June 2001 — London, England
Harry shifts nervously from foot to foot, worrying at the emerald cufflinks at his wrists. They arrived just yesterday, with no note to accompany them, but he knows who sent them.
Malfoy. Will he be here? No, he shakes his head. He won't come to mine, just as I didn't go to his. Of course, I was in Peru at the time… he smiles, remembering.
He'd been following a lead to an absolutely exquisite cursed gold medallion. Incan, as far as they could guess. Malfoy was ecstatic when Harry dropped it on his desk, flashing that intoxicating smile of his, the one he never let Harry see while they were in school. Harry wonders if things might have been different if he had.
Anyway. Malfoy is… Well, he's not sure exactly where Malfoy is — he's pretty sure that much knowledge of Malfoy's itinerary would be creepy, even for him — but he's undoubtedly busy unloading the haul from Harry's last trip and sniffing out a new lead or ten. Malfoy thrives on having a finger in every pot, and his slightly seedy international antiquities business provides plenty of interesting challenges. Some are even entirely legal.
Harry's only been home to English soil for a few weeks, but already he's itching to be off again. He lives for adventure, for the adrenaline rush that comes from chasing Malfoy's baubles. As much as he hated the git in school, he's come to appreciate the feral beauty that is Malfoy stalking his prey — whether men who whisper rumors of treasure to find, or men who pay handsomely for treasures once found.
Harry stalks the treasure itself.
Malfoy joins him sometimes. He says he can't trust Harry to grease the right people and to not get into trouble with Dark magic he can't handle. Harry suspects that, secretly, he sometimes tags along just for the thrill of it.
He tries not to think about it, or about how he likes it when Malfoy joins him on his hunts. It's just something he doesn't care to contemplate; it feels safer not to.
April 2000 — Somewhere in the Jungle, Peru
Fucking Zabini!
Harry swerves abruptly to the left, as the cold steel blade kisses his right cheek, cleaving the air where he was standing just a second ago. He swears, letting out a muttered string of mixed muggle and magical expletives that draws an amused snort from his assailant. There's just one now — Bulstrode. Goyle just doesn't have the stamina for pursuit on foot, especially when tramping through the jungle while shaking off a Jelly-legs jinx, but that doesn't mean Harry can discount him. He'll be back, and twice as deadly for being annoyed.
He hears the telltale whistle of the blade and ducks, rolling blindly to the side and down a short slope, hoping he's not about to send himself plummeting over the edge of the ravine.
He rolls to a stop, cautiously opens his eyes, and freezes.
The angry hiss of the deadly viper before him echoes around him; he's landed in a nest of them.
Slowly, he grins.
"Greetingssss," he whispers, the sibilant sounds of parseltongue rolling smoothly off his tongue.
May 2000 — London, England
Harry strides into Malfoy's office, bruised, bloody, and whistling cheerfully. It'd taken three days for Bill to drag him back to civilization, several more to let the wounds heal enough for travel, and another dozen to arrange and complete the journey since they'd been forced to travel as muggles. Now he's almost feeling himself again, and the heavy weight of gold in his pocket goes a long way to restoring his good humor.
Draco breaks off mid-sentence and turns to glare at him. "Potter," he says, voice dropping dangerously low. "Where the hell have you been? And, while we're on the topic, what have I told you about interrupting me while I'm meeting with a client?"
Harry shrugs and tosses the medallion at him. It seems almost to float, turning end over end in a flash of gold until Draco plucks it from the air, seeker's reflexes still very much in evidence.
He looks down at what he now holds in his palm and blanches. "Is this…"
Harry grins. "Yup."
"And you touched it with your bare hands?" He looks up at Harry, horrified, as it sinks in. "And I touched it? Potter, how many times have I told you—"
He's working himself into a fine strop; Harry cuts him off with a snort. "Easy there Malfoy. I had Bill remove the curses on it first."
"You what." His voice is dangerously flat, promising a Hermione-worthy tongue lashing to follow.
"Don't give me that look!" Harry throws his hands up in exasperation. "How else was I supposed to transport it safely? Anyway, the curses on that thing were far too dark for us to deal with ourselves; trust me." A shudder passes through him as he thinks of how Bill's face went white beneath his scars as he stared at the results of their detection spells, how he muttered words Harry hadn't thought he knew.
"Didn't even have to swear him to secrecy. There's no way he's telling anyone anything about that."
Malfoy's stare cools further.
Harry groans. "Oh, come on Malfoy. Of course I swore him to secrecy anyway."
"And have you forgotten that I have a client in the room? Should I swear him to secrecy too?"
Harry grimaces. "Uh, oops? Want me to obliviate him for you?"
"Potter." He pinches the bridge of his nose in a manner not unlike Snape often had, when Harry was being especially exasperating.
"We don't obliviate clients, remember? I activated the targeted silencing charm as soon as you walked in. If you can contain yourself for a few minutes — have Sarah fetch you a coffee and a sandwich, and maybe freshen up; you look like hell — I'll deal with this and then we can talk properly."
"Dinner? A sandwich is a mighty small reward Malfoy."
He sighs.
"Yes, yes, whatever will get you out of my office fastest. I'll finish up in here. And then we can study this," he tucks it into the special warded drawer on his desk, "and then get dinner while you tell me what on earth left you looking like that. We'll go to Mazotti's. It's Wednesday; you can get that eggplant parmesan you like."
"Do get Sarah to fetch you something now though," he calls, just before Harry closes the door. "I can't have Harry bloody Potter fainting in my waiting room."
"You look especially lovely today, Sarah."
"Oh, hush, you flatterer," she says, laughing as she swats at him with her magazine.
"I'm wounded." He holds his hands to his heart. "Anyway," he adds, swiping the magazine from her, "what are you doing reading this filth at the office? Do I need to have a talk with your boss?"
She grabs it back. "Honestly, Harry. You've been hanging around Draco for too long — you're beginning to sound like him."
"I most certainly am not. Take that back right now, wench, or I shall have to be offended."
She rolls her eyes. "What do I need to get you this time, hmm?"
"Food," he says, pressing a hand to his forehead and pretending to swoon. "I'm fair famished. Haven't had any food in ages. I shall surely perish before Malfoy gets out of that meeting. I—"
"All right, all right. I'll get you a sandwich. Just… sit over there and read this magazine while I run to the kitchen. And don't touch anything on my desk!"
"You wound me—"
"Last time you stole all my paperclips, swapped around all my pens so the caps were on the wrong colors, and hid my stapler. I assure you I have reason."
Harry plops down on the couch, pouting, and makes a show of flipping open the magazine.
"Good evening, gentlemen. Your usual?"
The waiter doesn't bother to bring them menus anymore. Malfoy still insists on getting the wine menu, but Harry secretly thinks it a bit pointless, since he never orders anything new. He suspects the waiter agrees with him.
"Yes, thank you," Malfoy says, and Harry nods, mouth watering. He can almost taste the eggplant parmesan already, crisp and chewy and golden, dripping with cheese. Heaven in a ceramic casserole dish. Malfoy smirks at him, and he knows he must look ridiculous, but he's been days out in the wilderness. He'll enjoy any comforts he can get.
The waiter has hardly deposited their plates and stepped away from the table when Malfoy whips out his wand and erects the strongest silencing charm either of them knows. Moody had taught it to Harry, said he'd developed it himself for use against Death Eaters. It should work well enough against Zabini and his gang, Harry thinks. They rank quite a bit lower than Death Eaters, in his book. An annoyance, really, though a persistent one. The charm will blur their image, too, to everyone outside the bubble of the silencing charm, lest anyone get the bright idea of reading their lips.
They quickly perform the familiar ritual splitting of the salad: raisins and walnuts to Harry's plate, pineapple and olives to Malfoy's, everything else split equally, and then spend a few blissful moments appreciating their food.
"Tell me everything," Malfoy says as he leans forward over his half-empty plate, eyes gleaming, and Harry does.