said.

"It's what I want, and I think it's what you want, too. Or you would if you weren't so innocent."

"Oi!" Harry. "Who are you calling innocent?"

"Forgive me. You're the wizarding world's answer to Casanova."

"I've had experience."

Draco pursed his lips as though trying not to smile and looked down. "Sexual experience," he said.

"Yes," Harry said. "Sexual."

"But you aren't with anyone," Draco said.

"The only reason you never see me with anyone is that I spent my childhood locked in a cupboard and my adolescence running from a madman."

"Whereas I," Draco drawled, "am a paragon of healthy adjustment." Harry started to laugh.

"Harry," Draco said. He reached out and pushed Harry's hair back. Harry shivered a little. Draco's arm slid around his shoulders, and then they were finally kissing, sweet and slow. It was different than with Snape. Harry wasn't sure what he should be feeling about that.

"I hate to shut my eyes," Draco said, "when I'm kissing you, here."

"Leave them open," Harry said, and pushing Draco against the wall, he dropped to his knees. He'd never sucked anyone's cock before, and he couldn’t wait. He felt a nervous excitement, a flutter in his stomach that was part arousal, but no hesitation. He rubbed his face against the front of Draco's trousers, feeling the shape of his erection through the fabric, long and hard against Harry's cheek. He mouthed it, breathing on it, until Draco's impatient hands, unfastening his belt, got in the way. Finally he got a look at it—red, slightly curved, the balls furred with pale hair.

It tasted fine, clean, a little pre-come on the tip—not much different than sucking on any other part of the body, except harder, hotter. Harry treated it like a lolly, pulling it in and out of his mouth, sucking hard. He looked up to see how Draco took it, and saw his tender, shocked expression. He put his hand against Harry's cheek, ran his fingers through Harry's hair.

There were probably methods and techniques to this, but Harry thought he was doing all right. Draco was making small sounds. Harry was hard. Harry grabbed Draco's cock with his hands and jerked him until he sounded like he was about to come, then put the head back into his mouth to suck it, and Draco came in his mouth in rich, bitter spurts, crying out, holding on to his head.

Afterward Harry stood up and they embraced. Draco seemed eager to taste himself on Harry's mouth, and his tongue was luscious. Harry held on to him and pushed against him, his eyes shut. It was not comfortable to hump Draco's hard thigh where they were braced against a wall, but he came anyway, from the excitement of it. It seemed to take only about a minute. Draco's kisses on his neck were cool as he blushed hot for his lack of control.

Draco kept kissing him until he felt as though he'd done something sexy, done all right. Coming down from his orgasm, Harry realized this meant something to Draco, and he was vaguely ashamed. Draco always teased--Harry had started to like the way he always knew the fun things to do in every city, the little pleasures. Perhaps he had misread the whole thing, and Draco had done it all because he liked Harry--really liked him.

By the time they had arranged their clothing and said goodbye to Mrs. Gardner's portrait and removed all the spells so the guards could see everything in the museum again, the moment when Harry might have asked Draco just how he was planning to return the Rembrandt painting had passed. They parted after another delicious, earnest kiss and Draco was not surprised that Severus appeared immediately at his elbow.

"Well done," he said colorlessly. "You persuaded Harry Potter to give his first blowjob."

Draco looked at him. "Are you sure?"

Severus nodded. Draco didn't want to ask how he knew.

"It was a very Gryffindorish one," Draco said, reflecting. "He got right to it, no hesitating."

"What did you tell him that… inflamed him that way?" It sounded like there was something in Severus' throat.

"I think he might have inferred from something I said that we were going to solve the Gardner Museum theft of 1990."

"Ah. And are you?"

"I doubt it. We're going to return a painting."

Severus walked beside him in silence. They had reached their hotel. "You think your father has it in the Manor."

"No," Draco said. "He did at one time, I believe. I know all of those Muggle paintings were snuck out of our house during…during the war. We just have to figure out where."

"Who smuggled out the paintings?"

"One of the house elves," Draco said.

Severus looked at him. "What's wrong with this story? You have something going here. You can't recover the painting and then present the museum with a magical forgery."

"I won't. I’d hardly steal something my parents already have! You talked with Mrs. Gardner’s portrait too, didn’t you? I knew you would fall in love with her. She's your type."

"She's not my—"

"Red hair, killer figure, lively—she's like Potter's mother—"

"No." Severus shook his head. Lily had been terribly beautiful, her mouth a delicate marvel, and she was not like anyone else, in art or life.

"Oh, I shouldn't have said that," Draco said. "I'm always doing that."

"I don't want people to remember her only as his mother," Severus said.

"But you love him for himself," Draco said. "You were jealous, when you watched us together."

"I love you, you stupid boy," Severus said.

"That's..." Draco said. They walked across their hotel lobby and into the lift. The doors slid shut. "You've never said that."

Severus slid his arms around Draco and held him close, not saying anything. Draco swallowed. "Because I want you to love me," he said. "Because I want you to have everything you want. I want everything to be perfect."

"I don't need that," Severus said.

The last thing Severus wanted to be was the third wheel. Yet there he was, awkward in a London café while Draco explained to Potter why he needed to get into Sirius Black's old house.

"Severus agrees with me that the painting is probably in the old Black house, Harry," Draco said. They were on a first-name basis after all these years. (Well, fellatio does break the ice, doesn't it, Severus? He hated himself for thinking it.) Potter kept looking at him. He tried to school his features into blankness, but somehow he was frowning.

"Why?" Potter said.

"The elves in my family were all related to the ones in the Black family," Draco began.

Potter nodded. "I mean, why—why did you tell him about the painting?"

For a wonder, Draco blushed. Finally Severus couldn't bear it. "Because Malfoy is my live-in lover," he said. It sounded like the stupidest joke ever.

Potter began to laugh, but then looked at them. His face went from open and smiling to hurt and worried in an instant.

"We have an open relationship," Severus said, his jaw clenched.

"Oh," Potter said. He still looked upset. "Because I—because—"

"It's fine," Severus lied. Potter looked right at him. He still didn't bother to hide his emotions and Severus could see how many different species of regret were on his face. He looked away.

Potter asked again, "All right, so why do you think the painting is in the Black House?"

"The elves in the Malfoy family were all wedding gifts from the Blacks," Severus explained, looking at Draco's hands on the table between them. "As you saw during the war, elves don't lose their connection to their previous houses, even after they've been freed or transferred to another family. They can move easily between houses."

"Let's go, then," Potter said, practically leaping to his feet.

"Can Draco get into your house?"

Potter sat down again. "It's still under Fidelius," he said. "I don't live there, because after Dumbledore died, there was no secret keeper. You know," he said to Snape. "You were there, in spite of all that spell work to scare you away."

"Not much scares him," Draco said, with a proprietary tone.

"I can bring you into the house as well," Harry said to Draco, not quite meeting his eyes. "We accidentally brought someone in who wasn't under Fidelius during the war, so it's possible."

Severus didn't want to come with them into the house, either, but it seemed awkward to refuse as the other two stood up to go. Not that he'd ever minded being awkward before. He'd been in the house many times when the owner didn't want him there.

The last time Harry was in this house, he'd tried to disable the jinxes and curses Mad-Eye Moody had put up against Snape, but just being in the house was unpleasant. It made him remember Sirius' death, and those horrible moments of writhing on the bathroom floor, seeing a vision of Draco forced to torture another Death Eater.

He put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "All right, mate?" he said softly. It wasn't the sort of thing you said to Draco Malfoy—he had never been matey.

Still, Draco's neck flushed and Harry could see that he was smiling. "Yes," he said.

"I tried to take down some of the worst things," Harry told them, "but there may be some scary jinxes with your name on them, Professor."

It was mostly just sad to hear Moody's voice intoning Snape's name, though Draco jumped a bit. Harry was grateful that no dusty specter of Dumbledore appeared to accuse Snape of murder, but the tongue-tying curse was still there, and none of them enjoyed that, however brief.

Snape stood, impassive, pale and alone. Harry hadn't taken hold of him to bring him into the house, because he had been there before. Then Sirius' mother's portrait began to scream, and Harry could hear pieces of furniture on the upper floors falling over.

"Love what you've done with the place, Potter," Draco said.

"At least we don't have to go back to your house," Harry muttered.

Draco jerked his head toward the painting. "One moment," he said. He walked to the end of the corridor and stood before the painting, and then bowed.

"Good morning, Aunt Walburga," he said. She fixed him with her mad, painted eye. "Is it Narcissa's boy, Draco? How you've grown," she said, her speaking voice only slightly raspy.

"My friend, Harry Potter, brought me for a visit," Draco told the portrait. Her face flushed and she looked at Harry, but didn't begin to scream at him. "You are very welcome, Draco," she said. "How is your dear mother?"

"She is well, thank you."

Harry was gobsmacked. He kept his mouth firmly shut.

"This is Professor Severus Snape," Draco continued, as though they were at a reception. "He was the Head of Slytherin House when I was at Hogwarts."

"Professor," Mrs. Black said, nodding, as though she had never vented her two-dimensional spleen at Snape.

Draco drew the curtain over the painting, and they walked into the house. "How did you do that?" Harry asked.

Draco shrugged.

"They're all mad in his family," Severus said.

"What we need," Draco said, "is a house elf."

Harry tried saying Kreacher's name, and the old elf popped up. "Master," he said in his bullfrog voice.

"I need your help," Harry said. "The Malfoy house elves may have hidden a painting here."

Kreacher stood silent.

Draco looked at Harry. "You have to order him to do something," he said. "He can't respond to a hint that you need information."

"Kreacher, if you know that the painting is in this house, I order you to tell me."

"I do not know where the painting is, Master Harry," Kreacher responded immediately.

"Do you know what happened to the painting? I order you to tell me what you know," Harry said, "please."

Draco made a face.

Kreacher nodded. He was accustomed to Harry's discomfort with giving him orders for anything but food. He was always either too forceful and angry or too polite. "When the Dark Lord came to live at Miss Cissy's house," he said, "she asked Kreacher to hide her special things."

"Including the painting?" Draco asked impatiently.

"Yes, Master Draco, she gave Kreacher the painting," the old elf said, "But she made it invisible, with the other things. Kreacher helped her to hide it."

"But you don't know where it is," Harry broke in, and Kreacher began to whimper. "Please don't punish yourself," Harry added hastily.

Snape said, "She didn't want anyone to be able to get the information from the elf, so she got him to help hide it from himself."

"Could you ask her to help us?" Harry said.

"They aren't on speaking terms," Snape said. "Something about going off to live with one of his Hogwarts teachers."

Draco cleared his throat. This was a sore subject with them, Harry reckoned.

"All right, well," Harry said. "We'll just look for a magical object."

"It's a Muggle painting," Snape said.

"Harry's right," Draco said. "It will have a magical signature. This is what we've both been doing for the museums—learning about the magical properties of Muggle art."

Not spending all our time giving each other blowjobs, Harry thought. Now Snape would really hate him. An image crossed his mind of Snape watching him suck cock. He'd probably sneer at Harry's poor technique. "Ten points from Gryffindor for allowing your teeth to scrape his glans." He grinned involuntarily.

"What?" Draco asked.

"Nothing," Harry said. "I think we should try the attic."

Watching the young men ply their trade had all the charm of watching paint dry. They were physically searching the house. On the third floor, they paused before the two bedrooms.

"Do you think your mum liked one of her Black cousins more than the other?" Potter asked.

"Sirius," Draco said. "At least, she was really upset when he died. Though that could have been because Auntie Bellatrix killed him. My mother had a difficult war."

"Just wondered whether she was more likely to have hidden the painting in one of their rooms."

"She's a good person," Draco said.

"I know," Potter said.

Severus snorted. "This is very slow," he said. "Why don't you do a scanning spell to reveal all hidden objects?"

"Is there such a thing?" Draco asked.

"He probably invented one," Potter said.

Severus did not dignify this with a comment.

"Will you teach it to us?" Potter asked. He was ingratiatingly humble.

Severus showed them his spell. Potter picked it up right away; Draco took a moment to practice all the parts of it before he cast. Potter walked away down the corridor, casting the spell and looking, casting, and looking.

Thus it was Potter and not Draco who had a ceiling panel open above him and screaming magical objects rain down on his head.

"Harry!" Severus gasped. He threw himself on the boy like a rugby player, diving vertically across the space between them.

"See, this can be exciting," Draco said. Then he saw what Severus saw, which was a little trickle of blood on Potter's forehead. Potter looked stunned. Severus swore. He pushed Potter's hair back.

"He's all right," Draco said. "He's all right, Severus."

"I'm all right," Potter said. Severus was shaking from the adrenalin, still looking for a cut. Finally he found it.

"Episkey," he said out loud. The cut closed. "It doesn't look too bad." He realized he was staring into Potter's eyes and pushing his hair off his forehead. He sat back. "Just checking for concussion, in case your pupils were dilated."

Potter petted his arms a little—he could tell Severus was shaky. Damn. "I'm fine," he said, his voice a little softer.

Severus shook him off and stood up. "Good," he said. "Obviously that spell is a bit of a blunt instrument."

"I think we've found the painting," Draco said. He'd swept aside the spitting and shrieking objects—they were ceramic animals, looked like figurines of rabbits and hedgehogs from a children's book, but with scary red eyes and little fangs—and reached into the fallen plaster.

Potter turned. "It's not rolled up! It's in a frame."

Draco blew the dust off the surface using a spell—small puffs of air emitted from his wand. "No, of course not, a canvas like this is very stiff. I don't know how they protected it from the paint coming off."

"There were some chips left behind at the crime scene—"

"My parents, or whatever wizard they bought this from, must have cast spells to protect it."

They both radiated intense excitement. Severus stepped forward to look at the painting.

It was a scene of men in a sailboat. The left side was full of light and motion—men grappling with sails, white water spilling into the boat. The lower right of the painting was darker. One man dragged on the tiller, while next to him, a haloed figure—Jesus?—was looking back at a group of men, beseeching him to calm the waves. Severus had seen a reproduction of this in a book, when he was very young—before Hogwarts, surely.

"And this is a Rembrandt, you say?" Severus said. His voice felt unused.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Draco was ecstatic.

"It must be the real thing," Potter said. "I can feel the magic without even taking a wand to it."

"We'll have to bring it back to Boston."

Severus was backing out of the corridor. "Have a lovely time," he said.

"You aren't coming?" Potter asked.

"Yes, he is," Draco said.

Severus shook his head, and Draco gave him one of his significant looks. "Yes, apparently I'm coming with you to Boston," Severus said.

"We're going to celebrate," Draco said. "As your live-in lover, I'd like you to be there."

They had to break back into the museum at night to leave the painting, which seemed ridiculous since they'd been hired to find it, but Draco was right that there'd be too many questions. They had a meeting with the Gardner Museum security people in the morning to discuss leads. Mrs. Gardner was right—they were all very tense.

He passed all three portraits of her but they didn't move at all. He liked the watercolor one from when she was an old lady. She twinkled like Dumbledore.

He hoped she'd be glad to have her painting back.

This time, he walked into the museum with Draco. Draco's methods were subtler than his. He didn't rely on invisibility cloaks or diversionary spells. He just walked into the museum, and no one asked him any questions.

Yes, he had a badge from earlier in the day, but Harry still couldn't understand it. That this security team, so fearful of being robbed again, would allow them to walk right into the museum with one of the stolen paintings under their arm—it made no sense.

"Shouldn't I," Harry said, gesturing with his wand.

"Yes, probably a good idea," Draco said, as though it didn't make a difference. Harry cast a notice-me-not spell and they walked into the Dutch room. Draco put the painting up against its frame and waved his wand, and it somehow melted into place. You could see that a few miniscule chips of paint were missing right at the spot where the painting met the frame, but otherwise, it was as though it had not been removed.

"Do you want to speak with the Zorn portrait?" Draco said.

"Does the later one, from when she was old, move too?"

Draco nodded. They walked downstairs. There she was, all wrapped up. She didn't move much—just her eyes, and a little gesture of hugging her wrap tighter around herself. "Oh, boys," she said, in a slightly cracked voice, her wide mouth smiling.

"We brought back your painting," Harry said. "Only one, I'm afraid."

"I loved that one," she said, "the lovely Rembrandt ship. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee."

"How did you know which one?" Harry had to smile.

"I just know," she said. "I just know what happens in my beautiful palazzo on the Fenway."

Draco took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

"Draco, darling," the old lady in the painting said. "My little dragon. You must come to see me again, even if you can't find another one of my paintings."

"All right," he said.

"We have a certain sympathy, you and I. We both like to have every beautiful luxurious thing for ourselves, and then to share it and give it all away."

"Oh, Belle," he sighed.

"Enormously selfish and generous at the same time. I have your number, don't I?" she said.

"You do."

They stood for a little while in silence before the portrait, and then walked out of the museum into the humid, lilac-heavy air of the Boston night.

Snape fell into step behind them. "Now what," he said.

"Now we wait for them to notice the painting has been returned," Draco said, "and we take Harry Potter to bed."

"What?" Harry said.

"Oh please," Draco said. "Please stop pretending the two of you don't want this. You're wearing me out with your drama."

Harry started to laugh, but then he stopped. "What?" he said again. Did Draco mean it? There was no way Snape wanted to do this with him. Harry turned around and looked at Snape. His face was grim, as though he was bracing himself. Did he think Harry would reject him?

Unable to come up with the right thing to say, Harry slid his hand into Snape's. Snape looked away from his face, but he returned the clasp firmly. Harry's fingers slid between Snape's and they were linked, their arms close. A feeling like flight rose from Harry's stomach to his throat, as though a winged snitch were inside him, trying to beat its way free.

You think you know yourself, but you can't know yourself when you have always kept everything hidden. That's what Severus had learned from Draco seven years ago, when they'd found each other again after the war. He thought he was lucky to have survived, lucky to have saved the life of the son of the woman he had loved, lucky to have escaped notice.

But he must have been taking Felix Felicis the day he let Draco Malfoy seduce him. He'd never allowed himself to find pleasure in his own body in the way he did in bed with this young man, then half his age.

Now Draco was going to take him deeper. He shut and locked the door to their hotel room and walked into the bedroom and began to strip down. "I'm taking a shower," he declared. "Come join me."

Potter looked at Severus shyly. "I'll shuck my kit if you shuck yours," he said.

Severus sat down and untied his shoes. Then, watching Harry Potter, he undressed.

Potter yanked his shirt over his head, toed off his shoes and got out of his jeans without taking his eyes off of Severus for a moment. Severus looked back. Potter's nipples showed rosy against the black of his chest hair and his creamy skin. He was a beautiful adult man, not the scrawny boy of Severus' memory. His eyes were on Severus' body, his look serious and intent.

"This isn't a strip tease," Severus growled.

Potter flushed pink but his gaze didn't waver. He walked in closer, and stood between Severus' thighs. Severus stood to put his arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth.

"What's taking you so long?" Draco said. He had emerged from the steam, toweling his hair. Severus stood and Potter backed up quickly, smiling.

Severus got into the shower and Potter got in after him. He washed his hair and soaped up everywhere, while Potter stood there, naked, damp and awkward.

"Oh for heavens sake," Draco said. "Kiss him in the shower."

"Are you watching?" Potter asked.

"Of course I'm watching, now get to it."

Potter leaned forward, only his eyes hinting at any uncertainty. He stood under the spray and kissed Severus with a generous, open mouth.

Severus decided to soap him, too. It was only fair, he thought, turning the other man's body so that his buttocks slid against Severus' erection. He soaped the chest, the armpits, the groin, and listened to the quiet gasps as his soapy fingers slid over Potter's nipples.

"You should rinse," he said.

"Yes," Potter said. He stood under the spray for a moment and then they turned off the water.

"All clean?" Draco said. "Excellent." He threw himself on the bed, his arms outstretched. Severus carefully sat on one side of him and Potter on the other. They waited. "Gentlemen, let us fuck," Draco said. He turned to Severus and kissed him, running his hands over Severus' chest, finding his cock and stroking it.

"Wow," Potter said. He spooned behind Severus, lying on his side, and began running his hands over Severus' nipples. When his fingers didn't slide, he licked them.

Draco pushed up tight against him, his cock hot against Severus' belly. He reached behind to part his buttocks. Potter slid his cock between them, teasing him.

"Do you want him to fuck you?" Draco asked. "He'll do it. He'll do whatever you want."

"Yes," Severus breathed.

Apparently Potter looked alarmed, because Draco laughed. "You'll be fine, Harry."

Someone found the lubricant and stuck an exploratory finger between his cheeks. "He hasn't taken a cock in a long time," Draco said. "And you've never done this before, have you, Harry? But it will be good."

Draco kept kissing him as Potter worked him open.

"Are you ready?" Potter sounded reverent. Draco must have nodded, because Severus was too far gone, shoving backward against the fingers in his arse.

Then Potter was pushing inside with his cock, and Severus was sandwiched between the two of them. Draco was so hard against Severus, and loving, kissing his ears and his throat, while Potter pushed in so slowly, he thought he might scream.

"Oh God," Potter said. "Oh fuck, oh fuck." It was an awkward position for him, but he was earnestly shoving sideways. It felt so good that Severus could say nothing. He grunted his pleasure with each thrust, pushing against Draco's thigh.

"That's it love," Draco said. "You are so beautiful," and he was talking to Severus. Someone was gripping Severus' prick and Severus said, "Harry, Harry," in the sobbing voice of a man saying a lover's name while being fucked.

It was like hungers fed, to be made to come so hard around a thrusting cock, to feel the muscles of his arse grip and hold. It was hungers fed to be called "Love" that way and to be loved that way.

Afterward, Draco did not gloat about having been right, at least not out loud. He brought a wet flannel and cleaned them all up, and then lay down in the middle of the bed. He smiled like a cat and spooned between them.

"Why didn't Severus want to come with us to breakfast?" Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. "He has moods," he said. Harry didn't look entirely happy. "He doesn't like to be seen." Harry nodded. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"What do you recommend?" Harry asked. There was a teasing edge to his voice that pleased Draco enormously.

"You need to try the gravlax plate," Draco said.

"Raw fish again?"

"It's not completely raw," Draco said. "Besides, you need the protein to keep up your strength."

Harry blushed and Draco laughed.

"I really like you," Harry said. "I didn't expect that."

"I more than like you," Draco said.

"You covet me," Harry said.

"I coveted you for Severus," Draco said quietly. "I more than like you for me."
The waiter came and he ordered for both of them, and Harry didn't seem to mind. The coffee came immediately, and it was hot and strong, good in the American style. Harry closed his eyes briefly to smell it.

"I don't completely understand what you had in mind with all your machinations, Draco," Harry said. "You always have some kind of scheme. I used to hate it but now I'm starting to enjoy it."

Draco smiled. "I'm glad you are finally coming to see things my way."