Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
- 22
SUMMARY: Because Harry Potter is an utter sap, he decides that he's going to date Draco Malfoy. Draco doesn't know how to respond to these muggle advances. The following are two dates both taking place in the days leading up to the Delacour-Weasley wedding. I make no excuses for myself: an entire chapter of fluff, sap, pap, vague smut, and more fluff. On the plus side, some interesting information about Draco's past, familial and sexual.

WARNINGS: relationship drivel, EmotionallyWithholding!Draco, Aggressive!Harry, Dominant!Harry, mild R.A.C.K., D/s, sexual content, fellatio, hand job, Bottom!Draco, Dominant!Harry, Aggressive!Harry, mild breath play, Parseltongue

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is needlessly, senselessly long because sometimes we need the drivel, the sentiment, the goopy bullshit that doesn't improve anything but our perception of the world around us. Take it as a trip down Billy Faulkner Lane—with a grain of salt and a pint of bourbon, everything arrives as it should be.

CONSCIENCE:

DATING DRACO MALFOY

After an entire sunny August day trapped indoors, Harry had had just about enough. He and Draco practiced magic all morning. They spent the afternoon searching both library rooms for anything that might be even remotely useful in Harry's quest to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes. Draco played piano into the evening while Harry read, sprawled out on the sofa. He glanced out the window and noticed the sun was nearly set. His stomach gave a loud rumble. He hadn't eaten since tea.

Draco's fingers paused on the keys and he looked up at Harry.

“Hungry?” the blonde inquired. “Should I start supper?”

Harry dropped his boring old book on the coffee table and stood up, stretching his limbs. He was going stir crazy.

“Draco, do you like Thai?”

“Beg yer pardon?”

“Oriental food,” Harry clarified. “Spicy. Have you tried it?”

“No, have you?”

“Once,” Harry shrugged. “The Dursleys went out to eat and I had the leftovers. It was excellent. I always imagined that, if I ever got out of there and dated someone, I'd take them to a Thai restaurant.” He didn't mention that in his little boyhood fantasies, he'd always pictured himself seeing a woman. It really wasn't the time to bring that sort of thing up, anyway. Hadn't he decided he didn't care Draco wasn't a girl? Did gender even matter at this point? It was Draco. And he fancied Draco, was dating Draco.

“Harry, are you asking me out?” the blonde snorted, smiling in a soft, amused way with his head tilted to one side and his downy platinum hair hanging slightly in his face. Harry couldn't resist walking over to the piano bench and running a calloused hand through those blonde tresses. Draco allowed this, looking passively up at Harry.

“I'm begging,” the dark haired man replied, planting a chaste kiss on Draco's forehead. “Please, Draco. Sneak out with me? Let me buy you dinner. It's only a date if you want it to be.”

After ducking out under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry led Draco due south to Soho. The weather was warm but lovely and so they decided to walk. Surprisingly, Draco didn't complain that he'd already seen that part of London. He seemed just as pleased as Harry to be out of the house—which was very pleased, indeed! Once they passed George Street, Harry kept an eye out for a nice looking Thai restaurant. There were probably dozens if not a hundred of them around London, but Harry wanted to take Draco to a part of the city where they wouldn't be looked at funny. Two blokes on a date was normal in Soho. Happy same-sex couples streamed past them, several giving Draco the once over.

Harry couldn't get enough of Draco, either. The man had disguised himself with a bit of magic, darkening his hair to a mousy brown and conjuring a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses that reminded Harry of Percy Weasley—except Draco's were square instead of horn rimmed. And Draco's stirred something in his groin while the thought of that git Percy gave him decidedly un-sexy shivers. Draco had gone so far as to darken his eyebrows, too, and the light dusting of hair on his arms. He wore denims and the white cotton shirt he'd loaned to Harry when they had gone dancing. It felt like years ago but was only about a week. He and Draco had been together less than a week. Harry couldn't believe it. He felt so close to Draco now. They understood each other more than he was ready to admit.

Eventually Harry picked a busy-looking restaurant and they waited outside for a table. He offered to buy Draco a pack of cigarettes while they waited but the newly made brunet just shrugged, one hand in his pocket and watching the muggles go by. Harry got nervous; he'd never been on an actual date, he realized suddenly. Did he get Draco's chair for him? Was Harry supposed to order for him or was that just with girls? When they'd gone for gelati Draco had allowed Harry to get the door for him, so maybe that meant holding doors and chairs was acceptable. He watched the other couples for clues. They were mostly older, in their thirties or forties, chatting and holding hands. For a few minutes, Harry watched a pair of blonde women at a table near the open window. He could hear them speaking French as they held hands across the table. They both wore silver wedding rings with little diamonds set in the bands. A very new part of Harry hoped that could be him and Draco some day. He could learn French and finally understand all those presumably dirty things Draco said in bed. And they would have quiet dinners together, holding hands and talking about nothing of consequence. Destroy Voldemort, the voice at the back of his head reminded him. Kill the bastard and this will be your reward.

The hostess called Harry's name. He decided to get the door for Draco, earning himself an odd, unreadable sideways glance. When he got the man's chair, he was treated to a pair of stormy eyes boring into him over thick-rimmed glasses. Draco didn't actually say anything but he didn't need to. His eyes said it all. What are you up to, Wonder Boy? What do you want? Trying to butter me up for something unusually freaky in the sack? It's going to take more than getting my fucking chair for me, you bloody pervert.

Maybe Harry knew Draco a little too well: he smirked back, enjoying the man's smoldering gaze until their waitress arrived. The question of who orders for who was solved then their waitress described the evening's special as an entree intended for two. The meal passed quickly, sampling noodles and rices of increasing increments of spice. Draco's tolerance for heat was much higher than Harry's—he ate the spiciest of the beef and nibbled on these peppers that Harry wouldn't touch.

Afterwords, the brunet finally confessed that his lips were on fire. Harry laughed, saying he'd remember not to kiss Draco for an hour or two and all would be well. Draco shot him a dirty look for that but it was worth it. He liked Draco's dirty looks; after all, they were harmless. Harry ordered some chai tea for the both of them—with a bit of sweetened coconut milk, no sugar.

“But you like sugar in your tea,” Draco pointed out.

“And you don't,” Harry said back, smiling. “Tonight is about you, love.”

Draco blushed and wouldn't meet Harry's eyes even after the tea arrived. Draco sipped from the large yellow mug, smiling behind the rim and doing something under the table. Harry could only describe it as playing footsie... but Malfoys would never play footsie. Maybe Dracos did. The tip of Draco's shoe traced gently up and down the back of Harry's calf, lifting his trouser leg and ruffling the dark hair beneath. It brought a blush and a smile to Harry's face as he drank his tea. It was fine without sugar.

- - -

When out on the street once more, Draco turned northward with a sigh.

“Back to prison, I suppose?”

“Oh, to hell with it!” Harry threw an arm around Draco's shoulders, turning his svelte frame until they were face to face. “We're already out. Do you wanna go for a walk or something? Catch a movie?”

“Catch a wha'?” Draco's magically darkened eyebrow quirked, their faces not far apart.

“A movie,” Harry repeated slowly. “Don't tell me you've never seen a film?”

Draco shook his head, nonplussed, as though admitting he'd never seen an Erumpent, either, and never particularly cared to.

“Well, you've seen television, right?” When Draco nodded, Harry continued. “Well, a movie is like a television program except longer—usually two hours or so—and the screen is much bigger. They have lots of music in them. Some sex, too.” Harry knew exactly how to entice the man.

“Alright,” he shrugged, nearly dislodging Harry's arm from his shoulder. “Is there one nearby?”

“I'm sure there is,” Harry offered, steering Draco toward Covent Garden. “Why don't we just walk, see what we find?”

Harry kept his arm tightly around Draco as they set out. He wasn't sure how he expected Draco to respond to his advances. Did he honestly think Draco fucking Malfoy, ex-Slytherin Ice Prince, would put an arm around his waist, cuddle up and kiss him on a muggle street like a lovesick girl of twelve? No. Did he want Draco to? More than anything.

Draco seemed on edge, his eyes scanning the street. Harry realized the brunet's hand was in his right pocket, ready to draw his wand at a moment's notice. He probably had a point, too.

Eventually Harry spotted an art house that was running old movies from the 1970's. Several of them were in French. He led Draco up to the illuminated posters, telling the man to pick whatever he liked.

“Are these any good?” Draco asked, stepping out from Harry's arm to examine the posters closely. His glasses slid down his nose a bit. Harry struggled not to invade the man's personal space and push the spectacles back up again.

“They're all older. I'm guessing they're pretty famous,” Harry offered. “I haven't seen a ton of muggle films, so I can't say for sure. Did you want to see one of the French ones?”

“You don't speak French.” Draco stood, fixing his glasses with a prim hand to the side of the frames. Harry pushed his own glasses up his nose, though without such grace.

“I'm sure they'll have subtitles. That's an English translation at the bottom of the screen whenever the actors are speaking,” Harry explained.

“Hmm,” Draco hummed, looking over the movie adverts again and chewing his plump bottom lip quite thoughtfully. “How about this one?” Of all things, Draco pointed to what appeared to be a mobster movie, called “Mean Streets.”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed, prepared to give Draco whatever he wanted. It was good to see him happy. “There's a showing in five minutes. Let's get tickets.”

The theatre was unlike any Harry had been in in Surrey. He'd only gotten to go twice, once when Dudley was invited to a birthday party and the other when his corpulent cousin couldn't wait to see a film about some boxer he'd idolized at the time. Both instances Harry had been deemed too young or too dangerous to be left at home alone and so was dragged along. Dudley had been treated to a heaping bag of popcorn, an overlarge box of candy and a syrupy soda as large as his head. Harry sat squashed between his cousin and Uncle Vernon. He'd only enjoyed his times at the movies because it was a whole two hours in which he was not insulted, screamed at, threatened or beaten with a belt. He couldn't even remember what movies he'd seen; his only memory was being in that dark room, like his cupboard, where no one was going to hurt him. Now he'd be in that dark room with Draco beside him.

The brunet excused himself to visit the W.C. before the film, leaving Harry in the lobby to look around—to gape, really. The theatre had a bar along with the regular options of popcorn, candies and sugary sodas. They had an elaborate chocolates counter next to the bar. The whole place was done in darkly stained woods and deep, rich fabrics like an old fashioned smoking lounge instead of a movie theatre—no wonder the tickets had been bloody outrageous! He watched patrons stroll back to the viewing rooms, cocktails in hand.

He went over to the chocolate counter, thinking to get something for Draco. A few fruit and liquor flavored truffles sounded just right. He placed his order and reached for his wallet.

“Trying to impress?” asked the woman behind the counter while counting out the chocolates into a box. Like Heather Lightley, she had piercings up and down both ears with the addition of a swirly flower tattoo on the side of her neck.

“Er, yeah,” Harry scratched the back of his neck as he felt a blush coming on. “First date.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “You might try some champagne, then. Nothing says romantic first date like champagne and a dark theatre. Might do your nerves some good, too!”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded as the girl handed him the fancy truffles in a little box lined with tissue paper. “Kind of fitting, actually. We got together over champagne and half a bottle of tequila.”

She laughed, reaching under the bar for champagne flutes. Harry took a seat. “Known each other long?”

“Six years. We went to school together—boarding school in Scotland, very posh. I never really fit in,” Harry babbled, keeping an eye on the alcove that lead to the washrooms. It was only a minute or two until the film started. He watched a beautiful woman come out of the alcove and head for the bar, smiling at someone. With her long limbs and athletic grace, she reminded Harry of his old Quidditch team mate, Angelina Johnson.

“Is that her?” the girl inquired from behind the bar, filling two glasses to the brim.

Harry shook his head “no,” drumming impatient fingers on the bar.

A second later, Draco emerged; a hand in his pocket, standing regal as any proud, privileged Malfoy ought. Even with his hair darkened and glasses covering his magnificent eyes, he was still Draco Malfoy. Harry had to shut his gaping mouth before the drool spilled out. “Him.”

“I'm switching to tequila,” the gal behind the bar muttered, taking the fifty pound note Harry handed across the bar and preparing his change. “He is fucking gorgeous,” she added appreciatively. Harry nodded his sincere agreement. He picked up his glass and sipped the sour, bubbly wine just to have something to do with his mouth. The urge to meet Draco half-way, scoop him up and kiss him senseless was making Harry a little mad. It only got worse as the man drew nearer.

“What's this?” Draco asked with a drawl, standing beside Harry's stool with an odd smirk on his face. “Chocolates? Champagne? Potter, are you trying to get me in bed?”

Harry took another drag on his champagne and didn't say a word. Draco always had to belittle every affectionate gesture. Each time he went out on a limb, the man had a snarky comment or irreverent remark. He couldn't acknowledge kindness, attraction, or any other positive, binding emotion. Harry resolved—not for the first time—that he would break Draco fucking Malfoy if it killed him.

“Well!” Draco prattled, ignoring Harry's silence. “I can certainly see why you and the ginger chit didn't make it. Such ovations,” he gestured to the wine and box of bloody expensive truffles, “would have been entirely wasted. Who knew Harry Potter was such a romantic sap?”

Harry set down his champagne flute. He'd drained the glass without realizing. He signaled the woman behind the bar for another round. She met his gaze with the slightest wince. Draco was being Malfoy The Ponce of Slytherin. He was very good it it—it was irritating how easily the man slipped back into that role. It bothered Harry even more than before because he understood how much of an act it was.

“I'm not dating Ginny, am I, darling?” Harry said evenly, watching the sparkling wine swirl in his glass. The woman behind the bar waved off his offer to pay for the additional round. He couldn't bear to send her a smile, his attention focused on speaking to Draco. He couldn't manage to look at the man, but his entire being was concentrated on that lithe body beside his own. Harry felt his own magic crackling in his hair, creeping along his skin, mixing with the sound of his voice. He half expected to hear the hiss of Parseltongue when he spoke. “I'm here with you. I'm with you. And if you like it that way you'll not open your perfect mouth again unless it's to kiss me. Passionately. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco's mouth worked soundlessly, open and closed, open and closed again, but he had sense enough not to argue with a risingly unstable Harry Potter. The dark haired man commanded his gaze, eyes blazing an eerier green than any floo. Draco swallowed as Harry's hand came up to wrap around his throat. There was no pressure, only implied threat.

Harry leaned forward to kiss him, wine-flavored lips meeting his in a cool, damp, almost gentle press that sent shivers and thrills down his spine. Harry's lips were weighty and chilled against his own, yielding, tender and still insistent, emphatic, forceful. He had no choice but to return the kiss in kind. Harry's hand sent sparks dancing up and down his skin. He found himself holding his breath as Harry's lips plied his own into rapid submission, tongue entering his mouth to spread the mingled treats of champagne and Harry. Both tasted familiar. He held both in his lungs, savoring the heat of Harry's hand, the texture of his mouth, the tingling dread of magic he felt in his gut, lingering in the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers. He decided it would be best not to bait Wonder Boyfriend anymore. He was already painfully hard in a public place thanks to some Chosen magic and Chosen tongue. He closed the distance between them, looking for a little more Chosen contact to conceal his deplorable condition.

Harry's strong, rough hand tightened slightly at his throat, forcing him back. Green eyes opened to meet his, possessing undeniable and complete control.

“Now what do you say, dearest?” Harry murmured, lips adorably thickened.

“I'm... sorry fer,” Draco stuttered dumbly. Speaking frankly while unbearably, thought-destroying-ly hard was not his forte. Neither was admitting he was in the wrong, yet he'd been doing an awful lot of both lately. He fought for composure. Composure eluded him. “Fer being an arse. I'm always such an asshole to ya,” he swallowed, blushing. “An' I'm sorry. Thanks fer... everythin', Wonder Boy. Yer really perfect. Weasel chit didn't deserve ya. Neither do I.”

“Shh,” Harry soothed with a noise and then with his lips. He kissed chastely, caressing Draco's neck with calloused fingertips. “I don't get off to fighting with you. But I hate that two fucking minutes apart turns you back into Malfoy—turns you back into the enemy. I can't have you doubting this. Can you work on that? For me?”

Unable to summon words past the lump in his throat, Draco nodded.

“Okay,” Harry smiled, his nose brushing Draco's in a silly, childish gesture. Draco stoutly refused to admit that he liked it. Harry did it in his sleep, too, hissing Parseltongue and grinding, heady and indecent against Draco's thigh. “I'm sure the movie's already started. Shall we go?”

Harry jumped from his bar stool without a thought and actually offered his arm, glass of champagne in one hand and the open box of chocolates in the other, that Perfect Potter grin on his angelic, loveable face. Draco picked up his untouched glass and took Harry's arm like a sodding girl.

“Yes,” he whispered. The muggle woman behind the bar stared avidly, undisguisedly at his crotch. Between him and Harry, the bitch practically drooled. “Let's.”

- - -

“I still say photographs aren't as much fun if they don't move!” Draco insisted. They'd been snogging in the photo booth at the movie theatre when Harry put a pound in the machine. The flash of the first picture had caught Draco off guard. After rapidly fixing his hair and smiling for the next shot, Harry mussed his mousy hair again and dragged him back for more lazy kissing. Now they each had a string of pictures—physical evidence that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy snogged... well and proficiently, the photos professed despite the fact that they didn't move. If they moved, they might as well be pornography: he'd nearly gotten a hand down Draco's tight denims right there in the booth! He was enjoying his evening, enjoying Draco—in no rush to get home, collapse in bed and suck and fuck each other's bloody brains out. It would happen as sure as the sun would rise. For now, he just basked in strolling half-hard through Green Park with his handsome boyfriend. They'd walked around for nearly an hour, stumbling across an ice cream shop still open despite the hour. Harry had insisted; ice cream, champagne and tequila becoming just a few of their shared little secrets.

Draco brandished his empty plastic spoon as he spoke. Harry laughed. Draco had a bit of ice cream at the side of his mouth. The chocolate matched his hair. Harry leaned forward suddenly, kissing and then licking it away. Draco's voice fairly hummed in his chest.

“Don't muggles have decency laws?”

“'Course,” Harry shrugged. He'd already finished his ice cream; so, hands free, he worked one into Draco's back pocket and squeezed. “So?”

“So yeh'd betta stop tha',” Draco yanked on Harry's forearm, drawing the misbehaving hand away from his rear. “Otherwise I'm gonna fuck ya right 'ere in this dirty muggle park.” To illustrate his lewd point, Draco drew Harry's hand over the bulge in his denims. Harry had to step back to stop himself from jumping Draco then and there, his breath sounding embarrassingly like a gasp as it got stuck in his chest. He strove for a deep, solid breath.

“Okay, point taken.” He stretched his hand between them, taking the spoon and empty dish from Draco. “Let me have this. There's a rubbish bin right over there.”

He took twelve or so paces at a jog before tossing the plastic into the receptacle. He was impressed when it actually went in. He'd been lazy, not wanting to walk the rest of the way over. The stiffness in his jeans made anything more than a brisk walk unpleasant.

“Good shot,” Draco observed, approaching Harry from behind. “Maybe yeh should've been a Chaser.”

“Who says I'm not?” Harry asked. He threw his head up to look at the night sky. The blinking lights of airplanes twinkled back at him instead of stars but it was still a nice sight. “I'm always chasing after you.”

“But I'm no Keeper,” Draco said quietly, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist from behind. This was his first voluntary demonstration of affection all night and it hit Harry like a double edged sword. The man was implying so many things—that he didn't like being left behind, out of the action, exactly what Harry had planned for him. That he wasn't a reliable defender, someone Harry could count on. That he wasn't worth having in a relationship. And, of course, wizard slang for his not bottoming for anal sex. All things Harry didn't want to hear, didn't want to think about. He both loved and hated Draco's ability to say so much with so few words. He loved that intelligence, that spark: he hated how the man pushed him to really think in more than one direction. His chin fell to his chest.

“I don't really want to talk about it, Draco,” he said lamely. He was only being childish by avoiding the issue—all of them—but he couldn't help it. They were on their first real date. He just wanted to be normal for a tiny bit longer... before life came crashing down around them.

“Okay, Wonder Boy,” Draco nodded against the back of his neck, squeezing Harry tightly to him. He'd never in a millions years have expected this of Draco; the automatic, gracious understanding or the blatant cuddling, but both were a welcome relief. He leaned into the lissome frame nestled at his back, savoring the smell of him, the intimate curvature of his body.

“You never said what you thought of the film,” Harry offered.

“Aside from all the muggle stuff ya had ta explain ter me?” Draco shrugged. Harry felt it, shrugging with him to reiterate that it was no big deal. He'd actually enjoyed Draco whispering in his ear every few minutes, that seeking of nearness in the dark. Draco had at one point put a hand to the inside of his thigh. It got his pulse racing, just thinking about it. “It was interesting. It... reminded me a' my father. Especially after the Dark Lord came back. The lot of 'em aren't like tha'. But father is. Was. I don't know.”

Harry shook his head, nuzzling against Draco in the process. Lucius Malfoy was little more than a gangster, intimidating people with his money and political power. “It's only a matter of time before he breaks out,” Harry sighed. “You know that, right? Snape said as much. The Dementors are all with Him now. And most of the Ministry's got their heads up their asses, refusing to acknowledge the problem. You're prepared for it?”

“Yes,” Draco didn't move except to hold Harry closer in his arms. It wasn't a cold night; quite the opposite, but it still felt good to be that close together, as though it would make the truth easier to swallow. “There was... talk, back when I was at the Manor. Father is influential. Mother was doing her best but she just isn't him. She couldn't handle them like father could. He has always had a certain way about him, a discretion that is appreciated and much rewarded.”

“Draco, what are you saying?” Harry asked, twisting his torso to look back at his boyfriend. Even darkened, his hair still shimmered in the light from a nearby street light. Harry stretched an arm around to cup Draco's face but the man wouldn't meet his eyes.

“Oi! You there!” called an unfamiliar voice. Harry started. He looked to the sound to see a uniformed police constable striding purposefully toward them, a hand resting less than casually on his truncheon as he puffed. The officer was in his fifties and out of shape, the face under his cap as round and soft as the body beneath his straining uniform. Still, he was a good head taller than Harry or Draco.

Draco let his arms drop to his sides as Harry stepped slightly in front of him, a hand ghosting over the wand in his front pocket. He could probably stun the muggle if he concentrated. He truly hoped it wouldn't come to that. The last thing he wanted was trouble... but the set of the constable's shoulders suggested otherwise.

“Let me handle this, m'kay?” Harry whispered. Thin, cool fingers to the small of his back was the only response he received, Draco's face shutting down to register only a practiced Malfoy mask.

“Exac'ly wha' are yeh lot doin' out 'ere in the middle o' the night?” the man asked bruskly, red-faced from his exertion. The man's expression showed he thought the two of them were fags and hoodlums beyond a doubt. He'd probably seen them talking, kissing. The man's beady eyes reminded Harry of his Uncle Vernon. Those eyes flashed repeatedly to the tattoo on Draco's pale arm, probably wracking his brain, comparing it to every gang marking he saw on his beat.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said slowly. “We weren't aware the park was closed.”

“Park ain't closed,” the man growled. “But this 'ere ain't Hampstead Heath, yeh know.”

At any other time, such an old-fashioned West Country dialect would have reminded him of Hagrid; now, it only served as a reminder that they were not safe. They were in foreign, muggle territory.

“We weren't doing anything wrong, sir,” Harry offered in his most amiable, Uncle-Vernon-pacifying voice. His free hand automatically went out to shield Draco, inviting the temporarily dark haired man to step further behind him, to use him as a shield.

“Lemme see yer identification, then,” the constable demanded gruffly. The embroidery on his left breast proclaimed his surname as Burton but Harry didn't want to think of the man as having a name, an identity beyond “muggle.” The flabby man held out a hand and stared Harry down, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Harry slowly went for his wallet, pulling out the required bit of laminated plastic and handing it over.

“Eighteen, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From Surrey? Yer a long ways from home, boy,” the constable observed. Harry stayed silent, now realizing what this was about. He'd read in the newspaper in his week at the Dursley's. The age restriction on consent to homosexual acts had just been lowered to be in line with that for heterosexuals. It had been all over the papers and the tele, so was sure to be fresh in people's minds.

The constable handed back Harry's muggle identification only to shoot Draco a pointed look that lingered on his left arm. Draco twitched, shuffling a little further behind Harry and obscuring his arm. Draco had a tattoo; the law said you had to be eighteen to get one regardless of parental permission. But he could have easily gone to the Netherlands or somewhere else where the laws were more lenient. The Mark alone could testify to his age, as it had at The Gladstone Arms; somehow, Harry didn't think Constable Burton was buying it.

“Where's yers?”

Harry looked over his shoulder to see the confusion behind Draco's spectacles. With Seeker quickness, he snaked an arm around the man's thin waist, drawing him close.

“Did you leave your wallet at home, sweetheart?” Harry joked, thinking on his feet. “Good thing I always pay.”

“Must've left it in my trousers after the conference yesterday,” Draco shrugged, cottoning on. He gave the officer a helpless smile.

“Oh, off with you!” Burton scoffed, waving the hand that wasn't atop his weapon's handle.

Harry made to usher Draco away, tightening the hand on his hip, preparing to drag his boyfriend away.

Angry, the constable dropped a hand on Harry's shoulder, yanking the small man around with a good bit of force.

Harry stepped immediately and instinctively in front of Draco—stilling a cool, twitching hand before it could draw that concealed hawthorn instrument. If the officer thought either of them were drawing a weapon, things would get ugly very fast. Harry kept his face emotionless.

“Separate die-rections, kid. Yer both goin' home, yeh hear me?” The constable spoke in a warning tone.

Harry was fuming but couldn't let it show. Draco made a small, high-register sound at the back of his throat. It wasn't quite a nervous whine but it was too damn close to anxious for Harry's liking.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, squaring his shoulders. “C'mon, honey. Let's go.”

Constable Burton stared right at Harry, taking him in fully. Harry was a little bigger than Draco; more broad up top, probably stronger and posed more of a physical threat. Draco wasn't exactly a nancy, either, come to think of it. They were both fast and brutal as proven more than a few times on the Quidditch pitch. Burton's doughy hand clenched around his weapon. The muggle wouldn't stand a chance against two trained wizards—one of them a fully trained Dark Wizard who held no qualms when it came to using magic in front of or directly on or against muggles. Harry prayed this wouldn't come to violence. A very miniscule and twisted, disingenuous part of him wanted to see Draco in action, wanted to see his lover wield the Dark Arts and demonstrate his prowess, his power. It would be unbelievably sexy. Harry ignored that sick instinct and focused on deflating the situation. He started by unclenching his fists.

“I said separate directions, boy.” Burton slid his truncheon a few inches from its holster, the menace that laced his voice superfluous by comparison.

“Wha' purpose would tha' serve?” Draco snapped suddenly.

“Yeah! We live together!” Harry added. “Not like it's any of your business.”

“Yer jus' children!” the officer bellowed, thoughtlessly moving forward to separate them.

Harry threw both arms out, bodily pushing Draco back a few paces. Burton advanced on them, hand on his half-drawn weapon. The boys weren't posing any immediate threat. The man was just angry and on edge because of what he thought they were.

“I'm an orphan! And he's been disowned!” Harry yelled in the man's face, completely losing his control. “What would you have us do? Get married?! Fucking let us!” He was leaning forward now, on the balls of his feet. He felt his face heating with his temper but couldn't help it. Draco's thin, cool hand held him tightly by the wrist, preventing him from rocketing forward at this idiot mountain of a muggle.

Burton backed down, dropping his truncheon back to his hip and holding up his empty hand to show Harry and Draco he meant no harm. Draco pulled insistently at Harry's arm: he felt the uncontrolled magic crackling, radiating off his boyfriend and it was frightening. There was an unexpected tinge of Dark Magic to Harry's anger and it made the Dark Mark awaken most unpleasantly. Draco's skin crawled like he was covered in spiders, the Mark prickling painfully.

“Baby, can we get a taxi?” Draco asked plaintively, trying to bring Harry back down to Earth. He couldn't help the uneasy note that snuck into his voice, try as he might. “I really don't feel like walking anymore.” Harry looked over his shoulder then. At the sight of Draco, pale and panicked, his rage reduced to a hot simmer laced with heavy pangs of worry and guilt.

“Of course, love. Let's get out of here,” Harry turned his back on Burton, pulling Draco to him, a protective hand rubbing up and down the brunet's back as he led his boyfriend toward the nearest street. “Good night, constable,” he blandly called over his shoulder.

They walked to the corner in silence. Harry stopped their progress so they could wait for a taxi to drive by. Headlights were few in this darkened part of the city.

“Is it really tha' bad fer muggles ta be queer?” Draco asked quietly, still allowing Harry's hand to trace slow circles over his shoulders and back. The night seemed a bit colder now and he was silently glad for the warmth of Harry's body tucked close to his own.

“Sometimes,” Harry answered quietly, considering. “London's not as bad as some places. I think it's worse in the country, more teasing and that sort of thing. My cousin Dudley and his gang used to call me a poofter all the time. My Uncle Vernon, too. I never really thought about it, though.”

“So why did tha' muggle policeman wanta see yer identification?”

“Age of consent,” Harry explained. “Muggles have a law that you have to be a certain age to agree to sex. It's sixteen. It used to be twenty one for gay blokes but they just changed the law this year. Now it's the same for everyone, which I think is fair. Don't wizards have laws about how old a person has to be?”

“Jus' tha' yeh have ter be at least twelve ta marry,” Draco shrugged, inching his torso closer to Harry's. “The laws are all so old in tha' area. No one really pays attention ta tha' sort a' thing, anyway. Sex certainly isn't regulated—except fer public decency restrictions, o' course. An' even those are mostly aimed at keepin' us a secret from the muggles.”

“So anyone can bugger anyone, then? There aren't different rules for gay witches and wizards?

“Gods, no! Everyone's the same. Well, unless yer considered a part-human—a werewolf or a Veela or somethin'. Then there are regulations.”

Harry finally spotted a taxi and signaled, his arm high in the air to attract the driver's attention in the dark.

“Can we talk more about this when we get home?” Harry asked as the cab slowed, pulling up to the curb.

“'Course, love,” Draco said softly, unthinking, as Harry got the door for him.

They rode home in quiet, holding tight to their secrets.

~ * ~

Harry ran a hand over the top of his head, trying for the millionth time to coax his hair into lying flat. It just wasn't cooperating tonight. He let out a long puff of a sigh. At least everything else about his appearance was perfect. He wanted to be perfect for Draco.

He'd used a pay phone to make Friday night reservations at a very expensive French restaurant in Mayfair. He'd never been to a restaurant with a dress code—jackets required—but it seemed like the sort of thing that would please Draco, putting him in his element. Harry reserved a private room and asked the host to have a bottle of their best champagne chilled and waiting. After making the reservation, he'd wandered London in search of what Draco would consider a decent suit. He tried to remember everything Draco had told him about how to dress himself. He shouldn't wear black because it blended with his hair, making him look monochromatic and washed out. Navy was better. His new dress robes were navy. They'd arrived by owl post that morning. Draco had been most satisfied with the fit of the shoulder, saying a garment wasn't suitable if it didn't sit correctly at the shoulder.

With Draco's muttered musings in mind, Harry found himself a wildly expensive shop named after an Italian man, Ermenegildo Zegna, and a handsome suit with a devastating price tag—about two thousand pounds, when one included the belt and couple of shirts he'd bought to match. The salesman at the shop had been extremely helpful when Harry explained he needed something to impress a very fashion-forward date. Whistling low when Harry named the restaurant, the man asked if he meant to propose. Harry shrugged it off, saying the relationship was too young to tell. But the man's comment brought back a memory of the Black family tree, which made Harry smile. He'd carefully neglected to tell the salesman that his intended was another man, not wanting the “gay” thing to affect the clothes he was shown. As it was, several pink-hued shirts were presented to “bring out his eyes.”

He examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Everything had to be perfection tonight. He had to admit, he looked pretty damn good. Draco had shaved him on Wednesday and here he was on Friday evening with only the smallest of shadows, his long side burns still immaculate. His hair was rubbish but that couldn't be helped. The dark navy suit fit him like a glove, falling lean and tailored from the shoulder to his flat-front trousers. He'd settled on a pale purple dress shirt just to be interesting. He unbuttoned his jacket to view his “showpiece,” as his salesman called it. With such an understated suit and short stature, he needed something to make himself stand out, apparently. Being The Boy Who Lived wasn't enough. Still, he liked the white cotton belt with its oblong, brushed silver buckle. The finish caught the light even in the bathroom. He hoped Draco would approve.

He gave up on his hair and called his boyfriend's name in a voice that would carry down the hall. “Are you ready?”

As Harry peeked around into the hall, Draco emerged from their bedroom still buttoning the jacket of his grey suit as he walked. While out yesterday, Harry had passed a posh shop with a vivid blue dress shirt in the window and the first thing he'd though of was how Draco's eyes would reflect that kind of intense color. Draco wore the shirt now, the stiff silk treated with something that made it swish audibly as Draco moved. The shirt suited him. It would probably look even better when his hair was back to platinum blonde. His disguise glasses were tucked into the handkerchief pocket of his jacket along with a little white square of fabric.

“I'm ready,” Draco whined, striding down the hall. “Will ya tell me where we're goin' in this downpour?”

“It's a surprise,” Harry chuckled, ducking his head back into the washroom before Draco caught sight of him in his new suit. He made one last move to fix his unruly hair before Draco entered the small room. “I can't just tell you and spoil the fun, now, can I?”

“Fuck the surprise,” Draco whispered, staring frankly as he leaned against the washroom wall. He loosed the buttons of his blazer, taking Harry in. His silver gaze did not linger on his boyfriend's face but rather on his shoulders, chest, waist, and legs. A mischievous grin overtook his pointed face when he saw the white belt with its flat faced military buckle polished to a mirror shine. His eyes fixated lower, zeroing in on Harry's sex.

“This is wha' ya bought yesterday?” he said, sounding slightly choked.

Harry gave him a slow smile of confirmation. “I didn't want to shame you with my humble wardrobe.”

Draco's eyes didn't leave Harry's nether-region, even as he slowly licked his lips. “Oh, you wont. Not now.”

“Are you saying I look nice?” Harry teased, pushing his jacket aside to rest a hand on his hip. Draco just nodded, staring at a certain part of Harry's anatomy with the intensity of a cat stalking a mouse. His gaze was determined, predatory.

“Yeh dressed yerself,” Draco commented almost idly, still inappropriately fixated. He pushed off from the wall, drawing close enough to run a hand over Harry's single-notched navy lapel, smoothing away a nonexistent wrinkle.

“You can tell?” Harry put his hand over Draco's, stilling it, pressing it to his chest.

“'Course,” Draco said absently, eyes roving Harry like a prized thoroughbred at auction. “Quality but not too fussy. Classic, understated. And then the unpredictable,” Draco's free hand traced along the chic white belt before venturing lower, stroking Harry to hardness through the fabric. “Tha' wild, independent streak. An abject refusal ta do as yer told.”

“So I'm a rebel?” Harry's voice dropped significantly in register. He wished Draco would stop looking at him like a piece of meat in a suit. He enjoyed the sexual attention—loved it, reveled in it, couldn't get enough—but if they didn't get going they'd be late for their reservation. And it was pouring rain. They probably should've left early.

“You are,” Draco articulated slowly and clearly. “And the most stubborn, single-minded son of a bitch I've ever known.”

“Right back at ya,” Harry simpered, new trousers getting awful tight under Draco's continued ministration. “Does that make you a rebel, too?”

“No,” the man shook his head almost sadly. With his hands to Harry's chest and groin, he easily backed the dark haired man against the counter. “Jus' spoiled. I'm accustomed ta gettin' wha' I want.”

“And what do you want?” asked Harry. Their faces were only an inch apart, Draco's breath hot on his cheek.

“You.”

Their lips met in a rush, Draco's tongue skilled and demanding, quickly gaining entrance to Harry's mouth and sweeping the cavity to lap up every molecule of him. Harry felt himself overwhelmed by Draco's desire, trying his best to meet the press of his tongue and lazy thrusting of his narrow hips. He could scarcely draw a breath under the siege of Draco's lips, teeth and tongue. Teeth clacked together as their mouths moved hotly, opening over and over again, seeking out more to taste, savor and feel. He pulled Draco flush against him, holding his ass to grind against one another, eliciting a feckless, desiring groan.

“We're gonna be late,” Harry muttered into that sound. Draco's mouth closed over his words, drawing out his tongue and sucking hard, pressing it with his own. It was Harry's turn to groan, bass and deep in his throat.

“Fuck it,” was Draco's reply. He left one last bruising kiss on Harry's lips before pulling away to work at the unfamiliar clasp of Harry's new belt. “Je te voux,” he whispered, fingers flying. “Je veux lécher ton foutre! J'ai envie de toi!” At last the clasp sprang loose. Draco made quick work of the button and fly, dropping to his knees. They both gave an audible sigh when Harry's length was freed.

“Tell me,” Harry insisted, a firm hand to the side of Draco's pale face, holding him off what had quickly become the man's favorite activity.

Silver eyes gazed up at him, glassed over with burning lust. He stroked Harry's shaft, cupping his bollocks by feel. He worked Harry blind, completely focused on the face above him, the man he was about to please. “I want you.”

“Gods, Draco,” Harry hissed, pushing into that slick, waiting mouth. “I'm yours.”

He felt Draco almost gag around him. He hadn't had time to prepare himself with magic. Harry wanted to go slow but he couldn't help it. Draco took him deeper even as his throat spasmed in protest. Harry went fast and hard and Draco let him, wet sucking sounds mingling with Harry's feral grunting and the strained puffs of sniffling little breaths flaring Draco's nostrils. His cheeks flushed as Harry bore down, holding tightly to the back of that bobbing head, practically forcing. But you can't force the willing. Harry left one hand on Draco's cheek, liking the heat of his flushed skin, the activation of every muscle in his jaw as he valiantly fought imminent choking. Harry used his grip on Draco's darkened hair to pull him back to half-way, feeling the man beneath him swallow and draw a full breath.

That was Harry's signal to let loose. He yanked Draco's hair, thrusting fast and shallow, violating like he never knew he could. He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip, trembling.

“You're so good at this, baby,” he hissed, head thrown back as he bucked and fucked without a care. “You feel so fucking good. Yes, yes!” Draco battled Harry's restraining grip, taking Harry deeper into his mouth and doing his best to hold his teeth back. Harry wrapped his hand under Draco's chin, puckering those stretched lips and asking for the slight graze of teeth. “Don't you worry, doll. You just take it.”

Draco moaned, a garbled sound of abject pleasure. The vibration got him and he was coming, spilling into Draco's mouth as he continued to thrust. Draco sucked him dry, Harry's hand massaging his sultry, supple throat until he'd swallowed the last of it. Slumped forward, Harry opened his eyes to meet Draco's. He brushed brown hair from the man's eyes, his hard cock still lodged in suckling wetness.

“You are so good at that,” Harry managed, his throat not nearly as raw as Draco's had to be. Those silver eyes were proud and fierce staring back at him. Holding Harry's gaze, he slid down to the hilt, taking Harry's sensitive sex to the very back of his throat only to clamp down on the head, gagging himself magnificently. A deep wail escaped Harry, toes curling in his dress shoes. He ruffled Draco's hair as his once pale face went redder and redder by the second. Draco was holding his breath again.

“You don't have to,” Harry croaked, absently rubbing Draco's scalp in an effort to calm him, his fingers shaking. “Really, I just came. I don't need—”

Draco pulled back to the head of Harry's cock, delivering a sensuous lick to the sensitive bundle of nerves on the underside of the still engorged head. He gave Harry another ferocious look before slamming Harry's length into his mouth, his ragged throat now relaxed by magic.

“You... want to,” Harry gasped the realization before the hot suction ripped a scream from his lungs. Taking the back of Draco's head once more, he pounded with abandon, already feeling his next orgasm awakening in the depths of his gut. Draco rocked into each thrust, braced by both hands on Harry's thighs. Harry pulled the man's hair until he moaned. The warm reverberations were nothing compared to the knowledge that Draco liked doing this, that this got him off, too.

“I love that dirty mouth of yours,” Harry growled. “I love how you talk. I love your accent. I love every off-color, perverted thought that comes out of it. And I love coming in it. Fuck, you let me come in you,” his stomach clenched tight, soon followed by his buttocks, thighs and chest. He tightened his fists in Draco's glossy hair, pushing through the resistance of jaw to that constricted, sodden bliss awaiting his every thrust. “You want this, Draco. You want me. This is us. Us.”

Draco shivered violently, from his toes to the top of his head and everywhere in between. He moaned around Harry's dick in his throat, fingers scrambling for purchase against the soft wool of expensive trousers. He sucked powerfully all the while looking up into Harry's eyes. The intensity of that gaze brought Harry over the edge more than anything else. He came with a violent tremor of his own, pitching over Draco in a boneless heap as he emptied himself for a second time in the man's eager mouth. Draco needed no help swallowing this time around, his throat assisted by magic. Draped over Draco's back, he felt the man end the spell so that his throat clenched Harry powerfully before he pulled away, coughing and spluttering. Harry did his best to lean his weight against the counter instead of his boyfriend beneath him but it was quite a task with all the strength gone from his limbs. Long fingers shaking, Draco slipped Harry's boxers back where they belonged followed by his trousers and finally refastening the innocent white belt that had started the whole thing.

When Draco braced against his knee to stand, Harry offered a supportive hand under the man's armpit. He couldn't do much to lift him but the hand acted as a balancing aid.

“We're gonna be late,” Harry croaked, voice spent for the moment.

Draco didn't sound much better when he spoke. “Why?” he rasped. Harry smiled.

“'Cause it's your turn now,” he smiled roguishly and reached for Draco's groin. But there was no straining, painfully untouched erection there. Harry looked at Draco, lips parted in a silent question.

“I—er,” Draco stuttered, still red-faced and flushed. “I came... when you did.” And beneath the pink pinch of exertion and red rouge of choking, Harry finally detected the sweetest blush of afterglow. Harry smiled so broadly he thought his face would surely crack in half. If he ever had dimples in the course of his life, he very well had them now.

“Really?”

Draco nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“Come 'ere,” Harry slurred, reaching a hand to roughly grab his lover about the neck and tug him close. He wrapped his other arm around narrow hips, sneaking a hand under Draco's jacket to rub small, comforting circles at the lowest part of his back. After a second's uncertainty, Draco collapsed against him with a happy sigh. His head fell against Harry's, his warm breath trickling under Harry's open collar.

“I could stay like this forever,” Harry whispered under his breath, eyes closed and breathing Draco's familiar scent, the delicate brush of wool and silk nothing compared to the man's heavenly skin. He pulled Draco closer still, tightening his embrace until the man's ribs creaked. He felt Draco holding his breath, savoring the same joys.

“Me too, Harry,” he replied.

I want to taste me on you, Harry thought rashly, the need to claim Draco quickly overwhelming him. Forever.

Instead, he only said, “kiss me.”

- - -

They managed to catch a taxi on the corner, avoiding the worst of the rain. Even with London traffic, they were perhaps only five minutes late for their reservation. A uniformed muggle sprang from the restaurant's door the moment their car pulled up to the curb, popping a large umbrella and seeing the two men dry from door to door. Harry got the restaurant's heavy wooden door for Draco, earning neither a dirty look nor the slightest smile. And that was actually an improvement. He was chipping away at Draco's seemingly automatic public coldness.

They'd been silent most of the cab ride, Draco gazing out the window to collect himself and Harry content to let him. Draco hadn't asked where they were going. He hadn't expressed an ounce of curiosity since leaving Grimmauld Place. He probably deemed childlike enthusiasm beneath him—Harry really wished he wouldn't. The man was especially beautiful when excited. His eyes lit from deep inside and his skin just glowed like a Lumos Spell had been cast beneath the surface. His combative, singular personality didn't stop him from looking like an angel. Harry's fallen angel.

Draco looked passively about the upscale restaurant now, searching out the empty table reserved for them. There wasn't an empty seat in sight and his darkened brows pinched. He turned to Harry, his mouth open in silent question.

“Ah! Mr. Potter, I presume?” asked the host, a very tall gentleman with bushy hair and a thin mustache. Harry stepped forward, remembering to stand up straight and keep his hands out of his pockets.

“I'm Potter,” Harry asserted, standing even with Draco. “We were a little delayed by the rain.”

“But of course!” the man nodded obligingly. “Please! This way, Messieurs.” He bent slightly before gesturing for Harry and Draco to follow. Harry felt like a kid, he and Draco barely clearing the tall man's elbows. The man's bushy head practically brushed the ceiling; then again, the restaurant was built around an old crypt which was responsible for the low stone ceilings. It was like a limestone Hogwarts, lit with sparkling candles and decorated in crisp white linens.

Their private dining room was the crypt itself, frescoes peeling from the walls and a glorious old chandelier set in the ceiling with dozens of tapered candles. Even the wall sconces held burning candles. In the center of the room sat their table, decorated with a few exotic white flowers Harry could hardly name. A silver champagne bucket sat on a pedestal beside the table, the bottle sweating as it waited for them. Harry glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch a boyish smile twitch Draco's lips before he schooled his expression to one of bored neutrality. That little smile was everything, though. Harry knew he'd done well.

The tall host inquired to be sure everything was to Harry's satisfaction before excusing himself. Harry watched him duck out a tiny door original to the crypt—it probably lead directly to the kitchens. Harry reached for the nearest chair, drawing it out for Draco. Not one for wasting time, Draco seated himself, allowing Harry to tuck his chair in for him. He bent, pressing a quick kiss to the top of that mousy brown head.

“I'm glad you approve,” Harry whispered, dropping one more kiss. His hand lingered on Draco's shoulder as long as possible before going to his own chair. He undid the bottom button of his jacket and sat, spreading his napkin over one knee. Draco silently poured the champagne. He lifted his glass and thought a moment. Harry picked up his own glass, waiting for the man's toast.

“Tu me rends fou,” Draco said, not a hint on his face of what it could mean. Harry pursed his lips at the man's obstinacy.

“I'm sure,” Harry hissed quietly, holding Draco's gaze. “Just remember—you end up married to me. So play nice, love. Cheers!”

He clinked his glass against Draco's before taking a sizable drink, the bubbles lingering in his nose and making him squirmy. He watched Draco pale slightly before bringing his own glass to his lips. He drank slowly, an almost thoughtful eyebrow quirked in Harry's direction. Harry just set his glass down and smiled. There was a distinct lack of menus. So he struck up a conversation, instead.

“Do you speak any languages besides French?”

“A' course,” Draco's expression became more relaxed, some color returning to his high cheeks. “I was schooled in French, German an' Latin from the age a' four. Father insisted I...” he trailed off, reaching for his champagne and downing a third. “I suppose tha' doesn't matter anymore.”

“You make me feel like an idiot,” Harry said quietly. Draco began to protest but Harry held up his hand in the classic “let me finish” gesture. “Because I actually know so little about you. I didn't know you speak German. And I have no idea what you would've been schooled in—I mean, did you go to a school before Hogwarts?”

Draco shook his head, a little smile on his face. “I had tutors at the Manor. An' I spent a few hours a week with father practicin'... well, you know.” Draco cut himself off with a conspiratorial wink. Harry turned to see a gentleman in a sharp black suit entering the crypt from the main door. He nodded politely before approaching their table.

“Good evening,” he said in a heavily accented voice Harry could barely understand. “I am Paul-Henri, ze 'ead Monsieur. I trust everyzing eez to your satisfaction zis evening?”

Harry smiled blandly, trying to make sense of what the man had just said. Draco jumped right in, speaking rapid French and gesturing over the table. The waitor's face lit up, presumably at Draco's perfect, native pronunciation. They went back and forth for many minutes, Draco asking questions here and there—Harry could tell only by his body language and the way his voice turned up at the end of a sentence. The waitor always answered with a smile and occasionally a polite laugh. He looked to Harry a few times but Draco always spoke on his behalf and he was thankful. Harry had the perfect excuse to watch Draco's face in profile, examine the way his lips moved, memorize the curve of his throat and the way that bright blue shirt set off his eyes. Draco seemed excited, whatever they were talking about. He cast a few glances to Harry as he spoke. Harry liked being caught staring. He made no pretense to hide what he was doing, his gaze riveted on his boyfriend's face, his glossy hair and soft skin, enjoying the sound of his voice, the way his features moved as he spoke, conveying slight and dignified emotions—so different from the intense passion he'd exhibited on his knees not half an hour ago. Gods, Draco was fucking amazing. Harry admired the man's self-control as much as he hated it.

Paul-Henri gave a short little bow before leaving them, backing away a few steps in mid-bow before turning his back as though they were royalty. With the price tag, Harry guessed that was what patrons expected. He was used to people treating him differently because he was Harry Potter but that didn't stop him from noticing.

“So,” Harry said, his voice sounding gruff and strange in his ears after a good ten minutes of Draco's clear, aristocratic tones. “What was that about?”

“Oh! I was ordering,” Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his crisp white napkin across his lap. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Harry shrugged a shoulder. The champagne was worth its weight in galleons—he was feeling it after his first glass. He went to top off Draco's glass before his own.

“There's no menu. They get all of their ingredients fresh from the market each day and make something new every night. Delightful, isn't it?” Draco shook his head in quiet wonder at the peculiar ways of muggles, reaching for his glass. His posh air was back again, Malfoy mask wedged firmly in place. Harry let out a long, frustrated breath.

“Fascinating,” Harry replied. He couldn't help sounding less than enthused. Draco's guard was back up. Was he crazy to think he could keep breaking through to the real part of Draco? Wouldn't this get old after a while? Would Draco ever give in to him?

“Something wrong?” Draco asked, his glass hovering inches from his perfect pink lips.

Harry slid his hand across the table, palm up, looking into Draco's eyes. The man's silver-blue gaze darted nervously from Harry's hand to his face, sipping champagne so he didn't have to react right away. He'd gulped about half the glass before Harry's expression became firm, insistent. Harry drew a steadying breath, expanding his chest against his shirt and suit coat.

“Draco,” he growled low through gritted teeth. “Hold my fucking hand.”

Petulant, Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. But he dropped his hand in Harry's. It was chilled from the champagne and... trembling. Harry offered a comforting squeeze, caressing the side of Draco's bony hand with the warm pad of a thumb. Draco stared unseeingly at his empty silver charger.

“There,” Harry said bracingly. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

To his credit, Draco only rolled his eyes and sniffed a little.

“Tell me 'bout growin' up in Surrey?” Draco asked quietly.

“There isn't much to tell,” Harry shrugged, holding tight to Draco's hand so he wouldn't pull away. “My aunt and uncle hated me. My cousin Dudley beat me up until I had the means to defend myself—holly and phoenix-feather means.” Draco's brows rose knowingly. “After that he just teased and called me names. I spent eleven years in the cupboard under the stairs, doing all the housework and chores. Even my Hogwarts letter came addressed 'Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under The Stairs.'”

“So the rumors are true?” Draco spoke softly, still not meeting Harry's eyes. “I thought it was hogwash. Ya never acknowledged it. They really put The Boy Who Lived in a cupboard, treated yeh like a house elf?”

“Certainly explains my lack of social graces, doesn't it?” Harry quipped, squeezing Draco's hand. A smile tried to bloom but withered and died at the unmistakable emotion in his grey eyes.

“Don't muggles have laws 'gainst doin' tha' sort a' thing ter children?”

“Of course. I guess no one bothered to report the Dursleys; honestly, it could've been much worse. I didn't get hit all that often and they fed me pretty regular.”

“They starved you?” Draco's angry eyes shot across the table. Their intensity was incredible. Harry could only be glad that rage didn't direct itself at him anymore—much. He and Draco still fought but it was about stupid stuff. And they always made up. He didn't want to shrug off Draco's concern, his bare emotion, now it was at-long-last offered. It meant more than anything that Draco would be angry over the way he was treated what seemed like a very long time ago. He continued stroking the side of the man's thin, cool hand with his own natural heat.

“There are always good and bad apples in the barrel. Wizards or muggles. The Dursleys are not nice people. I saw them for a week this summer—had to collect my things and... well, my mother cast a spell before she died, a spell to protect me so long as I lived with blood relatives. That spell wore off on my birthday, apparently.”

“Explains findin' ya in the linen cupboard tha' mornin',” Draco muttered sullenly.

“Yes,” Harry grinned broadly at the memory of his birthday morning surprise, that first of many back rubs. That was the first time he and Draco really talked as friends. It was a very precious memory. “Grimmauld Place is my home now. And yours, as long as you want to stay. Just... don't worry about the Dursleys. They're the past. They have nothing to do with who I am now.”

“If you say so,” Draco said, quiet and tense, taking his hand from Harry's. He was almost upset before he realized why—their first course had arrived. Draco's plate boasted a pile of leafy greens and nuts with an herb-filled cream dressing while Harry's plate was more fruits than lettuce, drizzled over with what smelled like balsamic vinegar and honey. This might actually be fun, seeing what Draco had picked for him behind his back.

“So the Manor's in Wiltshire, right?” Harry kept conversation neutral while their waitor was within earshot.

“Yes. Outside Devizes.”

“I...” Harry paused with a bite of pear half-way to his mouth, mentally shaking himself. “I think I knew that.” But how? He tried to shrug it off as coincidence. “I suppose you had a nanny or something.” Harry resisted making any direct comments about the Malfoy's affluence; after all, Draco was pretty much disowned at this point.

“A few,” Draco shrugged. “Local witches, hence my casual speech. Mother always found somethin' wantin' an' sent 'em off. I never had much opportunity ta become attached.”

“And what about your parents?” Harry asked. “Were they around?”

“Mother visited the nursery sometimes. It was difficult fer her at first. Father wanted another child. There were miscarriages—many. I was young, I lost count. I remember when they stopped tryin' 'cause mother became withdrawn. She quit visitin' entirely. Had a wing o' the Manor ter myself after tha'. I suspect their marriage never quite recovered.”

“I had no idea,” Harry offered quietly.

“Well, tha's the idea, innit?” Draco quipped after swallowing a bite of green. “Malfoys, ya know. Anythin' emotional is a sign a' weakness. The whole thing was kept quiet.”

Harry nodded slowly, understanding Draco's double meaning. It wasn't entirely his fault he was so closed off as a human being; he'd been trained from an early age to be so. All things considered, Draco was probably making great progress just by offering Harry a small, pleasant smile.

Gods, his eyes glowed gold in the candle light. Harry had never so much enjoyed looking at a person, man or woman, in his entire life. He could stare all fucking day. Both their plates were soon empty and it was converse or get told off for staring like a goop.

“You said you had tutors. One for each subject?” Harry shot Draco a teasing grin. “Might explain why your marks were always so good.”

Draco gave an appreciative chuckle as their plates were cleared away. “Father took ta hiring them two at a time, actually. I always scared 'em away. I was a spirited child.”

“You mean a terror sent from hell,” Harry corrected.

Draco leaned over the bed of exotic flowers to speak very softly. Harry leaned forward as well, drawn by the proud, devious smirk adorning that beautiful face.

“I used 'em fer non-verbal target practice.”

“You mean the Dark—” Harry cut himself off when Draco nodded emphatically, his features overcome by happy memories. His cheeks were bright pink in the light, only enhancing his angelic appearance. Harry knew the man to be a devil in sheep's clothing but it didn't make him any less ravishing, any less fair.

“What about them running off, telling people what you were capable of?” he protested.

“Father had ter Obliviate 'em all!” Draco cackled softly, face split by his jovial, childlike smile.

“Weren't you punished for that?” Harry asked incredulously. “You couldn't have been more than nine or ten.”

“'Bout seven,” Draco looked at Harry sideways, roguish. “An' I was never punished. Only child,” he pressed a thin hand to his chest, just below his exposed neck. “I always get my way, remember?”

“Come off it, Draco,” Harry leaned back in his chair, disbelieving. He folded his arms over his chest while Draco smugly drank champagne. “You father must have had some way of controlling you.”

Draco's face fell suddenly, all joy leaving his features like a candle blown out. The hand holding his champagne flute trembled slightly as he set it down. The next course arrived, an assortment of dumplings with sauces, but Harry paid little attention. When Paul-Henri was out of earshot, Harry spoke tenderly.

“I've upset you.” He barely resisted tacking a “sweetheart” on the end.

Draco looked away, swallowing visibly. “It's nothin',” he insisted weakly.

Harry grabbed the bottle of champagne and refilled both their glasses. “Here, then. Have some more nothing.”

Draco downed the entire glass in one gulp, returning it roughly to the table.

“If I tell you,” he said shakily, “you have to promise—”

“Anything,” Harry said quickly, his hand shooting across the table in a silent plea for Draco's. The man rested his hand in Harry's, fingertips dipping under his jacket and shirt to brush his wrist. Harry could feel Draco's pulse racing, a combination of nerves and pounding good champagne. “I wouldn't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, that's not...” Draco shook his head of dark hair. The rich color made his skin look even more like ivory. “You'll... think differently of me.”

“I promise you,” Harry insisted, holding Draco's thin wrist. “I won't.”

“Father... knew 'bout my sexual preferences because, ter some extent, he shares them,” Draco wheezed, his throat clamping shut. He breathed slowly through his nose, staring at his untouched food. “I wasn't exactly hard ta spot. From the age a' six I had an unhealthy obsession with Quidditch players—worshiped them, kept posters an' clipped Prophet articles, followed games o' the players I fancied. I cried myself ter sleep the night two a' my favorites played each other 'cause father wouldn't buy tickets.” That made Harry smile, thinking of a young Draco with his poor heart broken over buff, handsome blokes in Quidditch gear. He had no idea why the image was so endearing. It just was. “Father figured me out. So we struck a deal; I followed orders an' in exchange, he kept me in Quidditch tickets. An' when I was old enough, he made sure his business associates brought their daughters.”

“I've always liked both, so it worked well. Mothers envisioned their girl married ter the charming, dashingly good lookin' Draco Malfoy,” Draco raised a brow, as though to say his own charm wasn't much of a treat. “An' fathers pissed themselves at the thought o' a permanent connection ter the Malfoy fortune. Closed a lot a' deals, tha' did.” Draco's smile was almost smug. Slowly, it slid from his face to reveal a desolate sadness Harry had never seen on Draco's face before. It worried him more than anything he'd heard so far. He squeezed Draco's wrist, stroking the soft skin beneath his shirt cuffs.

“Tha' was how I met....”

“Who?”

Draco shook his head before taking a healthy sip of champagne with his free hand. “I dunno how ter tell ya this. I've never told anyone.”

“Just tell me whatever happened,” Harry offered softly. He hated seeing Draco upset more than anything.

“Alright,” Draco sighed. He actually rested his elbow on the table, putting his mousy head in his hand. “Have ya heard o' Arnett Didier?”

Harry shook his head, not wanting to interrupt now that Draco was speaking calmly.

“Well, he's probably the biggest financier in all a' France. One o' the top ten richest wizards in Europe. My father had a deal 'bout ta go under an' he needed a new backer ter save the project. The Didiers came out ter Malfoy Manor ta view the proposal. His son, Philippe, was... rather taken with me,” Draco blushed but no smile came to his face at the memory. If anything, he looked more distraught. “He was a' couple years older an' went ta Beaubattons. We spent every day together. We....”

When it became painfully, awkwardly obvious that Draco couldn't or wouldn't say it, Harry did. “You slept with him.”

“Yes an' no,” Draco whispered, tense.

“Draco, don't be coy with me,” Harry insisted, gentle but firm. “I can handle whatever you tell me.” Harry watched as his boyfriend closed his eyes and swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“He slept with me.”

Realization hit Harry harder than a regulation Bludger to the gut. He wasn't sure how he felt about that piece of information. He was glad Draco told him, at least. He'd deal with his own feelings later.

“I thought you didn't do that,” Harry said lamely to fill the silence. Anything to let Draco know he wasn't angered by the news.

“Tha's when I figured it out,” Draco pursed his lips, forehead wrinkling in thought. “No, I take tha' back. It took me a few months ter get my bearings. I was confused when it happened—'cause I didn't like it. Was kinda awful, actually. I knew I liked blokes as well as bints, maybe a bit more, but tha' first time made me question myself, doubt wha' I'd always felt. Tha' was worse than not enjoyin' it. We tried a couple a' times. I never liked it.”

“Um,” Harry attempted to keep Draco talking. “How old was he?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you were...?”

Draco winced. “I'd jus' turned fourteen.”

“That was your first time, then?”

“With a bloke,” Draco shrugged. “There were a few girls but not many.”

“So you'd already lost your virginity at fourteen?” Harry couldn't help but be... incredulous? Maybe a tad jealous. At fourteen he'd only just discovered dirty magazines and wanking in the shower. Draco had been leagues beyond him.

“Virginity is such a relative term,” Draco said, raising his head to rest his chin in his hand instead. He patted Harry's hand before picking up his fork to spear a bite-sized dumpling, dunking it in a buttery sauce before popping it in his mouth. “Ya really should try these while they're warm.”

Harry reached reluctantly for his own fork, brandishing it at Draco. “Only if you keep talking.”

“Alright,” Draco agreed amiably, “let's talk 'bout the idiocy o' using a term like 'virginity.'” Harry was so glad Draco was perking up he didn't care the man was talking like an insufferable prat. “Sex is entirely subjective. A hand job constitutes the loss o' virginity! There are so many layers o' contact—classifying one as 'virginity destroyin' an' another as 'not' is jus' silly. The loss o' virginity is nothin' compared ter the loss o' innocence. Tha's wha' undoes a person, turns 'em inta a permanent sexual bein'. I think yeh understand wha' I mean.”

Harry did. Most acutely. He'd lost his innocence the moment Draco's nude body touched his, the second their flesh made contact. The fact that they hadn't “gone all the way” in the conventional sense didn't make one lick of difference. He forked a tiny dumpling, giving Draco a significant look before he ate it plain.

“I was still broodin' 'bout that when the World Cup came 'round. Father got seats in the top box, tryin' ter cheer me up. All of Bulgarian National to stare at an' I was too angry an' confused ter be arsed.”

“I remember. You were a right pisser that day.”

Draco smiled at the memory of his own churlishness, finishing off another two dumplings and sampling the sauces. “I didn't put things together 'til the TriWizard.”

“He went to Beaubattons,” Harry said out loud, “so he was there. You saw him again?” Draco nodded, chewing. “Did you... I mean, did things pick up where they left off?”

Draco smiled sadly, putting down his fork. Harry ate his last dumpling and did the same. Draco waited until their plates were cleared away and a palate cleanser of lemon and mint ice was delivered before speaking.

“Philippe had moved on. I was a conquest,” Draco's eyes were sad but his words held no bitterness, as though the whole thing were just business. Harry had no idea how right that idea was. “I was heartbroken—as much as I'd let my feelings become involved, tha' is. I asked him ta the Yule Ball. Tha' was when he told me 'bout the deal.”

“What deal?” Harry had to flex his jaw to keep it from tightening up.

“My father realized Philippe's fixation an' approached Arnett Didier. He essentially bartered the last vestiges of my 'virginity,' as yeh so quaintly coined it, ter seal the deal. Philippe was in on it. He'd been given assurances I wouldn't refuse. Father knew I was a horny pervert—he knew I'd go along with it, no questions asked. No one bothered ter tell me until after. Merde, I felt like a barmy twat after tha'.”

“Oh my God,” Harry mumbled. He took a fortifying swig of champagne. Draco had his heart broken all so Lucius Malfoy could close a business deal? He hated the man more than ever.

“Yeh know wha' the funny thing is?” Draco asked suddenly, his head snapping up as though he'd just realized. “I know exactly wha' I was worth. I helped finish the parchments fer the loan.”

“Do I want to know?” Harry sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. He watched their ices be cleared away, replaced by a fragrant bit of roasted bird on a bed of herbed potatoes. Once again, he and Draco had the same selection.

“Yeh tell me,” Draco said pointedly, picking up his knife but not yet cutting into the meat. He eyed Harry through a fringe of mouse-brown hair. It was very pleasing but it didn't suit him. Draco was larger than life, vibrant, exciting—that shock of white blonde hair said a lot about him as a person. Harry looked forward to the day Draco could change it back. That was probably going to be the day he left for Hogwarts, which would be an awful day, indeed.

“We don't need secrets,” Harry said with a sigh. He took another sip of the strong, bubbly wine to steel his nerves. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Draco closed his eyes and screwed up his face before landing the blow. “'Bout two hundred ninety three thousand.”

“Pounds?” Harry spluttered, mouth falling open and brows becoming one with his hairline.

Draco scratched the side of his head nervously, his grey eyes focused on Harry with a kind of trepidation he'd not yet seen from Draco. “Galleons,” he flinched.

“Fuck!” Harry yelled before clamping a hand over his mouth. He couldn't give much thought to his language. That was... that was about £1.5 million!

“I'm not cheap,” Draco said on a sigh, seeming pleased by Harry's reaction.

“I think that rotten bastard got one hell of a deal,” Harry muttered darkly. He roughly cut his poultry, deciding it was some type of game hen. It smelled delicious but his mouth was hopelessly dry.

“You're angry,” Draco observed delicately. “With me?”

“No,” Harry scoffed. “You didn't do anything wrong. I'm ready to kill him, though.” Draco shot him a confused look to which Harry replied, “He hurt you, Draco. He was with you and he hurt you, used you. I could kill him in his fucking sleep. Your father, too.”

“Harry Potter is not a killer,” Draco chided, eyes on his plate.

“Try me,” Harry growled.

“It was three years ago, Harry. I'm over it.”

“Are you?” Harry shot. He didn't believe that pile of rubbish for a second.

Draco had no response.

They finished the game and potatoes and were brought the next entree. Harry had a beautiful bone-in steak with seared sweet onion and a dark, sticky glaze. Draco had a very finicky-looking poached fish with red sauce. The silence dragged on as they ate. Harry poured the last of the champagne. One bottle had been quite enough. Two would be overkill. He was loopy and rash, jealous of Draco's former lover and ready to attempt a cross-channel Apparition just to wrap his hands around the sod's worthless froggy throat.

“Why are you so angry?” Draco sighed, throwing down his fork as though Harry's foul mood was ruining his meal. “It was ages ago. Can't you let it go?”

“Let it go?” Harry repeated, pressing his forehead with the fingers of both hands. “How about this: the day you forgive the Dursleys is the day I'll stop hating that creep. I wish him an early and unpleasant death. Really, I do.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak but Harry continued before he could get a word in. “I can out-stubborn you any day of the week, Draco, so just drop it. I know you're uncomfortable with people giving a shit about you and your feelings. You can get over that, too. I'm here and I'm not going away. Now tell me the rest of the story—yes, I know there's more. I know you. You went to the ball with Pansy. She was looking very smug that night. If I recall, you looked miserable. And now I can add heartbroken.”

“I was,” Draco admitted, “very astute a' yeh. Parkinson thought I was finally takin' her ta bed an' she was tickled pink. Seeing Didier with his date, I didn't think I could get it up—Gods, this is hardly proper dinner conversation!” he laughed with a little squeak.

“I like it,” Harry said, voice deep. “Keep going.”

“Well, I got doubly lucky in the end. Parkinson passed out drunk an' I got propositioned by those perky Romanians. Turned inta a great night fer me.”

“I remember that,” Harry said, tapping his temple. Draco had the decency to blush bright red.

“So yeh do. Tha' was the first time I pitched,” he admitted. “I was nervous, thinking it would be a repeat o' the last snarly failure an' sex with men would be completely out. I was so glad ta be wrong.” Harry tried not to snort the last of the champagne. “I'm gonna go out on a limb an' say I found my sexual callin' tha' night. I mean, sex with women is pretty good but nothing compares ta the power, the control, the depravity a' poundin' another man. I know I'm freaky, sexually. I suspect a lot a' it comes from the way I was trained not ta show emotion. Mother ignored me fer years, as did father; except when he was yellin' or occasionally beatin' the tar outta me fer my own stupidity or laziness. Suppose I associated the expression of strong emotion with violence; hence my own penchant fer it. Like when we were younger, how I needed ter demonstrate my anger by hexin' ya every chance I got? Na yeh practically have ter choke me fer a kiss. Merlin's beard am I messed up!”

“You finally see that?” Harry joked. He jostled Draco's foot with his own beneath the table so the man would know beyond a doubt that he was kidding.

“Patient Potter,” Draco rolled his eyes, “Patron Saint of reformed Death Eaters and bisexual school boys? Sounds 'bout right ta me.”

Harry kicked Draco under the table when Paul-Henri entered to clear their plates. Draco asked the man for something, probably tea or coffee to sober up a bit. Harry hoped the next course was dessert because he was feeling rather full. When the waitor was once again out of earshot, Harry leaned over the flower arrangement to whisper.

“You don't have to answer this if you don't want to,” he began, “but the whole... bisexual thing. You almost always talk about guys. But you fancy girls, too?”

Draco nodded. “I didn't want ya ter feel uncomfortable. If I only talked 'bout girls, well, tha' might make things awkward—ya not bein' a girl an' all.”

“I see your point,” Harry agreed. “But you like them?”

“Yes.”

“And,” Harry looked down at the table, “you've made it with a girl?”

“A few,” Draco shrugged one shoulder.

“How many is a few?”

Harry knew it was the wrong thing to say when Draco's mouth opened slightly, eyes rolling. He slumped back in his chair. Harry did his best to backpedal out of conversational quicksand.

“Look, it doesn't matter...” he began.

“I think it does,” Draco snapped. “Yeh wouldn't have asked if it didn't.”

“Okay, so I'm curious!” Harry admitted, trying to keep his voice even with marginal success. “I'm not gonna call you a slut or anything. I just....” His frustrated gesture floundered, hands falling to his lap.

“Ya wanta know how yeh stack up,” Draco supplied, which made Harry blush. That was the crux of it. He didn't really care how many people Draco had been with, only that he made one of the top slots. It was juvenile and petty when spoken aloud.

“Alright,” Draco said quietly, checking to make sure their dessert wasn't en route. “I pretty much saw it all las' summer. Someone had ta keep father's affairs in order once he got himself locked up. Mother lacked the necessary... predilections, shall we say?” Harry flinched internally, trying desperately not to think of how many of his father's—lovers? Business associates? Both?—Draco had had to sleep with to keep himself and his mother afloat. “So with absolute confidence, I can say: Harry Potter, yeh are the best fuck a' my life. Tha' sufficient?”

“Quite,” Harry mumbled. “Dessert's here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “And I think they're gonna light it on fire.”

Indeed, Paul-Henri set the chocolate and Grand Marnier confection on fire—another waitor delivering two cups of coffee with cream and sugar. Harry looked at Draco over the flaming desert and laughed. It was so surreal to be on a romantic date with Draco Malfoy but here he was. There was no where in the world he'd rather be. And he was the best lay of Draco's life. That thought alone kept him laughing until Draco joined in. Paul-Henri probably thought they were batty.

When the alcohol had burned away, the smell of burnt oranges and chocolate lingering in the air, Draco served them each a piece. Harry loaded his coffee with cream and sugar, bringing it to his lips and blowing for much longer than necessary—the cup's rim afforded a perfect excuse to stare at Draco.

“Wha'?” Draco said at last, having caught Harry's frank stare multiple times. Apparently it was making him nervous. “Is there somethin' on my face?”

“No,” Harry said sullenly, setting down his cup and picking up his fork. “I was just... thinking.”

“Uh oh.”

Harry ignored the man's blithe irreverence. “You're smarter than me, so maybe you've already figured it out. Please don't take this the wrong way because it's just a thought I've been kicking around.”

“Out with it!” Draco drawled.

“Why are we attracted to each other?”

“Yeh honestly don't...” Draco shook his head. He spoke an unintelligible syllable before starting over. “Yeh have a type, Harry; exotic, dichotomous, cunning, an' slightly unpredictable. Sweet little Cho Chang played yeh an' Diggory like puppets. An' the Weaslette? She should've been named after a dragon, just ter warn blokes wha' was comin'. I'm yer type.”

In retrospect, that was very true. He'd liked Cho for her mystery, her aloof personality and ethereal good looks. Ginny he fancied for her fierceness but she was also impatient and fickle. Every one of those traits existed boundlessly in Draco—frighteningly so. Once they'd gotten over their school boy pranks and presumed political affiliations, attraction seemed inevitable.

“What about you?” Harry asked. “Do you have a type?”

Draco pondered over a bite of chocolate which he washed down with coffee. “I suppose so,” he shrugged. “I like eccentricity an' a bit a' mystery. Stubbornness counts fer a lot with me—the same fer an open mind. Someone like Fleur Delacour... or even Lovegood if she'd dress herself like a proper witch instead of a circus.”

“If you want eccentric,” Harry joked, “sometimes you have to take the crazy with the genius.”

“Yeh think Lovegood's a genius?”

“I think there's a lot going on beneath the surface of that girl,” Harry said pensively. “I see how she could get your attention. But what about blokes, then?”

“Fer me?” Draco scoffed. “I don't mix business with pleasure.”

“Women are business and men are pleasure?” Harry was shocked by the notion.

“In my situation, yes! It was better tha' way,” Draco explained, waving his fork. “Women are so emotional! I keep to men—they're less likely ter get involved, lessening the chances a' hard feelin's from angry lovers when I married.”

Harry bit his tongue rather than say, “bet you're glad not to be in that situation anymore!” That situation had been just a fraction of Draco's privileged, perfectly mapped-out life. And it was now in flames; unlike their dessert, it wasn't sweet when the fire burned out. Draco didn't need any reminders of his uncertain future so Harry shifted the subject to more comfortable territory.

“What about other blokes at Hogwarts?” He asked. “You said there aren't a whole lot of gay wizards. Who do we know about our age?”

Draco swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Let's see,” he mused. “Stephen Cornfoot in Ravenclaw goes both ways—he's not comin' back this year. Blaise, of course, but he's more opportunist than bisexual. He'll stuff anything with a pulse. He fucked that Hufflepuff Wayne Hopkins last year. Blaise is a notoriously good lay, so Hopkins was probably jus' experimentin'. He's anybody's guess. Did you hear about Corbin Warrington?”

Mouth loaded with orange liqueur-soaked chocolate, Harry shook his head. He hadn't had a clue about the burly Slytherin Chaser, making Draco's next statement all the more shocking.

“Warrington's goin' with Summerby, Hufflepuff's Seeker. Warrington's about a gay as they get—likes wispy, feminine blokes. He an' Summerby have been together... more 'n two years. It's all very under the table, 'course. They're the only couple I can think a'. Others? I heard tha' Creevy in Gryffindor, the one with the camera, but I'm not sure. There's a fifth year in Ravenclaw but I only know him by sight—he groped me on the Express last year. I gave Ravelclaw five points for bravery bordering on suicidal.”

“That was awfully generous of you,” Harry observed with a chuckle—Draco's sense of humor was really something. He found himself gathering the last crumbs of dessert. The chocolate was so good he had to hold himself back from licking the plate. He contented himself with sucking the gooey remnants from his fork. Draco eyed him quietly, licking his lips.

“Yeh'd best not eat like tha' in the Great Hall,” Draco chided, “or we'll be out ta the entire world!”

Harry returned his fork to his plate, slowly licking his lips as Draco had. A very deviant idea struck him and he went with it without thinking. He bunched up his napkin and dropped it on his plate, getting up only to kneel beside Draco's chair. Harry took up one fair, slender hand in his own, never losing contact with Draco's magnificent eyes.

“Know any Muggle-Repelling Charms?” Harry whispered.

“Is my name Draco Malfoy?” he smirked. Then he paled, a look of confusion marring his pointed features. “Wait, why?”

“I think there's one more course.”

And Harry grabbed the tablecloth, ripping it off the table and dragging Draco from his chair. They fell to the floor in a heap, lips meeting in a bone-jarring rush. They could spell the broken dishes when they were done.

- - -

This is Heaven, Draco thought while staring up at the stone ceiling dappled with flickering candle light. Heaven wasn't the crypt, with its peeling frescoes and ancient, dusty echo. It wasn't the flowers and tablecloth spread out on the cool floor, cushioning his head. It wasn't even the wonderful meal he'd just eaten or the very potent bottle of French champagne he'd downed like a manner-less, land-starved sailor. It was Harry's hot lips on his neck, Harry's whispered encouragements and dirty compliments, Harry's hand in his trousers bringing him to a very rapidly approaching conclusion. He never lasted long with Harry—he just couldn't help himself sometimes. A part of his brain registered he was on the receiving end of one very lazy wank from The Boy Who Lived. The rest of his brain was floating blissfully, luxuriating in the fact that this was Harry, his Harry, touching him. Kissing him. Telling him he was beautiful, wanted, adored.

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French

Je te voux. Je veux sucer ton foutre. J'ai envie de toi! - I want you. I want to suck your come. I want you!

Tu me rends fou - You drive me fucking crazy.
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