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Cornucopia	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 5232 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Cornucopia
- 1
Title: Cornucopia

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

Challenge: for weasleywench

Keywords: trenchant, laconic, germane

Dialogue: "If you can't say what's on your mind, what's the point of this conversation?"

Wordcount: ~8800

Warnings: Profanity, boy-on-boy kissing, Draco being rather dim, some rather crackish humor, and oh yes, fluff.

Rating: PG-13.

Summary: When he receives an offer from Potter to restore the Black fortune, Draco is determined to ferret out the Git-Who-Lived’s real reasons.

Cornucopia

            Draco ate his breakfast in dignified silence. It didn’t matter that the breakfast was only porridge and orange juice because they had only the half-mad Itchy left from all their house-elves and that was the only meal he’d prepare in the mornings. He would make his impression on the person across the table from him.

            At least, he might have done if the person had been there in the flesh, and not simply as words on a ridiculous sheet of paper.

            Breakfast finished, or rather choked down, Draco sat for some time with his arms folded and scowled at the paper. It lay there. Draco leaned back in his chair and tilted his nose up in a gesture he hadn’t much reason to practice lately. The letter lay there. Draco sniffed and glanced aside.

            The letter was not impressed.

            In the end, Draco gave way to temptation—there was no one here to see him, with his parents living abroad to escape the constant irruptions into their lives from reporters and outraged members of the public—and picked up the letter to read through again. At least Potter had apparently learned from someone who wasn’t Granger to be laconic.

            Malfoy:

            I have things that rightfully should belong to you that I inherited from my godfather, Sirius Black. There’s at least one vault and a house, maybe some other properties too. I’d have to go through a list of them to be sure. Let’s meet somewhere in Hogsmeade so that we can discuss this.

            H. P.

            Draco relaxed. He understood now. He hadn’t remembered the detail about Hogsmeade from his first reading of the letter. People there especially had no reason to love the Death Eaters and would attack Draco the minute he showed his face. This was a clever plot to lure Draco to his death. At least that made more sense than some of the speculations that had passed through Draco’s head in the last hour.

            He composed the signature of his return letter first, pausing to admire the way that the silver ink shone on the many flourishes and dips of his full name. The silver ink was permissible to use because they hadn’t been able to find a buyer for it, and Draco liked the effect of its shine on the flat paper. Potter had never seen or touched anything half so fine, he was sure.

            Unless it’s whatever he has in the Black vaults.

            Draco compressed his lips and shook his head. No, he couldn’t allow himself to think of that, even if the assets Potter was offering to donate could save his family from ruin. He was sure he valued his life more than he did the Manor and proper meals from well-trained house-elves and being able to hold his head up in society.

            Well.

            He was almost sure.

            Once the signature was finished, it wasn’t an effort to pen three words above it. When the owl took flight—a post-owl that Draco had lured away from the common perches to live in his owlery by a present of dead rats collected from around the Manor—he leaned back in his chair and thought with satisfaction of the words that Potter would soon read.

            Potter:

            Fuck off.

            And then his long, gorgeous signature.

            Draco smiled and stood. So what if it was a thin smile and he could feel that it was? Potter would never know. Potter could imagine a full and languorous smirk, for all that Draco cared, and probably would, because if he was too blind to realize how his offer would sound to someone in Draco’s position, he was assuredly too blind to know how far Draco had fallen.

*

            Potter’s return letter came by owl just as Draco had settled in to enjoy a lumpy peanut butter sandwich for lunch. Draco took the parchment from the owl’s leg and held it up in front of his disbelieving eyes. Potter couldn’t match the shortness of Draco’s message, but he had assuredly matched the tone.

            No. Meet me at three-o’clock in the Three Broomsticks. We need to discuss this.

            No signature this time, but Draco recognized the handwriting from that morning’s letter and didn’t need one. He flung the letter on the table besides its companion and glared at it. The letter did not obligingly burst into flames. Draco sighed and took a vicious bite of his sandwich, which promptly tried to choke him.

            Nothing can behave the way I want it to, Draco thought, and worked his jaws up and down to loosen the peanut butter. Is Potter mad? How can I go back into the Three Broomsticks when I put Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius?

            Then he realized what he was thinking. His spine stiffened so fast that he thought he heard the rest of his bones rattle.

            Why would I reveal a weakness like that to Potter? I’m sure he’s forgotten all about everything I suffered, or he’ll only think of it in terms of how I hurt other people. I can’t stay away from this meeting, or he might start thinking about it and decide that I’m weak, or that I regret my actions, or something.

            Draco’s parents had fled from Britain rather than stay and confront the wizarding world’s disapproval of them. Draco would be blasted to small ashes and pissed on by centaurs before he would do the same thing. He had his home. He had his pride. He wouldn’t have anyone thinking less of them, especially not the boy who had gone so far to reduce him to this state.

            Yes, I’ll be there, Potter. I’ll be there with bells on.

*

            The conversation stopped when he walked into the Three Broomsticks. Then someone spat. Draco distinctly heard the noise of the wet glob hitting the floor.

            He didn’t look to the right or the left. He had identified Potter’s table immediately; he sat within easy sight and reach of the door, probably because he wanted to have access to the people who would demand autographs. Draco sneered and strode forwards. He had already cast a charm that would whisper a quiet warning in his ear if someone tried to trip him, so he didn’t need to look down, or anywhere but at Potter’s eyes.

            Potter sat back slightly and smiled at him. Draco blinked and would have stopped if he’d been less afraid of looking weak. Instead, he took the chance to study Potter as he came up to his side of the table, drew out the chair in a single smooth motion, and sat down.

            Potter had grown. That was Draco’s first impression, though he argued himself down from it in a second. Potter wasn’t any taller. He would always be small and scrawny for his age, and if he had tried to transform that scrawniness into serpent-like slenderness, he hadn’t managed. His hair was perhaps a bit longer, and wilder, but it grew wilder every year. He wore slightly better glasses. Maybe.

            But he was still different. Something had settled behind his face. That was the only way Draco could explain it. Before, one always saw the scar first when one looked at him, and now Draco saw that strength first and the scar second. A burden Potter had always struggled to support had ceased to be a burden and become ballast.

            Then Draco told himself he was being as ridiculous as the two letters lying on his table at home, and leaned forwards. “Why don’t you tell me what you really want, Potter?” he demanded. “Because it can’t be what you said it was.”

            Potter sat back in his chair and reached for the mug in front of him. His face had shut down, and Draco thought he had probably just killed any chance of a welcome here. He sneered at himself for thinking such a thing. Why would he want a welcome here? He was mad if he tried for one. He settled back with one hand on the table and the other hanging down casually by his side, where he could easily reach his wand if he needed to.

            “Why not?” Potter asked. “I have too much money as it is, and I never expected Sirius to leave me as much as he did.” His face darkened, and he shifted as though someone had set fire ants in his trousers. “There are a few things I want to keep, of course.”

            “Of course there are.” Draco tipped his head to the side, knowing that he looked his best with the lights falling on his face from the left. Perhaps it wouldn’t deter the attack on him that he knew Potter had lured him here to instigate, but at least he would look magnificent as he waited for it. “You’re giving me back my heritage, except that you feel entitled to pick through it first and choose the best bits for yourself.”

            Potter shut his eyes and sipped from his mug again. His breathing was slow and steady. Draco thought he was trying to calm himself.

            That was unexpected—and disappointing. When had Potter learned that trick? Again, it suggested that things had changed with him, that he had transmuted from one form into another without altering any of his essential features. Draco shifted, then imposed stillness on his body with an effort. Maybe Potter was using these odd motions and gestures to signal to the cronies he must have brought along, because he couldn’t take Draco all alone in an ambuscade.

            “It’s not like that,” Potter said. He opened his eyes at last. They flared with startling intensity. Draco stared. Had they always been so green? Potter tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, near a stained ring left by someone else’s mug. “The things I want to keep are gifts Sirius gave me. Private things. You can have the houses and the money and all the Dark artifacts and the books and—and the rest of it.” He shuddered, as though he had looked through those things after all and found them horrific. Draco sniffed. Of course he did, because he wouldn’t be looking at them with the right set of principles in mind. “But there are legal proceedings that we need to go through. I asked the Ministry, and they said that I couldn’t just give you Sirius’s vault and house.”

            “You idiot, Potter,” Draco said. He wondered how Potter managed to get out of bed in the mornings without shoving his legs down his shirt holes or putting his socks over his ears. There had been a house-elf fighting for him in the Battle of Hogwarts, or so Draco had heard; he had not had the precious attention to spare then for such mundane things. Maybe the elf helped him. “The Ministry would put up any barriers they could to keep us from getting hold of that money, what with all the reparations and ‘good-will donations’ they’ve demanded from us. They’re going to obstruct you now that you’ve let them know about it.”

            Potter set his jaw stubbornly. He probably practiced that in his sleep, Draco thought, and was momentarily startled that he’d never sneaked up the stairs into the Gryffindor Tower to see it happen. “I want everything to be legal,” Potter said coolly. “Otherwise, some Ministry lackey would find out about it and try to take it away from you. If I got through the proper channels, they can’t do that.”

            “Go through the proper channels?” Draco stared at him. “I didn’t realize that you knew the words.”

            A small smile appeared on Potter’s face, seemed stunned to find itself in such company, and fled again. “I didn’t think of this at first,” he admitted. “I just wanted to give it to you as a gift, but Hermione talked me out of that.”

            The mention of the Mudblood reminded Draco that Potter was the kind of wizard who found it pleasant to associate with people beneath him, and that saved him from falling into the trap being prepared to receive him. He sat up in his chair and spoke in as quiet and commanding a tone as he could muster on the spur of the moment. “I asked you once, Potter. I would appreciate an honest answer. Why are you doing this?”

            Potter glared now. “And I gave you one, Malfoy.”

            “You expect me to believe this?” Draco shoved his chair violently back from the table, though when he heard the screech of the chair legs on the floor, he wished he’d been a bit less violent. It drew stares, incredulous ones. He wanted to draw stares of admiration and fear only. His family’s reputation deserved that much. He stood with graceful fluidity, at least, and clucked his tongue at Potter. “Find a better one. When you can manage to sound like something other than a pathetic Gryffindor hero, let me know. I’ll be waiting.” He strode to the door, his robes flapping dramatically about him. Professor Snape would have approved.

            “Is nothing ever good enough for you?” Potter’s voice was low but clear, and Draco thought he could have heard it through a hurricane. “I gave you the real reason. Take the damn money, Malfoy. You could use it.”

            Draco raised an eyebrow back at Potter. “I have my pride, Potter. Not that you would recognize it, since all your own is lost in arrogance, but it’s there. Find someone else to be your charity case.”

            Potter looked absolutely befuddled. Draco stood there enjoying it for a moment, then saw someone draw a wand in the corner of his eye.

            The first of Potter’s hired assassins, no doubt. Draco had already taken care to remove the pub’s weak anti-Apparition wards when he came in. He spun and vanished on the spot, savoring the first part of the astonished cries he heard before his Disapparition cut them off.

*

            Draco worked his jaws around the dry piece of toast. He had thought it a miracle when Itchy presented it to him that morning, but he could see now why “Mistress Malfoy” had told Itchy never to make it again. Stone from the bowels of the earth baked in volcanic fire and allowed to cool twenty times had a softer consistency.

            The stolen post-owl—Draco thought absently that he should give it a name—winged in and alighted on the table. Draco stared at it curiously. He had already received his Daily Prophet for the day, and been reasonably satisfied with the cover story, which showed him looking proud and intimidating as he spoke to Potter. Potter sat in his chair and stared at him like a bird charmed by a cobra.

            The owl picked at a corner of his toast and then spat it out again, wings flailing as it choked. Draco took the letter from its leg hastily.

            It was another one from Potter, and this time, its contents were even more on the far side of believability.

            Malfoy:

            Yeah, I phrased that badly. But I do want to give the money to you. It’s more than I’ll ever need. I have all sorts of things that I don’t need since the war—money, fame, rumors, job offers. And I’m restless. I want to give to other people, not just take. Please accept this from me.

            Harry Potter.

            Draco nodded. That came closer to the truth of the matter, he was sure. Potter wanted to prop up his modesty by doing a heroic deed. At least he could somewhat admit it now, after Draco had confronted him.

            That letter didn’t say anything about the hoard of assassins that Draco was certain were waiting somewhere around the corner, of course.

            It took Draco the rest of the toast to compose a suitably trenchant reply, but at last he had it. He did wish that he could be around to see the words cut into Potter’s brain, he admitted to himself as he wrote them down on the parchment.

            Then an idea so brilliant, so far-reaching, so insightful came to him that he caught his breath from the sheer shock of it to the system.

Why can’t I?

            He fed the post-owl with careful attention, breaking off and softening pieces of the toast with Texture Charms until it was fat and lazy. Then he tied the letter to its leg and said, “Harry Potter.”

            The owl bobbed its head, hooted softly twice, and then hopped towards the edge of the table. Draco watched just to make sure his plan had worked, though he knew it must have because he was so bloody clever.

            Sure enough, the owl had to struggle to get up the proper speed when it began to lift off the table, and it flapped sluggishly towards the windows. Draco punched a fist into the air, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and then Summoned his broom. It creaked when he flung his leg across it, but Draco didn’t care. When he had had to give up so much else, he still made sure that his broom was in top working order. There was no telling when he might have to make a hasty escape some moonlit night.

            He would follow the owl, and he would see the expression on Potter’s face when he realized that Draco had refused to take his charity once and for all.

*



            The owl, to Draco’s surprise, led him straight to a most Muggle-looking part of London. There it circled twice along a row of gloomy houses and then flapped behind a set of wards. Draco held his wand out in front of him and began his descent.

            The wards spat and hissed as he approached them. Draco knew he could break through them, but also knew it would take powerful magic. He opened his mouth to cast the Dark Arts spell that was most likely to keep Potter from noticing that disturbance and also least likely to bring the Ministry down in fire and thunder on his arse.

            Then the wards simply fell apart. As Draco watched with his mouth open, a shadowy figure appeared on either side of his broom and bowed to him. Moments later, they were gone, and he hovered above a house that he could now clearly see, occupying what had seemed to be empty space between two Muggle homes.

            Draco shook his head twice before he could bring himself to fly any lower, though the owl had already vanished through a window. It must be because I’m a Black, he thought. Or my mother is. This is Black property.

            That increased Draco’s irritation. For the first time, he wished to accept Potter’s offer, because there was no way that Potter could get the same reaction out of the wards, and therefore no way that he was using the house to its full potential as a home and a sanctuary. On the other hand, humiliating himself in front of his oldest enemy and most potent rival was simply not an option.

            Draco hovered outside the same window that the owl had chosen. The glass was grimy. Draco rolled his eyes—if Potter did have his house-elf help him out of bed in the mornings, apparently he was pants at ordering him to clean anything—and cleared it with a whispered charm. Then he leaned over and peered inside.

            The room had to be a library, with the bookshelves arranged along the walls. Draco gave the worn and weathered leather of the books a single longing glance before he focused on the center of the room. Potter sat in a high-backed chair there, and he’d just taken the letter from the owl’s leg.

            Draco grinned. He had spent so long over those words that he could hear them recited in his head, by his own voice, as Potter’s eyes skimmed over them.

            Potter:

            Being a hero once wasn’t enough for you, I see. I didn’t think it ever would be. You can make what noise you like about resenting the attention you got for killing the Dark Lord, you can claim that you’re a murderer and anyway no one should honor you for murder, but I know you. Any normal person would use the power of the Boy-Who-Lived position for all it’s worth, and you’re doing the same thing. It simply happens that your goal is a bit less obvious than large houses and your pick of all the pretty witches.

            You’re addicted to making people admire you. That includes your enemies. You have a passion for redemption, too, given the way you argued at the Death Eater trials. You want us to fall at your feet and worship you. You want to make those who opposed you, no matter how good their reasons, into followers. I only wonder at how long it took you to realize—or think you realized—that I would jump at a chance to receive the Black properties and monies from your fingers like a dog receiving a scrap.

            I told you that I have my pride. But I don’t think you understood what I meant, considering that you’re still making this offer. Pride for a pure-blood is bone-deep. It means that we can do what we need to survive and still never back down or flinch away from an enemy, as long as we maintain loyalty to a few essential principles.

            One of mine is that I refuse to cower and whine and cringe just to make someone else feel good about himself.

            D. M.

            Potter lowered the letter and stared at the far wall. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes blinked continually, so much so that he reached up with one finger and rubbed them under his glasses. Draco smirked. Potter was obviously confused about what he should do when confronted with such a grandiloquent rejection.

            But Potter didn’t break down in tears, or stare around at his collection of objects as if he didn’t know what to do with them if he couldn’t give them to Draco. Instead, he turned and cast a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. “The Burrow!” he called.

            Draco felt a throb of disappointment. Was he going to seek out the company of the Weasels so he could wail to them about how he hadn’t succeeded? If he was, then he would deprive Draco of the most entertaining part of the proceedings.

            But no, Potter simply knelt down and stuck his head into the flames. Draco could still hear his voice. He prided himself on telling emotions from tones of voice without seeing the expressions. He’d had to do it often enough, and survive by doing it, in those days when the Death Eaters had lived in Malfoy Manor and hidden their faces behind their masks.

            He let the memories lie in his mind, cold and sharp and uncomfortable, only until he decided that Potter was beginning the conversation with Granger. Then he pushed them away. He had survived that. He would survive the temptation of Potter’s offer. No matter how cold he got, no matter how hungry, no matter how mean his life, he would cling to the things that meant the most to him.

            “Hermione?” Potter asked, and then sighed. Maybe Granger wasn’t there, Draco hoped, and Potter would pull his head out of the fire and sulk in private.

            But a moment later, that pointy voice answered. Draco scowled at the Mudblood’s invisible head. She would never know how much she had displeased him, but that was no reason not to scowl. “Harry? What’s the matter?”

            “Nothing much,” Potter said, waving Draco’s letter above his head as if he intended to drop it into the flames, making Draco stifle a gasp of outrage, “except that I need your help figuring out how to respond to Malfoy.”

            The flames shifted, and Draco heard Granger’s voice from closer, though he still couldn’t see her ugly face, a blessing for which he was properly grateful to Merlin. “Are you still trying that? Given what you told me about his first response, I’m amazed.”

            Draco sat in frozen stillness for long moments, dismayed to find that he agreed with a Mudblood. It was an effort to get over that terrifying fact and listen to what Potter was saying, even though what he was saying was probably important.

            “I told you why I want to do this, Hermione,” Potter said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter how much shite he hurls back at me, he still deserves to have the things that belong to his family.”

            Granger huffed. “Harry, Sirius left those things to you. Do you really want to give them back to someone who would abuse them the way Bellatrix would?”

            I resent that, Draco thought. I have much better taste than my harridan of an aunt.

            “Malfoy and Bellatrix are two different people.” From the way that Potter shifted to get his hands beneath him so that he could squat more comfortably, this was something he’d told Granger before. Draco wondered if he was really that good at reading body language or if Potter was transparent, and then decided there was no reason both couldn’t be true. “There’s no way that I could live with her having them, but him having them is just—right.”

            “I’ll need more than that.” Granger’s voice had hardened. “I think it’s ridiculous that you’re putting yourself, and him, through this. Tell me the real reason that you want to do this so badly.”

            Draco put a hand on his forehead, checking for the heat of a fever. He couldn’t agree more with Granger. That was just wrong.

            “All right, fine.” Potter’s voice had risen. “I told you that I went to Gringotts a few weeks ago to look over the documents that my parents and Sirius had left, right?”

            “Yes.” A rustle that was probably Granger settling herself down for a good long listen. Draco hoped it wouldn’t take that long. He hadn’t sat a broom in months, and he’d forgotten the way that the shaft cut into his buttocks.

            “Well, that was the first time I actually went into the Black vault, and the first time in the Potter vault without a teacher accompanying me. No, wait, sorry, Potter vaults. There’s more than one.” Potter laughed, though Draco didn’t see what was funny. The Malfoys had multiple vaults, and wonderful things they were, of gold and marble and steel. It was just a shame that there wasn’t much in them right now. “There were heaps of Galleons, and old books, and statues that apparently animate when you touch them, and jewels, and old wands that are probably worth a lot to the right collector, and Potions ingredients, and golden cauldrons, and even a silver-handled hairbrush that looks like it was used to groom unicorns.”

            Draco felt his eye twitch. Then he reminded himself that this was all part of Potter’s nefarious plot, and he couldn’t allow himself to be tempted. Potter had to have placed some spell traps on those treasures. Who knew what would happen if he touched them?

            “And I realized that I don’t need all of that. I don’t need half of that. I can survive for the rest of my life on my parents’ vaults alone,” Potter continued, his voice hard and bitter for no reason, “and not work if I don’t want to.”

            “But you will work?” Granger sounded anxious.

            “Of course.” Potter waved a hand while Draco rolled his eyes at his stupidity. “But I don’t need all this wealth. The sight of it made me a little sick, Hermione.

            “I stood there and I looked at all those glittering things that Sirius never got the chance to enjoy, which his parents would have taken away and given to their good little Death Eater son—except that Regulus disappointed them, too, so they kept it to themselves. And then it would have gone to Bellatrix, and God knows I didn’t want that to happen, because she would have used it for supporting Voldemort. So for a while I was grateful that I had those possessions, to save them from being used against us in the war.

            “But I think that, now the war’s done and Bellatrix isn’t a threat anymore, they should go to someone who will appreciate them and use them. Someone who knows their proper value and thinks of them as treasures instead of a burden. And the only person I can think of like that who actually has a right to them is Malfoy.”

            “But you could use them for so many things, Harry.” Draco thought he got a glimpse of a bobbing curl of brown hair, but it didn’t disgust him as much as it would have a moment ago. He was thinking about Potter’s words. “To support charitable causes. To set up orphanages and other services for the victims of the war. The S.P.E.W. fund alone—”

            “But I’ve made contributions like that,” Potter said impatiently. “From my own vaults. There’s still so much left. And I told you, I don’t feel that it really belongs to me, because I’m not a Black and I’d feel like it’s just weighing me down. I’m not giving everything away. A few things that meant a lot to Sirius will stay with me. But the rest of it—Hermione, I can barely stand to stay in this house anymore. All I can think about is how it was a prison to Sirius, and how it’ll become one to me if I don’t give it to someone else.”

            “That means that you’ll have to get another flat,” Hermione said. “Unless you want to move back in with us.”

            “And deal with the heartbroken looks from Ginny?” Potter shuddered, and Draco found himself in complete agreement with the git, for once in both their lives. “No, thanks.”

            “The work of moving doesn’t put you off, then?” Granger sounded as if she had a smile in her voice.

            “If it did, I’d hardly be doing this, would I?” Potter snorted so hard that Draco expected to see his fringe lift off his forehead. “Since giving Draco bloody Malfoy what belongs to him is a lot harder than moving will be.”

            “All right,” Granger said. “I suggest you meet in a neutral location, then. A really neutral one, away from the eyes of the public. Maybe he’ll be more inclined to believe your offer is authentic if no one is staring at him. And fill out the legal paperwork by yourself, at least as much as you can do without his signature. That would make it seem easier when you showed him that it’s almost done. It’s less effort for him, and Malfoy doesn’t like to work.”

            Draco scowled at her, somewhat upset that she couldn’t see it. It was an impressive scowl. He didn’t like her implying that he was lazy. He was efficient.

            Surprisingly, Potter seemed to agree. “He isn’t that bad, Hermione,” he said with a sharp note in his voice. “He did some pretty hard things. He endured even harder things. He survived.”

            “Yes, fine, I yield to your all-encompassing determination to defend him and other things Malfoy,” Granger said, with a sigh. “But I still think my advice is the best you’ll get. Are you going to thank me for it or not?”

            “Yes. Thank you, Hermione,” Potter said, the muscles in his back relaxing. He had a teasing smile in his voice when he spoke again. “How’s Ron?”

            Draco was convinced that he’d heard all of the conversation that could apply to him, so he flew away. He had some thinking to do.

            Besides, he stood a chance of hearing about the Mudblood and the Weasel’s love life if he stayed, and that was not on.

*

            Draco stood in the center of what had once been the richest of the Manor’s drawing rooms, turning slow circles.

            He usually ignored the worn patches on the walls where the expensive mirrors had once hung, many of them enchanted to give good opinions about what their owners were wearing at the moment. The mantle had been covered with gold and carving that had had to be stripped off and sold; a block of stone with only crude carving had replaced it. Draco had had trouble finding a skilled artist who wanted to work for a Malfoy, much less for the small prices he could offer.

            The rugs were gone, replaced by simple stone flags that Draco tried to tell himself were elegant when he knew they were anything but. Cobwebs hung in the corners now, because the house-elves that once would have removed them were gone. Torches, actual torches, flickered on the walls, instead of the lamps whose soft, magical light would have made the drawing room look welcoming no matter how empty it was.

            So much was gone.

            Draco scowled and sat down on the chair nearest the fireplace, then winced. He forgot each time that unforgiving wood instead of soft cushions would meet his arse if he sat down. Those cushioned chairs had been here all his life. He’d had to look the other direction when they went out the door to pay the Ministry.

            The way he saw it, he had two duties. His father had always said that, properly attended to, the Malfoy principles should never come into conflict, but Draco had begun to think that he was wrong.

            On the one hand, he clearly had a duty to keep the Manor up to its usual standard of perfection. He would bequeath this to his heirs someday. He did not want to be known as the Malfoy ancestor who had let everything become ragged and shoddy.

            On the other hand, he had a duty as well to support the Malfoy pride. Malfoys did not ask for charity. They did not go into debt to their enemies. When absolute need met absolute hardship, they married into families who could be dazzled by their name and used the funds brought by the marriages to restore their homes and fortunes to their former glory. Still, they maintained their standards. No Malfoy had ever married a Weasley once the feud between them began, no matter how high the Weasleys might have stood in the favor of the Ministry at the time. There were other choices.

            Except, now, Draco didn’t think there were. All the Slytherin girls he knew of were promised somewhere else or were the kind, like Millicent Bulstrode, who could make up their own minds and would refuse to marry him anyway.

            He sucked fiercely at his thumbnail, then realized what he was doing, blushed in horror, and lowered his hand. No matter how hard up he became, he could not let his manners go. That would be declaring that the Manor might as well crumble to dust.

            What was he going to do? What was the higher duty?

            And then it all came together in his mind, and Draco wanted to laugh at himself for being such a simpleton.

            Malfoys did not go into debt to their enemies. But as long as Draco could give Potter something of equal value in exchange for the Black fortune and properties, then he wouldn’t be in debt.

            He didn’t have money, of course. But after what he had overheard, Draco doubted that Potter would want money anyway.

            He pondered what he could offer all evening long, and decided with a sigh, at the end of it, that there was nothing for it but to make the ultimate sacrifice. Of course, he would make sure he had plumped up his courage before he went to do it.

*

            Potter sent him another owl. Draco replied graciously this time, offering to meet him in one of the small alleys that ran off of Diagon Alley. Potter could set up privacy wards so that no one would bother them, and Draco thought that an acceptable alternative to a place like one of the shops or Hogsmeade, where he was certain to be recognized and threatened.

            He bit his lip thoughtfully as the owl flew away, and pondered once again whether there was anything else he could offer Potter. His gift was so wonderful, so incomparable, that it would outmatch all the treasures Potter could give him. Was he sure there was no other way around it? That he wouldn’t be dishonoring his ancestors by doing this?

            But in the end, Draco shook his head and stood. There were, perhaps, other payments he could make, but no others that Potter would accept. Draco knew him, better than Potter probably thought he did. Potter was arrogant and violent and refused to pay the proper respects to blood heritage—understandably, since he never would have been born without his mother’s tainted blood.

            But sex was something everyone could understand.

            Draco practiced martyred sighs in front of the mirror—Potter would probably expect those of him—before he went to fetch the most dashing robes he owned and the small bottle that would give him the courage to face Potter.

*

            When Potter stepped into the alley off Diagon Alley, he stopped and stared at Draco for some reason. Draco gave him a seductive smile, and was surprised when Potter backed away. He didn’t think he was that out of practice, but now that he thought about it, he reckoned some time had passed since the days when he used to seduce Pansy in the Slytherin common room with no more than a single lustful glance.

            “Malfoy?” Potter was eyeing him with undisguised wonder. Draco smiled. Wonder was only a few shades of emotion from the feeling he meant to rouse in Potter.

            “Hullo,” Draco purred, and took a step forwards. The world bulged and stretched in his sight, and colors swam and danced across his vision. Draco checked an impatient sigh as not being the right kind. That had happened since he took the Allurement Potion. Well, he supposed it was a small price to pay for the exotic attraction he would exude which would make Potter fall into his arms.

            “I’ve decided to accept what you’re offering me,” he said, and struck a pose that made his silver and green robes, open to the navel, sway and rustle on his shoulders. He noted with pleasure that Potter couldn’t draw his gaze away from Draco’s revealed chest. “As long as you accept what I’m offering you in return.”

            Potter flinched as though someone had hit him and blinked at Draco, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m not—you don’t need to give me anything.”

            “Yes. I do.” Draco slinked forwards, confident that he was the picture of sultry feline grace. Potter looked horrified, but then, he would, as he felt unfathomable desires rising from the depth of his being. “Come, you’re not afraid of someone like me?” Draco added, pausing and fluttering his lashes. “Someone who’s here to be the slave of your every whim and desire?”

            “Malfoy, I think you’re drunk,” Potter began carefully.

            “Drunk on you, perhaps.” Draco made his voice husky and had the pleasure of seeing Potter’s eyes widen. Yes, this was going to work out just fine. “Not anything else. I wouldn’t want to touch Firewhisky. That might interfere with my performance.” He winked and ran his eyes up and down Potter’s body. He had to admit that he could see hints and curves of muscles there. Sleeping with him might not be the intense punishment Draco had imagined it as. “Just as I’m sure that you would never consider such a thing yourself.”

            Potter reached out as Draco glided towards him and caught his wrists gently but firmly. Draco caught his breath in return, feeling a distinct flutter of excitement. Potter was strong. Yes, perhaps this would not be so great a sacrifice. He extended his fingers, but didn’t manage to get loose of Potter’s hold so he could touch his shoulders. He settled for fluttering his lashes instead and leaning in for a kiss.

            “Look,” Potter said, his gaze darting between Draco’s lips and his eyes, which he seemed to spend a lot of time peering worriedly into.

            “You can’t say you don’t want me, because I know that’s not true,” Draco said comfortably, sliding a leg between Potter’s knees. The evidence he felt was sufficient “hard” proof for him, and he gave Potter another lazy smile. “Dead people want me.”

            “There’s a difference between wanting you and taking you in payment for a debt that’s not a debt,” Potter said.

            “Taking,” Draco said, emphasizing and drawling the word in the way that only a Malfoy could, a way that promised endless carnal pleasures. “I think I like that notion.” He leaned in again, ignoring the way that the colors at the edge of his vision were swirling worse than ever.

            But he couldn’t ignore the way the pavement seemed to shudder beneath him and upend itself, since it pitched him onto Potter’s chest. Potter held him firmly and Draco moaned aloud as those strong hands rubbed along his back. He was starting to wonder if he would have to do something else to pay Potter after all, because he was going to enjoy this “sacrifice” entirely too much.

            When he looked up again, though, he was seeing Potter’s face through a yellow film. Draco frowned. “That makes you look distinctly unattractive,” he told Potter.

            His voice warped, and he fell down a long tunnel made of words. His main annoyance about that was that Potter remained at the other end.

*



            Draco groaned. His head hurt in a way that it hadn’t since the night when he realized all his parents’ treasures would march out the door the next morning, and he reached up and cautiously felt for the bump that he must surely be sporting, the result of anti-Death Eater sentiment.

            “Welcome back to the world of the living, Malfoy.” Someone reached out and stuck a vial under his nose, which Draco identified from the smell as Pepperup Potion. Hoping it would help, he took a large gulp and winced as the potion burned down his throat.

            The headache lessened enough that he could sit up, though he continued to feel without success for the bump. His senses sharpened, too, and he recognized the voice. By the time he turned around, he was no longer surprised to see Potter sitting in a chair next to the bed.

            He was intensely regretful. It seemed they’d slept together and he’d missed it.

            But then he noticed that he still wore the robes he had dressed to go meet Potter in, and that they were still draped about him with artistic skill of which he was justly proud. They would have been tumbled and probably ripped if he and Potter had slept together, so he decided it wasn’t that.

            Potter shook his head and clasped his hands behind his neck as he stretched. He looked oddly at home sitting in the harsh wooden chair he’d dragged up to the side of Draco’s small, new bed, but then, he’d probably grown up with furniture like that. One phrase Draco had never connected with Potter was “able to appreciate the finer things in life.”

            “You took an Allurement Potion, didn’t you?” Potter asked. “I recognized the effects. Someone’s always dosing herself with it to try to pull me hopelessly to her.” He rolled his eyes. “You’d think someone would have spread the news that I’m immune to the Imperius Curse and figured out it wouldn’t work.”

            The sheer outrageousness of this made Draco sit up straight in the bed and ensured that his arm rose on its own to point at Potter in condemnation. “You reacted to me. It did work on you. I saw you.”

            Potter flushed, but kept on looking in Draco’s eye even as he stammered his incoherent and mentally incompetent response. “That’s because I w-wanted you, not because the potion worked.” He took a deep breath after that and shook his head as if he’d climbed a mountain, then went on with more dignity. “You’re bloody fit, Malfoy. I’ll admit that.”

            Draco stared with his mouth slightly open, then shut it with a click. “That doesn’t explain why the Allurement Potion made me faint,” he said, surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of Potter’s hands so that he could check for traces of several common poisons.

            Potter snorted. “Simple reasoning does. You should have a full stomach when you take an Allurement Potion; it says so right on the vials. It goes to your head if you don’t. And given what I’ve seen of your house-elf, I don’t think you’ve had a proper meal in some time.”

            Draco bristled, but didn’t respond because he didn’t know the best thing to say. He couldn’t claim that he was immune to such hardship because Potter had seen that he wasn’t, and he couldn’t claim that Malfoys thrived on deprivation when they didn’t.

            Potter watched him in silence for some time, then shook his head. “You didn’t—you didn’t have to do that,” he said, so quietly that Draco had to concentrate to hear him. “I would have been perfectly happy to go out with you if you liked.”

            “Go out?” Draco could not remember the last time he had been so scandalized.

            (Wait, yes he could. It was when the old books of the Black lineage that his mother had brought with her upon her marriage had been sold and outsiders had been able to see how often the Blacks had married close relatives without having their minds properly prepared beforehand).

            “I didn’t want to go out,” he snapped, charging ahead and hoping that Potter hadn’t noticed his slight hesitation. “I was going to let you fuck me as payment for the Black vaults and properties.”

            Silence. Potter stared at him with an open mouth. Meanwhile, Draco played the words in his head and wondered how Potter would take them. Such a blunt statement of purpose would make sense to a pure-blood and a Slytherin, but Potter was neither.

            He’s going to stand up and storm out of here in a minute, bleating like the little innocent lamb exposed to the real world that he is—

            Then Potter dropped his head into his hands. When his shoulders began to shake, Draco thought he had underestimated Potter’s sense of drama and was about to get a storm of tears, but then he recognized the nature of those choked sounds.

            Potter had the gall, the nerve, the sheer effrontery to laugh at him.

            Draco folded his arms and poured all his venom into his glare. That should work. He’d had a lot of opportunity to practice his glare since the Ministry had taken his heritage away, but no one to feel the full force of it. “If you can't say what's on your mind, what's the point of this conversation?” he asked.

            Potter, still choking on his chuckles, lifted his head. “Oh, Draco,” he murmured, in a way that made the small hairs on Draco’s arms rise. He could get used to his first name in that voice of Potter’s, he really could. “I understand the reason you did this now.” He leaned forwards with his hands resting on his cheeks and his elbows resting on his lap, shaking his head and smiling fondly at Draco.

            Draco was prepared to accept the laughter graciously for the sake of someone who had really tried to understand his point. “You do?” he asked.

            Potter nodded. “Your pride demanded it,” he said. “And your understanding of the world. And—I can’t believe I’m about to use this phrase unironically—your honor.” Draco regarded him, suspicious, but Potter’s eyes were wide and bright and he was talking on, so Draco decided he didn’t need to take offense immediately to the statement about his honor. “Maybe it couldn’t have been any other way.” He paused, his smile curling at the edges, and added, “Can I persuade you to accept the Black properties now?”

            “We haven’t slept together yet.” Draco thought it important to point that out.

            “Ah.” Potter raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t seem to stop grinning. Draco wondered if that was a bad sign or not. “But I would like you to be in prime condition when I sleep with you, to make sure that I’m getting the best deal.”

            Draco swallowed. He hadn’t expected this newly mercenary attitude from Potter, but it made his cock twitch. A half-blood who understood the pure-blood way of life after all would be a catch worth keeping.

            Particularly one as handsome and strong and politically important as Potter.

            “I’m not in prime condition now?” he asked, just to be certain.

            Potter clucked his tongue. “Of course not! You need luxury around you. Those eyes—they should be looking on beauty. You need more feeding so that your muscles show instead of your ribs.” Draco was tempted to argue that, but it was true that he’d been feeling uncomfortably thin lately. “I want to help you recover so that you’re beautiful enough, and that means giving you the Black fortune back so you can use it to improve your lifestyle.”

            Draco gazed at him. When he spoke, he knew his voice was reverent, but he couldn’t help it. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard.”

            Potter reached out and gently tugged at a strand of his hair. “I thought you might think so,” he murmured.

            Draco could not resent the indignity, because it seemed that he might just have found the man of his dreams—and the fortune of his dreams, too. All he needed to do was add his signature to the papers that Potter drew forth from a satchel at his side and held out invitingly.

            No, wait. There was one more thing he needed to do, and wanted to do. He only had to be a little bit sly, so that he wouldn’t rouse Potter’s martyr instincts.

            “I should give you something for going to the trouble of arranging the legal matters,” he murmured, ducking his head so that he was looking up at Potter through his lashes. Potter’s breath hitched. Ah. It was good to know that he wasn’t immune to Draco’s charms in a proper setting, without the influence of the Allurement Potion. Draco damned himself now for using the potion when he should have relied on his natural beauty. “A—down payment, of sorts.” He was proud of himself for remembering the term.

            “Yeah?” Potter croaked. His throat was obviously dry.

            “Yes.” Draco gave him a shy, flirtatious smile. It was easier than he’d thought it would be. “A kiss should do it.”

            Potter didn’t even make him be the one to initiate it. He gave a muffled exclamation and leaned over the bed, catching Draco’s wrists in that delightfully firm grip that he had and bringing their lips together.

            Draco gasped. Potter’s lips were even warmer than his hands, and the tongue that shot out a moment later and engaged with Draco’s own was like a flicker of fire. Draco reached out and snared Potter’s hair in his hands; it was a good thing that it was close and didn’t have to move his fingers far. But he needed the grip to stabilize himself against the sensation of drowning he felt as Potter bore him back against the pillows, tongue darting about wildly and groans breaking from his throat as though he’d never kissed someone before and didn’t know what he wanted to do next.

            Draco lost track of how much time had passed as they lay on the bed and snogged. He only knew that when Potter leaned back finally, his world was spinning worse than any Allurement Potion could have done to him. He let his head fall on the pillows and licked his lips. They felt dry and sore, and his mouth empty.

            “Wow,” Potter breathed.

            Draco opened his eyes and smiled at him. Potter was staring down at him with a dazed look, his hair ruffled and mussed, his lips more swollen than Draco’s. All those were good signs that Potter was his now.

            The more Draco thought about it, the more he became convinced that he’d been following the right instincts in refusing to accommodate Potter at first. Obviously he had subconsciously been able to predict the future and had acted in the way most germane to the situation. What would have happened if he’d accepted the Black vaults when Potter wanted to offer them without claiming payment? He wouldn’t have a lover, that’s what.

            Of course, he would have to work to make sure that Potter stayed with him. And he would have to try to change Potter’s estimation of the value of the treasures in the Black line that he’d spoken about so disdainfully to Granger. And it was clear that that haircut couldn’t go on.

            But the most important thing was that he was getting his money back.

            No, wait. The most important thing was that he had been right all along.

            No, wait.

The most important thing was that he had Potter half-lying on his chest and smiling like the sun.

            End.
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