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
- 44
- 45
- 46
SUMMARY: Harry has earned himself a day off.

WARNINGS: smoking, some sexual references, Harry being all straight and shit (it's part of why you love him, be honest!)

DISCLAIMER: “Mount Wroclai” music and Lyrics by Zach Condon, frontman and genius of Beirut.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

MOUNT WROCLAI

And I know when time

will pass by slow.

Without my heart,

what can I do?

You're in the halls

The bell gives way to a larger swell

Without my heart,

what can I do?

Oh, Wroclai.

“Mount Wroclai (Idle Days)”

Beirut

Things moved very quickly once Harry was able to contact Minerva McGonagall. Pavel and Anka Gregorovitch were brought to Leon's headquarters by Portkey. The elderly couple was placed in Ivan's care; he would conceal them in his own home, disguised as his grandparents visiting from Serbia. Ivan lived in a posh muggle suburb, so there was little risk of the wandmaker being recognized. Harry could read the gratitude in Gregorovitch's eyes as he shook hands with everyone in the room, getting Leon twice. He and his wife were happy to assist Mr. Harper with his research in exchange for their protection.

It was only a matter of days before Leon had secured a sizable grant from some research committee, providing Pavel and Anka with a generous income and funding for the wandmaker to dig deeper with his theories about wand core properties under Transfiguration. Paperwork was already in the pipes to bring Yura Batushansky to America, reinstating him as Pavel's assistant, the position he'd held in Poland before the war broke out.

Like two graying, bearded peas in a pod, Pavel and Leon made many trips to Manitoba, checking on the progress of Ferrard Lachlan's Quidditch sanctuary. The old men always came back bickering over one aspect of the wards or another, each throwing himself into research and trials to prove himself in the right. It was how Harry imagined Fred and George would be in their old age.

Word from the twins reached him through McGonagall. The ginger pair was well, seeing to the remains of their looted, burned-out shop. They would be coming to the States for a visit as soon as their premises was properly boarded up and secure. Harry was anxious for the rambunctious twins to have a sit-down with the likes of Leon, Yuri and Gregorovitch. Sparks would surely fly. Harry prayed they would be productive ones.

In an effort to further educate himself, Harry spent an intriguing afternoon in Jedidiah's potions laboratory. The place was nothing like what he'd been expecting; rather than the neatly organized shelves of Professor Snape's store room—every last ampule and jar meticulously labeled—Jed observed a method of absolute chaos. The Southerner brewed potions like Mrs. Weasley cooked, throwing in a pinch of this and a dash of that, never measuring, using just his fingers, grating roots and nuts right over the cauldron, measurements guessed-at, the whole thing gone about by feeling and instinct. One cauldron turned out to be sangria. Jed offered Harry a cup of his home-brewed sweet wine and they sat on his porch, their heels kicked up on the railing, sipping. They leaned dangerously in their wicker rocking chairs, watching the sun set behind the mountains. The quiet man lived in a vast and beautiful wilderness.

Harry described the Dementor-repelling potion he'd seen at Ravenwood, Jed's eyes growing exponentially in circumference as he described billowing purple smoke driving the creatures back, away from their Death Eater allies.

“Impossible,” the brunet muttered into his cup. His rocking chair squeaked as he teetered forward and back. “Only a master potion maker 'r a lunatic could concoct somefin' like that.”

This didn't bring Harry any closer to knowing whether it had been Snape or Ionescue—Dmitry and Mishenka's father—who had invented the purple-smoking potion. But he knew it existed. And it worked. A lot of people had been hurt at Ravenwood—some even lost their lives, lost loved ones, colleagues, friends. And Snape hadn't warned the Order what was coming, hadn't tried to sneak them any potion with which to defend themselves.

Rationally, Harry knew there could have been any number of mitigating circumstances outside his knowledge. Maybe Snape didn't know about the potion. Perhaps he couldn't lay hands on any in time to pass it to the Order before Ravenwood. But irrationally, a darker part of Harry blamed Severus Snape for the deaths of those Aurors and civilians that horrible night in Spain. The anger made him want to redouble his efforts, made him value people like Jedidiah, Yura and Gregorovitch all the more. At least someone had their eyes to the future and was willing to be an active part of the solution. McGonagall claimed Snape was helping. Harry hoped the fruit of the man's actions would drop rather soon. Time was precious—and they were running rather short on it.

He suspected Voldemort was sitting on more dire and dangerous tools than the Dementor-repelling potion. He remembered the grim faces of Sirius and Mr. Weasley in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place years ago, discussing a weapon—something of ultimate power. Maybe that weapon was an idea. Because it was more than a prophecy or a potion or a chunk of soul hidden in a snake. Harry could feel it in his bones. He knew Voldemort was up to something, was after more. Was after him.

And Harry wouldn't be caught walking into the jaws of that pit unprepared. Not again, anyway. This time, there were more than his and his friends' lives on the line. Hoping for the best, Harry hunkered down and prepared for the worst.

He trained, learning a bit of martial arts from Hitori. He perfected his shooting with Leon and Ivan. He learned more about the team's gear and inventory from Maddie, helping her organize the warehouse. He tried to wrap his head around artifact theory under Hanson Tokko's superior tutelage.

His results were mixed. The more he ran—waking up earlier and earlier with the dawn of each morning—the better he got at muggle fist fighting. After honing his reflexes, his dueling improved. Instinct rose in increments, compounded by practice, diligence and time. Hanson, Leon and even Jed attempted tweaks to Harry’s gear in order to amplify his magic and boost his spells. He wasn't as good as Chereshko Toleanu, who blew Leon away one afternoon in Manitoba, but at least he was no longer the biggest chink in the team's armor. Professor McGonagall sent along Godrick Gryffindor's sword by messenger after learning of Harry's interest in magical artifacts. Once he figured out how the sword's magic worked, he might yet discover a way to use it against Voldemort's Horcruxes.

In the interim, he groaned every time Hitori ordered him to unsheath the sword and charge him. The sword was heavy and cumbersome—meant to be weilded by a man several heads taller than him and a few stone meatier. Harry did his best. He was better at a distance, shooting spells or bullets and then running, using his speed and small stature to his advantage. But he trained for the worst scenarios, not the best; so it was swords, strange wands, brass knuckles and fists, Dark magic and black-morning sprints. He fell into bed most nights, aching and tired, a mixture of dirt and gunpowder ground beneath his fingernails. He barely had the energy to wank, sleep claiming him the moment his head hit the pillow.

~ * ~

Hunched over his breakfast post-morning-run and shower, Harry started.

He relaxed a moment later, his tired brain finally registering the hand on his shoulder as Mrs. Harper's. She was in her frilly floral nightgown and slippers, her hair wrapped up in a scarf.

“Alright, mon beau?” she asked, rubbing his shoulder in a motherly fashion.

Harry's heart about dropped out of his chest. That familiar endearment—it simply meant handsome—reminded him painfully of Draco. It was a physical pain, like a fire racing through his veins, burning his energy to vapors, leaving him utterly drained. Harry slumped to the table beside his bangers and eggs.

Mrs. Harper slid a plate of toast across the kitchen table, taking up a piece before seating herself in the chair beside him. Her hand kept rubbing slow circles over his shoulder.

“Oh, 'Arry,” she soothed. “This eez quite zhee mood we 'ave 'ere. What's zee remedy?”

Head pillowed against his arm, Harry regarded her from the other side of his plate. He decided on honesty.

“I'm... tired,” he sighed. He couldn't summon the energy to toy with his eggs. “I didn't think I'd be doing this by myself. Before I left England, I had a falling-out with my mates. I'd always pictured myself doing this with them at my side. Its... its hard, all this... on my own....”

Charlene nodded her understanding. She chewed her toast contemplatively before answering. “Yoo really 'avent spent time with anyone your age, 'ave yoo?”

Harry shook his head.

Leon shuffled into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee, black, before planting a kiss to each of his wife's rosy cheeks. She reached out, taking his free hand in hers.

“'Arry needs the day off, Leo,” she said plainly. “'Ee's jus' a boy.”

Leon took one speculative look at Harry before he nodded. “Take the weekend, Potter. You look knackered.”

The old man went to fix himself a plate. Harry picked up his fork... but that was as far as he got. The utensil teetered in his hands.

“Yoo should 'ead back to England,” Charlene suggested to Harry, now that his day was free. “See your friends. I'm sure yoo miss zem, and they yoo.”

Slowly, Harry brought a bite of egg to his mouth. Something in his gut kicked. “My best mate in particular.”

“Boy or girl?” Charlene inquired, picking up another square of toast.

“Bloke,” the corner of Harry's mouth quirked. “Draco.”

There was a clatter as Leon dropped his fork in the cast iron skillet. The Irishman cleared his throat loudly. “Odd name, tha'. Draco, like the constellation. Who’s 'is family?”

Harry chewed, thinking of how he wanted to phrase Draco's relationship with his parents. He settled for, “Draco's estranged. He's on our side now but his father's a pretty famous Death Eater—maybe you've heard of him? Lucius Malfoy.”

“Mon dieu.” Charlene's hand flew to her bosom, eyes darting to her husband at the stove.

Harry lifted his head from his arm, peeking back at the old man. Leon hadn't moved a whisker. His back was rigid. Harry caught sight of his square jaw clenching tight before the man set his plate down on the counter, excusing himself under his breath.

Harry looked to Charlene for an explanation.

“I'm zure your friend ees delightful,” she reassured Harry.

He fixed her with an honest stare over the rims of his glasses. “Look. Lucius Malfoy's not a nice man—by any stretch of the imagination. If there's some history between him and Mr. Harper, I'd rather know about it. Draco is... well, he took the Mark, but he was sixteen and under duress.” Harry's voice firmed. “I don't think he was ever a Death Eater. Not really. I know Draco. And I know he's not a killer. He may look like his father but they're very different people.”

Charlene nodded slowly. It took a moment for her to put words to her thoughts. “I believe yoo, 'Arry. And I would not place sins o' zhe father on hees son's head. Zat ees not what we believe in zhis 'ouse. But yoo should know...” she took a steadying breath, clacking her fingernails with her nerves. “Lucius Malfoy is zee force be'ind my Leo losing hees job in England years ago.”

“Figures,” Harry snorted. “Well, when he breaks out of Azkaban—which'll be any ruddy day, now—he'll be coming after Draco. Retribution for going against Lucius' wishes and allying himself with me. So I'm not exactly keen on the man, myself.”

Charlene toyed with her uneaten toast. “Families over z'ere,” she muttered. “Yoo know, Lucius and Leon are... third couzins, I z'hink. By blood.” Harry nodded, chewing his breakfast. He wasn't exactly surprised. The Harpers and the Malfoys were both pureblood Slytherin families. They were bound to have intermarried somewhere; then again, almost every wizarding family in Britain was related in one way or another. Hell, Ron and Draco were distant cousins—fourth, maybe? Harry and Draco were probably related by marriage somewhere along the line.

Charlene waved her toast dismissively. “But Leon doezn't like to talk about hees family. I 'ave never met z'ese people in my life....” She shook her head, disparaging and confused.

“Sometimes family isn't the one you're born into so much as the people you choose to keep with you,” Harry said sagely.

Charlene folded her hands in her lap. And then she smiled happily.

“I remember, cher, when Gideon was born. Leo was so upset. 'Ee said eet was jus' hees luck, our son would look like a miniature Lucius Malfoy.”

Gideon. That had to be their strikingly handsome son, the one whose room Harry was staying in. The one who died.

“I—I think Draco looks like him, like your son,” Harry stammered, reaching for his wallet. “But you tell me.”

Harry kept their muggle photo in his wallet a certain way—folded, only the first two frames in a strip of four showing. The first images were completely platonic and non-sexual. The first showed Draco unprepared, head of magically brown hair bowed as he cleaned his disguise glasses with the hem of his white polo shirt. The Harry of the photograph peered at little Draco, smiling crookedly. In the second frame, they were both smiling at the camera, Harry's grin still distinctly lop-sided. Beyond the lens' view, Harry was reaching for Draco's hip, a Malfoy-pale hand already resting on The Boy Who Lived's inner thigh and worming its way higher. The resulting two frames were private—them snogging their brains out, about to rip one another's clothes off to suck and frot and fuck right there in that very public photo booth.

Draco had kind of a “thing” about people seeing them kiss. As much as he was a complete ponce about it, the act made his pulse race and his eyes dilate to black. He liked it when people saw them together—just muggles or strangers. He liked poking at the muggle taboo of two blokes together, romantically, sexually. He liked the attention for being different. The affronted looks muggles shot them went right to the git's over-inflated ego. He liked showing Harry off: they were fit together. Sexy. Separately, they were each attractive... and so attracted to each other. Like magnets. It wasn't much of a secret. When Draco liked something, when he really enjoyed it, it showed. Sure, his trousers would bulge, but the joy was blatant in his eyes, in the crinkling lines around their grey, in the scrunching of his nose and the awkward, boffin sound of his chipmunk laugh.

In the frozen muggle picture, Draco had that look in his eyes, forever preserved. Even with his hair darkened, even with thick reading glasses and a grin on his face, there was no mistaking a Malfoy for anything but what he or she was—pureblooded (in)breeding in all the right ways. Pointy, pale, and fiercely proud. Harry thought Draco looked lovely in photos. Especially when the man would just relax and maybe smile a bit.

“He's wearing a disguise,” Harry offered, showing Mrs. Harper the upper portion of the photograph. “But, I mean, you can't hide a face like that!” Harry joked. “What is he, part Veela, part Bowtruckle? I wish he'd gain weight like normal people. I've seen him eat an entire tray of biscuits, then drink a bottle of wine and not even have to loosen his belt. It's rather sickening.”

Mrs. Harper chuckled. But there were tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

There was no denying it, what with the evidence in her face like that.

They were, indeed, family.

Harry put his pajamas back on at Mrs. Harper's insistence. He made pancakes until he finally got the batter just right, not too runny but not too lumpy, either. Then they curled up on the sofa, ate sweets, drank coffee and marathoned the entire Star Wars trilogy.

When the Jedis summoned their lightsabers by stretching out a hand, it reminded Harry of Draco and the way the blonde would call his wand to him. Harry said as much.

“'Es wand must be older than 'imself,,” Charlene replied, popping the last tape in the VCR with a flick of her wand. “After thirty or forty years, a wand's magic will settle in. My Leo knows more about eet. Yoo should ask 'im.”

Watching the films, Harry thought Darth Vader made an excellent foil of Lord Voldemort. Like Vader, Tom Riddle hadn't always been evil—just attracted to the dark side of the force, like any curious teenage boy would be. For all the unnerving parallels, Harry was pleased to know he would not be finding out Tom Riddle was his father. Nor would he have his hand cut off only to hang out of a rubbish chute, waiting for Ron and Hermione to pick him up. If he wasn't careful, he might start calling his Firebolt the Millennium Falcon. At least Hermione would get the joke.

- - -

Mrs. Harper tracked him down in the study late that afternoon, pouring over books about old pureblood magic. She had the cordless phone in one hand, the other hand clamped over the receiver.

“'Arry, dear,” she said in her pretty sing-song, “I 'ave Arturo's daughter on z'ee phone...” Mrs. Harper rolled her R's like a pro. “Malaya. She's jus' leaving school. Would yoo want to go over z'ere, spend some time?”

Harry was very thankful when the woman's rosy face remained neutral—no waggling of eyebrows or sneaky looks suggesting the young, dark-haired Miss Moreno might have a crush on him, though Harry was sure Mr. Harper had probably relayed as much to his wife.

Harry thought about it. He didn't really know Malaya that well... but banging his empty head against these books wasn't getting him anywhere, either. A bit of socializing wouldn't kill him. Maybe he could get some information about the Harper's son, Gideon; after all, he and Malaya would have been in school together at Salem. And since the Salem Institute didn't have a house system like Hogwarts, it was fairly likely that they at least knew one another in passing. Harry's curiosity got the better of him.

“Sure. Tell her I'll be right over.”

- - -

The Moreno house was a modern mansion, set in a hilly suburb of green grass and tall, lush trees. He'd thought Texas would be... drier, dustier.

Malaya met him in the hallway with what he recognized as a devious glint in her eyes. It was the same expression she'd worn when she'd tried to kiss him... and when she'd hassled him about his relationship with Draco. He probably reacted a little coldly when she hugged him hello, wrapping her arms around his middle and giving him a good squeeze in welcome. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had yet to change out of her Salem uniform—a pale blue blouse, short black skirt, tights and a navy cloak with matching cardigan.

She offered him a drink or a bite to eat. When he declined, she took his hand and began pulling him toward the wood and metal staircase, saying, “I have to get out of this stupid get-up immediately!”

In her spacious bedroom, Malaya began peeling off her clothes—kicking her shoes, tossing her cloak, tugging off her jumper and unbuttoning that dainty blouse all in one go. Harry turned away, covering his eyes with a turned-up jacket collar.

“Oh, don't be shy!” she chortled, teasing. A moment later, her short little skirt landed in his lap with a soft crinkling of fabric, as though she'd dropped it there on purpose to see how he would react.

“Don't.”

The anger escaped Harry's lips, unbidden. Only the horrified spread of Malaya's dark eyes confirmed it—he'd hissed at her in Parseltongue. Her small hands gripped the hem of the undershirt she wore beneath her blouse, knuckles standing out white as snow along her clenched fingers. She was standing there in her pants, the shadow of her bra visible through the thin shirt. Harry stood, handing the skirt back to her before turning his back, folding his arms across his chest.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he began. He was able to roll his eyes, since she couldn't see his face. He didn't exactly feel like apologizing—he didn't feel sorry at all, seeing as she'd provoked him to begin with—but he knew things would go more smoothy in the long run if he offered some type of apology. “I'm a Parselmouth. I was told it would only come out if I was looking at a snake. And that's how it was when I was young. But as I've gotten older, I'm finding that's not entirely true. It happens when I'm angry. Its happened when I'm asleep and having a vivid dream. Or sometimes in sexual situations.”

“All I told you was not to do what you were doing,” he clarified. He could hear the rustling of clothes as she dressed, listening silently as he explained. “Just because I'm dating a bloke doesn't mean I fancy girls any less. I've only had girlfriends before this. So it was a shock when you... to see you... when you started taking your clothes off like that. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Malaya said, coming into his vision fully dressed in denims and a fancy silk top. “I'm sorry too, Harry. I guess I just put you in my 'gay file'. I keep forgetting you're into chicks.”

“Really?” Harry snorted. “I find it hard to forget.”

“I'm sorry, Harry. What else do you want me to say?” She let out a long breath, her hands listless.“Let's change the subject,” she suggested.

“Sure,” Harry replied readily. “There was something I wanted to ask you about.” Malaya nodded that he should continue. “The Harpers' son... Gideon. Did you know him at all?”

Malaya shook her head. He couldn't quite read the emotion on her face, not knowing her well enough. It looked somewhere between sadness and relief.

“Not really,” she said. “I wasn't his type, either.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “And what's that supposed to mean?” he asked blandly, falling to sarcasm. “Was he a poofter, too?”

“I don't think so,” she chewed her lip, considering. “I mean, he might've been bi or something. Dee was just a total nerd—obsessed with potions. Everybody hit on him and stuff, 'cause he was hot as fuck, but he never really had... friends. Like, none. Nobody. People said he was kinda short-tempered, mean. Everyone on his Quidditch squad was a little afraid of him. But he got results, so....” She shrugged. “Like I said, I knew of him but I didn't really know him. I don't think anybody did.”

Harry considered that. It sounded like Gideon had gotten his personality from his father. And maybe from his Malfoy ancestors, too. The boy sounded like Draco, surrounding himself with lackies and sycophants rather than opening up to make any real, lasting friendships. Harry felt sad for the guy.

“Um,” Harry cleared his throat. “What happened to him? He... he's gone, right? He died?”

“Oh my God!” Malaya's hand went to her heart, her eyes wide. “Nobody told you?”

Harry shook his head. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. “When did he...?”

She thought a moment. “About three years ago.”

“Do you know what happened?” Harry asked. “Was it an accident or...?”

“Leukemia,” she said quietly. “The cancer was really aggressive. They gave him something like ten months.” Harry slowly nodded his understanding.

“Dee had always been quiet; withdrawn, socially. But he kinda went crazy after the diagnosis. Stopped coming to school, went off on some Manticore hunting expedition without telling his parents or anyone—it took weeks to track him down. Mr. Harper's whole team was looking for him all over the world. Then, when his folks forced him back in school, he went and got Karen Stevens pregnant.” Malaya waved her hands. She was a very animated speaker. “Totally ruined her life! And she was, like, two years older than him or something. Knocked her up and ditched her. He even denied it was his baby when everyone at Salem saw her baby bump. Completely fucked her over.”

Harry interrupted, trying to keep the babbling girl on point. “So the Harpers have a grandchild now?”

“Oh, no,” Malaya shook her head. “Karen lost the baby—said it was a Quidditch accident. Bitch is a Keeper for the Sweetwater All-Stars now. I don't think she's been hit by a Bludger since her fourth year. Everybody knows she took something to kill the baby, since Dee didn't care and he was dead anyway. ”

Harry struggled to piece together all the things he was hearing, trying in vain to siphon out Malaya's opinions and get to the truth of the matter. He was glad, at least, that she wasn't sugar-coating it— that she was willing to speak the truth about the dead rather than hush up the man's misdeeds. “How did the Harpers react?”

Malaya thought a moment. “I remember Mrs. Harper was really sad. She's the one who was gonna raise the baby. Karen's family seemed happy she didn't have the kid—motherhood would've gotten in the way of her Quidditch career, and that's what she really wanted, apparently. I think Mr. Harper was just glad there wouldn't be any walking, talking evidence of his son's final, massive fuck up. You know? A bastard grandchild he'd have to look at for the next twenty years. Harper's really old-school pureblood like that. All you European wizards are,” she waved a hand over Harry. “Your boyfriend's pureblood, right?”

Harry was so busy processing how badly he felt for Mr. and Mrs. Harper—especially sweet, motherly Charlene—that he just nodded.

“And you're a pureblood, too,” Malaya accused.

“Not really. My mum was muggle-born.”

“Yeah but,” the girl protested. “You're, like, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. You're grandfathered in or something.” The girl frowned suddenly. “Do you only like purebloods? Is that it?”

Harry snorted. “My best mate, Hermione, is muggle-born. It's not a—”

Malaya cut him off, putting an impatient hand to her hip. “I mean sexually. You only wanna fuck purebloods.”

“That's not true,” Harry protested forcefully. Then he stopped to think about it. He was more attracted to Draco than he had been to anyone in his entire life—and Draco was pureblood. The man's magic had been a part of what drew Harry in—his magicality was built in, inescapable. It was on his skin, in his spit, hanging out between the strands of his white-blonde hair. You couldn't separate Draco from his magic—he would never be himself without it. And Harry wouldn't have him any other way, any less his total and complete self—pure blood, Dark training, unpopular opinions and all. Harry accepted Draco for who he was. And pureblood culture took up a decent chunk of what Harry swallowed in order to be with Draco.

Harry thought harder, about other people he'd fancied. Ginny came to mind: the Weasleys were considered low for their association with muggles but their blood was just as pure as any Malfoy's. Cho Chang: she was relatively pureblood, as far as Harry knew. He thought Luna was pretty: pureblood, too. Fleur! Fleur was breathtakingly beautiful: she was also a quarter Veela and one hundred percent pureblood. Fuck!

Maybe he really was attracted to purebloods. Maybe he was drawn to the magic, looking for all he'd missed out on—a magical upbringing, surrounded by a loving family who knew what he was going through, who could guide him through the explosions of his Endopathotic magic and reassure him, comfort him, make him feel normal and wanted and loved. That was what he wanted for his own children someday. And there was no reason a muggle-born witch couldn't help him create that type of home, of course. So maybe it was the magic more than a family history of it. Maybe it was the aura of deep, intrinsic understanding which hung around those women which had attracted him the most. It was certainly a portion of what drew him to Draco.

“Maybe I've fancied a few purebloods,” Harry acknowledged. “I'll admit to that. But you also have to consider how much time I spend in the magical world. Maybe I'm only attracted to purebloods because that's who I'm around all the time. I don't favor purebloods as a conscious thing. I had sex with a muggle woman over summer holiday, before Draco and I got together. And she was really lovely. So I wouldn't say I only want to be intimate with purebloods. That's not accurate.”

Malaya looked at him like he'd sprouted Mandrake root from both his ears—like she couldn't comprehend a word he was saying, she was so distracted.

“What?” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Just... trying to imagine you chatting up a muggle girl.” She snickered, barely containing a laugh. “Actually, the thought of you hitting on anyone is kinda funny.”

Harry pulled a face.

“You're so serious, Harry!' she chortled. “You've got that awkwardly-charming thing going for you, though. And you're hot, I have to give you that. But you don't know how to relax!”

Harry considered her words. He knew how to kick back and have a good time—now just wasn't the time, though. There was a war going on. People were dying every day. He had to put a stop to that because he had the ability, the power and the unique opportunity to do so. He didn't care whether or not this girl thought he was “fun;” now simply wasn't the time to be carrying on. He had a job to do.

But maybe Malaya and Mrs. Harper had a point. Maybe he had to rest his brain before it imploded. That's what today was supposed to be about, right? The war would be waiting for him when he woke up Monday morning.

Harry gave the girl his most winning smile, offering her his hand. “I reckon I've been a bit of a stick in the mud, lately. I could loosen up a bit.”

Delighted, the girl clasped his hand in both of hers, jumping up and down with excitement.

“We're going out tonight!”

- - -

Malaya took him to the shopping mall—or rather, she nagged until he drove her, picking up her friend along the way only to meet more girlfriends in the mall's massive car park.

To Harry's immense relief, it didn't seem as though Malaya had let slip to any of her friends that the great Harry Potter was a bloody queer. The girls flirted shamelessly the moment they laid eyes on him, touching his arms and chest, giggling over his accent, complimenting his clothes—the leather jacket, especially—and generally being cozy. He treated them all to overpriced cappuccinos and submitted to being dragged around the sparkly shopping center, feeling as though he were on a date with no less than seven Cho Changs.

His only reprieve was when the girls disappeared into a lingerie store; he was able to beg off, blushing.

He located a record shop and purchased a few albums, thinking he'd send them on to Draco. Malaya found him there and recommended a few additional artists which Draco might like based on what Harry told her of the blonde's taste in magical composers. She seemed to know an awful lot about music. She also told him about an adapted type of battery available in America which would power a CD player in a magical field such as Hogwarts. Harry made her promise to help him pick up the necessary items to send on. If he couldn't be there to comfort Draco, he understood that a steady supply of music would be the next best thing. So he'd give Draco more music than the man would know what to do with.

As a collective, the birds goaded him into purchasing a cashmere jumper, bottle green “to match his eyes” as Mrs. Weasley often said, along with a pair of trousers so tight they'd make even Draco blush. The stretch of fabric made him glad he'd taken up running, sporting some meat on his bones... because everything was on display under the suspiciously elastic muggle-made wool. He'd have to wear skin-tight pants, too. From the Moreno house, he Apparated back to the Harpers, digging through his duffel until he found several pairs of Draco's fancy underwear mixed-up with his own ragged boxers. Dutifully, he Apparated right back to Texas, allowing the girls to muss about with his hair and general appearance, only putting his foot down when scissors and tweezers were introduced.

He wasn't surprised to learn that a few of Malaya's friends had boyfriends who would be joining them. He was disheartened, however, upon meeting them. The young men were cowed by their women and floored by his fame, unable to reel-in their slack jaws over meeting The Boy Who Lived in the flesh. Harry attempted idle Quidditch banter until the ladies deigned it was time to leave.

Mr. Moreno and his wife said good bye to the crew of young people at the door. Harry shook both their hands, giving his earnest promise to keep an eye on their daughter. Their smiles were knowing as they handed him the keys to the Mclaren.

- - -

Malaya's driving directions hadn't failed him yet. But it was hard to hear her squeaky girl voice over the car stereo, volume pumped, her friends giggling and screaming in the back seat.

In the rear-view, Harry made eye contact with the poor fellow wedged between the squealing girls. The boy's face looked almost as miserable as Harry felt. It was one thing to go out with friends and have a night on the town: this was little more than glorified babysitting. The chap seemed to know it, too. His expression was resigned, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, twirling his wand between his fingers like a muggle smoker would toy with a lighter.

“Malaya,” Harry shouted. They were stopped in traffic. “Can you turn that down? I can't hear myself think.”

One of the girls—Harry couldn't tell which, they all sounded roughly the same—yelled something about him being a wet blanket.

Harry fixed Malaya in his passenger's seat with an unwavering look. “Turn it down or I'm pulling over. I can't drive like this.”

“Fiiiinnnne!” one of the girls whined. Malaya twirled the volume to a reasonable level. Harry thought he detected a slight ringing in his ears. “Anyway, shouldn't we do our ID's?”

“Yeah,” Malaya agreed. “Pass 'em up.”

The girls rummaged through their purses, the brunette pulling out her wand. She looked to Harry expectantly.

“All the clubs are eighteen plus,” she goaded. “So gimme your ID and I'll charm it for you.”

Brazen, she reached for his bum as though to pull his wallet from his back pocket.

He warned her with his eyes. The car behind them honked—he hadn't realized the light was green. It was an effort not to mash the gas pedal; he may have peeled out, screeching the tires unnecessarily, but the roar of the engine was fantastic. The fellow in the back seat—was it Justin or Jason?—gave an appreciative whoop.

Malaya's friend went for Harry's bum. He squirmed in his seat, needing both hands on the wheel.

“Already spelled mine!” he offered quickly. “Ages ago! Eighteen is drinking age in England.”

Harry checked the rear-view once more. The girls were exchanging silent words, communicating through their eyes and raised eyebrows, probably arguing over who would find themselves in bed with the great Harry Potter that night. They obviously thought Malaya was competition, they way they eyed her low-cut sparkly dress, her dainty hand sneaking over to rest on Harry's knee.

“That's our turn,” she said near his ear, pointing up ahead. “Left at the light and pull into that parking ramp, there.”

Harry did as instructed, guiding the luxury sports car into a multi-storied parking facility and following the ramp to the second level from the top, an area with spaces reserved, each slice of concrete numbered. Malaya retrieved a permit from the glove compartment and slapped it onto the dashboard as Harry parked in number twenty one.

In the industrial lights, she examined her watch.

“We only have a couple minutes,” she muttered. “Here.” One of the ID's was thrust into Harry's hand. It took him a moment to remember the charm he'd used back at Grimmauld Place, as the girl beside him was casting it silently over the other two bits of plastic. Eventually his magic took and he handed the muggle license back to its owner, Jason, in the back seat. The boy toyed with the cigarette behind his ear, bringing it to his lips.

“No time!” Malaya told him sharply. “And no smoking in the car.”

Jason rolled his eyes, stowing his cigarette. He folded his hands in his lap, legs jittering, impatient to have his smoke. Harry patted his own pockets—he'd forgotten Dmitry's gift. Then again, there were only a few left in that pack, anyway. Perhaps he could pick up another, wherever it was they were going.

Harry turned to the girl beside him. She looked lovely—exotic, with her long hair down, straight bangs coming over her brows, eyes painted with dark makeup and red gloss on her lips. Her shimmering dress was low-cut, a fact she'd hidden from her father with the aid of a woolen scarf woven through with what appeared to be tinsel. She unwound the scarf with a sigh, fanning the caramel column of her neck. The line delved down to her small breasts on display. Harry had difficulty swallowing and looked way, pulling at his jumper's collar.

She was Colombian from her father's side, Pacific Islander from her mother. The long, almond shape of her eyes came from Mrs. Moreno, who was just as petite and twice as alluring. Harry suspected that was because Malaya's mother was subdued, elegant, almost regal. She didn't put on airs... while her daughter was bursting with theatrics and limitless energy. Malaya was the fire in the household, to be sure. And tonight, she wanted to party.

Harry smiled at her, turning in the driver's seat to face her fully. “Okay. Where are we going? What's the big secret?”

She smiled back. “A couple seconds and you'll see.”

“Really. I'm not wild about surprises. They make me—”

He never got to say nervous. For at that moment, there was a great crunching sound, like the Mclaren being crushed by a giant falling over in a drunken stupor—smooshing the automobile like the fruit it shared its vivid color with. Harry didn't have a chance to scream. Everything around them, the world outside the car windows, went abruptly black.

Harry blinked.

When his eyes opened, they were all in one piece. In a different car park. This one appeared to be underground, judging by the thick-set concrete walls all around. Gingerly, Harry peeled his hands from where they'd been gripping the shit out of the steering wheel. He hoped he hadn't left fingernail marks in the expensive leather.

“...The fuck was that?” he muttered, flexing his fingers. His brain was vibrating uncomfortably, trying to process everything he'd seen—or rather, hadn't.

From the back seat, Jason and the girls laughed.

Malaya put a comforting hand to his knee. “Trans-Location Barrier built into the garage floor. The car drops through one parking space and lands in another. My dad's always going to New York on business, so he bought spaces and had the barrier plates installed.”

She shrugged casually. Her father owned a very successful chain of Tex-Mex restaurants, Harry had learned. Arturo Moreno's family was very well taken care of. The man could afford luxuries like this, driving his fancy car through town, not having to bother with Apparating and acquiring other means of transportation upon his arrival. It was probably good, too, for his muggle neighbors to see him driving around the same way Leon drove his truck to work every day rather that simply Apparate into his office. It kept up an appearance of normalcy, prevented the muggles from asking questions, from getting involved. But this was advanced magic Mr. Moreno had installed. And the man probably had more than one parking spot like this, if he let his daughter use one for a night of gallivanting with her mates.

“Sounds convenient,” Harry bit his lower lip. His voice sounded tight in his own ears. He didn't appreciate surprises. Malaya could have easily told him beforehand. He supposed the girl was spontaneous. Too much of this playfulness and he'd have a heart attack. Working with Leon and worrying about Voldemort's Horcruxes was more than enough to give him premature gray hairs. He didn't need panic and unnecessary fear in his down time.

Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself.

He opened the car door, still marveling at the way they went straight up in the air like something out of the future. Malaya's friends crawled out from the back seat. The girl was fiddling with her mobile.

“So where are we, exactly?” he posed quietly.

“New York City.”

“Oh.” Harry zipped his jacket against the cold. They started walking up the slope which lead to the surface. Already, Harry could hear the noise of busy city streets. Malaya made a call, getting in touch with the rest of the group arriving somewhere nearby via a Portkey her father had set up. When the call dropped, she knew the Portkey had activated.

“They'll be at the Public Apparition on Lexington,” she told Harry, linking her arm through his. “Come on, let's go!”

Harry decided he much preferred London. It was cleaner, for a start. And the smell... New York was positively rancid—cigarettes, car exhaust, trolleys roasting nuts or cooking meat on vertical, rotating spits, the sour assault of unwashed bodies, homeless people curled up in the rough shelter between buildings, bags of garbage piled on street corners, construction, hot tar, urine, and the salty sting of the sea wafting over it all.

He tried breathing through his nose, his mouth—not breathing at all. He pulled his jumper over his nose as they passed an Underground station smelling more like a public loo than a mode of human transportation. Malaya wrapped her glittery scarf around the lower half of her face. Her girlfriends all made gagging noises, burying their painted faces against the shoulder of the nearest bloke.

Harry removed a girl's hand from his rear pocket, pulling her away by the wrist before she could get a proper handful of his bum.

He didn't like feeling like a piece of meat... unless it was Draco staring him down, licking his lips like a hungry lynx. That he didn't mind so much. Though he appreciated the compliment implied, the gesture was ultimately inappropriate. He wasn't even sure how old most of these girls were—or Malaya, for that matter.

Harry stopped and bought a cup of coffee, drinking it slowly, keeping the paper cup close to his face until all he smelled was milk and roasted cocoa beans.

- - -

The club Malaya chose was merely a repeat of The Blue Iguana back in London—except this disco took up all five stories of an old brick building, music and dance lights pouring out from the open windows and into the excitement of the streets. The guard at the door scanned their faces and papers carefully, suspecting they were underage or drunk or both. Two of the boyfriends hung back for a smoke while the ladies tugged their hapless Harry inside.

A crush of bodies vibrated in every room. Sound rattled high in his nose, threatening to shake his brains loose. Time and time again, he fended off Malaya and her friends in their attempts to drag him onto the dance floor. At the end of the day, he was stubborn and far stronger. They learned to let him be, perched on his stool at the end of the bar.

He regretted not charming his identification. If ever there was a time for a drink....

These girls were fit. And not just Malaya and her friends. Ladies approached him seemingly out of the mortar of the walls—a few blokes, too. Everyone was done to the nines, faces painted, hair styled and clothing painstakingly selected to create an overall picture which was hard to ignore. The place looked like sex. Everyone wanted it, moved like it. He recognized the movements more acutely than ever, now. Here and there he would see Draco in the slide of an arm, the pressing together of pink lips or a flash of very straight white teeth. Every blonde head dug at his heart. Every narrow waist and pair of low slung denims pulled at his prick. It was impossible, not to think of smoke, of lilting whispers, liquored kisses and mean teeth nipping down his spine. He wanted to leave bruises, to force his hips, to feel—to fuck.

The thick air of sweat and bodies was too much. He snuck away, stealing off into the night, catching a breath of cigarette-and-dirt air. At least there were no memories in that filth, no roiling flesh to assail his eyes. He walked, head down and hands in his pockets, until the flash of lights left his eyes.

- - -

Someone whistled lewdly. Harry wasn't sure if the cat-call was aimed at himself or the gaggle of rather drunk university girls stumbling along a few meters ahead of him. Despite the cold, their legs were bare, teetering in heavy high-heeled shoes. He dashed forward reflexively, saving one of them before she tumbled into a stack of rubbish bags on the street corner.

“Thanks,” the girl muttered, eyes too pissed to see him properly.

“'S alright, love,” Harry said absently, settling the girl on her feet, releasing her as soon as she was safe in the arms of her wobbly-legged cohorts.

“Mmmm,” one of them eyed him blatantly, licking her lips. Up and down her sparkle-adorned eyes went, lingering on his bum and chest, groin, glasses and, at last, his face, blearily meeting his green-eyed gaze.

“Yeeer hawt. Wanna come home with us, British boi?”

Several pairs of well-manicured hands reached out, grasping for handfuls of his leather lapels. He side-stepped them easily, picking his way over the rubbish pile.

Most guys would've jumped at the offer for a threesome, really. But he was only interested in showing his prick to Draco. The thought of getting to know a stranger, sexually, horrified him—he was vulnerable between the sheets, laid physically and emotionally bare. The only person he trusted, with his heart or his knob, was Draco Malfoy.

His mouth was moving before his brain registered putting any thought to their offer, one way or the other.

Harry gave the women a helpless smile. “That's rather flattering. But I'm getting married soon. To another bloke. I'm gay.”

There was less than a split second of silence before he got a reaction.

“Fuck the village!” the girl he'd rescued screamed. Her voice echoed off the brick of nearby buildings and the hardness of pavement, running off down the narrow streets carrying her profanity, ringing through the cobbled alleys.

“Hot guy south of twenty-third street?” Another asked sardonically, throwing her hands in the air, defeated. “Must be gay!”

“Sorry to bother you, honey,” said another, huddled in her jacket, addressing him. “You... don't seem like the type.”

From the other side of the busy avenue, a scally fellow grabbed at his crotch, shouting that he was straight and game if the ladies were interested. When the lights changed in the fellow's favor, he and a few of his mates came charging across the street.

“Come on, then,” Harry sighed, giving support to jellied females at either side. “Let's avoid these wankers.”

They all shrieked merrily, petting him and calling him adorable. He maneuvered the women towards a more crowded intersection, away from the drunk men. He could feel his “saving people” complex kicking like a baby in his guts. But he couldn't stop himself. These girls were falling-down drunk. He'd just see them home, or stuffed into a cab, and be on his way.

“I want pizza!” one girl declared.

“Two Boots!” another screamed.

“Are they still open? It's nearly one!”

“Hot Gay British Boy,” the chit under his left arm addressed him blearily, clinging to his shoulder. He was about the only thing keeping her upright. “If you can get us to Bleecker, I'll buy you a slice of the bes' fuckin' pie in Manhattan. M'kay? An' it won't be my pie,” she snort-laughed. “Promise.”

Harry smiled. This Hero-Complex thing could get annoying, but at least someone was having fun. “Only if we stop by a smoke shop on the way.”

“There's one back up at Union Square....”

“No, that little place on Bleecker and Thompson....”

When the girls weren't looking, Harry brushed a hand against his wand in his jacket's breast pocket, muttering, “Point Me.” He felt holly and phoenix feather stir under his clothes, guiding him in the direction of clove cigarettes and greasy American take-away.

Someone passed him a flask of bourbon, the metal warmed from contact with hot, drunken skin. And the liquor's spicy smell reminded him of Draco. He took a swig.

- - -

Over the blare of music, Harry detected a familiar voice. He could hardly see for the colored lights flashing every so often in his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind, standing at the edge of a great sea of moving bodies. Out of the crowd, Malaya sprinted towards him.

“Oh my God, Harry!” In her high heeled shoes, the girl skittered to a stop beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist in a half-hug. She attached herself to him like a barnacle, staring up at him with wide eyes. With her perfectly straight bangs, burnt sugar skin and mascara-rimmed eyes, she looked like a perfect China doll. “I couldn't find you for, like, an hour! Where were you?”

He mimed smoking a cigarette. His other arm curled loosely around the back of her neck, resting over her shoulders.

She squeezed his side, pouting. “Why didn't you tell me? Jason smokes, you coulda bummed one, saved a trip.”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. Telling her that this club—this kind of place in general—wasn't for him was not the brightest idea. He didn't want to start an argument, didn't want to have to defend himself over nothing. He liked early dinners and old films, nightcaps and evenings spent with Draco, learning to play the piano or simply curling up together by the fire. If that made him old or boring or even gay, then so be it.

Malaya was sniffing him, her temple pressed to the inside of his shoulder. Her nose traveled up his lapel, smelling him thoroughly.

“You smell really good. Not like smoke.” That last bit was almost an accusation. Only his summer months spent with Draco gave him the deftness of tongue to side-step.

“Special cigarettes,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest. “Breast pocket. See for yourself.”

Deflection, plain and simple. The girl fell for it, diving into his pocket to retrieve the black box of equally black clove cigarettes, releasing her grasp on his waist in the process. Treasure acquired, she flipped it over in her tiny hands, examining it—all thoughts of Harry “smelling good” forgotten. He would not lead this girl on; though she fit the bill, “his type” according to Draco, she was also too young, presumably, lived too far away, was the daughter of his coworker and—most important of all—he just wasn't that keen on her. Also, Harry already had the perfect boyfriend. He didn't need anyone else. He was already deliriously happy.

“Cool. Can I have one?”

Harry shook his head. He gave the girl a stern look. “You're not old enough, here or in England. I won't be tricked.”

Walking by, two women in their twenties stopped dead in their tracks, heads turning as one at Harry's voice. It was his accent, he realized, and his scold-deepened voice. Why was it that the only thing these Americans thought about was sex, sex, sex? It was bloody annoying. Harry decided it was because they didn't have Molly Weasley to knock the tar out of them if they were ever caught snogging behind the garden shed. Providing Americans had garden sheds. Because they certainly snogged. Everywhere, by the looks of the club's dance floor and darkened corners.

“Where's Jason?” Harry asked suddenly. Malaya pointed in response. “Thanks. I'm gonna ask him if he'd fancy a smoke with me. Be back later, yeah?”

- - -

Harry stood on the rooftop with Jason and Max, another of the brainless Salem Institute boyfriends, leaning over a half-wall and surveying the city lights.

Taxis honked, traffic moving off down the island as far as his eyes could see, to the ocean, over bridges and beyond. Down on the street, lashed people screamed, running, stumbling and laughing manically. An old man on the corner played a violin, his bowstring silent as Harry and his companions were several stories up, the instrument's case thrown open with a sign presumably asking for tips. Everything was packed in tight—people, buildings, sounds and smells all on top of one another like one great, crawling beast. Space was so limited, even the roof he stood on was a part of the dance club, lights blazing, stuck up on poles, speakers hung from scaffolding and a bar set up in the corner. He was kicking himself for not charming his ID to say twenty one. Bloody Yanks and their Puritanical drinking laws. Harry really wanted a tequila. Or four. It might make his present company more agreeable.

The two boys, Harry's age or a year younger at most, were discussing American football. Whether or not they'd chose the topic with specific intent to exclude him was unclear. Harry didn't credit either of them with the intelligence or cunning necessary to ostracize. His assumption was confirmed a moment later when Max lit himself a second cigarette and turned to Harry.

“Who's your favorite team, then?”

“Probably Fulham FC,” Harry said. Just to be a dick.

“That's... football?” Jason asked. The confused expression he wore wasn't far off from the way his young face normally looked, which was rather unfortunate. He resembled a lost puppy looking for a good home. And a bath. His curly hair was greased with product, permanently wet in appearance.

Harry nodded. “Footie, yeah.” He ashed his clove cigarette, tempted to smoke another after this.

“He means soccer,” Max clarified.

Harry kept nodding. “Yeah, soccer. Sorry. I don't know American football.”

“You're shittin' me!” Jason exclaimed. “The Boy Who Lived's never played football?”

Clearly, these chaps had been collected for their looks alone. They were handsome, sure, but even in tandem, they were about as amusing as banging two rocks together in the hopes of starting a fire.

“So, uh,” Max fumbled with his lighter. The bloke was a chain smoker. “You and Malaya.”

“No.” Harry shot that one down immediately. He took several protracted drags off his black-papered cigarette, reminding himself to stay calm. He could play this cool, like Dmitry would. He tried to channel the fit Romanian with his stance, his address, the set of his brows and shoulders—doing everything he could to communicate that he meant business.

“But she's hot,” Max protested, finally getting his smoke lit. “And she's into you.”

“You should go for it, dude,” encouraged Jason through a cloud of menthol smoke.

Harry weighed his options. There were countless ways he could respond to this ridiculous peer-pressuring, at least half of them bordering between impolite and downright rude. But anything else was either a lie, a half-truth, or likely to cause a scandal.

It was the Heather Dilemma reinvented: carrying a conversation with these blokes could only spiral into a series of lies and deceit. He'd never be friends with these lads, unlike Heather, who was charming, but that made little difference in the scheme of things.

He knew it was wrong to lie. He also accepted that there were times when lying became absolutely necessary, like in the case of protecting a loved one. Lying about his relationship with Draco also made situations like this easier. Harry was perceived more simply, made easier to swallow, if he was a regular bloke with a regular nagging girlfriend. Draco's ex-Death Eater status—heaped together with his decidedly dark family history and Harry's previous string of purely heterosexual relationships—was a rather large pill to swallow. Then there was the social stigma attached to their relationship owing to their both being chaps. And apparently stigmas were just as bad this side of the pond, if not worse. All together, it wasn't a road he wanted to go down with his closer acquaintances, let alone relative strangers unsympathetic to his cause or his feelings.

He missed Dmitry. He missed Nebojsa. He even missed Misha, despite the kid hitting on him half the time, waggling a pierced eyebrow and licking his thick, full lips. At least they judged him based on his character, his actions when every last one of their lives were on the line... not by where he and Draco liked to put their pricks.

Did where he put his “broomstick” really say that much about him as a person? So long as he wasn't raping anyone or buggering nine-year-olds, did it make a fucking difference? And why was everyone so bloody curious about his sex life? It was absolute pants.

Not for the first time, he missed Ron and Hermione. For all the problems which existed in their seven-year relationship, they'd had the decency not to pry into his sex life as a rule, waiting for him to be comfortable, for him to bring it up. Then again, both Hermione and Ron were late bloomers. Harry suspected they were both still virgins. And that was great, lovely. He was happy for them having finally found each other through the shit-storm of a life that was being best mates with Harry Potter—petrification, broken limbs, botched Polyjuice transformations and even being knocked unconscious and placed at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake, guarded by Merpeople in a public spectacle. They'd put up with all that. And they loved him. Maybe they weren't exactly pleased with one another at present but that would pass with time. Harry had matured. He was ready to close the gap. He waited on them to follow along the path he'd set.

Max and Jason were relaying Malaya's many positive attributes, listing them for Harry's benefit, it would seem—to aid him in his decision whether or not to “bone her brains out,” as the fellows put it. He heard mention of long legs, kissable lips and perky breasts. Harry considered how awkward and bloody weird it would be for him to blurt out that he sucked cock. Pretty damn weird, he decided, though none-the-less true for not being spoken aloud. The boys reviewed other girls from Salem who Harry might fancy a go with while he was in town—older girls with bigger tits, girls notorious for spreading their legs. It became increasingly clear than neither lad saw much physical affection from his doting girlfriend. They were moving onto the subject of what Harry should do first when he got each harlot in bed when Harry stepped in.

“Would you fancy it if these girls talked about you the same way?” he asked pointedly, gesticulating philosophically with his cigarette butt. He brought it to his lips with his next thought. “Discussing your pricks, guessing at your skill? They'd likely dismiss you for inexperience alone. With ridicule. So perhaps it's better not to discuss it at all.”

Jason looked at him as though he were a Jarvey sprouting a second head to spout poesy in heroic hexameter. Max's mouth hung open, processing Harry's statement. The Englishman could practically see the cogs working, clogged by cobwebs, behind the boy's eyes.

Yes. He'd spent too much time with Draco—and was now speaking the blonde's signature language of double entendre and under-the-table jabs. He couldn't help himself. It was his way of remembering Draco, immortalizing him. He'd like to think that, were Draco here, his boyfriend would be struggling not to snort behind his pale, Gaunt-ringed hand. The mental image gave him some comfort.

When he returned to the Harpers much later that night—closer to the wee hours of the morning—there was an owl waiting for him, the tawny's missive stamped with the Ministry of Magic's seal. At least they'd escaped Voldemort's assault with their rubber stamps intact. Harry tore open the letter.

The Minister requested his presence at The Barn. As soon as possible, on urgent matters of state.

Harry plucked a muggle pen from a mug on the kitchen counter, hastily scribbling his reply in his usual untidy scrawl. He couldn't stop the smile blooming across his face. While he couldn't care less what Rufus Scrimgeour had to say for himself, a visit with the exiled Minister of Magic also presented a perfect opportunity to visit Draco.

He'd be off first thing in the morning.
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Conscience