I wouldn't have turned down the opportunity to talk to someone – anyone at all – about Malfoy's visit, if only to confirm that it hadn't been some bizarre fever dream, but as a career hermit, I had no one available. Even Ginny wasn't around, though talking to her specifically likely wouldn't have been the best idea. I could already hear the beard jokes, and I was keen to avoid them as long as possible.

So when I finally make it to Gringotts on Monday, I am still half-certain that the whole thing had been an elaborate hallucination – at least until I see him standing at one of the desks.

No more ass-hugging Muggle jeans anymore, which is a bit of a shame, but he still looks impressive in a pinstripe vest, white Oxford, and bright green tie. A sort of sexy office worker look on him. Before long I am imagining peeling it off him.

He sees me out of the corner of his eye and turns. His reaction is somewhere between a genuine smile and a smirk.

"You're late," he says.

"Wasn't sure I was going to come," I answer, which is true.

"Avoiding me, Potter?"

"Yeah." (Also true.) "Pretty much."

"I'm wounded."

"Then you maintain your composure very well."

"Does Mr. Potter have his key?" interjects the goblin at the desk, peering up at us over a pair of shiny, rectangular spectacles. I fish it out of my pocket and hand it over.

The goblin eyes it, sharp eyes moving up and down the brass shaft of the key. After a moment, he says—

"Follow me."

Then he slips off his chair moves down the hallway. Malfoy follows at a brisk pace.

"Given my offer any thought?" he asks as he walk, his tone almost offensively mild. It's the same sort of tenor he'd use to remark on the weather.

"I was half-sure that 'offer' was some cruel joke."

"How many times must I assure you that it wasn't?"

"We can't get married, Malfoy."

"Sure we can. It's perfectly legal."

"As if there's even a chance that's what I mean."

We follow the goblin deeper and deeper under Gringotts. Damp fills the air. It's been years since I've been down here. Not since the war. Memories of dragonfire creep into my mind and it takes more effort than I would care to admit to smother them back down.

"We're a good match."

"We really aren't."

"I mean politically."

I grind my teeth. "Forgive me for being so old-fashioned as to demand a marriage have foundation in love."

"That didn't work out so well for you last time. Perhaps it's time to switch strategies."

My head swivels around. Malfoy falters. A look of self-awareness and regret passes over his face.

"Too mean?"

I glare at him.

"Too mean," he decides. "Sorry."

The worst part, of course, is that he's absolutely right. Not that I have any intention of admitting it. I'm perfectly content to let him stew in his own guilt.

We come to the all-too-familiar mine car, the door of which the goblin pulls open. Malfoy steps in first and I file in behind him.

You don't ever really get used to the Gringotts mine cars, of course, but at least this time around I know what to expect. I brace both hands on the sides of the car just as the goblin steps inside, shuts the door, and it rockets off with a shriek of grinding metal.

"You know," I can hear Malfoy say over the sudden, all-encompassing rush of sound, "they say the strongest marriages are always built."

Racing through Gringotts in a mine car with Draco Malfoy who is trying to convince me to marry him. At what point, I find myself wondering, did my life take a left turn into screaming insanity?

"Brace!" the goblin suddenly shouts, though not soon enough for Malfoy, apparently – the mine car goes over a sharp dip and Malfoy jerks slightly and goes tumbling backward into me. I catch him with one hand on his side.

The jolt of adrenaline fades when the mine car rights itself, but my heart doesn't stop hammering. It takes me a moment to realize why – I have a face full of Malfoy's sweet-smelling hair and his ass pressed firmly into my pelvis.

Fuck.

"Did you do that intentionally?"

"I didn't," Malfoy answers, sounding just a little bit breathless, "but I'll take it as a compliment that you assume I can wandlessly alter the path of a mine car."

He shifts his hips and fuck, tits fuck shit shit that feels good. Is he really doing this here, now? I look back at the goblin, but he hasn't noticed; he's focused entirely on steering. And in the meantime, Malfoy is grinding himself back against me, hips rolling, and that's his hand on my thigh and fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck.

"Malfoy," I growl.

"There's your foundation, Potter," he answers, head turned, looking sideways at me through too-long lashes. "I can't imagine a better one."

This is so completely fucked up and I cannot get enough of it. There is nothing about this situation that isn't utterly preposterous. The ex-Death Eater, ex-enemy, ex-school rival is trying to convince me to marry him by way of driving me crazy with desire, and it's working. All I can think about is grabbing him by the hips, ripping off those expensive designer trousers and fucking him so thoroughly he'll be walking with a limp for a week, and wouldn't it be worth it? My sex-addled brain is convinced, right at that moment, that it is. To conquer him, to be the first one, the only one – fucking Christ – my hand tightens on his hip, I grind back against him, and through the rushing air, Malfoy makes a gorgeous little noise like a kitten—

—the mine car stops abruptly. Malfoy stumbles forward, just catching himself before he falls.

His face, I noticed, is flushed, and I'm pleased to see I wasn't the only one affected.

"Here we are," the goblin says, apparently having noticed nothing. He steps out of the mine car and approaches the vault door – a very large one, made of cast iron, number 291.

As he unlocks it, Malfoy steps out and adjusts his vest. I watch him hungrily, loathe to let him compose himself again when he looks so delicious disheveled.

"If you'd be so kind as to wait outside," Malfoy says, rearranging his hair with a quick spell. "Mr. Potter and I will be discussing business of the Consul."

"Of course."

The doors swing open with a loud groan. Malfoy strides right inside. I flex my hands at my sides and follow him.

I am momentarily distracted from my rapidly mounting plans to work Draco Malfoy out of his clothes by what I see inside the Black vault.

My personal vault, of course, is plenty full, but I had never seen anything like this. There are not so much piles of galleons as mountains of them, at least fifty feet tall, gleaming and bright. Far overheat at the top of the room, even more galleons fly in while others fly out, all through one large portal hovering overhead. On the wall nearest the door, there is a large brass counter, which I could only assume is keeping track of the money as it arrives and disappeared in real time.

"Fuck," I say before I can stop myself.

"Right now the income-to-payout ratio is in the green," Malfoy says, "and there's no reason it can't continue to be once it's properly adjusted."

"How on earth…" I begin, but I can't finish the question. I'm not really sure how to phrase it.

"An extraordinarily complicated set of centuries-old magics," he answers. "Automatic withdrawals and deposits are made as they arrive."

"How can – this isn't—"

"Do you understand, Potter?" he asks, drawing my gaze away. "Do you get the gravity of this now? House Black is a major engine driving the economy. You can't just forsake it."

"But that is fucking ridiculous," I say. "This is – this is a staggering amount of money – it's insane that the entire economy could collapse because one guy is shit at accounting!"

"It wouldn't collapse," Malfoy says. "There are enough Consul families to ensure that wouldn't happen. I mean, granted, it would shake the market up something awful, and there would probably be a recession—"

"How are you not fucking appalled at this, Malfoy?" I spin on a heel and face him. "This much power shouldn't be vested in a small handful of people!"

Malfoy rolls his eyes, the glib bastard. "If you think we don't know that, Potter, you're out of your mind."

"Then why has it never changed?"

"Trust me, we've been trying – for years, the Consul has been trying!"

"Forgive me for skepticism, Malfoy," I snap, "but last time a bunch of rich pureblood families got a taste of power they nearly committed genocide!"

Draco narrows his eyes. I snap my mouth shut.

"Too mean?"

His glare is all the answer I need. At least we're even now.

His nostrils flare and he sets his face. "Come to the Moot," he says. "See for yourself what we're doing. What we've been doing. Let me show you why this marriage would actually be a good idea—"

"I cannot for the life of me see how combining all this economic power with something comparable would be in any way beneficial to magical society, Malfoy!"

"It's complicated," he insists.

"It's fucking absurd!" I counter.

He shoves at my shoulders. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm grabbing him by both arms and spinning him, pinning him into a wall. He takes in a sharp breath. I can smell his hair again.

And God, I should want to knock his teeth in, but instead I want to grab him by one leg and fuck him into next week.

"Potter," he says tightly.

"A word of advice, Malfoy," I say. "If you're really set on convincing me to marry you, don't try to make an economic argument. It is clearly insane. And there is no pragmatism that will ever be more persuasive than how badly I want to fuck you."

Malfoy actually shudders under my hands. I pull away from him, a bit worried that I said too much.

He looks up at me, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under his vest.

"Come to the Moot," he manages to say, not for the first time.

"I need to do research," I answer, which is true. Malfoy has certainly succeeded in his endeavor to prove to me just how important this is – it's important enough that I know I have to do this on my own terms.

"Potter."

I turn and leave the vault, head full of thoughts of gold and politics and power and fucking Draco Malfoy.