I'm not the sort of person who obsesses over things, really I'm not.

Well, all right, I'm not anymore. I'll be the first to admit that I had a phase in my younger years where "obsessive" didn't even begin to cover it.

But that was years ago. I can say with confidence that these days that I sincerely do not care about anything enough to obsess over it. In fact, I occasionally go far out of my way to avoid caring about things. It would be endearing if I weren't aware of the fact that it's probably rooted in profound depression.

All that said, it's quite distressing when I spend the next few days thinking about Draco Malfoy. I spent more than enough time in my teenage years obsessed with him and was not keen on adding to the statistic.

But I think about him anyway. I think about the sexy, self-assured swagger, so different from the overreaching and unconvincing bravado I used to know. I think about those too-long limbs and the white neck. I think about his razor sharp wit.

Mostly, though, I think about fucking him.

I staunchly refuse to wank to it, though, tempting as it may be. A man has to have some pride. I make it a rule in my head: I will not wank to Draco Malfoy.

And then he shows up on Sunday, and it's pretty much all I want to do the moment I lay eyes on him. I blame the fitted blue jumper with the too-long sleeves.

"Morning," he says.

"Is it?" I answer. He shows himself in.

"All day, so far." He looks around the foyer. "You've let this place go to shit."

"Didn't have much to work with in the first place." I suppose I should be more defensive, but I can't manage it. Apart from eclipsing apathy, the only thing I can really focus on is the fact that— "Are you wearing Muggle jeans?"

"Are you staring at my ass again?"

"Is your answer predicated on mine? I don't think I've ever seen a piece of clothing with a conditional existence."

He laughs, startled. "That's clever. When did you get clever?"

"It's easy once you stop caring what people think about you."

"I suppose it must be. Yes, Potter, they're Muggle jeans."

"I never thought you'd stoop so low."

"I'm unpredictable like that."

This whole verbal sparring thing is uncomfortably close to flirting. The smirk that tugs at his lips isn't helping.

"Besides," he continues, "I sort of like it when you stare at my ass."

Scratch that, it's definitely flirting. I am flirting with Draco Malfoy. It's a little disorienting when I consider the fact that I identify as heterosexual and have for most of my life.

Granted, it's not daunting enough to keep me from staring at his ass as he heads into the kitchen. The jeans really do flatter it something awful.

"So where's the docket?" he asks, as though the conversation wasn't the weirdest thing to happen to me today.

"Table."

He sinks down into the chair like he owns the building and tosses one leg over the other. Tits, he's even wearing Muggle trainers. What is going on.

"I can see the former accountant's work," he says, changing subjects with such ease it actually makes me a little angry. "She's been doing upkeep, but not really been adjusting anything."

I consider whether or not I want to offer him something to drink. After a moment I decide against it and sit down across from him.

"That sounds fine. Can you teach me how to keep doing that?"

"It's not something you want to keep doing."

"Why not?"

"Because the world doesn't stand still. The needs of these places change. Funding and oversight has to adjust with the market and economy. Last month, St. Tottenham's Ward Home for Girls asked for an additional 2,000 galleons annually that they couldn't get."

I frown. "Why couldn't they get it?"

"Because you never approved it, apparently." He flips over a piece of parchment. "Did this accountant come bothering you around May last year?"

I'm about to open my mouth with a reactionary no, because why on earth would I turn down an orphanage that wanted more money, until I remember—

Wanda, the accountant, actually had come to me. She had been simpering and obnoxious and asking all sorts of questions that I didn't understand, asking for my signature on something.

As I recall, I had slammed the door in her face.

"Maybe," I say slowly.

"Do you want to approve the additional funding now?"

I groan. "Yes," I said, "of course I do. Can't you just set it up so that all their requests for more funding are approved and they can support themselves?"

"You want to give unrestricted access to all the institutions House Black owns? Even Sackham's Bank of Wales?"

Despite myself, I'm surprised. "I own Sackham's?"

"A 51% share, technically," he says, consulting another sheet of parchment. "This is why you need to pay attention to the estate, Potter. It's complicated and important and there is no easy fix for it."

"I don't want to play this game, Malfoy," I say severely. "I don't like this – this fucking oligarchy where only wealthy pureblood families decide what's what."

He frowns at me. "It's really more complicated than that, Potter."

"I'm sure it's plenty complicated! That doesn't mean it's not wrong. It's all wrong, Malfoy."

"You're passing judgment on something you barely understand," he says, sounding a bit defensive. "The truth resists simplicity, and you can't—"

He stops, sighs, looks back down at the papers. His long fingers fuss with the corner of a piece of parchment. He wets his lips. All at once I forget the conversation and become acutely, unnaturally focused on his tongue and all the things it could do.

"If you really want to understand it, you'll have to see it for yourself," he says. "Hell, I'll need to see it, too, to really understand the architecture. Meet me at Gringotts."

"Fine," I say, still staring at his mouth, hunting for any more sign of that tongue, scarcely knowing what I just agreed to.

"Tomorrow at ten, let's say. Can I bring this docket with me?"

I nod. Malfoy produces his wand, gives it a flick, and the haphazard pile of parchments organizes itself into a neat pile.

"You know," he says as he gathers up the pile, "I lied before."

"What?"

"About there not being an easy fix. There is an easy fix."

I frown, momentarily distracted from the shapes of his mouth. "There is?"

He tucks the pile underneath his arm, shifts his weight to one foot, plants a hand on his hip, and says, "You could marry me."

I laugh. It's sort of reactionary, really.

The only problem is that Malfoy doesn't laugh with me. Slowly, I start to realize—

"You're serious." It's not quite a question.

"Like a case of dragon pox."

It takes me a moment to work through what I'm hearing, and a moment more to come up with a cogent response to it – not that there's really any combination of words in existence that could come close to a suitable reaction to that kind of statement.

"Well," I say, slowly, "I'm flattered, Malfoy, but you'll have to forgive me for being a bit of a traditionalist. Ass staring straight to marriage – there's usually a few more steps in between—"

"We're a good match," he says brusquely. "Politically, economically. Combining the Malfoy and Black estates wouldn't be difficult, and I have all the know-how needed to run them. Not to mention it would set a social precedent, a public match between a pureblood and half-blood."

My head swims. I start to wonder if this is an elaborate hallucination. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"It's a good idea, Potter," he continues, unperturbed. "Once you start to understand how the Consul works, you'll understand why. Besides…"

He pauses, drifts off. His eyes move down my body. I recognize the look. I'd been giving it to him last time we spoke, while I was undressing him with my eyes and fantasizing about fucking him over a table.

"I think we both know there are a few other perks that might come with it."

Fucking Christ, that voice. It's liquid fire in my veins, stronger than firewhiskey and twice as lethal. I feel a strong pulse of blood that goes straight through my thigh and into my cock.

"Well, shit, Malfoy," I say, "if you want to get me into bed, all you had to do was ask."

He smirks. "Tempting, but no," he says. "Not yet."

He bends down, lips near my ear, hair brushing my face. My heart slams in my throat.

"I'm saving myself for marriage."

This tells me two critically important pieces of information:

First, Draco Malfoy is a virgin.

Second, he has just indirectly admitted that he would give it to me.

"See you tomorrow, Potter," he says, before turning on the heel of his Chuck Taylor trainer and exiting the kitchen. I remain sitting, cock half-hard in my jeans and head swimming.

Moments after the door closes and I hear the crack of Disapparition, I break my very important rule about not wanking over Draco Malfoy.