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When In Flight	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4063 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-When In Flight
- 1
Title: When In Flight

Author: Lomonaaeren

Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Severus, past Draco/OFC

Rating: R

Warnings: Some DH spoilers (neither Snape nor Remus died); ignores the epilogue completely. Blow-jobs, frottage, profanity, mild violence, Snape being mute.

Word count: ~17,000

Summary: After one Quidditch accident too many happens to the Slytherin players at Hogwarts, an inspector from the Department of Magical Games and Sports is sent in to investigate. This inspector just happens to be Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter, the flying instructor, is confident he can handle the investigation by himself. Well, all right, maybe Draco’s glasses can help.

Request: (from honorarymaraudr): Harry/Draco, Remus being with Severus, Frottage and Wall!Sex, especially if said wall is in a place where they could easily be caught. I'd like the story to have some plot as well though, so less pwp and more plot is great. wall!frottage leading to messy blow-jobs. SexyQuidditchToned!Harry, Snarky!Snape. Professor Snape, even if Harry and Draco are out of school. Some type of glasses kink.

Author’s Notes: This was written for the hds_beltane exchange on LiveJournal. Ms_mindfunk beta-ed for me; many thanks to her!

When In Flight

            Harry was looking at the Hufflepuff Beaters when the accident happened—which made it all very inconvenient. Or maybe convenient, if one was not Harry. Harry had long ago accepted that the world was set up to benefit people who were not him.

            But really, as he argued to Remus that night, what else should he have done? The Hufflepuff Beaters were a pair of hulking twins, Timothy and Harold Rosemont, who had already committed enough fouls in one game to keep three full-time Quidditch coaches in despair. He had to hover directly in front of them and yell right into their faces, without glancing away once, or they would have kept doing it.

            “A vexing puzzle, to be sure,” Remus said, and sipped the brandy that he seemed to favor lately. At least it smelled better than the Wolfsbane Potion.

            But, of course, during the moment when Harry was facing away from the far end of the Quidditch Pitch, one of the Slytherin Chasers fell off his broom. Or was pushed. Or was playing a friendly game of Catch the Quaffle with the Hufflepuff Chasers and fell because he leaned too far off reaching for the ball. Or was “helped” along by jinxes cast on his broom, and then by more jinxes to nullify the spells that his teammates tried to catch him with before he hit the ground.

            At least the player (Ivory Chuckleworth, whose name made Harry want to go punch his parents’ teeth in) survived the fall, but he broke both arms. And then of course the game had to be canceled, much to everyone’s disappointment, and Harry had to deal with the dozen variations on the story of Ivory’s fall offered to him by members of both teams. It didn’t help that some of them changed their minds afterwards.

            It was the sixth Quidditch accident of the season, and the fifth that had happened to a member of the Slytherin team. Harry hadn’t been able to determine if the others were the result of malice or not, either.

            “They hired me to be a flying instructor, not a goddamn baby-sitter,” he told Remus, and swallowed another gulp of Firewhiskey.

            “Hmmm,” Remus said, and leaned back in his chair. Harry watched him enviously. Since his near-death on the battlefield seven years ago, and the death of Tonks, Remus seemed to have decided to simply accept life as it came. He devoted himself to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and raising his son Teddy during the times when his grandmother Andromeda didn’t have him instead, and his calm was even harder to break than it had been. Harry wished he could have that calm. He was living a peaceful enough life, but trouble appeared to be no less frequent than it was the day he defeated Voldemort.

            “You haven’t heard any rumors, I suppose?” Harry asked without much hope. Remus was widely known as a fair teacher, which meant the Slytherins were more likely to talk in front of him than most people—even if he was the current Head of Gryffindor House—and then there was that thing he had with Snape. If there was any concrete information among the Snakes themselves about why bad things kept happening to their Quidditch players, Remus would have heard it.

            “What I’ve heard, I’ve been asked to keep silent,” Remus said, and now his serene face changed a little, to look regretful. “I am sorry, Harry. But there is no proof one way or the other. Otherwise, Severus would already have taken his revenge.” He chuckled. Harry couldn’t imagine why he found that comment funny. And he still couldn’t get used to hearing Snape called “Severus,” either. Snape was one of the reasons that trouble continued to follow Harry about, after all. “All we can do is tighten our restrictions on the next match and hope it goes well. Minerva has suggested three professors in the air on brooms, rather than just you. What do you think?”

            Harry was about to answer when an insistent tapping came from the window. Since Remus appeared so relaxed, he got up and moved to answer it himself. The gray owl sitting on the sill promptly dropped an envelope with the official Ministry seal on his head and then flew off before Harry could do more than swat at it.

            “Fuck,” said Harry feelingly.

            “What is it?” Remus stirred in his chair. “Not bad news from Ron and Hermione, I hope?” Hermione was due to have her first child soon, and Ron worried incessantly about her health even though he had no real reason to do so.

            “No,” Harry muttered, tearing open the envelope. “From the Ministry. They want—“ He stopped and stared as the sense of the words on the page sank into his brain.

            Carefully, he folded the letter lengthwise, ripped it in half, folded it again, ripped it again, and flung all the pieces into Remus’s fireplace, then aimed his wand at the banked fire smoldering there. The flames exploded upwards with enough force to send sparks leaping onto the carpet.

            “Bad news, I take it?” Remus asked, only lifting one eyebrow slightly. He’d learned that trick from Snape, too.

*



            Draco Malfoy had never enjoyed Floo travel. On the other hand, he had never proven himself to be much good at Apparition, either, and the Ministry didn’t consider this little errand important enough to surrender a Portkey, so Draco did his best to step out of the Floo in the kitchen of the Three Broomsticks with a modicum of dignity. He spent some moments swatting soot off his robes even so.

            Then he remembered why he was here, and smirked. Causing havoc in people’s lives was worth a little extra inconvenience, and he was on his way to see his favorite target today, whom he hadn’t been able to harass in more than half a decade.

            “Comfortable, Mr. Malfoy?”

            Draco raised an eyebrow at the hostile tone. Madam Rosmerta, a few white hairs creeping in along her temples, stood facing him with her arms folded and her eyes hard as chips of glass. She still hadn’t forgiven him for using Imperius on her in his sixth year, it seemed. Well, some people were like that.

            “Very, thank you,” he murmured, keeping his tone cool and urbane with no effort at all, and then drew off his glasses to polish them on his robes. Madam Rosmerta was silently hostile at him, obviously wanting him out of her kitchen. He had spent a lot of time encountering hostility of that kind in his career as an inspector for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, though, along with the kind of hostility that raged and shouted and threatened to break his head open with a Beater’s bat, so he remained still until he was satisfied that his glasses were fit to be seen in public.

            Pushing them onto his face again, he said, “No need to attend me. I know my own way out.”

            Madam Rosmerta stared at his back so intently as he left the Three Broomsticks that Draco suspected she might have tried to set him on fire with a nonverbal spell—if she had thought she could get away with it, of course. She should know that she could not. Draco’s wife of a few years, Julianna, had thought she could get away with that sort of thing, and look where it had landed her: divorced, with her own debts to pay. And the newspapers had gleefully reported every nuance of the divorce process from beginning to end.

            Including what started it.

            Draco frowned and walked a little faster.

            The path to Hogwarts was as it had always been, so thick with memories that he could have walked it blindfolded. He would not allow himself to pause and take deep breaths as those memories assaulted him, of course. He was an adult, he was over them, and they couldn’t bother him now. Besides, a heavily warded private bedroom in the Manor was a more appropriate place to deal with them.

He did pause to examine the trees of the Forbidden Forest, bright with their spring foliage. It wasn’t exactly a sunny day, but, since it was late May, mild enough, with a distinct lack of biting wind from across the lake. Draco started humming as he marched up to the doors of the entrance hall. Very technically he should go to the Headmistress’s office first and inform McGonagall of what he was doing there, but he had come to see Potter, as the one most responsible for Hogwarts’ Quidditch teams.

            Draco smiled and cast a locater spell. McGonagall could wait. He wanted to have a little fun harassing Potter first.

*

            Harry had thought long and hard about how he should meet that little snot Malfoy after a gap of six years, and finally decided that on a broom would be appropriate. That would remind Malfoy of every time he’d lost to Harry at Quidditch, and it would show Harry off to his best advantage.

            “Not that I really want to show off to the little wanker,” Harry reassured himself as he kicked off from the ground near the broom shed. The wood of the CometStar broom he rode vibrated gently under his hands. Harry grinned and urged it higher. By the time he completed the mental dialogue with, “I’m just impressing him to make sure he doesn’t try anything, that’s all,” he was a hundred feet off the ground.

            He made a slow sweep of the Quidditch Pitch, as he had yesterday, looking for any lingering sign of the hexes that might have been cast on Chuckleworth’s broom. Yesterday, he’d found only a few splinters, none of which revealed anything when Harry cast detection spells on them. Today, he found nothing at all.

            He turned sharply when he heard footsteps beneath him, and looked down. Sure enough, there was Malfoy, walking onto the Pitch and tilting his head back to stare up at him. No way it could be anyone but Malfoy, given that poncey long white hair and that poncey flowing silver cloak and that poncey way he walked (at least, not with Lucius rotting in Azkaban where he belonged). Harry himself didn’t mind fucking the occasional man, but he refused to act poncey about it.

            He kicked the broom straight down, diving as if he meant to tear a hole in the earth, or at least the patch of it where Malfoy stood. The git lasted longer at standing still than Harry thought he would, but in the end, leaped out of the way, scowling. Harry pulled up just above his head, not out of breath at all, and grinned down at him.

            He nearly lost the grin, but he had more practice at controlling his expression now, when he couldn’t show how amused he was over some of the cleverer Quidditch fouls. So he was certain Malfoy noticed nothing amiss.

            He’d seen photographs of Malfoy all over the Prophet after that divorce case—who hadn’t?—but that face had been still as pointy and ordinary as ever, the gray eyes still as small and mean as a rodent’s. No one had told Harry that sometime in the two years since then, Malfoy had acquired glasses.

            But what glasses. They didn’t look like the round glasses Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to part with, even now. These were elegant, small, silvery, and framed his eyes almost—shyly, as if they knew the treasure they concealed and were reluctant to give up sight of it to the world. They enormously improved Malfoy’s eyes, which seemed softer and grayer because of them. They were just the sort of glasses Harry took the most pleasure in removing from a lover’s face, to better see and admire the eyes beneath.

            Get a hold of yourself, Harry thought sharply, when he realized he was mooning over stupid Malfoy’s stupid glasses. He shook his head and dropped the smile for the full-out glare that worked better between them anyway.

            “Come to dream of the past victories that were never yours?” he drawled, with what he thought were all the good parts and none of the bad ones of Malfoy’s own aristocratic tones, and then leaned back on his broom, casually balancing it at forty-five degrees, a fairly difficult trick to achieve for long periods.

*

            Potter looked damn good on a broom.

            Draco took his own ability to admit that as a sign of how much he had matured. He would have sulked about the fact, or never noticed it at all, when they’d been boys. Now he could think of it without trouble and without prejudice, and move on.

From the expression on his face, Potter was having trouble doing the same with the changes to Draco’s physique. Then again, he had always been the less mature of the two of them.

Draco coughed into his hand, then said, “Inspector Draco Malfoy, from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, at your service, Mr. Potter.” Impress them with your courtesy, and you have already thrown them off-balance. It was a lesson Lucius had taught him, but Draco liked to think he applied it better than his father ever had. He turned away and studied the far side of the Quidditch Pitch. “Is that where the accident took place?”

Potter remained speechless for long moments. Then he said, “What are you playing at, Malfoy?” His voice was truculent.

            Not as good as enraged, but it will do for a beginning, Draco thought, and grinned over his shoulder at Potter. “Playing at? A good pun, Mr. Potter, but there’s hardly a need for puns when we’re protecting students’ lives, is there?” He walked towards the far side of the Quidditch Pitch, ignoring the way Potter trailed behind him like a Crup with its tail between its legs. “I understand that the majority of students involved in these accidents have been Slytherins.”

            “Five of the six.” Potter still sounded sullen, but his voice had acquired a fine patina of building anger.

            Draco crouched to study the grass of the Pitch. Impeccably groomed, of course; the current Headmistress and her passion for the sport would assure it was so. All the same, Draco drew his wand and cast one of the spells inspectors in his Department had specially developed. Traces of spells cast high in the air could sometimes descend to the grass and stick there, since the grass itself had acquired certain attractive properties from the magic used to maintain it, and the mere presence of brooms in the air above it seemed to encourage those properties. A soft film of blue, like Muggle plastic, shot out of his wand and covered the grass around him, and Draco leaned further down to study the traces of color caught in the film. Those would correspond to certain categories of spells and reveal anything suspicious in doing so. “Tell me, Mr. Potter,” he said, keeping his voice clinical and careful. “How strong would you say your bias against Slytherin House still is?”

            Potter gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

            Lovely reaction. Draco smiled up at him, not caring that he was shorter by a head. Someone who had to use his physical strength to impress people was not really a man at all. And Potter’s eyes were blazing, revealing the idiot’s lack of self-control. The look reminded Draco of the one Julianna had given him just before the fight that caused their divorce, in fact.

            That was a less than comfortable thought, and Draco tucked it away quickly, searching for just the right dignified and refined tone to impress Potter. “It is a simple question, Mr. Potter,” he said. “And manhandling an inspector for any Department in the Ministry can result in severe questions and fines.” He raised an eyebrow. “As I’m sure you know,” he finished.

            Potter evidently didn’t like being reminded of his own little stint in the papers three years ago, when he’d been interrogated for punching an inspector from Magical Law Enforcement in the face. Potter had claimed that the man had followed him into his private quarters and harassed him for an autograph. Given Potter’s well-known love of fame, Draco was inclined to suspect a lovers’ quarrel instead.

            Baring his teeth, Potter let go of Draco’s sleeve and stepped away. The warmth of his hand lingered on Draco’s shoulder in interesting ways. Draco rubbed his shoulder as if it were hurt and reminded himself, You’re not going to think about that, remember?

            “It was a simple question, Mr. Potter,” he repeated. “And given your well-known biases against Slytherins—“

            “Well-known to you, you little pissant—“

            “Mr. Potter.” Draco frowned prissily at him, knowing it was prissy, and knowing that Potter couldn’t do anything about it without getting himself into even more trouble with the Ministry, and delighting in that. “This is not following the forms of professional courtesy. Tell me, do you or do you not have biases against the Slytherins? I can always interview the other professors and the students if necessary, but I thought I would give you the chance to answer of your own free will.”

            Potter was looking at Draco as if he would like to murder him. Perhaps he would have grabbed Draco and slammed him against a wall if there were any in sight. Draco thought he would rather have liked that. He hadn’t been close to many warm human bodies in the years since Julianna left, and to be pinned between one and an unyielding surface he could neither sink through nor crush was—

            Stop thinking about that! Dear God, he was getting as bad as Potter. It was one thing to taunt your old school rival, another to let him get to you.

            “That you would think I would ever hurt a student,” Potter said at last, the words clear and sharp as lines etched by a diamond on a plate-glass window, “no matter what his House affiliation, is—“ He shook his head, apparently too choked by rage to say what it was.

            “I accept them as people,” he whispered. “I accept everyone as a person now. Except an overdressed, over-mannered little ponce like you.”

            “In the name of overdressed, over-mannered little ponces everywhere,” Draco assured him gravely, “I applaud your observation, and thank you for your answer. If it becomes necessary, then I will of course offer you the chance to answer again under Veritaserum. For now, our interaction as this investigation continues should be sufficient.” He turned his back and bent over the blue film on the grass again.

            Potter kicked off from the ground, by the sound of it. Draco kept his head bowed for a few moments more, then sneaked a glance over his shoulder.

            Potter was rising in tight circles like a lark, but of course faster than any bird could go. His head was thrown back and his arms thrown in front of him, holding the broom shaft in what Draco would be willing to swear was a death grip. He felt his mouth watering and swallowed as best he could.

            Mind on your work. He had succeeded in the Ministry better than some of those who had not wanted to see him there because he could keep personal reactions out of his work when necessary.

            He cast another detection spell, this one a modified ward that would alert him immediately of any possible intruders in the vicinity, and then began patiently to study each colored trace.

*

            Harry clattered down the steps into the dungeons, sweating and breathing so hard that he barely had any voice left to swear. He made a left at the bottom of the steps and rushed up the corridor past the Slytherin common room, his boots bouncing echoes that he half-thought might frighten the students. Then again, it was Sunday, and most of them were probably taking the chance to sleep in or go outside anyway.

            When he reached Snape’s office, he had the sense to pause a moment and check for wards, but there were none. There usually weren’t when Remus was visiting Snape, because “Severus” despaired of his lover’s ability to take them down properly, and apparently didn’t reveal the password to his quarters. Harry wondered again why Remus was with him, but he usually didn’t ask, because his inability to understand upset Remus.

            This time, though, he didn’t care. He needed to talk to Remus, to complain about what a complete and utter prat Malfoy was being. He flung open the door without ceremony.

            Snape was visible, bent over a cauldron. The office was as crowded with racks and racks of potions, where it wasn’t cold and uninviting stone, as it ever had been when Harry was a student. The major difference was the large sheet of enchanted parchment pinned on the wall next to Snape’s hunched form. One like it hung it in his classrooms, and others were in the Great Hall and the Headmistress’s office. Supposedly there was one in his private quarters as well, but Harry hoped never to see that.

            “Where’s Remus?” he demanded.

            Snape started. He must not have heard Harry enter, though God knew he had made enough noise as a warning, Harry thought, and it wasn’t his fault that Snape tended to get so involved in his brewing. He jerked away from the cauldron, and the potion boiled over and foamed across the floor. It was red, and it stank like carrion left in the sun for three days. Harry took a step back and put a protective hand over his nose.

            Snape turned around and gave him a deadly glare that would have made quite an impression on Harry in any less volatile mood. His wand lashed out a moment later, pointing at the parchment, and words spilled into being along it, the same spiky script that had once decorated Harry’s Potions essays.

            Potter, you imbecile. Were you or were you not aware that potions work requires delicate concentration and no interruptions? A moment, which was Snape’s version of the dramatic pause now, and more writing appeared a few lines beneath the first set of letters. Ah, yes, you only succeeded in NEWT Potions because of my help, indirectly and unwillingly given though it was. Far be it from me to forget.

            Harry frowned at him.

            His relationship with Snape, ever since he’d discovered the man wasn’t really dead, had been—strange. Snape had apparently been serious about his ability to brew anything he wanted to in that speech in Harry’s first year, including a way to stopper death. He’d carried enough antivenin to stop the spread of Nagini’s poison, at least. However, he still bore a large and ugly scar along the side of his throat where her fangs had landed, and he still couldn’t talk, despite his attempts to brew a potion that would let him.

            Most of all, Harry couldn’t forget that this was the man who had been friends with his Mum, perhaps in love with her, and had offered up his memories of her to Harry when he thought he might be dying. Harry was not quite sure if he should feel primarily grateful, awed, or pitying.

            Of course, there was also the undercurrent of uneasiness that resulted whenever Harry remembered Snape requesting that Harry look at him in his “last” moments, so he could carry the sight of Lily’s eyes with him into death. Harry was sorry, but that was just creepy.

            “I just want to know where Remus is,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your brewing. Besides, it's not my fault that you get so caught up in your brewing you forget to lock your door, with magic or without it." It wasn't, and Harry would make the same defense to Remus when he was asked about it.

            I see that the graces of apology are still beyond you, Potter.

            “But I didn’t mean to,” Harry said. Snape, unlike normal people, never seemed to consider that intention played any part in excusing an action. “Anyway, I knew Remus was supposed to visit you today. That’s the only reason I’m down here.”

            Of course.

            Harry fought the impulse to stick out his tongue. Snape pretended to believe that he and Harry should “reconcile,” for the sake of Remus and because Dumbledore would have wanted them to. In practice, it was a reason for him to pretend he was just a little black-robed saint whenever Harry snapped at him.

            As it happens, the words said, moving across the parchment again and attracting Harry’s attention, Remus is in bed.

            “He’s sleeping?” Harry blinked in concern. The full moon had been three days before, and usually Remus had recovered from its effects by now. “Did he exhaust himself casting spells today or something?”

            Harry didn’t have to look at Snape’s face to see the smirk in the next words. I did not say he was asleep.

            On cue, a moan came from the direction of Snape’s private quarters. Snape felt smug at Harry, without a single word and without Harry ever meeting his eyes. And Harry was forced to remember the night Remus had drunk more brandy than was good for him and had mentioned something about magically animated toys and “Severus’s” love of leaving him alone with them for hours.

            Harry cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Um, all right,” he said. “I’ll just—wait then.” He backed towards the door, then paused. Maybe Remus would like him to make another effort to get along with Snape and show interest in his life, though Merlin knew Harry’s efforts in that direction had never been rewarded. “What potion were you brewing when I—er, showed up?”

            A potion to repay me for my long service in the non-pay of two masters whilst unknowingly saving the Savior of the Wizarding World, Snape’s parchment told him. In other words, a potion to restore my voice.

            Harry winced.

            I had nearly finished it, too.

            Harry turned his back with as much dignity as he could preserve and marched away.

*

            “I’m sure you can understand why we’re anxious.” Headmistress McGonagall finished the predictable little spiel that she’d offered Draco when he finally made his way to her office and leaned back in her chair, staring at him with intent, unblinking eyes. Draco wondered if he should be amused or worried that the years had preserved her likeness to a cat so well, and settled on “amused.” “Would you care for tea, Mr. Malfoy?”

            “Yes, please,” he said, and took one slow look around the room, though he was nearly certain the Headmistress did not still favor Gryffindor House enough to participate in catapulting Slytherin students off their brooms. With the perspective of several years, Draco had to admit she had been fairer to her students than Severus had.

            The room was entirely paneled with heavy dark wood, lightened by the sun flooding through the windows; Draco was sure the windows weren’t natural, given the look of the sky today. The circular walls were mostly carved into bookshelves, supporting scrolls and ledgers as well as ordinary books, and the occasional Pensieve. Draco tried to catch a glimpse of some of the titles, but most of them were worn off, and the ones he could see looked like boring Gryffindor subjects, such as Healing and the finer points of Animagus law.

            “So far, I have found nothing important to report,” Draco said, when the Headmistress had handed him a steaming cup and leaned back to sip her own. “The spells I cast on the Pitch should have revealed any evidence of magical tampering with the students’ brooms by other players. However, no unusual spell showed up. I would like permission to examine the Quidditch equipment and talk to the students who were involved in the incidents, particularly the most recent one.”

            The Headmistress nodded. “I trust you, Mr. Malfoy.” The words were overlaid with ironic resonances that Draco preferred to ignore, and he could always pretend he just didn’t see her raised eyebrow. “Of course, since the Quidditch equipment is the province of our flying instructor, you will have to speak to Mr. Potter.”

            Draco grinned. So far, this investigation had proven frustrating in the lack of evidence, but there was a reason that he had leaped to take the case. “I’ll look forwards to it,” he said, with perfect sincerity.

*

            “Are you all right?” Remus asked Harry at lunch, sitting down in his usual place next to him at the head table. Since it was Sunday, fewer students crowded the room than usual, but the food was as good as ever. Harry was glad of the pretext to keep his head down as he ate a delicious cheese sandwich, so he didn’t have to look at Remus and think about the source of the moans he’d heard. “Severus said you barged into his office looking for me earlier, and seemed extremely distressed that you couldn’t find me.”

            “He told you about the potion I ruined too, I suppose,” said Harry, scowling at his plate.

            Remus said nothing for a moment, then said, “No, actually, he didn’t mention it. Harry.” His voice was filled with that gentle disappointment which always stung more than any scolding. “I have asked you to try to be a bit more polite and careful around him. You know how desperately he wants his voice back. You certainly should have knocked. You know he forgets the locks and the wards at times.”

            Bastard, Harry thought grimly. He didn’t tell Remus on purpose, just so I would be tricked into telling him. But since his chance to finally complain about Malfoy was here, he didn’t want to complain about Snape. He swallowed the last of his sandwich and said, “Malfoy’s here, and he’s just as great a git as he ever was.”

            “Now, Harry,” said Remus peaceably, selecting a handful of nuts from the bowl in the center of the table, “it’s a good idea to try to understand former enemies.”

            Harry choked on the swallow of pumpkin juice he’d taken. “Understanding former enemies” was the rationale behind Remus taking a bottle of that brandy he loved so much to Snape’s quarters three years ago, when he had decided that the hatred between them had gone on quite long enough. They had a bond, he said when Harry asked him why he’d wanted to reconcile with Snape of all people, in shared memories. And they had a bond in both being declared dead on the battlefield before miraculously showing up alive.

            And then Remus had ended up staying the night, and most of the next day, and just when Harry had been about to storm down to the dungeons and accuse Snape of chopping him up for Potions ingredients, he’d strolled back into the living world and announced his “thing” with “Severus.”

            “I don’t think Malfoy and I need that kind of understanding,” Harry said hastily. He rushed on before Remus could make some speech about the unique nature of love among Slytherins. After this morning, that was the last thing Harry required. “He accused me of hating Slytherins enough to injure the students deliberately! Can you imagine that?”

            He looked back at Remus’s face to see a satisfactory frown forming, at last. “That is beyond the pale,” the other man said, shaking his head as he cracked a nut between a small mortar and pestle that had been a gift from Snape. Harry had never asked about the pestle’s extremely odd shape. “I see his ideas about you have changed even less than yours about him. I’m sure you wouldn’t accuse him of neglecting his job, or voluntarily allowing innocents to come to harm.”

            “Not unless I had proof that he did,” Harry said virtuously.

            Luckily, Remus didn’t frown at him over that. He simply nodded and said, “Of course you’ll cooperate with the investigation. You want to see the injuries to your students stopped as much as the Ministry does.”

            Harry scowled at his food. Somehow, Remus made the right thing to do, which had been risky and appealing when Harry was a teenager, sound as dry as dust. There was a level of excitement that Remus’s calm, day-to-day approach to life was definitely missing.

            But of course he had put it in undefeatable terms. Harry wouldn’t want to see anyone injured, and apparently the price of that was cooperating with Malfoy.

            “Yeah,” Harry said glumly, and put a whole kipper in his mouth to give himself something to think about.

*

            “Oi, Potter!”

            Potter’s back stiffened in the moment before he turned reluctantly around. He had his arms folded, of course, and his head lowered so that he looked rather like a bull about to charge. Draco put a casual hand on the wand in his pocket; his robes were tailored so it looked as if he were merely smoothing out a wrinkle. It had been some years since he’d had to use his wand against those who thought his presence in the Ministry was a mistake, but some things were instinct.



            “What?” Potter asked between gritted teeth, as if merely having to talk to Draco were the ultimate insult.

            Draco grinned, though he knew it looked like the kind of smile one professional might give another. Oh, yes, this was going to be fun. “I should investigate the Quidditch equipment,” he said briskly. “Just to make sure that no one might have tampered with it in an attempt to cause the injuries, of course. You’ll come with me and give me access to it?” He made it a question with an effort.

            Potter rolled his eyes and audibly huffed, but fell reluctantly into step alongside Draco. Draco looked forwards to hide his smile, and decided to throw Potter off-balance again by recurring to simple facts.

            “I heard only that there had been six incidents with Quidditch players this year,” he said. “Not about the specific details.”

            “Funny,” said Potter. “From what Ron’s told me about his work as an Auror, there’s this little thing called reading the files that gives most Ministry employees details like that.”

            Draco swallowed his retort. He had walked right into that one. Potter seemed to have developed an edge to his wit lately. Perhaps he’d been sharpening it on Severus. Draco was sure his old Head of House still had the better of the contests, of course.

            “Listen, Potter,” he said calmly. “My Department is more casual, and most of the time we’re dealing with rules violations, not life-threatening incidents. I don’t think I’ve been on a case like this one yet, and the last one that came through was two years ago, dealing with the stalking of a well-known Keeper. I wasn’t involved. The details weren’t left out of the report I received for any malicious reasons, but they were left out. I’d appreciate if you’d tell me what they were, so I can prevent any more injuries—and possibly deaths.”

            They were back in the entrance hall by now, the mixed cloudy light falling through the open doors. Potter wheeled around abruptly and faced Draco, causing Draco to back away a step before he could catch himself.

            Damn, Potter’s eyes… Green eyes normally weren’t Draco’s favorite, but then, he didn’t normally see a pair this intense. Potter was glaring at him as if he could see inside Draco’s very soul, and his hands were digging into his arms where he had the arms folded across his chest. He practically reeked of adrenaline, and the muscles he’d apparently developed with refereeing Quidditch and diving after reckless idiots on the House teams weren’t bad either. Draco could feel his heartbeat increasing.

            Julianna, he reminded himself. Julianna ought to have cured you of the taste for danger forever.

            But she hadn’t, and Potter’s hostility just made him more appealing. Draco chewed on his tongue for a moment and arched an eyebrow, adding a touch of mild sarcasm to his voice. “Well, Potter? Do I pass your high standards?”

            Potter released a long, noisy exhalation like the snort of a mooncalf. Then he said, “You do really want to help the students, don’t you?”

            And annoy you, Draco thought. He should remember that we always have more than one motive.

            But it was easy enough to say, “Yes,” and then look all helpful and earnest. That kind of mask always tended to fool a Gryffindor.

            Potter stared at him for one moment more, then blinked and looked away. It was like suddenly having the moon go behind a cloud. Draco took an instant to recover, but Potter didn’t look at him again. He was striding towards the Quidditch Pitch, the set of his shoulders a little more relaxed than before.

            That’s all the acknowledgement I’m going to get, I suppose, Draco thought, and hurried after him, hearing Potter begin to recount what were probably the accidents the students had sustained in a rapid, clipped voice.

            The abbreviated tone made Draco wonder what it would take to make his voice rise. Not in a shout of anger, which he’d already heard and which was relatively easy to drag out of Potter, but in a cry of passion, or—

            Julianna, Julianna, Julianna, Draco chanted to himself, and then went back to listening to Potter. He was here to do his job, after all.

*

            “…And the second incident happened during the Gryffindor-Slytherin match,” Harry said. They were standing in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch now, and he had his gaze fixed on the Gryffindor stands, where he’d been sitting when the first Slytherin player was endangered. He had often found that looking at the place associated with a memory helped him to recall it.

            Well, and this time the looking had a secondary purpose: it kept him from staring at Draco Malfoy and his distracting glasses. Who would have guessed that a Slytherin could pick glasses which looked sexy?

            “The Gryffindor Chasers had the Quaffle, neither of the Seekers had seen the Snitch, and everyone was paying attention to the Chasers more than the Seekers. Suddenly the Slytherin Keeper—little boy named Chase Huntingdon, only a third-year—screamed, and when I looked up, he was flying off his broom.”

            “Flying?” Malfoy’s voice interrupted harshly. “Not just falling? You’re certain?”

            Harry nodded, and looked more intently than ever at the stands. Malfoy had come up to stand just behind him, and the temptation to turn about was overwhelming. “The first time, in the Gryffindor practice, the student went flying diagonally from the broom in a way that couldn’t have happened when the broom was stationary. This time, the motion was even more as if someone had lifted him with a Levitation Charm and then decided to suddenly—stop.”

            “That says spells,” Malfoy said softly to himself, as if he imagined that he were talking to someone interested in the scrambled way his mind worked. But Harry supposed he had to be, or they might not find out who was hurting the students.

            And he did want to find out. He’d been in the infirmary to see Chuckleworth just before Malfoy found him. The boy was still pale, and recovering from the draught of Skele-Gro Madam Pomfrey had decided to administer simply because the breaks were so bad. He could easily have fallen to his death.

            “What saved that Slytherin student?” Malfoy asked abruptly. “Did someone catch him before he landed?”

            “Yes,” Harry said. “Me.” He smiled a little at the memory. Let Malfoy and his presumptions about Harry’s bias against Slytherins deal with that.

            “You just told me you were sitting in the stands.” Malfoy’s voice sharpened. “And you don’t know if it was a spell or not? You must have felt the force of opposing magic when you cast a spell to save him.”

            “I didn’t cast a spell,” said Harry. “I had my broom with me, just in case I had to go up into the air after all; Remus was refereeing that match. I rose out of the stands on the broom instead, and caught him before he hit the ground.”

            The silence from behind him said many things. Harry hoped at least one of them conveyed how impressed Malfoy was with what Harry had just said.

*

            It’s impossible to get out of those stands to save someone from falling who was probably on the opposite side of the pitch.

            Except, it seemed, for Harry bloody Potter.

            Draco shook his head and tried to pretend he wasn’t swallowing a bit of awe. “Did you save the lives of the other students as well?”

            Potter finally turned to look at him. He had had his back to Draco as if he could make him cease to exist that way. Now his gaze flitted across Draco’s face and darted away again. Draco narrowed his eyes. What is he scared of? That I’ll look him in the eye and make him drop dead of horror with my resemblance to a ferret?

            “Only three of them,” Potter said. “The third through the fifth incidents. Chuckleworth, the last student, fell whilst I was talking to the two Hufflepuff Beaters. Luckily, he only sustained two broken arms.” He flinched a little, as if realizing “only” was an inadequate word for the extent of Chuckleworth’s injuries.

            “So you didn’t see what happened,” Draco muttered and faced the stands. He was getting an idea, but he wouldn’t know if he was correct until he heard the full stories of the other murder attempts. “Did those students go flying off their brooms, too?”

            Potter shook his head. “The Slytherin Seeker’s broom just snapped beneath him, the third time, during practice. The fourth incident also occurred during a private Slytherin practice, when suddenly the Bludgers wouldn’t stop chasing the Beaters. Broke one of Tyacke’s ribs.” Draco supposed Tyacke must be a Beater. “And the fifth time, in the Ravenclaw match, it was the Seeker again, trying to imitate a catch you have reason to remember.” He was grinning hard at Draco now. “He swallowed the Snitch, and it nearly choked him. He fell off his broom because of that.”

            Draco haughtily put aside the temptation to remind Potter he hadn’t even been on the Slytherin team when Potter caught the Snitch in his mouth, that first year. It wasn’t as though the memory had remained to torment him down the years.

            No, just the memory of the other times he won, when you were playing opposite him and couldn’t stop him.

            Draco stamped the memory into oblivion and presented a thin smile. “And you never thought of foul play? Really?”

            “The fifth time really did seem to be a coincidence,” Potter said. At least he looked a little uneasy now. Good. Let his conscience bother him. He probably didn’t call in help before now because he had one Gryffindor incident on his hands and could convince himself the violence was shared “equally” between Houses. “And the fourth—well, the Quidditch equipment does get a bit testy, sometimes.” He shifted and seemed to decide that Draco had been attacking him and he should turn the attack back on its originator. “You must have seen that yourself,” he said, gaze suddenly snapping up, “in your career as an inspector.”

            Draco’s breath caught as if he had been punched. Potter’s eyes were so intense. And he really had to stop feeling as if he were caught in a Body-Bind each time he got stared at.

            “Staring is rude, Potter,” he murmured, and turned away to examine the Gryffindor stands again. “Still a pattern of incidence like this is too high. Yes, the Ministry should have been contacted before this.”

            “Excuse me for assuming the Ministry would just love a chance to interfere at Hogwarts, like it always does, and wouldn’t send someone who could actually do the job,” Potter muttered.

            Draco bristled. Anger is good. Anger will get your mind out of a gutter where it has no place going. “I am never less than competent,” he said. “I was assigned this job for a reason, Potter, and I assure you I am fully capable of doing it.”

            “Whatever you say, Malfoy,” Potter murmured, sounding bored. “Look. I’ve told you everything I know. We’ve had one incident to a match that Slytherin’s played, and three in private practices, one Gryffindor. Can you see a pattern in that? I admit it looks as though students from a particular House are being targeted, but I still don’t see why. No one’s even been hit twice, except for the Seeker. And Chuckleworth fell during a pause in the match to discuss a Hufflepuff foul. Not much point in disabling him then.”

            Draco sighed. Really, Gryffindor regard for the rules of the game kept them from looking for the larger goal. “Tell me, Potter. Just based on points right now, who is going to win the Quidditch Cup?”

            Potter frowned and pushed his glasses up. Draco was glad. They helped to hide those distracting eyes, though nothing could really make them ugly. “We don’t know yet. The match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin will have to be rescheduled thanks to Chuckleworth’s injury.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. “Before he fell, was Slytherin ahead in points or behind?”

            “Ahead,” Potter admitted. “Hufflepuff’s Seeker and two of their Chasers are nothing special.” He looked caught between frustration at the fact that Slytherin had been winning the match and despair over the general state of the Hufflepuff team.

            Draco nodded. “Then whoever did this probably thought it was better to delay the game for a time. That might at least give Hufflepuff a few more weeks to train, which would in turn give them more of a chance to win the rescheduled match.”

            Potter opened his mouth, then closed it. “That actually makes sense,” he admitted. “And you’re right, the other Houses haven’t been very happy with the way that Slytherin was ahead this year.” He looked thoughtful, shaking his head slowly. “I simply didn’t notice anything united in the grumbling. Every single House always complains when the others are ahead in points and more likely to win.”

            “Think carefully,” Draco said, glad that Potter had lost the look of anger completely. Julianna had a face similar to Potter’s, really, though of course without the masculine line of jaw. She’d had dark hair and green eyes, though. Draco told himself firmly not to think about that, either, because it said disturbing things about him and why he’d been willing to marry her after their spending one drunken night together in a pub. “Has the grumbling focused on Slytherin more than usual this year?”

            “Yes, I think it has.” Potter exhaled a sharp breath and slapped his hand against his leg, and damn, his eyes had that sharp glint again. “Now how do we find out who was casting those spells on the Slytherin team, and what they were, and where they were coming from? The Hufflepuff team’s wands were all examined yesterday, you know, after Chuckleworth fell. We didn’t find any evidence they’d been used for anything suspicious.”

            “I don’t think it was coming from the air, or someone would have noticed,” Draco said. He turned around and looked at the stands.

*

            Harry was annoyed at himself. Really, the mystery hadn’t been all that difficult to figure out. He could say that none of the other professors had noticed anything either, of course, but he was the flying instructor. He was the one who was supposed to know the temper of the Quidditch teams and ensure no one could cheat.

            He strode towards the back of the Gryffindor stands. Yes, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had been just as eager for Slytherin not to win the Quidditch Cup, and he could look at their stands, as well. But the first incident had taken place during a private Gryffindor practice, and Harry thought he knew the reason for it now. They’d been testing the effect of that first spell, the one that made someone fly sideways off his broom.

            And though Harry had taken to observing the Slytherin practices, which was one reason he’d been able to save the students injured in them, the Gryffindors had assured him politely that they could practice on their own, not needing constant supervision. They’d deliberately picked late evenings and times when no one else wanted the Pitch, usually during a rainstorm. Harry had thought they were simply exercising a Gryffindor sense of fair play towards the other teams.

            Now he suspected they hadn’t wanted adult eyes on them; Gryffindor practices complete with oddly-acting Bludgers and brooms would have made anyone suspicious long before now.

            Bugger.

            He aimed his wand at the back of the Gryffindor stands and muttered a locater spell. Nothing. His eyes narrowed. Most of the magic that could defeat such a spell was Dark Arts, and he hated to think that his students had ventured into those simply to win the Quidditch Cup.

            Of course, they weren’t above injuring people to win the Quidditch Cup, so who knows?

            “Not that way, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was almost gentle as he stepped up beside Harry. “There are some toughening spells cast on the wood of any set of stands, to prevent them from being affected by the concentrated magic of the Quidditch equipment. You’ll need to use one of Honeybee’s Revealers.”

            “Thanks,” Harry said with a little nod, before he could stop himself, and cast the lowest level of Honeybee’s Revealers. At once a section of the stands glowed white around the edges; it looked like a hinged door.

            Harry turned his head to smile at Malfoy, and was immediately reminded of why he’d been carefully looking away from the man so far.

            Oh, God. Those glasses.

            They practically shimmered now, and the only thing Harry could think of was how different they were from his own, how Malfoy’s choice of glasses actually showed taste. He wanted to reach up and feel the lenses. He kept his hand at his side with an effort.

            “Why do you need glasses, Malfoy?” he asked. “I don’t remember your having eye trouble.”

            Malfoy ducked his head at once, his cheeks flushing. He was—embarrassed? Harry thought he probably was, and again a small thrill moved up his spine at the thought.

            I’ll embarrass myself in a moment. There was a definite stirring below the waist, at any rate.

            “It was one of the spells my wife cast on me during the divorce process,” Malfoy muttered. “An, ah, progressive eye deterioration spell. I can’t prove it was her, and the glasses mostly correct the process, but who else would cast something like that?”

            “I don’t know,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “I can think of plenty of people you might have annoyed.”

            Malfoy’s head snapped up, and he glared at Harry. Harry winced, scolding himself. It was true that Malfoy wasn’t bad-looking, and the way he’d acted politely to Harry and helped him find the culprits behind the Quidditch accidents said he could be more mature than he’d acted during their fifth year. Harry didn’t know if anything permanent would have come of their fooling around together, but he didn’t want to close off the potential for a bit of fun, either.

            “I’m sorry,” he blurted.

            Malfoy’s eyebrows crept up until they vanished into his fringe. His stare was so intent that Harry wished there was a way of Apparating on Hogwarts grounds. Vanishing into his quarters sounded like the best thing right now.

            Evidently, Malfoy decided that the best way to deal with what was happening was not Apparition but ignoring it entirely. He turned to the Gryffindor stands and said, “So there’s a door here. Are you going to open it, Potter?”

            Trying to pretend it had been his own idea, Harry stepped up to the door and cast a few spells to make sure there weren’t jinxes present to sting anyone unauthorized who touched it. (That was what he would have done, if he had ever been in the habit of cheating at Quidditch and not wanting the professors to find out). He disabled a few simple ones, then couldn’t find any more. He gripped the back of the stands and swung the door out.

            It had been made very cleverly, with what Harry thought must have been seventh-year spells. He grimaced. There weren’t any seventh-years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but then, since the first Slytherin casualty had happened during the Slytherin-Gryffindor game, it wouldn’t have been the team members standing down here shooting the spells every time.

            And there were several holes in the front of the small space under the stands, just big enough for a wand, cunningly positioned so the spells would fly between the spectators’ legs instead of getting tangled up in them.

            “Pretty damning evidence,” Malfoy said, back to his calm voice again. “And aren’t you glad, Potter? This means Hogwarts doesn’t have to be chastised for negligence with its Quidditch equipment after all.”

            Harry nodded, but didn’t say anything. His disappointment in his own House was leaden. He knew those students—everyone on the Gryffindor Quidditch team and the constantly changing crowd that regularly came to watch the practices and games and try out for reserve positions. Even if Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had helped attack the Slytherin team too, the Gryffindors’ guilt couldn’t be lessened. Harry shook his head, once, and then struck the edge of the small space with his hand.

            “Fuck,” he hissed.

            “Not the best place for it,” Malfoy said.

            Harry laughed in spite of himself. Or maybe he was just taking the excuse to think about something other than the heavy cloud boiling through his head and his gut. “I bet someone did,” he said. “It’s big enough to lie down in, at least.” He gave the small space one more look, then shut the door. He wouldn’t seal it yet, strong though the temptation was. McGonagall would have to know about this, see the evidence, and decide the culprits’ punishment.

            That did not, of course, mean they would escape a scolding by Harry.

            He turned around in time to catch Malfoy’s cheeks turning pink. Harry blinked, then grinned. It couldn’t be about his own comment, since he’d been the one who said it, after all. It had to be Harry’s words. And Malfoy had been so prim and proper and poncey since his arrival that it was kind of nice to know Harry could affect him that way.

            “Oh, come on, Malfoy,” he said, keeping one eye on the other man as they set off, back to the school. “You must have felt the temptation a time or two yourself, when you were dating someone and passed a nice, dark, hidden place…”

            Malfoy folded his arms, then apparently decided defensiveness was not the best pose on him and he had to strike back. “I did, actually, Potter,” he said coolly. “Slytherins were expert at finding places like that and then making sure they went undiscovered—unlike Gryffindors. And I see the deficiency has been inherited.” He jerked his head back at the door they’d found.

            “Maybe we just didn’t mind anyone seeing us snog,” Harry suggested. “We didn’t have to hide.” He wasn’t sure how much he was really baiting Malfoy and how much he was teasing him. From the quick sidelong glance Malfoy had given him, he wasn’t sure, either. “I’m certain people noticed me kissing Ginny Weasley everywhere in our sixth year.” And then, of course, he didn’t know if he should have brought that up, given what Malfoy had been doing their sixth year.

            Malfoy’s shoulders tensed, then relaxed. Maybe he just didn’t want to invite personal probing by speaking about his desperate struggle to serve Voldemort and save his family, but for whatever reason, his next words didn’t concern that, and Harry was glad. “No one could escape you,” he said. “I can’t give Gryffindors much credit for discretion, but stamina is a different matter.”

            Harry laughed. “Careful, Malfoy. Someone might hear you and decide that sounded like a compliment.”

            “Not necessarily.” Malfoy cocked his head at him. “At least I was married for three years, which implies stamina of a certain sort. What happened to you and the Girl-Weasel? Was your—prowess—not enough to satisfy her?”

            Harry smiled a little at the thought of Ginny. “She fell in love,” he said softly. “It was a whirlwind kind of thing.” She’d gone on a short holiday to France to visit Fleur’s family, and shame-facedly firecalled Harry a week later to tell him she’d fallen in love with Fleur’s cousin. It had been a shock, sure, but at least they hadn’t already been engaged, and Harry had forgiven her in a few months. It had helped that he’d decided he hadn’t really been in love with her so much as with the idea of marrying her.

“Another way Gryffindors are different from Slytherins,” he suggested, to bring the conversation back on track. “We know what passion is.”

Malfoy sniffed. “You don’t know the passion for the destruction of your enemies the way I do,” he said.

“Yes, actually, I do,” Harry said, shivering as he remembered some of his emotions during the Horcrux hunt, how intensely he had wanted to destroy Voldemort—and Snape. If Snape hadn’t shared his memories of Lily with Harry, Harry had no idea what would have happened when the man had appeared alive again after the final battle.

Malfoy wrinkled his brow. “You’ve changed a great deal, Potter,” he said, once again not looking at Harry. “I can only conclude that it’s Severus’s good influence on you.”

Harry didn’t think it worth his while to respond to that comment. Besides, they were getting closer to Gryffindor Tower, and the thought of the excuses the students would use, and how far the guilt might spread, was rather wearing on him.

*

            At least one thing he had accused Potter of was untrue, Draco had to admit, as he watched Potter snap, “Triumph,” at the obese portrait who guarded the Gryffindor common room. He did seem to care about his Slytherin students, even if it was only as innocent victims of Gryffindor pranks rather than as people in themselves. He strode into the lions’ den with his robes swinging behind him as if he were riding the wings of a storm. That was a point on which Severus had managed to influence him, at least, Draco thought.

            The chattering of the gathered students stopped at once, and several startled faces turned towards them. The startlement became even plainer when Draco climbed through the portrait after Potter. Draco wondered if it was his face or the Ministry emblem on the shoulder of his cloak that attracted the most attention.

            “Sir?” a chubby boy probably in his fifth year asked as he climbed to his feet. He wasn’t wearing his school uniform, but every bit of his casual clothing was in Gryffindor colors, Draco noted with a shudder. In fact, examining the others, he could see that this appeared to be a rather wide-spread plague. There was such a thing as too much House pride. Draco could recall people in his year who shouldn’t have worn green and silver, either, though of course he looked smashing in either because he looked smashing in anything.

            Potter glanced around the common room, his eyes seeming to linger especially on the stairs to the bedrooms and the stout armchairs, as if he wanted to make sure no one important was hiding. Then he nodded once. Turning to face the chubby boy again, he said, “I want you to fetch Rivers and Huntington-Smythe.”

            His face mystified, the boy nodded back and trotted away. Draco, suspicious by nature and accustomed to looking for the works of suspicion, saw the faces of several boys and a few girls off to the side of the room abruptly sprout expressions of pure panic. One of them stood up and started to edge towards the portrait.

            Draco smiled at them and put his hand on his hip. The shuffler froze and then sat down again, looking resigned.

            Two tall boys, probably seventh-years, came down the stairs behind the chubby one. Potter swung around to face them, and damn it, Draco’s cock was again taking an interest that was entirely inappropriate.

            Everyone knew he had split up with his wife because of a fight that had become too physical and too public. Not many people knew Julianna was absolutely irresistible when she was angry, and that Draco had an attraction both to angry people and to sex in public places. All the thoughts that should have calmed Draco down—such as the way Potter would probably react if he found out Draco was attracted to him and the fact that an entire common room full of students was staring nervously at them—only made him want to pant.

            He clenched his fists at his sides and reminded himself that he was a professional. A Ministry employee. A worker for one of the most laid-back and under-used Departments in the Ministry.

            But that last thought only reminded him of how long it had been since he’d seen any action, either physically or mentally, and that made him think of what kind of action Potter would probably get him into, and that made him want to moan. Draco bit firmly down on his lip and told himself to be quiet.

            He blamed Potter’s distracting fuckability entirely for what happened next.

*

            The moment Rivers and Huntington-Smythe saw Harry, they tensed, and then their eyes flashed defiance, and they put their heads up and fastened false innocent expressions on their faces. Harry smiled grimly. He had thought they were the culprits: the organizer of Gryffindor’s victory parties and his best friend, who had been one of the loudest students in objecting that it would not be “right” if Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup. The door and the space behind the Quidditch stands looked like something they’d do.

            “I’m here to talk to you about a very serious matter,” Harry said, seeing no reason to put it off any longer. His shaming them in front of their peers was perhaps the harshest punishment they could endure, unless McGonagall decided to expel them. “Namely, cheating at Quidditch. Cheating at Quidditch that almost cost lives.”

            The mouths of a few students had fallen open. Huntington-Smythe put a hand in his pocket. The cluster of people nearest the hearth, which included the Gryffindor team and a few people Harry had suspected at once of helping to devise the hexes, leaned in close together, and Harry could hear the sounds of furious whispering.

            “I am beyond disappointed in you,” Harry said, now speaking the words between gritted teeth. They were guilty, yes, and the very last hope he’d retained that maybe he’d been mistaken had vanished. “To try and disable Slytherin’s team simply so you can win a Cup which is only a symbol of all the virtues Gryffindor House should stand for—“

            Spells hit him from five directions. Harry flung an arm across his eyes to shield them from the light of a Dazzleburst Spell, swearing as he felt a Slicing Hex cut across his leg and something loud and noisy go past him with a whine like a Bludger. He should have anticipated this, but he’d never thought they’d attack a teacher.

            Malfoy shouted, and Harry heard an enormous stampede of feet going past him towards the exit from the common room. Somehow, he managed to force his watering eyes open and move his legs, even the bleeding one. It was imperative that he stop those damn students of his before they could get in more trouble, or, worse, set up an ambush of some kind and take all the revenge they could on the Slytherins before being caught. It was the kind of thing Harry would probably have done.

            Or the kind of thing my father would have done.

            Malfoy shouted again behind him. This time, it had words in it. “Oi! Potter!”

            Harry turned around with a curse, and found Malfoy tangled in an enormous spiderweb that seemed to have sprouted from the ceiling. Two of the girls who regularly came to watch the Quidditch practices had their wands aimed at him with scared but determined expressions on their faces. They were probably more afraid of a Ministry employee finding out their little secret than kindly Professor Potter, Harry thought.

            “Raines!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Golding! Put down your wands, now!”

            None of these Gryffindor students had ever heard that voice, the voice Harry had reserved to scream the Cruciatus Curse at Carrow when he leaped to McGonagall’s defense. They dropped their arms limply, and a moment later the web holding Malfoy dissolved. He dropped onto his rump. Harry would have found that funnier if his own leg wasn’t oozing blood and his head wasn’t filled with a mixture of rage and disbelief. He stepped forwards to help Malfoy up, keeping his eyes on Raines and Golding for only a moment. The next, he snapped his gaze about, daring anyone to meet it.

            “Does anyone else want to challenge a professor in order to keep your little secret?” he asked. His palm was just itching for his wand. Of course McGonagall would be displeased if he cursed any of the students, but self-defense was a different matter. “Not that it will remain a secret for long,” he added disdainfully. “And hexing a professor can earn you worse punishments than detentions.”

            There were tears in Raines’s eyes now. She bowed her head and began to sob a moment later. “I told you we shouldn’t have done that, Sara!” she yelled at Golding. “Now they’re going to think we’re all responsible! I don’t w-want to be expelled!”

            Harry smiled grimly. A crack in the wall of solid Gryffindor loyalty was what he had hoped for, the moment someone realized the seriousness of the situation. Raines was rather like Hermione, preferring to obey the rules when she could, although she’d break them for the sake of her friends. “Where did Rivers and Huntington-Smythe go, Raines?” he demanded.

            Raines looked at him with misty eyes, sniffed once, and then said, “It was them, sir, mostly. I m-mean, we all covered when they wanted to go out to the stands early, and we helped research the spells, but they were the ones who c-cast them.”

            “Where are they now?” Harry lowered his voice, which he knew would sound more dangerous to Raines than full-out yelling.

            She sniffed again, then said, “The d-dungeons, sir. There’s a secret passage that leads out onto the grounds, a-and—“

            “I know it,” Harry said. Owning the Marauders’ Map had more than one benefit. He looked impatiently at Malfoy. “You’re fit to walk?”

            “You look more as if you’ve been through the wars, Potter,” Malfoy retorted, although he was rubbing his arse. He snatched his hand away when he noticed Harry watching. Harry bit his tongue to avoid telling him there was no need to stop the motion on his account. “I’m fine.”

            “Let’s go, then.”

            Harry sprinted to the portrait, pausing only once to look over his shoulder and stare hard at everyone who tried to meet his eye. Their heads lowered. A few trembled. Some of the younger students had joined Raines in crying.

            “I am very, very disappointed in all of you,” Harry finished, and leaped past the Fat Lady with a flourish.

*

            Draco never even considered turning back until Potter was pounding along one of the dungeon corridors—the one that led to the Slytherin common room—and he realized that he should probably leave the cornering of desperate Gryffindor students up to the Gryffindor Hero. But he was having too much fun to think of turning back now—nothing like this ever happened on a normal investigation for the Ministry—and Potter didn’t look back to suggest he should. His face was set in grim lines, as if all he could think about was his students’ perfidy.

            Draco certainly hoped it was all he could think about. The nerve of attacking two adults, really! And the nerve of binding the heir to the House of Malfoy up in a web! Draco was only sorry that he was no longer their age and could not take a really satisfying revenge on them. He could hope to see them expelled, though.

            Potter was counting stones under his breath by the sound of it, or maybe steps. Draco kept pace with him easily; the corridor was now wide enough for two to run together. Potter abruptly spun to the side and clapped his hand against the wall, drawing his wand at the same time.

            “Together, Malfoy!” he shouted. “Cast Tergeo with me on the count of three!”

            Draco opened his mouth to ask why in the world they needed to cast that spell, and then snapped it shut again when Potter glared intensely at him. He swallowed, and felt his knees wobbling. Yes, all right, Potter could get almost anything he wanted out of Draco by staring at him like that. Not that Draco was about to let him know this, of course.

            He stepped up beside Potter and drew his wand. Potter gestured impatiently, so Draco put his hand on the wall, too. Then Potter counted to three, his voice rising from a bass growl to an open shout and making Draco wonder what other words would sound like if said in the same voice, when counting sounded so sexy.

            “Tergeo!”

            The magic flowed past them and collided with the wall in a series of blistering sparks, which made Draco duck; that was certainly not a normal result of a cleaning spell, at least so far as he knew. He brought his head up, panting, and then stared as he realized that he was peering into a tunnel that stretched away lengthwise from the dungeons for only a few steps before it plunged into the earth. The cleaning spell had scrubbed the stones blocking it away as if they had never existed.

            “Come on!” Potter barked, and then hurtled into the tunnel. Draco took the time to prudently cast a Lumos charm on the end of his wand before he followed. Potter might know every step of this dismal, damp place by heart, but Draco didn’t.

            But it didn’t take familiarity with this specific tunnel to know there was something very wrong with the sulfurous smell drifting past them.

*

            Harry flung himself flat before he could say why he had done so. Then he consciously recognized the smell and swore as he realized Malfoy was still on his feet, peering down the tunnel and looking slightly ill.

            “Malfoy, you great—“ Harry gave up on scolding that wouldn’t do any good anyway, and on warnings likewise—Malfoy would probably consider it his Slytherin duty to stay on his feet and investigate the mystery Harry didn’t want him to investigate; no wonder he had become a Ministry inspector—and rolled sideways instead, knocking his shoulder into Malfoy’s legs.

            Malfoy went down with a yelp. Harry caught and cradled him so at least he didn’t bump his head on the floor.

            Evidently, the Slytherin custom was to interpret someone trying to save you as a murder attempt. Malfoy went mad, flailing and lashing out with his arms and legs as if that would prevent Harry from strangling him. Harry ducked, shielding his head with one arm, and got an elbow in the ear for his pains.

            Deciding that this was useless, Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arm and imprisoned it next to his side. Malfoy tried to smack him with the other one, with the result, probably unintended, that the hawthorn wand jabbed Harry in the eye.

            Harry hissed a word which would have made Remus look at him in shock and rolled again, this time pinioning Malfoy firmly beneath him on the floor of the tunnel. Malfoy opened his mouth as though he were going to shout for help, or probably bite, and then closed it again as an enormous whoosh of brimstone-smelling flame went over their heads.

            “Oh,” Malfoy said, a lifetime later, when darkness and silence had returned to the tunnel, except for the glow of his wand and their rapid breathing.

            Harry, left eye still tightly shut, nodded shortly. He took a few more moments to rest before he decided that he could probably let Malfoy go. Then he sat back, saying, “They’re more desperate than I thought, setting up the Dragonsbreath spell to—“

            His breath caught. Malfoy was looking up at him in a dazed fashion, and his glasses were caught by one earpiece around his face, just barely kept from falling off. One eye was covered by a lens and one was not. He looked ridiculously vulnerable, and Harry experienced the most powerful rush of longing he’d ever felt since deciding that glasses on a man were one of his things.

            “What is it?” Malfoy whispered. Harry supposed his expression must have looked rather strange.

            “N-nothing,” Harry said, and then his voice cracked and Malfoy’s expression became suspicious. It still didn’t render him less vulnerable, of course, because nothing was going right for Harry today. Now he looked like a kitten arching its back at a dog big enough to swallow it whole. Harry closed his eyes and held his body very still so he wouldn’t embarrass himself further, and reached out to readjust Malfoy’s glasses.

            “Your spectacles were sliding off,” he whispered, and felt them settle back into place on Malfoy’s ears with a sigh of relief. Opening his eyes proved the distracting sight erased, and the less distracting one of Malfoy back to normal.

            “Fascinating,” Malfoy said. “Do you always sit on someone and stare at him like he’s edible when that happens?”

            Harry could feel his face flushing. He forced himself to his feet and glanced down the tunnel, speaking the variant on the Lumos charm that would send a long beam of light stabbing out from his wand. He couldn’t identify any more traps, though, no matter how he swept the light back and forth. He sighed in mingled relief and anger. There shouldn’t have been any traps in the first place.

            Better run, he thought, addressing Rivers and Huntington-Smythe. They don’t have words for how you’re going to suffer when I catch you.

            He looked over his shoulder. Malfoy was on his feet again, but swaying. Harry cleared his throat. “You all right?”

            “Yeah.” Malfoy peered at him myopically. Harry damned himself for finding even that cute. “You probably saved my life.”

            Harry shrugged. “Saving Slytherins is my new motif this year,” he said, and broke into a trot down the tunnel. He knew where this emerged, and the culprits could hide for hours in the bracken on the edge of the Forbidden Forest if he didn’t catch them soon.

            “That’s not the right use of that word—“

            Harry relaxed, a little. Malfoy seemed to have forgotten the way Harry stared at him, and that was all to the good.

*

            Draco stared at Potter’s back, then shook his head. How was he supposed to keep track of all the thoughts running through that confused mind?

            He was angry enough that he hadn’t seen the Dragonsbreath spell coming. Of course, though it was the kind of thing seventh-year students might learn, it wasn’t the kind of thing most adults could envision them using. Draco wondered idly if they were dealing with hardened criminals who would do anything to keep from being exposed, or simply panic-stricken teenagers using magic with no thought of real consequences.

            Almost certainly the latter. But you are not a teenager with no thought of the consequences, so shape up!

            Draco nodded firmly to himself, and did not aim his wand so he could get a better glimpse of Potter’s robe-clad arse as it switched along before him. It was just coincidence that the Lumos charm revealed that so well.

            At last they reached a set of stone steps leading upwards. Potter crouched and stretched his arms above his head, heaving a block of earth out of the way. A moment later, they were standing on a patch of flattened ground near the lake which Draco had probably walked over hundreds of times during his years at Hogwarts. He shook his head in bewilderment.

            “How long do you think this has been here, Potter?” he murmured.

            “For at the last thirty years, at any rate,” Potter muttered, and began walking slowly forwards, his wand twitching as he cast several locater spells. None of them produced results, of course. Draco could have told him that. Someone sophisticated enough to time-delay the Dragonsbreath spell would be beyond such simple techniques.

            “Do I want to know how you know that?” he asked in resignation.

            Potter turned and, unexpectedly, grinned at him. “Now, now, Malfoy. We Gryffindors have to have some secrets, too.”

            Draco was not so distracted by the smile that he didn’t notice the glint of something bright and glassy moving in the bushes not far from them. He yelped and directed his wand at it before he thought better of the impulse, casting a Shield Charm in front of Potter.

            A wash of pure white light hit the Shield Charm, blinding Draco temporarily. He knew what it was, though: the Mirror Reflected, a curse that could only be cast with the accompaniment of an actual mirror, and which brought out a blast of heat even worse than that caused by the Dragonsbreath spell. Draco yelped again and threw more strength into the Shield, holding it as steady as possible, whilst the magic in the Mirror Reflected beat as steadily as a wave against his own power.

            It died shockingly fast, leaving the lakeshore in the fleeting May sunlight to seem as dark as the inside of the tunnel had. Draco blinked hard, waving a hand up and down in front of his eyes as if that could clear the afterimages away.

            Potter was standing stock-still just beyond a scorched bare patch of earth, staring at the parched dirt and the fall of ashes that had replaced the normal grass and mud. Then he jerked around to stare at Draco in turn. Draco blinked at him.

Potter said, “You saved my life,” and there was something still and solemn and not grudging at all in his voice. He looked at Draco as if he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes away any time soon.

            Then his gaze lit with a savage rage, and the impact hit Draco like the Hogwarts Express. Potter was as dangerous, in that moment, as the dragons from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, crouched over their eggs. He turned around and stared in the direction the spell had come from.

            “When I catch Rivers and Huntington-Smythe,” he said softly, “they are dead.” And he began to run, whipping his wand up and down in what Draco could only assume was a more complicated locater spell. He certainly seemed to know where he was going.

            Draco scrambled after Potter, dazed and filled with too many emotions to take in.

*

            The two delinquents were leading them on a merry chase, looping back towards the castle on a convoluted route Harry knew he couldn’t have bettered with a broom. They must be wearing Disillusionment Charms to leave no more trace of their passage than an occasional footprint, Harry thought in frustration. He had shot a few nonverbal Finite Incantatems ahead of them, but not hit anyone yet. He swore under his breath and continued to run. Sooner or later, the charms would fade, or the students would come in range of another professor and Harry could call for help.

            They would be expelled for certain, and would be lucky not to go to Azkaban. Cheating at Quidditch was one thing; endangering the lives of a professor and a Ministry inspector was something else.

            Young idiots, Harry thought, with a trace of pity. The worst thing in the world they can imagine is discovery, so they employ extreme measures that they would know didn’t make sense if they just sat down and thought. I ought to know.

            Abruptly, he paused and crouched down, staring at the dirt in front of him. He had thought something was odd about the trail for some moments, but now he was certain. Only one set of footprints led the way forwards. Probably Rivers’; he was the taller and heavier. Huntington-Smythe had separated from his friend and disappeared on them. Apparently the young idiots hadn’t been too panicked to plan after all. Harry drew his breath to swear.

            Something hit him in the back. As seemed to be the theme of the day, Harry rolled with the motion, briefly burying his face in the dirt and probably destroying that one clear remnant of Rivers’ trail. He came up yelling for Malfoy.

            And then he just stared with his mouth open, because Huntington-Smythe was hovering above him on a broom he must have liberated from the Quidditch shed, clutching Malfoy by the collar of the cloak and holding a wand to his throat. His face looked young and terrified.

            “Don’t come any nearer, Professor Potter!” he shouted, voice cracking. “I—I know dangerous spells!”

            Harry narrowed his eyes, but didn’t let the boy see that he was at all intimidated. After the curses he and Malfoy had encountered, he didn’t doubt Huntington-Smythe knew dangerous spells. The point was to keep him from using them on Malfoy. Harry cast a nonverbal Summoning Charm, concealing the movement with his body, and then spoke in a calm voice. “We can discuss this like rational adults, Edward, can’t we? You’re of age now, after all. Come down here and we’ll talk about it.”

            The reminder that he could potentially go to Azkaban for this rather than just receive a scolding seemed to double Huntington-Smythe’s panic. He shook his head wildly and tightened his hold on Malfoy, whose robe collar had to be choking him. Harry caught Malfoy’s eye and tried to nod reassuringly, but he couldn’t tell if he made any impression, and he couldn’t risk a more open signal; that would tip the boy off that Harry intended to help his prisoner.

            “We aren’t discussing anything!” the boy yelled now. “We just—I want you to throw down your wand! Now!”

            Under the circumstances, Harry had no problem following this command. Raising his hands, he stooped down slowly and laid the wand on the grass in front of him. Huntington-Smythe’s confidence seemed to have increased when Harry rose to his feet again. Harry was glad of that; he didn’t want Malfoy injured in the way all those Slytherin students had been.

            “That’s right,” the boy muttered. His Gryffindor tie flapped in the breeze behind him. “You know we can’t let you report this to anyone, right?”

            “Murder me and they’ll be hunting you for the rest of your life,” Harry said quietly, not out of bravado but out of sheer knowledge of how the British wizarding public would react to news of his death.

            “It won’t come to that,” said Huntington-Smythe sharply. “Just a few Memory Charms, and everything’ll be squared away.” He looked over Harry’s shoulder. “As soon as Phillip gets here, then—“

            But the CometStar broom Harry had Summoned got there first, soaring out of the Quidditch shed, which Harry knew Huntington-Smythe would have had to leave unlocked. The shaft smacked into his hand, and he wasted only one moment shooting a wicked grin at the astonished idiot above him before he kicked off from the ground.

            In the air, he was master of the situation with or without a wand, and Huntington-Smythe knew it. He was already backing his own broom away wildly, making weird noises in his throat, and then he shot upwards with no obvious plan, hauling Draco after him like the tail of some oddly-shaped comet. Harry followed, bent over his broom and with his hands itching to grab Huntington-Smythe’s cloak the way they’d grabbed many a Snitch.

            He saw almost at once that it wouldn’t be so easy. With the way the boy was fleeing from him, catching his broom or his clothes and trying to stop him with a quick tug would just make him lose his hold on Draco. And he was darting all over the Pitch now, trying stupid and outlandish maneuvers that had no place in a Quidditch game. Harry couldn’t win this contest by thinking like the Gryffindor Seeker.

            Maybe I could win it by trusting a Slytherin, though. Draco was a fine Quidditch player in his day, even if not up to my level.

            Harry dropped down and then shot forwards, under Huntington-Smythe, causing the boy to miss him when he looked over his shoulder. For a moment, his broomstick slowed in sheer surprise.

            Harry rose up then, smoothly, speedily, giving himself no time to think about what a stupid idea this was. Wind ripped through his hair, along the corners of his eyes—wetting them with tears—and across his cheeks, flushing them to bright and stinging redness. Harry didn’t let it stop him. Up and up and up, and his hands were digging into the wood and his knuckles hurt and his throat burned and he couldn’t believe how cold it was and still he aimed not for Huntington-Smythe but for the man dangling and choking from his hand.

            He came up beside him at last, with his head pounding so hard that the gathering darkness of the sky and the ground seemed intermingled, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Draco! Porskoff Ploy!”

            He was in time to see understanding, and then grim resignation, flash across Draco’s face. Harry leaned across his broom and extended one hand as steadily as he could, waiting.

*

            He’s an idiot, Draco thought. And I am one, and the boy holding me still another.

            He wasn’t sure he had much choice, though. He’d seen how careless these students were with others’ lives. The collar of his robe was cutting into his neck, and had already ripped in two places. Better to trust his life to Potter, and at least make a dramatic ending of it if he didn’t survive, then wait to see what dangerous stupidity as yet unaccomplished lurked in the brains of seventh-year Gryffindors.

            He jerked hard, once to the left and once to the right, ripping his collar’s remaining seams. At the same moment, he pushed off hard from the broom. The Porskoff Ploy was a Quidditch move by means of which a Chaser flying upwards tossed the Quaffle to another Chaser beneath him. In this case, since the boy wouldn’t really help him, Draco would just have to be both Chaser and Quaffle.

            He fell.

            The ground and the sky whirled dizzily around him, the sight nearly enough to make him sick up, and for a moment he wondered why in the world Potter had assumed he could do this. Then he remembered that he had been a Quidditch player himself, and no doubt Potter was counting on that to let him keep his head.

            Besides, he was a Gryffindor who liked to save Slytherins. He probably assumed the Slytherin could help save himself when he was the same age, though.

            His hand slapped, incredibly, into Potter’s, and Draco immediately coiled himself towards the broom the other man was riding, desperate to swing his leg over it. One failed attempt, and for a moment his body seemed heavier than it ever had, swinging wildly beneath the broom. Draco resolved in an instant to stop eating so many rich dinners, a promise he knew he wouldn’t keep once he was back on the ground.

            If he reached it in one piece, anyway.

            And then Potter, wonderful imbecile that he was, turned his broom upside-down, gripping it only with his knees, and briefly released Draco’s hand, and then took hold of both his shoulders before he could fall more than a few inches, and yelled, “On the count of three!”

            “You’re crazy!” Draco shrieked back at him.

            “One!”

            “I’m not doing this!”

            “Two!”

            “St. Mungo’s has a ward for people like you!”

            “Three!”

            And Draco flipped himself up behind and around Potter, reaching with his legs and screaming the entire time, whilst Potter near-deafened him with his whoops and hollers, so that the Pitch was full of the noise of them being a pair of very cheerful maniacs together.

            Wood smacked into Draco’s knee, and then into his ear, somehow, making it ring. He snatched a hold on the bristles and then on the shaft. For a moment he hung, gasping, as Potter wheeled the broom right-side up. Draco scrambled in an undignified fashion and pulled himself, finally, upright, sitting behind Potter. He immediately looped his arms around the other man’s waist. After all the flopping about he’d done that afternoon, he was more than grateful for a secure hold.

            Potter zoomed in a circle, yelling at the early moon, punching his fist in the air with every single noise. Draco would have told him to shut up and behave himself, but he was far too busy screaming himself, in relief and gratitude and the sheer fucking joy of being alive.

*

            McGonagall had listened in tight-lipped silence to the entire story of Rivers and Huntington-Smythe, the students in the Gryffindor common room who had supported them, and the secret area behind the Gryffindor Quidditch stands. Then she had bowed her head. Harry maintained a respectful silence for some moments. It must hurt seeing her House—even though she hadn’t been Head of Gryffindor House since the war, she still took a special interest in the Gryffindor students, Harry knew—sink to such a level.

            “They’ll be expelled, of course,” the Headmistress said heavily at last, opening her eyes. “Huntington-Smythe will have to come to ground eventually; I’ll alert the Aurors to be on the lookout for him. And Rivers is probably already back in Gryffindor Tower.” She shook her head, and Harry thought, from the expression in her eyes, that the stupidity of everything the boys had done struck her even more than the moral turpitude of it. “What punishment the others deserve will have to wait for the gathering of evidence.” She inclined her head to Draco; Harry found it hard to call someone whose life he had saved and who had saved his life and who had cooperated with him on the broom in the air like that by his last name. “Thank you, Inspector Malfoy, for uncovering the danger to our students in a timely manner.”

            “I live to serve.”

            Draco was almost the prissy Malfoy again, Harry thought. And yet he had seen those glasses—which hadn’t fallen off, somehow, despite all their gymnastics in the air—covering gray eyes sparkling with joy. Things couldn’t be the same between them as they had been when Malfoy sent that arrogant owl yesterday.

            “Rather,” McGonagall said, and turned towards her hearth. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have some unpleasant Floo calls to make.”

            Harry stood and held the door open for Draco. He paused as he stepped through it and tilted his head back to stare at Harry.

            Harry returned the look, feeling his heartbeat quicken.

            They were silent on the ride down the moving staircase, but the moment they reached the corridor outside the gargoyle, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He tapped Draco on the shoulder. Draco turned around to look at him again, raising a hand to push up his glasses, which had slid down his nose.

            And maybe it was stupid and maybe it was just adrenaline and maybe it was because of those glasses, but Harry couldn’t wait any longer, even if it would get him punched in the mouth for his pains. He leaned forwards, cupping his hands around Draco’s face, and kissed him.

            Draco did not object. Instead, his arms clamped around Harry’s waist as if he had been waiting for this, and he sagged against the wall, murmuring fervent, half-broken words that Harry couldn’t hear, his fingers exploring Harry’s ribs and then sliding beneath his robes.

            Harry spared a moment’s thought for the fact that they were in a well-traversed corridor and someone could come by any moment. Then he decided his students had caused him enough heart attacks for one day and he could damn well cause them some, and pressed closer to Draco, shifting so that their groins were aligned.

*

            Damn. Damn. How did he know that I like needy sex in public places? Is he a Legilimens? Has Severus been teaching him? Has—

            Draco’s half-hysterical maunderings about how much information that Prophet article on his last fight with Julianna might have contained vanished as he felt Potter’s erection grind against his. He groaned aloud, and once again Potter’s tongue was in his mouth, where it was most welcome. His hands slipped and slid on sweaty skin. Draco clamped them on Potter’s hips to give himself a good position and pushed back, thrusting hard, trying to separate the sensations of flesh sliding and catching on his own from cloth sliding and catching on the tip of his cock. He was uncomfortably pinned, exactly where he wanted to be, and the half-painful friction had just increased, and oh God, his brain would begin dribbling out his ears any moment.

            Potter pressed in until Draco knew he would have bruises on his spine from the wall, his breath puffing out erratically and bathing Draco’s ears in wet warmth. His hips were slamming into Draco’s now, and though most of the noises they made weren’t audible beyond the two of them, Draco knew someone coming around the corner would see in an instant what they were doing.

            I don’t care, he thought, I don’t care, and he clasped a hand behind Potter’s neck between one thrust and the next and clamped his fingers down.

            Potter gasped and tossed his head back, his lower body still driving forwards with exactly the weight and relentlessness Draco wanted. His eyes were unfocused and green, green, green. They surpassed the memories Draco had of Julianna. Even when she agreed to have sex with him in a place where they could easily be caught, she had always retained an awareness and wariness of her surroundings. Potter looked as though the entirety of Slytherin House could have marched past him naked and he wouldn’t have noticed.

            A moment later, though, Potter’s eyes snapped open, and he grinned wickedly at Draco. And then he was on his knees, and his wand, which he had made sure to retrieve from the Quidditch Pitch after their wild ride, flicked once, and Draco’s buttons undid themselves neatly. Potter simply dragged his cock straight out and fastened his mouth around it.

            God, there was wetness everywhere, as Potter tried to swallow too much of him at once, choked, and then went right on trying. His mouth was full of pre-come, saliva, and what Draco liked to think of as liquid moans, with more dribbling down his chin every time he parted his lips. Draco had to close his eyes, because the sensation was sexier that way anyway, and if he was looking at Potter’s barely-focused green eyes and shifting, moving jaws, he’d come too soon.

            Not that he wasn’t about to totally embarrass himself, with the way his body was tensing, his hips pausing for a moment and then moving with hard, instinctive rapidity, his blood and his orgasm boiling up out of his belly—

            He came, flooding Potter’s mouth. And then he had to open his eyes and watch it dribble down Potter’s cheeks. He clearly hadn’t been ready for it, and even though he managed to swallow most of it, some of it ran down his robes and puddled on the stone floor near Draco’s feet.

            Draco, trembling, slid down the wall, the better to shift into a position that would allow him to plunge his hand into Potter’s pants. Potter lay back on his elbows, eyes half-closed, hips rising lazily into Draco’s palm. He moved as if he could do this all day, relaxed and confident, to the point where Draco thought he might be ready for another round before Potter came.

            Then Potter made a tiny noise and tossed his head back, his throat tensing and his jaw clenching, and Draco felt his hand sprayed with wetness. He drew it out slowly, wiping some of the come on Potter’s robes and some on the floor, liking the look of it there beside his.

            Potter moved dreamily to cast a few cleaning spells, and then knelt up and kissed Draco again, with his hands cupping his face and fingers feathering along his jaw as if he were precious. Draco kissed back, his eyes frequently fluttering shut, even though he had no idea what would happen next.

            “What was that?” he asked at last, pulling back from Potter. He knew what it had been for him—fantastic sex along with the chance to fulfill one of his kinks—but he had no idea what had prompted Potter to pounce him like that.

            “Fantastic sex,” Potter said, in a voice only a few steps above a purr, wrenching a grin out of Draco. “With the potential for more.” He leaned back and studied Draco questioningly, eyes so bright that any comparison with Julianna’s burned to ash forever in Draco’s mind.

            “Why not?” Draco murmured and leaned forwards to kiss Potter’s neck, just to see how it tasted. “We can see where it goes from here.”

*

            Harry leaped three of the steps down to the dungeon and landed hard enough to jar his hip. He heard Draco laughing at him in his head, saying Harry wasn’t sixteen years old anymore and should remember that.

            Harry grinned and ran on. He had been limber enough to satisfy Draco last night, and he was still great on brooms—of all kinds—and that was what mattered to him right now.

            Well, that and one other thing.

            Remus was in Snape’s quarters as usual. He’d spent most of the last weekend with Harry, helping him to get through the difficult burden of testifying in Rivers’ and Huntington-Smythe’s trials. Both had wound up with short terms in Azkaban, their wands broken, and three other Gryffindor students had been expelled from Hogwarts. Rivers and Huntington-Smythe had run a betting pool in addition to disabling Slytherin students so they wouldn’t win the Quidditch Cup; evidently they’d taken wagers on what would happen any time they used a particular spell, death or injury.

            It had only been Gryffindor involved in the scheme after all, with no participation from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. Their Quidditch team had been removed from the running for the Quidditch Cup. Harry had been faint with disgust and disappointment. It didn’t help that Draco had been absent last weekend for some kind of party at the Manor, the first time he hadn’t been able to visit Harry on Saturday since they had begun their own “thing.”

            Slytherin was now sure to win the Quidditch Cup, and Harry had to admit they fully deserved it.

            But now---

            Harry paused only long enough to check that Snape’s door was indeed unwarded before he flung it open and yelled, “Remus!”

            Snape jumped like a scalded cat. Once again the cauldron overflowed and steaming red liquid poured along the floor. This time, Harry thought he saw it eat a few of the stones away before Snape waved his wand to contain the mess. Then he turned around with a stare that would have made Harry quail, except that he had Draco upstairs, sexy and sated and ready for the next round to begin as soon as he got back.

            That was the potion to restore my voice, the predictable words said on Snape’s parchment. Nearly complete this time.

            “Oh.” Harry shrugged. “Sorry. But is it really my fault that you're still not locking your door when you should be?”

            If you knew what months of work you have ruined, Potter, what expeditions to gather blue spider eggs by the light of the full moon, what rarity of phoenixes’ tears I shall not see again, what—

            “Is Remus in the bedroom again?” Harry peered towards the closed door into Snape’s private quarters. “Huh. Well, all right, then. Can you just tell him that Draco’s agreed to get a house in Hogsmeade so we can live together?” Harry began to dance in place, grinning madly, unable to find any other way of containing his joy.

            Snape’s eyes narrowed. You know he is only here to indulge his own taste for exhibitionism. The moment he discovers you have little else to offer in the name of brains or companionship, he will desert you.

            Harry gave him a patient look. “You really don’t know him at all if you think that’s the case. Besides, I’m very versatile. Who do you think has been checking out all the books on esoteric sex from the library? The ones you and Remus haven’t already swiped, at least,” he added as an afterthought.

            Potter, if you do not get out of my rooms this instant—

            “This is your office,” Harry pointed out, anxious to help Snape achieve verbal precision. “God help me if I ever enter your rooms. You can give up any thoughts of a foursome, by the way. Draco is enough possessive, greedy Slytherin for me.”

            Snape began to stalk forwards. Harry eyed his expression for a moment, then the long ebony wand in his hand.

            “Well,” he said brightly, “only wanted to tell someone the good news. See you later!” And he fled, the door shutting viciously behind him.

            Harry walked exactly three sedate steps—after all, it was rather ridiculous for the Hogwarts flying instructor to behave like a child—before he gave in and began running again. Draco was upstairs. He had agreed to make their little fling semi-permanent. And he might have muttered that he loved Harry before he drifted off to sleep this afternoon.

            Harry was eager to see if he could make him say it again.

            The End.
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When In Flight