Title: Day of the Dead
Author: _pinkchocolate
Team: Team Epilogue
Prompt: Death
Wordcount: ~18k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Infidelity
Summary: On the evening of the anniversary of the war, everything changed.
Author's Note Death represents destruction of the old clearing the way for new growth. I used both figurative and literal interpretations. Thanks to my teammates for their invaluable last minute help!

Love is like ice in the hands of children.
- Sophocles

On the evening of the second anniversary of the war, Draco Malfoy stormed into a very crowded Leaky Cauldron, dropped onto a stool at the end of the long bar, and demanded one pint of their best bitter.

The mousy-haired bartender turned around, and Draco was appalled to find himself face-to-face with Dennis Creevey. Apparently Creevey was not thrilled about the match-up of bartender and customer, either, because he blinked several times and stammered, "I'm sorry, M-Mister Malfoy, but I'm busy—"

Draco narrowed his eyes into an appropriately menacing glare, effectively shutting Creevey up. Had he not been in such a dejected state, Draco would have found it amusing how easily he, as opposed to the rest of the general population, was able to stall the motor mouth. As it was, he was in too foul of a mood to find anything amusing, and instead barked, "Just pour me my sodding order, Creevey."

Creevey wilted. "One pint of our best bitter, then."

He scampered off to fetch the drink, leaving Draco to do what he'd come to do: brood. Heaving a sigh of monumental proportions, Draco folded both arms on the scrubbed wood surface of the bar table and rested his head on the wall next to him. He knew he probably looked pathetic, but for once he didn't care—he deserved to mope a bit after the day he'd had.

It had all started early that morning, when the secretary poked her head into his cubicle and announced that he had post from Potter.

"That's nice," said Draco distractedly without looking up. He was deeply engrossed in reviewing the court record from the 1984 Ministry vs. McTavish trial. Leonard Jorkins, his immediate superior in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had assigned it, along with six other court records of similar trials, as reading to all junior Wizengamot members in preparation for the upcoming trial against Marcus Hurst, a serial violator of the Muggle Protection Act.

"Do you want to read it right now, sir?"

Draco waved a hand irritably. "Just leave it here. I'll read it later."

"Very well," she said, sounding as though she couldn't believe anyone would treat a message from Harry Potter with so little regard. She dropped the folded note on Draco's desk and left to hand out more post.

Making a mental note to read the message once he was finished with the page, Draco returned to his reading.

Of course, Draco had moved onto the next page, and the next, and then the next document without ever giving second thought to the letter. But it wasn't his fault—he'd had work to attend to, and it wasn't like Potter ever had anything meaningful to say anyway. How could Draco have known that that mundane little square of parchment had contained a direct order from Potter to come home from the Ministry early because they needed to "talk"?

Sighing again, Draco fumbled around in his pockets for his watch. He had no idea what time it was, though it must be quite late, judging from the state of drunkenness of the bar's patrons. Rather than locating his watch, however, Draco's fingers brushed something else: a worn deck of Muggle cards.

Draco took the cards out and shuffled them without thinking. They had once belonged to Potter. Draco ran his thumb along the fraying edge of the two of clubs, wondering how many times Potter had touched the same card—and how many others had touched it before Draco. He scowled. He needed something to occupy his mind while that miserable runt poured his drink, or else he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about…

"You didn't read my message."

It was the coldness of Potter's tone more than anything else that threw Draco off guard when he opened the front door of Grimmauld Place and found Potter standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"What message?" Draco asked, genuinely confused.

Potter's jaw tightened in a way that no one but Draco, who was practised in the art of reading Potter's body language, would have noticed.

"The one I hand-delivered to the secretary of your office," said Potter, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Right. That one." Draco shrugged, though a knot of unease was starting to form in the pit of his stomach. Potter meant business, but Draco wasn't in the mood to argue. To disguise his apprehension, Draco busied himself with removing his cloak and hanging it up.

"Why didn't you read it?"

"I had documents to review, Potter. You know the big trial against that Muggle-hater is tomorrow."

Potter snorted. "Since when do you care about giving Muggle-haters what they deserve?"

Draco's hands tightened on the material of his cloak. He slowly hung it up on the back of the door before turning to face Potter. "Get to your point, Potter."

"My point, Malfoy, is that I'm tired of your attitude," Potter growled, advancing towards Draco. "I'm tired of waiting for you to admit that I mean something to you. Most people would consider a year an accomplishment, but we're still stuck at disrespect and petty insults. Nothing's changed."

Draco sneered, refusing to buckle under Potter's anger, though he could almost hear the umbrella stand behind him rattling. "I hate to break the news to you, Potter, but I'm not here to provide you with the endless adoration you crave. Unlike you, I actually have to make an effort to keep my job."

"A job you wouldn't have if it weren't for me," Potter shot back. "I gave you everything you have right now. The least you could do is acknowledge it."

"I would've got the job without your help!"

"Who're you kidding, Malfoy? You wouldn't have your life without my help! Or did you forget that I was the one who—"

"I didn't forget!" Draco interrupted. "For Merlin's sake, are you going to hold that against me for the rest of my fucking life?"

A tense silence enveloped the next few seconds, and then:

"Get out."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, take your things"—Draco flinched as Potter drew his wand, but Potter merely Summoned a trunk brimming with the belongings Draco had left at Grimmauld Place over time—"and get the hell out"—another flourish of Potter's wand, and the lids of the trunk slammed shut—"of my life."

"Your life?" Draco repeated dumbly, staring at the pre-packed trunks. Apparently Potter had been planning this confrontation all day. "You want to—break up?"

Potter's rage seemed to vanish with his exhale of breath. "How can we break up if we were never together to begin with?" He regarded Draco. "You know, Draco, I need someone who cares. Someone who cares about me, about other people, about being alive... someone who has interests that don't exist for the sake of contradicting mine. The only time you have a bloody opinion is when someone's freedom is on the line."

"Potter—"

"A year of whatever you want to call this is nothing compared to seven years of hating each other," Potter continued, raising his voice. "This wasn't meant to work out. We might've needed each other during all the confusion after the war, but now that things have settled down, I think it's time to acknowledge the fact that there's really no point in trying anymore."

Draco stared at Potter. A thousand replies—ranging from furious to disbelieving to defiant—whirled around in his head. Before he could vocalise any of them, Potter flicked his wand, making the front door fly open behind Draco.

"You can leave now, Malfoy," he said in a tired voice.

Chest and throat tight with some unidentifiable emotion, Draco had grabbed his trunks and left, though not before throwing a few choice curse words at Potter. He'd Apparated back to the Manor—where he slept most nights when he and Potter were fighting—with his things, taking care to dodge his parents' questions about his day. Now he was here at the Leaky Cauldron, sulking and looking forward to drowning memories of the night with alcohol that he was beginning to doubt would ever arrive.

Miraculously, as soon as the thought entered Draco's head, Creevey trotted back with a tankard that looked far too big for him to carry. He set it down in front of Draco.

"Here you are," he said, braving a smile at Draco.

Draco glowered at him. When Creevey continued to stand there with that stupid, hopeful smile on his round face, Draco cleared his throat pointedly.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you had something you wanted to talk about."

"If I did, I certainly wouldn't talk about it with you," Draco snapped. "Go back to doing your job poorly."

The smile slid off Creevey's face. Without another word, he hurried away to attend to other customers.

Draco felt slightly cheered to know that he still had influence somewhere. He pulled the tankard towards him and stared apprehensively into it. The frothy, dark brown liquid smelled strongly of molasses. Draco wrinkled his nose, then moved the drink aside and began setting his cards out for a game of solitaire.

Potter had taught the game to him the night of the first anniversary of the war. It was one of Draco's clearest memories. His friends had thrown him a party to celebrate his recent success in securing a position on the junior Wizengamot. Much to everyone's chagrin, the festivities had not been going on for longer than an hour when Potter had come storming in with the entire Hit Wizard department trailing him. He'd broken up the gathering, claiming that it was against the Auror division's best interests to allow a congregation of Draco's "type" while circumstances were still so uncertain.

Furious, Draco had confronted Potter after the Hit Wizards left and demanded a better reason for the unnecessary intrusion. It was the first time they had spoken since they had parted ways at Snape's funeral. Somehow, after several insults, threats, and "I hate you"s were flung back and forth, they had wound up sitting on a bench in a park in Central London, talking about life and sharing a bottle of firewhiskey that Draco had saved from confiscation.

"It's too soon for a party."

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

Draco squinted at Potter in the orange glow cast by the street lamp overhead. The other boy had both arms slung over the back of the bench, and he was gazing up at the starless night sky with an inscrutable expression on his face. It felt odd, but at the same time strangely familiar, to be sitting here exchanging civil words with Potter—like they'd been waiting to have this conversation, but life had prevented them from doing so until now.

"It's been a year," he finally said. "What's so soon about that?"

"People died," said Potter flatly. He took a swig from the bottle of firewhiskey. "They deserve some respect."

"People die every day," Draco countered. "If life stopped every time someone died, we wouldn't be here right now."

"I just don't see anything worth celebrating," Potter continued. "We're not even out of the water yet. Not everyone is happy with the way things ended."

"What's your point, Potter? This is the best things have been for a long time, so why bother waiting?"

"Maybe I'm holding out for something better."

"You're never going to get it."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

They fell silent. A breeze drifted by, tussling Draco's hair and rustling the leaves above them. Draco stole another glance at Potter. His eyes were closed now; he could have been sleeping.

"Thanks," Draco mumbled after a while.

"What for?"

"For putting a word in for me," said Draco, surprised that Potter hadn't brought it up himself. "Jorkins told me. Why'd you do it?"

"You deserved it. Leonard told me you did well on your entrance exam, and I..."

Draco waited.

"I think you deserve the position."

"Really, Potter."

"Why is that surprising? I didn't save your life just to let you waste it away. You might as well do the world some good while you're around." Potter tilted his head to the side and pinned Draco with a knowing look. "You're not a bad person."

"You don't know that," said Draco. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much that Potter was so certain about the nature of his character.

"No, but it's what I believe. You're welcome to change my mind, though it wouldn't be like you to do something disadvantageous."

"Well, you just know me like the back of your hand, don't you, Potter?"

Draco took another gulp of firewhiskey, even though his better judgment warned him that the pleasant buzz in his head was a sign that he should stop drinking before he slipped up.

"I never claimed to," Potter replied.

Another silence, longer than the last, stretched out between them. At last Potter asked, "What was the war like for you?"

The change of topic was not unexpected, or at least Draco didn't think so. "Horrible," he admitted. "It wasn't too bad until they started using the Manor for their meetings, though."

"So you were stuck inside all summer?" Draco nodded. "How did you stand that? Not doing anything while people were dying just outside my walls... that would've killed me."

"I tried not to think about that," said Draco. "I kept telling myself it wasn't my war."

"But your family was right in the heart of it."

Draco gripped the neck of the firewhiskey bottle a little tighter. "So was Weasley's, but that doesn't mean it was his war, does it? In the end it was your battle to win or lose."

Potter didn't say anything, but Draco was not put off. "It wasn't too bad, being inside all the time," he said after a minute or so. "I'd rather be alive and bored than dead and... well, I suppose you can't really feel when you're dead, can you?"

Potter's eyes shone under the dim glow of the street lights. "I suppose not."

"What's that?" Draco asked, pointing at the corner of what looked like a white box protruding from Potter's robe pocket.

"Oh, this?" Potter took it out and showed it to Draco. It was a deck of cards. "They're Muggle playing cards. I had dinner at the Burrow earlier, and Hermione taught me how to play a game called solitaire afterwards."

Draco scowled, annoyed that Granger and her Muggle novelties were being brought into a perfectly decent conversation. "Sounds like a waste of time."

Potter grinned, flashing straight, white teeth. "It is."

"Then what's the point?"

"You just said it. It's a way to pass time and ease boredom. Most card games need more than one person to play, but solitaire doesn't. It's actually quite easy. Here, take this."

Potter handed the cards over to Draco. Draco examined them while Potter conjured a low table to use as a playing surface. They looked similar enough to Exploding Snap cards, except perhaps less flashy. The same picture of an immobile swimsuit-clad woman graced the backs of all of them.

"My cousin Dudley sent them to me last Christmas," Potter explained when he noticed Draco staring at the photo. "It was his way of, er, making up for eighteen years of lost love between us. He was a bit of a pervert, really."

"You're a pervert for keeping them," Draco muttered.

Potter laughed and took the cards back. It was a nice laugh, made all the more pleasant by an absence of the derision Draco had grown used to over the years.

"You can buy me a new deck in repayment for the countless times I've saved your life, then," said Potter lightly. He reached for the firewhiskey, and his fingers lingered long enough on Draco's to stretch the boundaries of an accidental touch.

Draco blushed. "I'll find other forms of repayment, thanks," he snapped, more annoyed than he knew he should be. "I wouldn't be caught dead buying Muggle things. I'll make sure the Weaslette is informed, though. It's probably the best anniversary gift she can afford."

The laughter left Potter's face. "Can you leave off the Weasleys for once? Last I heard, your family wasn't so well-off either."

Draco's cheeks burned even hotter. "That's out of our hands," he growled. "The Ministry had no right to seize our fortune."

"It's going to a better place than your Gringotts vault," said Potter stoutly. "And for your information, as of now, Ginny and I won't be exchanging anniversary gifts any time soon. We broke up a while ago."

Draco scoffed. "Let me guess—you did it to protect her." When Potter looked away, Draco rolled his eyes. "How noble of you. I don't see why you're so tortured about it. You two will get back together within the next year."

Potter paused in the middle of laying out six piles of cards. He looked surprised. "How d'you figure that?"

"Because you and she were always meant to be the world's most perfect couple," said Draco, dismissing the bitterness in his tone as disgust. "Marrying her will get you into the Weasley family. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"That's not why I love her. Besides, getting back with her isn't that easy. I've got... things to do now." Potter fidgeted with a bent corner on one of the cards. "The war will only be over when everything's cleaned up. Until then, I can't risk putting her in danger."

"You talk about her like she's a worthless piece of treasure. Surely a Weasley isn't worth that much."

Potter's expression was murderous. "Malfoy—"

Draco smirked. "Relax, Potter. Go ahead and show me how to play your Muggle game before I freeze my arse off out here."

And so it had gone. They had ended up Apparating back to Potter's place after they finished the firewhiskey. It had not been Draco's first time with another man, but it had been the first time something more than a meaningless tumble had come out of it.

Their relationship, if one could even call it that, had seemed convenient at the time, but one night had somehow dragged out into a year of denial turned strained acceptance, and somewhere along the way the convenience had been lost. The flame had been there, but they'd been unprepared to keep it burning. Still, Potter had stupidly insisted on sticking it out until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Now here they were, finally broken up for good.

In retrospect, it no longer seemed shocking to Draco that he and Potter had parted as abruptly as they had got together. They had put so much effort into trying to conceal their feelings from the rest of the world that they'd failed to let those feelings develop into something real.

In a way, their relationship had been dead from the start.

Sighing, Draco swept his fringe to the side and glanced down at the cards he'd laid out. There were no aces. Annoyed, Draco abandoned the game and picked up his drink.

He took a tentative sip of the ale and grimaced at the taste. He had never understood the appeal of most alcoholic drinks. As far as he could tell, there was nothing particularly special about them. Not that he'd turn them down if they were offered—he was fond enough of firewhiskey, which had been his housemates' drink of choice. The sweeter drinks, however, were less tolerable. He'd never even made an attempt to familiarise himself with the contents of his father's wine cellar, figuring there was no point in trying to change his tastes if they were already set in stone.

On this particular evening, however, Draco downed his drink without complaint. He welcomed the unpleasant flavour of bitter, for it seemed appropriate, considering the situation he was in.

Draco was halfway through raising his hand for another tankard when a stunning realisation made him freeze: he would not be going home to Potter. Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever. It was a simple truth, but it hit Draco hard. For the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place earlier that evening, he felt... regret.

Suddenly Draco wanted nothing more than to be home. Getting to his feet, he gathered his cards in one messy pile and dropped a few Sickles onto the counter. A good night's rest at the Manor was all he needed to get over a break-up he shouldn't be upset about in the first place, he decided.

Unfortunately, getting to the Manor quickly proved to be a problem. Just before Draco reached the door, an entering patron knocked shoulders with him, causing the cards he was holding to fly out of his hand and fall to the floor. With a muttered apology that Draco could barely hear over the din in the pub, the offender dropped to his knees and began gathering the cards. Draco squinted, trying to make out the man's face.

At last the stranger stood up and faced Draco. Draco mouth fell agape: it was Potter. Judging by the complete lack of surprise on Potter's face, he must have figured out Draco's identity the moment he saw the cards.

Draco recovered his composure before Potter could say anything. "Watch where you're going," he snarled.

"Hey, what's the problem?" questioned an all-too-familiar voice from behind Potter.

"It's just Malfoy, Ron," Potter replied without looking away from Draco. Weasley appeared at Potter's side moments later. His lip curled when he saw Draco.

"Ignore him, Harry; he's not worth it," he said. There was contempt in the look he shot Draco, but Draco narrowed his eyes, refusing to indulge Weasley with a reply. If only he knew just how much Draco was worth.

Harry nodded, acknowledging Weasley's words, and held out the deck of cards to Draco, face-up. His eyes flicked downwards, taking in the top card a split second before Draco snatched the deck back. "The king of hearts," he observed, the corners of his mouth twitching. "How ironic."

Nineteen Years Later

"Draco, wake up."

Draco rolled over with a groan. "Too early," he mumbled into his pillow.

"You've a fire call from Harry Potter," said Astoria, tugging the sheets out of Draco's grasp. "He says it's urgent."

Draco was awake in an instant. "Harry—Harry Potter?" he repeated, hauling himself into a sitting position. He blinked twice in the bright morning sunlight and rubbed his eyes.

Astoria straightened Draco's pillow before settling back into bed. She did not look amused. "I was under the impression that you hadn't spoken to him for several years."

"I haven't. We see each other occasionally when I drop by the Ministry, but that's the extent of it." Draco bent to search under the bed for his slippers. He found them, slipped them on, and strode over to the mirror. He grimaced at his reflection. "He didn't say what he wanted?"

"No," said Astoria, sniffing. "He merely showed up and started yelling for you. Biddy tried to tell him to Floo back later, but he was adamant about seeing you right now."

Draco could feel Astoria's eyes on him as he tried to smooth his sleep-rumpled hair. No doubt the cogs in that scheming brain of hers were working to figure out why Harry Potter would be calling for her husband at six in the morning.

"I'll be back shortly."

Without another glance at his wife, Draco he swept out the door, grabbing his dressing gown on the way out. Their house-elf, Biddy, was standing just outside. She bowed and said, "Good morning, Master," before leading Draco downstairs to the drawing room, where she left him.

Draco entered the drawing room and dropped to his knees in front of the fireplace. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of Potter's familiar face in the fire. It had been a while since he had seen Potter up close. The normal signs of aging were evident on Potter's face, but other than that, the shrewd green eyes and hopelessly dishevelled hair were unchanged.

"What is it?" Draco asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant despite the fact that he was gripping his knees with enough force to crack them.

Potter looked immensely relieved to see Draco. "Morning, Malfoy. Sorry about the early call. I hope I didn't wake you up."

Draco stared. Potter was acting as though they'd only parted just yesterday. "What is it?" he said again.

"I've a favour to ask of you. You're not working on any cases right now, are you?"

"No," said Draco, frowning. He had quit the Wizengamot a few years ago to become a private solicitor, but his success in the field to date had been so minimal that he was considering dropping out of law completely and perhaps starting an apothecary somewhere. Not that he needed money; he'd made enough of that during his time with the Wizengamot. He would just prefer a more fulfilling life than the one he currently lived.

"Good. I've got one for you."

"You've what?"

"I've got a case for you. The client's name is Simon Longbottom. He's accused of—"

"Just one second, Potter," Draco interrupted. "You come barging into my fireplace at six in the morning and then expect me to agree to defend a Longbottom in court?"

For a moment, Potter looked tempted to smile, but then he cleared his throat and glared at Draco. "This is serious, Malfoy. Neville's son, Simon, has been accused of murdering a Hogwarts student. He's of age, so he'll be tried as an adult."

"Isn't he the Squib?"

"That's neither here nor there. The point is, I need you."

I need you. How tragic that those words still made warmth curl in the pit of Draco's stomach, even after nearly twenty years.

"Why me?" he demanded.

"No one else will take the case. They all think he's guilty."

"Oh, is that what this is? You're trying to make me take on a case I'm sure to lose?" Draco drew himself up indignantly. "I'm not that desperate for work, Potter."

"Malfoy, can you stop being so self-centred for a few minutes?" Potter exclaimed. "I'm not trying to ruin you. I'm trying to prevent a good friend of mine and his family from having to deal with a slew of problems they don't deserve."

"What makes you believe the kid's innocent?"

"I've met him more than once. He hasn't got a malicious bone in his body. Will you take the case or not?"

Potter's words were heavy with desperation, but at the same time, Draco could see in the bastard's eyes that he knew very well what the answer would be. At Draco's age, work always came before childhood grudges.

"Fine," he snapped. "I'll need to know more about what happened, though. We'll also need to discuss payment."

Potter rolled his eyes, but he looked considerably happier. "Of course. Can you meet later today?"

"When?"

"I get out of the office at five. How's dinner sound?"

It sounds terrible, or did you forget that the last time we had dinner together we were playing footsie under the table? Draco wanted to say. Instead, he forced a smile and said, "Bolton's at seven. Don't be late, Potter."

"I'll be there. Oh, and Malfoy—thanks."

Harry arrived at Bolton's fifteen minutes early, but apparently Malfoy was not to be beat—he was already seated at a table by the window when Harry showed up.

"I see promptness comes with age," Harry remarked after the smiling hostess left him with Malfoy and a menu. He seated himself and took a moment to glance over his companion.

Malfoy wore slacks and a button-down shirt—nothing spectacular, but surprisingly well-coordinated for someone who was used to wearing robes all the time. He was clean-shaven, and he'd left his hair product-free for once. It framed his face in a stylish cut that normally would have looked ridiculous on a thirty-something year old, but somehow seemed to suit Malfoy.

Harry would never have admitted it, but Malfoy looked a little bit too good for comfort.

"If I recall correctly, you were the one who was always late," said Malfoy without looking up from his menu. "Who was that you came with? Your latest boyfriend?"

There was disapproval in Malfoy's voice, but Harry brushed it aside. He was used to people's negative reactions when they first saw Ben. The professional Quidditch player wasn't exactly conventional—with his multiple piercings and dyed hair, he might as well have been an alien to the people Harry usually associated with. He was spunky, though, and his refusal to let others influence his opinion of himself was far more attractive to Harry than socially appropriate looks.

"Yes," Harry answered. "That's Ben."

"At least your taste has improved since your marriage to Weasley," said Malfoy, raising an eyebrow at Harry over the top of his menu.

Harry snorted. "She hasn't been a Weasley for several years. She kept my surname after the divorce."

"Further proof that she was only with you for your fame," said Malfoy, and though the words were said lightly, there was a note of criticism underlying them. Harry bit back his indignant response—he wasn't looking to get into a fight with Malfoy.

"In any case," Malfoy continued, "she's still a Weasley to me. She never quite earned the privilege of touting your last name as her own."

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life, Potter!"

Several people turned to stare. Harry forced an apologetic smile at them, all the while silently vowing to murder the very drunk Draco Malfoy who was currently struggling against Harry's iron grip on his collar.

"Shut it," he hissed to Malfoy, as he steered him out the ballroom being used for his and Ginny's reception. "Bathroom," he explained to Ron and Hermione, who paused their conversation to look at him questioningly as he and Malfoy hurried past.

"Don' need to go," Malfoy whined, as Harry dragged him outside into the empty hallway.

"I can't believe your nerve!" Harry snarled, rounding on Malfoy the moment the double doors swung shut behind them. "I invite you and your family to my wedding out of courtesy, and you pay me back by getting plastered and making a scene. How fucking old are you, Malfoy?"

"Twenty-two," Malfoy shot back. "Same age as you! An' I'm not getting married!"

"Oh, for the love of—Malfoy, you need to leave right now. You're lucky Ginny didn't hear you, or I'd have beaten you into a pulp by now."

Malfoy eyes widened. "Was on'y telling the trush, Harry. You can't marry a Wea—Weasley."

"I already did," Harry snapped. "Now get the fuck out, and don't you dare Apparate in your state, or you'll lose a limb."

Tears welled up in Malfoy's eyes. "You do care!"

Harry shut his eyes momentarily, determined to not let Malfoy's drunken rambling affect him. It was too late to give their relationship another shot. They'd already tried, and it hadn't worked. He was happy now with Ginny.

Opening his eyes, Harry fixed Malfoy with his best determined glare. "Malfoy," he said, lowering his voice, "I'm going to say this one last time. Leave, or this will be filed under your name as public misconduct."

With that, Harry spun on his heel and strode back into the ballroom. Malfoy did not follow him.

"Potter, pay attention!"

The snapping of fingers in Harry's face yanked him out of the memory. Blinking, Harry blurted out, "What?"

Malfoy sighed. "I apologise," he said to the concerned-looking waiter standing by their table. "Is Montagny fine?" he asked Harry, pointing at an item on the wine list.

Harry shrugged, surprised that Malfoy had even bothered asking him for his opinion. "Whatever you want."

The waiter nodded and wrote down the order. "Are you gentlemen ready to order starters?"

"Give us five minutes," said Malfoy.

The waiter left them, and Malfoy returned to perusing the menu. "I thought you didn't drink wine," Harry remarked as he watched Malfoy flip the pages.

"Times change. I've developed a taste for certain wines over the years. It's necessary when your wife drags you to social events every weekend."

"That sounds painful."

"Marriage is painful," said Malfoy carelessly. He put his menu back down on the table and turned his attention to Harry. "You of all people should know that. Didn't you divorce the Weaselette after six years? Less than a year after the birth of your daughter, wasn't it?"

Harry bit his lip, trying not to remember Malfoy's words at the wedding. There was no point, when Malfoy probably didn't even remember them. Besides, he and Ginny had parted amicably, contrary to popular opinion. Harry had been honest with her about his sexuality, and she in turn had forgiven him for not trying to go behind her back.

"Pretending to be straight didn't really suit me," Harry told Malfoy. "There was no reason for me to keep doing it when neither of us was getting anything out of it."

Malfoy was silent for a few moments. The wine arrived with a basket of bread; Malfoy poured himself and Harry each a glass before finally speaking. When he did, the lightness from earlier was absent from his tone.

"Explain what happened with the Longbottom boy."

Harry took the glass Malfoy handed him, almost disappointed that Malfoy was so intent on getting to the point of their meeting. Business, he reminded himself. The days of casual dinners with Malfoy are over.

"My Aurors haven't filed their reports from the scene yet, so all I know is what Neville told me when he came to my flat with the news this morning. From what I gathered, the students had a Hogsmeade trip yesterday. Neville thought it'd be nice to bring Simon, who didn't go to Hogwarts, to the village with him. He let Simon explore the village while he met up with some of the other professors for a drink. Next thing he knew, a couple of boys were running through the village bellowing about how Simon had killed a sixth year girl—a pureblood. They followed the boys over to a clearing by the Shrieking Shack, where they found Simon standing over the girl. She was holding a necklace similar to the one you..."

Harry trailed off, not sure how to bring up the Katie Bell incident tactfully. Something in Malfoy's eyes shuttered. He nodded stiffly, indicating that Harry should continue.

"Yeah," said Harry, slightly embarrassed now. He sighed and tugged at a handful of his hair. "Unfortunately, they didn't get to her in time. They questioned Simon, but Simon insisted that he didn't know what had happened or even how he'd come to be there. Everyone thinks he was lying, but I think he was Obliviated. The thing is, the Auror department is only responsible for investigating the crime. As far as proving Simon innocent... well, that's where you come in."

He waited anxiously for Malfoy's response. The other man looked deep in thought as he stared into his wine glass. The same waiter from earlier walked by, and Harry flagged him down.

"Can we have the seafood salad to start?" he asked, hoping that Malfoy still liked seafood. Apparently he did, because the look he gave Harry was one of pleasant surprise.

"Of course," said the waiter. "Anything else?"

Harry looked at Malfoy questioningly.

"Actually, I believe we're ready to order," said Malfoy. He turned to Harry. "Do you mind if I...?"

"No, go ahead," said Harry, thrown off guard again by Malfoy's consideration.

"Good." Malfoy turned back to the waiter. "Does the chateaubriand come with potatoes?"

"Yes, on the side."

"Excellent. We'll have that and the spaghetti alle vongole, then."

"What in Merlin's name did you just order?" Harry asked after the waiter disappeared with their menus.

"You'll enjoy it, don't worry," said Malfoy, waving a hand. "Anyway, back to your case. What makes you believe he was Obliviated?"

"Aside from the fact that he has no reason to harm a girl he doesn't know? For one, he's not stupid or a liar. People write him off because he's a Squib, but if he was to actually commit such a serious crime, he'd have a better excuse than 'I don't know'. For another, where in the world would he have obtained a Dark item like that necklace? Certainly not at home or at Hogsmeade."

"Hmmm," Malfoy hummed. "Well, then, when can I meet the suspect?"

Harry's hand froze in the middle of reaching for a piece of bread. "You'll do it?" He had thought it'd require much more persuasion and possibly even bribery to get Malfoy to take the case.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Malfoy took a sip of his wine. "Now, all that remains to be settled is how much I'll receive for this... favour."

"Anything. Neville will pay you as much you want if you can keep his son out of Azkaban."

A greedy glint appeared in Malfoy's eyes. "Anything?"

"Anything within the limits of reason," Harry corrected. "He and Hannah aren't exactly rolling in gold."

"Right, I forgot they were Longbottoms." Malfoy snickered at Harry's glower. "So why me? Besides the fact that anyone else with half a brain would reject your offer immediately, that is."

"You could use it. I've been following the papers—I know you haven't been doing too well lately. Winning this case could change everything for you."

"Don't be ridiculous. You must have a better reason than that."

Harry smiled slightly. "I know you'll do it," he admitted. "You like a challenge, and you won't give up until there's no hope of going on."

Malfoy scoffed, but the lines around his mouth softened. "You have too much confidence in your reading of my character, Potter."

"Probably... but am I right?"

"You might be."

At that moment, their food arrived, and Harry was saved the trouble of coming up with a response. They ate in strangely comfortable silence, and did not bring up Simon Longbottom again until their plates were cleared away and the check paid.

"Will you set up a meeting between me and the client, then?" Malfoy asked as they left the restaurant. "Thank you," he added courteously to the hostess, who beamed back.

"Er, sure," said Harry, taken aback by how friendly Malfoy was after he'd had something to eat. "Is the day after tomorrow all right?"

"Owl me when you've secured a time."

"I will."

They exited the restaurant and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Malfoy turned to leave, and then paused, as if remembering something.

"Good night, Potter," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Harry.

Harry inhaled sharply. The warm light cast by the lanterns outside Bolton's made Malfoy's cheeks flush and skin glow in a way that seemed to rewind time. For a fleeting moment, Harry was gripped by the wild urge to reach out and caress that skin, to find out if it was as soft as he remembered it being. He checked himself just in time.

"Good night," he said.

Malfoy looked amused. With a final nod, he walked away and disappeared round the corner.

Alone in front of the restaurant now, Harry leaned against a lamppost and buried his face in his hands.

Merlin help him, he was starting to fall for Draco Malfoy all over again.

Draco strode into the manor, removed his cloak, and made a beeline for the drawing room. He collapsed on his armchair and poured himself a glass of scotch. He'd just met with the Longbottom boy for the first time, but he might as well have not gone to see him at all—the teenager's repeated blathering about how he hadn't done anything had been no help at all.

Still, Draco had managed to extract one useful fact out of the meeting: there was no way Simon Longbottom was guilty. He resembled his simple-minded, peace-loving parents in every aspect of his character. Now that Draco was convinced that he was fighting for the right side, he just had to figure out how to win.

The click-clack of heels from the hallway outside warned Draco of Astoria's approach. Sure enough, a few seconds later, she came sweeping into the room, her hair piled on top of her head and a tube of lipstick in one hand. Draco cringed—these days, the sight of his wife was becoming progressively more repelling.

"Where were you today?" Astoria asked, as she held up a mirror and examined her face in it.

"I went to meet my new client," Draco replied, gritting his teeth to hold back the "go away" struggling to escape.

"The Longbottom boy?"

"Yes."

Astoria pursed her lips. "I wish you hadn't taken on this case. It's a lost cause. He's almost certainly guilty."

"You don't even know what happened, Astoria," said Draco irritably.

"I've read the papers," she said dismissively. "These things happen often with Squibs. They get jealous of other children who have magical abilities and do irrational things."

"I would say murdering a girl goes beyond 'irrational'," Draco snapped. He took a gulp of scotch and then put the glass down to rub his temples. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was argue with his wife about his job. "Where are you going tonight?"

"To Daphne's. She and Theodore are throwing a party. Thursday's the twenty-first anniversary of the war, didn't you know?"

"Mass death is hardly worth celebrating," Draco muttered, annoyed by the news that his friends were holding yet another social gathering for no substantial reason. It was all very well for them to party incessantly; their families' money hadn't been taken from them and distributed among the poor.

"Are you going to come with me?"

"No."

Astoria frowned into her mirror. "Why not? Pansy wants you to go."

"I'm going to stay home and work on this case. I've a lot of planning to do if I want to win."

Sighing, Astoria capped her lipstick and put the mirror down on the coffee table. She walked around the sofa to sit down next to Draco. "Why must you be so stubborn, Draco?"

Draco moved away from her. "Would you rather I gave up easily?"

The question was rhetorical, and Astoria had the sense to not answer. They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, Astoria's hands folded in her lap and Draco's curled around his glass of scotch. After a minute or so, he put it down and stood up.

"Enjoy yourself tonight."

Without waiting for a response, he left the drawing room and headed up the stairs to his study.

He dropped into his seat and pulled out his Pensieve from under the desk. Closing his eyes, he took his wand and pressed its tip to his temple.

One by one, memories of him and Harry slipped out like gossamer strands of silk. Draco dropped them into the Pensieve and watched them swirl around, flashes of their contents surfacing and sinking like sunlight glinting off a lake. The morning after their first night together. Wanking each other in a broken Ministry lift. The fight they had after Draco slept with one of his female co-workers. All of them, a relief to be temporarily rid of. Still, it seemed that each time Draco removed an old memory, there was always a new one waiting to slip in and replace it.

Frustrated, Draco dropped his wand and pushed the Pensieve away. Why had he let Potter coax him into taking the case? He'd stupidly gone and opened a door into his life that he'd tried to keep shut for years, and now he had to suffer the consequence of unwanted thoughts about someone who'd already moved on.

As if on cue, Potter's words from dinner the night before returned to Draco: Pretending to be straight didn't really suit me. Was that the problem? Did he just need to stop pretending in order to get over all of this?

Draco sat up a little straighter in his seat. There's a place in the red-light district, Blaise had once told him. I go there whenever I need a release or just a good lay. The whores are cheap and fucking incredible at what they do. It's at the end of the street, if you ever decide that heterosexuality doesn't suit you.

Draco's first impulse was to reject the thought. Rent boys were for wealthy old Ministry officials who could no longer get it up when they were with their wives. Still, the idea had its merits—it was quick and anonymous, and best of all, it required no commitment. And if it could Draco the release he needed...

Well, Draco thought, it was worth a shot.

The red-light district was everything Draco had heard of in the news and worse. Scantily clad, heavily made up prostitutes hung out of doors and congregated in small clumps on the sidewalk. Males of all ages walked up and down the street, ugly leers twisting their faces. Every building Draco passed was plastered with neon signs bearing distasteful, sex-related messages.

It was enough to make his stomach churn.

Keeping his eyes glued to the ground, Draco hurried down the street. The scenery changed quickly as he passed the flashy whorehouses offering female prostitutes and entered the end of the street reserved for the gay brothels. The men that wandered around this darker, quieter side of the district were older and less brazen in their behaviour. They kept their faces hidden and hurried to their destinations without lingering on the sidewalks.

Draco stopped in front of the brothel at the very end of the street and gazed up at it. It was surprisingly well-kept compared to some of the other buildings Draco had passed. The windows were tinted to hide the goings-on inside, which was well enough, since Draco had a feeling his courage would flee if he saw what he was about to do.

Uneasiness swirled in the pit of his stomach. What was he doing? If someone saw him, he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Was a chance to indulge his rebellious adolescent hormones worth the possibility of sullying his reputation?

Draco chased these thoughts out of his head. If Blaise had done it, he could too. Besides, it was only for one night. A good, anonymous fuck would remove all doubts about his sexuality, and he could go back to living a normal life with Astoria.

With one last nervous glance over his shoulder, Draco hurried up the front steps, opened the door, and slipped inside.

The inside of the whorehouse stank of sex, sweat, and cheap cologne. Wrinkling his nose, Draco looked around. The room he had entered was empty, save for a receptionist's desk at the far end and a row of mismatched chairs next to it. A man was lounging behind the desk, a hat pulled low over his face.

Draco approached the desk. The pimp looked up at him and flashed a row of gold teeth.

"Good evening," he said. His voice was oily, and Draco was reminded of some of the men who used to drop by Malfoy Manor when the Dark Lord used it as a meeting spot.

"Hello," said Draco uneasily. "What, um, services do you offer here?"

The pimp chuckled. "Anything you'd like. Take a look."

He flicked his wand at the blank wall behind him, and the dusty boards of wood slid away, revealing a glass panel looking into a well-furnished room. Draco's breath caught in his throat: inside the room, a dark-haired whore was servicing his blond-haired patron.

Draco stared, transfixed, into the room. The whore had dropped to his knees in front of the customer and swallowed his cock whole. Draco gave a shudder. It was like watching, from a third person perspective, the same scene he'd once...

They were in a bathroom stall at a Quidditch game. A very public bathroom stall. The muffled sound of spectators cheering in the stands could be heard in the distance, but it was nearly entirely drowned out by the roaring of the blood in Draco's ears as Potter sucked him down.

"Oh God," he gasped, frantically clutching at Potter's hair in an attempt to keep his hands occupied with something more useful than floundering around. "Potter—don't stop—"

Potter pulled back just enough to flick his tongue over the head of Draco's cock while squeezing the base with one of his hands. His eyes darted up to meet Draco's, and through the haze of pleasure clouding his vision, Draco discerned something like uncertainty in their depths. Then Potter's free hand snaked around to stroke a spot behind Draco's balls that Draco had not known existed, and Draco's head slammed against the side of the bathroom stall as his entire world exploded in blinding white.

By the time Draco had recovered, Potter had already got to his feet and cleaned up. He was lounging against the opposite side of the stall, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, looking for all the world like he gave blowjobs in bathrooms on a daily basis.

"I think we should do something about this," said Potter bluntly.

"How d'you mean?" Draco mumbled, using his sweaty palms as leverage to haul himself into a more dignified standing position.

Potter's forehead creased. "Unless you haven't noticed, Malfoy, we've been getting each other off regularly for the past six months."

"I've noticed, thanks," said Draco, irritation stabbing through his post-orgasm lethargy. "So what?"

"So I'm not going to continue doing it unless we take things one step further."

Draco made a sound of disgust. "I'm not going to be your boyfriend, Potter."

Potter folded his arms. "I never asked you to be. I'm just asking for some kind of commitment."

"Commitment is for girls and queers," Draco sneered as he straightened his robes. "I don't see anything wrong with our current arrangement. It's not like we're in love."

Potter's eyes flashed behind his glasses. "No, we're not," he agreed. "However, as of now, I consider myself an available man. That means I'm free to get back together with Ginny without feeling guilty. If we start dating again, this is going to have to end."

Jealousy flared up in Draco. "I thought you were over that whore."

"Don't talk about Ginny like that," Potter snapped. He pushed himself off the side of the stall and stepped closer to Draco. "What's your deal, then, Malfoy? Yes or no?"

Draco closed his eyes and sighed. "What exactly does this entail?"

Potter hesitated. "I just... want us to do things together. I mean, without anyone knowing."

"As always, you want the best of both worlds."

Potter's expression softened. "Can you blame me?"

"It won't work," Draco insisted, but there was no point in protesting—he had already given in.

"Sir? Have you finished deliberating?"

Draco tore his eyes away from the voyeuristic scene and turned his attention back to the gold-toothed pimp. He was suddenly overcome by a strong urge to vomit. "I think I'll go look somewhere else," he said hastily.

Turning on his heel, he all but dashed back out onto the street. He did not slow down until he was clear of the brothels.

Never again, he swore to himself. Even if it means I'll never get off again.

Draco was on his way to the nearest Apparition spot when two familiar voices drifted over to him.

"...really don't think you're taking the right angle on this, Harry."

"So you think he's guilty?"

"Isn't that the general consensus? It makes sense—he's a Squib."

"Please tell me you're joking, Ben. How can you even—Malfoy?"

Draco froze and turned in the direction of the voice. "Potter?"

Potter was sitting at a table outside a loud bar with the purple-haired bloke who'd dropped him off at Bolton's—his boyfriend. Draco felt his stomach turn over, and his mind began frantically spinning excuses he could use to get away.

"What're you doing here?" Potter asked, his gaze sweeping over Draco's casual attire.

"I was..." Cheeks flaming, Draco made a vague gesture. "I thought I'd take a walk," he finished lamely, ignoring Ben, who was looking curiously back and forth between him and Potter.

"Come sit down." Potter pulled up a seat for Draco. "Ben and I were just talking about the case."

"I'd rather not," said Draco.

Potter looked hurt. "You can't even spare a few minutes?"

"No," Draco lied. He was already starting to edge past Potter and his boyfriend's table. "I promised my wife I would be home by midnight."

Ben gave a snort that sounded suspiciously like "domesticity". Potter shot him a warning glare, and Draco flushed, acutely aware of the irony in the situation: he, Draco Malfoy, was being ridiculed for leading a domestic life by one of Potter's companions.

"Oh, well... I'll drop by tomorrow and we can talk about your meeting with Simon, OK?"

Draco started. "There's really no need, Potter."

"No, I insist."

"I thought we were going to lunch tomorrow, Harry," Ben interjected.

Potter's jaw worked. "Sorry, I forgot," he said, his tone terse all of a sudden. "Friday, then, Malfoy?"

By now Draco had put together the pieces: Ben was jealous of him. This could be interesting, he thought, smirking to himself.

"Why not later tomorrow night?" he asked, schooling his features into the most pleasant expression he could muster. "I'm free all day."

"The Ministry's throwing a banquet," Ben answered coldly for Harry. "It's the anniversary of the war, and Harry's a guest of honour."

Draco blinked. He had forgotten about that. "Right," he said, a little discomposed. "Well, then. I'll see you on Friday, Potter."

"You're not staying?"

"No, Astoria will be concerned if I'm late."

"Oh, all right. Bye, Malfoy."

As Draco walked away, he told himself repeatedly that he had only imagined the disappointment on Potter's face. Still, he couldn't help humming a tune under his breath as he approached the Apparition spot. The night hadn't been a complete waste, after all.

Harry arrived at the manor Malfoy and his wife inhabited at six o'clock on Friday. He knocked on the door and was shown inside by a female house-elf wearing a crisp towel stamped with the Malfoy crest. She left Harry by the entrance and left to go fetch Malfoy.

Harry examined his surroundings while he waited for Malfoy. The main hall was brightly lit and tastefully decorated with various portraits and paintings. It wasn't as elaborate as the one in Malfoy Manor, but it still reeked of expensive taste.

Harry turned slowly on his heel, taking in the entire hall. He paused when he caught sight of a portrait of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy hanging over a table behind him that he had not noticed earlier. Intrigued, Harry approached it.

"Hello," he said tentatively.

Both elder Malfoys smiled blandly at him, but said nothing.

"Can you hear me?"

"No, you pillock, they can't."

Harry spun around at the sound of Malfoy's voice. He was swiftly descending a marble staircase at the end of the hall. His hands were busy fastening a tie around his neck, but his eyes were fixed on Harry. He looked amused.

"Why can't they hear me?" Harry asked, moving forward to meet Malfoy halfway.

"The subjects of the portrait are still alive. Their souls are busy living their daily lives. Stop walking, Potter; I'm on my way out."

Confused, Harry followed Malfoy back outside. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere in particular. I just decided that a stroll through the garden would be nice."

They went around the manor. The sight that greeted them was nothing short of astonishing, and Harry actually stopped in his tracks to gawk.

The garden was beautiful. In the centre of the lawn, flowers of every shape, size, and shade bloomed and blossomed in an organised fashion around a stone fountain shaped like the Malfoy crest. A stone pathway wound around the garden between well-trimmed bushes and hedges. Four leafy trees bearing some fruit Harry couldn't identify towered protectively over the scene, dappling the fading sunlight that filtered through onto the grass.

"This is incredible," Harry remarked.

"Isn't it?" said Malfoy. Harry had the faint suspicion that he had only insisted on taking their conversation outside because he wanted to show off his garden.

"What were you really doing when we saw each other on Wednesday?" Harry asked as they followed the pathway. He was hoping the element of surprise would work in getting the truth out of Malfoy.

"Nothing more than what I told you," Malfoy answered, much to Harry's disappointment. "What were you doing?"

Harry laughed. "That should have been obvious."

"No, I mean, what were—and are—you doing with him?"

"Who, Ben?"

Malfoy shrugged.

"We're not together anymore."

Malfoy halted in front of Harry so abruptly that Harry walked right into him. Startled, Harry instinctively grabbed hold of Malfoy's waist to steady them both. Malfoy stilled under his touch.

Harry released Malfoy as if burned. "Sorry," he muttered, though in truth, he would have liked nothing more than to keep his hands where they had accidentally landed.

"Why aren't you together anymore?" said Malfoy in a rush, keeping his eyes averted from Harry's.

"We split yesterday. He... we disagreed on some things."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that."

Malfoy didn't look at all sorry. In fact, he looked rather self-satisfied. Harry rolled his eyes. Trust Malfoy to delight in his relationship troubles.

They circled the garden and began heading back into the house. "So how did the meeting go?" Harry asked as they climbed the front steps.

"Not well. Longbottom didn't have anything useful to contribute."

Harry's heart sank. "D'you reckon he's guilty, then?"

"If I thought he was guilty, I'd have dropped the case long ago," said Malfoy. He led Harry up the staircase he had descended earlier and entered a room on the second floor. "This is my study," he added over his shoulder.

Malfoy's study was large and dimly lit. Ornate bookcases stocked with dusty volumes were pushed up against all four walls. A heavy cauldron sat in one corner, and diagonally opposite it was Malfoy's desk, which, unlike the rest of the room, bore signs of frequent use. Papers and folders were stacked high on one side, and a number of picture frames clustered together on the other. This struck Harry as odd. He'd never imagined Malfoy as the type who'd keep personal pictures in his workspace.

"Hang on," said Malfoy, "I left the report your Aurors sent me in my bedroom. Stay here."

Malfoy left. Alone now and curious, Harry ventured over to Malfoy's desk. He was startled to see a large black and white photo of himself waving reluctantly up at him from the front page of the day's Daily Prophet. It had been taken the night before at the Ministry's war anniversary gala. While Harry spoke to the reporters, Ben hung in the background, scowling and occasionally turning away autograph requests with an irritated wave of hand.

No doubt Malfoy would have a snide remark about Harry's interaction with the press later. Rolling his eyes, Harry stepped around Malfoy's desk to peruse the books on the bookshelf behind it. As he did this, he noticed a glimmer of silver out of the corner of his eye.

Unable to resist, Harry crouched down and pulled the Pensieve out from under Malfoy's desk. It was oval-shaped and heavy, with elaborate designs carved into the wide rim. A quick look can't hurt, Harry convinced himself. A thrill of excitement ran up his spine as he took out his wand and prodded the surface of the silvery substance in the basin.

The memories swirled, and an image of a bedroom rose to the surface. Harry knew better than to enter the memory, so he made sure to avoid touching the Pensieve's contents as he leaned closer to get a better look.

With a jolt, Harry realised he was looking down into the bedroom he'd occupied when he lived at Grimmauld Place in the immediate years after the war. His eyes grew wide when, a few moments later, his and Malfoy's nineteen year old selves stumbled into the room, clutching at each other's robes. Harry couldn't tell if they were caught in a fit of passion or fury.

"You had no right, you fucking bastard!" the Malfoy in the memory shouted, his voice echoing as if from a great depth.

Fury, then. Harry continued watching with bated breath, waiting for the moment when things would click into place and he would recognise what he was watching.

"Get off me, Malfoy!" Harry growled, wrenching himself free of Malfoy's grip. "I had every right to," he snarled once he and Malfoy were several feet apart.

"No you didn't! I don't want to deal with that shite anymore—I'm done, I'm finished, I don't ever want to go near any of them again. My job is on the other side of the court now!"

"I don't give a fuck, Malfoy, and apparently neither does Leonard, because he's perfectly fine with my pulling you out to speak as a witness."

"He'd be perfectly fine with you locking the Minister of Magic up in Azkaban! You practically own him and the rest of the bloody Ministry!"

Harry looked gobsmacked. "I—that's not the point," he spluttered.

"You know bloody well that it is!"

The memory sank out of sight. Harry frowned, wondering what about that memory was so unbearable for Malfoy that he couldn't stand to keep in his head. He remembered it well enough. It had taken place immediately after Harry had told Malfoy that he'd be testifying against Greyback in court. Malfoy had ended up doing it, though he'd never quite forgiven Harry for confirming him as a witness without telling him first.

Harry gripped the Pensieve and swirled it. Another memory surfaced. This one was set in the very study Harry was currently in. A twenty-something Malfoy was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands.

"I fucking hate you!" Malfoy shouted to the empty room. His voice sounded tight and choked, as though each word required a great deal of effort to get out. "God, I hate you so much..."

He crumpled a sheet of newspaper he'd been holding in his hands and drew his arm back, as if to toss it away, then seemed to think the better of it. His hand fell limply to the desk, releasing the newspaper ball, and he smoothed out the page with unexpected tenderness.

The main article flaunted a large picture of a smiling Harry and Ginny underneath a headline that blared, "WIZARDING HERO TO HAVE FIRST SON WITH WIFE."

The article went on to describe Harry's joy over finally having a real family. Most of it was rubbish, but the reporter did an excellent job of convincing the reader that Harry had never been happier in his life.

Malfoy bent over the now-crinkled article, apparently examining the picture in closer detail. The hands holding the page down shook. Suddenly, without warning, Malfoy tore the article into several pieces, which he banished with a flick of his wand. Then he buried his face back in his hands and let out a shaky breath.

Harry drew away from the Pensieve, his throat tight with emotion. Malfoy had never said anything, had never shown any sign that he'd even thought of Harry after the incident at Harry's wedding. Eager to find out what else Malfoy was hiding, Harry grabbed the basin and swirled it again.

Before the next memory could rise to the surface, however, the door to the study opened and someone entered.

"Potter?"

The sound of Malfoy's voice made Harry scramble to his feet. Flustered, he nearly slammed his head against the bottom of the desk surface and wound up pushing Malfoy's chair back into the bookshelf in an attempt to avoid injury. The result was that he knocked down several heavy volumes, one of which landed very painfully on his foot.

Eyes watering in pain, Harry steadied himself using the edge of Malfoy's desk and gasped out the first thing that came to mind: "I'm sorry."

"What were you doing?" Malfoy demanded. His eyes flicked downwards from Harry's face, and he paled. "You didn't—?"

Harry turned red. "I didn't see that much."

"You had no right," said Malfoy in a strangled whisper.

"I know, I—"

"Get the fuck out, Potter."

Harry knew better than to drag out the issue. With another stammered apology, he fled the room.

Over the next week, Draco avoided Potter like dragon pox. Every time he received owl post from him, he tossed it in the fire, unread. The last thing he wanted to do was let the contemptuous words Potter most likely had for him distract him from his primary goal at the moment: winning the Longbottom case.

Unfortunately, he was making little progress in that area. The days dragged on, and Simon Longbottom continued to fail to provide Draco with useful evidence in their meetings. Moreover, Draco was having difficulty concentrating on how he could use the little information he did have from the Auror report to his advantage. Though he could hardly sleep at night for all the thoughts occupying his mind, his insides curled with humiliation every time he even considered pulling out his Pensieve.

Draco knew very well that he should contact Potter and ask him for assistance with Longbottom, but he didn't. Instead, he decided to hold out for as long as he could. In the end, his pride would have to give, but for the moment, he still had time.

After the sixth ignored letter, Harry decided to go visit Ginny.

"Hey," he said, sweeping her into a hug and kissing her on the forehead when she opened the door of the house she and Dean now lived in.

"Harry!" she said, hugging him back tightly. "This is unexpected. Is something wrong?"

Harry let go of Ginny. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, of course," she said, opening the door wider. She took his cloak and hung it up, then followed him into the sitting room.

"Someone's been cleaning," Harry teased as he sat down on the sofa. It was true—the living room was considerably less messy than it had been the last time he'd visited. Ornaments and other various knick knacks had been put back in their rightful places, picture frames had been rearranged, and the coffee table had been cleared of dirty mugs, books, and old newspapers.

"Dean wanted to start getting ready for the kids' arrival," Ginny explained. She moved aside a cushion and sat down beside Harry. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. Well, sort of."

"'Sort of'? That doesn't sound too promising."

Harry removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not, really," he admitted. "I can't find any evidence that will prove Simon innocent, and... there's Malfoy."

"What about Malfoy? Is he not taking the case seriously?"

"No, he is," Harry quickly assured her, and the let-me-give-him-a-piece-of-my-mind look on her face disappeared.

"What's the problem, then?" she asked. She picked up a still-steaming mug of tea from the coffee table and offered Harry a sip, but he shook his head.

"I'm fine, thanks. The problem's more... complicated."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, you're not sleeping with him, are you?"

Harry blushed up to the roots of his hair. "No! Er, what made you think that?"

"Just a guess," she answered, but she was smirking in a way that suggested her guess hadn't come out of nowhere.

"Ginny..."

"I just always thought you had a thing for him, is all."

"A thing?" Harry repeated, aghast. Had Ginny known all along what he and Malfoy had got up to years back?

"You were a bit obsessed with him beginning sixth year," she said, her tone so matter-of-fact that a bystander might never have guessed that she was confessing to once dating—and then marrying—a boy she'd suspected had fancied another boy at the time.

Harry spluttered. "Yeah, but—that doesn't make it a—a thing!"

"Doesn't it?" Ginny countered, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

Harry gave in. "Fine," he admitted, "I might be a little... attracted to him. But we're not sleeping together!"

"Good, because I was going to say, homewrecking doesn't suit you."

Harry groaned. "You're not helping, Ginny."

"I'm sorry," she said, her tone softening. She placed a reassuring hand on his knee. "What do you want me to say, Harry? 'Tell him'? I know very well that you're not going to until you know for sure that your feelings are returned." She paused, and then added, as if on second thought, "Are they?"

"I don't know," Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I think there's something there, but then he reverts back to being a git—well, not entirely, but close enough."

He broke off there, too frustrated to continue. He knew there was no use in dwelling on old feelings—those were dead and buried; he and Malfoy were no longer the lonely, lust-addled teenagers they once were. At the same time, however, some deeper part of him sensed that there was something different about the attraction to Malfoy he felt now.

He wanted to go to a Quidditch game with Malfoy and kiss him in full view of the Prophet's reporters. He wanted to find out what Malfoy's family life was like, what his opinions on current issues were, and whether he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do in life. Most of all, he wanted to wake up in bed every morning next to Malfoy without a single regret.

But of course, Malfoy was married, and that made all the difference in the world.

At this point, Harry was roused from his thoughts by a pop from the fireplace, followed by an excited, "Dad!"

"James?" said Harry, leaping off the sofa and hurrying over to the fireplace. He dropped down so that he and his son's face were level. "What's going on? Did something happen to Al or Lily?"

"Relax, Dad. They're both fine." James grinned up at Harry. His fringe had grown out since the hols; half of his face was now obscured by bright red hair. "What're you doing at Mum's?"

"I dropped by to see her." Harry glanced over his shoulder at Ginny, but she stood up and mouthed, "Go ahead," before wandering out of the sitting room in the direction of the kitchen.

Harry turned his attention back to his son. "Is there any reason for the Floo call?" he asked, unable to completely shake off his concern. He rarely spoke to any of his children through the Floo while they were at school—letters were usually the extent of their communication.

"No, but Hugo nicked some Floo powder from Professor Flitwick's office and he let me use a bit of it. I figured there was no harm in calling Mum. I thought you'd be at work."

"The best part about being Head Auror is getting to set your own schedule," said Harry with a wink. "How is everything at Hogwarts?"

"Boring. Professor Slughorn gave me detention again last Wednesday, but don't tell Mum, or she'll send me another Howler."

"What'd you do this time?" Harry asked, amused. He remembered all too well the days of getting detentions he was so convinced were undeserved.

James's bright green eyes became shifty. "Nothing. I only—no, Lily, go away, you can talk to him after I'm—"

His head disappeared from the fire, and a few seconds later, Lily's head popped into view, her thick black hair tied in two braids. "Hi Dad!" she chirped.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

"Great! Exams are coming up, though, so all the professors are being horrid, and—oh, bollocks, James says he's got something urgent to tell you. Just so you know, he got detention again because Filch caught him snogging—"

With a squeal, she vanished. James reappeared, looking decidedly more flustered and annoyed than he had earlier. "It's not true," he said petulantly, but his scarlet-tipped ears gave him away.

"I won't say anything," Harry promised, stifling a laugh. "What did you need to tell me?"

James's expression sobered up. "Al told me something a few days ago that's been bugging me ever since. He said a couple of boys in his house were going on about how Professor Longbottom's son deserves to be locked up and given the Dementor's Kiss. They kept telling all their housemates that he's a danger to wizarding society."

Harry's blood boiled. "Who were they? Not Scorpius Malfoy?"

"Oh, no, not him, he's too timid to say anything of the sort. It was Corvus McLaggen and his mates. They're known as troublemakers around school, so I'm a little suspicious."

"Suspicious? Why?"

James hesitated. "It's just that... Al said they seemed to know an awful lot about what happened that afternoon. When one of the girls asked them how they found out all that stuff, they had really dodgy reasons." James lowered his voice. "I reckon they might've done it."

"Malfoy!" Harry bellowed, banging on the front door of Malfoy's home. "Malfoy, you have ten seconds to—"

The door swung open, and Harry's hands fell to his sides. Astoria Malfoy stood in the doorway, wearing dress robes and looking most displeased.

"Can I help you, Mister Potter?"

"I need to speak to Mal—er, Draco," said Harry, recovering from the unexpected shock of seeing Malfoy's wife up close. "It's very important."

Astoria appraised Harry with narrowed eyes. Harry met her gaze warily. Malfoy's wife was very pretty, but in a cold sort of way. She had straight black hair that fell just past her shoulders and startling blue eyes. She looked nothing like her older sister, whom Harry remembered as being quite plain.

At last, as if having judged Harry worthy of entering her house, Astoria nodded and opened the door wider to admit him.

"I believe he's working at the moment. Biddy"—she snapped her fingers, and the same house-elf who had shown Harry in last time appeared—"show Mister Potter to my husband's study."

"Yes, Mistress," said the house-elf. She bowed to Harry. "This way, sir," she said to Harry, before leading him towards the staircase Malfoy had taken him up last time.

To Harry's surprise, when they reached the top of the stairs, Malfoy was standing there waiting, arms folded across his chest. "What's all the racket about, Potter?" he asked, waving Biddy away.

"It was Corvus McLaggen and his friends!" Harry exclaimed.

"Corvus—Pansy's son? Wait, no, don't tell me yet."

Malfoy grabbed Harry's wrist and pulled him into his study. Harry drew in a breath, remembering what had happened the last time he'd been here. Malfoy, however, seemed too preoccupied to give any thought to the memory. With a wave of his hand, he turned the lights on and shut the door behind them. Then he turned to face Harry again, every muscle in his body noticeably tensed.

"What's this about Corvus?"

Harry repeated what James had told him.

"Ridiculous," said Malfoy the moment Harry finished speaking. "He's only a child; he would never do such a thing."

Harry made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. "Have you forgotten what we were capable of as children?"

Malfoy's eyes hardened. "That was different. We were older, and the circumstances were different."

"He's sixteen! When you were sixteen, you had no problem giving that cursed necklace to—"

"Wait," said Malfoy, cutting Harry off. All the blood had drained from his face. "What did you say the necklace the girl had on her looked like?"

"It was bronze, with some kind of blue—"

"That's Pansy's," Malfoy interrupted again, his voice all but a whisper now. He looked horrified. "I remember her showing it to me once. It's a family heirloom."

"So Corvus nicked it from her?" said Harry, slightly repulsed by the thought of Pansy keeping a cursed necklace somewhere fully accessible to her son.

"He must have," said Malfoy slowly. "Fuck, this could be the end of Pansy."

Harry had feared this response. "Don't, Malfoy," he urged. "If you cover for Pansy, you're letting her son and his friends run rampant while an innocent man sits in Azkaban."

"I'm well aware, Potter," said Malfoy sharply. "I didn't say I was dropping the case, did I?"

Relief flooded through Harry. "You're not?"

"No. Pansy will have to find some other means of saving herself." Malfoy reached around Harry for the door handle. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going down to get a cup of tea before I start making up for lost time."

Harry didn't move out of the way. Malfoy's proximity was doing all sorts of inappropriate things to his body, but his muscles weren't obeying his brain's order to step aside. Almost unconsciously, Harry inhaled the scent of expensive cologne that clung to Malfoy. Even though it was a popular brand of cologne that many of Harry's previous lovers had also worn, there was something deliciously intimate about the way it smelled on Malfoy.

"Potter, kindly move aside," Malfoy murmured at last, his lips just barely brushing Harry's ear.

The ghost of a touch brought Harry back to his senses, and he jumped away, unsure of what had just passed between them. Malfoy's eyes flicked back and forth between each of Harry's, as if searching them for an answer to his own uncertainties. Then he shook his head slightly and left.

Harry gave himself another minute in the study alone to regain his composure before he followed Malfoy out.

Over the course of the next two and a half weeks, Potter dropped by the manor a total of eleven times. At first Draco thought nothing about it, figuring Potter just wanted to make sure that things were progressing well. After the fourth time Potter showed up without a satisfactory excuse, however, Draco began to suspect otherwise. Though he generally didn't believe in hoping beyond reason, he felt that an exception should be made in his case, seeing as the potential reward was worth the chance of a let-down.

"What is it, Potter?" Draco asked the twelfth time. It was nearing midnight, and he was exhausted. Astoria was out at some party or another, and he had been about to call it a night when he heard the doorbell ring. Sure enough, he'd opened the door to find Potter standing on the doorstep, his hands shoved in his pockets and his trademark sheepish expression fixed on his hopelessly attractive face.

"I'm just stopping by to see—"

"How I'm getting along? Excellently, thank you. In fact, I believe I'm nearly finished preparing my case."

"Really?" Potter asked, his face lighting up. Draco inwardly cursed him for being a grown man and still managing to look adorable, of all things.

"Really."

Draco leaned sideways against the doorframe and ran a hand through his hair. For once he was thankful that there were no mirrors nearby. No doubt he looked awful—he was running on whiskey and five hours of sleep. It was a good thing Potter had already seen him looking his worst more than once, or else he would've had to worry about his appearance in addition to getting Potter to spit out his real reason for visiting again.

"Well?" Draco prompted when Potter didn't say anything. "Are you waiting for me to invite you inside?"

He had meant the words to be sarcastic, but that seemed to escape Potter, because the other man nodded and stepped through the doorway.

The awkward tension between them increased tenfold the moment Draco shut the front door behind Potter. Draco actually found himself hoping Astoria would come home early, if only for an excuse to remove himself from Potter's increasingly frustrating presence.

At last, after a long and torturous silence, Potter said, "Good night, Malfoy. I'll drop by in a few days to see how much progress you've made."

He turned to leave, but Draco would not have it.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Potter!"

Potter turned back around, surprised, and before he could protest, Draco had shoved him against the front door and pressed their lips together.

As if on instinct, Potter's lips parted without protest, allowing Draco to finally claim what nineteen years of pent-up longing had been building up towards. It was like climbing back onto a broom after years without flying. All the sensations—the contours of Potter's lips, the solidness and warmth of his body against Draco's, the feeling of his pulse racing under Draco's grip on his wrists—were breathtakingly familiar, and Draco soaked them all in like they were raindrops in a desert.

All too soon, the distant sound of a clock chiming midnight filtered through the desire fogging Draco's head, and he pulled away, his head spinning. Potter looked just as dazed as he felt. "This is crazy," he muttered, his fingers already fumbling with the buttons on Potter's shirt. "God, why did you have to come back into my life?"

"Malfoy—" Potter tried to say, but he cut himself off with a hiss when Draco sank his teeth into his collarbone. "Draco," Potter said, pushing Draco away. Draco stumbled backwards, releasing the flaps of Potter's shirt collar as he went.

"What?" said Draco, gripping the edge of the table behind him as he tried to regain his breath. Dread started to creep over him. What if he'd made a horrible mistake in interpreting Potter's feelings?

Potter looked away, his cheeks still flushed. "I can't do this."

"Why not?" Draco demanded.

"I can't go back to sneaking around behind everyone's backs. You're married."

"Astoria won't care," said Draco, a pleading note creeping into his tone.

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is? What have you got to hide, Potter?"

"The point is, it's wrong. It was bad enough when we did it at nineteen, but to do it at twice that age is a little ridiculous, don't you think?"

Draco's heart skipped a beat. "What now, then?"

Potter sighed and leaned back against the door. "That's up to you," he said quietly. His fingers played idly with the open collar of his shirt as he spoke, driving Draco half-mad with want. He could hardly concentrate on what Potter was saying, his attention was so focused on the torturous sight of Potter's bare skin—skin he'd almost tasted, almost claimed. Fuck.

"What's up to me?" Draco finally managed to say.

"Where this goes." Potter's eyes held a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down Draco's spine. It was clear what he wanted, at least. "I'm not going to fool around with a married man," he continued. "So either we stop this before it starts again, or..."

"Or I divorce Astoria."

"Essentially."

Potter reached behind him for the door handle and turned it. He took a backwards step outside, his eyes never leaving Draco's.

"Let me know when you make your choice."

With that, he was gone.

Choose.

How many times had Draco been confronted with that damnable word? At every important moment in his life, he'd encountered a cross road, an ultimatum. In the intricate web of existence, one choice had the power to change the course of several people's futures, and at thirty-eight, Draco was no more prepared to take on the responsibility of making that choice than he had been at sixteen.

Choose.

Good and bad, life and death, friendship and rivalry... and now Draco was to choose between love and stability. In a way, he wished he was still the impulsive, overconfident teenager he'd been the last time he'd teetered on the edge of this precipice. The illusion of invincibility that had driven him and Potter forwards then was almost preferable to the anxious deliberation and fear of repercussions that held Draco back now. But maturity came with age, and maturity dictated that divorcing his wife for a second shot at a relationship that had every chance of imploding again was not a decision that should be approached lightly.

A loud crack just outside Draco's study made him start and sit up in his seat. "Mistress requests that Master come downstairs for dinner," said the muffled voice of their house-elf through the door.

"Tell her to wait," Draco responded.

Draco waited for the crack of Biddy's Disapparition before bending down and hoisting his Pensieve onto his desktop. It was slightly dusty from lack of use, but the memories inside it still glistened and shone as brightly as if Draco had just put them in yesterday.

Drawing his wand, Draco removed another memory and deposited it into the basin. The contents of the Pensieve swirled rapidly and then stilled. Potter's face shimmered into view, and almost automatically, Draco's heart clenched.

"Choose," said the Potter in the Pensieve. The word echoed several times before fading away. Potter's face, however, lingered on the surface of the rippling memories, a small, knowing smile curving his lips.

After a minute, Draco stood up, his mind made. Using his wand, he scooped up the memory he had just taken out and transferred it back into his head. Then, leaving the Pensieve on his desk, Draco headed downstairs to see his wife.

"Good evening," said Draco, bending to kiss Astoria on the cheek before seating himself.

She offered him a small, somewhat forced smile. "You're in a good mood tonight. Did you finish constructing your argument for next week?"

"Almost. There are a few details I need to tweak, but other than that, I think I've got this case secured."

"Congratulations."

Draco nodded his thanks. He took a deep breath. "I actually have something I'd like discuss with you."

Astoria cocked her head. "Oh?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind me bringing this up so abruptly, but I've given it some thought, and I feel it would be best if..." Draco swallowed, "if we got a divorce."

Astoria paused, wine goblet in hand. The ensuing moment of silence seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally, she lifted the goblet to her lips and took a slow sip.

"A divorce," she repeated, placing the goblet back down on the table. "That could ruin you, Draco."

"It might. So could remaining in this marriage."

"It's Harry Potter, isn't it?" Astoria laughed at Draco's astonished expression. "You thought I was in the dark? I knew everything. You bared more of your soul to him in one look than you ever did to me in fifteen years of marriage. Even a fool would have figured it out long ago."

Draco exhaled. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say? You never loved—oh, stop it, Draco, I know you're in love with him—you never loved anyone in your life before Potter showed up in our fireplace that morning. It wouldn't have been fair if I had interfered."

"You never cared about fair, Astoria."

"Perhaps not, but I did care about you."

"Did you?"

"I married you when your family's name wasn't worth a Knut, Draco," she said. "I think that speaks for itself."

"What about now?"

Astoria pursed her lips. "How can I still love you if you've given me no reason to? You pay the bills and take care of Scorpius, but you never kiss me or even touch me unless propriety requires you to."

She cast her eyes downwards, and for the first time Draco could remember, a shadow of vulnerability crossed her usually calculating features. Had his heart not been set on his decision, he might have been moved, but instead he felt nothing—no guilt, no shame, no hesitation. It certainly helped that Astoria's words were more matter-of-fact than bitter.

"Why did you stay?" he asked.

Astoria raised her eyebrows. "Quite frankly, I didn't realise our marriage was already dead in the water until Potter showed up and I saw the difference between the way you treated him and the way you treated me. You were more... alive, I suppose, when he was around. It was rather charming."

Miraculously, the mood lifted. Draco snorted. "You mean to say I'm not charming on a daily basis?"

"Not in the slightest," she said, her lips twisting into a smirk.

It was odd, Draco felt, that he should feel the most at ease with his wife when they were right on the cusp of separation. Nevertheless, he was anxious to get the conversation over with, so he said, "Give me an answer, Astoria."

"I believe I already have."

"I need a definite—"

"Yes."

The word was like the click of a lock, permanently shutting the door between them and their marriage. Ahead of them, the future stretched on without an end in sight.

"What about Scorpius, then?" Draco asked, voicing his most pressing concern. "Who will he stay with?"

"He's fourteen and capable of deciding these things on his own," said Astoria. "I expect your parents will take him in this summer while we finalise the divorce."

Finalise the divorce. It was really happening, then.

Astoria pushed her chair back and stood up. "And the house?" she asked, as collected as ever.

"I don't know," said Draco. "I'm not concerned about that right now. Will you have a place to stay tonight?"

Astoria arched an eyebrow. "I was actually planning to stay here. Nothing that's happened here tonight should affect our living arrangements in any way."

Draco inclined his head in agreement.

"I'll go let Scorpius know, then," said Astoria. She turned, her hand on the back of her chair, and smiled at Draco. In that brief moment, the iciness in her natural expression melted away, and she looked as pretty as she'd done on their wedding day. "I must say, if I knew you were going to leave me for someone, the saviour of the wizarding world would have been my first choice—so thank you."

She departed, her designer robes trailing after her. Draco watched her turn into the hallway and disappear, the ever-present click-clack of her heels somehow less obnoxious than usual.

Now alone at the untouched dinner table, Draco leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Despite all he had lost tonight, he had never felt more complete in his life.

"It's done," said Draco when he showed up on Harry's doorstep the next evening.

Harry's eyes widened. "You told her?"

"Yes."

Harry stepped back to admit Draco. "And?"

"There's nothing else to say," Draco replied. There was no bite to his words; just weary acceptance. "Now I've got to focus on this case."

He walked past Harry and headed for the sitting room. Harry caught his wrists, stopping him before he could go further.

"Wait, Draco."

Draco turned. "What?"

Harry tugged Draco closer and captured his lips in a kiss. "Thank you. I didn't think you'd do it."

Their lips lingered a breath apart after the kiss ended. Draco's eyelids had fallen shut, and Harry took in the sight of the delicate veins spiderwebbing under the pale skin with some wonder. "You're fucking beautiful," he informed Draco.

Draco's eyes snapped open; the look in them was both annoyed and pleased at once. "Stop with the vomit-inducing flattery before I change my mind," he drawled, pulling away from Harry.

Harry laughed and followed Draco into the sitting room.

"You never told me what the boys confessed to," he said as he sank into his favourite armchair.

"I didn't?" said Draco, looking puzzled. He folded his arms and leaned against the fireplace. "Well, they told me everything."

Harry nodded. "I'm not surprised. Guilt's probably overcoming self-preservation at this point. What happened?"

Draco chewed on his lower lip, and Harry was momentarily distracted by the sight of the tempting pink flesh disappearing between Draco's teeth. "It's a long story. In short, Longbottom approached Corvus and his mates outside of Zonko's and inquired after the girl. He told them he found her attractive and wanted to know her name. They knew he was a Squib, and they reckoned it'd make for a laugh if he gave her the necklace and she rejected him, so they handed it over in a wrapped parcel without knowing what it really was. Longbottom didn't know any better, so he took it, sought her out, and gave it to her. You can figure out the rest yourself."

"What happened afterwards?" Harry asked, forcing himself to look away from Draco's lips before the little restraint he still possessed abandoned him. "Surely they saw it all happen."

"They did, but they were too scared to admit what they'd done, so they Obliviated Longbottom and hightailed it out of there. They figured it was better to blame it on the Squib than to tell the truth."

There was a faint note of disgust in Draco's tone, and pride swelled in Harry's chest. Never in a hundred years would he have thought he'd be sitting in his flat listening to Draco Malfoy defend a Squib. It was a nice change, he decided.

"In any case," Draco said, straightening up and walking over to Harry, "I'm just about done with—"

He never finished his sentence, because Harry, who had personally had enough of conversation, cut him short by grabbing the open flaps of his robe and yanking him across the remaining distance between them. Draco stumbled forwards, throwing his hands out to brace himself on the armrests of Harry's chair.

"What was that for, Potter?" he complained, but Harry silenced his protests with a kiss, harder and hungrier than the last one they had shared. His tongue swept Draco's lips, begging entrance, until Draco finally acquiesced with a small moan that made all rational thought in Harry's brain short-circuit. Draco's hands came up to clutch both sides of Harry's face as his tongue teased and stroked Harry's, plundering Harry's mouth without the battle for dominance Harry had once associated with Draco's kisses.

They separated, but not for long; Draco was already half-way through tugging Harry's t-shirt over his head by the time Harry gathered his wits enough to reach out for Draco's clothes.

"Shouldn't we move this somewhere more appropriate?" Draco laughed breathlessly, nudging Harry's legs apart so that he could rest a knee on the seat cushion for balance.

"No," Harry gasped, flinging his head back with a groan as Draco worked his knee against Harry's hardening cock. "Fuck—Draco—"

"Sex in a chair, then?" said Draco, laughing again. He finally got Harry's t-shirt off, sending Harry's glasses flying off in some unknown direction, and trailed his fingers down Harry's bare chest. "Why, you never told me you were so adventurous."

Harry made a noise of frustration deep in his throat—why was Draco still talking; hadn't they talked enough?—and pulled Draco into another kiss, which effectively shut him up. Draco's fingers stilled on the buttons of Harry's trousers as he returned the kiss eagerly, but Harry thrust up, urging Draco to keep going.

When Draco's cool fingers finally slipped past the waistband of Harry's pants and brushed against Harry's erection, Harry threw back his head and let out a gurgling moan. Chuckling, Draco leaned forward to brush Harry's matted hair away from his temple and press a kiss there, all the while rhythmically fisting Harry's cock with the perfect amount of friction and pressure. Harry was rendered incapable of doing anything but burying his face in the junction of Draco's neck and shoulder and panting when Draco's thumb rubbed circles over the head of his cock. He was so close; all Draco needed to do was...

Pull away. Harry's hand shot out to grab Draco's wrist and try to force it back to what it had been doing so very well, but Draco slapped Harry's hand away.

"Patience," he murmured, his breath hot against Harry's cheek.

"Fuck patience," Harry snapped. He let out a shaky breath. Why did Draco have to choose now to channel his inner bastard?

Draco seemed to be oblivious to Harry's aggravation, because he pulled away from Harry and went to work removing his robe. He let it slip off his shoulders and pool on the floor, then began undoing his trousers so slowly that Harry finally knocked his hands away with a growl and completed the job himself. Smirking, Draco pulled Harry's legs forward so that Harry was sitting on the edge of his seat. Then he rested his elbows on the back of the armchair and straddled Harry's lap.

Harry momentarily forgot his aching need in favour of watching, with some wonder, as Draco bit his lip and rested his flushed forehead against Harry's. Then, letting his eyelids flutter shut, Draco took both their erections in hand and began stroking them together.

Harry gasped and pulled Draco closer. As far as he was concerned, nothing—not his past flings, not being with Ginny, not even all the times he and Draco had been together in the past—could compare to this very moment, when he was pressed against Draco so tightly that he could feel every heartbeat, every breath, every tremble that passed through Draco's body as deeply as if it had been his own.

Draco tangled his free hand in Harry's hair and kissed him; their pants intermingled in their mouths as Draco quickened his strokes. Almost unconsciously, one of Harry's hands joined Draco's hand on their cocks. Their fingers entwined, and oh God, Harry had wanted this, had missed this with a part of him he'd tried to shut away, because only Draco could make him unravel so quickly and completely—and unravel Harry did when Draco tore his lips away from his and sucked on his pulse point, hard. The sensory overload sent pleasure cascading through Harry's body, and with a cry, he spilled his release over his and Draco's joined hands. Draco followed moments later, moaning into Harry's mouth.

In the period of contentment that followed, Draco slumped forwards against Harry's chest with a small sigh. Harry absently stroked Draco's bicep, revelling in the utter lack of second thoughts running through his head. He had got what he'd wanted, after all. The knowledge made a warm, full sensation expand in his chest and press against his ribcage, making it difficult to breathe.

After a minute or so, Draco lifted his head. "Can't you wait to spring the distractions on me until after the trial?" he grumbled, though the effect was rather ruined by his reddened cheeks, swollen lips, and drooping eyelids.

"That's a whole week away," Harry pointed out, trailing a finger along Draco's jaw.

"A week is hardly eternity."

"No, it isn't, but I've already waited two decades for this. I'll be damned if you can make me wait any longer."

The trial had already begun by the time Harry arrived. He quietly found a seat for himself in the benches, nodded hello to the witch beside him, and then turned his attention to the proceedings in the court below him.

"...were driven by the same hate that has plagued the wizarding community for centuries, a hate that was passed down to them by their parents," Draco was saying as he paced back and forth before a frowning jury. Behind him, Simon Longbottom was shaking like a first year student waiting for his turn with the Sorting Hat. Corvus McLaggen, a blond, ruddy-faced boy who greatly resembled his father, stood to Simon's left with his friends. Compared to them, Simon looked like he was having the time of his life.

"Perhaps their parents did it unwillingly, but does that make it acceptable?" Draco continued. He paused in his stride and swept over the Wizengamot with his determined gaze. "Is this what we want in an era that many have called the Golden Age in wizarding history? Can we really claimed to be free of prejudice when we're so quick to point fingers at an innocent young man just because he lacks the magical powers the rest of us were fortunate enough to be born with?

"Simon Longbottom did not attack that girl out of hate. The only evidence this court has to base its accusations on is that which its underlying prejudices have supplied it with—in other words, nothing substantial.

"We say the wizarding community has reached a state of equilibrium, but this tragedy is evidence that our ideal world has yet to be reached. Someone whose judgment I trust deeply once told me right after the war ended that he was holding out for something better. I didn't believe there could be anything better than the present then, but I've now come to realise that he was right. True change comes from the destruction of old ways of living, and until that destruction is complete, we can't claim to be the revolutionary generation. There is still a better world waiting for us, and I can only hope that this incident will give us the push we need to get there."

There was a resounding silence. Draco was unfazed; he continued to glare up at the interrogators, composure and confidence in every detail of his posture. Harry, who had seen Draco in nearly every court position but this one, was deeply impressed. He finally understood how Draco had managed to survive the war as a member of Voldemort's inner circle: when he needed to, the other man was more than capable of reining in his emotions for the sake of the task at hand.

The plum-robed Wizengamot members had fallen into a whispered discussion among themselves. Harry noticed several of them casting admiring looks in Draco's direction, and he leaned forwards, holding his breath in hopeful anticipation.

After a few minutes that felt more like hours, a bald wizard near the front of the Wizengamot nodded at the interrogators. Leonard Jorkins, the plump, good-natured Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stood up.

"Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?" he said, directing the question at the Wizengamot.

Harry clenched the bench beneath him as he tried to count the hands in the air. He lost count after fifteen, but it was no matter, for all but three of the members had voted in favour of the defence. Harry's heart leapt. A cheer rang from the other side of the court as Neville and Hannah both jumped to their feet and applauded the decision.

Several titters rose from the Wizengamot; Leonard raised his hand, quieting them. "Settle down, now," he chided, though he sounded greatly amused himself. "Well, then, it appears that Simon Longbottom has been cleared of all charges. This court is dismissed. Hit Wizards, if you would please apprehend the witnesses and take them to a waiting cell..."

In the ensuing chaos, Harry had eyes for only one person. Springing to his feet, he hurried down to congratulate Draco.

Draco was heading out of the courtroom alone when the person he'd been dreading talking to most called out his name.

Draco's stride faltered for a split second, and then he carried on, his pace a little more hurried than before. Neville Longbottom, however, did not get the hint. Subtlety had always escaped him.

"Malfoy, hold up." Longbottom caught up to Draco and halted him with a hand on his shoulder. "I never got the chance to thank you."

"Consider me thanked," said Draco, delicately shrugging Longbottom's hand off and taking a few steps back. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"We really appreciate what you've done for us," Longbottom insisted. "Simon's a good lad. He would never intentionally hurt anyone."

"I'm well aware. I did just spend the past month of my life building a defence for him, Longbottom."

Longbottom grinned. "You know, Malfoy, you're not as bad as everyone reckons," he said. Draco resisted the urge to throttle him—it certainly wouldn't do to murder one Longbottom after he'd worked so hard to save another one. "In any case, I'll let you go now. Thank you again."

"I didn't do it for you," Draco called after Longbottom's retreating back.

Longbottom stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Infuriatingly enough, his smile had not wavered. "I know. You did it for Harry, didn't you?"

Before Draco could compose a suitably indignant response about how he never did anything for anyone but himself, Longbottom was gone. Moments later, Harry appeared out of the swarm of plum-robbed wizards and witches filing out of the courtroom.

"You were brilliant," he whispered into Draco's ear, entwining their fingers for the public to see.

"I thought you'd never show up," said Draco, covering up his relief with a cluck of his tongue. "Late, and on my birthday, too. It's good to know I'm so high up on your priority list, Potter."

"Hey, I had a reason," Harry protested. He reached into his pocket and drew out a palm-sized box wrapped in gold foil. "Happy birthday, Malfoy."

Draco looked around. Several of the spectators now leaving the courtroom had stopped to watch them curiously. No doubt they painted an attention-grabbing picture: the hero who'd defeated Voldemort and the solicitor who'd just pulled off an impossible court win, notorious childhood rivals and wartime enemies, holding hands in the middle of a corridor in the Ministry of Magic.

Draco took the gift, feeling slightly awkward.

"You can open it," said Harry.

Draco hesitated. "If you bought me jewellery, I'll kill you right here."

Harry chuckled. "Don't go thinking too highly of yourself yet, Malfoy. The only person I've ever bought jewellery for was Ginny, and she was my wife."

"She's also female," Draco pointed out. He unwrapped the present without paying any mind to the wrapping paper, and laughed when he saw what it was: a brand new deck of Muggle playing cards.

"Who says I want your Muggle rubbish?" Draco scoffed, even as he tucked the cards into the pocket of his trousers. It rested comfortably against his thigh, an oddly reassuring sensation that Draco had not felt since he stopped carrying Harry's old cards around.

"Well, it didn't look like you'd be buying the deck you still owe me any time soon, so I took it upon myself to do it," said Harry, raising an eyebrow.

A smile tugged at the corners of Draco's lips. He took a step forwards—this was it, he was going to do it, there was no turning back now—and kissed Harry in full view of the small crowd that had gathered.

"I don't suppose you know any card games for two," Draco murmured when they separated. He glimpsed a number of stunned faces in his peripheral vision, but paid no attention to them as he and Harry began heading for the lift.

"As a matter of fact, Hermione taught me one called Cheat the other day..."

"Cheat? Are you trying to tell me something, Potter?"

"Relax, Malfoy. Paranoia isn't a good look for you."

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy and other Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her associated businesses. The Harry/Draco World Cup and its participants make no claim upon them.