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His Actium	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 9606 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Two--Target Acquired

            Harry stepped into Venezia's and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. A series of wooden steps led up into the restaurant proper, the entrance being high and arched and flanked with pillars. Harry glanced at them and managed to refrain from snorting under his breath, which wouldn't fit with the character he was trying to play here. Someone had made those pillars copies of Corinthian columns, but had obviously studied only enough Greek architecture to pick out "curly bits are important."

            He faced into the restaurant again, his eyes no longer burning from the sunset, and smiled. The entire place was made of wood, most of it much more expertly carved than the columns at the door. The tables stood under sunbursts on the ceiling above, exactly the shape and size of the tabletops themselves, and silently shining magical beams of light connected the rare windows scattered about. A river ran through the middle of the restaurant, a delicate chattering stream down which trays full of food floated. Those seated near enough to the water could bend over and pluck their food out; servers brought them to the more distant tables. Flowers, including large lilies, grew along the sides of the water. The air was filled with gentle talk and laughter.

            As a place to meet a new target, it was better than most Harry had seen.

            A man in charcoal-grey robes had appeared unobtrusively at his side while Harry was observing. "Welcome to Venezia's, sir," he murmured. "Do you have a reservation?"

            Harry smiled at him. "No. I'll be happy to wait until there's a free table, though."

            The man hesitated. He had dark hair that looked as expensive as his robes. "There may not be one this evening, sir, even if someone cancels. There's a waiting list."

            Harry shrugged. "No matter. I'll wait." As he turned to the cushioned waiting bench to the left of the door, he made sure to give his head a subtle toss so that the fringe cleared his scar.

            The man gabbled. Harry sat down on the bench, arranged himself so that he was comfortable, and looked up. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, managing a puzzled frown without too much trouble.

            "N-no." The man bowed, his eyes flocked on Harry's forehead. "Just--Mr. Potter, you should have said something."

            Harry raised his eyebrows. "I don't want you to kick someone out of their reservation for me."

            The man smiled for the first time. "Don't worry, sir. There are people who will consider it an honor and a privilege to be displaced for someone who saved us all from a Dark Lord."

            Harry knew that, actually. He had simply wanted to make sure that the staff of Venezia's would choose one of them instead of the first person they saw or the people at the best table. "If you can find someone who doesn't object, please tell them I'll be happy to make it up to them," he said. Sometimes all they wanted was an autograph or a photo; sometimes they wanted to talk to him, tell him their troubles, let a child sit on his lap, or just hold his hand and stare into his eyes for long moments.

            Harry had got used to it. It was boring, sure, and sometimes a fan went further than just touching his hand, but, well, he also used his name to help him in his Auror missions. There was a price to be paid for using it.

            And if he was around someone truly dangerous, someone adopting the guise of an adoring fan to get close enough to kill him, he could usually sense it. A year of living among the wolves before he decided to go back and finish his education at Hogwarts after all had taught him most of the masks that assassins lurked under. They always did something to betray themselves. No one was perfect.

            A good reminder of what to keep in mind when you go after Malfoy tonight.

            The server hurried back with news that a family had been happy to give up their table to Harry, but would Mr. Potter mind posing for a photograph in return? Mr. Potter didn't mind at all, especially when he saw the family. A mother with her two children, the older of them a ten-year-old girl off to Hogwarts next year. Who knew what her future would have been, or if she would have been born at all, if the war hadn't ended when it did?

            A lot of other people seemed determined to forget about the war as soon as possible. Harry never would.

            Photograph snapped, hands shaken, token advice dispensed, Harry made his way to the free table. It was right next to the stream, and he sat down on a chair that promptly molded itself to fit him. Harry smiled and shifted a bit so that it wasn't pressing the daggers he wore to the skin of his legs. That would have been uncomfortable. When the first server from an awed, whispering little group made her way over to him, Harry ordered a claret and leaned back in his seat, watching the restaurant chatter and circle around him.

            He was glad that Malfoy had the level of wealth and influence he did, because the people in Venezia's only stared at him a little; their own lives and their own courtesies forbade them to do more. Harry had to fend off one overly-polite offer to buy his dinner, but he managed to send the man who wanted to do that away with a smile on his face. His steak arrived in good time, and Harry divided his attention between it and his drink, making it seem as though he was wholly absorbed. He'd had lots of practice at that.

            He knew when Malfoy arrived, of course, because of the small mirror he'd placed beside the plate. But the noise level in Venezia's didn't appreciably change to warn him, and Harry knew Malfoy would have sensed perception-altering magic if he cast it. That meant he was able to start and turn around in his seat as if it was some mystical sense of Malfoy's presence that alerted him.

            Malfoy stood in the center of the doorway, posed in such a way that Harry had to fight back a smile of appreciation. No one wanted to snap pictures of him at the moment, it seemed, but he was perfectly framed so that someone could. He was listening to the wizard speaking to him with utmost courtesy. At his side stood yet another tall blonde witch with green eyes, who hunched her shoulders a little as if intimidated by Venezia's atmosphere.

            Harry had studied his face in the newspaper photographs, but Malfoy's features in life were something else again. His skin had the pallor of a fine piece of porcelain, the pointy features he'd had when he was a schoolboy subsumed but not gone. Harry was fairly sure that they could emerge when he wanted to sneer, though. His hair was fine, soft as dandelion fluff, and a white-blond that Harry knew at a glance wasn't natural. His eyes dominated his face, a deeper grey than Harry remembered, but still shades lighter than the dove-grey robes he wore. When he moved, Harry caught a glimpse of navy blue beneath the robes.

            Harry waited until the moment Malfoy turned away from the server and glanced across the restaurant. He might have been searching for friends, companions, business associates, enemies.

            What he found was Harry.

            Harry let their eyes meet, let his own face express whatever it wanted to at the moment--he knew there would be shock in there and some appreciation, at least--and then turned back to his meal. He refused to do it hastily. He wouldn't let Malfoy frighten or intimidate him.

            Or that was the message he had to send, at least.

            Now he really did have a sense of Malfoy, the man's gaze prickling along his neck, his back, his shoulders, as he and his date moved past Harry to take a place at another table further down the stream-bank. Malfoy stepped around the table to hold the chair out for his date, and thus could look right into Harry's eyes. Harry stared back at him, long enough for the air between them to acquire a charge, the stare to turn uncomfortable.

            Malfoy didn't turn away, didn't look as though he wanted to.

            Interesting. Harry toasted him with the glass of claret and turned back to his dinner. The steak was exquisite, tender enough to break apart on the fork and warmed by a special spell on the plate beneath it. Harry half-closed his eyes as he ate. He would have to make sure that he came back to Venezia's when he wasn't on the hunt.

            He was satisfied with his progress for the evening. If Malfoy hadn't shown up with a date, he would have tried to push further, but there was only so much that he could do in front of a witch Malfoy would need to show attention and courtesy to. If Robards tried to needle Harry on it, all Harry had to do was ask sweetly how his own spies were coming along.

            "Mr. Potter."

            It was the man who had seated him, hovering nervously to the side. Harry looked up at him with a smile. "Yes?" he asked, and then saw that the wizard held another glass of claret. He shook his head. "I didn't order that."

            "Yes, but--" The man licked his lips and gave Harry the wretched look of someone caught between two equally powerful beings. Harry knew it well. The Aurors who worked directly for Robards sometimes had those expressions when Harry wanted to question something they were doing. "Mr. Malfoy's compliments."

            Oh. Even more interesting. "In that case..." Harry accepted the glass and looked across the distance between their tables. "Thank you," he said, keeping it soft enough that there was no way Malfoy could have heard, but also keeping his eyes locked on Malfoy's eyes.

            He heard the server beat a hasty retreat. Harry didn't see any need to be hasty himself. He took a few lazy sips and showed some real emotions: admiration for the way that Malfoy looked, equal admiration for the way that he had raised himself to a high position from dust and ashes after the war, interest, curiosity, and half-playfulness. Whatever you intend with this gesture, it won't be what you're sure you'll succeed at.

            Malfoy stared back at him, eyes dark. Then his mouth curved in a slow, contented smile that reminded Harry of a cheetah stalking prey across the savannah.

            Of course, a cheetah only got so close before it took down the prey in a burst of speed.

            Do you have the stamina? Harry thought, lounging back on his chair and looking elsewhere only when Malfoy did, turning his head in response to some question from his date. Because I have the speed.

*

            "I hoped to hear something more than that, Potter."

            Harry rolled his eyes and toweled himself dry, hooking the towel around his waist when he was done. Once again, Robards had called not long after he'd got out of the shower, and this time, Harry had decided not to hurry to dress, just to make Robards's day that much more uncomfortable. "You've heard what I had to report. I had thought Malfoy might be showing up alone, and I would have moved faster in that case. But, sir, tipping my hand to him would be a lot more disastrous than not acquiring the proof of a crime that might not have happened."

            Robards opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Fovea's screech from the aviary. He stopped, looking annoyed, for as long as it took her to scream, which was nearly a minute. Harry smiled unrepentantly at him. That's what you get for firecalling me before I can feed my cockatoo breakfast.

            "You have to understand," Robards said, and lowered his voice as though afraid that someone behind him was listening, which wouldn't have surprised Harry. "This is the one chance that we might have to convict Malfoy. In general, he pays his people so well that none of them will turn on him. He couldn't have anticipated that someone would survive the dragons' eggs and do so in fear of his life."

            Harry cocked his head. "What are you saying?"

            "That this is your one chance," Robards said. "Our one chance. You have to find whatever you can. You have to act as quickly as possible. Do that however you have to, I don't care. Convince Malfoy that you were in danger of dying of desire for him even before this." His mouth quirked to the side in disgust, and Harry snorted. If he hates what I do that much, he shouldn't have hired me to do it. "Or let him think he's taking advantage of you. But we have to have that proof."

            "Sir." Harry kept his voice quiet and utterly respectful. "Even if it turns out that the proof shows he never committed a crime?"

            "No one becomes as good as he has by not committing a crime," Robards said. "Or as powerful and successful. Even you, Potter, ought to know that. You're not exactly walking around in the light, and you've had a lot of success."

            Harry stared at him. He took in the flush of Robards's cheeks, the way his hands gripped something Harry couldn't see but which was most probably a sheaf of parchment, the way he leaned forwards as if he thought that he could find a perfect angle of his body that would be most compelling to Harry.

            He has a personal stake in this. He wants Malfoy taken down whether or not he's guilty.

            That changed the game. Harry inclined his head. "All right. I'll find out what I can."

            "And what's there, Potter. I know you. You always do." Robards opened his mouth as if to say something more, then jerked his head and stepped back from the Floo. It closed. Harry stood there looking at the ordinary flames in silence for a moment, ignoring the way that Fovea was now performing a war-dance on her perch, from the sounds of it, and threatening direly bitten fingers if she didn't get what she wanted five minutes ago.

            I have to act fast so as to satisfy Robards. But that means that I'll probably warn Malfoy along the way, or not turn up what I'm looking for, because by the time I get there he'll have destroyed or hidden it. Or it doesn't exist in the first place, and this is all a delusional case because the Head Auror has a grudge against Malfoy.

            Harry shrugged. So I play one game on the surface and another beneath it. I've done harder things.

            Though not often.

            There was a loud smash, which probably meant Fovea had succeeded in tipping her ceramic bowl out of its holder. Harry rolled his eyes and went to attend to the other impatient, clucking presence in his life. At least she would coo nicely when he petted her.

            Thinking of Robards's reaction if Harry was to offer that to him made him laugh aloud, and after that, things went a little more easily.

*

            "You want to speak to Mr. Malfoy?" The undersecretary's voice wavered as she stared at Harry. She was a tall woman, with white hair whose stern lines reminded Harry of McGonagall, but she seemed overawed by the sight of someone famous appearing in her patron's office.

            "When it's convenient for him," Harry said. "If it isn't convenient today, then I can come back tomorrow."

            He frowned at the floor, though, and gave the undersecretary an apologetic smile. She squeaked and turned hastily to the speaking tube on her desk. Harry sat down on the bench in front of her--comfortable but not as comfortable as it could have been; Malfoy didn't want to encourage people to wait for him--and, while apparently keeping his eyes focused ahead, on the wall behind the undersecretary's desk, studied the office.

            A bland space, a blank one. The walls were crowded with portraits of potions, shining vials and cauldrons and a few that contained what were apparently Malfoy's employees lifting a cup of them to their lips, but Harry had already noticed that there was no way to link the potions to descriptions. They were simply rich red or blue or green liquids, unless you were a Potions master. And Malfoy's business was the supply of ingredients, raw and otherwise, not the production of completed potions. This office was meant to dazzle while not revealing the fact that it revealed nothing about Malfoy's business.

            Harry raised his eyebrows. He would have expected price lists, at least. But Malfoy must know what he was doing, to have a business as successful as the one he operated. Or perhaps his main clients were rich enough that they could pay any price worth the asking.

            "Mr. Malfoy will see you."

            Harry smiled at the undersecretary and rose to his feet, while his brain exploded into furious buzzing. He really had expected Malfoy to refuse, especially with the heightened paranoia that had to have infected him once Zabini, a lover and friend, had betrayed him. This had been more in the nature of a scouting mission, as well as a token to show Robards.

            If Malfoy was willing to see him...

            Harry shrugged mentally as he followed her directions down a richly-paneled and carpeted corridor. He had ridden the shifting waves of more situations than this one, played more than one game with people who were smart and wary and had practice in concealing their secrets. He would have to keep an eye on his own irritation with Robards and his unexpected sympathy for Malfoy when he was studying the newspaper articles; either emotion could hurry him into hasty conclusions. But he didn't fear drowning.

            You don't, once you learn how to swim.

*

            "Potter. I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

            Harry had to smile again as he stood and held out his hand for Malfoy to shake. No, you aren't, you bastard. You knew exactly what you were doing.

            He'd spent the last half-an-hour in Malfoy's exquisitely designed office, with its huge birch wood desk and lamps of white gold, as much a mask as the outer one was. Harry had learned the colors of the carpet by heart, and never shifted from the chair he sat in, although it had shifted itself according to a subtle spell every ten minutes, silently encouraging him to stand.

            He had learned other things, too. The wait comforted him a bit; as well as telling him that Malfoy still enjoyed the exercise of petty power, it also indicated that Malfoy had no idea who or what Harry really was. He wouldn't have left Harry alone with the opportunity to think and gather more details about him otherwise.

            "Hullo, Malfoy," Harry said. "Don't mind. Showing up in the middle of the day had to be an inconvenience for you."

            Malfoy gave him a thin smile as he took his hand. His skin was warmer than Harry expected, his fingers just as long and slender. Today he was wearing a pale shade of blue that seemed to bring out blue undertones in his grey eyes. Harry approved. Malfoy had learned how to accent his own beauty, probably when he grew into it.

            "What have you come to see me about?" Malfoy sat down with careless grace behind the desk and motioned Harry to take the chair again. Harry noted with silent amusement that the contours of the chair had turned perfectly comfortable this time. "It must be urgent. I can't imagine that you have much use for potions ingredients in your own right, unless your talent has grown considerably since Hogwarts."

            Harry grinned at him. "Nope. I didn't blow up the lab on my last try, but it was only because I'd added so many inert ingredients together that the potion would have caused some damage in about, oh, fifty years."

            Malfoy's lips twitched, and his eyebrows rose. "You've acquired a sense of humor about your own failures, at least," he said. "But I notice that you haven't answered the question."

            Harry nodded. "There are a few potions ingredients that I'd like to buy as gifts for Hermione, as a matter of fact, but I wouldn't expect you to attend to that personally." He met Malfoy's eyes head-on and dropped the teasing humor, summoning the intensity that he'd used the other night. Malfoy blinked at him, lips parting slightly, before his eyelids slid down over his eyes and his face acquired the bright neutrality again. "This is about what happened in Venezia's."

            "So dissatisfied that I bought a drink for you?" Malfoy murmured, the edge of a snap to his voice. "Well. That will make sure I don't do again. I prefer to dispense my gifts to the grateful."

            "I didn't know that I wanted to be grateful," Harry said. "I hadn't seen you face-to-face in Merlin knows how long. But--Malfoy, God, I haven't felt a kick like that in years." And that much was true. Harry enjoyed sex and flirting both, but the tension coiled in his stomach last night has been something else, a dark, sucking power that made his thighs tighten as he thought about it. "I was wondering if you would consider going on a date with me."

            Malfoy touched his hand to his heart in a parody of a fainting virgin's gesture. "You ask people out before you trip them into bed?"

            "Not often," Harry admitted cheerfully. "A lot of people are overwhelmed that I'm offering and pleased to go along with little more than a touch on the arm. But I can already tell that you'll need more than that." He refused to look away this time, even as the darkness in Malfoy's eyes and face both deepened.

            "I've heard about the way you hop from bed to bed," Malfoy said, when enough silence had passed between them that Harry felt as though the sparks were burning his skin. "Why would I want that for myself? I enjoy faithfulness."

            Harry shrugged. "I can say that I've always been faithful to my lovers while I was with them. Hermione calls it serial monogamy."

            "Still need Granger to do your thinking for you?" Malfoy crossed his legs, tilted his head downwards the tiniest amount. Harry kept himself from blinking with an effort. He's thinking about it. I wonder why? This wasn't supposed to work.

            "No," Harry said. "But I'd be stupid to call it, oh, 'consequences of my abusive childhood manifesting in a desperate search for parental figures' when I have another, ready-made name."

            Malfoy choked out a laugh, and shook his head. "It's been weeks since any of my dates made me laugh," he murmured. "And I do enjoy a challenge in the evenings that's a bit different from the challenge of making sure the numbers add up right and my suppliers contact me on time."

            Harry held his breath, and held his gaze, and said nothing. The heat was spreading up his stomach again, stiffening his muscles, making his mouth dry out so that his heart could beat there.

            "Yes," Malfoy said. "For one date. And with no guarantee that there'll be more, or that we'll sleep together. I'll choose the time and place." He showed his teeth in a way that reminded Harry, again, of the cheetah stalking its prey. "And if I hear of you going out with someone between now and then, the date's off, and your life is going to become hell in ways that you can't imagine."

            Harry stood up and bowed. "You don't need to worry about that," he said. "I want you more than I've wanted someone in a long time. I'd be an idiot to screw up my chances, and I'm not."

            "No, you're not, are you," Malfoy said, his eyes darker than ever as they lingered on Harry.

            Acting on the instinct of the moment, Harry reached out and took Malfoy's left hand that lay on the desk, lifting it to his mouth. "May I?" he asked, his lips moving just above the warm skin.

            Malfoy's fingers clenched once, a slight spasm, before he nodded. Harry kissed him with breath and the tip of his tongue more than lips, then gave him back his hand and let his heat flood his eyes as he stared.

            Malfoy's flush showed only on the tips of his ears and in his glittering eyes, but it was there. Harry inclined his head again and swept out of the office.

            This is going to be fun.

*

            unneeded: Thanks! It should be about nine or ten chapters long; at the moment, I'm thinking ten.

            Mehla_Seraphim: Sorry, no!
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