Turn and Face the Strange

Turn and Face the Strange
by Trippin Ziggy

. . .

Part 1

. . .

Draco Malfoy was perfectly happy with his life, thank you very much. That is, until one day, he saw a familiar face walking down Diagon Alley, and his entire view on the world changed. It immediately altered itself to orbit around that of one Harry Potter, introvert extraordinaire.

Draco knew very well of Harry's penchant for solitude. He'd gone into a self-induced exile three months after the fall of the Dark Lord, vanishing out of Wizarding life. There were endless articles about his supposed habits and lifestyle, constant ramblings by those idiots reporting at The Prophet, trying to dissect every crumb of information they could find on him. No one really knew what he was up to, but everyone had ventured a guess.

Five years later, however, and there Harry Potter stood: tall, broad shouldered, and straight-backed, waiting outside the Apothecary, holding a small satchel, and licking at an ice cream cone. A bit had dribbled down his chin, and was threatening to do damage to Harry's rather stylish burnt-dragon hide jacket, which fell well past his shins, dusting the street with its hem.

The style suited his mysterious nature, along the shocking lack of his trademark spectacles and his uncharacteristic long hair, which fell well past his shoulders. Unruly strands covered his dark-rimmed eyes -- as if he hadn't been sleeping properly -- and obscured the strong features of his face. A face Draco knew well, and surprisingly, had missed these past years.

But the question remained, why now? Why had Harry Potter suddenly reappeared into public life, and why on earth was no one else noticing him? He didn't look that drastically different.

Or did he?

Draco focused more intently on the newly hardened angles of Harry's jaw, the prominent jut of his Adam's apple, and his vein streaked hands: worker's hands. He'd certainly kept himself busy these past years. Still, how had no one else picked up on his presence?

Tossers. The lot of them, Draco thought. The Saviour of the Wizarding World was eating an ice cream on a street corner, and no one even bothered to wave or tip their hat.

The sudden irrational anger Draco felt at the lack of respect being shown towards Harry made him pose another question to himself: why do I care?

A very interesting question, indeed. Why did Draco Malfoy, sworn childhood nemesis of said Harry Potter, care that his presence was being ignored by the current inhabitants of Diagon Alley? Why too, was Draco noticing the length of Harry's coattails, or hair, for that matter?

Well, it's very nice hair, Draco thought to himself, and then paused.

The jacket, the hair; the hidden, darkening gaze of his eyes, the strong jaw, and the tongue darting out to snatch at the creamy treat before lapping it back into the rose-red haven of Harry's mouth...these weren't just simple observances with simple thoughts connected to them, they were attractions.

Draco was attracted to the look of his clothes, his hair, his jaw, that delectable tongue: he was attracted to Harry Potter.

Boggled, and rightfully so, Draco staggered backwards into a side alley to ride out his sudden panic attack in private, like any civilized Wizard would. Clutching his hand to his chest, he quickly spelled his pulse rate back to normal, and chanced a look back out towards the Apothecary's shopfront. Just in time, too, since Harry Potter was sucking the rest of the melted ice cream from the bottom of the cone with hollowed out cheeks and a tipped back head, exposing his pale throat. He was indulging himself, and oh how indulgent it was to watch.

When Harry darted his tongue out to catch any left over cream inside the cone before licking his lips clean, Draco had to bite back a groan for how sexual the simple gesture seemed.

That tongue was a walking innuendo.

Before Draco's mind could run wild with the idea of what Harry Potter's tongue could do when put to other, more appropriate uses, he snapped himself back into focus. Enough ogling and lurking in dark alleys like a curious schoolboy. The days of hiding in the shadows and obsessing from afar were over.

Draco was a new man, a different man. One who wasn't preoccupied with how much pure magical blood a fellow wizard had flowing through his veins, but with living a full, rich life, without regrets: Je ne regrette rien.

For too long had he been used as someone else's puppet; a toy to be thrown out when one was tired of it. He'd been beaten and bloodied and manipulated by the very people who had sworn undying love for him. That all came to a crashing halt at the Dark Lord's demise. Draco had ridden himself of that life for good the second the news hit. Only a sporadic dialogue through letters with his mother remained as his last connection to his previous life; he'd forgiven her, after all.

Shedding his old skin was not easy for the Malfoy heir. He couldn't disappear in a crowd if it was filled with hormone laden Veelas. Yet, he persevered. If anything, Draco Malfoy was determined. Determined to make the most of what he had been left with, and what he could give himself.

And right now, Draco Malfoy wanted to give himself Harry Potter.

But how?

Draco didn't have long to ponder, since Harry's companion chose that exact moment to walk out of the shop with his purchases in hand. Upon seeing the flaming shock of ginger hair atop the man's head, Draco scowled.

"Of course." The Weasel. Lady Luck had never been particularly kind to Draco in the past, why would the posh bitch start now?

The two men walked side by side, conversing sparsely, and keeping their heads down as they went. Much good it did the Weasel, his hair was a dead give away.

Regardless, Weasley wasn't Draco's main concern, Potter was.

Donning his fedora with a flourish he couldn't help -- he was just that graceful -- Draco stepped out of his alley hiding place and started to follow the pair on their trek down the lane. He noticed a few awed stares from several Wizards as Harry passed, and Draco sneered at the inopportune fawning over the man. If Draco were to actually approach Harry, he'd prefer doing it in as inconspicuous a way as possible. Having others about would ruin Draco's own shot at gaining Harry's attention.

No matter, he thought. Something in Draco was telling him to seek out the dark haired mystery before him, and who was Draco to question the voices in his head? Draco knew he was safe from such afflictions; he didn't tolerate insanity, after all.

Walking at a brisk clip through the crowd, he quickly caught up to the pair and proceeded to tap Harry on the shoulder. Before he could so much as get a finger onto that fine dragonhide lapel, he was spun, flipped, and smacked flat on his back with one hell of a knock.

"Piss, fuck, shit!"

"What do you want, Malfoy?" the Weasel commanded, pointing down at him with his wand.

"I wanted to talk to Harry, you oaf."

"This isn't Harry. You're seeing things. Now, stop making a scene and get on with it."

Weasley pulled Draco up roughly by his collar -- wrinkling it to the point of damage, he might add -- and shoved him on his way. The man to his right -- who most certainly was Harry flippin' Potter -- handed Draco back his fedora with a small grin before he too turned and Disapparated a few paces later.

Draco was left rumpled, dust laden and breathless as he played that grin over and over again in his memory, groaning at the image. No such simple facial gesture should be so completely lickable. It was pure sin.

Shaking himself of his lustful haze, he realized he was standing in the middle of Diagon Alley looking less than perfect, and that just wasn't on; he had to get home. With a pop he snapped back into his flat and shed his ruined suit in place of enveloping himself in the comfort of a staggeringly hot bath, with plenty of soothing and muscle healing potions added.

After soaking himself to the point of prunage, and two very frenzied wank sessions, Draco dragged his water logged self out of the tepid bath and curled up in a warm robe to plan.

Yes, Draco Malfoy needed a plan.

Despite what the Weasel had said, that most certainly was Harry Potter. He might have looked a hell of a lot more shaggable than the last time Draco had seen him, what with the spectacle-free bedroom eyes, the longer, devastatingly thick hair, and that damn jacket. It had trailed behind him like any set of robes would, but the weight of the hide gave the man wearing it a certain amount of power that Draco found rather intoxicating. His sudden shaggability notwithstanding, it was most definitely the boy who had driven him batty throughout school. Draco would know him anywhere.

So the question remained, why? Why had Weasley reacted as such, and why did it seem that he was somehow protecting Harry? From what? Voldemort was long dead, the threat upon his life was no more.

Where had Harry been for five years, and why now was he appearing back in public life but with a makeshift bodyguard?

Draco wanted to know. And he was going to find out.

. . .

"What in Dumbeldore's name, makes you think that I'd tell you such things?" Granger said, a halo of flames around her as Draco crouched in his hearth to hear. She'd been his last hope in finding out anything about where Harry had been and where he currently was. Though, like always in matters of actual importance, the ex-frizzy-haired -- she now kept it slicked back into a french twist -- prude was anything but forthcoming.

"Granger, I'm asking you out of concern."

"Oh please, when has Harry's safety ever been your concern?"

Draco resented that question, but he let it slide and moved on.

"I'm going to find out whether you tell me or not, I'm nothing if not persistent."

"I bet you are," she scoffed.

"Listen, Granger, let's make a deal."

"With all due respect, Malfoy, I don't want to deal with you in any capacity."

"You're entitled to that opinion. However, I mean Harry no harm, and I am a man of my word."

Granger eyed the grey-suited Wizard before her with a heavy dose of skepticism before relenting. "I believe you."

"Excellent."

"That doesn't mean I'm going to tell you anything."

"Of course not, you're going to meet me for lunch, instead."

Hermione gasped.

"No need for that, Granger, it won't be a long lunch. Just meet me tomorrow at L'argent Serpent. Noon. Thank you for your time."

Draco ended the fire-call before Granger could even agree on the time. He was tired of speaking to her. All they had done was go round and round in endless circles; he'd get what he needed from her tomorrow.

At exactly noon the next day, Hermione Granger walked into the tiny French bistro-style restaurant Draco said he would meet her at, and slipped her travel cloak off her shoulders. She was dressed in a casual but stylish robe of sage tweed that she was certain would drive Draco up the wall with it's un-tailored cut, but not everyone could afford custom made clothing, now could they?

She thought of this meeting like one would think of a scheduled root canal: with disdain and a twinge of nausea. But alas, she had shown up, and was seated promptly by a very prim waiter who offered her a spirits list before departing to his corner to wait for her to decide.

At five past, Hermione had to suppress a heavy sigh. Where was the blasted ferret of a man? As if on cue, he popped into the restaurant not a moment later, and handed his cloak to the waiter without so much as a sideways glance at the man.

"Granger, you're early."

"No. You're late." She pointed to the clock on the wall with her wand.

"Well look at that."

"Yes. Six minutes past. What on earth were you up to?"

Draco smirked to himself before catching the scandalized look on Hermione Granger's face.

"Oh, please. Don't go and faint on me. Let's order, shall we?"

Three minutes later, Draco had a glass of brandy warming in his palm, and Hermione was sipping a light Italian amaro, at the recommendation of Draco. She nodded her approval, and then folded her hands in front of her.

"Talk."

"You get right to it, don't you?"

"I doubt this is a recreational lunch, Draco."

"Quite right. I want to know about Harry."

Hermione sighed.

"Before you tell me off again, I want to share something with you."

Draco gave a dramatic pause, during which time Hermione raised a very neatly plucked eyebrow. She's certainly learned to take care of herself since school, Draco thought.

After the appropriate amount of time to give his next statement due respect, Draco said, "I wish to date Harry."

Hermione Granger stared back at Draco Malfoy with large, unblinking eyes. Draco thought she very much resembled an owl right before she started laughing like a loon. He contemplated calling over the waiter to check on her. After all, this was a respected public establishment.

She sipped more of her drink before snickering into the glass upon seeing Draco's face. Not once had he cracked a smile at his joke, and Hermione found it incredibly impressive that he could stay straight faced for so long.

Wiping away her happy tears, she said, "Thanks for that. I needed a good laugh."

"Hermione, I am completely serious."

"Oh, please."

"Why would I lie?"

He had her there, Hermione could think of no logical reason why Draco wold go to such lengths just to play the comedian.

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh."

"You're serious?"

Draco nodded.

"You're willingly putting yourself in a place of vulnerability for this?"

"So it would seem."

"Merlin, Draco."

"Eloquent."

Hermione pssh'd him before setting her glass down and suddenly all the humor was gone from her face. Hermione Granger was open for business.

"Why?"

"What do you mean?" Draco asked.

"Why do you want to date him? Why now?"

"Isn't that a rather personal question?"

"You want to know where he lives. Isn't that also a rather personal question?"

"Touché."

"So. Why?"

"Truth?"

"It better be. I hold the cards, Mr. Malfoy."

"I'm well aware of that, Miss Granger."

"Good."

With a large sip of brandy, Draco gathered his convictions and told Granger exactly what she wanted to hear. "I saw him in Diagon Alley the other day and was immediately taken. I'd like to get the chance to know him."

"You had seven years of chances, Draco."

"Well, we were slightly busy back then being sworn enemies and all, now weren't we?"

"That's no excuse."

"Oh, isn't it? When has Harry ever not been flanked by you and the Weasel?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you wanted to date Harry back in school?"

"No. And we're getting off track. School is the past, Granger. I'm thinking in the present. I want to get to know Harry, and in order to do that, I have to be able to speak to him, face to face. Can you help me or not?"

"Not, I'm afraid."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not privy to his whereabouts, Draco. Only Ronald knows."

"Then why the charade, Granger?" Draco tried to keep his anger in check, but the sneer he couldn't help. Granger's only response was to shrug.

"You mean to tell me that the Weasel's his keeper?"

"Yes. And he takes his job very seriously."

Draco involuntarily rubbed at the bump on the back of his head, a token from Weasley himself. He did not want to speak with that sorry excuse for a male. He was just too...ginger.

"Well, this is a disaster."

"Hmm."

"We need more alcohol."

Draco and Hermione had a very wet lunch that day, indeed.

. . .

That night, a rather sloshed Hermione Granger slipped into bed with an already asleep Ronald Weasley.

"Ron," she whispered, tickling him behind his ear.

"What?"

"Draco Malfoy wants to date Harry."

"What!?" Ron sat straight up in bed, his eyes bulged out and bleary. Behind him, an amused Hermione chuckled against the pillows.

"You heard me."

"No, I didn't. That was a nightmare. Surely."

"Nope."

"How the hell do you know this?"

"He told me. Today at lunch."

"What!?" Ron was now standing beside the bed, his hands on his hips. Soon he would start pacing the carpet, his face growing redder with each pass.

"Draco's a ponce? When the hell did Draco become a ponce? And why...oh, piss it."

"Don't use that word, Ron."

"What word?"

"Oh, please. Get over it. Draco wants to date Harry. I think it's sweet, in a way."

"Are you serious, woman!?"

"Very."

"Wait. Why are you telling me this?" Ron's face suddenly took on a look of curious apprehension.

"I want you to arrange for Harry and Draco to meet."

"No! Absolutely not. Have you gone daft?"

"Ron, sit down."

Like an obedient dog reacting to his master's voice, Ron sat straight down, landing himself on the floor in the process. He attempted to stand again, but one look from Hermione and he stayed put with a grumble.

"What?"

"Harry has been through a lot, Ron. And while I'm extremely supportive of him, and the way he's attempting to handle his condition, I think it's time for us to stop hiding him. It's like coddling, we have to stop."

"We most certainly do not! He's not a baby, Hermione. He's living on his own the way he wants to. Who are we to judge that?"

"We're enabling his neuroses, Ronald. That is not helping, that's hindering."

"It's not for us to decide that."

"Well, I am deciding for him, anyway. And you're going to help."

Ron slept on the floor that night, having conjured a pillow from a musty old sock he found underneath the bed. Hermione was too angry to be near. He preferred the chill of the floor to the chill of his woman's cold shoulder next to him in bed.

"Owl him, Ron," Hermione said over her coffee the next morning as she read The Prophet.

In fact, it was the only thing she said to him all day. Apparently, the cold shoulder was going to continue if Ron didn't pay Harry a visit or send him a letter very soon.

Fine. Two could play at that game. Ron would not give in to such things. Harry was free to live his life as he wanted, and if he wanted to hide himself away till he was a hundred and fifty years old, Ron would support him.

"Right." With a firm nod, Ron decided that he was not going to do what Hermione had told him. He was going to keep Harry hidden.

That was the whole point to Ron being his keeper, after all.

A week later, Ronald Weasley was still not sleeping in his own bed, and had one hell of a backache to remind him of that fact each time he attempted to sit at his desk. The only time Hermione ever spoke to him, day or night, was to tell him to speak to Harry.

Ron had also overheard several more fire-calls from Malfoy throughout the week, and wanted to stab his floating head with a red-hot poker each time his face would pop up in their hearth. What kind of spell did the bloody git have Hermione under, anyway? How had he convinced her that his intentions were honorable? Or even legitimate, for that matter!

But each time Hermione ended her conversations with the man, her convictions seemed that much more resolute. She was dead set on this arranged meeting, and was not going to budge. Ron knew from experience that she never would; she was too stubborn.

So, it was with a guilty conscience that on Sunday afternoon, Ronald Weasley knocked at the door of Harry Potter's home, secluded along the shores of the Solent Straight on the Isle of Wight.

"Ron."

"Hiya, Harry."

"Your face is red."

"Yes, well." Ron gave an awkward sort of gesture towards the inside of the house, and Harry stepped back from the threshold to let Ron in. Harry didn't bother waiting to close the door once Ron had entered, he merely walked on into the sitting room, leaving the door wide open behind him in his wake. Ron doubled back to shut it before quickly taking a seat.

"Right, I'll get right to it then. Hermione has developed a rather interesting friendship with an old school mate of ours."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Er..." Ron trailed off as he watched Harry check each of the windows, twisting a ring -- a hollowed out slice of dragon bone -- on his right pinkie each time he seemed satisfied with the view and moved onto the next.

Ron knew from experience that Harry was looking for any sign of a threat, and the whole ring bit was just another quirk he had picked up through the years since Voldemort's demise. Ron counted three twists whenever Harry moved on to survey the next window. He had always meant to ask why someone who felt such paranoia would willingly leave their front door open. Then again, he guessed Harry knew Ron would close it for him. Ron always made sure Harry felt safe, no matter where they were. It was his duty as a friend and Harry's keeper.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he refocused his attentions on his friend. This was going to be a rather surreal conversation, and Ron was going to need his wits about him.

. . .

Draco opened his front door with a shock.

"Potter?"

Harry tilted his head. "Are you questioning my last name or my existence?"

Despite his efforts, Draco couldn't find a scrap of sarcasm in the sentence. How odd.

"I didn't expect you to show up on my doorstep. I'm surprised, yes. But it's nice to see you." Draco stepped back to motion Harry inside. "Come in."

"No."

"What?"

"No. I'm here to tell you that whatever it is Ron was trying to get through to me yesterday translated as: you want to take me for a drink to talk?"

Draco blinked at the man's blunt delivery. "Yes. I do."

"Where?"

"Well, the place I was hoping to take you is by invitation only. I'd have to Apparate us both inside."

"I don't trust that."

"I can have the owner, Mr. Wilkinson, owl you, if you prefer?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Right then. Goodbye, Malfoy."

"Wait!" But Harry was gone with a pop before Draco could even reach out an arm to the man. He stared at where Harry had just been, slightly dazed and confused. Why was his manner so stiff? It sounded more as if he were scheduling a meeting than a date. It was only then that Draco realized they hadn't specified a time or day for said date and he cursed into the chill of the night before shutting his door.

A small peck at the window made him turn. There, sitting on the sill was a large, black owl -- something Draco had never seen -- and even though he'd never admit it out loud, he was rather intimidated by the grand bird.

Nevertheless, he let the bird in and moved it to a perch by the fire. The owl stuck out its leg and watched Draco intently the entire time he read the small note.

Malfoy,

I hate the public, and only make trips out on Tuesdays. Pick a time for Tuesday next. I'll knock at your door.

H.

Draco read the letter several times, furrowing his brow at the short, clipped sentences and strange style to the handwriting.

Hermione had not been joking when she'd mentioned that Harry had a few quirks, Draco was beginning to realize. Harry had always been a bit of a mystery, but Draco had always assumed that he'd be somewhat easy to decipher if given the chance to speak with him in a civil manner face to face.

Perhaps not.

Since Draco had wondered about Harry's opinion of their impending meeting, he had sent several packages to Harry in the interim between seeing him at his door and Tuesday night. He wanted to make sure Harry knew of his intentions. He might have wanted to hex the man into the next century during their time together at school, but the five years since had been a time of growth and change for the blond man, and he wasn't about to make exceptions for Harry Potter. If he was going to try and win Harry's favor, he was going to do it right. Certain Malfoy traits would never leave him, and one of those was pride in one's convictions.

So, on Thursday evening -- the day after their strange conversation -- Draco sent Harry a book on dragonhide fashions. He'd admired Harry's jacket the two times he'd seen the man in the garment, and wanted to show him that he could be an observant, thoughtful sort of fellow.

On Friday morning, the book was returned to Draco by the same intimidating black owl.

Malfoy,

I already have a copy. You should keep yours.

H.

Draco frowned. Did Harry not get anything? With a huff, Draco went down to the shops to find some other trinket for the man. One he did not own, and one he'd appreciate.

And, hopefully, not return.

Chuckling to himself as he popped back into his foyer, Draco shed his jacket and sat down feeling extremely satisfied. There was no way Harry would have a bottle of what Draco had found: a very rare and quality type absinthe with a fermented form of dragon's blood used in place of the Muggle-banned wormwood. Silly Muggles and their laws. Wormwood was perfectly safe when used in the correct ways, but regardless, Draco had always preferred Wizarding spirits.

The next morning, however, the black owl was back at Draco's sill. Draco frowned at the bird and did not let him in from the frigid cold when he plucked the note from its leg.

Malfoy,

Do you have a dragon fetish? It would make sense with your name, I suppose.
This drink is illegal in seven countries.

H.

Draco shoved a hand into his bed-mussed hair as his face screwed up into a contorted expression of frustration. Could Potter be more oblivious? Merlin!

Sitting down at his mother's antique writing desk, Draco ripped a sleeve of parchment from his stores and penned a letter back to Potter without even bothering to go over it before he tied it to the black owl's leg and sent him on his way.

Draco, as a rule, tried not to lose his temper anymore. He'd wasted enough energy in his youth frowning and scowling. It had done years worth of damage to his skin, and he would not allow his face to age prematurely. He was just too attractive for such things.

So, with a deep sigh of meditation, Draco stood as still as a board to let the emotions pass. He would not let Harry get to him. He would brush it aside and go find something that Harry could appreciate. Dammit.

That evening, Draco slumped down onto his bed, exhausted. He'd gone to the world's most infamous broom maker, Theodor King, to beg a broom from him.

Correction, Malfoys never begged. Draco merely asked kindly with an extreme amount of charm, and was then dragged through a boot camp of sorts to make sure that he was worthy of such a broom.

Theodor was a recluse and a renegade. He also happened to make the fastest brooms in the Wizarding World and was sought after like a pre-teen pop-star by the top Quidditch teams. His wait time for ordering was over 3 years, but Draco had managed to persuade a broom out of him with his determination and one hell of a withdrawal from his Gringotts vault in one day. He'd had the broom polished, wrapped, and sent off to Potter before returning to his home. He was most pleased with himself...if not dead on his feet.

At five o'clock on Sunday morning, the black owl showed up on Draco's windowsill once again, and pecked on the glass until Draco crawled out of bed.

He wrenched open the window with a grumble and fumbled to detached the note from the owl's leg. Draco was really starting to hate the sight of that damn owl.

"You better have brought me good news, bird."

The owl hooted and turned his back to him. Great.

Malfoy,

You sounded stressed in your last letter. Are you strained for any reason?

There was a broom sitting on my front stoop this morning. Is that your doing? I don't open packages that large, as a rule. I had it sent to the Ministry for a curse scan.

Do you mean to give me such a thing as a gift? That's rather extravagant of you. Then again, that's always been your style, hasn't it?

Thank you for the broom but please stop sending things. You're confusing my owl.

H.

Draco counted backwards from twenty with slow, deliberate breaths. He paused several times to tamp down another flare up of anger before continuing.

He'd sent. The broom. To the Ministry! Merlin, it wouldn't be back in his hands for months. Months! And a full curse scan of an object could be damaging. If that thing were harmed in any way he'd have someone's testicles preserved, mounted, and sent home as a keepsake.

After meditating for a full hour, Draco dragged himself back to bed. He was tired of trying to impress Harry. He would do better to get a good amount of rest before their date on Tuesday. He'd need it.

So it was on Tuesday evening that a very well rested and impeccably dressed Draco Malfoy opened his door to an equally impressive Harry Potter. Harry, on the other hand, did not look well rested at all, with dark circles around his green eyes, and his hair just as messy as ever, except now it fell in long chunks down around his shoulders and back. His mussed hair and tired eyes did not detract from Draco's attraction to the man. On the contrary, the sudden surge of lust that radiated through Draco had him moving behind the door to usher Harry inside, wanting to hide his rather prominent arousal.

He made a quick mental note: a bedroom-eyed, sex-haired Harry Potter was a very dangerous, dangerous thing for Draco's trouser zipper. He'd have to remind his tailor to reinforce his pant fronts if his relationship with Harry were to continue past this evening.

"Did Mr. Wilkinson get in touch with you?"

"Yes. I trust where you're taking me."

"Good. Shall we?"

Draco held out his arm, not wanting to prolong things. Harry took the proffered arm as if he were entangling himself in a bit of Devil's Snare, but Draco ignored the slight and popped them into the dimly lit bar with a flourish. He was happy to note the delicious squeeze of pressure Harry gave around Draco's arm before he disentangled himself, and he smiled at the slight flush he saw on Harry's cheeks.

Draco had made sure that the number of patrons were kept sparse for the evening. He'd listened to what Hermione had said about Harry's hatred of crowds -- and severe mistrust of people in general -- and paid Mr. Wilkinson a pretty galleon to make sure that his guest was kept comfortable.

They two men were ushered to a private booth in the back of the dimly lit space with heavy curtains pulled to the side, exposing an expensive, cracked-oak table and decorative hookah used as a centerpiece. Draco had requested this table specifically for the added benefit of privacy provided by the curtains.

Harry looked horrified at their presence.

"Is something wrong?" Draco asked Harry, wanting to place his hand on Harry's lower back but ignoring the urge.

"Were you planning to trap me?"

Harry's eyes darted from curtain to curtain, taking in any added magical adornments and trying to detect spells or magical signatures for clues. Draco followed Harry's line of sight and quickly reassured him that they were only there for privacy, nothing else. A rather terrified looking Mr. Wilkinson was fast to agree, wanting the esteemed Harry Potter to enjoy his establishment more than he wanted his wife to stop cheating on him with the chef.

After several minutes of all three man standing in an odd limbo while Harry muttered unintelligible things underneath his breath, the eccentric man opened his green eyes and stalked forward, taking a seat in the booth with determination. Draco took a moment to compose himself and sat next to him with a smile.

"Your demeanor has changed." Harry said, by way of starting up a conversation.

"Yes. I've been living my life the way I want to live it. Many things have changed about me."

Harry nodded and sniffed at the bottle of water that had been placed on the table.

"What are you looking for?" Draco asked with a smile, hoping to add some humor to Harry's behavior.

"Threats."

Draco nodded, at a loss.

"You too," he said, a minute or so later after Harry had deemed the water drinkable, "seem...changed."

"Working with dragons will do that to you."

"Oh, is that where you've been all this time?"

Harry looked to Draco with a sideways glance before nodding once. "Yes, Romania."

"I'll have to go there sometime."

"Why?"

"Well, it's worked wonders on you." Draco complimented, gesturing up and down Harry's body with his eyes.

"Compliments are cheap."

"Nothing is cheap if done correctly. I'm not an idle flatterer, Harry. Trust me."

"I don't trust anyone."

"Not even Ronald or Hermione?"

Harry's eyes became hard. "What is this, Malfoy?"

"What do you mean?"

"This." He slammed his hand on the table. Mr. Wilkinson gave a squeak, as he was just about to put a selection of aperitifs for tasting on the table, and quickly ran off.

"I believe those were our drinks, but if you mean the surroundings: this is a very exclusive bar catering to the Nouveau Riche of the Wizarding World."

"That's not what I meant."

"I'm just attempting to make conversation."

"Why?"

"Because, I'd like to get to know you as you are now. Hogwarts is in the past."

Harry eyed Draco for a half second more before flagging down the terrified Mr. Wilkinson from his corner where he'd been hiding.

"We need alcohol for this," was the only explanation Harry gave. Draco smiled.

Two hours, and many drinks later, the two men were flying high and had unintentionally leaned closer together throughout their meandering conversation.

"You got a Horntail to eat you out of your palm!?"

"Well, it was half a goat, and I was holding it in both hands, but yes, it ate from my hand."

Draco shook his head, appropriately amazed at such a feat. When he noticed Harry twisting the small white ring on his finger for the fifth time that evening, he reached out and placed his palm over Harry's, stilling the movement. Harry's head jerked.

"Why do you do that?" Draco asked.

"What?"

Harry's eyes were glassy, dazed. He'd certainly had plenty to drink.

"Twist that ring around your finger?"

"Oh, it's a...habit."

"I can see that, but why?"

"You ask too many questions, Draco."

"I'm a curious man, Harry. Does the ring mean something to you? Was it a gift?"

A flush crossed Harry's face before he turned his head away from Draco's intense eyes. He did not like appearing vulnerable in front of anyone. Draco had seen Harry's change in demeanor and his curiosity doubled.

"Ah, so it was a gift."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Draco swallowed down his next comment, having heard the bitter tone in his voice. Harry had also picked up on it and laughed at the absurdity.

"You're jealous of a Weasley."

Harry folded into himself with a bout of quite laughter, holding his sides for support and letting his hair cover his reddened face. Draco looked at him with a raised eyebrow, prickling at Harry's behavior.

"I was never jealous of that little girl you ran around with in school. Don't flatter yourself."

This only made Harry laugh harder, and he slapped the table with his hand, making the many glasses festooning the old wood, jump. "I don't mean Ginny," he managed to wheeze out between chuckles.

Draco's eyes bulged in his head. Who on earth could he mean? Surely, not Ron. He and Hermione were together. Then again, there was that little detail that Draco had been wondering about: they weren't married. Could this be why?

"Merlin."

"Ha! Nope, not him, either."

"You and...Ronald?"

Harry's laughter was cut short by a hiccuped cough. "What?"

"Is that why Hermione hasn't married the poor sod?"

"What on earth are you talking about? The ring is from Charlie."

Draco had just been taking a sip of a rather fine brandy when Harry had uttered those words, and suddenly found his sip of said brandy sprayed all over a bewildered Mr. Wilkinson who was placing a tray of finger-foods in front of the gentlemen.

Harry started laughing again, Mr. Wilkinson was apologizing profusely to everything around him -- including the curtains -- and Draco had turned a distinct shade of crimson from embarrassment and the need to hold back his anger.

Charlie Weasley? Harry had had a relationship...with Charlie Weasley?

The amount of jealousy that shot through him at such an image was ridiculous, irrational, completely unacceptable of a Malfoy. Malfoys didn't get jealous, they just simply got whatever it was that they wanted. But this? Charlie...the renegade of the Weasley clan. He tamed dragons, lived life on the outskirts of society, was rugged, brooding, mysterious. He was the perfect match for Harry.

Oh, how annoyingly coincidental, Draco thought. Even the tone inside his head was bitter.

Draco pinched his fingers between the bridge of his nose, feeling deflated.

But then, something shocked him out of his stupor faster than he could readily take in. A hand: a warm, strong hand snaking around the curve of his thigh and clutching tight, making him jump in his seat.

"What's got you so stressed, Malfoy?"

Despite the use of his last name, Draco closed his eyes with a groan as he felt the words drift past his ear. Harry was suddenly right next to him, breathing hot, little pants across his neck.

Well, this evening has surely taken a turn, he thought.

"I'm having trouble picturing it."

"Picturing what?" Harry asked with mock concern in his voice.

"You and..."

"Ah. That." Harry flicked his wrist and his hand went from being clutched around Draco's thigh to another part of his anatomy that was very much in need of some attention. Draco bit back a moan at the contact.

"What can't you picture? The stress? The work? The need to relax and get rid of the pent up adrenaline that pumped through our veins every day?"

With each emphasised word, Harry popped open another button on Draco's trousers.

"Do you know what it's like taking your life in your hands like that? Can you imagine the rush?"

Harry's fingers were teasing around the covered head of Draco's arousal. With each second Harry touched him, Draco's will was being tested. He magicked the curtains closed and prayed to Merlin that Mr. Wilkinson would leave them alone for a good, long while.

"Not really," Draco said, gulping down the thickness in his throat.

"It's an acquired taste," Harry whispered in Draco's ear, eliciting a shudder. His erection was poking out above the waistband of his pants, and Harry was deftly stroking it with a very skilled hand. Draco wanted to scream.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

"I'm distracting you from your troubles." Harry then leaned over and sucked the head of Draco's cock into his mouth. Draco's hips jumped and cutlery and plates clanged on the table top.

"Shh."

Draco bit his lip and closed his eyes to the image before him. Harry Potter was sucking his cock...in a restaurant...on their first date! Which might not actually be considered their first date in Harry's eyes since he'd been acting rather distant all evening.

Harry worked fast to swallow Draco's entire length down his throat and somehow managed to lick his balls simultaneously. Draco had never felt anything akin to such a sensation in all his life and swore that he would have died happily in that moment if he had been asked.

Covering up a strangled whimper by biting his hand, Draco reasoned that Harry certainly wasn't being distant anymore. But why? What the hell had changed to cause such a reaction from him?

A slurping sound followed by a pop and a whoosh of suction made him look down to see intense, green eyes glaring back at him.

"You're not relaxing, Draco."

"Right."

Harry laughed and swallowed Draco down his throat again, having taken his stupid one word answer as assurance that he would relax. Strong hands massaged the bunched up muscles of Draco's thighs and he started to unwind himself on instinct.

"That's it."

Harry's soft encouragements and the slurps and swirls of suction as he worked over Draco's cock was a surreal combination. He wanted to touch him, to run his hands through that silky black hair, but he held back.

That is, until Harry's hand clasped Draco's and guided it to his own head. Draco's eyes widened, amazed at the feel of Harry's hair and the ease with which he glided up and down Draco's cock.

"You're beautiful," Draco whispered, watching Harry's messy, shiny hair flow and fall around his face as he moved, his green eyes looking up to Draco's with a darkening gaze that drove the blond man wild.

When Harry moaned, long and deep around him, Draco's hips jerked upward and his stomach dropped, a tight coil twisting to the breaking point.

"Harry!" he rasped, feeling so on edge it was painful.

"Hmmm," was the only answer Harry gave, and Draco thrust up again, hitting the back of Harry's throat without apology. Harry took it, and more.

Shoving his hands onto Draco's hips, Harry slipped to the floor between his knees and leveraged himself over Draco's lap, not once disconnecting the suction of his mouth. Draco was scared he'd self-combust.

"Please!" He whisper-screamed, his head thrown back, eyes shut tight. He was begging while his hands twisting into the silken strands of Harry's jet black hair, and he didn't care. He just wanted to come. So. Badly.

With a final moan and a dip of Harry's head, Draco exploded down his throat, writhing beneath the strong hold Harry had on his hips, panting out into the air, too blissed to really let go and cry out. Why hadn't he cast a silencing charm? Oh right, his cock was being sucked and he was too far gone to even think let alone cast.

Slumping down with an appalling lack of posture, Draco opened his eyes to stare down at Harry, kneeling between his thighs with a curious smile on his face. Draco ran his hands through his hair, hoping it was enough of an apology for clutching it so tight earlier.

"You're amazing," he said, feeling dazed and perfect. Harry stood, brushing off his dragonhide jacket tails as he went.

"Right, should we get the bill?" Harry said matter-of-factly, and Draco blinked at him, confused.

"Sure?"

Leave it to Harry sodding Potter to render Draco Malfoy less than eloquent.

Before Draco could appropriately right himself, Harry had drawn back the curtains and flagged down Mr. Wilkinson. To Draco's horror, Harry pulled out the galleons needed to pay the bill and stood without so much as looking once in Draco's direction.

Scrambling to find a way to keep him from disappearing, Draco blurted, "Do you not want to stay and eat?"

Harry smirked at him. "I already have."

And with a crack, he was gone, Apparating to Merlin knows where and leaving Draco behind.

"Would you be needing anything else, Mr. Malfoy?" a squeaking Mr. Wilkinson asked. Draco scowled and shook his head.

As he crawled into bed that night, confused, frustrated and entirely unsated -- despite the insanely intense orgasm he'd had at the lips of one Harry Potter earlier that evening -- he found himself determined.

Draco would get another date with Harry Potter. And next time, he'd be the one smirking at the end of the evening.

. . .

Part 2

. . .

"Good God, Draco, you look horrible."

"Charming, Hermione."

She smirked at the disgruntled man floating in the fire of her hearth. "Thank you. How did last night go?"

"Which part?" Draco scoffed.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. The part where he thought I was trying to trap and poison him in some elaborate scheme, or the other where he sucked my cock down his throat at the table and then walked away afterwards without so much as a goodbye?"

Hermione gasped. "What?!"

"I hate repeating myself."

"I'm going to kill him."

Draco blinked, confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm going to kill him. People aren't just play things for him to toss around, you know?" She was yelling, throwing her hands up in the air and pacing across the threadbare carpet in front of the grate. "For years he's done this. Ever since him and Charlie ended, he's been so...odd when it comes to men."

"You do know I'm still here, right?"

"Oh, right. Look, Draco. Harry's changed."

"Really? I hadn't picked up on that."

"Shut up. He has. He's confused and bizarrely spoiled by his hermit lifestyle. He's gotten too used to just running away and hiding again after poking his head out of the sand for a minute or two."

Draco nodded. Whether he was agreeing or encouraging her to continue, he didn't know.

"I've been wanting to push him, but Ron is being a prat and insisting that I leave him be. But that's just pathetic, now isn't it?"

It was a rhetorical question, so Draco just waited for her to finish.

"I can't do it, Draco, but you can. Push him. Make him do something he's not comfortable with. Just...get him out of his own goddamn head for once!"

"Shouldn't we err on the side of caution when it comes to his head?" Draco had been admitting to himself more and more that Harry's quirks were extensive.

"No. He's just stunted. Nothing else is wrong with him. His habits are learned, and we've been allowing them to fester the longer we let him hide."

"I don't know where he is Hermione, I can't very well track him down."

"No, but you can owl him."

Draco snapped his mouth shut, point taken.

"So, what are you waiting for?"

"My hangover to go away?"

"Don't."

Hermione turned away from the hearth before he could offer a retort and Draco found himself staring into the empty living room of the Granger-Weasley residence.

"Why on earth haven't these two gotten married yet?" he mumbled.

"Because it never felt right with Harry in hiding," a man's voice echoed from a corner. Draco craned his neck into the room to see a rumpled looking Ron sitting in his pajamas and sipping from a chipped tea cup in an old wing-back chair. Hermione must not have seen him.

Ron looked up a moment later to meet Draco's eyes. "I'd want him at the wedding, for the both of us, and if he's off on the Isle of Wight counting the number of threads in his carpets or something, that really doesn't work, now does it?"

Draco stared at the tired looking man, feeling an odd sense of understanding well up in his chest. The poor sod was waiting for Harry's life to fall into place, and putting his own on hold in the process.

"You're a very loyal friend," Draco said and then disappeared from the flames before he could notice Ron's astonished expression or hear the gasp from Hermione's lips. She'd been listening to their short conversation from the kitchen, and walked into the living room with wide eyes once Draco had gone.

"Is that why?"

Ron nodded a heavy head very much in need of a haircut.

With emotion stinging the corners of her eyes, Hermione walked towards the man she loved and lowered herself onto his lap. He looked up at her with adoration and contentment, the way he always did, and let her kiss his sadness away.

"Soon," she whispered to him. "Soon."

. . .

Harry opened up his door after the third round of knocks. He was very particular about certain numbers, and preferred the number three above the rest. Seeing Hermione on the other side of the door proved his own point. She was a friend, after all.

"'Mione," Harry said, all smiles as he wrapped her in a tight hug.

She did not return his embrace.

"'Mione, what's wrong?"

"Owl Draco. Tell him you'll see him again."

"What?"

"You heard me. I miss you. I want to see you happy again. Talk to Draco."

Before Harry could even ask for more of an explanation than that, Hermione spun on the spot and Apparated away. Harry blinked at the place his friend had just been, confused and feeling slightly betrayed by the number three.

After closing his door -- and checking the windows as he spun the dragon bone ring on his pinkie thrice once he was satisfied with each -- he sat down at his kitchen table and summoned a quill and some parchment.

Draco,

I just had an interesting visit from Hermione. She told me to talk to you, and she was rather upset when she did it. I didn't know you two were in touch.

Where do you want to meet me?

H.

Draco read over the short and odd letter several times before placing it on his mother's writing desk and staring at it like a confused owl.

"He's the strangest bloke ever," he murmured. From the corner the clock dinged in agreement.

It'd been several days since Draco had had his talk with Hermione. He'd taken her advice and had attempted to owl Harry, but none of his notes were returned. He never expected Harry to get back in touch with him, or for Hermione to be so bold as to suggest it to Harry's face.

Scribbling back a quick reply, he sent the letter off with Harry's intimidating black owl and sat by the fire for the rest of the afternoon, contemplating.

Over the next day and a half, Harry and Draco exchanged several oddly strained bits of correspondence, only to agree to meet again on Tuesday next, when Draco would once again be taking him to someplace he didn't know.

A knock on Draco's door alerted him to the fact that Harry was five minutes early.

"You're early," Draco said as he greeted him.

"Am I? Huh."

Silence.

Draco flicked at a bit of invisible fluff on his suit coat before daring to ask Harry what he'd been wondering.

"Why'd you agree to this?"

"Hermione has a strange power over me."

Draco blinked at the deadpan delivery. "Seriously?"

"No." Harry shrugged. "I was curious, is all."

Draco gave himself a small, satisfied smile before stepping boldly towards Harry and wrapping him arms around him. At Harry's questioning expression, Draco said, "I'm taking you on an adventure. Hold tight."

With a bit of extraneous concentration, since Harry was smelling extremely appealing, Draco focused to Apparate them the three jumps they needed to get to their destination.

Draco relished the feel of Harry pressed against him, his dragonhide jacket cool against Draco's hands, and the hard planes of Harry's broad shoulders beneath them. With a pop they landed in a field of heather. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Several jumps are needed to make this trip," was the only explanation Draco gave before landing them in a back alley lit by a single gas lamp, and then finally, in a dark tunnel. Harry blinked against the lack of natural light, and Draco smiled as Harry's hands clasped tighter to his torso...his fingers digging into his sides with delicious pressure.

"Where are we?"

Harry's voice was gruff and strained, he wanted to assess his surroundings for threats, but there were no entrances or exits he could clearly see. In fact, he couldn't see anything.

His right pinkie finger twitched.

"Lumos." Once the light was cast, Draco breathed a silent spell and swished his wand with a flourish. The light detached itself from the tip, only to bop slightly before them as if waiting. "That will lead the way."

"Where are we headed?"

"You'll see," Draco said with a grin. "Après vous."

Harry looked skeptical, but followed the light through a winding tunnel, covered in limestone dust and scattered with debris and Muggle cigarette butts. Compared to the last place Draco took him, this was most definitely a step down the class level. And judging by the dank air, a step down in sea level, too. They were rather deep underground, Harry guessed as the rest of his senses heightened themselves against the dimness of the light. He liked the darkness, though, and smiled at the odd bits of Muggle and Wizard graffiti he could see scrawled over the old stone walls.

The floating light lead Harry down several pathways that left him feeling disoriented and unsteady on his feet, even with his hard-earned, sharpened instincts.

With a sudden turn, the light was sucked into an overhang that led into what appeared to be a room. Harry tilted his head, and after drawing his wand, followed. What he saw upon entry astounded him.

"Welcome to Les Carrières de Paris. This is known as the Castle Room," Draco announced.*

"It's Hogwarts," Harry breathed out, shocked. There, before him, was a freestanding, replica sculpture of his old school in all its pre-war glory. It had been carved from the very limestone he stood upon, and was illuminated by a candlelit chandelier dangling from the cave room's soot-covered ceiling.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

"It's amazing," Harry said, tracing his fingers over the shingles of the tiny, carved astronomy tower. Draco plucked his hand away from the turret, and simultaneously away from the memories, to brush it with his lips.

"I wanted you to see this. I knew you'd appreciate it."

"How'd you know I'd missed it?"

"We grew up there, Harry. We all miss the way it was. Even me." Draco smiled at him through the candlelight, and Harry felt one more brick fall from his resolve. Hogwarts had never been the same since the war; Harry had never gone back. Nothing felt right after the war, the magical signature of the castle walls had forever been changed, and the loss of Dumbledore was even more apparent whenever he thought of his first, true home being so altered. Seeing it again, in perfectly rendered tangibility made him swell with both happiness and loss. Their childhood had been so long ago, and yet, he could still feel the sheets of his old bed in his dorm room against his skin, like a ghost brushing past his memory.

Harry had buried so much emotion from that time. He'd squashed any memory that brought forth negative or uncomfortable feelings to the surface, he preferred to hide behind his compulsive tendencies and ignore everything from his past.

"What does it look like now?" He asked.

"It's mostly the same."

"But not like this."

"No. Magic is permanent sometimes, and parts of Hogwarts will never be the same."

"How'd you do it, Draco?"

"Do what?"

"Forget the past."

"I prefer to live in the present." It was as honest an answer Draco could give.

"That simple?"

"No, but what is?"

Harry nodded, his melancholy overcoming him. Draco led him to a small carved out bench in one of the cave walls, and sat down next to him. He didn't know how to handle this side of Harry. Harry, who was normally so guarded and odd, was now contemplative and silent. Draco found that he wanted to solve the puzzle of this new Harry Potter more than ever.

"Let's go," he said, standing. "I've got more to show you down here."

"Really?"

"The catacombs are extensive, Harry. Have you never studied European history?"

"Not recently, no."

"Well, come on then."

They passed several Muggles on their trek throughout the caves and tunnels. Draco did his best to ignore them, but they stared at his and Harry's strange fashions regardless. One even asked to take a picture of Harry -- citing a love for his mysterious look -- much to his horror. Draco intercepted by hexing him with an itching spell. It made it impossible for the man to hold his Muggle camera steady, and Draco dragged a slightly panicked Harry deeper into the Paris underground.

Harry's reaction to meeting only a few people made Draco nervous for what he was about to expose him too. He'd hoped Harry would be able to lose himself in the surreal surroundings, and more importantly, in Draco's arms, but the run-in with the Muggles made him unsure.

The further they went into the tunnels, the louder the soft pulse of a bass beat grew, until it magnified into a full on cacophony of sound. Under a low hanging entrance, dotted with a skull over the threshold, lay an open, vaulted room, filled to the brim with bodies. Candles floated above them, illuminating the ancient pillars and vaults; seats were carved out of the stone walls, hiding couples doing much more than griding to a beat, and flashes of colored light shot through the air, accompanying the rhythms of the music. If the Wizarding World were ever to have a 'rave' scene, this would be it.

Harry stared at what was revealed before them, both awed and terrified. Draco immediately tried to distract him.

"Dance with me."

"I don't dance, Draco," Harry said, retreating backwards into the darkness.

"Can you move your hips?"

Harry never once took his eyes off the room filled with people. "Yes."

Draco caught up to him easily in the narrow tunnel, and wrapped his arms around Harry's slim waist. "Then just do that."

"Not in there."

"Too many people?"

"They're everywhere." Harry's throat began to close and dark spots shot through the corners of his vision.

"But I've got you."

"No. I can't."

"Shh," Draco shushed Harry's nerves with a kiss. It was tentative and cautious, not wanting to spook him further. Harry backed up, sputtering out his shock.

"Draco, what are you doing?"

"Kissing you."

"Why?"

"You suck me off but I'm not allowed to kiss you? Have I not made my intentions incredibly obvious since the beginning?"

"To constantly take me out of my comfort zone and drive me into semi-panic attacks?"

Draco's mood soured. He'd been patient and careful around Harry, taking his quirks into account with everything he did. He had thought Harry could handle the caves since people could so easily hide themselves in the darkness. There was also a small part of himself that thought Harry was overreacting slightly in his neurosis, but his actions before him now were nothing if not sincere.

Draco's shoulders slumped. Apparition had taken a lot out of him, and now that he was second guessing everything, his brain stung with the pangs of self-doubt. He hated feeling insecure, it was a weakness he didn't tolerate. And the mind-bend Harry was putting over on him was really starting to test his patience.

"What was that the other night, then?"

"What was what?"

"You sucked me off! You got down on your knees -- in the fucking restaurant, no less -- and sucked me dry."

Harry just stared. "Did you not enjoy it?"

"Of course I did!"

Harry shrugged. "Okay then." He had moved to lean against the tunnel wall. His hips jutted forward and his head tilted back with his dark hair falling over his shoulders. A few strands were scattered across his forehead, hiding his scar, and his eyes were closed. The pose was casual, but Draco caught the slight frown in Harry's features and the tight clasps of his fists; he was probably trying to shut out the sound of all the people through the stone wall.

Draco's observations did nothing to quell his growing frustrations, however. Harry had spoken of Draco's experience the other night as if it were just a one-off, something he did everyday, like having a bath.

It infuriated him.

"What do I have to do?"

The question was posed in a desperate whisper more to himself than to Harry, but he answered just the same.

"To what?"

"To make you realize that I bloody want you for more than just a quick suck underneath a fucking table!"

Draco turned on his heel and practically dove in the throng of bodies in the vaulted room. He didn't have any particular aversion to people, except for the fact that most of them annoyed the every living shit out of him, but regardless, he was going to enjoy himself, Potter be damned.

Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, he breathed in the heady perfumes drifting through the air, no doubt picking up a contact-high from the many smoke swirls choking the vaulted cave. He didn't care, he wanted it. He wanted to lose himself and forget all about Harry Potter and his odd, unfeeling actions, his strange quirks, and that god damned ring on his finger that he twisted whenever he was feeling particularly paranoid.

Sod his paranoia, Draco was going to enjoy himself. Potter could fend for himself, or forever be lost in the endless labyrinth of tunnels that made up the Paris underground. Whichever, it didn't matter to him.

A sense of haze overtook Draco the more he danced and breathed and moved into the bodies on the floor. He stayed closed off to the people around him, not searching out a partner, but probably wouldn't pass up the chance if one came along.

Just then, a pair of strong hands grabbed Draco's hips and pulled him back into a hard body, and an even harder cock. Draco teased the man and ground his ass back into him, feeling his breath on his neck.

"J'ai envie de toi," the Frenchman said, and Draco laughed out, cynical and cruel. Of course he did, everyone wanted him, except Potter.

Draco lifted his arms behind his head, holding the man to his neck as he licked and sucked at the sensitive skin. Wanting the lovely attentions to continue, Draco tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his throat to his partner, and moaning when the man bit down slightly, sucking the skin through his teeth. He'd leave a mark, but Draco would spell it away later. No one ever marked him. Not again.

When the man's hands starting roaming Draco's body, teasing down his chest and brushing over his ribs towards to the V of his hips, Draco arched into him, moaning out in delight. He loved being caressed and held, and was too dazed to care who currently did the holding.

Or groping, in this case.

He opened his eyes at the sound of a low, rumbling growl, and gasped at the sight. Harry was standing before him, not five feet away, fury painted across his every feature.

His fists were clasped so tight they appeared white in the darkness, and his eyes -- partially hidden beneath the mess of his wild hair -- blazed with green-tinted ire as he took in the scene before him. Draco's fingers were still tangled in the hair of his partner and Harry had a mind to pull out each strand of that brown-colored mop with meticulous attention, until the man screamed for mercy.

Having witnessed the sight of Harry before him, the Frenchman's hold on Draco tightened, trying to stake claim on something he never had in the first place. Draco chuckled at the display, knowing that he'd never have gone home with him. The Frenchman repeated his earlier statement, whispering it harshly into Draco's ear, but Draco wasn't listening, he was watching Harry.

With a calculated effort, so controlled he amazed even himself, Harry Potter held out a hand to Draco Malfoy, his palm upturned in invitation.

Draco stared, blinking at the outstretched hand, and wondering if Harry was aware of the symbolism in such a gesture. Oh, how the tables had turned.

Another tug on his hips and Draco was brought out of his memories, back to the crowded cavern, and the man behind him. He turned in his arms, and whispered in his ear with a smirk clear in his voice, "Je suis pris," before shoving him away.

As the Frenchman was engulfed by the sea of bodies, Draco felt Harry encircle him in his arms, his chin curving over Draco's shoulder possessively. "I didn't like seeing that."

His voice was harsh and cold, but his hands were hot and holding Draco tight. Draco closed his eyes against the mixed sensations, suddenly feeling too much.

"Seeing what?" Draco asked.

"Someone else touch you."

"Oh? And why is that?"

Harry spun Draco in his arms, turning him to face him; he was not amused.

"Do you know how hard this is?" Harry growled, digging his fingers into Draco's side. He arched into the sting of nails almost breaking his skin through the fabric of his shirt. "How badly I want to scream right now?"

"Because of all the people?"

"Yes!" Harry hissed and Draco closed his eyes at the sound.

"I'm sorry, Harry...I -- "

"Why?"

Draco blinked at him. He wanted him to explain?

"Why did you bring me here? Why do you care so damned much? I did what I did the other night 'cause it felt good. I act on instinct. It's all I know."

"So when you saw me with that man?"

"I wanted to rip his fucking hands off."

Draco smiled, feeling an extreme sense of satisfaction despite Harry's strain.

"Then why did you pretend like nothing had happened?"

"I took that night for what it was."

"Which is?"

"Nothing!" Harry spat out, slapping Draco with the word as if he'd been fully hexed from head to toe. Draco's eyes narrowed and his hands grabbed at Harry's lapels, hauling him closer so he could curse right in his face.

"Fuck. You. You know it was more than that."

Harry didn't respond, he merely breathed out through his nose, his hands gripping Draco's hips so tight, he knew he'd be bruised come morning.

"You act on instinct, you say? Fine. Then let's examine your instincts, Potter." Draco grabbed the back of Harry's neck and latched his mouth to his, instantly seeking out what had been denied him. He wanted to taste Harry, feel his tongue pushing against his, and wrap himself around him so fully, he'd never be untangled.

The moment Draco's tongue touched Harry's bottom lip, Harry opened his mouth to him, practically drinking him in. Draco felt a moan vibrate through Harry, and his entire body shivered as a result. He moved his hips into Harry's, feeling the rigid hardness there, and smiled into the kiss.

When Draco was satisfied that Harry was nothing but a standing puddle of molten lava, he pulled back and stepped away, breaking all contact with the man. Harry's eyes went from dazed to furious within seconds.

"Come back."

"No."

Draco knew Harry wouldn't reach for him. His pride, or paranoia -- insanity -- whatever it was that held him back from being fully human, would keep him rooted to the spot in front of Draco. The grinding throng of bodies around them went unnoticed as Draco waited, and Harry seethed.

"Come. Back." His voice was a lethal growl, and uncontrolled magic pumped out of him in a vibrating shimmer of light. It engulfed them in some kind of an electric bubble and Draco felt a shock run up his spine at the implications of how much power Harry could wield, but he held firm. He wouldn't budge.

"What are your instincts telling you now?"

Harry's nostrils flared. Draco was taunting him, and he knew it.

"What are they saying, Harry? Miss me? Want me?"

With a grunt, Harry stepped forward. One deliberate, and extremely stiff step. His hands remained at his sides. Only inches were left between them.

"I play for keeps, Harry," Draco warned, not wanting to go through the feeling of rejection he'd experienced at Harry's hands again.

"I hoard what's mine." Harry's voice was strained.

"I'm not yours."

That caused a reaction. The veins in Harry's neck bulged as his eyes dilated to dark pools before him. Harry might not be able to recognize that he felt something for Draco, but his actions were speaking loud and clear. Draco smirked, egging him on.

"Or am I?" Draco tilted his head to the side in a teasing way, his hands falling to the belt of his trousers. "Don't run from me. Don't ignore me. Don't pretend I'm an easy fuck. I'm none of those things."

"What are you, then?"

"I'm willing to put up with all your shit to get to know you." Draco couldn't help the sardonic smile that came with his declaration when he saw Harry's lip twitch.

"I don't do relationships. I'm too fucked up."

"Yeah, and I don't chase either. But things change."

Harry's hand came into Draco's line of sight, no longer a fist, but a gentle, open palm that he placed on Draco's cheek. His eyes were still dark, confused and wild, but the outward push of magic he'd been exuding stopped.

He took another step forward.

"It's hard for me to trust people, Draco."

"I know."

"It's hard for me to even talk to people."

Draco nodded, wanting Harry to continue whatever kind of venting process this was. He also loved the feel of Harry's hand curling around Draco's neck, pulling him ever closer with his strength and force of will.

"I want to trust you."

"You can."

Harry shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"Nothing is, Harry."

They were nose to nose, leaning forehead against forehead, breathing in each other's air: mint and spice and man.

"You're serious? This whole thing isn't a game?"

"I don't play games anymore, Harry. I'm a grown up."

Harry laughed, short and sweet, making Draco smile despite his nerves. He felt as if they were on a precipice. Depending on how Harry titled with his next decision, they'd either fall over together into new, uncharted territory, or Draco would be left on the edge, unknowing and lost.

One final step and the centimeters separating them vanished. Neither man knew who closed the gap between them but as they touched, flush up against each other, as if sealed together, something in the air changed. It was as if a tangible sense of trust vibrated through the atmosphere. Harry knew Draco was sincere with his intentions, and Draco felt the resolve around Harry weaken, letting him in.

With a pop, Draco found himself in a dark, deserted public park dotted by trees and surrounded by water with the banks of the Seine flanking the little island on either side. He squeezed tighter to Harry before pulling back just enough to ask him where they were.

"La Pointe du Vert-Galant," Harry explain, his French accent harsh but shockingly accurate. Draco raised an eyebrow.

"You know French?"

"I spent a year in the south of France studying a Dragon Master's techniques. The old ass refused to speak English so unless I learned the language, I wasn't going to retain much information about dragons, now was I?"

Draco noted that Harry's mood swings from brooding, to dangerous, to humorous, to cocky were daunting to keep up with, and yet he found himself smiling at the infuriating man.

"You really like working with dragons, don't you?"

Harry nodded, "Of course. They're blunt, stoic creators. You earn their respect, you're not automatically given it -- even if you do have a wand. They don't expect anything of us, but once you gain their trust, they're undyingly loyal. Very few people are like that. Very few people ask that little of others and give so much in return."

"That's why you prefer to stay out of the public?"

"One of the reasons." Harry was quiet for a moment before he continued, his eyes looking out over the water. "Everyone seems to have a script for me to follow in their minds. When I don't do as scripted, they lash out. Always have. I'm just cutting them off before they do."

"I think I know exactly what you mean," Draco said, astonished how how easily he could relate to such a statement.

"I know you do."

Draco's head snapped up, staring at Harry for a good minute before releasing the tension he felt in his shoulders and leaning himself against the railing along the park's edge.

"Why did you agree to come out with me? The first time, I mean."

Harry tried to shrug the question off. "Ron told me to so he could go back to sleeping in his own bed."

"There's more to it than that."

"Yes, there is," Harry admitted. Before Draco could press the subject any further, Harry was grabbing his hand and Apparating them to smoke-filled pub that was mostly empty at the late hour.

"Where are we?" Draco asked for the second time that evening.

"The Isle of Wight."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"It's quiet here. I like it," Harry explained.

"It was quiet in the park. I liked it there better."

"Yes, but this is closer to my house. I don't like being off the island for too long. Plus, there's stout on tap." He pointed at the bar.

"You live here?"

"Close by, yes."

"You're endlessly surprising," Draco said, a slight sense of awe eclipsing his voice.

"Thank you."

Draco snorted. "And so humble, too."

"Pot meet Kettle."

"Touché."

"Harry?" Draco spoke up a minute or so later, after they'd settled at a table and their drinks had magically popped up in front of them.

"Hmm?" Harry had been studying the smoke swirls of the barman's pipe.

"Why did you do what you did? The other night, I mean."

"Suck your cock?"

Draco flinched at the way Harry's voice carried, but Harry didn't seem to care.

"Was it a test?" Draco asked.

"Yes."

Astonished, Draco sat back in his chair, feeling used. After gulping down his drink, he laughed out bitter and dark. "Did I pass?" It was meant to be cheeky and rhetorical. He didn't except the answer he was given.

"Yes."

Shaking his head, Draco asked for a refill, downed it, then asked for another. Harry watched him.

"You fuck with people's heads, you know that?" Draco's voice was more than a little bit harsh.

Harry merely nodded.

"Why?"

"It's not always intentional."

"But that night was. I don't appreciate being used."

"I'm not using you now."

The now in Harry's statement made Draco pause. He looked up from sipping at his fourth drink, and regarded the odd man in front of him. Harry met his stare head-on, almost in challenge.

"Why'd you bring me here? To a place so close to your home?"

Harry shrugged, not looking at Draco.

Draco smirked, making a snap decision. He stood abruptly and walked out of the bar into the cold night, looking up and down the street both ways before deciding on heading left and hoping it was the right direction. Harry didn't just do things for the hell of it -- not anymore. He was paranoid and neurotic; if he'd brought Draco to a pub close to his home, it was certainly for a reason.

Draco had made it several blocks before Harry jogged up to his side, his heavy breaths misting out in the air before them.

"Where are you going?"

"Your house."

"Oh?"

"Just waiting for you to take the lead."

Harry grabbed his arm to halt him mid-step. Draco wrenched his arm out of Harry's grip and crossed the cobblestone street without even a backward glance. Harry smiled at Draco's tactics, advancing towards him as the blond man ducked down a side alley. Before Draco knew it, he'd been tackled from behind and Apparated into a small, dark room with a very large, white bed.

"Counting on getting lucky?" Draco asked as they tumbled onto the bed, which he knew was a calculated effort. His satisfied smirk was threatening to turn into a full out grin as he looked up at Harry. Draco kept his triumph to himself, however, as he rolled Harry on the bed and pushed his arms down on either side of his head.

Leverage. It's all about leverage, Draco thought, but Harry's growl made him pause.

"Yes?"

"What makes you think I like to be pinned?" Harry challenged.

Draco smiled down at him. "Trust me." He stood up, leaving Harry on the bed beneath him, looking apprehensive, but staying still. Picking up one of Harry's legs from dangling over the side, he slowly started to undo the laces to his clunky Muggle boots. When he finished with the first foot, he moved on to the second.

"What are you doing?" Harry breathed out as Draco massaged the bottoms of his feet.

"Taking things slow."

And he did. For the next half hour Draco removed every piece of Harry's clothing, and rubbed out the sore muscles he found beneath each bit of fabric, massaging away Harry's hardened exterior as he went. By the time Draco had pried away the last of Harry's clothes, his body was relaxed and pliant, sinking into the bed like a rock in a river.

Draco kept his hands moving over Harry, but never touching what was so obviously hard and laying thick over Harry's stomach.

"Draco," he said, breaking in the silence. "Why..." Harry looked down and back up to him, silently asking why he was leaving his blatant arousal alone and straining for attention.

"I didn't want to assume," Draco explained and Harry almost snorted.

"I've let you strip me bare and stayed still the entire time. You think I'd tell you to stop now?"

Draco shrugged. "You're a peculiar man, Harry." The smile in his voice was evident.

"Oh, shut up and get down here." Harry grabbed Draco by the neck and pulled him down to kiss him, nibbling at his ear and biting along the skin of his throat.

He had no need for the clothes separating him from feeling Draco's smooth, pale skin, so he vanished Draco's robes with a single, wandless spell, only to have Draco scoff.

"You better be able to find wherever you vanished those to later. They're tailored."

Harry merely smirked. Draco attacked his chest and torso in retaliation, biting at Harry's nipples and massaging the deep set line of the V carving out Harry's hips.

"May I?" Draco asked, as his fingers brushed past Harry's straining erection and downward, seeking.

Harry's breath caught but he nodded, and Draco moved to kneel between Harry's thighs, his fingers teasing at the sensitive puckered skin between Harry's cheeks.

Without warning, Draco made another snap decision -- they'd worked to his advantage so far -- and sunk his mouth over Harry's erection, swallowing him whole. Harry cried out in shock and pleasure, twisting his hands into the sheets. Draco raised himself up and smiled down at Harry, encouraged.

Not wanting to rush things, Draco slowly worked at Harry's entrance with his fingers. He conjured up a small bottle, and carefully slicked Harry's skin with lubricant, teasing and coaxing him with patience.

Harry's moans and gasps of surprise were so enticing Draco felt his own arousal twitching madly for attention but he ignored it, and instead, leaned over to take Harry into his mouth again.

Draco liked to be heard in all manners of life -- not wanting to be forgotten in the background -- and the art of sucking cock was no different. With each slurp and pop of suction, Harry's body became more limp in his hands, and he found himself adding a second finger to the hand working at Harry's ass.

Draco enjoyed making noise, and hearing his partners come undone beneath him; Harry was proving to be the most satisfying of them all. His moans and grunts of pleasure were more erotic than Draco would willingly admit...for selfish reasons, of course. Seeing Harry so beautiful and unguarded before him was intoxicating, he'd never want to share.

Wanting to taste him again, Draco swallowed down Harry's cock, savoring the feel of the satin skin against his lips and burning across his tongue. The heat was incredible, and the pulsing veins he felt vibrating through him only made him want to gorge himself more on such perfection.

Harry, however, was straining to hold onto what little was left of his sanity. Whatever magic Draco was working on him was driving him to the brink. He couldn't control his breathing, or his body's reactions. When his hips bucked and he felt himself hit the back of Draco's throat, he was about ready to snap. His hands were twisted into Draco's hair, pulling it to the point of pain, but Draco didn't relent, teasing and sucking him into a frenzy.

Finally, Harry growled out in defeat and pushed Draco back, hissing at the loss he felt when Draco's fingers left him. "Lie back," Harry ordered, his voice thick and deep.

Draco let Harry push his hand down on his chest, molding him into the duvet around him. He looked up at Harry, confused and wanting, and Harry merely smiled down at him as he straddled his stomach.

Whispering several wandless spells, Harry reached back to guide Draco where he needed him.

"Don't go slow," was all Harry said before he took the length of Draco's cock inside him and screamed out at the sensation.

Both men closed their eyes and threw their heads back as they connected, stilling for a moment as Harry sat flush on Draco's hips, feeling every inch of Draco throbbing inside of him. Shocked and speechless, all Harry could do was lift himself up and slide back down, moaning at the incredible friction. He'd certainly feel the sting of having gone too fast later, but right then, all he wanted was to stay present and focused with Draco inside him.

"Faster," he panted, wanting Draco to meet his thrusts.

"With pleasure."

Harry felt Draco grab his hips before he was pulled off him and flipped, his face buried into the bed sheets as Draco straddled him from behind. "It's better this way," he whispered into Harry's ear. Upon feeling Draco's cock slide into him at a new, deeper angle, Harry threw his head back and wailed in approval.

"Told you," Draco said before starting up a relentless pace of ever thrusting hips and slapping skin. Harry tried to find purchase with his hands on the bed, desperately grabbing at the duvet, and pushing back to meet Draco's thrusts, but he couldn't stay on rhythm, Draco was too fast, too strong, too much.

"Can't...breathe..."

"You said fast," Draco teased, pulling Harry's hips back against his and holding him there, letting him catch his breath.

"Yesss," Harry hissed, loving how strong Draco could be. He dropped his head between his shoulders, catching a glimpse of his untouched cock, dripping with arousal beneath them.

Harry's head was yanked back suddenly, a delicious sting pulling at his scalp as Draco held all his long hair in one hand. "You'll want to sit up for this," he said as he glided painfully slow in and out of Harry, teasing him with gentle strokes. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's middle, keeping him up and flush against him as his speed worked back up the frenzy of earlier.

The sounds of slapping, slick skin and wet thrusts were all that could be discerned above the moans and praises of the two men, and the creaking bed beneath them. They were one, crazed thing, a single being moving in a tangled limbo of ever-on-the-edge pleasure just waiting to be popped into oblivion.

Draco's hands moved up and down Harry's torso, not letting him experience a single second without feeling the all consuming want that Draco had for him. He pulled his long, black hair, kissed the pale skin of his throat, bit the flushed skin of his shoulder, and stroked at the twitching heat of his erection, all while keeping up an unrelenting pace of mind-numbing intensity inside of him. Draco wasn't just fucking Harry, he was worshiping him.

"Too...much," Harry said aloud, shaking his head from side to side where it rested on Draco's shoulder. He was babbling, incoherent and dazed.

"I know," Draco gasped, falling forward. He reached out a hand to catch himself before he crushed Harry beneath him, but never once stopped moving his hips.

Vibrations of magic were pumping out of Harry, swirling around him in thick clouds of colored smoke and flashing light. Draco wondered if he was hallucinating, but then Harry started bucking uncontrolled beneath him.

"Draco!" he shouted, pounding his fist into the mattress.

"You ready?"

"Yes!"

"Then come for me," Draco said, pushing forward as far as he could, burying himself so deeply inside Harry, his body practically disappeared into the bed. Harry's one arm was squished beneath him, tugging at his painfully hard cock as the other bunched at the sheets. Draco pulled Harry's hand out from under his body and lifted him back up, holding Harry flush against his stomach. He extended his arms out with Harry's, threading Harry's fingers between his own, and clutching tight to both his hands.

Leaning back on his own knees, he pistoned his hips upwards, feeling Harry begin to contract around him.

"That's it, come on," he encouraged, listening to Harry's breathing become more and more ragged.

"I need...to touch..."

"No, you don't."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling so on edge he wanted to scream. And then, he did. One final thrust of Draco's hips and Harry howled out his release, his cock bobbing out from his stomach, untouched and milked for all he was worth.

Draco didn't stop moving as Harry came, keeping up the rhythm he knew would hit Harry deep inside at just the right angle. It pushed Harry beyond coherence. Even after his orgasm, he was moaning and thrashing in Draco's arms, praising him and cursing him all at once.

Pulling out, Draco asked Harry to turn over. He wanted to see his face as he rode himself to completion.

Harry's strong arms wrapped around Draco's neck, and tensed as Draco pushed back inside him. He was sensitive and growled at the overwhelming sensation.

"Can I kiss you?" Draco asked, his hair damp and hanging low in his eyes as he moved in and out of Harry with slow, controlled strokes. Harry nodded wondering why Draco felt the need to ask.

With gentle kisses, and sweet touches of tongues, Draco sped up, finally allowing himself to feel all that he could. He wanted to give Harry everything first, to let him have his moment and release, but now, he couldn't hold back. He couldn't stop, he was so close.

He grunted and panted, having held off for so long it now almost seemed like torture to reach the finish line. Harry's nimble fingers massages his shoulders and urged him on, moaning and gasping right along with him.

"So close!"

"Yes, Draco."

"Harry," he panted, his voice reverent. It caught Harry off guard and he tensed around Draco. The clench of muscle was all Draco needed and he exploded into a fire of writhing, loose limbs.

Collapsing onto Harry, he apologized but couldn't move. Harry wrapped his arms and legs around Draco, not letting him move, relishing he feel of his weight upon him. It'd been so long since a body felt so right on top of him. So heavy and perfect against the flat planes of his own anatomy.

"Stay," Harry whispered in his ear, panicking when he felt Draco slip out of him.

"Can't move."

Harry smiled, relieved. "Remember what I said earlier?"

Draco tried to lift his head, but couldn't, so he mumbled into Harry's shoulder. "When?"

"In the catacombs."

Draco wracked his brain but didn't know what Harry was talking about, he shook his head.

"I hoard what's mine, Draco," Harry reminded him, holding him tighter.

Draco felt the pressure and the weight of Harry's limbs around him and couldn't bring himself to feel anxious or wrong about their presence. He wanted to be with Harry. He'd worked hard and long to win the man's affection and now that Harry was holding him, sweaty and spent, in his bed, Draco never wanted to leave.

Well, that is, until Draco's bladder forced him to in the wee hours of the morning several hours later. He disentangled himself from Harry and slipped off to the loo, wriggling his toes on the cool tile of the floor.

When he returned, he stood next to the bed looking over Harry's body, prone and splayed out in the sheets. He seemed so relaxed and content, nothing like his normal demeanor. Draco wondered if he'd had a hand in that, or if Harry looked so peaceful whenever he slept?

"If you don't get back in this bed right now, I'm tying you down to it," Harry mumbled from beneath his mess of black hair and Draco snorted in a very un-Malfoy like way.

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry didn't respond, but Draco could just make out one half of a cheeky grin from beneath his hair.

Slipping under the sheets as carefully as he could, he soon found himself pinned beneath a very awake Harry Potter.

"Hello," Draco said, smiling up at the bright green eyes shining at him in the dark.

"Hi."

"We should probably have a talk at some point."

"'Bout what?"

"Us."

"Can't it wait?"

"That depends."

"On what?" Harry tilted his head to the side, his hair falling down like a cape around them.

"On what you want to do next."

Harry's expression turned from mock curiosity to pure heat at Draco's words. "Oh, I have a few ideas." He was kissing him before Draco could react, and they rolled in the sheets, clinging to each other as they went.

. . .

Harry twisted the onyx ring -- the dragon bone counterpart now hung around the neck of one Draco Malfoy -- on his finger for the sixth time that night. He hated waiting, it forced him to take in too much inventory of his surroundings.

He still despised being in public, but tonight was supposed to be special: an event. And Harry wouldn't miss it for the world.

Finally -- after the ninth turn of his ring -- he spotted an elegant french twist done up with a feathered comb in the crowd and stood up to gain Hermione's attention.

"Harry!" she called, running to hug him. He grimaced at seeing all the people around his table look over at the mention of his name, but he embraced his friend with love and affection just the same. When she pulled back, he shook his long hair to fall further into his face -- an old habit he had from when he tried to hide.

"Thanks for meeting me, 'Mione."

"Of course! I want to hear all about your holiday with Draco."

Harry smiled, looking like a mischievous child. "He'll be here soon, you know."

"Brilliant. The more the merrier."

Just then, a very distinctive guitar riff echoed throughout the room, and Hermione looked around, curious. She knew that song, but it seemed slower, more questioning to her ears.

"Who's playing Muggle music?" she asked, trying to place the tune.

Harry kept his face passive. "No clue."

"Oh yeah, I...tell you something...I hope you'll understand..." Someone sang, slow and steady, from the back of the room. Hermione craned her neck, wondering who on earth would know about the The Beatles in a Wizarding establishment? And why had they taken the tempo of her favorite song down to such a slow rhythm?

The voice continued to sing, and Hermione gasped when a ginger-haired man, with a sheepish expression appeared from around the corner. "...I wanna hold your hand..."

As Ron walked closer, Harry checked behind him, seeing Draco conducting the invisible band with his wand and a look of disdain -- Draco didn't understand The Beatles phenomenon. Harry smiled at him before turning his attention back to the spectacle his friends were making.

"Oh please...say to me...you'll let me be your man..."

Ron had taken one knee, much to the astonishment of Hermione, who gasped again as her jaw fell the floor.

"And please...say to me...you'll let me hold your hand." Ron crooned while trying to hold back a smile as he picked up Hermione's left hand and slipped a beautiful pearl ring onto her finger.

The other patrons erupted into cheers and whistles, egging Hermione on to say yes as she stood, gobsmacked, staring down at the man she'd loved for over a decade.

Ron looked as if he were about to pass out at any moment from anticipation as he waited, and Draco let the tune magically drift off into silence behind them. He went to grasp Harry's hand, and Harry sighed in relief, finding grounding and reassurance in Draco's presence. The eyes of everyone around them were just starting to get to Harry before feeling the weight of Draco's body next to his.

"You owe me," Draco said out of the corner of his mouth. Harry ignored him.

"Do you think she'll say yes?" he whispered to Draco, purposefully teasing his lips over the shell of his ear.

"We can only hope. Merlin forbid there are no more little ginger-haired children in the world."

"Yes, Merlin forbid."

Harry turned Draco's chin to kiss him fully, oblivious to the cheers and applause around him. Some part of his brain was telling him that Hermione must have said yes, but the other was too consumed with Draco to care.

Draco pulled away, long enough to ask, "Shouldn't we say congratulations?"

Harry nodded, moving closer. "In a minute."

Fin.

A/N: Thank you for reading. :-)

* The Castle Room is a real place in the Paris catacombs, though, the carved castle isn't Hogwarts, sadly. The urban explorers who travel those tunnels, adorn the walls and niches with art, and party down there are referred to as Cataphiles. There are also special police who search the tunnels for these people called Catacops. :-) Neat, huh?

French translations:
Je ne regrette rien - I regret nothing
Après vous - After you
J'ai envie de toi - I want you
Je suis pris - I'm taken

I Want To Hold Your Hand belongs to The Beatles. Harry and his friends belong to J.K. Rowling.

♦ Please return to LJ and leave your comment for the writer. ♦

Disclaimer: All recognisable Harry Potter characters and settings in this work of fanfiction are
the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates.
No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.