"For a prude, he certainly had no qualms about putting my cock in his mouth."
Harry froze with his back turned to Boot and Pratchett as they carry on talking about a bloke Boot picked up the night before. Up until then, Harry had passed it off as mindless break room conversation which he intended to ignore as usual. But…
"That pretty piece of arse was begging for it by the end," Boot said crassly. "You know me. I've always had a thing for leggy blondes." Pratchett laughed and slapped him on the back, as though congratulating him for demeaning another human being via a mutually agreed upon one night stand that was, by definition, just as beneficial for one man as it was for the other. Any rational gay man knew that, but Harry was only one of the two at present.
It only took a second to slam Boot up against the cupboard door.
"His name?" Boot's eyes widened as they flickered from Harry's face to Pratchetts, who stood by idly.
Prachett only had this wisdom to impart: "Shit, man…"
It had been two weeks since Draco had left Harry without so much as a word of farewell or gratitude to cling to. He wondered often if it might have been better to have forgotten about him in the year he'd been in Azkaban so he wouldn't have to try to do it now. He'd never say it out loud, because it sounded bad enough in his own head, but the pain was a physical one that made his heart ache in his chest. He'd never given it much thought before, but it's ever present throbbing reminded him every second that it didn't really belong to him anymore, and he didn't think he could get it back. "His name, Boot," he repeated calmly.
Boot swallowed; Harry could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat. "I'm sorry, Harry mate. I didn't know you were listening…" Harry ran a hand down his face and sighed heavily, already aware that he was about to be delivered a blow, and what was worse was that he had asked for it. "Malfoy made it seem like you weren't together anymore."
Harry closed his eyes for a second, letting the pain sink in. Then, he pulled his fist back and punched Boot in the mouth. His teeth cut his knuckles and when he staggered backward, they were covered with blood, though to his satisfaction, he realized that not all of it was his own.
He walked away from the pair before they could realize he was gone, though he looked back in time to see Boot mopping up his bloody lip with the back of his hand. He wasn't surprised to find that he wasn't sorry in the slightest. Still pissed, he strode into his office and threw the door shut behind him. The entire Auror department knew better to disturb him when it was closed, because while his scar had faded since Voldemort's death, his rage hadn't.
Parts of him were missing, like his ability to speak Parseltongue but others were very much intact. He still had a temper he fought to keep under control, and sometimes, it won. In other cases, like this one, he didn't bother trying.
He sat at his desk with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. His office was a dull, boring affair with no wall decorations other than his awards and certifications, which had only been placed there under Hermione's persistent urgings. When Draco had once visited it, he'd declared it to be akin to the inside of a cupboard. Harry had watched his face turn from haughty and self-satisfied to panic-stricken.
"I didn't mean… Fuck, I'm an arsehole…" he had lamented, grey eyes dimmed with his own mistake.
Harry had stood up from his desk and wrapped his arms around the slender blonde man, comforting him when it ought to have been the other way around. He'd assured him tenderly that thoughts of the cupboard he'd grown up in didn't haunt him anymore. He hadn't told him that other, more malicious ghosts had taken its place.
Instead, he'd scooped him up and made love to him over his desk, not caring in the slightest who could hear Draco call his name as he came under Harry's fond ministrations.
Harry clenched his eyes shut even tighter at the memory, then stood, heading for the fireplace. He had a few visits to make today. He was going to find Draco Malfoy, because he had loved that man when no one else had, and at the very least, he wanted an explanation in exchange for his troubles.
xxx
"I don't know, Potter. If you want to find him, you're better off searching street corners than here." Parkinson's smug face looked over her tea cup at him as they sat in her lounge, decorated with the kind of furniture that, if sold, could have bought three homeless families a flat to stay in and still have some left over. Harry was sitting in a high backed wooden chair without armrests, which he found more uncomfortable with every passing second.
"Draco's not a whore," Harry said automatically in defense of a man he was starting to think he didn't really know at all.
"No, not yet," she simpered. "But it's only a matter of time before he starts asking for money in exchange for his services. He'd be a fool if he didn't." She tilted her chin down and eyed him with a knowing look in her eyes. "That man can do sinful things with his tongue. I'm certain that is one thing we can agree upon, Potter, and it may well be the only thing."
Harry sighed and ran a hand down the back of his neck in exasperation. "For fuck's sake, he's only been gone for two weeks. How many men could he have possibly had in that time?" Pansy merely shrugged, making it clear that if she knew, she certainly wasn't going to tell him. He supposed her discretion was something to be admired… everyone had to have at least one redeeming quality, he supposed.
"Come on, Potter. This is, and always has been, Draco's method of coping. He likes being reckless, as if daring Death to take him early. I think it makes him feel alive," she said conversationally as she stirred more sugar into her tea with a silver spoon. "In any case, I'm surprised he didn't take it this far before now. It says something about his devotion to you, though what, I can't quite put my finger on. You'll have to forgive me… deciphering other's emotions has never been a forte of mine, nor will it ever be."
Harry studied her quietly for a moment, finding something amiss about her explanation. "Why not before now? He had no reason… he was happy."
Pansy shook her head slowly as a trill of laughter fell from her lips. "He was raised by actors, darling. He learned from the best." She paused, as if wondering if she ought to continue. "What with his mother being ill for so long, it was only a matter of time before he ran off the rails. We all knew it…"
Harry shook his head. "Ill?"
Pansy clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Yes, and I said to him, 'Draco, darling, she'll die soon enough in her own time. Let nature take its course.' But he wouldn't listen."
He stared at her, and she stared back until a look of understanding crossed her pale face. She seemed genuinely amused, as though he had just said something very funny. "My god, Potter, he didn't tell you?"
He waited patiently for the bomb to drop. "Narcissa Malfoy had some kind of genetic Muggle disorder… what did he call it?" She slid her teacup onto its saucer with a dull clink. "Ah yes. Huntington's Disease."
