Four

As predicted, going headlong into the cemetery in the middle of the night turned into a rout. Everyone died with the exception of Lucius the Elven Wizard. He had been saved while Prongs, on his deathbed, had expended his last healing spell for him. Wormtail the Human Cleric was introduced as a brother of Prongs. "I assume you have plans to avenge your brother's death?"

"Absolutely."

During their yoga meditation session on Wednesday, Draco had taken it upon himself to correct Potter's downward facing dog. For reasons unknown to him, Potter had removed his shirt. This had inspired Albie to suggest they all take their shirts off. Draco had declined but finally acceded to the peer pressure. While he thought he was in reasonably good shape for a man who swam three days a week, he felt a little inadequate next to Potter's abs. He had no idea how he'd managed them when Potter always walked around with circus peanuts and Mountain Dew. He had once gotten Cheeto-dust on the copier. Draco had had to get out some of his disinfecting wipes with much clucking about barbarism.

Albie, who had also divested himself of his shirt, had gone on his merry way with his wrinkled torso and an ankh that he wore.

"You have to extend your spine," Draco noted, watching the arch of Potter's spine.

"I don't think that is humanly possible," Potter had huffed out. Although he did try to put his butt higher. Sighing, Draco disengaged from his own pose and walked over to Potter. "May I touch you?"

He could hear the smile in Potter's voice. "I knew you always wanted to get your hands on me, Malfoy."

"If you're going to be like that…" Draco sighed and started to walk away. Potter was instantly contrite.

"I'm sorry. I promise not to give you more reasons to go to HR."

He waited a moment before turning back to Potter. "Let's go through the steps again." Potter collapsed to the carpet and then tried to build into the pose step by step. Draco corrected with a touch here, a touch there. Until he had his hands on Potter's hips and realized his body was more interested in Potter than was strictly professional. Merlin's beard, the man had dimples on the small of his back. And Draco was in yoga pants.

This had been a very bad idea.

"Is everything alright?" Potter asked, his head facing the floor.

"Why would you say that?" Was his voice higher than normal?

"Well, you stopped criticizing me and I thought you might have had a heart attack or something."

Draco huffed and then excused himself to to the restroom.

Because the fates were probably against him, Draco found himself in his office on Wednesday afternoon with Potter probably pottering around in his own. They had the entire department to themselves after Flitwick had made his farewells. Draco had showered in the College's gym, an experience he did not want to repeat. Did they even sterilize the tiles?

He was uncomfortably dressed in his emergency outfit. A pink polo, brown flat-front khakis, and his second best pair of oxfords. Draco took great pains with his appearance. He had a passion for neatness that spilled over to his home and office. He supposed it would look to most as if he had some sort of an OCD disorder. He would have diagnosed it in someone else.

But for Draco it had everything to do with appearing as normal as possible. He had gone to Princeton. He had done a post-doc at Stanford. He was actually a board-certified psychologist. None of this was Ministry maneuvering.

During Draco's first year at Durmstrang, Kingsley Shacklebolt (the Minister of Magic) had come under the guise of a guest speaker from Cambridge. Draco had overseen Shacklebolt's entire wardrobe - down to his underthings - and made sure that no matter what he wore he would always look normal. His credentials were impeccable.

Draco hated that Potter was a loose end. Almost as much as he hated that Potter had squandered his potential following crank theories and fantastic beasts.

Draco hated that Potter wasn't a wizard most of all.

Harry Potter was intelligent and kind. He was also stubborn and denser than a block of wood. His parents, Jim and Lily Potter, had died quite young in an automobile accident on the A39 near Wadebridge. Their Renault had been completely compacted. Harry had been presumed dead by the local papers. He showed up on the side of the road three days after the accident with no memory of the event. He had been dubbed "The-Boy-Who-Lived." It was presumed that they had been vacationing by the local authorities although land deeds showed that they regularly paid taxes on a large estate near(ish) Tintagel. Having done his due diligence, Draco had found nothing spectacular about it. It was a pile of mouldering ruins that had once been a Norman motte and bailey. Muggle tourists had been taking pictures when he'd gone.

Harry had been raised by his godfather, Stubby Boardman. Stubby, a musician who had peaked as a regional opening act with the Stones for two nights in the early 80s, was an auto mechanic in Grimmauld, Virginia. Draco had found a spread on him in the National Enquirer wherein a former partner, Doris Purkiss, revealed a number of salacious secrets about their long term relationship. None of which mentioned Harry Potter.

Draco had found Grimmauld, Virginia a rather insular place. No one would talk to him and for a while he thought his car had been followed. He had had to use a car as he discovered that it something prevented apparating into Grimmauld itself. It was impossible to flood the town with strangers, so the Ministry had had a team camping in the State Park - just outside the anti-apparition point - trying to figure it out. They were stalked by wolves at one point and nearly froze to death after trying to use Muggle camping technology. Ultimately they concluded that it was probably due to a natural substance that bore further study. By a team other than theirs.

Using county maps from the 1830s, Draco was able to locate the Black Plantation. It was a lopsided antebellum mansion that had seen better years prior to the twentieth century. If one considered it's past to have been better years. Draco did not.

Under the guise of an electrical repair person - having caused an outage beforehand - Draco was able to meet Stubby Boardman. And his partner. Who was not Doris Purkiss. In fact it was a very erudite gentleman by the name of Rom Wolf. Mr. Wolf was an elementary school teacher. Draco had found nothing at all strange about the house or Harry's Uncles. And had discovered that Mr. Wolf made an excellent cup of tea. Albeit iced.

He had managed to get ahold of Harry's primary, middle, and high school records. Outside of a few detentions and a remedial chemistry course, nothing was out of the ordinary. The only thing of note was a small article in the Banshee - also the name for the Grimmauld High School football team - regarding a local boy (Potter) who had received a commendation from the County for having located a lost girl named Katie Bell. She had fallen into an old mine shaft. When asked about it, a 12 year old Harry had simply stated that he'd thought on the issue and then just knew where she was. No one had questioned his testimony.

After High School, he attended the University of Virginia and then did his doctorate at UC Berkeley. Around his time at Berkeley, the Ministry and MACUSA had started to monitor him. These were the years when he discovered the horcrux in Cornwall and discovered that Inferi existed. He had done two post-docs that had opened his eyes to parapsychology. One in the lab of a Gellert Grindelwald and another with Theophilus Lovegood. MACUSA had files on Grindelwald and Lovegood, but the Ministry was not as interested in them.

He had gone from his last post-doc to Durmstrang. Just shortly after Malfoy had started.

Malfoy knew he had a black lab named Padfoot. That he hadn't been in a relationship with anyone (other than Hermione Granger) for nearly five years. Draco had made the notation that Hermione Granger was not, in fact, his wife or girlfriend after Potter had mentioned it. Hermione and Harry had been pen pals for years before they met in person. He wondered why his last handler had not added that Potter's preference ran to males.

He never thought to wonder why it mattered.

And at the moment, Harry was in the office next door, doing Merlin know what, listening to Led Zeppelin. Wait, no, he was singing Led Zeppelin. He was not quite in tune.

While Draco was sitting in his office waiting for an owl from Shacklebolt. Wondering if Potter and this groundskeeper, Hagrid, were watching now for any signs of an eagle owl. Although Shacklebolt usually used a common barn owl.

"Mine's a tale that can't be told. My freedom I hold dear. How years ago in days of old when magic filled the air…"

Draco listened to him singing as he boiled water for tea in the electric kettle he kept in his office. It allowed for varying temperature to accommodate different teas. It was probably his most treasured possession. He had a very strict policy of not using magic unless he absolutely had to. Even though he would have liked to soundproof his office. The College had denied his facilities request citing budgetary reasons. Very vague budgetary reasons.

The kettle had just come to boil when he heard the tap of a beak on the glass of his window. Shacklebolt's barn owl stood on the sill, ruffled and probably hungry from the Transatlantic flight. Draco was in the process of opening the window when Potter said, "I told you there was an owl outside your window." Potter was standing right behind him with some sort of a torc with strobe lights on it around his neck.

When Draco started, not least of which due to being temporarily blinded, the barn owl flew off in an agitated rustle of feathers… with the letter. "M-Jesus Christ, Potter. Don't you knock?" Draco had brought his right arm over his eyes in a protective gesture.

"I..didn't even think to do that. But you have an open door policy…"

"Please shut that… necklace off. Now." Harry fumbled, but complied. Malfoy sucked in a very loud breath. He was very annoyed. And his vision was spotty. "Okay, new policy. You cannot enter my office unless you knock and I ask you to come in."

"Malfoy." Potter looked at Draco like he'd never seen him before. "Did you know that you're English?"

Draco realized that Potter had probably startled away his affected American accent. That bore some thought. But in the interim, Draco affected his most sardonic of looks and haughtiest of tones, "Get out of my office, Potter. And don't come back unless I summon you."

Harry went to bed on Wednesday night and woke up Thursday morning completely convinced that Malfoy was a closet Englishman.

This led to many theories as to why he would be hiding it.

Had he stayed beyond his visa? Did he have an outstanding warrant for his arrest (obviously for smuggling port) and was living on the lam? Were there too many British professors in the US? Was he in a witness relocation program? Some sort of an alien who couldn't discern the differences between human accents? Padfoot, who had been listening to these theories at the crack of dawn Thursday morning with head cocked to the side, seemed to dismiss them all. Probably because Harry was preparing his kibble. "Or is he some sort of a top-secret MI6 agent working deep undercover? Sent to thwart my paranormal investigations?"

Strangely enough, the last sounded the most promising.

Lots of randomness, of the non-paranormal, in his life seemed to click into place. He had been followed from journal to journal by a commentary writing campaign presumably to ruin his credibility. It had had the opposite effect. A lot of readers now thought he was being targeted by governmental agencies. The writer always used permutations of the Latin draconem. Cadmus Thrakon. Edmund Drayce. Tatsu Ryu. A Dr Tinnin from Turkey who was reputedly an editor for a journal that had been outed as a front by Pince. She was a lovely woman whose weakness for Jammie Dodgers (which Harry bought in bulk from an overseas retailer) had been very helpful over the years. It had escaped his notice that Dr Malfoy's first name was Draco. But not Pince's. He had apparently rearranged her psychology section and incited her wrath.

Or the Ford Anglia that sometimes sat down the street from his house on Privet Lane. He had never seen a Ford Anglia in the US before. And the drivers wore some sort of dresses. Literal dresses. It was probably a cult.

And there was the cat that had sat on his backyard fence all day until Padfoot finally chased it away. Harry had never seen a cat who had let a bird or butterfly by. And this one had. He assumed it was some sort of a shapeshifter.

Hermione thought he was crazy. But Harry knew. Just like he knew the Marvolo family in Little Hangleton had had a ghostly presence. It had been tied to a strange ring Miss Marvolo had purchased from a secondhand shop, obviously holding onto a tragic past that cursed the owner. She had opted to sell it on Ebay rather than keep it.

So it worked out quite nicely that Malfoy had exasperatedly suggested that they go to a wine and cheese tasting for their field work on Thursday. Harry quite liked cheese but did not like wine. He decided he was going to get Malfoy drunk and try to knock some English out of him.

Harry, who did not own a car, met Malfoy at the venue. He had walked about four miles in his black suit. He had five of the same suits so he would never inadvertently match the wrong colors. Something Hermione had noted was verboten. As he very rarely wore them they were at least ten years behind the fashion times. Harry only had white socks, so he wore those under his ancient dress shoes. When he finally got to the wine shop, he ducked into the bathroom to wash up (only managing to soak his left cuff), and met Malfoy.

Malfoy, as per usual, was meticulously dressed. Harry thought Malfoy's suit looked a bit too small and his pants were about an inch or two too short. You could see his socks. "Where on earth did you dig that up?" Malfoy looked Harry up and down with a wince.

"From the womb of Lily Evans Potter. Or so I've been told." It took every ounce of Harry's willpower to not add guv'nor.

For a moment, Harry thought he caught a flicker of laughter in Malfoy's eyes. But it was so fleeting that he wasn't sure. "Well, it will have to do. We must go over the rules."

"There are rules to tasting wine?"

"Yes," Malfoy drawled it out like it was obvious. "Firstly, you can spit after your taste, but you may also swallow."

He couldn't. He absolutely couldn't. Was Malfoy intentionally setting him up? "Do you spit or swallow?" Harry tried to keep his voice as even as possible. It came out sounding slightly husky.

"Oh, I always swallow." And for the briefest of milliseconds it was back. A mote of humor in Malfoy's pale blue eyes that was there and gone. There were many Malfoys Harry could deal with. But a funny Malfoy was an issue. Because Harry wanted a funny Malfoy. A funny Malfoy wasn't untouchable. He may even be reasonable. Of course, this Malfoy subsumed his temporary weakness and continued. He explained modifiers and aphorisms. He explained the trifecta of wines: 1982 Bordeaux, 1996 Champagne and 1970 Northern California. "Have you got that?"

"Completely." And then Harry set about getting Malfoy drunk.

This was harder that he thought it would be. Malfoy stood contemplatively over wines. He took tiny sips and discussed leggings. He talked to other testers at length. Harry, who really didn't like wine, pretended to sip by Malfoy's side. He talked about notes of twigs and Honeycomb cereal. Eventually he excused himself to corner the shop owner and pay him to extend the tasting - but just for Malfoy since he seemed to have such a fine palate. Harry had to solemnly swear that he wasn't up to no good.

By late afternoon, Malfoy was pretty wasted. His cheeks had gone rosy, his eyes were over bright, and he was actually smiling. "It looks like you've had a good time," Harry mentioned casually.

"This was a reallllly good idea." Malfoy tilted his head back a bit and smiled at Harry.

"Are you sure you're alright to drive home?"

"Of course." But when he dropped the keys to his Audi, Harry picked them up.

"I'm going to drive you home. You're a menace to society."

"Do you even know how to drive?"

Harry tried not to laugh at Malfoy. His voice had taken on a sweet incredulousness that he would probably be embarrassed about the next day. "Of course I do. Just because I choose to limit my CO2 emissions does not preclude me from having a driver's license."

"Alright."

To Harry's horror, Malfoy had a stick. It had been about fifteen years since he'd last drove a stick. Mostly Stubby's Corvette on Virginian backroads. Oh shit. "So where do I take you?"

Of course, Malfoy lived in a gated community inhabited by the poshest of Durmstrang faculty (of which Harry did not qualify as being) amongst lawyers, politicians, and doctors. It was on a hill.

It took a stall out and one gear grinding - with Malfoy leaning over his shoulder to advise - before Harry figured out how to drive the damn thing. He decided to risk taking the long way round. He had some questions to ask.

"So, what is your favorite, er, football team?"

"Harry," Malfoy actually used his name. "Do I look like someone who watches sports?"

"Well, I like, um, Leicester City." Harry pronounced it as spelled. He knew absolutely nothing about soccer but he had caught a couple of games in the Hog's Head (a faux British joint near the College) when they defied all odds to win some sort of championship. He'd even got a free beer out of it.

"I have no idea what that means."

"So what are your thoughts about Jammy Dodgers? Raspberry or strawberry?"

"What the hell is a jelly dodger?"

"Jammy." Hrm. This was not working. So Harry decided to pull out the big guns. "So that Idris Elba. He's a really hot bloke isn't he?"

"Oh, I did like him in Pacific Rim."

This was too much. "You watched Pacific Rim?"

"My God, Potter, that speech!" Malfoy coughed before starting to recite it. He finished in a very low voice that only broke a little. "Today, we are canceling the apocalypse!" The accent he affected was absolutely horrible. It might have qualified as Australian.

And then Harry was laughing. He was really laughing. "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met in my life."

"Oh you should talk! You were wearing a computerized shower cap - a shower cap! - in earnest."

"That was not a shower cap."

"Oh, no? Was it some sort of a legilimency device?" It was a good thing that no one seemed to be on the road at 4pm on a Thursday as Harry and Malfoy looked at each other at the same time. Malfoy's face was blazing. Harry triumphant.

"Aha!" Harry said. "I KNEW you were British!"

Malfoy's face went through so many different emotions that Harry could not keep up. He was angry, confused, surprised, angry again, and then just a lot of things Harry had never seen on his face before. "You. Are. An. Ass," Malfoy settled angry on as he opened the door and got out.

"Malfoy! Malfoy! Draco!" Malfoy finally turned towards Harry when he used his first name. "Where the fuck are you going? I'm in your damned car."

"It would be obvious to anyone else that I am walking."

"Get back in the car. Seriously." Harry had slowed to a crawl of about 2 mph. He wasn't even sure if Malfoy was walking that fast.

"No."

"How are you going to explain a drunk and disorderly to McGonagall?" Malfoy stopped at this. Harry was pretty sure it was the only argument that would work.

"You wouldn't."

Harry pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and waved it at Malfoy. "Want to try me?"

After a moment, Malfoy deflated and walked back to the car. He sank into the leather seat and slammed the door for good measure. "I don't know how I got reduced to this. I am the best in my field. The best."

"Of course you are," Harry soothed as he negotiated the right lane and set out for Malfoy's house again.

"Did you get me drunk on purpose?"

"Not for any nefarious reasons," Harry threw Malfoy his most contrite look. He really was feeling bad about the whole thing. So what if Malfoy was a secret MI6 agent? He was still the only person in the world who was in color. "Well… in the interest of complete honesty, I wanted to see if you worked for MI6." Now Harry was blushing.

"You're serious aren't you?" Malfoy ran his long fingers through his thoroughly disheveled hair. "Oh who am I kidding? You believe in aliens. Of course you're serious."

"Do you actually have a tooth with a cyanide capsule?"

"I do not work for MI6. I am a Psychologist who thinks that the probability of your being completely insane is very high." Malfoy seemed to compose himself and turned to Harry. "Did you really get me drunk to find out if I work for British Military Intelligence?"

"Yes."

Malfoy laughed. He actually laughed. "Are you even real?"

"Pinch me and see." Harry offered on a grin. Unfortunately Malfoy took him up on it. And he pinched really hard. "Ouch. Not that hard."

Of course Malfoy's house was a McMansion. Where else would he live? He handed Malfoy the keys on the provision that he drink about ten gallons of water and have a few aspirin.

"Are you just going to walk?"

"Um, yes. That's sort of what I do."

"Can I call you a cab or something?"

"It's only like eight miles to my house. Or something like that. I'll be fine." Malfoy looked very skeptical.

"Although I'm going to completely regret this decision, would you like to at least have a cup of tea before you set off?"

"Oh, like a nightcap? Well, an afternoon cap?"

"I'm going to disinvite you, Potter."

"Alright. Alright." If Malfoy was trying to convince Harry that he was just a normal guy, his house would not do it. It was pristine. The carpets were (probably) white, the walls were decorated in very hotel style artwork, and outside of the tea kettle the kitchen looked like it had never been used before. There were no crumbs on the stove. No fingerprints on any surface. After Malfoy opened a cabinet to get two mugs, Harry was fairly certain that most of his dishes were (probably) white.

"Malfoy, would you be offended if I asked you if your study - and I'm assuming you have one - had a wall that opened to reveal a complete arsenal of weaponry?"

"You're not going to let this go are you?"

Harry smiled at Malfoy in a way that actually made the other man take a step back to lean against the counter. "I'm just taking the piss."

"Did you study a list of Britishisms before interrogating me?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, Malfoy."

"To answer your very serious question, I just really like things in their place. I appreciate order." Malfoy poured their tea and set the timer. "It's calming. Sugar or cream?"

"Both please." Harry watched Malfoy put one cube of sugar in his cup after the timer had gone off. "I like it sweeter than that." Malfoy put another cube in. "Sweeter." Another cube. "Sweeter."

"Should I just put the whole box in?"

"Um, no."

"You know consuming this amount of sugar is going to rot your teeth, right?" Malfoy put the box of sugar cubes on the table.

"Probably." Harry put two more cubes in his tea.

They ended up having a mostly amicable conversation about Slughorn's recent publication in the Journal of Abnormal Psychology on bulimia before Malfoy kicked him out.

Harry was still not completely convinced that Malfoy did not work with MI6.