Archive of Our Own

- 13 April, 2010 -

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

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

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

"What is it, Aisha?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the name recognition won't hurt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aisha gives me a sceptical look.

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

She answers with a brilliant smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Margo," he says warily.

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

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

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

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

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

Draco blows her a kiss as the doors close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the hearing," Hermione adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draco just laughs.

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

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

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

Draco stops, turning to me. "Talk."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draco's mouth twitches. "Do I?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is going to be harder than I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get your own."

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

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

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

"Lucius's new ladyfriend--"

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

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

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

"Oh, dear," Pansy murmurs.

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

"I get the idea," I say.

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

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

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

"Oh," Pansy says.

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

"What happened?" I ask finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draco's smile is blinding. "Perhaps."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You took my quotes out of context--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucius?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ron. Come on."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe they're not!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes I can't imagine how it could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't say that I disagree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then where's the other one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bloody Malfoys. Christ.

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

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

No one blinks an eye when we arrive together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blink. "Easter was two weeks ago."

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

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

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

He purses his lips. "I certainly can."

"Susan might disagree."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draco scowls. "Why me?"

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

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

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

Seamus eyes me. "Tried it out yet?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I look a right tit when I dance."

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

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

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

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

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

I just look at him.

"Shut up," he says.

"I didn't say anything."

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

"Because your mum had good taste."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shake my head. "Too busy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How much have you had to drink?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hand over the parchment. "Muggle relations."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reach for a sheaf of papers and smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Walk, then talk."

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

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

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

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

"I thought you and Draco were going."

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

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

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

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

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

"How forward-thinking of them."

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

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

"Shut up, Potter."

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

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

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

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

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

"You look fucking French," Zabini snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where's your team?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

I don't stop him.

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

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

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

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

"Ha, ha."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I mix it with sparkling water."

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

He sniffs haughtily. "Fuck off, Potter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's what Draco and I think."

"The Omps are two points ahead."

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

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

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

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

"Depending on how the Omps shake out."

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

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

"As are you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nod.

"And Zabini thinks we can do this."

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

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

I follow him out into the cool night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The uni students."

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

I wince. "Bastards."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I noticed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or hearing me as I can hear him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Feel better?" I ask.

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

We go back to work.

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

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

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

"My joy is inexpressible," Draco says flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bastard," Zabini says, bored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Potter," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So, are those tactics acceptable to you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reaches for my hand.

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

I turn tail and flee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suffer the needle chill...

"Harry?"

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

God help me. I am running to stand still.

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

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

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

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

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

"The Prophet ran the Etchingham story."

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

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

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

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

"Are we done here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're lying."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zabini gives me an exasperated look. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I answer by slamming the door behind me.

Malcolm just waves me on without looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

His eyebrow raises. "Really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never said you were."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because that makes all the difference."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laugh. "Save that for your prick."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, and a city that produced Neville Chamberlain." He follows me out into the corridor. "I rest my case."

It's hard to argue with history.

Election Day dawns wet and drizzly in London. Draco and I are up by four and queuing at our respective polls by seven, me in Diagon and him in Wilts. Pansy shows up at my polling place with a photographer in tow--"Smile, darling, you're the Saviour of the Wizarding World and influential politician's aide about town", she says airily as he snaps a shot of me casting my ballot--and she waits for me outside, stopping me on the awning-covered steps.

"Have you fucked him yet?" she asks, tapping a cigarette out into her hand, then lifting it to her mouth and lighting it with the tip of her wand. "Blaise says he told you to."

I roll my eyes and open my umbrella. "None of your business, Pansy." The fact that I sucked him off an hour ago for the second time this morning is neither here nor there.

"But it is," she says, ducking beneath the umbrella and walking down the stairs with me. I'm a bit worried about the short queues of voters. "I've money on last night."

I stop on the pavement and look at her. "You lot do realise that we're not doing this for your amusement, right?"

She tucks her hair behind one ear. "I sincerely hope not, darling. I'd like to think you were getting a lovely little zing from it as well." At my frown she blows smoke into my face, then offers the cigarette to me. "On another subject entirely, mind if I talk to your Weasley? The Auror, not the Quidditch player."

"Ron's not mine, and why do you want to?" I take the cig from her and lift it to my mouth.

Pansy smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Just a few questions about the scandal. I've heard reports that he might know something."

My heart thuds in my chest. "He didn't do anything. You know he didn't."

"He knows people who did." Pansy's mouth thins. "I'd think you'd like the truth, Potter. Of all people, given what you advocate."

I exhale a thin stream of smoke. "The truth is complicated, Pansy. You of all people should realise that. Given what you advocate." I hand her back the cigarette. "I want to get back to work."

"It's only waiting from here on out," she say, waving her hand. "The polling day is the same length no matter what you do."

"And I've a nervous MW to sit with." I give her the umbrella. "Perhaps I'll see you at the victory party?"

She smiles faintly. "Only if you give me a quote I can use."

I step out into the rain, pulling the collar of my jacket up against it. "How's this? The Modern Wizarding Reform Party are looking forward to implementing our political manifesto within the Wizengamot over this coming term. We hope to reach across both aisles to work with all parties for the betterment of British wizarding society."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "You're a natural politician, Harry Potter," she says over the hubbub of the rain and crowd. I laugh.

"Later, Pansy." With a wave, I Apparate back to the chaos of party headquarters.

The ballroom's full of Mod party members, cheering and talking at loudest volume. When it becomes clear that we've taken absolute majority with the count in Northumberland, Kingsley stands up to give his usual give-'em-hell speech, followed quickly by Zabini, who's had so much wine by this point he only swears through half of his remarks.

Sometime during the fifth speech, Draco looks at me with that bright gleam in his grey eyes. We're both too wired to be properly pissed, although we're certainly drunk on success. This is a bigger high than anything I've ever experienced.

Draco leans over, by all appearances whispering some titbit of insider information into my ear. "Do we have to wait for the announcement tomorrow, or can we shag now?"

I give him a considering look and then take in the crowd. Everyone around appears to have crawled far enough into the party's spirits supply to be oblivious to our comings and goings. "Now would be fine with me."

He barely glances at me. "I'll see you at the cloakroom in five minutes."

I wait, sipping the watery end of my whisky. I'm already eager for what's to come, but maintaining a general air of bonhomie. After four minutes, I set my glass down and move swiftly to the exit. Zabini raises an eyebrow as I pass by him. He's at the centre of a knot of revellers that includes Hermione, Seamus, and Pansy and the aides to several MWs.

By contrast the anteroom outside is quiet and virtually empty. I hadn't realised how loud the din in the crowded ballroom was until I left. I saunter down the hallway to the cloakroom. The attendant's nowhere to be seen. I look left and right and then walk through the open half-door into the cramped space beyond.

"What took you so long?" Draco grabs me and pulls me to the side of the small space, where we are relatively hidden by hanging cloaks. "Fuck, Harry, I've been hard for hours.' He pushes me to my knees in front of him.

I don't bother replying. I'm too busy unbuttoning my trousers as Draco makes swift work of his own flies. The silk of his pants appears at the vee of his trousers, the head of his cock pressed against it, leaving a small wet spot, and I stop for a moment to mouth at it.

"Wait a moment." Draco pushes his pants down, his trousers slipping slightly. The elastic catches beneath the swell his balls, pushing them and his prick up towards me.

"Christ," I breathe, and Draco shivers at the soft huff of my breath against his cock. He leans back into the row of cloaks behind him as my mouth finds his prick. He tastes amazing. A thrust of his hips and his cock slides almost all the way down my throat. My eyes water, but I've been waiting for this all day. I blow him hard and fast, stopping only to adjust my own prick in my hand to get a better angle with my wrist.

"You look brilliant with a mouth full of my cock," Draco murmurs. I look up at him then and I can feel his prick jump against my cheek as our eyes meet.

He curls one hand in the hair at the nape of my neck and cups his balls with the other, squeezing lightly as his breath grows more ragged. This is an efficiency fuck, the best sort after an entire bloody day of waiting.

A slight rustle behind us and Draco stops thrusting into my mouth. I can't see what's behind us, or who. I can only feel my hand on my own throbbing prick and the stretch of my mouth around Draco's. There's nowhere to hide here.

"So this is where the fucking party really is," Zabini drawls. My mouth goes dry and my throat constricts. I start to move away, but Draco holds me in place with his hand. His fingers trace small circles against my hair.

"You're welcome to stay for the show," Draco says, shifting his hips to push in and out of my mouth with a shallow thrust, "as long as you keep an eye out. I think the attendant will give us another couple of minutes. I certainly paid him enough."

Zabini raises a lazy wand and murmurs a Notice-Me-Not. "There. Did either of you randy fucks think that you might just use a little fucking magic? You're such a show-off, Draco."

Draco cocks an eyebrow, but then I take him down my throat again, and he makes a slight moaning noise, bitten off by his teeth in his lip. His eyelids flutter shut. I continue, my prick so hard in my hand I can barely think of anything else.

I can hear Zabini behind me. From the sound of it, he has his own prick out--I hear the familiar sound of palm against flesh and a slight grunt when he hits a good rhythm. Draco twists his fingers in my hair. "Harder, Harry."

I open my throat and let him fuck it, choking back my gag reflex. Zabini's hand slaps on his own cock behind me, speeding up with the thrusts of Draco's prick into my mouth. I can only hear him and can see nothing except Draco's hips and the creased, spread tails of his white shirt. My knees ache on the hard stone floor as I shift, letting myself find it normal that I'm here, bare-arsed, sucking Draco's cock in front of one of his oldest friends.

Draco pulls out of my mouth so suddenly, I almost fall. I sit back onto my heels as he wanks the hard, wet length of his prick in front of me. He swears loudly and spunk hits my glasses and my open mouth and dribbles down my chin. Behind me, Zabini grunts and I hear his muffled curse as he comes. Draco smears his spunk across my chin with his cock and I lose it, pulsing in hard waves onto the grey stone floor, spattering it.

The small space smells more like fresh spunk that most bars I've had the pleasure of shagging in. Zabini and Draco cast cleaning charms leisurely as I tuck myself back in and clean off. The floor takes a few passes and someone's managed to hit a silver trench coat that'll be a bitch to get clean, Hermione's, I think with a strange urge to laugh. The entire situation is so surreal and yet, the relief is marvellous.

I push myself up, my knees cracking. Draco nods at me. I turn around.

Zabini's standing there quite calmly, looking as put together as ever, if infinitely more relaxed than he has all evening. "Draco, you fucking whore, I think you're going to have to Obliviate me. I'm not bladdered enough to forget this." Zabini regards me. "Although it's a shame to lose the image of the Golden Boy with a face full of spunk."

"I didn't know you were into this sort of thing," I say, including all of us in a general wave of my hand.

"I'm not, really," Zabini says lazily. "I mean, I'm not a bloody dick-licker. I just like watching men come." At my incredulous look, he just shrugs. "Slytherin House legacy. Christ, Potter, you'd think you didn't go to fucking boarding school. What? Strapping Gryffindor lads too fucking straight-laced to whip their pricks out at night and play a little suck the sausage?"

"It's not just the boys who liked watching. Millie assures me she and Sus watch gay porn all the time," Draco offers with a feral smirk. These are things I really, really don't want to know.

Still, a tendril of jealousy slips through me. "Do this often, do you two?"

Zabini straightens his collar, checking the ends of his purple tie. "Often enough."

"Don't start, Blaise," Draco warns. He glances at me. "He's just being a prick. It's only for special occasions. Like taking control of Government." His mouth brushes my ear. "And I never touch him. Especially not the way I'm going to touch you tonight when I'm impaled on your cock."

I feel oddly pleased. A stupid grin splits my face, and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Far too easy, Potter." He shoos me into the hallway, then beckons quietly to Zabini, wand raised. "Come here, you evil faux-Scottish pervert."

From the hallway, I hear Zabini's defence of his national pride, followed by a quick flash of light. I walk back toward the ballroom we've just left. Hermione is out in the hall. "Have you seen Blaise? He just wandered off and Berwicke is looking for him."

I nod my head back toward the general direction I've come from. "I think he and Draco had something to discuss."

I walk back into the party, trying to keep a smug grin off my face, although given the circumstances, a little smugness isn't out of place.

We've won.

- 2 June, 2010 -

Much to all of our surprise--even Draco's, though he refuses to admit it--we actually do take the Ministry, by a majority of twelve constituencies. Twenty-six seats Mod to fourteen seats Omp--mostly in southern England--to six seats Pomp in their usual strongholds of the Midlands and the North. The remaining four are split between the Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish national parties, with two going to the Cymrics of Wales. Scotland's other two seats both go Mod, with the Highlands swinging our way.

Kingsley asks me to stay a little longer, to help put together the new Government. He's attempting to reach across the aisles to the more moderate Pomps and Omps, even offering them some of the minor leadership positions. And since the Muggles are up in the air after their election, scrambling to form a coalition government between either their Tories or Labour and the Liberal Democrats, as there was no clear majority taken in Parliament, he wants Hermione and me to liaise with the Speaker of the House until Cameron finally takes Number 10 in an official capacity five days later.

We're thrown into a flurry of Government-building, moving offices from Diagon to Whitehall as McLaird and his staff move back out to the Pomp headquarters in Chelsea. Civil servants follow us about with thick sheaves of parchment, bringing us up to speed on Goverment policies and procedures. Draco and I both get offices across the hall from each other--with tall windows, charmed to appear as if they look out over Whitehall, towards the Palace of Westminster, and thick purple carpets that one sinks into with each step. I've even got a small seating area with a comfortable leather sofa and chair and bay windows that look out over the Atrium below.

The Auror scandal follows us; we may not have been the Government responsible for its occurrence, but by God, the papers are going to hold us accountable for solving it. In the Wizengamot Kingsley calls for pushing the Council of Law hearing earlier than August, but we're blocked by both the Omps and Pomps from the two-thirds majority we need.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

It begins like a normal Wednesday, or as normal as they've been since we took Government. Zabini stops by my office to shout at me for wasting his time on a report regarding the restoration of buttercrosses in Hampshire and West Sussex and suspiciously rapid improvements.

"What are we," he bellows at me, "the fucking Village Green Preservation Society?" He throws the report back across my desk. "Send it to Crowley in the Improper Use of Magic Objects. Christ knows the limp-dicked bastard needs something to do other than annoying me every five minutes about what types of Impervius on umbrellas count. Does it look like I give even half a shit about umbrellas that repel small animals? Frankly, whomever comes up with an umbrella that'll repel useless ball-biters like Crowley I will fucking suck off on the Wizengamot floor in full session." He stalks out of my office, waving his arms.

I settle back down to writing after sticking the parchment in a tube to Crowley. When I look up, Zabini is back at my doorframe. "What now?" I ask, waiting for the inevitable tirade. "Should I summon the report back and bump it up to top priority?"

"No. Let Crowley stick it up his arse. But now that you two bastard twats are fucking each other senseless every fucking night, have you thought about Draco's birthday yet?" He points a finger at me. "It's his fucking thirtieth on Saturday."

I lean back in my chair. "Which he's reminded me of every morning over coffee for the past week and a half. Don't worry, I have it covered."

"You haven't even made fucking reservations, have you?" Zabini rolls his eyes. "Potter, do you know who's going to have to put up with his fucking whinging if you cock this up the way you always fucking do? Me. Fucking hell. Not to mention having to work with you when he decides you have to wear a bloody French maid's kit for a month to make it up to him. Christ, have some fucking pity on the rest of us arseholes who have to watch you two tossers and your arsebuggering games."

"Back room of the Leaky." I set my quill down. "Half-eight, and Pansy's sending out the invitations for me this afternoon because I evidently don't have enough taste to pick a proper font."

Zabini eyes my scarlet tie. "She's not half-wrong." He scowls. "Guest list?"

"Pansy again."

"I'll owl her. Christ fucking knows if I leave it up to her, the whole shit affair will be nothing but arse-licking Omps trying to suck Draco's cock for a favour--" He breaks off at my look. "Not literally, you asinine tit. Everyone knows you and Draco are joined at the arsehole for now, even his fucking twat of a father, who, by the way, doesn't like you much, now does he?"

I sigh. "That's not exactly breaking news."

"It is when he's in the fucking member's lobby when Draco walks through."

"Shit." I rub my face. I forgot to shave this morning; Draco'd surprised me by blowing me whilst I brushed my teeth and I'd been so relaxed, I'd walked out without casting a shaving charm. "What'd he say?"

Zabini shrugs. "Ask Draco. All I fucking heard was that at some point, you were referred to as a shirt-lifting arsewipe--and that's a direct fucking quote." He looks at me. "Talk to him."

The slam of the door rattles the mock Time-turner Hermione gave me the day after the election, sending it sliding to the floor. It breaks in a wisp of smoke and sand.

This is turning out to be a lovely day.

"It wasn't anything," Draco says, annoyed, as we walk down the hall towards the Wizengamot chambers. He holds a stack of file jackets close to his chest. "Just Father being Father. I don't know why you care; he hasn't liked you since you survived that bloody curse."

I have to hurry to keep up with him. "It's disturbing that he hated an infant--"

"He doesn't hate you." Draco pushes his glasses up his nose. "He thinks you're an idealistic tit, although he's quite grateful to you for arranging it so that he can now hold a seat in the Wizengamot." He scowls at me. "Which, by the way, I'm ever so thrilled about myself."

We climb the steps to the Strangers' Gallery. Every Wednesday afternoon Kingsley answers Minster's Questions put before him by the entire Wizengamot. It's our job to be on hand in case he needs clarification on a Government policy or recommendation. We've already gone over the thick briefing notebook with him. Chances are nothing major will come at him unexpectedly, but one never knows for certain, which makes the entire proceedings mind-numbingly tedious and far too exciting at the same time.

Our seats are at the end of the first row. Pansy's two rows back from us, her legs crossed and a notebook perched on her knee; she lifts a hand in greeting. Draco waves back.

"She's having problems with Theo," he says through a tight smile her way. He looks back at me. "Not that you're allowed to know that."

I nudge him with my elbow. "I always get the best gossip when I start sleeping with you again."

He snorts. "You just start paying attention to what I tell you because you're hoping it'll include the words blow and job ."

"I do like that combination." I watch him as he watches the Wizengamot floor below. He's wearing a wine-coloured Muggle bespoke suit since he went to 10 Downing with Kingsley at lunch for an update on Cameron's PMQs that morning. On me, it would look atrocious but it looks good on him, especially with the black shirt and tie that sets off his pale skin and blond hair. I want to lean over and press my mouth to the curve of his jaw, to nip down to the swell of his Adam's apple.

A rolled up scrap of parchment hits me in the back of my head, then falls down over my shoulder into my lap. I glance back at Pansy, who studiously ignores me, then I unroll the parchment, frowning down at it.

Stop eye-fucking him, you pathetic bastard. There's a heart drawn at the bottom. I snort, and Draco looks over at me, eyebrow raised. I hand it over. He reads it, then looks back at Pansy with a grin. She blows him a kiss.

"I hate you both," I whisper, and Draco nudges me, nodding down to the floor where Boris Collingwood, the Shadow Head of the Education Department and staunch Omp, stands up to query Kingsley on the hiring of new Hogwarts professors. Draco mimes a yawn. I catch myself looking at the swell of his lip. Pansy's right; I can't keep my bloody eyes off him.

Another twenty minutes of boring questions by third-rate politicians and I'm almost about to nod off in my chair. Until, that is, the newly elected honourable member for Wiltshire stands, and the Chief Warlock calls out, "Order! Order! Question to the Minister, Mr Lucius Malfoy."

"Chief Warlock," Lucius says with a small smile and a nod to Berwicke, and Draco suddenly sits up next to me, leaning forward in his seat, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

"I don't like this, Harry," he murmurs. "He looks far too pleased for his first time bringing a question."

Me either. I tense, eyes fixed on Lucius. He looks so much like Draco it's disconcerting, particularly since he's kept his hair short on his release from Azkaban. He has the same sharp jaw, the same high cheekbones, the same bright grey eyes that can discern an opponent's weakness with just the flutter of a pulse. And Draco's right. He does look far too pleased.

Kingsley waits, his face calm. I can see Zabini hovering behind the Chief Warlock's chair, his arms crossed, one fist pressed to his mouth as he watches Lucius intently. Hermione's behind him, whispering in his ear, and Zabini just nods tightly.

"Can the Minister state," Lucius says, and his smile widens, "in regards to the ongoing situation in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in which certain of our illustrious Aurors have been accused of brutal acts, how exactly do the Government intend to pursue justice for those whose rights have been violated in such a savage manner?"

Draco leans closer to me. "What is he up to?" he asks quietly. I just shake my head, focusing on the tall figure speaking.

Kingsley frowns slightly, then stands again, stepping towards the box. The usual rumble of the Wizengamot benches has faded into a soft buzz. "I thank the honourable Gentleman for his question and laud his sudden and most unexpected support of social justice concerns, given his historical endorsement of shall we say, more totalitarian regimes."

"Ouch," Draco says, and I snort.

Lucius, however, doesn't flinch. "I think the Minister will find that my honourable Friends share my interest in his answer."

"Of course." Kingsley's eyes narrow. "The honourable Gentleman will find that my record as Head Auror supports my abhorrence of violence and torture as a method of law enforcement, and I am certain I speak for all Heads of Departments when I say that such actions will not be tolerated by this Government, regardless of whether or not the previous Government--" He's interrupted by a cacophony of jeers from the Pomps across the aisle. "--whether or not the previous Government turned a blind eye."

"How very glad I am that the Minister brings up his record as Head Auror," Lucius says. "Might I take a moment to share with my honourable Friends the story of a certain Charles Ludsthrop?"

My heart chills. "Fuck," I say, almost too loudly, and Draco looks at me, his brow furrowed.

"Ludsthrop?" he asks.

I shake my head. Christ. I'd been six months out training, and I'd been stupid. So fucking stupid. Kingsley glances up into the gallery, our eyes meeting. We both know what this is about. Several heads swivel to follow the Minister's gaze.

"Charles Ludsthrop," Lucus continues, and his eyes are fixed on Kingsley, "was brought into the Ministry holding cells on the fifteenth of August in 2000 on the charge of being a sympathiser with the late Lord Voldemort." Lucius only hesitates slightly on the name. I wonder how many times he practised in front of the mirror to get it out. Draco still can't manage anything other than the Dark Lord most of the time. "I would like to ask the Minister if he remembers the details of this particular case?"

Kingsley nods curtly. "Yes."

"And the Minister would also remember, then, being called to the holding cells at--" Lucius looks down at his notes. "--twelve past eight that evening?"

"Yes." A muscle in Kingsley's cheek twitches. The Wizengamot is near silent.

Lucius lifts his head, looking directly at the gallery. Directly at me. "And would the Minister also remember the Auror responsible for interrogating Mr Ludsthrop?"

Kingsley hesitates. "Harry Potter."

A murmur goes around the benches. Heads turn in my direction. Draco looks at me. "Harry," he says quietly. I want to get up and run. I can't. My body won't move.

"Harry Potter," Lucius says. His eyes are fixed on me. "Our Saviour. Except he wasn't Mr Ludsthrop's saviour that night. Nor was the Minister. I would like to further ask the Minister if he recalls the state Mr Ludsthrop was in when he was called to the holding cell?

Kingsley just looks at Lucius defiantly.

"Answer," someone shouts from the Opposition benches, and the cry's taken up by both the Omps and Pomps. Kingsley looks up at me again, a question in his eyes, and I take a deep breath. I nod. He sighs, and looks back at Lucius.

"He'd been beaten," he says, and the murmur in the benches grows to a near shriek. Kingsley raises his voice. "It was the mistake of a new Auror--"

"One who now writes policy for the Government," Lucius says smoothly.

Kingsley's temper flares. "One whose work on behalf of legal and penal reform allowed my honourable Friend here to obtain his seat--"

"For which I am eternally grateful." Lucius bends slightly in my direction. "But the fact remains that this Government which will not tolerate such abuses as the one ongoing in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement itself covered up an instance of abuse--"

There's a roar of shouts from the Government benches, drowning him out.

I can't even look at Draco. "I have to go," I choke out, standing up, and coward that I am, I flee.

He finds me at the flat.

"You left your satchel in your office," Draco says, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. He drops it on the floor.

I hadn't been able to face going back to the office. "Thanks," I say, and I take another swig of firewhisky from a bottle of Ogden's Old.

"At least you're not sucking down the good whisky." Draco walks across the room, his hands in his pockets. He just looks at me. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I look like hell, I know, sprawled across my bed in nothing but a half-buttoned shirt and my y-fronts. I don't care. "Do you want to talk?"

"No."

Draco sits on the edge of the bed. "Tough shit, Potter. You're going to." I sigh and lift the Ogden's again. Draco stops me, gently prying my fingers away from the bottle. He sets it on the floor. "Harry."

I let my head fall back against the headboard. "I'll write my resignation letter tonight"

"Why?"

"Because Zabini will want to hit the news cycle in the morning." I glance over at Draco. "I suppose you'll want me to give Pansy a quote."

He gives me an exasperated look. "I want to you sit up and stop assuming the whole Government wants you out on your ear, you fucking stupid git."

"You sound like Zabini."

Draco pokes my leg. "Trust me when I say Blaise would be a bit more forceful." His hand settles on my thigh. I don't push it away; there's something oddly comforting about his skin against mine. I take a deep breath for the first time in hours. "The Cabinet met this afternoon."

I don't say anything. Draco's thumb traces small circles over my knee.

"With the exceptions of Gibbs and Scolfield, everyone's standing behind you," he says. "And they're right tits anyway, so it doesn't matter what they think. Blaise is already out there spinning in your favour--Pansy owes him one--and Kingsley told me flat-out to inform you that he's not taking your fucking resignation even if you're moronic enough to offer it."

I just look at him, trying to imagine how what he's saying is possible.

Draco touches my face. "You idiot," he says gently. "This is why you became a crusader, isn't it? The guilt?"

"I watched them do things in interrogation," I say after a moment. "I told myself I wouldn't. Kingsley had already started coming down on the Aurors who were too rough. And then one night they brought Ludsthrop in--"

"Kingsley's already told me this," Draco says. "You don't have to--"

"Yes, I do." I grab his wrist, turning his palm over. I trace his life line, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. I stop at the edge of the mottled black mark on the inside of his forearm. "I haven't talked about this since that night."

Draco twines his fingers between mine. Our hands together feel warm and heavy. "Surely Granger and the Weasel--"

I shake my head. "They don't know. Or they didn't. I suppose they do now." I don't want to think about what they'll say. What they'll think of me. "When Kingsley came down, Ludsthrop was..." I hesitate. "He'd said things to me. Told me things he'd done." My hands tremble, and Draco pulls me closer, settling against the pillows, wrapping his arms around me.

"What?" he murmurs against the top of my head, and I turn my face against his chest.

"He wanted me to hit him," I say finally. "I know that sounds like an excuse, but the things he said..." I trail off, remembering. "The people he'd hurt. How I couldn't save them no matter what I did now. He bragged about raping Luna."

Draco makes a soft sound, and his hand touches my cheek. "At the Manor."

I lift my head, my throat is tight and raw. "And Narcissa." Draco stills. He doesn't look away from me, but I can see his shoulders tense. "He wanted to hurt me," I say quietly. "To push my buttons. It was all over the press that I'd just testified for your mother."

"He..." Draco's voice cracks. "She didn't say--"

"Your father must not know either." I run my hand through my hair, pulling back from him. "Not even Lucius would--"

"No." Draco leans back against the headboard. "He loved her. Desperately. He would never..." He presses his lips together and inhales a ragged breath.

"I cracked when he said if my mother hadn't been dead he would have raped her too." Hot tears flood my eyes and I try to choke them back. I can barely speak; my voice comes out like a croak but I just can't stop. "I just lost it, Draco. I don't know what happened entirely. I remember wanting to kill him and then Kingsley was pulling me off of him and his face was a fucking bloody pulp. I was so sure I'd killed him. And I wanted to have done. I'm so ashamed."

Draco leans in and kisses me, roughly. "You idiot."

I'm taken off guard. "What?" Without waiting for his answer, I kiss him, blindly seeking the warmth of his lips as if on instinct.

He smiles against my lips, pushing me away slightly and peering into my face. "You only have one fucking thing to be ashamed of? What an incredible luxury." He holds his marked forearm up to demonstrate, and I suddenly remember who I'm talking to.

"I've done other things. In the war." I think of my Crucioing of Amycus Carrow. "And to you." I press my hand against his chest. It still bears the scars of my Sectumsempra. "Maybe it's just who I am. Maybe at heart I like being violent."

"You really are an idiot." He's still smiling, and his eyes are soft, fond almost. "Everyone can be violent, Potter. It's human nature. What matters is if you can control it--and you can."

"That doesn't make me any less ashamed," I say quietly. "Dawlish was right. I am a hypocrite. All that I stand for--"

"Oh, shut up, Harry." Draco rolls his eyes. "That experience made you who you are today."

I just look at him.

He sighs. "I could give you a lesson in things to be ashamed about and living through them."

"Perhaps you should," I say, finding his mouth again.

Draco pushes me back onto the bed, sliding over my hips as he kisses me, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. "There was that time Blaise caught us fucking in the future Minister for Magic's supply closet."

I laugh into his kiss. "Point taken."

"Finally, Harry Potter listens to me." Draco straddles my hips and sits up, drawing his shirt off his shoulders. He tosses it aside then reaches for mine, sliding it over my head without bothering to unbutton the last few buttons. He kisses me again. I don't think I can ever get tired of his mouth on mine. "You just need to have this shagged out of you, really. It's the only way."

I moan against his mouth, my balls tightening. "Christ, Draco."

"You're so easy, Potter." His hips grind into mine. "If anyone knew how much the Saviour of the Wizarding World liked to have his arse fucked, that might be a scandal. And by a former Death Eater at that."

"That's not who we are now," I protest, my hips wriggling under him and my head thrown back. "And that's not how I think of you."

"Mmmm." Draco nips at my throat. "But it's still true, for one way of looking at the truth. Besides, you have to admit you do. Like being fucked by me, I mean."

The wicked rocking of his hips makes me gasp. "Oh God, yes. Yes, I do."

Draco's smiling. "Turn over and spread your legs. You'll feel much better, I promise."

I squirm beneath him as his fingers slide under the elastic of my pants. "Need a little help here."

Draco leans back and tugs my pants over my hips, dragging them down my thighs as I turn. "Jesus, Harry," he murmurs, and I feel his mouth against the swell of my arse. "You should feel guilty more often."

With a groan, I spread my thighs wider as his tongue slips through my crease. "I like you better when you're not talking."

My head ends up in the pillows, Draco's hand on the nape of my neck. "Shut it, Potter."

I shudder as his tongue flicks against the back of my balls. Tendrils of want curl in my stomach and my breath quickens.

Draco reaches over to my side table, one hand on my arse. "Where the hell did we leave the lube?"

"No idea," I say. "There should be more in the loo."

With a curse, Draco stands up. I hear him stalk out of the room, and I flop over onto my back. Might as well be comfortable whilst I wait. My fingers circle the head of my cock lightly, and my breath catches just thinking about what's going to happen next.

He comes back and leans against the door frame, watching me. He's shucked his trousers, and the sight of him completely starkers makes me sit up and reach for him.

"Needy, are we?" He drops the phial onto the bed with a wry quirk to his mouth.

"Just come here," I say. He climbs onto the bed and we grapple with each other in a rough kiss, his hand in my hair tugging roughly at the roots, my hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Our teeth clack against each other and we stop for a breath.

He presses me back onto the bed with a palm in the center of my chest. I watch as he uncaps the phial and pour oil onto his palm, and then he has a finger inside of me, and now another, twisting and pressing as I writhe against him, desperate for more. When he pulls his hand away I whimper softly.

Draco smiles. "Hold on." He thrusts his hips forward, slicking his prick with the circle of his fingers. I bite my lip, knowing that he will be thrusting it into me in a moment.

We've done this before, of course, but it's been a while--not since last September or October, at least. My body aches in anticipation and, truth be told, I'm a bit nervous, not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me, but because I'm so exposed when I let him do this. It shouldn't be any more intimate than anything else we do, but somehow the longer we know each other, the more so it is.

And then my ankles are over his shoulders and he's leaning over me, pressing my knees into my chest. "Relax, Potter." He takes off my glasses and sets them on the side table along with his.

I can still see him looming over me, if less distinctly. His narrow hips are between my thighs. He leans back a little, furrowing his brow as he positions his cock between my arsecheeks, and as he pushes into me slowly I grip the sheet with my fingers and exhale shakily.

"Oh God," I say, because it's too much and yet perfect. I'd forgotten how much this burns and how enormous a prick is when it's splitting you open, but it's Draco now, and I want every inch of him, everything.

"Shh." He stills, pressing into me with a slow rock of his hips. He stops when I gasp. "Too much?" His thumb is on my cheek, then tracing my mouth.

"No," I lie. I want it to be too much, want him to go too quickly, to take me too roughly.

I think he knows this. He leans into me and thrusts harder the next time. I see stars and can scarcely breathe. It's glorious to have him bending me nearly double, his weight pressing into me as his body takes possession of mine. Giving myself into his control, somehow, as I always do with him, I have an incredible sense of safety.

Draco's hands come down to either side of my body as he sinks into me. His forearms spread my thighs apart, leaving little resistance to his prick. With each roll of our hips, the bed shudders beneath us. He finds the balance between too much and not enough, effortlessly opening me up with one long thrust after another. He's surprisingly silent, focused even, breaking the stillness of our bodies only with the occasional cry or groan. I, on the other hand, cannot stop making noise, a stream of gasps punctuated by expletives rushing from my lips as he slams against me, his fingers digging tight into my skin.

When I can't stand it any longer, I grab my own dripping cock and almost immediately the pressure builds in my balls. "Going to come," I choke out, my hand twisting around the head of my prick. My whole body tenses. I can barely breathe.

"Don't let me stop you," he says. Draco's mouth finds the tender arch of my foot and he bites. A shudder of electric want runs through me, and Draco picks up the pace of his thrust, pinning me breathless and moaning, fucking me as I wank wildly, my shoulders pressed into the mattress, my feet flexing in mid-air, my fingers pulling and jerking at my slick prick.

I come so hard I think I've managed to hit my own hair with the first shot. A stripe of spunk splatters my chest, and then another. Draco scarcely gives me a chance to breathe before his mouth is devouring mine.

"Christ, how you look, spread out like this," he says against my lips. "I don't want anyone else to have you like this." I know how seriously to take the things we say during sex, which is not at all, but I treasure the sentiment for the moment.

A warm glow flushes my face and chest. Once the urgency of my own climax is over, I can enjoy the thrust of his body into mine, the tension on his long features as he comes close, the shift and harsh cry as he tips over the edge, the strange sensation of his spunk inside of me, sliding out of me and smearing across my arse with each slow roll and thrust of Draco's hips. He pulls out slowly and collapses on his side, hand over his face.

"Fuck, Harry," he murmurs. "One of these days you're going to kill me."

I trail a finger along the sweaty plane of his chest, scratching lightly at the faint, pale gold fuzz on his skin. "I can think of so many better things to do than kill you." I'm fascinated by the fading flush around his nipples. I circle one with my fingertip.

He exhales a quick laugh. "Give me a moment to recover."

"Four years ago you wouldn't have needed a moment," I say with a grin, leaning in to flick my tongue across his chest. I love the taste of sweat and skin, the smell of him in my nostrils.

Draco's hand smoothes back my hair. "We're getting old, are we?"

"Terribly." I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in. I can remember the first time we did this, five years back, how awkward and unsure we were, here in this very bed. It's always been my flat, always Stepney Green. Neither of us has ever considered his rooms at the Manor.

He'd been so nervous and jumpy at first, even though we'd known we were coming back here to fuck. But this--lying here wrapped around each other, our bodies shuddering together, our lips brushing over soft skin and warm mouths--this would change everything. The moment we'd fallen into bed, our friendship had been solidified. There was no walking away from it, no pretense that we were anything but mates now. It wasn't wild, impersonal sex we'd had that night. It never would be.

We'd touched each other slowly, carefully, almost shyly that night. It hadn't been earth-shattering, but I will never forget the way Draco looked when he came that first time with me, his skin flushed and damp, his hair--longer then--sticking to his cheeks, his eyes bright and wide and looking deep into mine as I moved over him. He'd been beautiful then.

He still is.

I pull back, looking at him, and brush my fingertips across his lips. He kisses them lightly. "Thank you," I whisper.

Draco slides closer, his leg draping over mine. "Always." He press his lips to my forehead. "Rest, you idiot. I'll wake you up in an hour or so for another go, shall I?"

I nuzzle my nose against his collarbone. I could lie here like this for ages, listening to the beat of his heart.

"You really need a haircut," he whispers into my hair, and I smile.

I close my eyes and sleep.

The back room at the Leaky is done up in Slytherin house colours, dark green and antiqued silver rosettes. There's a Slytherin banner with a Gryffindor lion tacked on at the bottom - Hannah's little joke I'm sure. Angela and Mercury bustle around, setting up the buffet, checking their localised warming and cooling charms, and straightening the folds on the table linens. Moth-white orchids and blue hydrangeas adorn every table.

The scents wafting from the kitchen are fantastic. We're having Draco's favourites - seared scallops with citrus, lamb's lettuce with apricots and soft cheese, Hannah's incomparable fishcakes, a lovely summer vegetable risotto, and roast chicken with thyme. There's berry tart and custard for afters and a large chocolate cake. Becker at the bar has finished chopping garnishes and is now surveying his glassware again, preparing to flood the room with prosecco, mojitos, several wines, and real ale.

And we are expecting everyone. Most of Slytherin house will be here, all of our office--Kingsley might even make it--and Pansy's promised a smattering of wizarding world celebrities. I suppose I rank in those, but tonight I'm only the pseudoboyfriend, or the best mate, or something. Whatever it is I am to Draco that has me throwing this party tonight and refusing the offers of his friends to pay for part of it, if not their much-needed planning help.

In a very real way, this party could not come at a worse time. We've all been in the office non-stop since Lucius's political explosion on Wednesday, the mood tense. I've recovered somewhat from my initial resolve to flee Government, but I'm still wandering in a fog from the prospect of the next weeks and what could come of them.

Lines are being drawn and the parties are rustling up their support. None of us were prepared to catapult from the election into the inquest, except perhaps the Omps who helped dredge up this mess. I know for a fact Draco hasn't spoken to his father and doesn't intend to any time soon. As for Zabini, he'd been over the attendees' list several times already, pencilling in advantageous invites and underlining potential problems. I'm sure he's got a battle map of the entire evening, not that I've seen it. But I know he's been driving Pansy mad.

"Knut for your thoughts, Potter." Pansy appears at my elbow in a dangerously short black cocktail dress with long sleeves. She wears it beautifully, of course, teetering slightly on heels that must be over four inches and look to be the latest in bondage wear.

I rub the back of my neck with my hand. One of Draco's birthday "presents" had been a haircut, and I'm still convinced Jean-Phillipe took far too much off. "I don't know that I have much worth a Knut." Her red, red lips purse. "This is lovely, of course. You're incredible." I kiss her gently on the cheek, and as I do, I see the pale purple edging on her arm where her sleeve slips.

I never know what to say, but I'm going to say something now. "Listen, Pans, are those bruises consensual or did Theo perhaps not know his own strength? Repeatedly."

Her face almost hardens, then slips into resignation. "Whatever you like, Potter. Not that it's any of your business."

"Right," I say. "Might want a sticking charm for those sleeves then. I've no good currency with the Aurors these days, but I'm still fairly certain spousal abuse is frowned upon. I used to know some people in the domestic unit."

Pansy freezes, her eyes widening. I've gone too far. "Don't you dare, Potter. I can't take this on top of everything else."

I hold up my hands placatingly. "All right, Pans. Don't worry." I give her a searching look. "But if it's not consensual, I'll fucking deck him--"

"You're already in trouble for that sort of thing, Potter," she says lightly.

I drape an arm around her shoulders and pull her up against me. "You deserve better," I whisper, and I feel her relax slightly against me.

"It's not what you think," she says against my robe, and I know she's lying. But she pulls back and takes a deep breath, giving me a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Anyway. We've a party to host tonight."

"Yeah. And a very demanding birthday boy." My arse still twinges slightly from this afternoon--Draco decided to take me over his desk for lunch.

"Mmmm. Aren't you the lucky one, then?"

I can't help but grin a little. "Yeah. I am."

"Get a hold of yourself, Potter. You're besotted and it won't do to appear so." Pansy scans the place settings, the formal and informal seating sections of the room that will facilitate mingling and conversation. We're going to be at the centre of the political back rooms tonight.

"I'll do my best to look jaded." I bow slightly.

A slight quirk lifts the corner of her lip. "As if either of you truly could. I'd be envious if it weren't so nauseating to watch."

"Don't worry." I catch a glass of wine from a tray floating past and hand it to her. "Another few months and he'll be dating someone else. The nausea will fade."

Pansy studies me over the rim of her glass. "I don't know how the two of you manage this on-again, off-again."

I shrug. "We're friends. Sometimes we fuck. It's not that complicated."

The look she gives me is pitying. "Darling, the very definition of complicated is you and Draco." The arrival of a guest catches her eye. "The sooner you figure that out, the happier you'll be." She teeters off on those ridiculous shoes to direct presents to a green brocade-bedecked table. The party's started.

From all I can tell, the evening's a resounding success. Even Zabini and Hermione aren't sniping at each other too terribly, and Seamus is flirting with any skirt that walks past. Draco's thrilled with every detail, which is all that matters to me. He grabs me at one point in the evening and pulls me into an alcove to kiss me thoroughly.

"You," he says throatily, "are going to be well rewarded tonight."

I just laugh and clink wineglasses with him, leaning back in to kiss the tip of his nose.

For all the difficulty that's coming--and I know it can't be avoided, not in its entirety--I'm happy. It's a brilliant feeling.

I wish I thought it would last.

Hermione's late to our lunch date. When she finally makes it to the Leaky, her hair's a bit rumpled and I'm almost certain there's what looks to be a fresh love bite on her throat.

"Sorry, Harry," she says, sliding into the chair across from me. I push a plate of chips I've saved for her across the table. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "My meeting with Blaise ran over, and honestly, he's such a prick."

"Mmhmm." I look at her over my pint glass. I've gained sudden insight into Zabini's fit of good temper the past month. I don't know whether to be amused or absolutely horrified. "He can be. Although it looks like it wasn't so much being as...well, you get my drift."

Hermione looks at me blankly. "I have no idea what you mean, Harry."

I wave my glass in the general direction of her collarbone. "You do know you forgot to cover that love bite after you left his office, right?"

"Oh." Her hand flies to her neck and she flushes. It's been a while since I've seen Hermione so discombobulated. "Damn."

"When'd you two start up?" I steal a chip back from the plate and pop it into my mouth, chewing. "Can't have been before the election."

She sighs and pulls the collar of her shirt further over. "Draco's party. And don't give me that look, Harry. Everyone knows full well what the two of you got up to in the loo."

"It's not my fault Draco's a screamer." I grin, remembering the sight of him up against the stall door, arms spread, fingers gripping the top tightly as I sucked him to within an inch of his life. "Besides, it was his birthday. Who there didn't think he was going to get a celebratory blow job?"

"Honestly, the amount of effort the two of you spend on sex is ridiculous." Hermione frowns at me and reaches for my bitter. "Anyway, you kept Kingsley waiting for the loo for ten minutes."

I let her take the glass. "Which we both heard about the next morning. In the middle of a Cabinet meeting, thanks to your stupid boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Hermione snaps. "We're just..." She purses her mouth. "Seeing how long it takes before I stab him through the throat with a letter opener."

"I'm sure that turns Zabini on immensely."

She gives me a very prim look. "Unlike you, I don't make a public display of my sex life." Her eyes narrow. "And if Blaise does, he'll regret it."

"Unlike you, I'm not shagging across a Chinese wall," I point out, and I take my glass away from her.

Hermione just studies me for a long moment. "Is everything all right between you two?"

"It's fine." I take a sip of beer. I don't want to tell her that Draco and I've slept in the same room every night for a month now, which we've never done, not in five years. I don't know what it means; I just know I don't want him to leave my bed.

She doesn't press me. "Blaise is working on another response to the Prophet editorial from yesterday."

"I know." Zabini's original response to Lucius's bombshell last month had been to suggest that Lucius was seeking to protect one of his old Death Eater cronies. The elder Malfoy had turned that around with ease, writing a letter to the Prophet in which he suggested that his true intention was justice for Ludsthrop's victims, given that my actions that night had lead to the Ministry's inability to seek prosecution for the bastard--my term, not Lucius', of course. His letter was an eloquently worded masterpiece of political bollocks that had turned public favour in his direction the past two weeks. Yesterday's editorial questioning my emotional state had just been a culmination. "I'd like to know how they got my final evaluation from the DMLE's Mind Healer, though." That'd been the most horrific part of it. I don't particularly care what that rag says about me--I'd stopped worrying about that in my fifth year at school. But there's something demoralising about seeing your diagnosis of post-war trauma being bandied about in newsprint for all the world to cluck over.

"Have you spoken to Ron?" Hermione asks carefully.

I give her a sharp look. "I don't care about the history between you two, but he didn't leak it and you know that. If anyone would, it'd be Dawlish."

She doesn't look convinced. I don't care. Ron and I may be careful around each other at the moment, and our weekly lunches may be slightly strained, but he would die before putting anything about me in print, especially not something as private as that.

"Is he still defending those bastards?"

I sigh. "They're his mates."

"You're his best friend."

Sometimes I wonder about that. It seemed a much more certain thing at seventeen than it does at thirty. "Yeah, but he doesn't have to work with me. If anyone knows how difficult the work he does is, I do. And he's good at it, Hermione." I'm tired of pointing out to her how competent Ron is. She still sees him as the gangly, goofy teenager he used to be. Their breakup was really hard on her, but I want her to be a fucking adult and get over it.

Hermione waves her hand. "Never mind that. Do you feel adequately prepared for Thursday? I know about your testimony--Blaise mentioned you had special coaching from counsel."

Talking to Hermione at times can give you whiplash; she changes course incredibly quickly. "I'm supposed to have more. Evidently I'm utter balls at it. Draco's even firecalled Susan to get pointers, and you know how desperate he had to be to do that."

Hermione looks impressed. "He really would do anything for you, wouldn't he?"

"It's for Kingsley," I point out. "In the long run."

"Perhaps." She eyes my beer. "Buy me a pint, Harry, and I'll tell you Blaise's weak points."

I laugh. "You're an awful girlfriend."

"Just as well I'm not one then."

In the end, we drink three pints and I learn a few things about Zabini I didn't know. I'm fairly certain he doesn't need to worry about a letter opener any time soon.

The thought that I've scooped Draco on the gossip front for once cheers me immensely.

Although my brief, Phineas Doorstone, and his colleagues have made it very clear that the inquest is not a formal trial by Wizengamot, I'm still knee-knockingly nervous when Thursday dawns. I was even too jumpy to respond to Draco's cautious advances of the night before, and he stroked my back for what seemed like hours until I fell into fitful sleep.

Now I'm here in the familiar dungeon with my best robes on, my hair slicked by something lemony that Draco uses, and I have the strange, childish hope that Dumbledore will appear to rescue me. I had almost forgotten that long-ago trial, which was so enormous then and which seems so laughable now.

The members of the inquest committee are seated by party, Pomps on the right and Omps on the left with the Mods in the center. Lucius is prominent in the front row, a rare honour for a newly elected member.

The hearings are closed to the general public and even to other members of the Wizengamot until the recommendations come down. Kingsley and Draco will be testifying today as well, so they are in the gallery behind me. At least there's that. I feel Draco's presence here, as much as I feel anything, and I hope I don't balls this up. For him, for me, for Kingsley, for anyone. Even though I've been assured I can't be convicted solely off of this testimony, I have already been convicted and found guilty in my own inner court. I know I'm an example of police brutality. I know I've done wrong. Nothing I've done to repent will take that away.

It's over before I know it, almost. Doorstone stands up with me, ushering me into position, and then I walk before the bench. I take the oath and someone speaks who must be me. Afterwards, I find out it lasts an hour and a half. It is over in an instant.

There is a brief recess after my testimony. Doorstone pulls me to the side of the hall, whispering into my ear. I have a few more questions to answer, but the main section is over. He frowns at me. "That could have been worse."

I'm wrung out, as though I've flown for hours against a stiff wind. "Oh. Good."

I crane my neck to look for Draco, but I can't see him. There are dark robes in small groups scattered around the room, whispering. I think I catch a flash of Kingsley's purple robe out of the corner of my eye.

There's a sudden explosion behind us. I don't hear it as much as I feel it, propelling me to the floor. The shock wave travels through my entire body. My ears don't work properly. I instinctively roll to the side, pulling Doorstone with me. The force bounces off of the high stone walls, creating a flurry of parchment and splinters of wood and a cloud of what might be shreds of cloth. I hear someone shrieking. I try to focus on my surroundings. I have no wand, having surrendered it to the guards at the door. I have no idea what I can do, but I have to try to do something. We're shielded by a wooden bench for a moment but I have to try to get up. My left hip hurts fiercely.

There's a knot of robes at the side of the room. Most are on the floor, holding their heads or lying still. My ears are ringing. I can't see anything actually happening. There's a splatter of blood on the back wall. Then the high doors fly open and a sea of red and grey robes appear, led by a tall ginger figure.

At least Ron's here, I think in my addled state.

And then I hear a name over the ocean rushing in my ears. "Malfoy. Malfoy's been hurt."

Draco. Draco was standing with Kingsley. The last glimpse I had of them was in that corner of the hall.

My chest is seized with terror.

The room darkens as I lose consciousness, my last sensation the soft sink of my head onto the already prone figure of my barrister.

I wake up in hospital, a mediwitch dressed in a pale blue and white-piped robe hovering over me, fiddling with the potion drip that floats next to my bed. Her small, silver pocketwatch hangs from her robe, and when my eyes focus enough, I can just barely make out it's almost half ten. From the shadows that fall across my room, it must be night.

At my slight groan she pulls back, her hand dropping to my shoulder in order to keep me in bed. "Mr Potter."

I blink at her. My head hurts. Badly. I move my lips, but nothing comes out of my dry, cottony throat but a croak. I try again. "Draco."

She hesitates, and suddenly I can't breathe. He can't be dead. He can't be. I struggle to sit up, and she catches my arm. "Mr Potter, please. You've a broken hip--"

I grab her hand, and I don't care if I look utterly mad. "Is he dead?"

"No." She pushes me back against my half-raised bed. "You have to rest, sir. You've been hurt."

"I need to see him--"

She keeps her hand on my shoulder and reaches over me to turn a knob on my potion drip. "You need to sleep."

Before I can object, a heaviness settles over me, pulling me back into darkness.

When I wake up again, my room's flooded with bright sunlight. There are three other beds in the ward, all of them empty. I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, but before I can stand, there's a mediwizard in with me, reaching out to steady me.

"Careful, Mr Potter," he says. "You shouldn't be up just yet."

I use his arm to pull myself to my feet. "Where's Draco Malfoy?"

That earns me a long, careful look. I suppose I ought to inquire about Kingsley first to be politic, but I don't really give a damn at the moment. My heart thuds softly in my chest. "Down the hall," he says finally.

"Please," I say, and the mediwizard just nods, offering me an elbow to cling to as I shuffle carefully across the room. I'm suddenly grateful for wizarding technology--in particular hospital gowns that don't expose your arse when you move. We beat the Muggles on that score by a good ten years or more.

There's an Auror posted at the door, and I recognise him as one of Ron's younger subordinates. "Mr Potter," he says, and I nod back. Several of the other rooms have other members of Ron's team standing grimly at attention in front of them, hands on their wand hilts, and the ward doors have at least another two or three, from what I can tell through the frosted glass, as well as the haze of Grade 1 shielding charms. I look back at the Auror in front of mine.

"What's going on?"

He hesitates. "Attack on the Government, sir. In particular an attempt on the Minister's life, from what we can tell." His mouth tightens. "Rogue guard."

I suddenly understand the grimness. One of their own, then. Christ. That won't play well in the press, and the very fact that my first thought is for how the situation might be spun irks me. Fucking Zabini and his fucking ability to get in your fucking head. I am, however, silently grateful that it might, just might eclipse my own testimony, as much as the sentiment shames me. "The Minister?"

"Alive," the Auror says. "We've had him under heavy shielding charms since the election. He was a bit shaken and banged up, but no major injuries. The Healers had him out of here by last night and he's recuperating in the wing of Chequers reserved for our use. Auror Weasley's with him right now, setting up a guard under Mr Zabini's guidance."

"Good," I manage. Part of me almost wishes I could see Ron and Zabini going at each other in front of Kingsley. "If he's at Chequers, then the PM's been notified, I assume."

The Auror nods. "Immediately after the Ministry was placed into lockdown." His mouth thins. "It didn't take us long to find the responsible party."

I touch the Auror's arm. He doesn't flinch away, which surprises me, given my now all-too-public history with the force. "Thanks." I pause, looking at him. "What's your name?"

"Wade, sir. Dorian Wade."

I nod. "How long have you been on the force?"

"Three years." He looks proud. "All under Auror Weasley's command. He's a good officer, sir."

I smile faintly at him. "I know."

"Mr Malfoy's three rooms down, sir," the mediwizard says, interrupting us, and with a final nod at Auror Wade, I let the mediwizard--whose name I discover in the process is Alfie--lead me down the hall. My hip aches with each step, and I can feel the mending spells still knitting together the bones that I must have cracked in the fall.

"How is he?" I ask just outside Draco's door.

Alfie hesitates. "Stable. The outlook isn't poor, and he's made it through the first twenty-four hours."

The knot in my chest loosens just a bit. I have a sudden visceral urge to go to him. "Can we have a few moments alone?" I ask.

The Auror and Alfie exchange a long glance. "Five minutes," the mediwizard says finally. "The potions trolley will be coming around soon."

I push Draco's door open, knocking lightly. He glances up from the copy of today's Prophet someone has brought him. "Hey," he says. He looks exhausted, deep black circles under his grey eyes and livid bruising across his jaw and right arm. A tangle of potions lines hangs above him, feeding into his other arm, just above the mark. I can't help but wonder what the Healers thought of that, though I suppose they've seen everything.

He notices my look and grimaces. "One Healer already asked to be excused from treating me," he says calmly. "Although Father's had three, from what I've heard, so I suppose that's a win on my end."

"How is he?" I ask. I hadn't even realised Lucius was in hospital. Stupid of me. I ought to have known. When they'd said Malfoy was hurt, I only thought of Draco but there was another Malfoy in that room.

Draco leans back against his pillows. He looks away, out the window. "Unconscious. From what the Head Healer told me during rounds. I know they can't say much, and of course, that worries me."

I nod, my hand reaching to stroke his pale hair. My chest tightens again. "I'm sorry."

He glances back to me. I can't help the overwhelming relief that pours over me now that I can see him here, talking and looking like Draco, even if he's clearly not well. "Yeah. Thanks."

"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper past the lump in my throat. "I couldn't believe--."

Draco raises one sardonic eyebrow. "Melodramatic as ever, Potter." He falls silent, and for a moment I don't know what to think. He sighs, and the Prophet slips to the floor, fluttering on the pristine white linoleum. There's a photo of yesterday's chaos at the Ministry--Aurors running through the Atrium with an enormous headline beneath them: Assassination Attempt in Heart of Ministry. "He pushed me out of the way, you know. Father did. That's why he was hit instead of Kingsley."

I sit on the edge of Draco's bed, wincing as my hip protests. "I didn't know."

"That's what Henderson tells me." At my blank look, Draco sighs. "The Auror outside my door. I'm assuming you have two, being Harry bloody Potter."

"Just one." I let my fingers brush his knuckles. It's taking everything I have not to crawl up in the bed beside him, wrapping myself around him as tightly as my injuries and his will allow.

Draco turns his hand, letting his palm face up and his fingers slide through mine. "From what they've stitched together, the guard broke rank during the recess and Father must have seen him raise his wand. All I remember is Father saying my name and pushing me aside. If there hadn't been separate shielding charms on the inquest members..." He looks away, swallowing hard. "It's all like Mother, you know," he says after a moment. "This same feeling inside. Like I'm not quite alive any more. Like something's missing."

"He'll be all right," I say, but I know I sound hollow and insincere. I can't even imagine losing a parent like this, having lost them before I was old enough to understand. "He must be. And we're at the best place possible. They'll take care of him."

"Yeah." Draco draws in a slow breath, then he looks back at me. "Harry," he says, his eyes bright, and I slide closer to him, stretching alongside him, my fingers stroking his face gently, carefully, trying not to skim a bruise. His skin's warm. Soft.

We lay there together until Alfie sticks his head in, shooing me back to my room. "Time to go, Mr Potter. I finagled you fifteen minutes, but I can't keep the trolley away any longer without trouble."

I don't want to leave Draco. I lean in and kiss him lightly, not caring who's watching. "I'll be back," I whisper.

He nods and trails his fingers along the side of my face, then lets me go.

Ron comes into my room to take my statement in the afternoon. He hunches by my bed, the red and grey robe of office almost a part of him now. He's worn it for a decade now, although I can scarcely believe we're old enough for that to be true.

"You look okay, mate." He looks me up and down. "How do you feel?"

"Okay. I guess." I'm not entirely sure how I feel, although the Healer's told me I'm going to be fine. "Do you know how Malfoy's doing--Lucius, I mean."

Ron taps his quill against his hand--a nervous tic I recognise from our school days. "Yeah. He's alive and the Healers seem to think they can keep him that way." He sighs. "Bloody fucking mess all round."

I nod. The tension streams off of him. I don't think he's slept much--he looks wary and alert, but worn from the events of the past day.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" he asks. I can't imagine he's been taking down everyone's statement personally, so I'm slightly pleased he's in here to talk to me.

I narrate my patchy recollections of the morning, with little interruption. Occasionally Ron will ask me to describe something I saw. He seems particularly interested in my interactions with the guards when I handed over my wand and how, exactly, everyone ended up in their positions during the intermission.

"It was random, from what I could tell," I say. "Phineas just wanted to prep me for the last recap of my testimony, so he pulled me off to the left side of the witness bench, where we could talk. The members were milling about on the floor. I assume some of them were going over to talk to Kingsley, at least the Mod members. The Pomps were in a sort of loose block at the back, not talking to anyone except each other.

Ron nods. "What was Draco doing?"

I sigh. "I don't know. We couldn't be seen together that morning, not in that room. He had been prepping with Kingsley and helping staff him."

Ron wrinkles his brow. "What does that entail?"

"Oh, holding his satchel and effects and being up to the minute on all of the necessary issues and briefs, that sort of thing. It's part moral support, part advisory capacity, and part acting as a porter."

Ron nods and takes it down. "Did he do that often for the Minister?"

I think back. "Yes, we all traded off during the campaign. Blaise might have done it as well, but he's too busy right now running the spin machine and keeping the press from eating us whole. Kingsley has only wanted his closest people on this affair."

"So the fact that Draco's your... boyfriend and you were testifying had nothing to do with the Minister's choice of aide?" Ron looks away from me.

I sigh again. "One, we're not dating. We do have intimate relations--" I try to ignore Ron's eye-roll. "But, well, we're not dating. Two, if they did decide that, and I can't speculate but it does seems moderately conceivable, then I wasn't part of the conversation. I was too busy working to save my own arse with Doorstone and his legal team."

"Did you see Lucius Malfoy go over to them?"

"No. I didn't. I'd no idea Lucius was over there, in fact." I hesitate. "You don't think he..."

Ron just grunts and makes a few notes in his notepad before he looks up at me. "No. I don't think he planned it at all. I actually think--and so help me, Harry, if you tell Malfoy this, I will gut you myself--I actually think the bastard was a hero. All the evidence points in that direction."

I pleat my sheet between my fingers. "What do you think happened?"

Ron heaves a heavy sigh. "I think he has pretty quick reflexes for an older gent." He glances over at me. "And nobody takes that sort of blow for a lark. Look, Harry, I shouldn't be telling you any of this, but..."

"What?" My voice is gentle. Something is eating at Ron from the inside, I can tell.

"The guard who went after Kingsley was Imperiused." He turns the quill between his fingers. "We can't trace the magical signature, and whoever sent him had Obliviated him beforehand. He doesn't remember anything from yesterday afternoon through this morning. And there's no trace. No fucking trace."

I sit up. "An Unspeakable?"

Ron shakes his head. "They're helping us with this thing. If they thought it was one of their blokes--yeah, no. They have ways of finding them. And dealing with them." He looks troubled. "They've assured me there's no chance of the attempted hit coming from their department."

"They could be trying to cover up--"

"No." Ron's blunt. "I'm not an idiot. I have a mole in the department who's confirming everything the higher-ups are passing on. She says there's nothing in the register regarding an Imperius, and every Unspeakable is linked to the registry. There've also been no anomalies in reporting in the past two weeks."

My mind whirls. "Leadership in the other parties--"

Ron stops me before I go down that road. "Harry. Not a chance in hell. To get that sort of unregistered, unsignatured magic you have to be very high up indeed. They don't give that sort of clearance to politicians, for obvious reasons." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "It was a civil servant. Access to the Ministry. Access to this type of Imperius Charm. Access to Courtroom Ten. Access to the Tracing Centre itself."

"I have access to all except the Charm and the Centre," I say, "but I could wrangle my way into the Centre most likely and as for the Charm..." I don't want to say it, but both he and I know I could do that sort of thing if I had to. No one's ever actually tested the higher levels of my magic, and I broke most of the usual testing instruments in my first year of Auror training.

"Yeah." Ron's mouth quirks slightly. "But you're a lazy sod, and besides, Malfoy was there. Everyone with half a brain knows you'd never put him in any harm. You'd throw yourself in front of him--we were just lucky Lucius was there instead so your usual heroics were thwarted." He gives me a sharp look. "And before you ask, no, Malfoy wasn't the target, you idiot. I know how your brain works. Kingsley was. We have a confession. Well. As much of one as we can get from a poor fuck who's been that thoroughly Obliviated and Imperiused."

"Can you even talk about who you think has that kind of access?" I ask.

"Not really. Not even to you, mate. Sorry." He pauses, his face taking on a firm set. Ron can be incredibly stubborn when his mind is made up, and I don't think I've ever seen him look quite this intent. "But I do know this has gone too fucking far. We can't have anyone attacking the blasted Minister for Magic, especially not from within. This needs to stop. Here."

I study him. "You're going to do something utterly Gryffindor, aren't you?" I have always respected Ron, but I'm finding I have a new sense of awe for what he's willing to do.

Ron snorts. "Someone has to do something." He prods my arm. "And you had to go get yourself blown up, you bastard. And in Government. Sometimes I wish I had you with me on this."

"I was a shit Auror," I say with half a smile.

"Completely shit," Ron agrees. "Still..."

There's a knock on my door, and Alfie comes in with a huge bouquet of white flowers that he sets on my windowsill. "Sorry, Auror Weasley, but the monitoring team'll be here in a few minutes."

"Who're the flowers from?" I ask.

Alfie looks back from the door. "Phoebus Penrose's office."

Ron's eyebrows go up. "Omp leadership sent you flowers?" He picks the card out from between glossy leaves and reads it. "With sincere wishes for your speedy recovery from your friends in HM Loyal Opposition."

"It's the little thoughts that count," I muse.

"I've decided to testify," Ron is looking out of the window again. "At this point, I owe it to my men and to the Government."

That takes me by surprise. I knew he was going to do something but I had no idea it would be on that scale. "I thought Dawlish was your great chum," I say lightly.

Ron glowers back at me. "Those sorts of things don't matter any more. And maybe I've been listening to some of your prattle." I laugh softly, and his face relaxes a little. "I believe in laws, Harry, and lawful government. We didn't fight a tyrant to have this."

"I believe in nostrils on our public officials." I think perhaps my pain potion is kicking in again. "Can you imagine what that noseless fuck would have looked like on commemorative china?" I pause. "Or tea towels. Think about wiping out your tea mug every day with that bastard's face."

At least it makes Ron laugh. He moves closer to my bed. "You know, we're never going to agree entirely on the reforms you want to make, right?"

"Keep acting the way you're doing and I might not have to make as many reforms." I pretend to look concerned. "And you might put the Trust out of business. Think of poor Aisha."

Ron knocks his knuckles against the back of my hand. "I still think we need a strong defence."

"And I still think we need a legal appeals system," I retort. "But at least we both believe it should be done within the constraint of law."

"Constraints that include nostrils." His lips are turning up, although he's trying to keep a straight face.

I grin at him. He grins back. "Nostrils are non-negotiable."

I've missed this. Missed him and the easiness of our friendship.

We're still making bad nose jokes when the Auror outside my door knocks, calling him back to work.

"Ron," I say, and he looks back at me, his hand on the door frame.

"Yeah?"

I rub my thumb across the waffle-weave of my blanket. "Look, will you do something for me? Discreetly?"

"Maybe." He frowns. "What?"

"I think Pansy Parkinson-Nott's being roughed up a little by Theo," I say after a moment. "She brushed me off when I asked, but Draco said she and Theo have been having problems, and well..." I look up at him. "Something's not right, but I don't want to make things worse for her. Any suggestions?"

Ron's silent, then he heaves a sigh and runs his hand through his hair. "And Malfoy's in no shape to push her on it."

"He's tried. She shuts him off as well. He was going to sic Zabini on her, but I don't know if he talked to him yet. And with this..." I trail off.

"Yeah." Ron crosses his arms over his chest and ponders. "Let me see what I can do."

"Thanks."

Ron glances back at me. "Whilst we're spilling secrets...you know I didn't leak those Mind Healer evaluations of yours, right?"

"I never thought you did."

His mouth quirks slightly. "Hermione did. She firecalled me Tuesday to tell me off."

"Oh, God." I close my eyes for a moment. "What'd she say?"

Ron hesitates. "Lots of things. Some of which I deserved. Maybe I've let this job get in the way of more important things, you know? Like her. And you." He rubs the back of his neck. "Anyway, we had drinks Wednesday night--" At my look he shakes his head. "Not like that. We're not good together, her and me, at least not dating. We drive each other too mental. But we think maybe we can be friends."

My throat tightens. "That'd be great."

"Yeah." He smiles faintly. "I think so. Did you know she's seeing Zabini?" I nod, and Ron just shakes his head. "Weirdly, I think they might work. Better than she and I did, at least."

"Stranger things have happened," I say.

Ron snorts. "You and Malfoy for one." He gives me a grin. "Speaking of, I have to go annoy him now--and get paid to. Christ, I love my job."

With a laugh I throw a pillow at the closing door.

I'm released from hospital quickly, though my Healer informs me that my hip will still ache for at least another couple of weeks, due to the bone remodelling. Hermione thinks I should take a few days off work, but Draco's still in hospital and Zabini needs me in the office. The next two weeks pass in a haze of work and mild pain potions, and even when Draco's finally released from medical care, he's still spending the time he isn't in the office at St Mungo's with his father, who'd woken up a few days ago, so I'm frequently there as well, even if just for five or ten minutes at a time, making certain he's all right.

This morning I've brought him a latte from the Caffè Nero in Trafalgar Square, along with his favourite pain au chocolat. I'm to collect him for a meeting with the Opposition leadership, and Zabini has threatened to separate me from my cherished and somewhat lonely balls if I don't return in time with Draco in hand.

When I get to Lucius's room, I'm a bit taken aback to see Astoria Greengrass next to Lucius's bedside, gently lifting his leg and pressing it towards his chest.

"Oh," I say, and both of them look at me. "Where's Draco?"

"Potter," Lucius grunts. Not that I can blame him given that his knee's nearly at his armpit. "Hopefully finding someone to drag this mad woman off me."

"Hello, Harry," Astoria says, pushing Lucius's leg further up. "Don't listen to him, he's just cranky. Draco went off for tea."

"Oh," I say again, looking down at the paper cup in my hand, then back up at Astoria. She looks beautiful, even in that ridiculous pale green robe. The colour oddly suits her dark brown hair and delicate bone structure. "I thought you were in the States on a research fellowship."

She lets Lucius's leg go, much to his obvious relief, and walks around the corner of the bed to the other side. "I was. I've been back a month or so. What with the Muggle credit crunch, the hospital in Boston lost their project funding." She pushes Lucius's other leg up to his chest and he swears under his breath. She glances back over her shoulder at me. "Mummy and Daddy'd be pleased to see you again, you know. They're terribly sorry you couldn't make their last dinner party. You know Daddy always enjoys talking politics with you. Your range of motion is much better, Mr Malfoy. I think the therapy sessions are working."

He just glares at her, sweat on his brow, and grunts again.

Mr Greengrass had spent several years in Azkaban after the war, and his legs had been crushed in a riot. I'd helped him get compensation from McLaird's Government after we'd proved that the guards had denied him access to proper medical care, thus turning an injury that might have been fixed into a disability that he'd have for the rest of his life. "How is Robert?"

"Well, thanks." She lets Lucius's leg slide back to the bed, and reaches for his chart, making notes. "I think you'll be working on walking in a few days, Mr Malfoy."

"Brilliant." Lucius scowls. "Having to relearn something every two-year-old knows how to do."

Astoria flips the chart shut. "Bipedal motion's trickier than you think."

"Harry." Draco's voice causes me to turn. He has a white porcelain mug of tea in his hands, and a tall, regal brunette woman follows him in. "I didn't think you'd be here yet." I think he looks happy to see me, but when I lean in to kiss his cheek, he sidesteps it, moving around me to hand the steaming mug to his father. "It's not your usual Assam, but it's tea."

"Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose." Lucius looks at the woman with Draco and a genuine smile crosses his face. "Beatrice."

So this is the infamous Omp Whore who'd been defeated by one of our candidates. She reaches out and catches Lucius's hand in both of hers. "Darling, Draco and I've just been talking arrangements for when dear Astoria here decides you're ready to come home. He'll be moving back in to help for a bit."

I nearly drop the latte I'm still holding. Draco gives me a sharp look, then takes my elbow. "I need to talk to Harry in the hallway. I'm sure something's up at the office."

He leads me out, down to a small sitting area beside a huge window overlooking the courtyard. I sit, blankly, then look up at him. "I brought you a pain au chocolat," I say finally, holding out the bag. "And a latte."

"Thanks." Draco sits next to me, taking them both. He doesn't look at me. "It's only for a little while. And they need the help. The house-elves can only do so much."

I run a hand through my hair. "What about hiring help?"

"Father doesn't like having strangers in." Draco glances at me. "You're angry."

"I'm not." I am and we both know it. "Just surprised, that's all. I thought we hated the Whore, since she threw you out of your own house."

Draco picks at the corner of the pain au chocolat. "Beatrice and I have become closer over this whole thing. She's not as bad as I thought. I think she might actually love Father."

"She threw you out of your house," I say again. I don't quite understand what's happening here.

Draco sets the latte down without drinking it. "And my father nearly died. He's the only parent I have left. Surely you can understand, Harry."

I nod. I do, in a way, but I'm still baffled as to what's actually going on. I have a sense that there's far more to this than I can see. Something is churning in that brilliant head of Draco Malfoy's, and until he's ready to tell me, all I can do is take his hand, as I do now, and squeeze it gently. "Zabini wants you back at the Ministry for a meeting with Penrose," I say after a moment. "I'm not allowed to take no for an answer."

A small smile twitches Draco's mouth. "Are your balls in danger?"

"Mortal peril." I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb. He leans against me, resting his head on my shoulder.

"Can't have that," he says lightly.

I turn my head and let my mouth brush against his. "Are you okay?"

Draco nods. "It hasn't been easy. But yes. I think so." He sighs. "It's an odd blessing that Astoria's back. She's the only Healer who can tolerate Father at the moment. You know what he's like when he's incapacitated."

"An utter beast."

He laughs softly, then pulls away, standing up. "We should get to the office before Blaise sends out a remote tracking hex."

"Last time he tried that, he embarrassed himself in front of the whole Cabinet," I point out.

Draco picks up the latte as I stand. "Serves him right. He ought to have guessed what we were up to. I mean, good God, the man knows us." He takes my hand as we start down the hall. "Thank you," he says after a moment.

"For what?"

He just looks over at me. "For being Harry bloody Potter," he says simply.

I can't stop my smile.

The Wizengamot summer recess only lasts two weeks this year instead of the usual six. Between the election and the more recent events, Kingsley's decided to recall the Wizengamot in mid-August. There's grumbling from some of the older members, but it's more subdued than usual. I suppose the Minister nearly being assassinated will do that.

My thirtieth birthday passes quietly. I have lunch with Hermione, a drink after work with Ron, and then I meet Draco at our favourite Greek restaurant in Diagon for dinner before we go home and shag each other senseless, a bit less vigorously than normal because of our injuries but the eagerness of being with each other again more than makes up for it.

We don't see much of each other after that, or at least not as much as we did before. Draco's not moved back to the Manor yet--we're decidedly not talking about that possibility--but between work and hospital duty, he's coming home at nearly midnight. Sometimes he falls into bed with me. Sometimes I find him sleeping on the sofa the next morning, still dressed, Mimsy curled on his chest. Sometimes he doesn't come home at all.

He feels distant to me, and a little lost within his own thoughts. I didn't realised I was used to receiving his full attention again until I only received half. As much as I'd like to deny it, I'm recognising the signs. He's pulling away from me. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops, but I can't seem to steel myself for that foregone conclusion as I have in the past. Usually I pull away from him when he pulls away from me, but now I just try to let him be and spend what time we have together. I know I'm a fool--God, I know it ten times over--but I can't help myself. I just want to be close to him. The nights I can lie beside him, his soft hair against my cheek, I don't care about anything else.

Today, we've been at work for perhaps an hour when Zabini comes shrieking down our hallway, threatening to rip the cockhead off anyone fool enough to cross his path--regardless of biological sex.

I get up from my desk and walk over to Draco's office just as Zabini storms in. We exchange a long look, then Draco turns to him and carefully asks, "Something the matter, Blaise?"

He throws a scrap of parchment down on Draco's desk, apoplectic with fury. The day Blaise Zabini can't curse fluently is the day I'm afraid.

Draco picks it up and looks at it. "A confidence motion."

"A what?" I jerk it out of his hands. "Against Kingsley?"

Zabini finds his voice. "Against fucking all of us. Those treacherous, lily-livered, split-dicked whoresons in the Pomps sold us out."

"They're tabling it this morning," Draco says. "With no advance notice?"

"That fucking pecker Peckham," Zabini spits out, "brought it to the floor at the beginning of the sitting. This is our advance fucking notice, Draco."

Draco just looks at him blankly. "That's not how it works. It's supposed to be in the Order Papers."

Zabini scowls. "Tell that to fucking Berwicke. He let it in."

I drop into a chair and run a hand through my hair, thinking as hard as I can. "Most of these motions fail," I point out.

Zabini turns on me. "I don't fucking care, you bleeding Muggle-bred cocksucker. I don't care if they fuck your mother on Tuesday and your father on Wednesday. It's still a fucking vote of no confidence and it could still fucking destroy us, or haven't you fucking noticed, you stupid fucking twat, that we've only a majority of one--one--moronic member of the bloody fucking Wizengamot, may they all choke on their own dicks and cunts, and I can think three idiots in our own goddamned party who would be brainless enough to vote with the sodding Pomps and their sodding cowardly cunt party motion, and let's not even bring the Omps into this, shall we because it's not like his--" At this he jabs a finger towards Draco. "--bastard cunt father--the fucking martyr of Wiltshire who'll be canonised by those boys in skirts at Lambeth Palace before we fucking know it--his father tried to smear his faeces-stained pants all over Whitehall--"

I stand up. "Zabini, shut the fuck up." He opens his mouth, and I grab the front of his robe and slam him up against the bookshelf filled with binders. I have a splitting headache and I can feel my magic surging like it hasn't since right after the war. The papers on Draco's desk rustle, and he tries to catch them as they begin to swirl up in the air. The glass of a Sneakoscope on Draco's shelf shatters.

"Harry," Draco says quietly. "Stop."

Zabini just glares back at me, a mulish twist to his mouth. A light in the hallway explodes. Someone curses.

"I don't care what you say, but shut the fuck up about his father." I let him drop and step back.

Before Zabini can say anything, Draco steps forward. "Both of you. Stop. Now. This isn't going to save Kingsley or the Party. In fact, I think there's very little we can do about this today. It's up to the Wizengamot now."

Zabini stalks off with muttered imprecations about ‘your little girlfriend' that I pretend not to hear. I rub my temples.

And so we wait. A pall settles over the offices, all normal conversation ceasing as if we fear talking could influence what is happening in the hall. Blaise goes and installs himself in the Stranger's Gallery, peering down like a malevolent Scottish gargoyle, scrawling grudge notes into a long roll of parchment.

Draco and I alternate between pretending we're doing work for the following day's business and hovering in the Gallery, trying to get a sense for the mood of the Wizengamot and knowing it could determine whether we'll have business to conduct on the following day or not. By three in the afternoon we've given up all pretense of work and are parked near Zabini, with a two meter safety zone between us. Behind us is a wall of press and civil servants, all watching intently.

At five there's an attempt at a motion for cloture, but Berwicke quashes it. The Stranger's Gallery is jammed full; Draco now sits between me and Zabini. All eyes are fixed on Kingsley, sitting calmly in the Government front benches.

At seven, Penrose stands on the Opposition side. He's been silent the entire day, just listening. When Berwicke calls on him, I tense and look at Draco. His fingers are twisted together, and he's rocking in his seat slightly, the way he always does when he's nervous.

"Chief Warlock," Penrose says slowly, and he looks around the Wizengamot benches. "I have sat here today and listened to the discussion amongst us--at times erudite, at times most common--and I must express my absolute dismay at the display that has been conducted in this chamber. I believe my opinions on the Minister's politics are quite well known. Neither he nor I see certain issues in the same light." He nods at Kingsley who nods back.

"And yet," he continues, "I fail to see why in this time when we need national unity most, we are threatening to split the instrument of our very Government on what is, at most, a technicality. Nothing was proved by the inquest, and I can state with the full backing of my Party that we are entirely satisfied with the innocence and right conduct of the Minister for Magic during his time as Head Auror." His dark eyes fix on the Pomp benches. "To now say otherwise is, in my opinion, equivalent to a statement of treason. This is not the time for opportunistic behaviour after others have paid the price for honesty. It is a time to conduct Government business with the solemnity and undivided attention it deserves."

The entire Strangers' Gallery is silent, in rapt attention. All except for Zabini, who adds Penrose to his grudge list. "Opportunistic behaviour, my arse," he mutters. "Who's being opportunistic here, you shrivelled old shitsack?"

Draco elbows him.

Zabini glares at him. "It's true."

"It's politics," Draco murmurs, "which you know damned well. And at least he's on our side."

"Today," Zabini mutters. "And what will it cost us tomorrow?"

I lean over Draco. "Fuck tomorrow. At least we might survive today."

When the vote is taken fifteen minutes later, not a single Omp votes in favour of censure. Only one of our MWs dares to, and Blaise scrawls his name on his parchment, scowling down at the old bastard as he does. Personally, I think it must have been deliberate career suicide.

Almost the entire Party ends up at the Leaky afterwards, buying drinks for anyone who walks past. I lose track of how many pints I've had. All I know is that at some point, I'm kissing Draco against the dartboards, my hands running up and down his back.

"We need to go home," Draco murmurs against my jaw.

My fingers dip into the back of Draco's trousers, curving over the swell of his arse. "I'd fuck you right here, but I don't think they deserve it. Not even today."

Draco smiles against my skin. "Home, Harry," he says again.

I Apparate us both, not caring what anyone might think or say. I'm still sober enough to get us home, at least, without Splinching. Thank God. I couldn't have managed the Tube ride to Stepney Green. Or a fucking cab.

We stumble down the hall, kissing desperately, fingers at each others' clothes. By the time we make it to my bedroom, we're both naked save for socks, our pricks bobbing together with each step we take.

Draco lands on my bed, barely missing Mimsy. She lifts her head with a miaow, yawning and blinking at us. I pick her up, carrying her out to the hallway. "Sorry, love," I say. "I'd rather not have a claw in my arse at an inopportune time. Again."

She stalks off towards the kitchen, her tail raised high, offence radiating from her tiny grey body. Draco laughs behind me, and when I turn around, he's stroking his swollen cock--too quickly for my intentions. I swat his hand away. "Not yet, greedy thing."

Draco stretches out, basking in my gaze. "Make it worth my while then."

"So many possibilities." I stroke my prick thoughtfully whilst I consider him. "What would you like?"

"Come here." He reaches out his arms and I lay my body over his, my legs between his. Our lips meet and we kiss slowly. He wriggles against my skin, his prick hot on my belly.

I stroke a thumb over his lips. He bites it, then licks it again, the picture of innocence. I'm going to miss him, I realise. Whenever he goes. I touch his face, letting my fingertips slide along his jaw and down his throat. He watches me through half-lidded eyes.

His skin is soft and warm, and I'm fascinated by the hardness of his pink-brown nipples, by the soft pale gold hairs scattered across his chest, over his taut stomach, forming a narrow line down to his swollen cock. "You're beautiful," I tell him. I want him to know that, to remember that I thought that. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Draco's hands slide over mine, pulling them from his body. He presses me back into the mattress, rolling over onto me. His cock is hard and heavy against my hipbone as he pulls my hands above my head, casting an Incarcerous that wraps loosely around my wrists. "So are you," he says, and when he catches my mouth in a deep kiss, I give myself up to it.

To him.

He kisses me, trailing tiny nips down my jaw to my throat, repeating the pattern exactly of the way I'd touched him. When he straddles my hips, his arse brushing the head of my cock I groan, and he laughs softly.

"God," I say, "I want you."

Draco watches me as he touches my skin, letting the flat surface of his fingernails skim across my chest, through the hair underneath my arms and up over my shoulders. I can't stop the shudder that goes through me; every inch of me that he touches tingles sharply.

The look on his face is wistful, gentle, deliberate, as if he's memorising the shape of my body, the feel of my skin, and how I move under his touch. He's pale in the moonlight from the window, all silver and white above me, and when he draws off his glasses and sets them aside, he looks like one of the Grecian statues in the British Museum.

My senses are heightened by arousal. I can hear the faint scratching of Mimsy at the door, trying to get in, the rush of wind outside of the window, the soft thump of the radio two doors down, and each halting breath that Draco and I take.

He leans in and kisses me as he reaches up and undoes the Incarcerous, letting my hands free. "Touch me, Harry," he whispers against my mouth and I'm already doing so, my fingers stroking across the ridge of his spine, over the warm skin of his back, the tender bumps of his ribs, the smooth curve of his arse. Our kisses grow harder, more eager, and then he's breathless, gasping against my mouth as we rut together, our bodies sliding against each other.

If he's going to leave, I think, I want him to remember tonight.

I roll us again, my mouth at the pulse point of his throat. He sighs softly, his arms draped loosely over my shoulders. "Christ," he says, "That's lovely."

Slowly I inch us up the bed, kissing his throat, his hair, his jaw, his mouth. When I pull back, he reaches for me, but I'm already rifling through the side table, looking for the phial of lube. I find it and uncap it, pouring a small amount on my fingertips. Draco starts to shift beneath me, rolling to one side. I stop him, my hand on his hip.

"No," I say, and then I reach behind me, pressing an oiled fingertip into my arse. Draco stills, looking up at me.

"Harry." My name's a soft whisper of breath on his lips. When I slide another finger into myself, I groan, and Draco's eyes flare, bright and hot. "Show me," he says.

I roll my hips, lifting them so he can see me, balanced on one hand, my other twisting and pressing deep into my body, stretching myself for his cock. "It's been a while since I've done this." My fingers slide out of my arse. It's not an easy angle and my hip still aches slightly.

"Let me help." Draco pulls at my hips, and I slide towards him, my knees pressing into his arms. I catch myself on the headboard as he tugs at me, and then his mouth is on my hole, his tongue pressing into me. I arch over him, my fingers digging into the wood of the headboard as he licks and laps at my arse, sending shivers of want racing through my body. It's too much and I need to pull away before I come.

His mouth is slick with oil. When I lean in to kiss him, I can taste it on him. Can taste me. I groan again, against his mouth, and his tongue slides over mine, flicking lightly at my teeth. I hear the pop of the cap to the phial and then Draco is sliding slick fingers into me as his tongue possesses my mouth.

I can barely breathe. My body jerks against his, and I reach down to touch my cock. It's wet and sticky already. I don't know how much longer I'm going to last. "Draco," I say as I pull back, and he looks as lust-mad as I feel. His hands skitter across my skin, pulling, pushing, positioning, and then I'm over him, my hand holding his prick steady as I slowly sink down onto it.

"Fuck," Draco says, and his hips buck slightly, forcing his cock deeper into me. It hurts--Christ, it hurts--but the pain fades into a warm burn that makes me slide further down his shaft, my thighs spread wide so he can watch me take him in.

His nails dig into the flesh of my side. He's swearing and gasping now, and then I realise I am as well. I shift my hips awkwardly until I'm flush with his body, my arsecheeks resting on his upper thighs. His hands slide over my knees, grasping as he rolls his body slightly, pushing against me. "Move," he says. "Fuck, Harry. Come on. Move. You're going to kill me--"

He breaks off into a cry as I push myself up, then back down on his cock. I reach for my prick, curling my fingers around it and tugging roughly, smearing wetness down my shaft. Draco tells me to wank myself harder, and I do, riding him as I twist my fingers around the head of my cock, pushing back the foreskin so he can see it before I slide it back up, tugging at it, pulling it over the head with a groan. It feels amazing. "I'm close," I choke out. "I'm so fucking close--"

"Come," Draco says, rolling his hips into me. "Come all over me, Harry."

I shudder and obey, my body seizing around his cock. My spunk spatters across Draco's stomach in thick white strands. The noises I'm making-- And it just goes on and on.

"Jesus Christ." Draco grabs my hips, pulling me hard against him as he thrusts up into me. And then I'm on my back, my knees at my shoulders, my head hanging off the bed, my hands grasping for purchase in the duvet, and Draco's fucking me harder than he's ever fucked me before. I know I'll pay for this with soreness tomorrow and nothing could stop me now. My shoulders press into the mattress; my feet bounce above me. Draco's face is flushed and damp, and his fingers make marks in my skin. His balls slap against my arse, and when his stomach clenches, I know he's about to lose himself.

With a loud cry he tenses, his face contorting, his hips bucking into mine. He falls against me, his whole body shaking. I roll back onto the bed, sliding my arms around him, stroking him, pressing my face against the curve of his throat, wrapping my sore legs around his hips, holding him tight through the small shudders that send his hips moving again until his breath begins to even.

We lie there quietly, listening to each other breathe, and then Draco shifts, his prick sliding out of me. I sit up and slide off the bed, going to the loo, then checking on Mimsy in the kitchen. She pads back with me into the room. Draco's sitting cross-legged on the bed. I hand him a glass of water. "All right?" I ask.

He drains the glass then sets it aside, not meeting my eye.

"Draco." I sit on the bed next to him. I know every move of his body and I can tell he's holding something back. "Whatever it is, just tell me."

He glances up at me, running a hand through his mussed hair. The look in his eyes tells me what I need to know. "I have a date with Astoria," he says quietly. "Wednesday."

It's not like an explosion, hitting me in the chest. It's like a vacuum, sucking the life out of me until I feel hollow. "Oh. So you're going, then?" My voice sounds brittle, artificial and far away in my ears.

"Yeah." Draco draws his knees to his chest. "It seemed..." He presses his lips together.

"What?" I ask, wondering how many more words we will exchange this time.

Draco rubs a thumb over his shin. "We worked, she and I. If it hadn't been for that fellowship, she would have stayed and..."

"And what?" I feel like a broken record. "Married you?" It's the logical conclusion to Draco's worldview as I see it. Date a girl. Marry a girl. Have an heir. And somewhere in there fit in the fact that you like sucking cock--but only sometimes.

His head shoots up. "I don't know. Maybe. Why do you care?"

Draco might as well have punched me in the gut. "I'm starting to ask myself that same question."

He knows he's touched a nerve now. He holds up a hand. "Harry..."

"Go on then," I say, my voice catching in my throat. "Have your heir and spare. Make your father happy."

"Why don't you ever ask me to stay?" Draco asks me, his eyes bright in his pale face.

I shrug. "You always leave anyway. Would it even matter?"

There's a long silence between us, then Draco slides to the edge of the bed. "Maybe not," he says quietly. He scoops up Mimsy, who's curled up on the end of the bed again. "I'm going to bed."

My heart aches. He's almost at the door when I turn slightly. "You can sleep in here."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I can anymore."

I nod, and he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.

I don't fall asleep until almost dawn. When I wake up, Mimsy's on my chest, licking my nose and miaowing pitifully. I push myself out of bed, gathering her up. I owe Draco an apology, I think. I pull on a pair of pyjama trousers and cross the hall to knock on his door. It opens at my touch and I peer in.

The room's empty. Everything's gone, and it's shrunk back to its original size. Mimsy miaows again in my arms, batting at a lock of my hair. I set her down and she explores the new space uncertainly. She walks into the middle of the room and looks back at me, miaowing again.

"He's gone," I say to her, my voice echoing through the room.

My heart feels as empty and as unfamiliar as the space he's just left.

- Autumn 2010 -

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

Kingsley levels an appraising glance at me when I hand over my letter of resignation. "This is more about Draco Malfoy, isn't it?" he asks. I don't answer, and he sighs. "You'll go back to the Trust then?"

In the end, I do, but Aisha doesn't take me back on in my former capacity. In truth, I don't ask her to. I take a role as founder and consultant to the Trust because she's a much better manager than I'll ever be. I take a cut in pay; Aisha's doing most of the work, so she deserves a higher paycheque. Besides, I've my parents' vault in Gringotts to keep living off of and not all of Sirius's legacy was put into the Trust. Aisha keeps my old office as head of the Trust, and I convert one of the small meeting rooms into a workspace. It's not as grand as my office in the Ministry, but it has a window that I can lean out of for a view of the Gherkin, and it feels as if perhaps I've come home, at least a little. I hang my Order of Merlin, and the framed front page of the Prophet from the morning after the election, the one with the photo of Kingsley speaking at the victory party, Zabini, Draco and I behind him, looking properly chuffed. It's the only photograph of Draco I keep. The others go into a box, tucked away in the back of my wardrobe.

The flat feels empty and odd without him. Mimsy curls up beside me the moment I come home from work, miaowing softly at me as I sit on the sofa, watching telly and drinking bottle after bottle of lager. It's not the same, though, without Draco's acerbic commentary mixed with that of the panelists on Have I Got News For You or his mocking me for watching Jedward: Let Loose. I can't even think about how empty my bed feels when I finally get up and wander into my bedroom, Mimsy stretching with a wide pink yawn and padding behind me. I lie awake for hours, with her settled on my shoulder, nudging my cheek with her tiny paw. We're both lonely, the two of us, even though Draco'd told me he'd left her with me so I wouldn't be. Idiot. As much as I adore the damned cat, she's not him.

In September, Aisha drags me to her parents' house in Bethnal Green for Eid. "You've been too gloomy, Harry," she says, standing at the front door of my flat, and she waits until I put on a proper suit. I don't want to go. I want to sit in my flat in my pants and watch footie. Instead I find myself in a warm kitchen, surrounded by plate upon plate of food and a laughing, happy family that welcomes me with open arms and cries of "Eid mubarak". It feels like the Burrow used to on holidays, before Gin and I broke up and the Weasleys stopped having me, although Molly hated to do it, because things were too awkward. For one night, I'm almost happy again, and I can even laugh when Aisha's mother subtly suggests she might know a nice Persian boy I might like.

My one other bright spot of the month is when Ron tells me over lunch that I needn't worry about Pansy any more. "I've taken care of it," he says calmly as he nicks one of my chips. "And I'm pretty sure Nott will be spending some time out of the country for a while. Bill called in a favour at Gringotts for me."

I'm glad. Very glad.

Ron comes over on the weekends to keep me company. We don't talk about Draco--I've made it clear I don't want to, but at the beginning of October, he's late for one of our dinners. I assume something's come up and go ahead and eat most of the now-cold pizza I've ordered for us, settling down to listen to the Portree-Harpies Quidditch match on the WWN whilst riffling through the notes for a new prisoner's case Aisha had handed me Friday just before she left work. She wants me to use some of my Government contacts to push through the release of a seventy-two-year-old wizard who doesn't look as if he'll last through the winter this year.

It's nearly eleven when Ron lands in my Floo, still in his red and grey Auror robes, rumpled and flushed and looking incredibly pleased with himself. He holds up two bottles of extraordinarily expensive firewhisky as he clambers through the hearth. "We got him."

"Who?" I put down my files.

His grin widens as he heads for the kitchen. "Bastard who went after Kingsley. It took me two and a half fucking months, but I knew I'd find the place he made a mistake. They always do. Where're your glasses?"

I follow him into the kitchen. "Left cabinet, top shelf. Who was it?"

Ron pulls down two glasses and opens the firewhisky, pouring two fingers into each glass before handing me one. "Dawlish."

"Dawlish?" I nearly drop my glass. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. A slow grin spreads over my face.

Ron nods and finishes his whisky, then pours two fingers more. "I thought it might be. I just couldn't say anything until I knew for certain. I had to follow a trail back to him, sneaky bastard. He used an old covert account that only he had access to. I knew I'd seen this weird little time stamp on a document before and combed through four years of data to find a document linking Dawlish to it." He looks at me. "Four years, Harry. Do you know how fucking annoying that was? I was certain he'd catch on before I found him."

"You," I say, impressed, "are quite an Auror."

"Yeah, well." Ron looks pleased. He wanders back into the sitting room and picks up a piece of pizza. "Your Malfoy seems to think so."

I sit down on the sofa, the bottle of firewhisky in my hand. I pour another glass. "He's not my Malfoy any longer. If he ever was."

Ron just gives me a long look, then shrugs. "He told Kingsley I'd make a good Head Auror. Kingsley agreed."

It takes a moment for me to realise what he's actually saying. "Holy shit, Ron."

"You, mate, are eating cold pizza with the new Head of the Auror force." Ron beams at me. "Youngest in two hundred and seventy-nine years."

"Nothing but the best for the Ministry." I laugh. "Seriously, Ron, that's amazing. Congratulations!" We clink glasses.

At least something good's come out of all this.

It's through Hermione and Zabini that I know what's happening in Whitehall--well, mostly through Hermione, though sometimes Zabini joins us for lunch, usually to harass me for being such a cocksucking coward for leaving Government at its hour of need. Complete bullshit, of course, at least for now. Kingsley's stronger than ever, having survived the confidence motion, and McLaird's off licking his wounds. Rumour has it that he's even thinking of leaving the Wizengamot for a thinktank in Europe, which would mean a change in leadership for the Pomps--and about time, I think. Penrose is being particularly kind to the Mods, which puts Zabini on a constant edge. Part of me suspects Penrose is just trying to fuck with Zabini, which makes me like the Omp bastard a little more. Whatever the case, the Omps are playing nice for now, and some significant pieces of legislation are up in committee.

Lucius is doing better, Hermione tells me. I'm glad, I have to admit, as much as I dislike Draco's father. Still, my hip aches when the weather changes, and the chill of autumn is settling into my new bones. I can only imagine what it must be for him. When he takes his seat again at the beginning of November, I go, standing in the Strangers' Gallery to watch him limp in, his hand clenched tight around the silver serpent head of his black cane. He looks up, and our eyes meet. He nods, but it's not until he looks past me and a smile curves his thin lips that I turn and realise Draco's four rows behind me, Zabini at his side.

Draco looks at me, and there's a flash of something in his eyes, before the mask falls again. I want to go to him, want to talk to him. Instead I stand there, silently, and he turns away, like I'm just somebody he used to know. Zabini sighs, shaking his head at me, and then they're both gone.

Over a cup of tea in Hermione's office later, I ask her about Draco. "Is he happy?" I have to know.

She doesn't answer for a long moment, then she sighs. "He seems to be." She bites her bottom lip. "Astoria's nice."

"I know. I've always liked her."

Hermione looks at me gently. "Are you all right?"

No, I want to say. No, I miss him. No, I feel like I've lost a part of my body, a part of me, and I don't know what to do any more other than to just get up each morning, put my clothes on and sleepwalk through the day, and no one, none of my friends can seem to see how I'm drowning, how wrong everything is in my life now that he's gone, how I've lost the one person who was my constant, and this time, he's not coming back.

Instead, I just smile as best I can, even if it doesn't reach my eyes, and say, "Of course."

She studies me. "You're lonely."

"I've been lonelier."

Hermione touches my hand. "You were going to ask Tony Goldstein to dinner once. He's still not seeing anyone, you know. It might be good if you went out with someone."

The curse of having friends in relationships is their annoying habit of insisting that everything in your life will be miraculously better if only you were dating. It doesn't matter if that's the last thing you actually want. They want you to be happy, just like them. Bastards all.

"I'm fine, Hermione," I say. She doesn't look convinced.

I go home and drink myself to unconsciousness. Halfway through the night I wake up, barely making it to the side of the bed before I sick up. Mimsy watches me in concern, reaching out to bat my bare shoulder with her paw. I shout at her, my words still slurring, shoving her away from me, and she cowers under my hand before dashing out of the room. Somehow I manage to Vanish the sick from the floor before collapsing back on the bed.

The next morning I have a wretched headache, and when I go to the kitchen to feed Mimsy, she's nowhere to be found. I go through the whole flat, calling her, only to discover her curled in the corner of Draco's old room, a sock he'd left behind clutched between her small paws. I sink down beside her, and she only flinches once as I pull her into my arms, stroking her soft fur lightly.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, and she rubs her tiny face against my cheek. "I miss him too."

When the tears finally seep out, I bury my face against her belly, breathing her in. The quiet rumble of her purr calms me. We sit there for what seems like hours, both of us lost in our grief.

That night I firecall Tony and ask him to dinner.

He says yes.

I fall back against the bed, the sheets twisted around my hips. Tony lies gasping next to me, his thighs still spread wide, my spunk smeared across his arsecheeks, his own streaking his taut stomach.

"Fuck," he says finally, and I just laugh. It's been all right, dating Tony. Comfortable. Reliable. I like him, I think--at least well enough to have dinner and a shag twice a week or so. Maybe Hermione was right. I might not be happy, but I'm not unhappy either, and maybe that's the best one can expect from life.

Still, we always end up in his flat in Kennington, not mine. I don't seem to be able to bring him there.

He goes to the loo to clean up and I lie against his rumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain outside. His room is tidy, far tidier than mine. There are four bookshelves on one wall, crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers both--and that's only in one room of his flat. I don't think I've owned that many books in my life. My breath evens out and then Tony returns, throwing a warm flannel at me. I wipe at the drying spunk on my cock and hips, then reach for the y-fronts I shed near the door an hour ago. I Summon my jeans. Christ knows where they ended up.

"We've got to talk," Tony says finally, as I'm buttoning my jeans. I raise an eyebrow at him. This violates our usual pattern, in which I get dressed and we snog at the door and then see each other in a few more days.

"Talk? About what?" I sit on the edge of the bed, my long-sleeved black Manic Street Preachers t-shirt in my hands. The silkscreened torso and roses on it are twisted between my fingers in folds of white and red.

Tony shrugs. "About us, really, although perhaps that's a bit of a misnomer." He pulls on a pair of old Ravenclaw trackie bottoms. I can almost hear Draco's mocking drawl in my head.

"What are you on about, Tony?" I'm genuinely confused now. Not to mention wary. In my experience talking about ‘us' never leads to anything good.

"I think it's time for us to take some time off," he says, watching my face closely.

There's a hole where my surprise should be. I lick my lips. I pull my t-shirt over my head. I don't look at him when my head pops through, my hair wild and rumpled. "Okay. I mean, if that's what you want. Have I done something wrong?"

Tony shakes his head, his sandy brown hair falling into his face. He's really quite fit. "No. Not really. You're entertaining, good in bed. I quite like you and I think I could even like you more."

"Then...why?" I can't seem to argue with him, but I feel like I'm missing something important.

"Because I don't share well," Tony says finally. "Especially not with ghosts."

That makes no bloody sense, and I'm beginning to get irritated. "Does this actually have a point somewhere? I mean, if you're kicking me to the kerb, perhaps you should give me a reason to go, not maudlin psychobabble." This is what I get for going out with a Mind Healer.

He shakes his head incredulously. "You don't even know, do you?"

"Know what?" I should think it's pretty bloody evident in my tense shoulders and blinking eyes that I've no clue. Christ.

Tony looks almost sympathetic. "That when Draco left you, half of you went with him, maybe more."

I want to shout, to rage at him, to scream Of course I know that, I know you sodding great fool. I live with it every day. But you're not supposed to know that. "Oh," is all I say.

"Yeah," he says. He has his Mind Healer tone on right now, and it's all I can do not to deck him. "And that's okay, I mean, it's been fun and all. But I think we should probably stop things here or I'll begin to get offended. It seems I can't really be as casual about you as I thought." He gives me a wry smile. "Sorry."

I nod. "Fair enough." I lace my belt through my belt loops, then look for my socks. I'm not even angry. I'm just tired and not really prepared for either a declaration of not-love or a deep glimpse into my shattered psyche. This was supposed to just be...I don't even know. But not this. I'm not interested in anything more profound than a nice dinner and a decent fuck.

Tony pulls a shirt on as I find my shoes. He walks with me to the door. I fumble around, looking for my coat and scarf, finding them both finally draped over the arm of the sofa. I turn back. "You're probably right," I say. "And I'm sorry. You do deserve better."

"Shut up, Potter," Tony says, his voice gentle. "I'm breaking up with you. For your own fucking good, sadly." He gives me a longing look, then pushes me. "Go, you big lug, before I regret my sudden burst of altruism."

I give him a small smile, although my heart is alternately cracking and seething. "Thanks, Tony."

He hands me an umbrella. I go.

From Tony's flat, I walk down Kennington Lane, past Vauxhall station. I think about taking the Tube back out to Stepney, but I'm not ready to go home. Not yet. Not even in the rain. My mind is still whirling. Instead, I take a right onto the Albert Embankment, walking down the steps to wander along the Thames. The last time I'd walked this route, I realise, was the night I'd kissed Draco back in April.

The rain's cold, and I'm grateful for my black wool pea-coat and the long grey cashmere scarf wrapped twice around my neck, the ends still hanging to the hem of my coat. Draco'd given it to me last Christmas, before Susan had sent me scampering off into exile. I finger the edge; the yarn is soft and warm against my skin. Above me the lights strung along the Embankment's stone wall between the enormous iron lampposts glow milky white against the dark sky. Rain strikes the stretched fabric of the umbrella, beating out a soft rhythm, then splashing against the pavement at my feet, shaping into puddles.

This current exile isn't Astoria's fault, this much I know. She'd always liked me when they were dating before, and she'd known what my relationship with Draco had been. She never told me to go before or been anything less than welcoming. I can't imagine that she'd be the one who was keeping me at arm's length. This time, I'm certain, is my fault. And his. I've done something, or not done something, that's changed everything. But I don't know what it is.

It'd started so simply, this horrid madness of Draco and me. Kingsley had won his first seat. We'd been out until the wee hours of the morning, celebrating with as much whisky and lager as we could down. Both of us had fallen asleep in a DMLE conference room, only waking up when a group of Aurors had come in for a meeting after lunch. They'd chucked our hungover selves out, and we'd downed sobering potions and gone down Whitehall in search of any hole in the wall that might still be willing to serve up a full English at four in the afternoon. Instead we'd settled on a chippy in Strutton Ground, stuffing ourselves with as much greasy fish and potatoes as we could stand before we'd walked through Westminster, the sun warm on our faces, laughing, our spirits higher than they'd been in weeks.

I stop, sitting on one of the wet wood and iron benches, not caring how the water soaks my jeans. Westminster Palace is lit up just down the Thames from me, golden light that seems to shimmer in the rain and fog, falling across the river-water. Behind me I can hear the whoosh of tyres against wet streets. A few tourists run past me, laughing and shrieking, cheap umbrellas turning inside out.

We'd found ourselves here, that day, on this Embankment, sitting on a bench just like this until the sun began to set behind Parliament. Dusk settled softly around us as we talked in streaks of pink and gold, and then Draco'd looked at me with that small smile of his, and his fingers had brushed my knee. We'd fallen silent. Down the Embankment, the London Eye had circled, its lights gleaming against the deepening blue sky. A magpie had chattered in the leafy branches above us, and I'd suddenly felt a premonition of disaster, a flash of my world shifting, falling, imploding around me.

And so I'd done the only thing I could: I'd kissed Draco Malfoy.

He'd caught me, both hands on my face as my heart lurched, his grey eyes wide, and then he was kissing me back, and the world had righted itself. I don't know how long we'd sat there, kissing slowly, carefully, deeply, but when we'd finally pulled away, Draco was looking at me, his eyes bright, his fingers brushing across his mouth.

"I'm not taking Kingsley's job offer," I'd said in a rush. "I'm going to set up a Trust instead. Work on prisoner's rights."

"Are you, then." He'd just smiled at me, then leant in again and kissed me, his fingers tangling in my messy hair. No one had ever kissed me the way Draco had. No one ever has. I could lose myself in his mouth, even now in just the memory of it on mine.

"How convenient," he'd murmured against my lips.

I'd let him push me back against the bench. It hadn't mattered who was walking by, what they were saying. We were oblivious to them all. This time when we'd pulled away, breathless, he'd run his fingers down the side of my face, and the look in his eyes had made a shudder of need go through me, a willingness to see where this rabbit hole led. "A proposition, Potter?" he'd asked. "You and me. In bed. No strings, no ties. Just everything both of us are wanting right now. Just us and nothing else."

How could I say no? I've asked myself that question over and over. Every time he leaves my bed. Every time he comes back. Even now when I don't know who I am any longer, or why I've let myself get hurt this deeply.

But it's not just sex between us. Everyone thinks that. Everyone jokes about it. But it's not. It never has been--not for me. As much as I knew I'd get my heart broken, I didn't care. What they don't know, what I'm just realising, is that Draco Malfoy is my best friend. Not Ron. Not Hermione. They'll always be close to me, always be dear, always be my oldest friends, but Draco knows me like no one else ever has, or ever will.

I sit here, stunned at the realisation, as rain pours down around me, washing away my illusions and numb self-pity. I went running headlong into disaster. More fool I.

And yet, how could I have done otherwise? I never could hide anything from him. Except for how I felt.

I know then. I understand what Tony was trying to say to me. I've never told Draco he's such an enormous part of me. I've never even admitted it to myself. Afraid he'd say no, I never gave him a chance to.

With shaking hands, I pull my mobile out of my pocket and press a few numbers. When Hermione answers, I blurt out, "I'm in love with Draco."

She's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs. "Oh, Harry. I was hoping you wouldn't realise. At least until after the wedding."

I'm silent. I can't speak. My heart's a tumult of emotions. Pain. Shock. Grief. Joy. And an overwhelming feeling that's been there all along, and that I can only now name. "I love him, Hermione." My throat closes up.

The line crackles and pops, then Hermione asks, "Where are you?"

"The Albert Embankment," I manage to choke out.

"Stay there." And then she's gone.

I stare out over the Thames, watching the barges pass. A few, even this early in Advent are decked out with Christmas lights. My heart's broken--and yet strangely whole. I love him.

"I love him," I whisper. The words still feel strange on my lips, like a forbidden spell. I close my umbrella and stand, letting the rain and wind whip through my hair. I walk to the stone wall and lean out over it, over the river. "I love him." It's a shout, carried out over the water and tumbling air. I feel a wild laugh bubbling up within me, a strange tickle in my chest that feels like the wings of a bird trying to fly. It explodes into a whoop of joy, and I wheel around, my scarf whipping around me.

And then the soaring joy fades, sinking back under the weight of reality, the timelessness of the stone and the dark night. He doesn't love me.

There's a crack of Apparition, and then Hermione's there, and she pulls me to her, her arms closing around me, as I bury my face against her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispers.

I am too, rent asunder by regret and lack of hope.

The rain falls harder, washing away my tears.

I don't go to the office for three days. I firecall Aisha to tell her I have food poisoning, but to be honest, I'm lying under an old plaid blanket on Hermione's sofa with Mimsy curled on top of me. Every few hours Hermione tries to get food into me. I seem to be able to manage soup and tea. I never knew being in love could feel like this. I wish I could sick it up and be done with it.

Hermione smoothes back my hair, and Mimsy growls softly at her. The little one's fiercely protective of me right now, but Hermione's beginning to win her over with small shreds of the chicken that I can't choke down.

The sixth time I put one of Hermione's Smiths albums on to play, she takes the remote away from me. "There's a line between depression," she says, "and self-indulgence, and you've certainly crossed it. Have some more fucking soup." She puts her hand over her mouth, a surprised expression on her face, but I've already caught her out. Zabini is rubbing off on her.

"Language," I mumble, and I press my face in Mimsy's soft belly. She stretches in my hands and purrs, batting at my hair with her pink and white paws.

On Wednesday morning, Hermione comes downstairs fully dressed. "I simply must go into the office today," she says. "Berwicke's beginning to question why I'm working from home."

I wave a hand over the back of the sofa. "I'll just be lying here when you get back. If I'm lucky, I might actually be dead."

Hermione leans over me. "You don't die of heartbreak, Harry. You just wish you did. I should know."

"Yeah." I tuck her hair back behind her ear for her. "I know." I'd spent two weeks with her when Ron'd broken her heart. She'd been almost catatonic, even though she was the one who'd called things off. I suppose I'm not doing as badly, although that admission injures my melodramatic self-importance. And I still feel like hell.

She kisses my forehead. "There's soup in the refrigerator. Heat it up in four hours."

I nod. We both know I won't.

After she's gone, I manage to push myself off the sofa long enough to slouch into the loo for a slash and a splash of water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and wish I hadn't. I haven't washed my hair in three days, and it's mutated into its own life form. There's the beginnings of a scraggly beard, and my eyes are bloodshot and shadowed. It's not attractive.

Grimly, I clean my teeth, although I don't know whose toothbrush is in the guest loo. I can only pray it's not Zabini's. I think about a shaving charm, but if I miss and Hermione comes home to me with scabs on my throat, she'll have me in St Mungo's in a heartbeat.

I shuffle back to the sofa and sit down, flipping the telly to BBC Breakfast. At least it's innocuous. Mostly. Mimsy and I sit there blankly watching. By the time we reach Cash in the Attic, my bum's going numb. I'm arguing with Mimsy about whether or not Aled Jones is fit--a new low in my depressed state on so many levels--when I hear the rattle of Hermione's Floo.

"You didn't trust me with the soup, did you?" I call out. "I told you I could manage."

"I wouldn't trust you with a fucking Squib-safe balls-warming charm right now," Zabini drawls from the doorway. "You couldn't manage a hand job on a randy Flobberworm, the state you're in."

Shit. I sigh. Hermione's been keeping Zabini away for the past couple of days on the (all too true) excuse that my nerves can't handle his insults. "That, I can assure you, is not true. Well. The hand job part. Not the Flobberworm."

"Vince tried that once," Zabini says. "Fucking waste of space--don't tell Drac--" He breaks off with a grimace.

"Yeah, not so much," I say. "I think I have better chances with a Flobberworm."

Zabini sets a takeaway bag on the coffee table. "I'll ring Hagrid up after lunch then, shall I--best to give him time to finish wanking his dog--but first you're going to eat."

"I've missed you, Zabini," I say dryly. "You arsehole." Something smells amazing and for the first time in days my stomach rumbles.

"Kisses to you too, cocksucker." Zabini unpacks the bag, handing me a polystyrene box that reeks of garlic. My mouth waters, and when he pulls out two bottles of bitter, I consider tonguing him. "Fuck soup," he says. "Real men eat kebab."

For a few minutes there's just the sounds of us eating--and Mimsy miaowing pitifully for scraps. I pinch off a bit of lamb from the centre and let her eat it from my palm.

"You spoil that rat." Zabini takes a large swig of bitter.

I look over at him. "Shut up. She's hungry and she takes care of me."

"Christ knows someone ought to." Zabini eyes me. I know he wants something because he doesn't mock me further.

I put down my bottle. "Zabini. Why are you here? I'm almost a hundred percent certain Hermione didn't send you by to check on me."

"You're going to be standing next to Kingsley on Friday when he announces an entire fucking radical overhaul of the penal justice system, including a full audit of those sheepfuckers at Azkaban and a fucking moratorium on the Dementor's Kiss so the bloody wigs can look at the legality of it. And it falls on my overworked and far too underpaid for this shite shoulders to make sure you don't look like a fucking lovesick tit while you do so. Because that would be a fucking embarrassment, letting your lack of Malfoy cock up your arse undermine the gravitas of the Minister for Magic." Zabini picks up his kebab again, licking his fingers. "Which first means getting you into a fucking shower, Potter. Christ, you smell like explosive diarrhea from a dog's arse." He takes a bite of lamb.

I can't stop looking at him. "You are not serious."

"It's true," Zabini says through a mouthful of kebab. "My aunt kept hounds and they got into a rotten haggis once. Nasty business. Had to put one of the stupid fucks down. And you smell worse."

"I meant about the overhaul." My nose wrinkles.

Zabini finishes off his bitter. "No, Potter. I just decided to risk going fuckless for weeks--and trust me, that's quite a fucking sacrifice given how fucking brilliant Hermione's fann--"

"Shut up," I say, warningly, and Zabini rolls his eyes.

"Fucking Gryffindors. The one fucking good thing I have to say about you is that you're not half-bad in bed. Once you shut the fuck up." He steals my beer and takes a drink, over my protests. "Paid for it, get to fucking drink it if I feel like it. But yes, Potter. For some Dumbledore only knows why reason, Kingsley still wants your sorry, cowardly arse up on the ceremonial dais with him when announces his new prison policy."

I hesitate. I have to ask. "Will Draco be there?" I don't know if I want him to be or not.

"And Babbity Rabbity and the fucking cackling stump too, arsehole. Everybody and their uncle's whore is going to be there."

"I'm not going," I say finally.

"Oh, fucking Christ on a goddamned raft of angels." Zabini gives me an exasperated look. "Potter, the Minister for arsefucking Magic has demanded your presence. Pull your finger out of your twat and man up."

My stomach churns. "I can't."

Zabini looks at me for a long moment, and then he sets down my bottle of beer and pushes himself out of the chair to sit on the sofa next to me. "I wish you'd fucking fight for him."

That's not what I'm expecting to hear. "What the fuck do you mean, Zabini?" My blood's pounding in my ears.

"Don't get me wrong," Zabini says, and his voice's quieter than I've ever heard. "I think Astoria's a decent lass, whatever that fucking means. But she's not you, and as much as it fucking kills me to say it, I think you're the man for the job where Draco's concerned."

Mimsy squirms across my thighs, digging her claws into my skin. I pet her absently. "I don't think that's true. He's the one who left."

"He doesn't know what the fuck he wants," Zabini says tightly. "And he's going to bugger up his life trying to get it."

I just look at him.

Zabini sighs. "There's an engagement party this Saturday."

My heart shatters into a pile of bloody shards. "Oh."

"Don't you fucking dare," Zabini growls. "This is your fault. If you'd asked him to fucking stay with you, he would have. He wanted you, but you didn't have the balls to keep him. Now that he can't have you, he thinks he has to fucking marry this girl for familial duty." Zabini spits out the words. "And of all the fucked-up things he has done for his pathetic excuse for a family--and I say that advisedly--this could possibly the fucking worst of all because it will ruin him."

"I--"

Zabini sticks a finger in my face. "Shut up. Just shut your fucking gob, you stupid little shit. I love Draco like you can't even fucking imagine, and I've never seen him this bad. He's fucking willing to throw his life away, to spend the next fucking fifty years in a lie. And not because his bog roll of a father even wants it, but because you said no, Harry-Shit for Brains-Potter."

"I didn't say no," I say, shocked.

"Well you fucking well didn't say yes, did you?" Zabini snarls at me. "He was terrified at losing his father, and the fucking idiot thought, in his very analytic Draco way, that if he could only be better, things wouldn't be so dangerous. And the worst thing is, only you can fucking understand what it's like. That's always set you two twats apart. You've both always had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Maybe you can stop saving other people and save yourselves."

I'm silent. I don't know what to say. What to think even.

Zabini stands up, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. "The only thing that keeps you fucking idiots from being together is your own stupid inability to admit you're already together. Although everyone around you already fucking knows it. And if you let him do this, if you let him pretend he's someone he's not until he doesn't have a fucking choice any more, I will fucking flay your skin from your cowardly bones and wear it as a robe to his fucking wedding. If you love him, Potter, if you really love him the way Hermione assures me you do, you'll tell him. Be a fucking Gryffindor, for Christ's sake. Jesus. What is the fucking world coming to?" He Vanishes our empty takeaway containers. "Now get off your lazy arse and get into the fucking shower. You have a two o'clock fitting at Twilfit and Tattings."

Shaking, I push myself to my feet and stumble towards the loo. I'm going to do what he says. I don't have anything left in me with which to object.

Somehow I make it to the Ministry on time. I'm showered. My hair's washed and relatively tidy. I'm dressed in the clothes Zabini made me buy two days earlier: a perfectly tailored charcoal wool waistcoat and trousers over a crisp white shirt--French cuffs fastened with small platinum and ruby cuff links--and a dark red silk tie. My over-robe's a matching charcoal wool frock coat, cut to be worn open. It fits my broad shoulders perfectly and is incredibly comfortable to wear. Even my black boots are polished until they gleam.

In his office, Zabini eyes me speculatively. "Turn," he says curtly, and I do.

"Well?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He leans in and sniffs me. "Aftershave, even, Potter? Impressive." He purses his mouth and looks me over one more time. "If you don't tighten a certain Malfoy's trousers, I'll wank Aberforth Dumbledore's favourite goat. Bastard'll have wet pants all day."

"I thought this wasn't about Draco," I say, even though I'll admit I'm a bit pleased.

"When it comes to you, everything's about Draco." Zabini plants his hand firmly between my shoulder blades. "And now it's fucking showtime, Potter. You're going to go out there, smile like the pretty girl you are for the nice flashy cameras, and if I tell you to drop on your knees and suck off the Minister for Magic, that's what you'll fucking do, do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," I say dryly. "Although he might have something to say about it."

Zabini gives me a shove towards the door. "Good lad."

We walk out into the corridor together, and take the lift down to the Atrium. My palms are sweating, and I'm certain I'm going to sick up. I don't want to do this. On Level Six, I think about dashing from the lift, but Zabini narrows his eyes at me as if he can read my every tremor.

"Don't even fucking consider it," he murmurs, and instead I shuffle to one side to let a rotund wizard with outrageous side whiskers into the lift, practising my best smile on him.

Hermione's waiting for us when we step off the lift. "Are you all right?" she asks softly, and I shake my head. Zabini opens his mouth and she stops him with one hand raised. "If you even start, Blaise..."

Zabini sulks at her. "I wasn't going to--"

"Yes, you were." The look she gives him is stern but affectionate. She leans in and kisses him quickly. "If you're good," she says quietly, but not as quietly as I'd like. "Very, very good, I'll do that thing you want me to do to your cock."

He considers. "I'll fucking think about it."

I glare at them both. "Not as long as I'm on the sofa."

"You've a fucking flat, Potter," Zabini says evenly. "Go depress your own bloody sofa."

Glenn, Kingsley's personal aide, scurries towards us. He looks as rabbitty as he did when I first met him. It feels like a century ago, not eight months. "The Minister's waiting," he says, but Zabini reaches out and flicks his forehead. Glenn yelps and rubs his hand across the red mark. For a moment I feel bad for the bastard, until I remember how bloody incompetent he can be at times.

"No shit." Zabini stalks past him, his robe fluttering. Glenn wrings his hands and hurries to catch up, muttering something about the media.

I look at Hermione. She smiles at me. "You look wonderful, Harry," she says.

"Yeah?" I tug at my waistcoat. I'm not used to wearing one, but Zabini had insisted. "I feel a right tit."

She slides an arm through my elbow. "And you look very ministerial. Kingsley will be pleased."

We're halfway across the Atrium when I see a flash of pale blond hair past the line of media types, and I tense. Hermione squeezes my arm, and I take a deep breath. This isn't anything, I tell myself. He doesn't know how I feel, and I don't care what Zabini says, he won't ever know. It's better this way. "Best to just rip the plaster off, right?" I murmur.

Hermione glances sympathetically over at me. "Sometimes, yes."

Kingsley greets me warmly--and not just for the sake of the press, I think. "Harry." He shakes my hand, clapping me on the shoulder. "How goes the Trust?"

"Well enough," I say, and I can't help smiling at his bonhomie. "Aisha's done wonders with it."

"So I hear." He pulls me aside, away from the flash of the cameras. "You'll stay a moment, after the announcement, will you? I've something to talk to you about." I nod and he smiles, a white flash of teeth in his dark face. "Excellent."

When he steps forward onto the dais in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, Zabini gives me a little shove. I follow, and find myself on Kingsley's right side. Ron, whom I hadn't even seen in the flurry of aides, politicians and press, takes his left, alongside two Mod MWs. He winks at me, then straightens his shoulders, his new Head Auror insignia glinting in the camera flashes.

"Thank you," Kingsley says with a smile as he stands in front of the floating podium. "So very glad you motley lot could join us today--seems there was a lull in Wizengamot scandals for the moment." The press laughs warmly, and I'm surprised at how their relationship with Kingsley has changed since I left in August. It's easier, I realise, and lighter.

Kingsely clears his throat. "This morning, I spoke with the Muggle Prime Minister, as I, of course, frequently do. He tells me that it is a day in which many of their governments celebrate those Muggles who work for human rights throughout the world. A day in which they remember the passage of their Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which states--and I quote--that all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood." He looks up, his gaze taking in the press and the members of the Wizengamot and Ministry staff standing behind them. "Wise words which we, in this time of reconstruction and renewal, would do well to remember."

A murmur of assent ripples through the crowd. Zabini stands at its edge, scowling at certain recalcitrant Party members. Draco steps up beside him, leaning in to whisper something. Zabini nods. I can't take my eyes from Draco. He looks tired, worn out. His hair's rumpled from where he's run his hands through it multiple times this morning. And yet, in his dark grey robes that suit his tall, willowy frame, he's beautiful. Something in my chest aches. Just when I thought I couldn't feel anything anymore, I do.

"This reordering of the penal system," Kingsley's saying beside me, and I realise that I've missed half of what he's already said, although from what Zabini's told me it involves the Dementors' Kisses and a serious overhaul of Azkaban, "will be done under the aegis of our new Head Auror, Ronald Weasley, and within the oversight of a new Ministry department dedicated to penal and legal reform measures that will work with the Auror force without being under the same organisational structure. In fact, the Head of the Penal/Legal Reform Initiative will report directly to me, while working in tandem with the Head Auror's office to determine towards where our reform efforts are best steered."

My eyes meet Draco's, and a zing goes through me. I can barely breathe. I have this sudden fantasy of jumping off the dais, of running to him, of pulling him against me and to kiss him until neither one of us can think of anything other than falling into my bed--our bed--and not seeing anyone else for days. Instead, I fumble with the leather document case Zabini handed me and try to compose myself.

"And that is why," Kingsley says, his voice booming throughout the Atrium, "I intend to meet with the country's leading advocate on prison and legal reform to convince him to take the job." He looks at me then, and my mouth drops.

"You cannot be serious," I say, and Kingsly just smiles tightly at me, releasing his Sonorous as the flashbulbs pop around us, and the press surges forward, shouting questions.

"I want you back in my office, Potter," he says under his breath. "And I'm not going to play fair. I don't know why everyone insists upon forgetting I'm an Old Slytherin myself. You want to revolutionise the Ministry? This is your bloody chance. Don't be a fool. Take it."

I have absolutely no idea what to say. I look across the crowd and find Draco again. His face is impassive, but he lifts his chin slightly, then nods. Do it, I can see his mouth form. I don't know that I can. To work next to him, every day, seeing him in meetings, acting as if I don't have these feelings surging through me, distracting me, making my soul ache? I shake my head. I can't do it. I can't. It will kill me before I'm two weeks back in the office.

And then Ron's there, and Hermione, both of them hugging me, Ron pounding his palm against my back and telling me how brilliant it'll be to work together again. When I look back to where Draco was standing, he's gone.

This, I think, was not what I expected. Fucking Blaise Zabini.

Although I think I'll never wear anything as formal that outfit Zabini picked out for me again, he steps out of my Floo in Stepney Green at half five on a Saturday. I've been home all of twenty-four hours. Mimsy is still sniffing around in all of the corners and exploring under the furniture, stopping every so often to bat a sharp claw across my ankles. I'm eating Thai red curry in boxers and an old Spurs t-shirt and my plans for the evening include jaffa cakes and lager, and maybe an old episode or two of QI on my laptop--the newest wizarding prototype. My new position does have interesting perks, Muggle and magical.

"Get the bloody fuck off that spunk-stained sofa, Potter." Zabini is dressed in white tie. "And hands off your dick. Put this on." He's hold a set of formal robes, the like of which I haven't seen since Fourth Year. "I had Gloria at T & T knock them out while the rest of your things were being tailored. So don't fucking have a Hippogriff when the bill's a bit larger than expected, you miserly bastard."

He tosses the robe at me. It's soft--incredibly soft--black wool, I think. There's a pair of trousers and a brocade waistcoat and a cutaway frock coat with a starched white shirt and a black bow tie. I look at him blankly.

"She said not to wear pants or it'd spoil the line." He winks at me. "Not that I'll fucking tell anyone."

"What?" I ask.

"Get dressed, Cendrillon, we're going to the ball."

I sigh and set my curry aside. Mimsy immediately jumps up on the sofa and starts sniffing at it. I wave her away, but not before she snatches a bit of beef and drags it under the sidetable, growling and then licking loudly. "Zabini, what the fuck?"

He drops down in the chair next to the lamp and Summons the telly remote from me. He flips it onto BBC Parliament. "Just put the fucking clothes on, gorgeous." He scowls at the sight of Ed Balls on screen. "Jesus fuck, what a wanker. Almost as bad as the PM himself."

I sigh, fingering the heavy silk of the tie, then do as I'm told. I don't know why I'm considering playing along with Zabini's game, but frankly, I've nothing else planned and his obnoxious little surprises aren't generally boring. It's probably a formal dinner where I'm to fill in for an absentee dignitary or something. Or make cow eyes at a sexy queer diplomat Zabini needs in his pocket.

"And don't forget to shave your fucking legs," he yells after me. "Which means you better come out of that shower smelling as sweet as Hermione's twat."

I lean around the corner of the sitting room. "Don't tell me you kiss her with that mouth."

"Every damned day, sweetcheeks." Zabini reaches for my beer and my curry, hissing at Mimsy when she tries to pounce on the takeaway box. "I fuck her with it too. I have fucking excellent tongue muscles, I'll have you know."

I roll my eyes and escape to the bath. It's the one bloody place I'm guaranteed peace lately.

Twenty minutes and two drying charms on my hair later, I come out in a wave of steam, fragrant with hinoki and bitter orange. I can hear Zabini in the sitting room, cursing vociferously at whichever Muggle politician's on telly now. I slip into my room and dress. Gloria's right about the pants. I undo my flies and push my trousers down, slipping out of my boxers before dressing again. Much better, although it feels strange to have my bits dangling out in near-public.

Zabini looks up when I come back in. "Your fucking tie's crooked." He pushes himself out of his chair and walks over to fix it for me. "I suppose you'll have to fucking do."

"Thanks," I say with a snort.

"We're late," Zabini says. He glances down at his pocketwatch, then tucks it back into his waistcoat pocket. "Come on." He grabs my arm and drags me to the Floo.

I hand him the tin of Floo powder on the mantel. "What's this for?"

Zabini takes a pinch and tosses it into the fire. The flames flare bright green. "You'll fucking thank me later."

My stomach drops. Zabini's grip is like iron around my forearm. "You're not--"

"The Hempel," he says, and he shoves me in.

The Malfoys and Greengrasses have hired out the entire hotel for the evening. The Zen garden is alight with lanterns that float on the wintery breeze. Warming charms and fire pits keep the chill at bay, however, and fairies float in the bare tree branches above, shimmering against the dark sky.

Inside a pianist plays in the long gallery, divided into spaces by white and black room screens. Glowing blue tables hover in mid-air, always filled with hors d' oeuvres and bottles of wine and warm sake. Somewhere nearby there's dancing and a jazz band from what I can tell. I don't care.

I'm sitting on a black settee in a small sitting area near one of the stairways, in the process of getting completely trolleyed. Zabini's finally left me alone for a moment--though he cast a tracking spell on me before walking off. Bastard.

Mr Greengrass has already waylaid me to congratulate me on my new position. "You're a good lad, Harry," he'd said. "Your politics are complete shit, but I'll never forget what you did for us." Mrs Greengrass shushed him and smiled at me whilst I demurred and told them what a lovely event this was and how happy I was for their family. I'm an excellent liar when I want to be. Maybe I'll make a politician after all.

I've even had to be pleasant to Lucius and Beatrice. Draco's father hadn't questioned why I was here, at least not to my face, but he'd eyed me sharply with those oh-so-familiar grey eyes. Somehow I'd stammered my way through a congratulations before staggering off to claim a full bottle of vodka from a surprised elf.

I'm halfway through it now. I wish Pansy was nearby with her little black case of poison--smoking's a wretched habit and I'm in the mood for something awful tonight.

Footsteps echo on the stairs behind me, then draw near. There's a plant blocking me from sight; I can only catch a glimpse of white gold hair. I pull my legs up onto the settee. I don't want to be caught here. Not tonight. Not like this.

"Draco," Astoria says, "you've been far away all evening. What's going on?"

I tense. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why him? Why not Lucius? I stop breathing and clutch the bottle of vodka tightly to my chest.

His words are too low for me to hear, perhaps he only mutters something.

Astoria's voice sounds exasperated. "We needn't go through with this, you know. We have plenty of other options and really, it's only going to get worse from here on out. Daphne's wedding was hell. For months on end."

"No," he says. "This is what my father and your mother want. Did you see how happy they look?"

"My mother is happy that my father can still stand and speak coherently, which really should be medically impossible given all he's had to drink, and your father is looking forward to a sexy hotel evening with Beatrice, you arse." I like Astoria, I do. I wish I didn't have to hate her.

There's silence for a long moment, then Draco sighs. "You wouldn't understand."

"If you actually spoke to me, I might."

"Lay off," he snaps irritably. "Really, can't you just fucking go through the motions?"

"Like you do?" she asks. "No. Actually. I prefer to be present when I'm involved in something."

Draco doesn't answer. There's a laugh from down the hall.

The plant shifts. I can see the back of Astoria's head through the leaves. "You're angry because Blaise brought Harry Potter with him," she says gently.

I shift and catch of glimpse of the side of Draco's face. He lifts a wineglass to his mouth, not looking at her. "He's a fucking arse."

"Blaise or Harry?"

Draco's bark of laughter is bitter. "Both of them actually."

Astoria touches Draco's cheek. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted this to be perfect."

"Yeah," he says. He pulls away. "I wish Mother was here."

My heart aches. He looks lost. Tired. Sad. Not at all the way a prospective bridegroom ought to look. From my vantage through a gap in the leaves, Astoria looks beautiful in her ice blue gown. Her face is glowing. The contrast between them could not be more evident.

She leans in and brushes her mouth against Draco's. A flare of jealousy explodes in my chest. I hate her again. I shouldn't be so petty, but I can't help myself. "Go upstairs for a little bit. I'll make your excuses."

"Thanks," he says, and he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, the way he used to do against mine. My throat tightens.

I wait for them to leave, and then I slide off the settee, peering out from behind the plant just as Draco turns to go up the staircase. Another quick glance in the direction Astoria disappeared, and then I slide out of my hiding place. I tell myself I'm going to get some water to go with the vodka, but my feet take me not in the direction of the gathering but away. Up the dark carpeted stairs. Down the hall. Around the corner that I see him take. And then he's out on the balcony, and I'm in the doorway behind him.

Draco leans on the ironwork railing, looking down over Craven Hill Gardens and the cars below. He runs a hand over his face. This side of the hotel is dark, but I can hear the laughter from the party. His hair gleams in the moonlight.

"Tonight," I sing softly. "Tonight, won't be just any night..." He whirls, his eyes wide, and I step out onto the balcony. "Hello, Tony."

He looks me up and down. A small smile flits across his face. "Shouldn't you be with Goldstein, Maria?"

I shrug. "Wasn't the right Tony."

"He wasn't?" Draco leans against the railing again, bracing himself with his arms to either side. "How'd you know?"

I move closer, my eyes fixed on him. "He wasn't you."

Draco's eyes flutter shut for a moment and he bares his throat. I can see his Adam's apple bob in a long, slow swallow. "Don't say things like that to me."

I'm beside him then, looking out over the street. The cool wind's sobering me up a bit, but I'm drunk with Draco's nearness. "It's true."

He opens his eyes then and looks at me. "I'm getting married, Harry."

"I know." I turn, my hip biting into the railing. My eyes scan his pale face. "May I take this opportunity to extend my congratulations?"

"You're an arsehole," Draco says.

I reach out and touch his face. My cock rubs hot and raw against the wool of my trousers, so close to him and yet so far away. I want him so much I can't breathe.

Draco's breath catches audibly, but he doesn't pull away from my touch. "I could lie and say I'd forgotten how fucking beautiful you are," I murmur. "But how could I forget?"

Draco just watches me. "Harry," he says quietly. His gaze doesn't move from mine. I can feel the pounding of blood through my body. It feels like all of my life is in my fingertips. On his face, on his jaw, on his soft lips. My hips inch closer to his.

He draws in a sharp breath when my thumb drags lightly across his mouth. "Harry," he says again, his lips parting.

"I love you," I whisper.

The look of torment on his face is devastating. It rips my chest open with its clarity. Everything I am, everything I want, I can't possibly doubt it now. And as his face turns to me, I see something, a glimmer, quickly shuttered.

A soft cough behind us sends Draco sliding away, out of reach.

"I see," Astoria says. I still for a moment, then turn to face her. She looks between us calmly. "Your father's asking for you, Draco."

Draco's on the opposite side of the balcony now, his arms tight against his chest. He won't look at me. "I'll find him." And then he's gone, and she turns her pale blue eyes on me. She doesn't look angry. Just curious, and a bit thoughtful.

"I- I'm sorry," I stammer. She nods and steps aside as I press past her blindly, dashing for the stairs. I can't even begin to say how mortified I am. I've broken our cardinal rule and then some. No infidelity. Especially not at a fucking engagement party.

I'm a horrible person, and I've no one to blame but myself.

Ron's still awake when I knock on his door. He answers it in worn jeans and a Chudley Cannons t-shirt.

"Tell me about Auror protection programmes," I say, and the wild look in my eyes must be what convinces him to open the door wider.

"Mate, you smell awful. I could light your breath." Ron leans back. I brush past him, and draw up short. Pansy Parkinson-Nott is sitting on his sofa, a bottle of lager in one hand and a fag in the other, the strap of the dress I'd just seen her wearing at Draco and Astoria's engagement party hanging off one shoulder.

She blows a stream of smoke towards me, then puts out her cigarette in a tray on the arm of the sofa. "Hello, Potter. Aren't you a fright?"

I look back at Ron. He rubs the back of his neck and blushes, then shrugs. "Want a beer?" he asks. "Or a cup of tea?"

"Tea," I say. I've had more than enough alcohol tonight. I follow him into the kitchen. Ron puts the kettle on the hob and lights it with his wand. I poke his arm. "What," I whisper, "is she doing in your sitting room?"

Ron reaches up to pull a mug out of the cupboard for me, revealing a good two inches of pale stomach and ginger hair in the process. "What do you think she's doing here?" He sounds annoyed. "Another five minutes and I'd have had her tits out."

"Three," Pansy drawls from the doorway. "But only because you're fit." She sets her beer on the counter and regards me evenly. "Yes, I'm planning on having an affair with your best mate, Potter. Mainly because rumour has it his prick's enormous." The look she gives Ron is heated, and yet affectionate.

"Er." I think for a moment. "If you don't mind my asking..."

"Theo's in Singapore on business, and will be for some time," Pansy says. "Possibly permanently." She looks at me. "I understand I have you to thank for setting Ronald on him."

"You're welcome?"

She pats my cheek.

Ron scowls into the box of P.G. Tips. "Bastard better fucking stay there, I say or I'll shove my wand up his arse and let off a Stinging Hex or two next time."

I hold my tongue about police brutality, even though it nearly kills me to do so.

"The best part of it," Pansy says with a satisfied smile, "is that the bastard's agreed to let me divorce him for adultery." She glances at Ron. "Feel like a wild holiday in Rome, darling? Something tells me I'm coming into rather a lot of cash shortly."

I suddenly have a strong sense of how much I've missed of the past months of my friends' lives. "I had no idea. I've been a little out of it."

"You've had a lot to deal with, with Draco. And Astoria," Ron says slowly. "We understand."

Pansy eyes me. "How pissed did you get at that party? I told Blaise bringing you was a terrible idea."

I don't meet either of their gazes. "Pissed enough to tell him I love him."

"Oh, shit," Ron says.

Pansy crosses her arms over her chest, revealing more than hiding her cleavage. "That was stupid of you. You're English. We don't do that sort of thing."

"In vodka veritas," I say. "And it is true, Pans. I'm buggered. And I told him."

"I don't care if you told him you want to have his arsebabies, you're not leaving the Ministry again," Ron says, glaring at me. For a moment, I feel the menace Theo must have fled from and I understand why he left. "I won't let you. There's too much to do."

"Also, they're thinking of moving to LA," Pansy chimes in. "Astoria's been offered some massive research position at the wizarding hospital there."

I catch myself on the counter. No. No, he can't move that far away. My stomach churns, and I sink down into one of the chairs at Ron's kitchen table. "I think I need more tea," I say, covering my face with my hand.

"And maybe a sobering potion," Pansy calls over her shoulder to Ron, who's headed for the bath to get a cool flannel, just like Mrs Weasley used to do in times of crisis.

Tonight there will be no morning star. It's over.

The office I have as Head of the Penal/Legal Reform Initiative is three times the size of my old one with an entire wall of windows overlooking the Atrium seven storeys below. It's even bigger than Zabini's, a fact which he comments when he comes in this morning. "You could have an orgy in here, Potter. With sheep," he says approvingly. I glare at him. I'm never going to forgive him for Saturday, not as long as I live. Or until lunchtime. Whichever comes first.

I firecall Aisha as soon as he leaves, setting up a meeting with her for tomorrow. Ron will be there, I tell her, and the three of us will sort through the various reform issues at hand, deciding on which are the most important to tackle. She just looks at me through the green flames, eyes wide. "Is this really happening, Harry?" she aks. "After all these years..."

"Yeah." Her enthusiasm is infectious. It really is amazing. "And we're going to fucking grab this chance, Aisha, and take it as far as we possibly can."

She laughs, a sharp, happy burst of joy as she reaches through the fire and throws her arms around me, kissing my cheek. For a moment, my world is filled with warmth.

There's a knock on my door, and we pull away as my assistant--a gangly boy barely out of Hogwarts named Patrick--sticks his head in. "There's someone to see you, Mr Potter," he says.

"Harry," I remind him, and he flushes and shifts nervously from one foot to another. I look back at Aisha in the Floo. "Firecall you later, love. Send kisses to your mum."

Aisha waves and the Floo falls back to flickering orange embers. I stand up, brushing bits of soot off my knees. "Who is it?"

Patrick looks down at the scrap of parchment in his hand. "An Astoria Greengrass?"

I still, my blood running cold. "Oh."

"No. Should I send her away?" Patrick asks, his voice low, his face a study in perplexity.

I run a hand through my hair. I'm not prepared for this, although I can't imagine a world in which one ever could be. "No. Of course not. She's an old acquaintance. Please send her in."

He nods and steps out; I go to the bank of windows behind my desk and look out over the Atrium, trying to steel myself for what's coming. I smooth my shaking hands over my suit jacket.

"Harry," Astoria says, and I turn, my hands behind my back. In her trim blue suit and matching coat, her hair pulled tidily back into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, she looks like a dark-haired Narcissa Malfoy. "Thank you for seeing me."

I flush slightly, remembering the last time we'd encountered each other. She doesn't look away. I set my shoulders, stepping out from behind my desk, and reach a hand out to her. Her grip is firm and regal, almost. "Astoria. Please sit."

She takes one of the armchairs in front of my hearth. I sit opposite from her. We're silent for a moment, awkwardly so, and then Astoria crosses one ankle over the other and leans back in her chair with a sigh. "Well. This is a bit awkward, I suppose."

"Yeah." I try to stop the bounce of my leg. It doesn't work. "Tea? I could have Patrick bring us some."

Astoria shakes her head. "I don't think I'll be here that long, but thank you." She twists her engagement ring around her left ring finger. It's enormous. I recognise it as the one Narcissa used to wear. "I just wanted to speak with you about some..." She hesitates. "Some changes."

I blink. It feels like Susan all over again, only worse. "I understand," I say finally. "I never should have come to the party. I'm sorry I was an arse and I promise not to bother either of you ever again."

"Don't be ridiculous," Astoria says calmly. "I was angry at first, of course, but now I'm rather glad you were there, actually. It made some things much clearer for me. It's not as if I didn't see it to begin with, but I suppose one edits one's truths to a certain extent, wouldn't you say?"

"Um." I have no bloody idea what she's on about. "Yes?"

She smiles, and it's an open and friendly twist of her pink mouth. "Oh, Harry. I do like you rather a lot. I think Draco's a lucky man."

The blood leaves my face. She's not cruel enough to be torturing me deliberately, and yet, the irony is too much for me to bear. I take a breath. "I'm not sure I understand you."

"I heard what you said," she says quietly. "And I saw the look on his face when you said it to him. And frankly, Harry, while I don't really believe in true love, I know I deserve a husband who's not arse over tit for someone else from the beginning."

"Oh." I'm completely gobsmacked by what she says, and by the complete absence of malice in her tone. She sounds matter-of-fact, as if she's discussing a simple problem with a friend, not the dissolution of her engagement with the man who's in love with her fiancé. "Oh." I don't really know what to say.

"I'm sorry to be this direct. You're obviously surprised." She smooths her skirt over her knee. "I thought you had a right to know why I'm breaking off the engagement. Since you're party to the reason."

My throat clenches. "You've talked to Draco."

"Of course." She nods. "He's...disappointed, I think. But not because of me, really. I think he had an image in his head that couldn't really be fulfilled. And while I wouldn't have minded being married to him, I'm perfectly happy with this decision. I've been offered a place in America--"

"In Los Angeles," I say, and this time she looks surprised. "Pansy said."

Astoria frowns slightly. "I didn't realise it was common knowledge. But in any case, yes, I've accepted and I'm going alone. Or mostly alone."

I wrinkle my brow. "I'm sorry?" I begin to wonder how many lives we've all been leading. I think wildly that nothing will surprise me now.

Astoria laughs softly. "It's not another man. At least not as far as I know." Her hand settles on her stomach. "I'm pregnant. Eleven weeks--it's why Draco and I pushed up our plans to marry."

And I was wrong. I'm completely surprised. "You're preggers." I'm caught between being horrified and strangely happy. "I mean, congratulations." I pause. "But, Draco's letting you leave? You'll need help, won't you?"

"It's not his decision whether I go," she says, her voice calm. "And he'll have primary custody of the child when he or she is born. I've assured him of that. It will be a Malfoy; it deserves to have that connection with his family." At my shocked look, she sighs. "I've thought this through, Harry. I'm a Healer. I could have aborted the pregnancy easily. I still could. I'm choosing to bear the child for Draco's sake. I doubt that he'll have a chance for an heir any time soon. And frankly, I want a child, but I also want my career. This will allow me to have both."

"A baby needs both parents," I object. "How can you just leave a child--"

Irritation flashes across her face. "I'm not leaving. I fully intend to have a part in this child's life. I'm its mother. But I know myself, and I know I'm not ready to change as much as an infant deserves, especially not in a new environment. And to be bluntly honest, Harry, I rather doubt this child is going to grow up without two parents or more, much less doting grandparents on both sides."

After a moment, I say, "I feel a horrible cad."

"You should." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "And at the same time you were just being yourself. Bless Gryffindor honesty." She stands, straightening her suit. "I'd appreciate your discretion on this matter, at least until it becomes public."

I push myself out of my chair. "I won't say a word to Pansy."

Astoria laughs. "Draco's probably already told her." She holds out her hand and I take it, then she pulls me closer and kisses my cheek. "Give him some time. Once he realises this is all for the best, he'll come to his senses."

Of that, I'm not certain, but I nod and walk her to the door. Closing it behind her, I slump against it, running my hands over my face as I ponder what just happened and what to do now.

Why is the worst thing in the world having your dreams come true?

The next week passes in a haze. The breaking of the Malfoy-Greengrass engagement comes out in the Prophet, and Draco doesn't come into work until Thursday. I'm secretly grateful. I have no idea what to do. No idea what to say.

Zabini tells me to stop being a slack-jawed pussy, but neither he nor Pansy will let me know what Draco's actually thinking. I'm not even sure if they have any idea. And Ron refuses to get involved. He's too happy shagging Pansy to be bothered by anything except a national emergency, and my love life doesn't qualify, as much as I think it could use its own emergency response team.

I see Draco once on Thursday afternoon, in the hallway. He stops when he realises I'm coming his way, and turns on his heel, walking as quickly as he can the opposite direction. I just stand there, letting him go, my heart aching. I've no desire to force a meeting that he's not ready for. It's not as though I'm ready either.

Friday I spend in Whitechapel with Aisha, going over files and policy briefs in preparation for our first Azkaban visit in January. It takes her until lunch before she looks at me slyly over our sandwiches and Walkers crisp packets and says, "Mr Malfoy's engagement is off, I hear."

I feel horrible, searing guilt. "Yeah."

Aisha studies my face as she pops a crisp into her mouth. "That was fast."

My eyes don't meet hers as I highlight two paragraphs in a brief. "I suppose."

"Harry," she says. "What's going on?"

I sigh and turn the page. "Nothing."

She throws a crisp at me. It lands in my hair and I have to fish it out. I throw it in the bin. "Don't be a tit," she says. "It's me. The one who's been working beside you for five years. I've been through all the breakups and back-togethers you've had with Draco."

"This one's different," I say.

Aisha nods after a moment. "Things change." She offers me the packet of crisps, and I take one. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

For the first time in weeks, I feel a bit of peace. "Thanks."

We continue working, and I'm almost happy.

Of all the things that await me at Ian Berwicke's Christmas party, I'm not expecting Lucius Malfoy. Hermione's brought me along as her date since Zabini can't be trusted not to start a riot or a coup d'etat.

The Chief Warlock's offices are decked with green boughs and silver icicles. There's a group of carollers wandering about, warbling Christmas favourites, complete with oboe and guitar, and I'm fairly certain someone poured an entire bottle of firewhisky into the punch, given how much I spluttered at my first sip. It's strong enough that some MW'll get caught trying to interoffice memo a facsimile of his or her bum by the end of the evening. Better that, I suppose, than to get caught shagging in the cloakroom by the director of communications.

God, I miss those days.

Hermione disappears into a knot of MWs at the far side of the room. I'm left standing alone with a junior researcher from the Welsh Wizarding Party trying to chat me up. I escape into an empty conference room.

Except it's not empty. Lucius Malfoy is sitting at the window with a bottle of Armagnac in his hand and a snifter in front of him. He pours a few fingers and looks at me. "Potter."

He's looking well. There's only a trace of the limp left. "Mr Malfoy. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Lucius waves the snifter at me. "Sit down. And close the door behind you, for Christ's sake. I'd rather not socialise with half that lot out there unless I'm forced to."

I shut the heavy door and sit stiffly on the edge of a chair. "Not fond of the Muggleborn MWs?" I can't help but snipe.

"Not fond of the stupid MWs," Lucius says over the rim of his glass. "Muggleborn or otherwise. How half of those idiots stood successfully is beyond me."

Sadly, I can't disagree. I raise my glass of punch. "To the Minister," I say carefully, and Lucius's mouth twitches into a smile.

"The Minister." He clinks his glass against mine. "And HM Loyal Opposition."

We both drink.

Lucius sets his glass down. "We have business to discuss, Mr Potter, seeing as how you dashed my son's wedding plans to pieces. The amount of Galleons alone we'd spent on the venue..." He shakes his head.

"Sorry." I don't know what else to say.

"Beatrice's already suggesting she and I take over the reservation." Lucius eyes me. ""We're going to wait to announce it though, until after the New Year. Propriety and all that."

I have no damned idea why Lucius Malfoy is telling me any of this. "That's nice."

"I suppose what I most want to know from you is, what your intentions regarding my son are." He's not really asking, and I'm not sure I'm willing to answer, so I just raise my glass to my mouth again and take a sip. Lucius pours another splash of brandy into his snifter. "I've seen you with Draco, you know."

"Have you?" Draco and I've--well, we've never been discreet, but it's not as if we've ever made anything too public either.

Lucius sips his Armagnac. "Narcissa made me aware of your friendship with our son and its effect on him. She always assumed you'd both end up together one day, once you could see past your own noses." He looks at me over his glass. "Mind you, this was long before either of you decided to grope around in each others' trousers."

I try to stop the heat that rises on my cheeks and fail utterly. Anything Lucius Malfoy says about this topic is far, far too much.

"I don't know why Draco tries to pretend he's strictly heterosexual around me," Lucius says, and there's a morose tinge to his voice. "It's not as if I didn't realise the moment he entered puberty that his preferences swung both ways. I tried to be a tolerant father. One of his uncles was bent, you know. Rabastan. Utterly off his nut in some ways, of course, but then again, he was a Lestrange. None of that family's been entirely stable for centuries. I'd hoped Draco would understand that he had choices and that his mother and I would support him in them."

My mouth's slightly open. I'd never thought of Lucius Malfoy and the word tolerant in the same sentence. "Er," is all I can manage.

"I don't expect you to understand a father's perspective," Lucius continues. "But it's hard to watch your only son suffer for preventable reasons and equally difficult to watch the most constant object of his affection ignore him. Which brings me to my previous question, what are your intentions regarding Draco?"

A bare tree branch sways outside the window. The charmed sky's grey and looks like snow. I take a deep breath. "I love him," I say softly.

"My nightmares have just been realised." Lucius frowns at me. "You certainly don't act as if you do."

"I've told him how I felt," I begin.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lucius snaps. "He's a Malfoy. And his mother was a Black. You expect him to come running to you with open arms? Idiot boy. He's waiting for the poison dagger in the back. You have to win his trust. Do you know how long I wooed his mother? Three years. Three bloody years, and twice in that time she turned my proposal down and returned my gifts, just because she could." He smiles, lost in a memory. "Fine woman. The love of my life. And an absolute fury when she was crossed."

"Rather like her son." I'm surprised to find myself commiserating with Lucius Malfoy of all people.

Lucius lifts his snifter. "Exactly like her son. Draco's more of his mother in him than me. Perhaps for the better. I've made mistakes in my life, Potter. Mistakes I shouldn't care to pass on. Not to my son or my grandchild."

"You know about Astoria then, I take it."

His mouth twitches. "Flew into a rage, that one did, when Draco told me about the baby. She thought she could be modern and keep it secret. As if the family trees weren't already showing the possibility."

I sigh. "I had no idea, of course. And I still find the entire situation quite difficult to understand."

"Buck up, Potter." Lucius sets his Armagnac down. "Welcome to the rest of your life. Mistakes will be made, others will be blamed." He glances at me. "How do you feel about the idea of a child?"

"I've always wanted one," I admit. I drain my punch. "And never thought it'd be possible. Most men I know don't particularly want to settle down like that."

Lucius motions for me to hold out my glass. He waves his wand to clean the glass, then pours a finger of Armagnac into it. "Malfoys do. It's inbred."

"As are many things pureblooded."

He laughs at that. "I suppose you've a point."

I finish my glass, then stand. "Thanks for the drink."

Lucius nods. "Don't tell them where I've gone to."

"I promise."

He calls my name when my hand on the doorknob. I turn back. "You'll do, I suppose," he says, looking me up and down like a horse he's considering purchasing. "Nicely, in fact."

I close the door behind me and ask myself what the fuck just happened.

On Saturday I go Christmas shopping. Perhaps it's mad of me, but I buy Draco a present, wrapping it up in silver paper tied with white curling ribbon.

When I send it off by owl, I resist the urge to call it back. I'm as terrified as school boy who's just sent a love note.

And then, I wait.

He appears at my door late on Sunday evening, wearing a black coat over a black jumper and slim black trousers. His white blond hair is tousled and windblown, and he hasn't shaved for a couple of days.

"Ribena, Potter?" he asks dryly, raising a bottle in his other hand. "Really?"

I smile and try to smooth down my rumpled hair. Even this late at night he looks put together. I, on the other hand, am wearing plaid pyjama trousers and a white Middlesex CCC hoodie with a marinara stain down the front. Posh, Potter. Simply lush. "I didn't know if you had a market in Wiltshire."

"Yes, because the only place Muggles shop in the entirety of Britain is London." Draco rolls his eyes. "Wrapping this and sending it as a present. Are you an idiot or just taking the piss?"

I lean against the door. "I thought you'd like it. Not something I'd imagine the Manor elves keep in the pantry."

A tiny smirk quirks Draco's mouth. "You wouldn't be entirely wrong. Father thinks it's non-M."

We stand there for a long moment, looking at each other, and it's awkward between us in a way that it's not been for years. Draco rubs the back of his neck. I don't know if I should ask him in or not. Eventually I step back, opening the door a little wider, letting him make the decision.

He hesitates, then he steps into the hallway. "Mimsy," he calls, and there's only the murmur of the telly in the sitting room, then the scratch of kitten paws skittering across the wood floor. Mimsy turns the corner, nearly taking down the post table, then barrels down the hall towards us in a blur of grey and white fur. Draco kneels and catches her before she hits the door. He cuddles her; she rubs her tiny face against his cheek.

"That really is the strangest cat," I say, looking down at them. Something warm blooms inside of me.

Draco rubs her stomach and she stretches in his arms, little white paws batting at the air. "She's brilliant. Aren't you, Mimsy Pimsy?"

Mimsy just yawns and curls happily up against his coat, shedding small white hairs over the black wool. Draco doesn't seem to mind. He stands up, then looks at me.

"That thing you said." He swallows. "At the hotel."

My heart's in my throat. "Yeah."

"You shouldn't have said it, you know." Draco's watching me carefully. He strokes the back of Mimsy's ears.

I lean against the wall, my arms crossed against my chest. "I know." I meet his gaze. "But I shan't take it back."

"Of course you'll not." Draco laughs. "You're Harry-bloody-Potter. Merlin forbid you back down from a challenge."

"Are you saying you're a challenge, Draco?"

He buries his face against Mimsy's belly, humming softly. She stretches again with a wide yawn, and Draco glances over at me. "Haven't I always been?"

I step closer to him. "Yes."

We look at each other. "I'm not ready to come back," Draco says quietly. "Yet."

So much depends upon a little word. "I haven't asked you to," I say. I meet his gaze evenly. "Yet."

He sighs. "That's not what I meant. I meant, I can't do it again the way we were."

I nod, hating myself for being happy to see him but happy nonetheless. It's a strange feeling, this combination of ache and joy. "I know. We'll get over it eventually. We usually do."

Draco's look of surprise surprises me in turn. He sets Mimsy down, stroking lightly along her back, and considers. "But I don't want to get over it. That's not what I meant either."

My mind draws an utter blank. I hear the traffic noises outside, the whirr of cars and the occasional horn, Mimsy's loud purr as she arches beneath Draco's touch. My heart is in my throat. I've no idea what I should say. "Perhaps you could explain. Er. What you meant."

Draco stands up again, and the space between our bodies is suddenly much less, although we haven't moved. I watch the pulse at the hollow of his throat. My mouth is open but nothing seems to be coming out.

"I meant perhaps we should do this properly." Draco leans in, giving me a hesitant look, then brushes his lips against mine. My body catches fire like a lit match to petrol from the light touch of his mouth. He pulls back, leaving me gasping.

"Properly," I manage to get out.

Draco's knuckles stroke lightly across my cheek. "In other words, you idiot, I'm asking you on a date."

I try desperately to think. The Knut drops. "Wait, you're asking me out on a date? You. Are asking me. On a date."

Draco pauses. "That's the general idea, Harry. How does eight tomorrow night at Alchimia sound?"

He tosses the name off casually, but I'm amazed he has reservations, and this close to Christmas too. Alchimia has been open for three months and has a booking queue of a year and a half. A suspicion steals over me and I can't help the grin that starts on my face. "Did you use my name?"

"Maybe." Draco studiously examines his fingernails.

"You just want to go there," I say, trying to comprehend the subtext I know I'm missing.

Draco looks back up at me. "I want to go there with you." His eyes are bright. He bites his lip and looks at me, suddenly shy. I've never seen him shy before.

I want him like I want breathing, like I want blood in my veins. There's a rushing in my ears. "Oh."

He turns to go, opening the flat door. I follow, holding on to the door frame like an idiot, utterly astonished. He pauses on the top stair and casts a glance over his shoulder. "You'll be there, right? Tomorrow at eight?"

"I'll be there," I promise. And he's gone and I'm on fire.

"Oh, God, Harry, not that shirt. It's horrendous." Hermione's sprawled across my bed with Mimsy lying in front of her. She waves Mimsy's tail in the air in front of her little pink nose. "Chase your tail, sweetie. Get it. Get it." Mimsy lunges for it, grabbing the tip between both paws and licking forcefully. Hermione laughs. "You're adorable."

I throw another shirt on the growing pile at the end of the bed. "Not when she claws you, she's not." I turn back to my wardrobe. "Must I wear a tie?"

"For Alchimia?" Hermione lets Mimsy play with her hair. Things will go dreadfully wrong soon, I suspect. "You could get by with casual. It's the new chic not to look try-hard, or so my assistant tells me. Just wear the cologne he likes and put that stuff in your hair to texturise it."

I make a face. "I hate hair wax. I wake up the next morning with the damned cat trying to eat my hair."

Hermione rubs Mimsy's stomach. "She wouldn't be that mean--ow." She pulls her hand back, frowning.

"Told you she'd scratch." I pull another shirt, this one blue and green striped, out of the wardrobe. "She doesn't mean to. She just gets excited." I hold the shirt up over my shoulder. "Yay or nay?"

"Nay," Hermione says. "I thought we said no more Paul Smith shirts."

I toss it onto the bed. "I like that one." I grab another one--this one white cotton which Zabini had sworn was hand-sewed by Belgian nuns dancing naked under the full moon until I'd shown him the made in Vietnam tag. Still, it's a good shirt. Not worth 180 pounds sterling, though. "What about this?"

Hermione tilts her head. "It's not screaming I want to fuck Draco Malfoy to me."

That gets me to turn around. "Who said I was?" Zabini was definitely rubbing off on her. Well, in addition to all the other sorts of rubbing also.

"Pansy set up a pool." Hermione flexes her bare feet and Mimsy jumps on them. "I have money on tonight." She hesitates. "We're going shopping, you know."

I blink. "You and Pansy?"

Hermione sits up and stretches her legs. She picks up Mimsy and rubs the back of her head. The little feline trollop goes limp and starts to purr immediately. "Is it mad? Blaise thought it would be a good idea."

"You know she's seeing Ron." I hold up a black shirt, and she wrinkles her nose. I toss it aside. Who the hell knew I had this many dress shirts?

"I know," Hermione says. "They seem happy, and I never much liked Theo."

"He's a twat." Fuck it. I pull out a cream Arran jumper. "Well?"

Hermione points at it. "Sexy. Yes. Wear it with those tatty jeans of yours."

"He'll mock me."

"No, he won't." Hermione gives me an even look. "You have no idea what your arse looks like in them."

I try not to show I'm chuffed as I hang the jumper on the wardrobe door and dive back in. "What do you think this date means?" I push through summer suits and robes to get to the high stack of jeans.

"That he likes you?" Hermione takes pity on me and sets Mimsy down, sliding off the bed to join me at the wardrobe. She pushes me aside and digs through my jeans. "What else would it mean?"

"We've been shagging for five years," I say. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Mimsy looks pitifully up at me. I sigh and pick her up. "I've declared my love at his engagement party--an engagement, mind, to someone else. And now we go on a date?"

Hermione pulls out a pair of faded jeans and tosses them at me. "And if you don't wear your Lobb boots, I will kill you myself."

"With jeans?" I ask, looking at the beautiful black and tan, cap toed boots she Summons.

"It's a fierce look. Trust me."

I don't doubt her. Somehow Hermione's turned into a style maven since school. She could model for Burberry, although her taste is much more nuanced than that. "I hate dating."

"It means you're making room for your relationship to become something else," Hermione says gently. "It's awkward because it's a new start."

Mimsy's asleep in my arms. I smooth a hand across her soft flank. "But can you really start again?"

Hermione sits next to me and leans against me, her head on my shoulder. "All the time, Harry. All the time."

"I'm nervous," I admit after a long moment. "This could go badly." I wish I could quiet the butterflies in my stomach. I'm not very good with change.

"If it does," Hermione says, "then at least you tried. Gryffindor, remember?"

"Gryffindor." I smile at her.

I hope she's right.

I stand outside Alchimia, fifteen minutes late, wrapped in my black pea-coat, a striped cashmere Paul Smith scarf that Hermione and I had compromised on tied around my neck. I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the door. It's dark inside, the restaurant lit by a large fireplace in the centre of the room and small white paper lanterns that float above the tables. A blonde witch in a short, tight black robe with no sleeves and a high neckline looks up at me. Her eyes flit to my scar.

"Booking for Potter," I say, taking off my scarf and coat, and she smiles. A waiter takes them for me.

"Window table," she says, leading me past the fireplace, through the maze of small tables. "Mr Malfoy's already waiting for you, sir."

Christ, I hope she's not placed a wager on us too. God only knows how far the betting pool's spread by now, given Pansy's running it.

Draco's looking out the window, his pale face reflected in the dark glass, a heavy onyx and silver ring on his hand. Outside the lights and Christmas decorations of Diagon glow as shoppers rush past, their arms piled with bags and brightly wrapped boxes. He's wearing a white shirt, artistically rumpled, with a black tie looped loosely around his neck and a short black jacket over a pair of jeans. He still hasn't shaved, though his stubble is neatly trimmed. I have an urge to rub my face against it.

"Hullo," I say, sliding into the seat across from him, and he turns his head, a smile brightening his face.

Draco reaches for his wineglass. "I was starting to think you weren't coming," he says lightly, but there's an uncertainty in eyes.

"Hermione and I argued over a scarf." There's already a waiter next to us, pouring me a glass of wine from the bottle that Draco's ordered.

"Who won?" Draco takes the menu the waiter hands us before he slides away again.

I flip open my menu, oddly nervous. "Neither. We...compromised." It feels strange, making small talk with him.

We're silent as we study the courses.

"How's Wiltshire?" I ask finally, setting my menu aside.

Draco lowers his. "Fine." He hesitates. "Cold."

The waiter returns and we order. When he walks away, we just look at each other. Draco folds a napkin, then unfolds it and folds it again.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I say finally. "This is ridiculous."

Draco's eyes flash. "You didn't have to come--"

I lean over the table and brush my mouth against his. His lips are soft and warm, and I hate to pull away from him. I don't care who's watching us, inside or out. When I settle back in my chair, he's staring at me.

"That's it," he says after a moment. "It's official. You've gone completely ‘round the twist."

But he's smiling now, and suddenly the awkwardness shifts, falls aside. This is me and it's Draco and we've been friends now for years. All we're doing is changing things ever so slightly.

I don't say anything until after our waiter sets our starters in front of us. "I thought you liked me mental."

Draco laughs. "Like is quite an overstatement." He picks up his fork and takes a bite of rocket. "Now. This new position? How goes it?"

I grin. "We have plans, Ron and I."

"To take over the world?"

"At the very least."

Draco just raises an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

I do.

We don't leave Alchimia for another three hours. We talk about everything--work, political gossip, our friends, our families.

Draco tells me that Astoria is moving to Los Angeles after the holidays. "She'll come back before her due date in June," he says, twisting his wineglass between his fingertips. "We both want the baby born in Britain."

"It's weird to think of you as a dad." I watch him. He flushes slightly.

"Does it bother you?" he asks. He doesn't look at me. "I mean, it's what you've always wanted."

I hesitate, considering. "Not particularly, no." I don't tell him I'm looking forward to the baby. That might seem a little strange, all things considered.

Draco takes a sip of his wine. His eyes meet mine, and I suspect he knows anyway. Sometimes he can understand me better than I can myself. "It's not what I planned, you know."

"I know." I drag the edge of my spoon over the remnant of Cambridge burnt cream in front of me, then lick it. "Did you love her?"

He doesn't answer for a moment. "We worked well, she and I," he says finally. "I could have loved her in a way."

"Oh." I set my spoon down. Something deep inside of me aches. I shouldn't have asked but I always realise such things too late.

"It's different with you, though." He sips at his glass and his grey eyes are shadowy in the light from the lantern.

"How?"

Draco just looks at me. He sets his wineglass aside. "The thing is, Potter, it's never been just about the sex, has it?"

"It hasn't?" I sound like an enormous tit. I've the romantic sensibility of a boulder. "I thought the sex was decent enough."

Draco snorts. "Don't get all insecure on me. The sex was amazing. I wouldn't mind another go at all." He smiles at me as his thumb rubs along the base of his glass. "But, you see, I realised recently it's more than that. I find that I miss you when you're not there, and I think we're better when we're together." He ponders. "I'm better when we're together."

"Are you?" My voice is low.

"Much," Draco says. Our eyes meet. "My father told me something the other day. He said it's not about love, really. It's about something more. Love fades. Love changes. Love's just a rush of emotion that's unpredictable."

My heart sinks. Fuck Lucius Malfoy.

"But," Draco continues, "you know you've found the right person when you want more than to love them. More than them to love you." He reaches out, brushes his fingertips across the back of my hand. "It's when you realise you want to wake up every morning next to that person. It's when you don't care if they irritate you because you know it'll pass. It's when you know what they're thinking before they say it out loud. It's when you're not afraid to fall because you know they'll be there to catch you. It's when you don't feel whole without them."

His fingers twine with mine.

"Draco," I say quietly.

"Wake up with me, Harry," he whispers.

I look at him. He's beautiful with the light in his hair, and the heat in his eyes is intoxicating. "I'm not afraid to fall."

He smiles. "Let's get our coats. We've pulled."

We Apparate into the flat. I take his coat and hang it on the rack in the hallway. It looks right, fitting, there next to mine. When I turn, Draco's behind me, his hands on the hem of my jumper. He pulls it off over my head, letting it fall to the floor. He leaves me in my white t-shirt.

"I like you in these," he says, his palms smoothing over the soft cotton. "Sexy minimalism." When his fingers find my nipple through the shirt, there's nothing minimalistic about my groan. I catch his face between my hands, leaning in to kiss him. Our glasses bump, and we both laugh into the kiss.

Draco steps back, his hand curling around my wrist. He leads me silently down the hall. When we pass his old room, he stops for a moment to look through the open door to the small, bare space beyond. "You left it empty," he says.

I can hardly speak past the lump in my throat. "Mimsy liked to lie there and mope."

Draco smiles a crooked smile. "No moping now." He leads me into the bedroom. Mimsy's curled on my pillow. He drops my wrist and scoops her up, petting her lightly as he sets her outside the door. "This isn't for kittens, little one." She miaows as the door closes. The look he shoots me is hot and full of promise.

I pull my t-shirt over my head and reach for him as he turns back to me. My mouth finds his, and I have his jacket off his shoulders, my hands fumbling with his tie as I push him against the door, kissing him slowly, our tongues sliding together, our lips wet and rough. His hands settle on my hips, and we stand there, sucking at each other's mouths until we're breathless. I manage to get his shirt open, but I can't let him go. My lips scratch across his stubble. I nip at the edge of his jaw, at his throat. He presses his hips into me.

"Christ, Harry," he whispers into my ear. His hands slide up my bare back, fingers splayed. "You smell incredible." He licks a small shaving scar under the curve of my chin. "Oh god. The limes." He presses his face against the skin of my throat, breathing in my cologne. "You're wearing the limes. I fucking love this smell and you know it. Devious bastard. It's not even summer."

A soft chuckle bursts from my lips in a huff against his ear, making him shiver against me. "Hermione suggested it. She said it reeked of I want to fuck Draco Malfoy."

"Brilliant woman." Draco groans and rubs his face against my throat. "Remind me to send her the largest bouquet of flowers I can afford tomorrow."

"She can afford her own flowers if she got decent odds for her bet tonight."

Draco pulls back, a wicked smile on his face. "So can I." At my appalled look, he shrugs. "On the positive side, Pansy inflated the bets for me so tonight looked to be utterly impossible."

"How'd she do that?" My thumb sweeps across Draco's collarbone.

"Some sort of angsty waffle about all of us." He smiles and pulls away from me. He shrugs his shirt to the floor and reaches for his belt, walking backwards towards the bed. "I left the details to her. Evidently we've been dominating the blind items this week."

I follow him across the room. "You're evil."

"Of course I am." He pulls his belt from the last loop of his trousers, tossing it on the chair. "I'm a Malfoy."

"I don't know," I say, watching him unbutton his trousers. They're tented, and my mouth waters at the thought of his cock. "I'm starting to question Malfoy deviousness."

His trousers ruche down his hips. "I'm offended, Potter." And then he's pulling me onto the bed with him, his mouth against mine as his trousers slip from his legs.

I groan and press him into the mattress, kissing him, my hands sliding up his narrow chest. "Jesus, Draco," I whisper. I'm so fucking hard for him. I slide his glasses off his nose, brushing my mouth across his cheek as I pull back. I set both our glasses on the side table, then reach into the drawer to pull out the phial of lube that's only been used when I've laid here, after thinking of him, wanking myself raw. I never thought he'd be in my bed again.

And then his hands are at the zip of my jeans, tugging and unbuttoning, and he pushes them off my hips, shoving them down my legs with his feet. "Do you know how fucking edible your arse is in these things?" he asks breathlessly, and I just laugh. I think I owe Hermione flowers too.

I roll over and lift my hips, wriggling out of my pants, and Draco half-climbs on me, leaning in to kiss my mouth, sinking his teeth into my lip.

"Fuck me, Harry," he says. "I've been waiting so long."

"Christ." I shift beneath him, pulling him over me, and together we manage to get his pants off. My hand's on his cock, stroking, both of us looking down at the way my hand moves on his heated flesh. I uncap the phial with my teeth, pouring the oil over my hand, between my twisting fingers, slicking him with each stroke until he's groaning and thrusting up into my fist, his hands behind him, keeping him from falling backwards across the bed.

Draco gasps, his hips bucking. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to get what I want."

"What's that?" I ask, rolling his foreskin with my thumb and finger.

"Come with you inside--" He breaks off in an almost pained moan, his head falling back, his long pale throat exposed. He breathes hard; his nipples are pink-brown nubs. He shifts his hips, widens his thighs. "Inside of me." When he lifts his head, the expression in his eyes is fierce. "Now."

I push him backwards against the pillows, and then my hand is between his arsecheeks, smearing oil across his skin, through his crease. Draco pulls his legs up, hooking his knees over his arms, spreading himself for me. The view is devastating.

"I said now, Harry."

"Fuck." My fingers slide into him, two at once and he tenses and moans before his body relaxes slightly. I press them deeper, twisting just the way I know he likes it, stroking his shaft lightly with my other hand. He falls apart under my hands, his thighs shaking, his head pressing into the pillows as he arches into my touch.

"Harry," he says. "Harry." His entire throat and face is pink, the flush spreading across his angular collarbones. One of his legs slips off his arm, and he reaches for me, his fingers sliding over the slick skin of my bicep. "Harry, in me." His voice rises and his hips buck forward.

I'd wanted to take this slow. I'd imagined opening him gently, just stroking him. But I can't. I need to be in him. It's been too long. I want him too much. I pull my fingers away, slicking them across my cock, once, twice before I shift over him. I can't touch myself any more. I want to come too badly.

With one careful push, I'm in him, and Draco cries out, his hands flying to my shoulders. He spreads his legs wide, canting his hips to take me more deeply. His eyes flutter closed and his breathing shallows.

With as much control as I can, I slide into him, watching his face as my prick pushes deeper. I can feel my pulse pounding through me. All I can think of is my cock inside of him. I try to remember the Quidditch scores from last weekend, the most recent policy brief that crossed my desk, the number of stupid figures in the bloody Fountain of Magical Brethren. None of it works.

I'm inside him and there is nothing else in the world that could possibly be as important as this.

Draco opens his eyes and looks up at me. His fingers stroke across the nape of my neck, then tangle in my hair. "This had damned well better be better than Goldstein."

He's lost his command of the English language, I see. I grin down at him. "I only have one Tony," I murmur, and I lean in to kiss him.

"Shut up and fuck me, Maria," he demands against my mouth.

"That's a new one," I say, and then my hips shift forward. He cries out again when I move, and then I can't stop myself.

I fuck him quickly, slamming into him so hard the headboard hits the wall and the bed rocks beneath us. Each thrust presses the breath out of him, and he digs his heels into the mattress, pushing up against me.

This is what I want. Him beneath me. Him on top of me. Him inside me. Him tight around my prick. Nothing sweet. Nothing romantic. Nothing flowery. Just him.

Just Draco.

I say his name, and he moans as he pulls me into a deep kiss.

"More," he chokes out.

I drive my hips into him and he wraps his thighs around me, his heels pressing into my back. He's close. I can tell. And I know I can't stop now.

"Draco," I say again, and my body trembles with each thrust.

His body shudders beneath me. "Do it." He gasps, and he reaches between us to grab his prick. One stroke of his fingers across his wet cock, and he shouts, spunk spattering through his fingers against his taut, tense stomach as I fuck him harder, my arms barely holding me up.

I come inside of him, hard and fast, my body jerking against his, shaking apart at the seams. I half-collapse onto him, spunk hitting his arse. The release is so intense it's almost painful. His nails digging into my arms are the only thing keeping me conscious.

We lie there, gasping, trying to recover our breath. My thighs are tight and shaking. Draco can't stop shivering. I hold him, stretching his legs out and pulling him against my chest. His hand flattens over my skin.

"I can feel your heartbeat," he says after a moment, his voice cracking.

I draw in a ragged breath. "I'm amazed it hasn't stopped after that."

Draco smiles into my chest. His hand slides down my side, slipping around to my lower back. He strokes his fingers across the curve of my spine, over my arse. "So," he murmurs. "Does this mean we're dating?"

"God, I hope so," I say into his hair. "You're amazing."

"I know." He sounds smug. "I'm irresistible."

My hand smacks his hip lightly. "If only it weren't so true."

He pulls away from me. "Admit it, Potter, you like me."

"Try ‘love', you daft bastard. And you know it."

Draco just smiles. He stands up. "Back in a moment."

When he opens the door, Mimsy dashes in, leaping up onto the bed. She settles next to me, sniffing as I pull the coverlet over me. I've dealt with too many scratches. We lie there, curled together until Draco comes back in. He hands me a damp flannel, then sits on the edge of the bed next to me, watching me as I clean myself off.

I look up at him. "What?"

He shakes his head, then touches my face. "You're not going anywhere?"

"Not unless you come with me," I say, setting the flannel aside. "It didn't really work so well last time, being apart from you."

Draco settles next to me, pushing me over until he can stretch out next me beneath the coverlet. Mimsy crawls over me to plop herself between us. She rolls over onto her back, her paws stretched above her head. Draco just looks at her in amusement. "Little minx." He strokes her fur lightly. He doesn't meet my gaze.

We're quiet, lying here together.

"Draco, is something wrong?" I ask.

His face looks almost pained. "No." He hesitates. "Not exactly."

I wait. He sighs.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he says finally. He gives me a defiant look. "Fuck it. I love you, okay? I have for a long time. I just didn't know what it was."

He takes my breath away. "Neither did I," I say after a moment. "It's rather odd, isn't it?"

Draco squirms. "You have no idea, Potter. I'm still trying to decide if I like it or not."

"Yeah."

We look at each other, then Draco's face creases into a wide smile. "On the positive side, I just won a great deal of money."

"I hate you so much," I say with a laugh.

Draco rolls over me, nearly smothering Mimsy. She squeaks and squirms, crawling up to the relative safety of the pillows above us. "No, you don't, Harry Potter." His mouth brushes mine. "No, you don't."

I pull him close. "How much do you want to wager on that?"

He looks into my eyes soberly. "Everything."

I don't know what the odds are, but, for him, I'm willing to take them.

- 24 December, 2011 -

"Scorpius," I say firmly. "Stop eating the ribbon."

My stepson, just turned six months old, looks up at me blankly from the blanket spread on the sitting room floor. Mimsy lolls next to him, her long body stretched out along the side of the blanket that's warmed by the late afternoon sun filtering through the bay window and the branches of the Christmas tree nestled within. She yawns and flicks her tail. I take the present Scorpius' somehow managed to filch and toss it back beneath the tree. He frowns at me, his small face screwing up, but before he can start to wail, I pick him up, smoothing his dark blue jumper and start making faces at him. He laughs and pats my cheek. I buss his forehead.

We've lived here in Gloucester Crescent since his birth this summer. The house had been a gift from Beatrice, and though she and Draco both would have preferred a better postcode--say Mayfair or Belgravia--I'd insisted on the rougher Camden Town. After an argument that'd lasted the better part of a day and had ended in truly spectacular sex in Draco's suite at the Manor--really, the things he can do with his mouth are definitely illegal in more than a few countries--we'd compromised on the very eastern edge of Primrose Hill, close enough for me to walk to Camden High Street with Scorpius in his stroller on Saturdays. Sometimes I can even coax Draco into coming with us.

I hand Scorpius off to his mother who coos softly at him and smiles at me. Astoria's back in London for the holidays and is staying with us in the guest room affectionately known as Astoria's Lair. She Portkeys over for at least one weekend a month to spend time with our son. Things are well in America, but I think she'll be back for good soon. She and Seamus have been flirting rather a lot recently, and Hermione tells me that Zabini's already setting up a pool on how long it takes the two of them to fall into bed. Evidently Draco and I have grown too boring and staid for our friends' wagering habits.

At least when we're not bickering, that is.

I look around the room. Our friends and family are gathered with us this evening. Ron and Pansy are sharing a wide armchair and a glass of wine. She looks at him the way I look at Draco. I don't think that Ron needs to worry about what she's going to think of the ring he's giving her Christmas morning.

Seamus hovers over Astoria. He's Transfigured a stray scrap of wrapping paper into a tiny butterfly that he's sending flying over Scorpius's blond head. My son laughs and grabs at it with his plump little fingers, and Seamus looks delighted. I can't help but smile, although the attentive look in Mimsy's eyes tells me the butterfly will be turned back to shreds of paper soon.

Kingsley's in the corner, talking to Lucius and sharing the bottle of Glenfarclas twenty-five year that Draco and I'd given our boss the day before. For a moment I worry about whether or not they'll come to blows over a political issue, and then I realise they're commiserating over the abysmal performance earlier in the week of their beloved Falcons in the match against Portree. Politics and Quidditch make strange bedfellows.

Andromeda's on the sofa with Beatrice, laughing. I'm not sure what's odder, the fact that her sister's replacement has become a good friend of hers, or that she's started seeing Kingsley this year. It's a puzzlement to all of us, but they seem to fit. And Christ knows Kingsley's more relaxed around the Ministry now--a fact for which Draco in particular is grateful. Teddy has taken to Kingsley as well, which is a relief to all concerned. Teddy's holed away upstairs now in my study, borrowing my laptop to look up spoilers for the Doctor Who special tomorrow. I can't believe he's thirteen now, and halfway through his third year in Ravenclaw House.

Hermione hands me a glass of wine. "You look pleased."

"It's Christmas." I smile at her over the rim of my glass. "Where's Blaise?"

"Justin just rang." We exchange a long look. The DMLE solicitors have not been best pleased by some of the legal reforms Kingsley's been pressing through the Wizengamot before the break for the holidays.

Blaise walks back into the room, Hermione's mobile pressed to his ear. "You have entered the amusement park of fuck, Finch-Fletchley. This is Fuck-Me-Land Paris, and you are on the proverbial helter skelter of ball sucking, my friend." He pauses for a moment, listening. Lucius and Kingsley look over, then keep talking.

"The baby," Hermione says to him, but Blaise waves her concerns away. Everyone else ignores him. Except, that is, for Scorpius, who bounces up and down in Astoria's arms, babbling excitedly at his godfather. At least we needn't worry whether our son will grow up with a colourful vocabulary. Draco and I have a wager on whether or not his first word will be fuck.

"Stick a giant mouse up your arse and get stuffed," Blaise snarls into the mobile, then he snaps it shut and hands it back to her. At her disapproving look he frowns. "What?" He takes Scorpius from Astoria. "Hello, my little arsewipe."

Hermione sighs and settles a hand on her swollen stomach. She's due in two months and wearing a stunning cranberry red cocktail dress with a pair of kitten heels. She looks phenomenal in love. "This is why I won't marry you," she says.

Blaise levitates Scorpius, letting him roll in the air. Scorpius kicks his feet happily. "I don't recall asking you, English wench."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I hope you're better with my parents tomorrow. Dad still hasn't got over the last time we had dinner together."

"I apologised for calling him a stupid Muggle fuck," Blaise says petulantly. He looks at me. "Didn't get my cock sucked for two weeks straight for that one."

I retrieve my son, setting my wineglass on the side table. One of our two house-elves whisks it away. "I remember." He'd been a complete beast at work. Poor Isobel, who'd taken over my old position as a policy wonk, had finally cracked and thrown a tea mug at him in a meeting, which had earned her a standing ovation and an office full of flowers by the afternoon.

Ron and Pansy come over. Pansy slips an arm around Blaise's waist. "Hello, darling." He kisses the top of her head.

"Bint," he says affectionately.

Ron and Hermione look at each other awkwardly for a moment, then laugh. He leans in to hug her. "You look enormous," he says. At Pansy's sharp jab into his arm, he coughs. "I mean beautiful."

Hermione makes a face at him. "Enormous is more like it," she says, but she smiles.

Ron looks at me. "You going back to the office after Boxing Day?"

"Yeah," I say. I disentangle Scorpius's hand from my hair, wincing in the process. The little bastard's a tighter grip than his father. "Why?"

"Just checking on when I can kick your yoghurt-knitting, bleeding-heart arse for that last proposal of yours." He gives me a wide grin. "Angus is working up a memo on why the Auror force won't be changing those policies. I think he's on page seven."

I laugh. "And where does the phrase national security come in?" As well as we work together, there are certain issues that Ron refuses to budge on. It's become a joke between us--after several raging arguments, that is.

"First page, you wanker." Ron smirks. "The Wizengamot will be eating out of our hands."

Blaise glances over at me. "It was a shit proposal, Potter. I fucking told you that."

"Don't take his side, you bastard Scot." I snort. Scorpius lays his head on my shoulder, his finger in his mouth.

There's a cough from the doorway. Draco stands there, Teddy behind him, nearly as tall as he is, with a shock of purple hair this hols. Draco eyes me and Blaise. "Before the Battle of Sark begins again in my sitting room," he says, "I think we're ready to eat."

"Finally," Teddy says with a whoop. "I'm famished."

"You're always famished," Draco tells him, and Teddy grins.

Draco takes Scorpius from me as we all file into the dining room. The table's set with silver and crystal and the old Black family china he'd inherited from his mother. There's another Christmas tree in the corner, boughs laden down with glass globes and silver balls and hundreds of tiny fairies, glittering brightly. They flinch slightly when they see Scorpius--he's already tried to eat one of them. Draco'd caught him just in time.

Mistelthwaite, our other house-elf, marches in as everyone takes their seats, an enormous roast goose on a platter floating behind him. Draco fastens Scorpius into his chair, then takes his own beside him. He's left me the head of the table this year--we've agreed to alternate.

The goose settles on the table, and I look around at the smiling faces surrounding me. It's been a good year, I think. I raise my wine glass. "Happy Christmas," I say.

"Happy Christmas," my family choruses, over the clink of glasses.

Draco leans across Scorpius. "Are you happy?" he murmurs.

"Without a doubt," I say, and I lean in to kiss him.

Without a doubt.