Archive of Our Own

And I felt us new, and I felt the ground, and I felt myself believing. (Shadows on a Dime - Ferron)

****
Ten thirty-three a.m. I was sure that the medieval Ministry clock had finally given up the ghost since I'd arrived. Died of boredom probably. I felt like expiring in sympathy.

I'd reached that inevitable point of the morning when I found myself stifling a yawn and mentally bollocking Hermione thoroughly just to stay awake. It was her fault I was stuck here, shifting uncomfortably while my arse went numb and trying to look remotely interested in the droning, ancient wizard pacing up and down the flagstoned floor. After all, if it wasn't for Hermione's powers of persuasion I could have found other things - much more interesting and comfortable things, no doubt - to do with my mornings than serve as the most junior member of the Wizengamot.

When I'd first been asked to serve, I politely told them I wasn't interested. Well, maybe I wasn't as polite as all that. As far as I was concerned, Scrimgeour could just as well continue to fuck up the Ministry without my stamp of approval. But Hermione - inevitably - had another plan.

"Harry, don't you see what an opportunity this is?" she'd said, frowning earnestly at me across my kitchen table. "We've all thought for years that the Ministry needs reforming. You could reform it from the inside."

"There are already too many chiefs and not enough Indians, Hermione. Too many cooks, and all that."

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Harry. Someone's got to do it; it may as well be you. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, after all."

"What does that even mean, anyway?" I asked irritably. I think I knew even then that I'd lost this battle, and I'd go along with her plan. Or else be dragged along.

I still can't explain the chain of events that followed. But somehow, after the dust settled, Kingsley Shacklebolt was Minister for Magic, Percy Weasley his most loyal deputy, and I was occupying the fiftieth seat in the far back corner of the Wizengamot, struggling to navigate the idiosyncratic rules that govern British wizardry. "You'll soon get the hang of it," Ephemera Dalgleish said on my first morning, as she took her seat at number forty-nine. "It can be more fun than riding a hump-backed whale in a hurricane." On mornings like this, when it takes hours for the hands of the clock to tick through a minute, I can't imagine what she was talking about. Instead, I sit and plot my revenge. When the day comes that I'm bumped up to forty-ninth member, Hermione will find herself sitting beside me in an unbearably hard chair of her own.

I shifted again, and sighed. Ten thirty-six; the clock wasn't broken after all. I was idly mulling over a few ideas on how to improve the Wizengamot - high on the list was to hand out an actual daily agenda so I could reassure my ill-used bladder of some hope to come - when the tedious wizard abruptly finished his speech, bowed gracelessly and left. I was not the only one caught out; there was a hasty straightening and murmur of cleared throats as everyone pretended to have been awake the whole time.

After some moments, the doors opened and we all leaned forward to see what was next. I was stunned to see the guards escorting a small group that were both familiar and highly unwelcome: Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy. I swallowed sharply. Neville's dead, then, I thought.

I was half out of my seat when an arm tugged at mine and pulled me back down.

"Mr. Potter," Ephemera said, a low warning. "Remember where you are."

I remembered, all right. One of the not-so-lofty reasons I agreed to be here was to make sure that Lucius Malfoy paid for what he'd done as Voldemort's right-hand man. That he'd been allowed his freedom after what he'd done to Neville was a bitter reminder of the illogic of Wizarding law. Neville was slowly dying at St. Mungo's - cursed by Malfoy's own wand - but until he actually died, apparently no one could lay a finger on Malfoy for the deed. I argued the injustice of this with everyone I could buttonhole, but clearly someone well-bribed and high up in the Ministry was thwarting any effort to do anything about it. It would explain why Malfoy hadn't disappeared so far. But it was only a matter of time before the bastard slipped up.

I was now fully alert, anticipating the sight of Malfoy bound to a chair while the Wizengamot interrogated him at last. I found myself wishing that, as a finale, the chains binding him would pull tight and strangle him.

"Looks like Malfoy's days at the Manor are about to end," I muttered to Ephemera.

"Perhaps."

Behind the Malfoys were several wizards I didn't recognize, followed by the imposing figure of Augusta Longbottom, Neville's grandmother. She looked old and more fragile than she had the last time I'd seen her, as if the vulture on her hat could pick her up and carry her off. I chalked that up to the strain of the past months of watching Neville dying, and of being unable to stop it.

For the first time, I wished I had a front row seat for whatever was coming next. I wanted to see Lucius Malfoy try to control himself when Mrs Longbottom testified against him and sent him to Azkaban for good. Which goes to show how little I know about the Wizarding World. Failing Divination should have tipped me off to my knack for predicting the future.

Madam Tabernash, head of the Wizengamot, peered down at the group. She flicked her wand, and a small cluster of chairs rattled forward. There were no chains to be seen among them. "Be seated," she said. I noticed Draco Malfoy left a chair empty between himself and his father.

"Lucius Malfoy?" she said.

"Present." The sound of his voice after so many years still sent shivers up my spine. I remembered the night Sirius went through the Veil, the Battle of Bethnal Green, the weak daylight reflecting in Neville's unseeing eyes.

"Eight months ago, you were brought before us to face a charge of assault upon Neville Longbottom, aged 23, of Pendle, Lancashire. Auror Tomlinson?"

A large man standing near the doorway moved forward, his robe so voluminous it looked more like a tent than an article of clothing. He rubbed his shining, red face with a fat hand. "Yes, Ma'am?"

"Please refresh our memories about what you discovered at that time."

"Mr Lucius Malfoy of Wiltshire - present here - was detained upon leaving young Neville Longbottom's home. Mr Longbottom was discovered under Tardis Lentum, a curse which causes slow death in the victim. Upon casting Priori Incantatem, we were able to ascertain that the spell was cast using Lucius Malfoy's wand. It's a spell favored by Death Eaters, Ma'am, because it gave them a chance to escape long before the victim died. There is no known counterspell, yet." He looked over at Mrs Longbottom, his eyes sympathetic. "We haven't given up hope though, Ma'am, don't you worry."

Did that mean Neville was still alive? Then why was Malfoy even here now?

Madam Tabernash nodded her thanks and folded her hands across her lap. When she spoke, her voice was icy. "A technicality has kept you at liberty for the last eight months, Mr Malfoy," she said. "Assault is not murder, we are aware of that. The limited freedom afforded you is contingent on Mr Longbottom's continued survival. We have chosen to wait until the more serious charge of murder can be laid at your door." My opinion of her went up considerably.

Malfoy wisely kept quiet. Beside him his wife looked as though she was about to have a litter of kittens, but she didn't say a word, either.

"But that is not why you are here before us today."

I saw that her words came as a surprise to Malfoy; that he was scrambling to choreograph his own part after the fact, down to his injured sneer.

She ignored his performance. "Augusta Longbottom? Please tell the Wizengamot what you are requesting."

Neville's grandmother slowly stood up, straightened her shoulders, and surveyed the assembled wizards and witches with weary eyes. "Madam," she said simply, "Your Honours. "We invoke our right to Renovoenitor."

Her pronouncement caused a bit of a stir around me. I sat forward, elbows on knees, intent. What the hell was Renovoenitor? I looked to Ephemera for an explanation, but she shrugged her shoulders in reply.

"It's an unusual request," Madam Tabernash said, after a moment. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

"Absolutely certain. I have lost my son and his wife to the Death Eaters. Now the last of the Longbottoms lies dying at Lucius Malfoy's hands. I've lost my family, Madam Tabernash, and the man responsible is still free to enjoy his own estates, his own wealth, his own heir."

Every eye in the room was on Draco Malfoy, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

The wizard next to Neville's grandmother stood up and cleared his throat. Madam Tabernash looked down at him kindly. "Mr Algernon Longbottom, is it not?"

"Yes, Madam." So this was Great Uncle Algie, of the infamous Blackpool Pier incident. I leaned forward to hear him better.

"I just wanted to say that Neville, poor lad, he was the last of the Longbottoms. And that blackguard of a Malfoy there, who thinks he's got away with murder just because Neville is still alive, when even the babe born yesterday in Barley-With-Wheatley Booth could tell you he's killed our Neville just as surely as if he'd done it outright, and there he stands like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, when everybody knows he should be rotting in Azkaban-"

I'd listened to a fair share of courtroom dramas on the Dursley's TV, and I kept expecting someone to make a move to stop Uncle Algie's speech, but Madam Tabernash seemed happy to let him speak his piece.

"There was no better lad than our Neville. The hopes of all the Longbottoms were with him, you see."

Mrs Longbottom nodded emphatically. "Time is running out for us. We are asking for no more than what is owed to us under Wizarding law, ancient though that law may be."

"I see," said Madam Tabernash. "Mr Malfoy? How do you answer?"

Malfoy's expression was deliberately cold. "I'm afraid I don't have quite the same grasp of archaic wizarding traditions that Mrs Longbottom's longevity has apparently given her," he said. "If anyone would be so kind as to explain Renovoenitor, I could better answer your question."

"Very well. So that there is no confusion, I shall read it as originally set down." She summoned a huge book, which settled in front of her with a firm thud and flipped opened to a page near the front. "'When the sole heir of a noble and most ancient house is unable to continue the line and produce an heir, and when that inability is caused by hostile actions of another house, then the afflicted house is permitted to demand a new heir under the Rite of Renovoenitor. The enemy house shall provide an unbonded vessel from among its own heirs to bring forth a replacement child.'" She lifted her head and looked at him sharply. "In short, Mr Malfoy, you are being ordered to produce a new heir for the Longbottoms."

Even at this distance, I recognized Lucius Malfoy's familiar smirk. "I'm afraid that neither I nor my wife meet the criterion of an unbonded vessel. Marriage is so useful for the begetting of heirs, I find. And I have no daughter, Madam Tabernash. Otherwise-"

Uncle Algie wasn't fazed. "You have a son, though, which is a damn sight more than you left our family. That young spark beside you. He's your only child and heir, isn't he?"

The smirk vanished. "You know he is," Malfoy snarled. "But what does that-"

"Well, then. There's your answer," Uncle Algie said with finality.

Madam Tabernash looked grave. "Are you suggesting Vir conceptus?"

"Yes," Mrs Longbottom said.

"No!" shouted Malfoy. "I cannot agree! It's dangerous, it could kill him-"

Mrs Longbottom turned to Malfoy, and there was an air of triumph in the way she spoke, as though she knew she'd finally got the upper hand.

"The Longbottoms shall have an heir, or the death of yours, Malfoy. Whichever way this turns out, there'll be an account settled."

Now my curiosity was truly aroused. I ventured a glance at Ephemera, who seemed flustered, shook her head, and mouthed, "Listen."

"Young man, please stand," Madam Tabernash said. "What is your name?"

"Draco Malfoy."

I hadn't laid eyes on him since the night Dumbledore was killed, and seven years later I still wasn't sure how I felt about him. On the one hand, I knew he'd hidden himself from the Death Eaters and gone into exile somewhere - some said France, others America. They'd also said he was estranged from his parents, which was obviously wrong. On the other hand, I remembered, there were all those years I'd hated him before that night at Hogwarts.

"Do you understand what the Longbottoms are requiring from your family?" Madam Tabernash asked him.

"No, Madam, not really. Would you explain it?" I wondered where he'd learned to be so obsequious.

"The Longbottoms are demanding an heir, which under most circumstances would have to be provided by an unmarried female Malfoy. However, there being no such person, the undertaking falls to you."

"Undertaking ... what, exactly?" Draco said slowly.

"Vir conceptus." Repetition clearly left Draco no more enlightened than me. A crimson flush gradually rose across Madam Tabernash's cheeks as she realized that she would have to be explicit. "Ah. A spell which permits a male to conceive a child and carry to term. Male pregnancy."

More scattered murmurings were voiced by the Wizengamot. Draco Malfoy stood gaping, completely at a loss for words. I felt much the same.

Narcissa spoke for the first time, and her voice was shaky. "Is that even possible?"

"It's rare, but not unheard of. It has been performed twice in my lifetime, to my knowledge," Madame Tabernash replied. "Though both times for love rather than under Renovoenitor, if I recall correctly. So yes, it's possible. Fiendishly difficult, but not impossible. The spell to bring about conception isn't dangerous, but it requires a great deal of magical investment from both parents in order to sustain the pregnancy. Given Master Longbottom's incapacity, Master Malfoy will be required to provide all the necessary magic. His ability to cast spells will be severely limited; indeed there is a risk of his own death if he proves too weak."

"We cannot agree," Lucius said. "It's obvious that the only reason this preposterous idea is being considered is to utterly destroy the Malfoy legacy, to ruin our estates and impoverish us, and to corrupt our heritage with the taint of-" His mouth closed abruptly, but the objection was as clear as if he'd said it aloud.

"You should have thought twice before you attacked our Neville," Mrs Longbottom said coldly. "Because whether you agree or not, we will have satisfaction."

Draco took a small step forward. "What would happen if I refused?"

Madam Tabernash clasped her hands over the book in front of her. "If you refuse, your father will be sent immediately to Azkaban until he can pay the debt. You understand that this is his debt, and not yours?"

"It is a Malfoy debt."

The room was utterly silent. Draco half-turned to his parents and studied them for a long moment, lingering longest on his mother's pale face. Finally, he raised his eyes to take in the rest of the Wizengamot. As he looked up at us, I thought his glance lingered in my direction for a tense minute.

"If I agree to this I need some reassurances," he said. "First: that my family will be allowed to peacefully return home."

"I must insist, however, that the pending accusations against your father stand," Madam Tabernash replied.

"There are no such accusations against my mother."

"Then she will be permitted to remain in Wiltshire undisturbed, provided she avoids such accusations in future."

He nodded. "Second: the Longbottoms will agree that with this act, all debts shall be discharged and all other claims abandoned against our estate and accounts."

"Why you little-" Uncle Algie began, but Madam Tabernash stopped him with a motion of her hand.

"Young man, you are in no position to negotiate the terms of Renovoenitor to this court. The conditions shall stand: any child brought forth shall inherit both estates at maturity. Is that clear?"

"Yes, I understand," he said calmly, as though he'd expected no concession, but as a Slytherin he'd needed to at least try to gain an advantage, however small. Maybe he'd be satisfied that his mother would be left alone.

Then he spoke, formally and stiffly, as though he'd rehearsed it. "Under the Rite of Renovoenitor, I hereby offer myself to take on the debt demanded by the Longbottoms."

Madam Tabernash removed her glasses and peered down at Draco, reminding me suddenly of Professor McGonagall in her prime. "Be very sure, Mr Malfoy. Once begun, you realize, you will not be permitted to change your mind. All your energies, your powers, your very purpose in living will be focused inwards. And if you're not strong enough to magically prolong your pregnancy, you could die."

Draco paused but never took his eyes from Madam Tabernash's wrinkled face. "I am a Malfoy; I'm strong enough. And you've said it's been done before."

She nodded. "Rarely, and not without cost."

He nodded once, firmly, his lips thinned with determination and his jaw locked. I had seen that look on his face too many times at school to question his determination now.

"And will this satisfy you, Mrs Longbottom?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Then we shall put it to the Wizengamot. Fellow witches and wizards," she began, and I gave myself a mental jerk when I realized we were being called on to vote. "Who accepts the terms of this agreement to allow Mr Draco Malfoy to fulfill his father's debt through Renovoenitor?"

Forty-nine hands were raised, and I added mine to the count.

"Very well. As is customary in these cases, rare though they may be, the rite shall be initiated in the presence of representatives of the Wizengamot. Mr Malfoy and Mrs Longbottom, you may each choose two members as witnesses to ensure that all is done according to the ancient custom."

Nothing prepared me to hear my own name chosen by the Longbottoms. "In honor of his close friendship with our Neville," Mrs Longbottom added.

"But what exactly am I supposed to do?" I whispered to Ephemera.

"Observe the conception, I gather."

"What?" I squawked, ignoring the disapproving heads jerking my way. "But how- Look, I can't- and if Draco's- anyway, who's the father?"

"Why, your friend, Neville, of course. You really need to pay closer attention."

But I knew my attention wasn't the problem. It was my imagination, currently in a state of open rebellion at the bizarre turn of events.

***

We adjourned for lunch, but I had no appetite. The idea that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was going to carry Neville Longbottom's baby was weird enough. That I was called on to witness whatever was going to make that happen had my stomach in knots. I wondered what Malfoy was going through.

I met the other three witnesses at St Mungo's as the dull light of an overcast autumn afternoon faded. I had chosen to walk from the Ministry's offices rather than Apparate, as if crossing the distance physically would give me time to prepare for whatever lay ahead. I couldn't decide whether I was more appalled or curious about what was going to happen; I just knew that I owed Neville, owed his grandmother, to witness this. Perhaps I even owed Malfoy, although I didn't like to think about that.

In the foyer of St Mungo's we were met by a Healer in green robes who eyed my Muggle great coat suspiciously before his gaze snagged on my scar. I sighed and trailed behind the others towards Neville's room. I'd been there before, of course - many times over the last eight months - but each time I found myself more self-conscious as I attempted awkward, one-sided conversation with Neville's unresponsive form. "Hey, Nev," I said quietly, smoothing a rumpled corner of blanket. "It's me, Harry." The others looked away uncomfortably. He's not dead yet, I wanted to say, but it hardly seemed appropriate when the very reason we were there spoke to that eventuality.

At Hogwarts, Neville was always earliest to bed, so I had years of tiptoeing round him while he slept. I usually could get through the visit pretending that nothing much had changed. But this time his room held a second bed, where Malfoy lay immobile, staring up at the ceiling with real fear in his eyes. I almost pitied him until I looked back at Neville and remembered why we were here. The rage I felt at the Malfoys at that moment - at Lucius for doing this to Neville and at Draco for saving him from prison - threatened to overwhelm me, and I fought down the urge to hit something. Or someone.

Madam Tabernash entered, greeted us cordially, and then said to Malfoy. "I know this is frightening for you, but try to relax. This will not harm you."

My nerves were on edge, and I tried not to squirm, reminding myself that this was what Neville's family wanted. I was not going to be squeamish. Anyway, Malfoy had chosen to go through with this. He should've let his father be dragged off to Azkaban where he belonged, and where he was going to end up anyway.

Madam Tabernash cast a series of spells on Malfoy that were no more disturbing than anything I'd watched Madam Pomfrey do to patch me up after Quidditch injuries. I guessed that she was giving Malfoy the organs he needed, but I didn't want to know any more detail than that. Thankfully, she ignored us.

Next she had us form a circle around Neville and Malfoy. "In order to create enough magic to sustain the first moments of life, I'm asking each of you to provide your own magical power," she told us. "The word we'll repeat is augmenis. Normally, two parents would be responsible for maintaining the pregnancy, but that's not the case here. I'm hoping we can give Mr Malfoy a magical boost."

She dimmed the lights and began the spell. As I watched with a mix of wonder and anxiety, thin threads of bright blue light wove themselves around the prone forms of Neville and Malfoy. At her signal, we began to intone augmenis, and the threads grew thicker and brighter. It seemed to me that the magic we were creating together was leaving me with a sense of protection, peace, and tranquility. My earlier anger at Malfoy was gone; all I noticed when I looked at him, wrapped in his radiant cocoon of light, was how beautiful he looked.

Abruptly, Malfoy gave a startled gasp, and the threads of light vanished. For an instant, he looked as if he might cry, but he quickly hid his emotion under a studied blankness.

The room lights returned to normal. "Is it over?" I said, and then felt like a complete imbecile when Madam Tabernash turned to me with a look of amusement. "Yes, Mr Potter. Were you expecting something else?"

"Oh, no, I, uh. That was enough." I stumbled back into the corner, grateful that Neville's dignity was intact, even if mine wasn't.

"Mr Malfoy, I will now cast several restrictive spells upon you that will prevent you from harming either the child you bear or the family you bear it for. When I'm finished, you will be free to return home with our best wishes. Let me add that I think you are a credit to your family. Would that they were worthy of you."

***

I wasted no time bringing the day's events to Hermione and Ron. I told them everything, although I was still sensitive about how serene and contented I'd felt during the conception spell, so I glossed over that part.

I didn't feel so ignorant when even Hermione admitted she hadn't heard of Renovoenitor. She seemed to take the lack personally, and I could see her planning to charge off to the Ministry library later to carry out a retaliatory assault.

"Renovoenitor," she repeated, looking thoughtful. "That sounds pretty drastic. Well, good for the Longbottoms. That'll bring the Malfoys down a peg or ten."

Ron was having a field day with the news. "I can't believe the Ferret is going to be a mother! It's almost too good to be true. Late night feedings and messy nappies are exactly what he deserves. And he'll look like a bloated whale for months!"

"Don't let your mum hear you say that," Hermione said with a laugh, and Ron looked briefly embarrassed.

"Anyway, the best part about this whole thing is how the Longbottoms finally have their revenge on Lucius Malfoy," I said. "It's brilliant! Because for a Malfoy, it all comes down to name, land, and blood, doesn't it? And now Lucius's own heir will give everything over to the Longbottoms."

"How do you mean?" Ron said.

"Well, Draco's baby will be a Longbottom, but it inherits both estates."

Hermione's brow wrinkled as she tried to work out the details. "Who brings up the baby, then? Doesn't Draco?"

"No, the Longbottoms do. Draco's just the incubator. But Madam Tabernash said that even after Draco marries and has his own family, this baby inherits the Malfoy estate. And there's nothing Lucius can do about it."

Ron's smile threatened to split his face in two. "Oh, I wish I'd seen Lucius's face when he cottoned on to that. And when he heard that Draco'd have to be the one to get preggers."

"It was that or Azkaban for him," I said. "Draco could have refused, and then his father would have gone off to prison for failing to pay the debt under Renovoenitor."

"Are you saying the Ferret saved his dad's bacon by agreeing to this whole thing?" Ron asked, his eyes wide.

"Yeah." I suddenly remembered hearing Draco's frightened voice on the Astronomy Tower telling Professor Dumbledore that he had no choice but to protect his family by doing Voldemort's bidding, and I knew exactly why he'd offered to do the unthinkable once more. At that instant, it stopped being so funny.

Even Ron looked chastened. "Well, it just goes to show...be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it."

***

I'll be the first to admit I'm not always up on current events. I get NewsOwl and TimeTurner now that I've joined the Wizengamot, and I read them most of the time, but I usually let the Daily Prophet pile up in my study until the stack topples from its own weight. And then Ron finally insisted that Hermione come with him on the honeymoon they'd postponed more times than I can remember, which meant that she wasn't around for three weeks to fill me in on the news. Otherwise, I might have learned what happened before Hermione's owl came. I like to think I'm the kind of person who'd have done something without being prodded.

But that's water under the bridge.

Not that I was expecting to hear from Hermione that evening - she and Ron had just got back and I assumed they'd still be jetlagged. Even after all these years I still underestimate her enthusiasm for instant action.

Her owl delivered a note that read: "Why didn't you tell me Draco Malfoy is in Azkaban?"

Well, because I didn't know myself. And I wrote back and said so.

She was at Grimmauld Place within the hour, Percy in tow.

"So what did Malfoy do to land himself in Azkaban?" I asked, after she got through berating me for not keeping up with what apparently had been headlining the Daily Prophet for weeks. I was pawing through the back editions and trying to listen to her at the same time.

"That's just it. He didn't do anything. But the minute the ink was dry on the agreement with the Longbottoms, Lucius and Narcissa emptied their Gringotts vault, packed up, and disappeared."

I slammed down the paper in my hand, knocking over the whole enormous stack that Percy narrowly dodged. "Fuck! The Wizengamot should have done something sooner. I knew this would happen! So, Draco helped them escape after all."

"No, I already told you, he didn't," Hermione said. "The Aurors keep saying he wasn't involved."

I sank to my knees to grab handfuls of Daily Prophets and shove them back into a stack. "Then I don't get it. Why is he in Azkaban?"

Percy - who I suspected had had an earful from Hermione already about failing to keep me fully up to speed - coughed slightly. "The Longbottoms want to make sure he doesn't scarper off himself. Flight risk, they call it."

"Azkaban seems a bit drastic, though," I said. "Can't Neville's family just arrange for him to stay with them until, ah, you know-"

Hermione was working herself up into outrage, I could tell. "They could, but they refused. So because there was nowhere else for him to go, he was shipped off to Azkaban. It's disgraceful!"

"At least the Dementors are gone," Percy said. "And we are talking about one of the Malfoys-"

"It's still a prison," Hermione snapped. "And it's still the first place the Ministry thinks to put people it finds inconvenient." She looked at me for support.

"It does seem like he got a rotten deal," I admitted. "Is there any proof he knew his parents were going to run off?"

Percy looked surprised. "Well, actually, I don't think it's much of a surprise that they'd bugger off once Draco agreed to the Longbottom's plan. Considering what Lucius faced, anyway. But Draco must have known he'd be tossed into Azkaban for letting them get away. So they must not have filled him in on their plans, or else he wouldn't have stayed behind."

Hermione said, "I'd heard he'd broken with his father long ago, but after he agreed to the pregnancy, I didn't think-"

"Oh, no, you're right, he has," Percy said.

That made no sense. "Then why'd he go through with this whole thing?"

Percy's face screwed up in bewilderment. Whenever he looked like that, I had to remind myself that wizards weren't merely Muggles with wands. There was a cultural history that sometimes caught me off guard.

"I suppose he recognized he had certain obligations ... to his family."

There was an awkward moment when we all pretended not to be thinking about Percy's own bout at playing the prodigal son. Hermione broke the silence.

"Anyway, this is exactly the kind of thing we need to do away with in the Ministry," she said. "It's still too easy to send someone to Azkaban, without trial or even a good reason, because of who their friends or family are. We need to change that!" By we, I knew she meant me.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Percy asked cautiously.

"Well," she began slowly, and I knew she was working out a way to casually bring up something she expected me to squawk about. "We all seem to agree that Azkaban is nowhere a pregnant father should be - I mean, what kind of antenatal care can they have? And we all agree that this kind of abuse of Ministry power is exactly what we should be fighting, right?"

"Er. Right," I said, with another shove at the piles of paper in front of me.

I could see her sizing me up for the kill. "I was thinking, if someone offered to take Malfoy in, to guarantee he doesn't disappear before the baby's born, then we could probably convince the Ministry to release him. And, ah, there's plenty of room here at Grimmauld Place." She finished with a defiant glare, as if she expected me to leap into battle with full armour in order to crush her argument.

"All right," was all I said.

That took the wind out of her sails in a hurry. Left her speechless, too, which I rarely got a chance to see.

Percy leapt into the breach. "What?"

"All right, I said. If Hermione will come up with our offer, you can take it to whoever's in charge in the morning."

Percy looked flabbergasted. "It might take a bit of time. At least a week, maybe more. You know how slowly these things can go."

"Okay. As soon as you can arrange it, then."

Hermione gave a small laugh and admitted, "Well, Harry. I didn't think you'd buy that so easily."

"I can hardly disagree, though, because you're right. If my being on the Wizengamot is going to be worth half of bugger all, I have to stand up for the rule of law whenever I can."

"Even for Malfoy?" She was testing me, but I'd already worked out this part of her scheme.

"Especially for Malfoy. It's better it is Malfoy."

"I don't follow. Why?" Percy asked.

"Because with Malfoy I can't be accused of using my influence just to help my friends. Let's face it, anyone who knows the history between the two of us would know that charge wouldn't stick." I added the last of the Daily Prophets to my precarious tower and stood up. "Besides, it wouldn't hurt if I keep an eye on Malfoy. For Neville's sake."

Hermione made a wry face. "Well, politically it's the best move you could make right now. But, Harry- Do you think you can go through with it? Maybe Ron and I should move in with you-"

I smiled. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." I tried to put some confidence into my words; not that I was feeling all that confident about the whole idea. But Hermione was right - I had to do something. And I was remembering the desperation I'd heard in his voice the night he'd faced Dumbledore, believing he had no hope and no future, and how he'd dropped his wand when he thought he might after all be given both. Professor Dumbledore had been willing to give him a chance - I owed it to my mentor to do the same.

***

After delegating the Malfoy problem to Hermione and Percy, I pushed it out of my thoughts for the next few weeks. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes I do stupid things like that.

Bustling around my kitchen concocting a not-too-elaborate fry up for breakfast, I was conscious of the pair of doe-brown eyes taking stock of my assets. Thank God Dobby kept me in fresh laundry, and my underpants were both clean and free of holes. Under that heavy-eyed gaze, I deliberately made my movements a little smoother than my usual sleepy stumble from the worktop to the cooker to the fridge.

I was enormously grateful I'd not overdone the vodka at the Genuflecting 'Griff last night. I hadn't exactly planned on a breakfast companion when I hit the club. It'd been a while since I'd managed to meet someone who didn't immediately fall all over himself with slobbering adoration for that public image I never was able to shake off. Or someone who didn't radiate at fifty feet the possibility that he had a homing owl from the Daily Prophet on permanent stand-by in his loft.

I admit I do relax my standards a bit now and again - it gets lonely in this empty house. As long as he's not a Muggle, that is - Grimmauld Place is still too magical to think of bringing someone home who'd no doubt do his nut at Mrs Black's portrait, and I'm still jumpy at the thought of spending the night in a stranger's bed.

"Bacon?" I asked.

"No, thanks."

Either my new friend wasn't a morning person or he was finally giving in to what Ron had dubbed 'Potter-jitters'. He was intently stirring his coffee - black, no sugar - in between bouts of staring at me when he thought I wasn't looking. It was starting to get irritating. But then I remembered he'd had a lot more to drink than I had - maybe offering him a hangover potion wouldn't be amiss.

"Can I get you some... uh... aspirin or anything?"

He looked up sharply and I could see the blush beginning. It crossed my mind that I might have been his first bloke, and he was having regrets in the cold light of day.

"No, I'm all right. I've been worse."

I moved behind him and began an awkward attempt at a neck massage. He relaxed into it with an audible sigh. The contact with his bare skin and the feel of muscle flexing under my hands was causing some interest in other parts of my body. I leaned forward and was just about to sample a taste of what I hoped was still on offer when I heard a commotion in the corridor.

"Harry?" I nearly jumped out of my skin, and jerked my hands away as if I'd been scalded. Percy's voice in the hall was both unexpected and unwelcome at the moment, but I knew better than to pretend not to be at home.

"In the kitchen, Percy," I called, and then in a low voice attempted to reassure my guest. "Family friend. Doesn't quite get the importance of calling ahead."

Percy pitched his voice so I could hear him approaching. "I was hoping you'd be awake, Harry. I suppose I should have given you a warning in advance, but Ron told me you're an early riser and- Oh."

"It's all right, Percy," I said, fighting down my embarrassment. It wasn't as though Percy wasn't aware of my preference for men after my clumsy break-up with his sister a few years ago. "We're just having breakfast. Want some?"

"No. Er. I really should have called first. Look, I'm sorry. My timing is horrible."

The reason that Percy was so sorry poked his tow-blond head around the door. My mild embarrassment became full-blown as I abruptly found myself staring at Draco Malfoy. An unwanted cliché slipped into my head at that moment: "Pride goes before a fall." I consciously scoured my brain for something more fitting, and settled on "Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies."

No one said anything for a long moment, until Percy belatedly started to explain.

"I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to let you know we were coming, Harry. The Ministry approved your request to take in Malfoy just this morning, and I thought- Well, you said that you didn't want him to spend one more day than he had to in Azkaban, so I took it on myself to bring him here as soon as he was released. Look, we can-"

I put on my most welcoming smile, as though I was such a man of the world that being surprised in my kitchen with a barely-dressed paramour was too commonplace to mention. Meanwhile I was frantically trying to remember the bloke's name. Something with an A. Allen? Alex? Andrew, that was it.

"No, it's no big deal," I said with all the confidence I could muster. "Percy Weasley, Draco Malfoy. This is Andrew."

Flashing the brilliant smile that had first caught my eye in the club last night, Andrew said, "Nice to meet you both. But actually, it's Adam."

I could feel the heat radiating off me in waves. "Sorry," I mumbled to Adam. Percy, always the diplomat, wore a stoic look. I expected Malfoy to make a suitably scathing comment, but he looked as indifferent as Percy.

"Weren't you a few years ahead of me at Hogwarts?" Percy said, using his best Ministry manners.

"I think so. Didn't you have a couple of older brothers?'

"Yes, that's right," Percy said. "Er, Harry, I think your breakfast is burning."

"Shit!" The acrid smell of burning eggs hit me with the smoke. I flapped my arms to try to chase out the smoke, but only succeeded in spreading it to every corner of the room. I grabbed the handle of the frying pan, but my wand was still upstairs - I didn't exactly have anywhere to stow it in my current state of undress. Percy, ever vigilant, opened the window, and I flung the whole mess into the shrubbery and slammed the window shut.

"Sorry, Adam," I said, hoping the use of his name didn't sound too obvious after my earlier gaffe. "I have more eggs-"

"No, that's all right. I'm not very hungry, actually. I really should be pushing off. I'll just, ah-"

From the look on his face, more than my breakfast disaster was driving him out the door, and I knew the mention of Azkaban had unnerved him. Fuck, it unnerved me. He managed to put as much space between himself and Malfoy as he scrambled past and out the door. He must have dressed in record time, because it wasn't a minute later that I heard him call out, "I'll just let myself out," followed by the sound of the front door banging shut. I had the unshakeable feeling I'd seen the last of Adam, but at the moment I couldn't bring myself to care.

Percy, bless him, picked up his cue as though I hadn't just made a total fool of myself. "I thought we could let Malfoy get settled a bit and cleaned up, before we all went to the Ministry," he said.

"On a Saturday morning?"

Percy looked apologetic. "We've still got forms to fill out. Tell me you weren't expecting this to be simple, Harry."

"No job is done until the paperwork's finished," I answered, grinning.

"You know it. They'll go over the security issues, the financial stuff, and give him his Cohibendus wand."

"His what?"

"Well, the Ministry won't allow him to have his own wand, of course. A Cohibendus wand will let him cast the spell he needs to keep the baby healthy. And do a few personal and household spells, so he's not bothering you all the time for those."

I imagined just how well Malfoy had taken the news that his own wand was off-limits. At the moment, he was pretending not to care, but I knew differently. Still, he wasn't supposed to do much magic, so it might not matter as much.

Percy swiped a cold piece of toast from the table and turned to go. "I'll head over to the Ministry now and take care of as much of it as I can. Why don't you both meet me there in an hour?"

"All right."

After Percy left, I willed myself to glance at Malfoy, who still hadn't uttered a peep.

"A shower would be nice," was the first thing I heard out of him in over seven years. It seemed laughably anticlimactic.

"Oh yes, of course. I'll show you, come on. Where's your stuff?"

There was a long pause.

"I didn't bring anything," Malfoy finally admitted, and he looked chagrined. "I don't have-"

Stupid of me not to know that - he'd come straight from Azkaban. "I'll lend you some of my things, then."

It had been a lot easier to cope with the idea of sheltering Malfoy when I'd kept it abstract. I'd had Dobby prepare a bedroom as though I were expecting a stranger, a friend of a friend who needed a place to crash on his way through town. Now he was here, in the flesh, in my home, and he was no stranger but an unwelcome reminder of a part of my past I'd never come to grips with. I couldn't help feeling edgy about the coming months.

Still, he hadn't ridiculed me for the scene in the kitchen - yet, anyway - and he was following me up the stairs quietly enough. I really wished I'd been wearing more than a pair of black underpants, but it was my wandless state that had me jittery even when I knew he was unarmed.

I detoured into my bedroom, conscious of my unmade bed. Malfoy's eyes strayed in the same direction, as if he was scanning for evidence of what Andrew - Adam - and I had done there. Any moment now, I expected him to launch into a slur about how he didn't expect to find the great Harry Potter as someone's gay fling, and I was mentally rehearsing fragments of my righteous defense as I shoved on a pair of trousers and deliberately retrieved my wand.

His silence was making me tense, so I decided to force the issue. I gathered up some clean clothes for him in one hand, and ever-so-casually turned to him and dropped my other hand on his arm. I expected him to squirm away, or scream an insult, something, but he was utterly motionless under my touch. If anything, I might have felt him lean into it just a bit.

This was my first chance to take a closer look at Malfoy. I couldn't help checking for evidence of his odd condition - I'd never seen many pregnant women, let alone a pregnant man - but whatever signs he had weren't obvious, at least not to me. He mostly looked pale and exhausted, and I felt a prickle of worry.

Then he looked up at me, really stared, and the ghost of whoever I expected to see - my old school nemesis, or the cocky boy who'd challenged Dumbledore on the Tower, or the sneaky coward I'd imagined he'd become - vanished. I found myself staring into the eyes of a stranger, a man with the hopeless expression of someone who feels the decay of prison still clinging to him, and I had the surreal feeling that I'd never met him before in my life. This Malfoy was nobody I knew.

I let my hand fall away. "Your room's down here," I said, more confused by Malfoy than ever. As I led him down the hall, I thought Politics makes strange bedfellows. And winced at the accidental image.

I was trying for normal conversation, but I'd forgotten that we'd never had one of those in our years of bickering and hatred. It was an unknown language, like trying out Chinese in the Beijing airport with no phrase book.

"Dobby's got a room ready for you," I told him. "You can have any of the others, though, if you'd rather - no one else is living here at the moment. It's your choice."

For the first time I saw anger flicker across his face. "My choice? Nothing's ever my choice, Potter. I stopped pretending it was years ago."

***

I spent hours before sleep that night practising the roles I imagined Malfoy would assign me, and those I'd insist on instead.

In my mind, I tried on my old role of nemesis, which used to fit me like a glove but frankly bored me now. I couldn't see either one of us sinking to the level where petty insults and childish hexes would do for us. We were adults now, and adults had much cleaner ways of leaving wounds that were invisible.

It's not as though I still see the universe in absolutes. My black-and-white world vanished the day I killed Vincent Crabbe. I told myself it was necessary, and it was. That didn't make it any more honorable than what Malfoy'd tried to do during our sixth year. Even he had a crisis of conscience when push came to shove: he'd lowered his wand, something I never even considered as I confronted Crabbe.

Perhaps I'd become a shining example of how the world was changed. By accepting him in my home, I'd demonstrate the peace, love, and brotherhood that had come to the wizarding world since Voldemort's death. Which was rubbish, of course. Still, the new direction, while maybe not 90 degrees, was oblique enough to be called better. I could probably do a halfway decent job of faking my idealism, at least enough to drag Malfoy along for a while. I could become a model of tolerance for him. Maybe even become a wise friend, a confidant.

What I didn't expect to become was irrelevant.

For the first few days, our entire interaction consisted of me explaining the house rules and him nodding and taking it in as quietly as black absorbs light. He was polite, withdrawn, almost monk-like in his reserve. Mostly he ignored me; if anyone else stopped by, he'd disappear until they'd gone.

I'd decided that we couldn't talk about the future without first talking about the past. But he refused any of my openings to discuss the past, so we didn't talk at all.

It annoyed the fuck out of me.

Not that I wanted him to behave the way I remembered - not exactly. But this dramatic change left me off-balance. I mean, his whole life had been reduced to this house and me. In his place, I would have been pestering the living daylights out of him for news, information, gossip, anything. I wondered what Azkaban had done to him - did six weeks in prison, even the new, improved, Dementor-free prison, leave you with this unnatural blankness, or was it the result of the years before then, too? Where had he been hiding all this time?

So I poked at him; of course I did. I haven't changed that much. I told myself it was for his own good, and that excuse wasn't new either. But even though I didn't have Hermione's knack for dissecting people with a swift slice of the knife, I still recognized depression when I saw it.

He resisted. I jabbed harder.

Finally, one afternoon a few weeks later - and to my utmost satisfaction - he snapped.

"Exactly what do you want from me, Potter?" he snarled. "What will satisfy you? Anything?"

I almost pretended not to know what he was talking about, then I changed my mind. "I'm just trying to figure you out, Malfoy. What happened to finally shut you up?"

He looked surprised by the question, then his eyes narrowed and he turned away, muttering, "None of that matters any more."

"What doesn't matter?"

I'd finally made him angry, and he stopped and turned back to glare at me. I was secretly pleased to find that he hadn't changed as much as all that, either. Malfoy without that hair-trigger anger was too foreign for me to get my mind round. I felt like we were finally back on comfortably rocky ground.

"Come on, Potter, don't be thick. Here I am, just out of Azkaban. I've no friends, my father sold me off to the Longbottoms to save his own arse, and now he's fuck knows where and gone for good."

"But that wasn't your-"

"Meanwhile, I've got this parasite sucking me dry of all my magic, a fucking heir for a boy I couldn't even stand, this thing that's taking away my name and my body and my … my freedom and maybe even my life!"

The way he dismissed Neville that way made my own anger flare. "Look, if your father hadn't cast that curse, Neville could have had his own heirs. And you didn't have to cover for him-"

"Oh, of course, because I have so many choices. Right, Potter? All these spells they've cast on me to make sure I go through with this are just for show." He fixed me with an indignant scowl, challenging me.

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, my mistake. You must have meant that I choose to start every morning chucking my guts into your toilet so that you can gloat over how far I've fallen, because I'm such a bloody masochist."

That stunned me. "What are you talking about?"

"By any yardstick you come up with, you won. There, I've said it, okay? Fucking got that? You won! Did you really need to bring me here to rub my face in it?"

"That's not why you're here." I put a hand on his sleeve without thinking, and he jerked away as violently as if I'd struck him.

"No? Then why, Potter? You're always after me to spill my secrets, but I don't ever hear you spilling yours. Exactly what do you want from me?"

I didn't know what to say. Until that instant, I'd glossed over the fact that I was taking advantage of him, although with the best intentions, to score a victory in the Ministry. Now I saw that I was only the latest in a string of people using him to get something they wanted. He'd been taught his only value was as someone else's tool, and that his only choice was to sell himself as dearly as he could. Now he was demanding to know the cost this time.

"Neville wouldn't have wanted you in Azkaban," I finally said, trying to buy time. "And he's my friend." I was surprised when he seemed to accept that. His anger was melting like spring snow back into that passivity that masked what I'd finally recognized: despair.

I couldn't help thinking how what goes around comes around.

"Look," he said, "I never wanted to argue with you."

That was so outrageous I couldn't do anything but laugh. "You'll excuse me for not noticing that before."

He looked at me blankly before I saw his face relax slightly. "Let me rephrase that: I don't want to argue with you now. We're both stuck here for the time being. Let's just try to keep out of each other's hair, all right?"

The problem with that was I still couldn't tell whether, in the past seven years, he'd grown up or given up. But I couldn't keep hounding him in order to watch him react; he'd called my bluff.

"All right," I said, knowing that there's more than one way to skin a cat. I felt as though I should say something more; something conciliatory. "Look, I'm sorry you feel that way about being here."

He looked at me for a long time while I felt myself being judged and found wanting.

"I don't think you know how I feel," he eventually said, his voice distant and empty.

***

I've always been prone to vivid dreams, even before Voldemort messed around in my brain. Hermione would probably tell me it's because of my deprived childhood. So it didn't surprise me the next morning to wake up after a rather graphic and erotic dream about Malfoy. I cleaned up the evidence and told myself it was only because he was someone new living in my house. Nothing more. I'd had accidental dreams before about the most surprising people; everyone does. I'd feel awkward around him for a day or two, but those arousing images would fade soon enough, and then everything would be back to normal.

Except it didn't quite work out that way.

My awkward feelings lingered. I found myself watching for him as he passed through the corridors. I stared at him during our silent meals, knowing he was aware of it but unable to stop myself. And the more I watched him, the more I wondered: about his past, about his choices, about his future. It was clear I didn't know what was going on in his head these days, and I began to doubt that I'd ever known him at all.

I took pains, though, to keep my physical reactions secret. Because if I'd learned anything about my dreams, it was that they should never be mistaken for reality.

***

I was unexpectedly surprised when Malfoy bothered to ask me if he could invite Pansy Parkinson - Pansy Goldstein now - for a visit.

"Of course, Malfoy. Why would you think I'd care?"

"This is your home, not mine," he said. "You never seemed too friendly to Slytherins before."

"That was a long time ago. You don't expect me to hang on to grudges from school, do you?"

He eyed me carefully. "I never know what to expect from you."

I met Pansy at the door several days later, while Malfoy was indisposed. "Where's Draco?" was her only greeting.

It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize for not being him. Despite what I'd told Malfoy, I wasn't comfortable around her. "Upstairs. He'll be right down."

She took it in stride with the brassy confidence I'd remembered. She hadn't bothered dressing up for Malfoy, wearing ironed denim jeans and a jumper, with a green scarf threaded through her short bob. I'd never seen her in Muggle clothing before, but the change suited her somehow.

"Well, well, Potter. So did you run out of Gryffindors to save? Starting on Slytherins now?" she said, but she was smiling and belatedly holding out her hand to me. Awkwardly, I gave it a gently squeeze and escorted her past the portrait of Mrs Black, who glowered but kept mercifully silent.

"Nice to see you, too, Parkin- er."

"Call me Pansy, it's easiest. If you call me Goldstein, I'll be looking around for Anthony."

"Right. Congratulations, by the way." I was still trying to piece together how the two of them had ever connected. Not that I was much good at predicting who'd eventually pair off - Ron and Hermione were my first and only success in that department.

"Thanks. My family's still having a hard time accepting the idea of me married to a Ravenclaw." Her superior smile was getting on my nerves. "Still, it's not nearly so odd as what Draco's gone and done - made himself history's first pregnant poof."

All words left me and I gaped at her. Finally, I stuttered through, "Uh, that's- He's. What did you say?"

She scowled at me with an expression of utter disdain. "Oh come off it, Potter, don't pretend you didn't know-" She leaned in a little bit, then her eyes widened. "Oh God, you didn't know, did you? Oh, bloody hell!" She let out a rather undignified guffaw.

"No. I didn't," I said with as much dignity as I could scrape together. "He never mentioned it."

"Look, Potter, you're the last person I'd peg as a queer-hater."

"No, I'm not. It's no problem." Although it was, except not the way Pansy was thinking.

"Good. Because I hear rumors that keep popping up about you, and how the great Harry Potter never seems to have a girlfriend-"

"Pansy!" Malfoy stuck his head round the door. "I thought I heard you. God, it's good to see you!"

She squealed and launched herself at him. "Draco, you bastard! I've missed you so much. Let me look at you - wait a minute, you don't look pregnant. Where've you been - throwing up in the loo?"

Listening behind doors wasn't so much a social sin as a way to survive at the Dursleys, so I didn't feel particularly guilty as I lingered in the corridor. Pansy was chattering away, her voice a perfect imitation of a Sloane Ranger drawl.

"So tell me everything, darling. Starting with why on earth you let yourself be talked into coming to live with the great and good Harry bloody Potter, of all people! He did turn out to be fanciable, though, I'll grant you. He always seemed so insipid at school."

"Given the choice between here or Azkaban, I'd think it was obvious," he said dryly. "Unless you're offering to put me up?"

She gave a nervous laugh. "Don't be silly, only Potter's name is keeping the Ministry from sending you back. I couldn't possibly-"

"Of course not."

"Oh, don't be like that, Draco." There was a pause that sounded awkward even from my side of the door. "All right, we won't talk about Potter. Tell me why you agreed to go through with this charade for the Great Bastard."

"You know me well enough. I didn't do it for Father."

"Well, I thought it seemed awfully forgiving of you, as much as you hate him. But lately I've thought I don't really know you at all. So?"

"Don't interrogate me, Pansy. It's not polite."

"This isn't an interrogation, darling, this is friendly concern. Just because you couldn't be bothered to keep in touch with me doesn't mean I didn't worry myself to death over you. But I'm not asking about that. Do you hear me asking? Have the words 'where have you've been hiding all these years' been uttered from these lips, Draco? No. Because I'm being polite."

Another deadly silence. "I did it for my mother. I knew she couldn't cope with him being in Azkaban. Not again. She was barely hanging on last time, and now she's just on edge constantly, waiting. He's going to end up there soon enough. I just thought she deserved as much time with him as I could bargain for her."

"God, Draco, that was no bargain! This is one hell of a price to pay!"

I heard a creak of the old chair near the fireplace. "Where's the sodding house-elf? We need some tea."

Pansy laughed. "Tea? I think whiskey sounds far nicer, don't you?"

"I can't, myself. Part of the restrictions on me."

I heard the crack of Apparition followed by Dobby's voice, then Malfoy's request.

"All right, Pansy, enough about me. You can probably fill in the blanks from the Daily Prophet. Tell me about you and Goldstein. Is he rich? Handsome? Good in bed?"

"Oh, Draco, you horrible cad," she trilled.

I had no interest in hearing about Pansy or her husband, so I stole away, but I couldn't get my mind off what she'd let slip by calling Malfoy a poof. Why'd Malfoy play his cards close to his chest about that, of all things? Did he think it gave him one up on me to keep that hidden? I tried to focus on letting myself get worked up over his secrecy. That way I could avoid thinking about how I kept dreaming of him and waking up hard.

***

The next afternoon, the door to the study swung open and Malfoy stood there, looking thin and waif-like in the white button-down shirt and trousers he'd scavenged from who knows where. Although I saw nothing waif-like in the look in his eye.

"Pansy told you, didn't she?"

"Told me what?"

"Don't play at being coy. That we're practicing the same religion. So to speak."

I carefully turned the page of my book, then slowly looked up at him. "Yes."

"I thought you were acting strangely. Well, don't."

"Come off it, Malfoy. As though I care who you shag."

"Oh, right, because I have such a parade of men in and out of my room-"

I was in no mood to be judged, especially by him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, I'm not the one shagging boys whose names I can't be arsed to remember-"

It had only taken six weeks for him to finally say it.

"That's none of your business," I said, exactly the way I'd practiced it - cold and collected - and returned to my book.

"No, you're right. I don't care if you play musical beds. Bring a new one home every night. It's your house."

My eyes skipped over exactly ten words before I answered with practiced condescension, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous."

And just like that, the conversation stopped dead.

Malfoy was very carefully not looking at me. "Let's just drop this whole thing, shall we?

"Fine with me. I wasn't the one who brought it up in the first place."

At first, I thought he would leave in a huff, soothing his anger with a slammed door, to nurse the sting of his defeat in his own space. Instead, he crossed the room to drop carelessly into an armchair, and I watched him the whole time. I didn't remember his walk as quite this sensuous, as if his ligaments had stretched and his centre of balance had shifted. I was sure it had something to do with the changes his body was going through - I never noticed it at school.

"I don't believe how bizarre my life is," he said, almost to himself.

I looked past his obvious frustration with me and let the words sink in. I couldn't help it - I wasn't able to hold back my laughter. He stared at me as though I'd gone crazy, but his face suddenly transformed, and he too began to laugh. Incredulous peals of mirth lightened his whole expression and made him look relaxed and utterly appealing.

Abruptly - shockingly - I knew I was in trouble. My own laughter evaporated.

***

One afternoon, I came home a little early from the Wizengamot, but Malfoy wasn't in his usual spot in the library. Dobby appeared in that instant, though, babbling so frantically that it took me a while to understand what he was saying.

"Master Draco Malfoy won't wake up," he shrieked, and I lit out on a dead run.

"Shit, shit, shit!" I said, Dobby at my heels. I'd noticed Malfoy growing thinner and paler day by day, but I didn't let myself think there was anything really wrong. If anything had happened to him, I'd never forgive myself for being so oblivious.

I found him stretched out on his bed, fully dressed, which gave me a bit of hope. "Dobby, how long has he been this way?" I asked.

"Dobby thinks since after tea. Oh, Dobby is so glad Harry Potter is home!"

I had both hands on Malfoy's shoulders, shaking him gently at first, and then harder when he didn't wake up. Finally, I thought I heard him mumble, "So tired," on an exhaled breath.

My wand was in my hand before I even realized it, and I was scrambling to remember the spell we'd done for him in St Mungo's to help conserve his strength.

"Aumens ... augmens. ... augmenis, that's it!" I slid further onto the bed. "Augmenis."

I could feel my panic fade as the spell took hold, replaced with the barest suggestion of the contentment and peace I'd remembered from before.

"Come on, Malfoy, say it with me. Augmenis."

"Aaaahhh," was all he could manage.

"Augmenis, just say it. Please, Malfoy. God, you can't die on me, please."

"Augmenis," he finally whispered, almost too faint to hear.

"That's right. Again, come on, let's say it together. Augmenis." The spell was growing stronger, at least for me, and I prayed it was helping him, too. His voice sounded marginally louder as he repeated the word, and I hoped it wasn't just wishful thinking that made me think so.

"Wand," he croaked. I fumbled in the pocket I knew he usually kept it in and wrapped his fingers around it. Together we repeated the spell, and now I knew for certain it was working - his color was creeping back into his cheeks, his voice was stronger, and the spell's tranquility had us both transfixed.

Eventually he turned to me, lying beside him - and when I'd done that was beyond my recollection - and said, "I think that's probably enough."

"Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much. Thank you."

"You're welcome." My brain was telling me I should be embarrassed to find myself in Malfoy's bed with our fingers entwined together around his wand and mine, but the spell had worked its magic on both of us, and I only felt peaceful and unworried.

Although when we woke up there together, hours later, that embarrassment made itself quite plain.

***

Something changed between us after that. Not that either one of us would admit that we had become friends - it wasn't that - but we settled into a simpler give-and-take that was almost enjoyable.

I lectured him on trying to eat more, and he agreed that it wouldn't make him any less of a Malfoy if I helped him out with augmenis from time to time. I think that episode scared him enough to listen to me for once.

Whatever attraction I felt towards Malfoy, whatever desire my treacherous dreams created, I carefully kept to myself. Nothing good would ever come of it, I was sure. Maybe I should have spent time looking for someone more appropriate who would take my mind off my strange new fantasy, but I was too busy. That's what I told myself.

I dragged home a misshapen Christmas tree with three days to spare before Christmas Eve, carting it into the study and leaving behind a thick trail of dry needles. Hermione had passed on to me the worst of the Weasleys' hand-me-down ornaments, and I browbeat Malfoy into helping me decorate it.

"Damn, Potter, could these things be any uglier?" he groused at me, gesturing with a gluey pine cone that left his hands splotched with red glitter.

"Beggars can't be choosers," I retorted, and paused to watch him stretch languidly to add a badly cut-out foil star to a high branch. Not that watching Malfoy was anything new - just the reason behind it. No reason not to enjoy the view even though I wasn't about to act on it.

"As if you couldn't afford to buy your own. Or are you afraid you'd look too gay if you made a Christmas tree look nice?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

"You wish," he said carelessly and tossed a clump of tinsel at me. I quickly squelched a dream image of him that rose up unbidden.

Pansy had sent him a present earlier that morning, and Malfoy was being his usual impatient self.

"Why should I wait? I want to open it now," he said, pouting like a little kid while I tried not to find it likeable.

"Why didn't she bring it in person?" I said. "You did tell her that she's welcome here, didn't you? I don't want her to think I-"

"Not everything's about you, Potter," he said roughly. "Her husband objects to me. I'm now off limits."

I was floored. "That's ridiculous. Why?"

"Do you need a list? I could say he's jealous because Pansy was my best friend at school. Or maybe it's because my father's an escaped Death Eater. Because it certainly couldn't be anything as trite as the unwed and pregnant thing, could it?"

"I never liked Goldstein much anyway," I said lamely.

He looked at me with the trace of his old smirk. "You're so predictable, Potter. What does it matter to you?"

"It's not right, that's all. Look, are you going to open that or not?"

He blinked up at me as though he'd expected me to talk him out of it. "Well, okay then." But he only picked listlessly at the elaborate red and green bow, as if he thought this would be his only gift and that his Christmas would be over before it started. But I'd managed to buy a few things for him that I thought he needed, so I said, "Go on. One early present won't ruin your holiday."

With that, he yanked on the bow until it snapped. He took a moment to add it to the mishmash of hideous decorations on the tree. I expected him to rip off the paper next, but he took out his wand and said, "Patesco." Nothing happened.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Looks like the Ministry didn't think anyone would bother giving me presents."

The despondency in his voice made me feel worse than I expected. "Just rip it open, then. That's more fun anyway."

He slipped his index finger under the paper and tore it away.

"Patricia Wigans, Knightsbridge," he read from the box lid. "Never heard of them. Still, nothing but the best for Pansy. Good thing Goldstein's loaded." He opened the lid.

I couldn't see what was in the box, but I could see the shock on his face and the way he was fighting not to lose control.

"What? What did she give you?" I imagined some horrid practical joke; something distasteful and offensive.

"Me? Nothing."

With shaky hands, Malfoy lifted up a tiny snowsuit, creamy pale and soft-looking, dotted with pale blue embroidered snowflakes. There were little sheepskin boots, impossibly small mittens, dainty knitted caps, petite rompers in pastel greens and yellows, and downy flannel blankets. Each item was exquisite, each obviously expensive, and each a knife stab direct to Malfoy's heart.

"Oh, God," I said. I didn't know what else to say. Aunt Petunia had always lectured anyone who'd listen that it was horribly vulgar, not to mention unlucky, to give baby clothes as gifts before the child was born. Pansy was either oblivious, or it was one more difference between her and Aunt Petunia.

"Happy Christmas," he whispered in a horribly choked voice, his eyes squeezed tight.

Until that instant, I'd never let myself believe that Malfoy's condition was real. It was an abstraction to me, an illness that made him queasy in the morning and irritable at night. I suddenly guessed that he'd been thinking the same way. Maybe that's the only way he could think about it.

Now it was all too incredibly real. Malfoy was going to have a baby, and worse, no one really gave a damn. Not the Ministry, for whom he was only a problem to be dealt with. Not his parents, who'd used him to cover their own tracks to escape to their carefree new life. Not even the Longbottoms, who'd kept clear of him these past weeks and let him know they were only interested in their heir after the fact.

And, until now, not even me.

I took Pansy's offerings from his lap and laid them back in the box, set it on the floor under our hideous tree, and sat down on the sofa next to him. He was struggling not to fall apart in front of me; the effort was making him tremble. I couldn't think of what else to do, so I ran what I hoped was a comforting hand up and down his arm. I was unable to shake the memory of the only other time I'd seen him cry, in the loos at Hogwarts where I'd left him bleeding to death on the floor.

"It'll be okay," I told him, knowing that for the bullshit it was. But the hope behind it was sincere, and he seemed to hear that much, although he still couldn't speak. He buried his face in my shoulder.

"Look, do you want to get out of here?" I said. "You've been stuck in this house for days on end, no wonder you're depressed."

"Where?" His voice was muffled by my shirt, and his fingers gripped my sleeves a little too tightly. I didn't disturb them.

"I heard about a club, near the British Library. We could go dancing." I couldn't believe I was offering, and expected him to turn me down flat. He didn't disappoint me.

"Not on your nelly, Potter. I will not subject myself to the ridicule of the entire Wizarding world. Don't be ridiculous."

"It's a Muggle club. No one will know us there."

"Anyway, I can't drink," was his next objection. "It's one of the restrictions."

"Not a problem."

"And I can't Apparate, either."

"We'll take a cab."

He pulled back and gave me a blank stare. "Don't you think even Muggles will notice-" His hand made a sweeping gesture to his stomach, which had barely begun to swell.

"No. For one thing, no one would even imagine it. They'd think it was a beer belly, maybe-" his expression darkened - "Not that you look fat, not at all. You look - all right," I finished. I caught myself before I said something embarrassing.

His eyes fell on the tree, and the box, and then me. "Okay."

Popstarz was busy, but it was Friday night in London. Malfoy and I were pressed on all sides by the crowd at the bar. He seemed dazed by the flashing lights and loud music, not to mention the sweaty, overheated bodies around us. I tucked my hand around his waist and pulled him closer to shield him from all those jabbing elbows and hands as we tried to catch the barman's attention.

Malfoy's beacon-bright hair did the trick, and the barman nodded at him.

"I'll just have pumpkin juice," he said, and I winced. Wherever he'd spent his years since Hogwarts, it apparently hadn't been anywhere Muggle. The barman's eyes narrowed as he pegged Malfoy as one more smart-arse he'd have to endure before last orders.

"Make that a Virgin Mary," I shouted at him over the noise. "And a scotch."

Malfoy shot me a filthy look. "Is that some kind of sick joke, Potter?"

"No. It's tomato juice and some other things you'll like." I leaned in so that I was speaking directly in his ear. He smelled of the Palmolive soap I usually bought. I liked it on him. "Muggles don't drink pumpkin juice."

He flashed a nervous smile back at me. "Then they don't know what they're missing."

We were handed our drinks. "Come on, let's get out of this crowd," I said, steering him away from the bar.

"I can't, I think my shoes are stuck to the floor," he grumbled, but followed me upstairs.

Luck was with us, and we snagged a tiny table in the Eighties Room that was just being vacated. An animated group of women nearby checked us out thoroughly, approved - especially of Malfoy, it seemed - and nodded at me with knowing smiles. I noticed they wore near-identical spiked and dyed haircuts, as if they shared the same retro stylist like a promiscuous lover. Cuts by Casanova.

"You didn't tell me we were coming to a gay club," Malfoy said over the blare of Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

"I thought you'd assume. Anyway, from the look of it, lots of other people come here."

He looked awkward about something, opened his mouth, closed it, fiddled with the celery in his glass, and finally blurted, "Look, I won't be offended if you see someone here you'd like to get to know better. Just come up with a code word, and when you want me to get lost, you can-"

"That's not necessary."

He went on as though I hadn't said anything. "It should be a word that wouldn't come up otherwise. Quidditch, how's that?"

"You can't get home by yourself, Malfoy," I said neutrally.

"If you fetched me one of those taxi - ah - things, I think I could."

"Look, do you want to find someone-"

He laughed. "Fuck, no! That's the last thing I need right now. I was just- I mean, I know you probably want to-"

The volume of the music racheted up abruptly and I had to practically shout my answer. "No, I wouldn't. I just want to go home with you."

Too late I realized what I'd said. His eyes grew wide, and even one of the women ogling him from the next table gave me a saucy thumbs-up over his shoulder, which thankfully he didn't see. I almost launched into a muddled retraction, but then I thought better of it. Hell, it was what I wanted; why pretend different? Now I waited to see how he'd react.

He took the coward's way out and acted as though my remark was innocent, but I'd seen his eyes. "So are we going to dance or not?" he said to his glass.

"We can dance if you want to." I waited a beat, then said, "Is that an invitation?"

He looked at me and smiled. "No, actually, this is an invitation: would you care to dance with me, Potter?"

"I'd be delighted. And, by the way, it's Harry."

Not until we were out on the dance floor did I start to worry that I was facing a temptation I might not be able to withstand. I'd seen Malfoy dancing at the Yule Ball in fourth year, but those sedate waltzes didn't compare to these mesmerizing gyrations to George Michael belting out 'I Want Your Sex'. My own attempt at dancing was no more than an erratic shuffle, but I could manage to keep the beat. What he was doing had spurred a hundred scandalized sermons on the sins of pop music and the carnal desires of the flesh.

He looked happy, though, for the first time since he'd come to Grimmauld Place, so I resigned myself to burning secretly.

Mercifully, the song ended, and the one that followed was much slower. He stopped dancing - thank you, God - and looked at me oddly. The crowd hemmed us in so that we couldn't escape easily, so I gave up whatever hope I had of staying sane and put my arms stiffly around his shoulders. We began to sway, with as much distance between us as I could muster while still technically dancing together.

I felt him lean into me, slowly at first. As he relaxed to the music, more and more of his body pressed against mine. I'd been half-hard since the last dance, but the sensation of him against me - and the warmth of the scotch I'd drunk too fast - had brought me to full arousal, and I didn't want him to find out.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. One last turn brought us together and my secret was out. And in that instant that I learned that he harbored a secret, too. The feel of his cock squeezing against mine had my full attention.

I must have thought about the idiocy of doing what I was about to do, but scientists haven't invented a device to measure that brief a moment. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, said that ridiculous voice in my head.

I slid my hands down the length of his back to settle on his arse and pulled him harder against me. I could feel the smooth outward curve of his belly where it rested against my hip, which was odd but not at all uncomfortable, at least for me. He tipped his head back just the slightest bit, enough to expose the graceful line of his neck to me. I didn't even try to resist - my mouth was on him instantly, and his sigh only encouraged me to explore more fully.

"God, Harry, what are we doing?" he whispered.

I liked that he'd said we. If I was going to Hell, I didn't want to go there by myself. "I don't know. But we probably shouldn't do it here."

Easier said than done. I wasn't going to be satisfied until my mouth had tasted his, and I couldn't wait until we were anywhere else. And once I tasted him, I thought about the next course, and then we really had to get out of here.

"Let's go," I said and edged him off the dance floor towards the door. I left him there and went back to our table, drained the last dregs of my scotch, and gathered our coats to leave.

I don't think the woman at the next table meant to catch my eye, but she gave me a cheeky grin and said, "Well, love, that didn't take you very long."

"No, not long at all," I replied, knowing I was flushed with arousal and fighting back a grin. "Only thirteen years."

***

We happened upon the only taxi driver in all of London who was interested in deep conversation. The inside of the taxi bore an evangelical message in the top left hand corner of the partition between us that warned "In case of Rapture, this vehicle will be unmanned". I only hoped that God would postpone the big event at least until I got Malfoy home.

"The Lord sent me to London to do his work," the driver told us with a broad grin as he noticed me scanning the message. Up till then, I hadn't realized that the Lord ran a fleet of London black cabs. "Are you young men washed in the Blood of the Lamb?"

"I beg your pardon?" Malfoy said, looking a little ill.

"Are you saved?"

"No," he answered, glancing at me with an enigmatic smile. "But I'm thinking that might change fairly soon."

"Really?" I said. "The scales are falling from my eyes, too."

The driver kept up a nonstop riff of Biblical verses intermixed with comments about cricket, leaving me confused about which religious tenets were being preached, and whether or not the Second Coming called for the appearance of Jesus Christ of Nazareth or Brian Laras of the West Indies cricketers. Meanwhile, I struggled with my new desire to let my hands wander over Malfoy's body. I expected the driver would have had a lot to say about that, including the word 'abomination'. It was the longest ride of my life, and my nerves were fraying from the delay, as I wondered if Malfoy had come to his senses yet. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life," the driver assured us, an opinion I felt matched my mood entirely.

We finally made it to Grimmauld Place, and I paid the driver. Not until he was out of sight did I let myself touch Malfoy once more, curling an arm around him as we moved together up the walk. I loved the way he leaned up against me to whisper, "Hurry up."

Waiting had done nothing to lessen my hunger for him; if anything, the long drive home had made my desire fiercer. It was my own fear of what I'd face later that kept me in check as I closed the door behind us.

He was on me in an instant, flattening me against the wall with the weight of his body. Mrs Black, for the first time in memory, was speechless.

"Not here," I said into his hair as his hands fumbled with my top button. "Let's go-"

We managed a staggered walk into the nearest room, stopping once for a kiss that nearly had me coming right then with its intensity. "Wait- Slow down," I said and didn't mean it. If we went any slower, I was afraid I'd start listening to those warnings my brain was firing at me like bullets.

I had the edge of his jumper in my hands and was edging it up as far as I could between his hands that were clutching my shirt. At length I made myself step back, rucked up the soft material, and had it over his head and off faster than I'd ever undressed anyone before. He attacked the remaining buttons of my shirt and had his mouth pressed against the hollow of my throat before the fabric ever hit the floor.

We'd been stumbling around the room like a couple of moths confounded by lamplight, and I finally pinned him one-handed against the arm of the sofa. His breathing was already ragged in my ear, and it sent tingling waves right down my spine. My voice had gone to inarticulate grunts as we roughly thrust against each other in a helpless frenzy.

"Harry, Harry," he was whispering. I don't know what I was answering, probably something in angel tongues that only our cab driver could interpret.

His hands circled my waist, then slipped beneath my waistband and tugged at the material, mostly without result. My own hands were wedged in his back pockets, gripping him tight against me, rocking, and the friction was driving me to the edge. I spread my thighs around him; my knees banged against the sofa.

Somehow, we had unzipped our flies, and then I had him in my hand, feeling that hot skin in my grip like it belonged there. He'd tipped himself back, and now he opened his eyes and looked at me, a long, searching look with an unexpected softness. Whatever he saw in my face reassured him somehow, and we were back to our former ferocity, kissing and biting each other's mouths, riding each other. Now his hands were on me, too. The instant I felt him squeeze and push back my foreskin, I was coming, I couldn't stop it, hot and messy and ohmygoddraco, and he was saying something in my ear, and I never knew what it was.

I barely recovered before I was on him again, this time pulling his trousers all the way down to his shoes. He had his hand over mine on his cock, and he was making these wonderful noises with every thrust. I felt him freeze in my arms, and then he was spurting in my hand; just watching him - the edges of his teeth catching his lower lip and that expression of half-pain, half-bliss - would have sent me off again if it had been possible.

"Oh, God, so good," he said, and let himself fall back over the sofa arm, dragging me with him. I was careful not to land on top of him. Our combined weight shifted the sofa enough to jar the table at the other end and sent a lamp crashing to the floor, startling us both.

"That's my cue to say I never liked that lamp much, anyway," I said, and he chuckled.

Suddenly, we both heard an unwelcome voice shrieking from the doorway. Dobby was staring at us in alarm, his eyes nearly obscured by the heap of our discarded clothing in his arms. "Draco Malfoy! What is you doing? Get off Harry Potter!"

I felt Malfoy begin to shake, and I finally caught on that he was laughing. "I think I just did," he said, just loud enough for me to hear.

I scrambled to untangle our legs and sit up, but Malfoy, probably still boneless, wasn't letting me move. "No, Dobby, it's all right," I said. "It's not what you think."

"Depends on what he thinks."

"You're not helping," I muttered in his ear, but I couldn't be angry with him after what we'd just done. "Dobby, Malfoy's not hurting me. We're just ... um ..."

"Dobby, Potter and I are fucking. Now go away."

There was a long silence, and I finally opened my eyes.

"Oh, Dobby sees now." Dobby was looking blandly at us, unnaturally calm about the whole thing. He glanced at the broken lamp, made it disappear with the snap of his fingers, said, "Good night, Masters," and vanished.

Malfoy was still laughing. I groaned, "Oh, shit. I won't be able to look him in the eye ever again."

"Oh, sod off, Potter. He's a house-elf. I imagine he's seen worse. In fact, he's a former Malfoy house-elf; I'm sure he's seen worse."

"Still.... Anyway, we're not technically fucking." He shifted so that he was looking me straight in the eye, and I couldn't hold back a devilish smile. "At least, not yet. But that could change."

"Mmm. Is that an invitation?"

I smiled. "No, actually, this is an invitation: would you care to continue this upstairs, Malfoy?"

"I'd be delighted. And, by the way, it's Draco." He narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Think this time you can remember that by morning?"

"I won't forget."

Somehow it seemed important to let him choose between my bed or his. I wasn't surprised to find myself spread out on unfamiliar sheets. We spent long minutes just resting in each other's arms, touching each other quietly. It was almost as comforting as augmenis.

He slid a considering finger against my cheek. "We need to do something about this," he said, rubbing the stubble under his fingertip. "Or I'm going to end up with a bad case of beard burn."

My heart leapt at the thought we could be doing this long enough to cause a problem.

"Allow me," he said. "It's one of the few spells my wand can do." The roughness on my face disappeared after his Depilio.

"Thanks."

"I bet it comes up short on lubrication spells," he grumbled. He tapped his wand against his hand and spoke the words of a spell I'd only ever used once before. To our surprise, his palm became coated with a glistening liquid.

"Bloody hell," he said, and we both began to laugh.

He stared at his handful of lube; it took him only a moment to decide what to do with it. I hadn't been hard when he started massaging his cock, working the lube up and down, but I was before he'd finished. I watched his thin, elegant hands and the whole time wished they were on me instead.

And now I was looking at him with that intensity he'd used on me, and I felt awed, afraid, shy, maybe even a little holy. I needed to say the first thing that came into my head, which was: "Do you know I've wanted you for weeks?"

He inched closer, and his eyes were serious. "Then I finally beat you at something, Potter, because I've wanted you for years."

"Really?" I said, flabbergasted. How had I missed that?

"Yeah." He traced a finger along the bridge of my nose, then tapped it with something like affection. "Still a bit crooked. I'm sorry I broke it for you."

"Oh. Which time?"

"Possibly that last one. I wasn't sorry at the time, though." He peered at me. "Maybe I'm not too sorry - it makes you look a little dangerous."

I let my own finger follow the white-thread scar on his face and down his collarbone to his chest. "I'm definitely sorry for what I did to you."

He lifted my hand gently and sucked the extended finger into his mouth. My cock jumped at the intimacy of it.

"Listen, is there anything I need to know about- Well. I can't hurt you ... hurt anything, can I?" I hope I didn't sound like an imbecile, but that knowledge wasn't exactly something one picked up in the school changing rooms.

"No, the little dragon's pretty well packaged in there. Or so they tell me."

"All right."

He crawled right on top of me and leaned down for another long and thorough kiss, which turned into slow, deliberate licks that moved down my body. When he got to my cock, I was seriously hard again, and he ran first his thumb and then his tongue over me with the same leisurely care. If what we'd done downstairs had been rushed and frantic, he seemed to be determined that this time would be drawn out and careful. All I could do in return was stroke and tease his skin, wherever I could reach, while I tried to hold back the embarrassing sounds that kept escaping my throat.

"I've wanted this, too," he said softly, before he urged my legs farther apart and his mouth engulfed me. And between the words, the image of him there, and the dizzying sensations coursing through me, I couldn't hold on any longer and came in his mouth.

Even after a few minutes, my breathing was still hard. He was looking at me from under those pale lashes of his, just watching me, but I didn't feel awkward, which was a surprise in itself.

"You know what we were talking about after Dobby left?" he eventually said. "Listen, I've never exactly ... ah. No one's ever ... Well, let's say I've read the book but haven't passed the OWL yet." He sounded as nervous as I'd ever heard him.

"Then let's try something else."

"All right. We need to leave something for next time, I suppose." The idea that he was even thinking about a next time was as arousing as anything we'd done yet, and I practically dragged him on top of me. His cock was still covered in lube, and I guided him between my clenched thighs and arched up against him.

"Oh, fuck, that's ... nnggghhh."

His hips were jerking irregularly against me, and it took a little while before we worked out a steady rhythm. As spent as I was after coming twice, I didn't want it to end any time soon, but he had other ideas.

"Oh, God," he said, then let out the most amazing sound, and I felt a warm wetness between my legs.

He collapsed back on the bed with a long sigh, and damn, his hair had never looked such a wreck before, and it was gorgeous. I couldn't stop touching him, stroking his skin over and over, fingering his damp blond hair.

He finally recovered enough to open his eyes. "Wow."

I didn't stop running my hand over him. "Do you think that maybe we should have been doing this all along?"

"You mean when we were eleven? You utter perv!"

I gave him a little pinch of disapproval, not enough to hurt. "No, you twit. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes. I do."

It wasn't until I was almost asleep, my hand tucked beneath his arm, that it occurred to me to wonder which question he'd answered.

***

I awoke not long after dawn and watched him sleep beside me for a long time. He lay on his side facing me, one leg tucked against mine, his arms curled around one of the many pillows scattered over his bed. He finally began to stir, and I kissed him awake.

"Good morning. Let's see, was it David or Douglas or- Oh, I remember now. Draco, wasn't it?"

"Very funny."

I was stroking my hand across his chest, smoothing the pale hair and tracing a lazy finger around his nipples before sliding lower across his belly. It felt smooth, maybe a little firmer than expected. I wondered if I would be able to feel any movement yet.

"Feel strange, Harry?"

"Of course it does." He made a move to pull away, but I stopped him with a firmer grip. "Doesn't mean I don't like it."

He surprised me then by taking my hand and moving it deliberately lower, down to his morning erection, and pressing it there.

"Better?"

"Mm." I rolled over to drape a leg across his thigh. "And better still."

I could see the gradual signs of arousal starting to take hold of him, too. He had such a seductive smile when he wasn't too self-conscious to show it.

Afterwards, we took a much-need shower, and I grumbled about having to head off to the Wizengamot while he tortured me with the notion of going back to bed. All in all, it was far better than my experience with Adam. Or, for that matter, with anybody else.

Although I still managed to burn breakfast once again.

***

The news that a counterspell had been found for Tardis Lentum and that Neville was recovering with no ill effects spread through the Wizengamot like wildfire.

Madam Tabernash stopped me on the way to my corner seat.

"Mr Potter, I wanted to be the first to say how happy we all are that your friend Neville is well once more. I've heard from Augusta Longbottom, who is thrilled over her grandson's return to the family. And you'll be happy to hear the Longbottoms are renouncing their claim to Renovoenitor - the petition will be heard tomorrow, and I'm sure the Wizengamot will agree."

My thoughts up to that point had been solely on Neville and how soon I'd be able to visit him. "Wait. What does that mean? What about Draco? I mean, Mr Malfoy?"

She patted me on the arm. "It means he's free to go where he chooses. You've been more than generous to him these past months, even though I know you two are like chalk and cheese. I only hope he's appreciated what you've done for him-"

"No, that's not what I meant. What about the baby? Draco's due in only a couple of weeks."

"Oh. The Longbottoms presume that Neville will have his own children in future," she said.

"So they're disowning Draco's child?"

"Yes. That's right."

I felt my anger flare. "But a baby isn't just ... something disposable."

She looked at me with the trace of a frown, as though I'd somehow offended her. "Surely you can see that the Longbottoms are within their rights to prefer an heir of their own choosing. Doesn't Neville have the right to decide that for himself after all he's been through?"

"Well, yes, of course, but-"

"And Draco's child will still be heir to the Malfoys. That should be enough to satisfy everyone, don't you think?"

"Well, I suppose," I said, but I still was disgusted at how political and byzantine the whole thing seemed. I felt dirty somehow for being involved at all.

I scanned the copy of the Daily Prophet that was carefully folded and waiting at my seat. My joy at Neville's cure was decidedly dampened by what it meant for Draco, and the Prophet didn't refrain from heaping abuse on the well-hated Malfoy family, not bothering to separate father from son. I tossed the paper away in disgust.

The day seemed even more endless than usual until I could come home and deliver the news to Draco. I found him in the growing darkness of the library with a well-thumbed copy of the Daily Prophet and a cup of tea long gone cold. I wasn't sure how he was taking it, and I couldn't tell by looking at his expression.

Nestling on the couch beside him, I tucked my hand over his stomach as if I had a right to touch him like that, and he didn't move it away. A good sign. "Look, this doesn't mean-"

"I know exactly what it means, Harry. It means the little dragon is now a bastard. It means the Longbottoms don't need either of us anymore."

"Well, they've released you from Renovoenitor. It means you can keep your baby. You don't have to hand it over to the Longbottoms after all. That's good, right?"

"Yes. Well. Like the Daily Prophet said, the Malfoys have never been good at giving up their possessions."

I didn't know how to act with him over this, the first serious crisis we'd been in together. If we even were in it together. I was using my best hippogriff behavior. "Takes a bit of getting used to, I reckon."

"You have a knack for understatement, Potter," he said, but with a faint smile. "Just think, I'll be able to fuck this kid up just like my family fucked me up. Won't that be grand?"

I read between the lines and decided that he might not mind that as much as it sounded. He was probably half-terrified of the idea, though. "Look. Don't worry. I think every new parent feels like they're not up to the challenge. You still have some time to get ready for it."

"Time is about all I have," he said quietly. "Look, I can be out of here tomorrow."

A cold knot formed in my gut. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't have to keep an eye on me for the Longbottoms any longer, so I suppose-"

"No. I don't want you to go anywhere. Not at all." My arms were around him in an instant, as though I could physically stop him leaving me by pinning him here on my sofa. My heart was racing with fear. "I want you, Draco, haven't I made that clear? The Longbottoms have nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with us. All of us." It felt comfortable to say it, and every part of me wanted him to hear it. "Will you stay? Please?"

"I ... God, yes, I'll stay." He hesitated, then clenched me in a firm embrace before pulling away and looking around. "Why is it so bloody dark in here? Dobby! We need some light. Where are you, you silly bugger? Dobby!"

***

For the first time in months, Draco hadn't teased me about skipping today's session of the Wizengamot for more tangible pleasures. But this time I forgave him for not opening his eyes at all before I left.

I'd already battled gravity pulling at my eyelids all morning, when I caught sight of a very pale someone - something - floating center-stage, preparing to address the Wizengamot.

"Is that Binns?" I whispered to Ephemera.

"Good spotting," she murmured back. "He's finally been pensioned off out of Hogwarts, and he's here to voice his objections. Odds are they'll be lengthy objections, too."

I looked around at my fellow members of the Wizengamot, every last one of whom I reckoned had suffered through his tedious History of Magic classes during the endless years of his tenure. I knew how this vote would go, so I gave in to exhaustion and shut my eyes. It didn't help that I'd been awake all night.

"You seem to have had a rough evening," Ephemera said. My eyes popped open and my head swiveled her way. "I heard that Mr Malfoy had a little boy this morning. Congratulations."

"I really had nothing to do with it," I replied, but I fumbled in my pocket and showed off the picture I'd taken early this morning. Draco was gazing at his new son for the first time with a look of deep wonder, one tentative fingertip stroking gently across the tiny brow. "What will you name him, Draco?" I'd asked after I'd snapped the magical photo. "'Little dragon' won't do any more."

"Brian," he'd replied. "None of those bloody star names, or dead ancestors, or any of that shit. There's never been anyone in the family named Brian. He's unique."

"As if any son of yours could be anything else," I'd assured him, and carefully kissed them both.

That memory went a long way to erasing the earlier ones of watching Draco crying out through the night as though under Cruciatus. And I never realized before how skillful he was at unconventional profanity.

Ephemera conjured a cup of hot tea and handed it to me. "You look like you need this," she whispered.

"Yes, thanks."

"Percy Weasley told me that Mr Malfoy will be remaining as your guest. I think it's wonderful that you've opened your home to the baby and his ... ah ... parent."

"Father," I corrected. Draco had been quite clear on that, after the Healers had restored him to full masculinity. And that thought left me with an even bigger smile.

"It will be a blessing to the little tyke to have you to look up to."

"Not just me," I quickly told her. "Draco's very much looking forward to bringing him up. And there's Neville, of course." Neville, for his part, was doing his best to adjust to what he'd woken up to, taking on the role of favorite uncle for the time being. I expected nothing less from someone I'd always thought outshone us all with his integrity.

"Mr Potter, I wasn't born yesterday. I think I can guess why Mr Malfoy chooses to remain at Grimmauld Place." She leaned back as though she'd just revealed the secrets of the Pyramids, while I felt my face burn hotter than the Egyptian desert. "Nothing moves faster than gossip, even in the Wizengamot."

"Uh, well. Yes. Right." Where were all those unwanted platitudes that should be springing to mind that could even begin to explain things between Draco and me? The Lord moves in mysterious ways? In for a penny, in for a pound? Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes?

Then the perfect answer finally came to me, one that even Hermione would have applauded: It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.

I smiled at Ephemera, laid my head down on my desk, and with the sound of Binns droning in my ears once more, I began to nod off.

The End