Here it is! The second chapter! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you have a lot of fun reading it!

Harry sat in the stadium stands with Ron, trying to find some joy in the relatively good seats his friend had gotten his hands on. Ron was almost beside himself with joy, knowing he had gotten these tickets with his own money and reputation. He worked as a color commenter for most of the Quidditch games, and gained a fan base of his own. Despite his friend's obvious happiness, Harry couldn't find it in himself to join him. Something was always tugging at him, nagging at him. He knew that that something was Draco. The memory of Draco was everywhere. After Draco left, the smallest echoes of their life together haunted Harry, hounding him with his ever-growing list of mistakes.

It had gotten to the point where Harry was taken off Auror duty. The Minister had put Harry on a sabbatical until his head cleared, after his distracted demeanor almost killed Toni. A stray curse slipped by Harry that he normally could have blocked. If he hadn't been so out of sorts lately, he would have.

Toni had accused him of trying to kill her, because she'd left him. Harry had snorted in disbelief, saying that she was delusional. She had just been there, and Harry couldn't remember why he chose her. Still, he hadn't deliberately let the curse through. It wasn't his fault if Dark Wizards reminded him of his and Draco's past. It wasn't his fault that those memories reminded him of how much he had lost, for a fling.

He shook the fog out of his head, turning a plastic smile to his best mate. "Hey Ron," he teased, "the Cannons playing today, right?"

Ron flushed a shade of red, in joy if Harry didn't mistake the shade, "Bloody hell, Harry! You know they are! I hear they signed a ringer for this one game! This Seeker is supposed to be a rookie superstar! No one knows the guy's name! It's got the whole media buzzing! Cali Svetlana took a bludger to the neck in the last game, and everyone thought the Cannons were out of the running, but the owner, that slimy Pansy Parkinson, brought in a last minute replacement! I know that Slytherin hag's evil and all, but she saved the Cannons! I can't fault her for that!"

Harry smiled; the deluge of information and sport statistics were just what he needed to break the tedium of his own depression. He hadn't known, though, that Parkinson had taken over management of the Cannons. Ron would've had a spectacular fit if the Cannons hadn't been so close to dropping out of the running. He still probably did anyway.

Shying away from thoughts of Parkinson and Slytherins, he tried to focus on the Quidditch pitch. Those kinds of thoughts hurt more often than not. It had been nearly a full month since he had last seen Draco, if not for lack of trying. Harry had sent owl after owl to the manor, only to find each and every time that his letters were returned unopened. He had sealed each one with wax, checking the seals to see if Draco was at least reading them…but every time he had been firmly disillusioned. Not a single seal was broken. The one time Draco had owled him, was to tell him the next owl bearing anything to Malfoy Manor would be dealt with according to the Malfoy Legal Statutes put forth in 1648. Something about the right to 'firmly disabuse agitators without legal restraint or quarter'.

Harry had ignored the letter, and sent an owl anyway.

Draco's regal white-faced owl had come bearing a charred corpse and a copy of the Statues. Harry hadn't sent another owl. He hadn't gotten any either.

Vaguely, Harry wondered if Pansy and Draco were still good friends. He winced. It was thoughts like these that made him wonder how much of himself he had lost over the years. In Hogwarts, he would never have considered the option of not being involved in his husband's life, and almost every day, Harry was reminded that he knew next to nothing about Draco anymore. Some, tenacious, stubborn part of him was determined to win him back. Some, sad, pathetic part of him felt so much less than whole.

Ron whooped loudly, as the teams began leaving the lockers to circle the field, leaning forward anxiously to glimpse the mystery Seeker. A lithe figure flew out on a rather outdated, if well kept, Nimbus 2001. He flew at an incredible speed for the old broom; easily catching the Forked Lightnings the other players flew. His speed blurred his features for a long moment, but somehow, Harry felt as though he knew the man.

As the player slowed, everything seemed to stop, and Harry was staring at the face of a sculpted pale-blond man with silver eyes. Thick goggles and Quidditch gear almost obscured the man entirely, but he knew who it was. Harry was staring at Draco Malfoy. Harry was staring at his frustratingly elusive and beautiful soon-to-be ex-husband.

"Ron! Ron! That's Malfoy! The Seeker is Malfoy!" he shouted, not taking his eyes off his husband.

"Malfoy?" Ron stuttered. "Are you sure, mate? I mean, Malfoy was only decent at Hogwarts. Bloody hell, he never beat you, not even once. I mean, the guy has blond hair and all, but I don't think it's really him. He's even wearing his headgear; I can't even see his face. You just have Malfoy on the mind, mate, what with all the…drama and all."

Harry ignored the redhead's protests, keeping his eyes trained on Draco as the Quidditch players practiced acrobatic moves. What was Draco doing? He was gifted, to be sure, Harry had never lost to him, but then, Harry had never lost to anyone. At school, Draco had only lost to Harry. What was he thinking? Draco had to be almost a full decade older than any other player…he wasn't as young as he used to be!

Lost in his worried thoughts, Harry almost missed the players finishing their warm ups, each team forming a semi-circle as a referee walked onto the pitch. Draco and the Puddlemere United Seeker took their position above the other players. A shrill whistle sounded, and Harry gripped the edge of his seat, shouts of encouragement and cheers falling on deaf ears.

His eyes all for Draco.

The game was intense, the Quaffle changing hands more often than points were tallied. Keepers kept the goals defended, Chasers chased, and Beaters beat Bludgers at a frightening pace. Harry had never felt anything but joy and awe for Quidditch, but at that moment, every fiber of his being cursed the game for being so violent.

Draco had improved through the years though. Harry absently wondered when he had had time to practice. His logic told him not to delve the problem any deeper, and his heart was strangely silent. Riding that old Nimbus, Draco seemed like a barracuda hiding amongst placid fish. There was a smooth, predatory aggression to his flight, and Harry felt his mouth water at the sight of his husband in such an element.

Wind tore roughly at his cloak and gear, sending shoulder-length blond hair flying in elegant ribbons. Harry had no idea how the blond managed that, though he suspected that Draco had inherited some trait like Teddy's. Andromeda had to have passed it on to Tonks…so; it only made sense that Draco could be so perfect. He was half Black, after all. If it were Harry flying, his hair would have been rough and tangled for days.

Draco ran an impressive series of Seeker's routes, paths that crisscrossed the stadium, designed to scout for the Snitch or simply confuse the opposing Seeker. Harry had never seen the routes Draco was running. He suspected though, observing the angles and lengths, that Draco had applied some sort of constellation map to the logic. It seemed something he would do, some private joke he would have.

Draco was using these routes to great effect, his opponents chasing him or scattering, unable to match the finesse and skill with which he operated his broom. A Beater and a Chaser had already crashed for trying to keep ahead of the blond devil, and the Seeker just barely missed flying straight into the stands.

A blur hurtled across the field, a Bludger hit with a wicked arm, darting straight at Draco. He watched, in horror, as he was sure his husband would get hit. Draco was so fragile and delicate; he wouldn't survive a hit like that! Not in one piece! Harry felt his tongue swell, felt his heart lodge in his throat, trying to will the situation away.

Then, at the last second, Draco launched himself off his broom, falling at an alarming speed. He seemed to maintain some control of his body, twisting in an awkward somersault; Harry absently noted that he looked graceful even plummeting to his doom. The referee whistled a stop to the game, hurtling toward the falling Seeker. Harry was no expert at distance and estimates, but he could tell that Draco wouldn't be caught. He was falling too fast. Tears burned their way to his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to force them away. Trying to clear his eyes. Watching his husband. Helpless.

A great crack resounded through the dead silent pitch, and Harry watched in relief and disbelief. Draco disappeared, only to reappear already grappling with his falling broom. The danger had passed, and Harry felt as though time sped back to normal speed. Great cheers rushed from the crowd, Puddlemere fans and Cannons fans hollering one as loud as the other.

"The Cannons' Seeker has caught the Snitch! Match goes to the Cannons!"

Harry blinked. He was frozen, staring at where Draco should've hit the ground.

"Oh Merlin, Harry! Did you see that! Did you bloody see that! That was brilliant! The Seeker Apparated in midair, onto his falling broom! Catching the Snitch practically at the same time! It's brilliant!"

A breath escaped his lips. Harry sat back with Ron, ignoring the excited whoops and hollers around him. Cataloguing his feelings carefully, Harry came to a conclusion, the same conclusion that had plagued him ever since Draco left. He loved Draco. And he had royally fucked up.

Ignoring the clusters of cheering fans, the roar of the growing crowd, Harry desperately fought his way down the steps, toward the Quidditch lockers. He had to talk to Draco.

Draco flicked his still-wet hair away from his neck, ignoring the undignified way that Pansy scowled at him. She had no right to lecture him about appearances, or his brush with death. Her outfit was hideous, toadstool green robes with a nauseating splash of fungus yellow, and Draco was alive. He was alive--he was living! Almost laughing, he touched his cheeks, delighted in the healthy flush he felt. Meeting Pansy's eyes, he decided to end her ploy of 'disapproving silence'.

"Thank you ever so much, Pansy dear. That was without a doubt, the most fun I have had in nearly half a decade." A true smile split his face, despite the truth of the statement.

Her face softened, if only a little, before hardening as if there had been no change. "I'm glad you were having your little bout of fun, Draco. You almost got yourself killed today! I told, I told you that you were too old to be flying about on a broom as if you were just out of the NEWTS exam! After I had kept your name from the papers—knowing I would make loads more galleons in ticket sales if your name was even a byline. I'm telling the Prophet tomorrow. More importantly, I almost lost a bet, of dire consequence, today, because of your foolishness!"

Humming, neither in agreement or disagreement, Draco replied cheekily. "Your concern touches me deeply. Alas, if only you had never fallen out of love with me, what a couple we could have made. Still, I am glad I won the game for you, and you did not lose whatever trinket you had your eye on."

She humphed slightly, annoyed that he plucked at her pervasive childhood fantasy that he starred in. "As if you would have ever deigned to give me even a small taste of your delectable arse. Whatever trollop managed to keep you away for so long was too lucky for her own good. Why she managed to let you out of the bedroom long enough to leave is beyond me." Seeing the Puddlemere Seeker—a rather fit fellow—walk past rather briskly, she broke off her train of thought. "And speaking of trinkets, I have one I must claim. Claim and get accustomed to the use of desserts in an intimate setting."

Watching the dark-haired witch walk off with a decidedly predatory gleam in her eyes, Draco chuckled at his old friend. Pansy hadn't changed a bit—still that voracious, instant gratification-loving girl from school. He had missed his old school friends, and he was glad to see them again. Harry had never been comfortable around them, and it was always easier to avoid a fight than deal with it. Not that the make-up sex wasn't fantastic, but Draco had been living like a monk for the last three years. A large part of him wanted to get this divorce settled and move on to some gratification of his own. A small smile on his cheeks, he tried to ignore the emptiness that lingered in Pansy's wake.

He knew that emptiness too well. It was his constant companion, a faint echo of remorse and sorrow whenever he was alone. It had gotten worse since he moved back into the Manor; the empty mansion seemed to punctuate his lack of family. He was almost desperately looking forward to the holidays, to seeing Harry again. And the kids. Mostly the kids.

He had tried ignoring Harry, but the blasted man had sent a torrent of post to his home. Each letter was like a knife to the heart, and even thinking of them made his knees weaken and long for Harry to hold him. Draco had heated a simple butter knife, leaving the wax seal unbroken. Harry didn't need to know he read them. Of course, Harry could not know this, or somehow it would be all glossed over and Draco would be back playing housewife. That was what had gone wrong with the relationship. He was vulnerable, after his divorce, and fell in love far too quickly. He had been willing to sacrifice everything with no quarter, if only to fasten Harry to him.

At least the letters had stopped. It gave him some illusion of security and strength. Even if he'd had to sacrifice the makings of a brilliant pheasant dinner and capture a recalcitrant owl.

"Hello Draco."

Draco cursed and spun around, a vicious hex on his lips. Despite his knee-jerk reaction, he knew that voice. All too intimately. It was the same as the fantasy in his dreams. It was identical to the voice in his most pleasant memories. Oddly enough, it was the same as the small voice that told him right from wrong. It was the voice of his stubborn, emotional Gryffindor husband—The Cheating Prat Who Would Not Leave Him Be. Affecting a wide-eyed stare, suitable enough for a crazy fan—along with a small glamour, cursing Harry for his sensitivity to magic—he turned to begin the battle.

"Stars! Are you Harry Potter? Bloody hell, you're gorgeous! Do you mind giving me your autograph?"

Draco almost chuckled at Harry's confusion. It was cute. And stubborn.

"Draco, I already know it's you. I saw you talking to Pansy. Why else would you two seem so familiar?"

That was all too easy. Harry was making this too much fun. "Miss Parkinson? She's a lovely sort, isn't she? Though, I don't think I've been such a shade of pink in a long time—the things she says! I was lucky enough that she decided to stalk a poor Puddlemere, murmuring away about the…ugh…uses, as it were, of chocolate strawberries. Harry Potter, why do you keep calling me Draco? Can you sign your autograph to Winston instead? You can call me that, just like we were friends. I don't know this Draco bloke, god-awful name though."

Draco watched in delight as tiny bits of anger and frustration started seeping through Potter's carefully constructed mask.

"Malfoy, stop being a prat and just listen to me already! I have something to ask you!"

Grinning in triumph, Draco began a slow, fluid march toward Harry. "Malfoy? I said you can call me Winston. Or, is this role-playing?" Leaning much closer, whispering right into Harry's ear Draco continued his tease. "You know, I won't mind what name you call me so long as you don't take too long in dragging me beneath the stands and having your wicked way with me."

Only a few inches from Harry's face, Draco felt every pulse of heat from his husband skin. Harry was such a brilliant shade of red that Draco was ruthlessly reminded of an irritating thought. This is the Harry that I fell in love with.

"D-Draco." His husband whispered his name so sensually that Draco almost broke his façade and pounced. Deciding to give up his little game, he took a couple large steps away from Harry, dissipating the glamour and fixing a familiar sneer on his face.

"An act or instance of separating or the state of being separated."

Harry blinked, perhaps trying to control his lust, as well as understand.

"What?"

"A place, line, or point of parting."

"Draco will you stop all this nonsense and just—"

"The definition of separation, Potter, and straight from a Muggle dictionary at that. Or, at least, straight from Granger, which is practically the same thing. Point aside—we are separated! As in, apart. Away from each other! Letters and stalking defenseless beauties as myself violate that definition!"

An appropriate look of shock and shame danced across the Auror's face, such a pleasing medley that Draco almost smiled. Harry looked down at the ground, toeing a good leather shoe in the dirt. "I-I wanted to ask if you'd join me for a Seeker's game…"

Draco stared. "A Seeker's game." Disbelief clearly laced in his voice.

Anger shot through the shame. "Yes, I miss playing Quidditch with you!"

Draco snorted silently. All this drama to ask him on some child's date? Harry stared at him defiantly, as if sure sweet words would sway him. Draco had taken him too young—Harry knew far too little about this game. He hardly even knew how to play it. If he even realized there was a game. It mattered little. 'No' was his answer. A firm and resounding NO.

"I'd like that."

Draco blinked. That sounded suspiciously unlike an adamant 'no'.

Harry smile beautifully. "Great! You have a pitch at the Manor, right? I'll be there this Saturday!"

Before Draco could retort, he found hot, strong, fit, powerful, amazing arms wrapping him in a lustful embrace. Frozen in shock, Harry lifted his face by the chin, bringing Draco's eyes to his. Harry's green eyes blazed with approval and arousal, and Draco found his mouth unwillingly dry. "Thank you." Placing a chaste kiss to his cheek, he left Draco wondering what exactly had happened.

Shit!

Hehehe. As a wise and highly experienced smut writer once said, "The game is a foot...or a leg...or a sexy arse for that matter"