A/N: I am so terribly sorry for the delay! I got caught up with writing this other story that has very much demanded to be written, so I do apologise for the lateness of this chapter. But, if anyone is interested, I have two knew stories, 'Merlin, Give Me Strength' and 'The Twelve Trials of Christmas'. If you feel so inclined, please take a look! Thank you!

As a WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of sexual situations. If you don't like it... I mean, it's not that graphic or anything, but you still might not like to read it. Just a precaution.


Chapter 9: A Night To Remember

Knocking on the bedroom door, Harry didn't wait for a reply before entering. "Draco? Are you nearly ready? If we don't leave soon, we'll be late."

The heir to the Malfoy family didn't have a bedroom. Not as Harry knew them, anyway. He'd never really even glimpsed into the rooms that Draco called his own when he'd spent Christmas at the Parisian Malfoy Manor a year and a half ago. Not that he'd really peeked into any rooms that weren't largely communal. Draco had spent all of his time – sleeping included – in Harry's room anyway, only darting back to his own to change clothes or grab a book.

They weren't a room because, in all reality, the suite was the size of a small flat itself. When Draco had nonchalantly shown them to Harry for the first time, he'd stared at him blankly for a moment, eyebrows quietly raised.

"What?"

Turning a deliberate, assessing gaze over the interior of the first – first – room, Harry had only raised his eyebrows further. "Draco, I do believe this is not a room but the living quarters of a rather large family."

Draco had snorted, though if anything looked had pleased by Harry's response. "Why not live in luxury when one can afford it?"

Harry had rolled his eyes, exasperated, and shaken his head. Draco was nothing if not indulgent. "Why indeed?"

His partner had then proceeded to give him a brief tour of the suite, and Harry would be lying if he'd claimed he wasn't at least a little impressed. Daunted too, but certainly impressed. The same paleness of the rest of the manor, coupled with wide windows that overlooked the sprawling back gardens resembling a golf course more than a family backyard, gave the rooms an even more widespread impression. Tawny leather couches and a half-sized bookshelf ringed a grated fireplace that crackled with no heat – it was summer, after all – and filled the room with a sparse fineness that would have been intimidating if it didn't have that faint 'lived in' feel to it.

The next room – a parlour with an elaborate set of white tables and chairs that overlooked another wide window – branched off into a study with more books then Harry had seen in his life, a bathroom that could have bathed an Olympic swim team, and Draco's sleeping quarters. The bed itself took up the majority of the room, and that itself wasn't particularly humble. There appeared to be far too many blankets, pillows and curtains around the king-sized four-poster bed, towering it even higher on impressively high mattresses. The addition of creamy white sheets gave nothing if not the semblance of a cloud.

"Living in luxury... how accurate," Harry had murmured, shaking his head and not quite able to hide his smile.

Leaning an arm about Harry's shoudlers lazily, Draco had hummed his agreement. "Well, if I'm going to be living here half of the time when I finish at Hogwarts, I may as well live in comfort."

And that was the crux of the matter. Though in early June he had not yet finished his school year, and hence not yet moved to Paris, his weekend stays were tending more

and more towards their residing in the Malfoy Manor than Sirius' own modest dwelling. Draco called it "growing accustomed to what would soon be his new home" but Harry knew it was just as likely to be an escape from Sirius. Not that the volatility of their relationship persisted particularly, but they would never be what one would deem friends. And despite Draco's apparent ability to be perfectly comfortable in his own skin absolutely anywhere, he'd professed that he'd rather they spent their time alone at the manor.

The operative feature of such a declaration was, naturally, alone. For despite Sirius visiting Anouk nearly every night, even on the weekends that Harry visited these days, there was only so much privacy two young men could acquire living with a middle-aged wizard possessing the acute hearing of a dog. They'd found that out the hard way. Sirius had been glaring daggers at Draco for a good three weeks after they'd been overheard. Harry had been mortified, much to Draco's amusement.

So, every time Draco visited from then onwards, they'd spent at least one of their two days together at the manor. It felt very large with just the two of them in residency, but the nostalgia of the setting overrode any uneasiness. It felt like the starting point, the real beginning of when their relationship had begun to change. So much had happened in only eighteen months.

Draco's birthday was midweek the year he turned eighteen. Though wizards and witches didn't place quite as much emphasis upon their eighteenth year as Muggles, Harry still wanted to make something of the occasion. The previous year, confined as they were due to the aftermath of the war – Harry still cringed at the memory of the reporters calling from the gates of the Ministry-appointed safe house – Draco, Harry and Neville's seventeeth birthdays had been subdued affairs.

Harry knew how much his partner loved to revel in the marvel that was himself, Draco Malfoy. Similarly, his indulgence bordered upon extravagence, though Harry's amused exasperation over the matter usually encouraged him to keep his inclination under wraps. So Harry wanted to make it a point to ensure his birthday that year was special.

The actual night was ground in celebration at Hogwarts. Harry had visited from France, requesting leave for family reasons that his Head of House, who had expressed scepticism but had ceded given her confidence in his dedication towards studenthood.

It had been well-worth the trip, just to see the look on Draco's face when he bowled into him outside of Arithmancy. The party that followed that evening had been a night to remember; Blaise was a good friend to correspond with for planning as, in the absence of Pansy, he seemed to assume her role as host. Even the empty classroom he'd set up for his friend's birthday was impressive; Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so many balloons in one enclosed space before.

It was a riotous gathering of just about every seventh year, even those that usually kept to themselves. Food and alcohol seemed to pour from the walls and Harry became acquainted with far more Wizarding songs than he had even known existed. It was loud, and filled with laughter, dizzying and a little overwhelming.

But Draco had liked it, so much so that even his upset when Harry had regretfully left in the early hours of the morning was dampened slightly. What sadness remained was dispelled further with the promise of a surprise on the weekend that, despite his pretenses at affront, he seemed excited about not being informed of.

A month before, when Harry had asked him what he wanted for his birthday, Draco had simply smiled easily, wrapped his arms around him and said "To be with you". Romantic though it was, Harry was not unfamiliar with Draco's fondness of gifts and extravagance, and had pushed him away to inform him that he needed to suggest something a little more than that.

Draco had only shrugged and smiled once more. "Then make it a surprise. I'll come over to Paris that weekend – it's my weekend anyway – and you can surprise me."

Whether Draco was truly surprised at the nature of Harry's plans was inconsequential. Despite the suggestions to instead hold the weekend in London, Draco had been adamant with "It wasn't fair that you'd have to make the trip two weeks in a row". His genuine concern over the matter was sweet enough that Harry had withheld comment on the benefits of Wizarding transport over Muggle; the travel time was markedly reduced with the use of magic, so notably that Harry couldn't find it in himself to begrudge the trip. Not once.

So Harry had set to organising a surprise. Something different, something that Draco wouldn't choose for himself but would still enjoy. That was what he wanted to plan.

Striding through the Parisian suites, Harry paused and knocked once more on the half- open door to Draco's bedroom. Poking his head through the doorway, he noted that his partner was still in front of the mirror, combing his hair fastidiously much as he had been nearly ten minutes before.

"Draco, your hair is fine," Harry sighed. "Please just leave it alone."

Turning, Draco glanced over his shoulder and fixed Harry with a pointed stare. "Love, if I go out in anything less than my best, then I would hardly be able to look the public in the eye. Besides," and he turned back to his reflection with a slight frown, "I need to make up for wearing the Muggle attire."

Walking up behind Draco, Harry rose on his toes slightly so he could drop his chin on the his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. They met each other's eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "Well, I happen to think it suits you rather well."

"Urgh, please, spare me the insult." Yet cry mercy as he may, Draco's smirk was far too smug to be anything but satisfied.

For he did look good. Very good, in fact, despite the heinousness of wearing 'Muggle clothes'. Black dress pants and white shirt opened casually at the top two buttons, polished black dress shoes and a matching suit jacket of a material Harry didn't recognise himself but felt positively delightful to run his fingers over. He looked nothing if not dashing. Coupled with his natural confidence and regally handsome good looks, he cut a figure that would certainly draw eyes. Harry tried not to feel too plain beside him, though it was difficult to ignore the obvious.

"You look incredible and you know it." Harry dropped a kiss on his shoulder, nearly missing the brief widening of Draco's smile.

"I know." His long-suffering sigh suggested it was a weighty burden to be so attractive. "Still, dress robes are far more agreeable to my sense of decorum. It feels remarkably casual to be wearing such."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed off his back and started towards the door once more. "Then I'm sorry. If I'd known it would bother you that much I would have organised something exclusively Wizarding."

He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to know that Draco followed him, finally detaching himself from his mirror. Honestly, he spends more time gussying up than should be legal. "I don't have a problem with it, exactly. It's just not in my particular zone of comfort."

Harry cast a smile over his shoulder as he led his partner from the room. "You know, some of the best experiences you can imagine happen outside of ones comfort zone." He hadn't meant it to be provocative, but the crooked smile Draco gave him suggested he took it as much. "Oh, shut up, Draco. Come on, our ride's already here." And he led the way to the entrance of the manor with a gloating Draco.

The limousine that pulled up at the front of the manor was impressive enough that Draco didn't even raise an argument about the use of Muggle transport. Or at least no further argument. There had been a controversial afternoon preceding their departure when he had sighed and moaned about not using Apparation. Harry had largely ignored him. The champagne offered from the moment the chauffeur bowed them into the back seat, alongside the soft leather and distant, barely perceivable music, was likely another contributing factor to the quelling of Draco's affronted Wizarding pride. He even went so far as to comment on the vintage of the drink as they smoothly pulled away from the manor.

The region of Paris they swept through was beautiful at night. The sun had long since set and a pervasive blanket of darkness settled over the uneven planes of the buildings. And yet as they eased soundlessly from the suburbs of the wealthy and luxurious, it seemed to come alive with artificial lights, wandering night crawlers and yelling drivers muted by the thick windows of their vehicle. Being the warm season that it was, Muggles – and likely a fair few witches and wizards too – were out in the hundreds, enjoying the liberties that came with the setting sun.

Draco maintained a steady flow of conversation throughout the entire trip into the heart of the city. Within minutes of leaving the manor, Harry had requested the chauffeur – a blank faced man with a thin face who introduced himself as Thomas – slide up the partition. A blessed notion, Harry reflected, as Draco was neither hesitant nor wary enough to filter his words for the ears of their Muggle driver, whether it regarded school or the impracticality of Muggle transportation.

As they swum gradually into the depths of the city, Draco's attention became drawn instead to the buildings and passer-bys around them. He looked faintly awed, with a health mixture of horror, at the sheer number of people.

"I don't think there's this many wizards and witches in the entirety of Britain."

Harry turned towards him from his own window. The expression on Draco's face drew a grin of his own, one of many that he'd already been afflicted with that day. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really. It's just a little unexpected."
"But you've been to the city before, haven't you? Last year, when we were in Paris?"

Draco shook his head, eyes still glued to the window. "I generally kept out of the inner city, especially on weekends. And when I did wander about a bit, it was usually in the absolute dead of night. Just as a precaution, you know."

"Don't look so stupefied, Draco," Harry laughed lightly. "I thought we'd broken you of your Muggle aversion already."

"Never," Draco replied, a hint of a smile in his words.

Harry had initially been terribly nervous of how Draco would respond to his surprise. Somewhere throughout the afternoon, however, that nervousness had faded. For truly, Draco was not the sort of person to be offended if he didn't particularly enjoy something. Rather, he would rearrange the night, or what he was given of the night, so that he did enjoy himself. Asking Draco to spend his time sulking over another person's decisions was about as likely to come to term as convincing Neville to play a game of quidditch. Which was, to say, unfathomable.

There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all to be anxious for. Besides, the simple act of being together was usually adequate enough for Draco. For Harry, too.

When they reached their destination, Draco turned to Harry with his eyebrows raised. "A theatre?"

"Don't look so sceptical. You said you've been to the theatre before and enjoyed it." "Yes. A Wizarding theatre."

'Prejudice, Draco. Watch your prejudice, please. Birthday or not, we are still breaking your habit." Draco only grinned roguishly in reply.

When Thomas opened the door for them once more, Draco climbed out with a grace that would have suggested he traveled in limousines every day. As his gaze swept across face of the theatre, though his sceptism remained Harry was pleased to see it was accompanied by marked curiosity.

It was a modest but gorgeous little building, the Théâtre de la Rose Rouge. True to its name, the entire interior seemed to be reminiscent of a rose, a lush, rich scarlet trimmed in gold so pale it was almost white. Grand staircases with elaborate ballistrades, a central carpet so thick that the red-veined marble beneath was barely perceivable. A crowd of formally outfitted men and women could be seen standing or milling at the base of the primary staircase when they entered through double glass doors, bathing in a faint warmth and the golden light of an elaborately bedecked chandelier overhead.

Draco scanned around himself with properly concealed admiration. A faint smile and nod of approval were the only suggestions that he even recognised the grandieur of his surroudings. Harry, despite being the one to make the booking, was more in awe of the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts. He'd hardly been one for extravagence in his childhood, nor had he been particularly exposed to it; bedazzling didn't entice him. Malfoy Manor itself was impressive, and that didn't have a hint of the excessiveness of the theatre.

Leaning into Harry's ear to be heard over the buzzing crowd, Draco whispered, "Well, they meet the standards, these Muggles. Who knew they were so adept at interior design?"

"You did, I had assumed," Harry replied, stretching up on his toes again to be heard. "Haven't I shown you around Paris before?"

Draco shrugged. "Size and attention to detail are to very different things. That Eiffel Tower didn't have any particular eye for appearance's sake. But this is..." His smile resurfaced. "Nice."

Which was a bit of an understatement, even Draco admitted with a wink, but who would know? Maybe Draco truly did see such grandeiur on a more frequent basis and it wasn't quite as excessively astounding for him as it was for Harry. He certainly seemed comfortable enough following the directions of the ushers up the stairs and into their assigned seating. Draco's spouting of admiration, his gesticulations as he pointed to some elaborate design across the theatre stage, certainly seemed to indicate as much. Any comments faded into muteness, however, as the lights finally dimmed.

The play was something of a classic in France; Draco had initially questioned whether Les Miserables was a historical piece, and Harry had assured him that it was based on a fictional work. That didn't seem to detract from the appeal, however. Their prime seating – Harry had, for once, spared no expense on the experience; it was for Draco, so he wouldn't – gave an ideal view of the stage. Perhaps the only drawback was that it was, naturally, entirely in French, though Draco didn't even comment on the fact. Uncharacteristically so, mind. Still, he'd grown remarkably fluent in the Parisian tongue of late, so maybe it simply didn't bother him.

Harry was unprepared for just how much Draco enjoyed the show. It had been a shot in the dark, the decision when he'd made it, but Harry had had a suspicion Draco would appreciate it. The conclusion, the grand finale and raucous applause, had been accompanied with heartfelt clapping from the Draco in turn. At first Harry had thought him to simply be jesting him, of pretending for the sake of sparing Harry's feelings, but the animated discussion he begun at when Thomas once more directed them into the limousine was remarkably sincere.

"I think Cosette was a bit of a nothing character but Jean val Jean... I can admire someone like that."

Hiding a smirk, Harry attempted to look thoughtful and considering. "Is that so? Well, I suppose Cosette was something more of a symbol than anything." Familiar with the storyline from his years at Muggle high school, Harry was less captivated by the story, though he could admit he still thoroughly enjoyed the performance. It allowed him to consider the story in a different light. "I suppose she was like the innocence that was stolen from the rest of the characters. And despite her hardships, her protection under her guardian maintained that innocence."

Frowning as he leant back into the leather seating, Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I guess so. I just didn't ever expect Muggles to be so elaborate and in depth with their storyline and presentation. To say nothing of their storylines. Are you certain it's fiction?" Draco stared at Harry suspiciously.

Harry could only shake his head, smiling. "About as certain as I can be. Grounded in a historical context it may be, the story is fictional."

"Hmm, well... even so. I'm pleasantly surprised by the fact. And they build that entire backdrop without magic, and changed it and everything throughout the show?" At

Harry's nod, he slumped back further in his seat. "Well, I'll be. Maybe they do know something or other about theatre."

Harry elbowed him gently. "Perhaps you'll remember that when you go about insulting Muggle culture in future?"

"Never," Draco replied with a grin, turning to press a kiss onto his cheek. "Though for now, at least, I can appreciate a job well done."

"I think that's an understatement."

Draco conceded as much with a shrug. "What made you choose the theatre, anyway?"

It was Harry's turn to grin. "Well, you do have a flair for drama –"

"Excuse me?"

"- and I thought you'd likely be more appreciative of singers than of dancers."

"And why is that?" Draco smirked indulgently.

Harry replied with a return of a kiss to his cheek. "Because you love to talk so much, obviously."

Draco was in too good a mood to even pretend to be offended. Or maybe that was just because it was so true and Draco was nothing if not proud of the fact.

When they pulled up outside of the hotel, Draco glanced towards Harry in surprise.

"What? You didn't think that was it, did you?" Harry admonished him teasingly, climbing out of the limousine past Thomas. "That's hardly the way to celebrate an eighteenth."

"I still don't understand your emphasis upon 'eighteen'," Draco sighed, following him as they made their way into the lobby.

The hotel itself was as grand as the theatre, though in more subdued tones. Rather like a matured and less youthfully glowing, though still regally impressive, older sibling. Yet even matured, it was fine enough that Draco's satisfactinon made itself known upon his face. He frowned speculatively as he pondered loudly and appreciatively of Harry's unexpected skills in allocating suitable dining.

Shrugging, Harry slipped his hand into his partners before replying in a deliberately quiet voice. "I'm not oblivious to refinement, though of course I'm not as knowledgeable as learned as you are. You deserved something special. Seventeen may be the age of maturity in the Wizarding world, but in Muggle France at least it's eighteen."

"Ah, but you forget that I don't really give much of a toss for cultural norms of different countries."

Another elbow in the side made Draco grunt. He was receiving his supply of them that evening. "When in Rome, Draco."

"Harry, love, you know how I despise assimilation," Draco sniffed indignantly as they approached the maître d'.

"Only when it is of yourself, I'm sure," Harry replied. "Come on, are you hungry? Word is that the duck-egg souffle is really, really good here."

The dining hall was a dim, candlelit room of dark carpets and round tables bedecked in rippling wine-red cloth. At the far end of the room a slightly raised dais held a grand piano, currently being graced by the talented fingers of a serious-faced young man who seemed to be lost in his own music. The rest of the room as a whole was muted, despite being nearly full. A modest and respectable hush, the hush that entailed privacy in the midst of company. Even the constant flow of graceful waiters wielding covered dishes barely made a sound as they passed through the cleverly concealed kitchen doors in the distant corner.

After being relieved of their coats, they followed the tuxedo-clad maitre d' to a two-seater table. It said something of the setting that neither dubious glances nor quizzical stares were sent their way. Two young men – two men together – and barely older than teens themselves was hardly to be expected in such expensive holdings. Harry knew that Muggles shared a slightly different view on the sort of relationship that he and Draco shared to that of wizards, but not a second glance was given. It was comforting, even with the knowledge that it was likely the exorbitant cost of their dining that entitled them to as much.

All in all, it was a calming sit-down meal, relaxing and comfortable in a way that left Harry hesitant to suggest they depart from the dark embrace of the wide room. True to his word, the souffle was splendid, accompanied by a white riesling and topped by a decadent fondue of all things that left them both quite happy to remain in the quiet ambiance, talking quietly and idly as their dinner settled. It was different to their usual weekends – obviously – but Harry found the unusual setting and intimacy of the refined dining room a compelling stage. It seemed to entice conversation like a warm companion, and Harry was largely unsurprised when a glance towards an elaborate clock of coiled filigree above the exit indicated it to be nearly eleven o'clock.

They were nearly the last in the room, save for a young man and woman at the opposite wall who seemed more inclined to fall into each others eyes than notice their surroundings. Draco picked idly at the remaining strawberries of their dessert, a gentle smile on his lips. Their conversation had drawn to a natural close, but it left neither one of their fidgeting awkwardly. The simple comfort of being in one another's presence was conversation enough.

I'm glad, Harry thought idly, the recurring smile that had been afflicting him all evening arising once more as he beheld Draco's relaxed expression, smiling himself as his eyes drifted lazily around the room. I hope he enjoyed himself. I think he did. Never having to plan a birthday before in his life, the self-consciousness, the worry of providing something pleasing, had been hounding him for weeks. I needn't have worried, truly... He is happy.

Draoc brought him out of his musings with a purposeful shift in his chair. "Harry?"

"Hmm?"

Nodding towards the other end of the room, Draco turned his glance upon him. "Will you play something?"

Turning towards the object of Draco's focus, Harry uttered a huff of laughter and shook his head. "I hardly think I'm good enough."

"What, you?" Draco clicked his tongue in exaggerated disbelief. "You, who managed to keep pace with sixth year students after barely three months of schooling, you don't think that after nearly a year of practicing piano that you're not good enough?"

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not saying it to be humble or anything. I mean, I can play, but I'm nothing special. I've a fair ear for music, but I'm appalling at composing. Lacking in creativity or some such," he finished with a rueful smile.

"I didn't ask for anything special," Draco replied. Wiping his hands on the linen napkin, he rose to his feet and held out a hand to Harry. "You've never let me hear you play before. And it's not as though anyone is really around to hear you. Curb your bashfulness for once."

Harry could only cede to that sentiment. He doubted that the remaining two diners were aware enough of their surroundings to have realised that the performing pianist had finished for the night. Admitting defeat, Harry took Draco's proffered hand and allowed himself to be tugged towards the dais.

It was a beautiful instrument. Even with his limited experience with playing, and similarly limited knowledge of pianos, Harry could tell it was an expensive and and exquisite piece. Inky black, the half-raised lid allowed a glimpse of strings that appeared to be spun from gold. The dim lighting of the room reflected off the smooth, shining surface in a pool of glowing orbs. The pristine keys were so polished they glistening with a mirroring gleam. Every smooth line, down to the bronze pedals, bespoke refinement and elegance. Harry was almost nervous to ease himself onto the low, flat and comparatively plain stool.

"What should I play?"

Draco shrugged, leaning with his back to the piano and half-turning over his shoulder towards him. "I leave it up to your expert opinion." He folded his arms, a smile curling his lips. "As I seem to recall, I've spoken of my own rather disastrous experience in music."

Harry laughed faintly at the memory. The image of a child-Draco, smacking the living daylights out of a his piano with a chair leg was as horrifying as it was amusing. Apparently, he hadn't been quite as taken with music in his early years as he he had with oration.

With a smile still playing upon his slips, Harry dropped his fingers to the piano keys and begun to play. The first song that came to mind was a personal favourite, Muggle, and one he'd only very recently become acquainted with. Within moments, the jovial rhythm of Bach's Solfeggietto in C Minor was ringing merrily throughout the dining hall, bringing life to the otherwise still setting of the dining hall.

It was only a short piece, and as his fingers stilled on the keys once more Harry glanced towards Draco. His partner was fixing him with a faintly amused stare, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"How in Merlin's name do you even move your fingers that fast?"

Harry ducked his head bashfully. Well, maybe it had been a bit of a start for a first performance. "It's easier than it looks, when you pick it up the finger pattern."

"I'm sure," Draco drawled, slouching once more onto the piano. "It's very good, though. I thought you would have been terrible from the way you always talk about Neville being 'so much more musically adept' than you."

Harry chewed his slip in an attempt to quell the flush of embarrassment that arose under Draco's back-handed praise. Dropping his fingers to the keys once more, he opted for falling into the familiar melody of Fur Elise. Draco's amused slump eased slightly as he tilted his head back, listening to the music.

"I think I've heard of this one before..."

Barely glancing up from the keys, Harry gave a small smile. "I should think so. Just about everyone in the Western world has heard of this tune. Many of Beethoven's works are well known even by those with no musical interest."

"Known the Muggle world, maybe," Draco murmured, but there was no resentment or even condescension to his tone.

"What sort of musicians do you like, then?"

Harry could just make out Draco's eyes sliding closed from his periphery. "I don't know... Jarmonte, maybe? He was fairly renowned from his work about six hundred years ago, I think. Or Yellan? Elubenos' still around I think, though she must be nearly a skeleton for how old she is; must use some sort of deageing potion, I'd wager." Turning lazily towards Harry, he opened one eye. "She's the one that did all of those shows with that singer, Kaffstoff."

Nodding slowly, Harry drew to the end of Beethoven's piece and slipped easily into his favourite of Elubenos'. Calming, lilting, it gave nothing if not the impression of a warm, moonlit evening illuminated only by the natural lights and the glimmer of stars across the black blanket of night. Breve Parpadeo, Madame Almeera called it. It was one of the Musique et Drame teacher's favourite as well. Relatively easy to master, it was one of the first of the grade five pieces he'd learnt. It could have been his imagination, but to Harry it felt just faintly magical. Maybe all Wizarding songs carried that same hint of the surreal.

Approaching the chorus, the thrumming tendrils of resonance vibrated through his fingers more ardently. It was a shame, really, that he was rather incompetent at singing, for the vocals were truly...

"I still hold on tight to each flickering moment,
For to loosen my grasp would be to set her free.

"But though for freedom she yearns,
She will crumble beneath the weight of the world,

"So I still hold her tight to shelter from the storm.
Revel, for each flickering moment."

Harry faltered briefly in his playing as Draco's voice murmured nearly inaudibly through the vibrations of music. Picking it up once more, his eyes drifted towards where he stood, head tilted back slightly once more with eyes resting peacefully closed. The rise of the chorus sounding brought a gentle repeat of the lulling words, the hushed voice. It was deep, resonating, with a raw, untrained beauty that seemed somehow unexpected yet peculiarly suited to Draco.

When he finally finished the piece, Harry let his hands drop into his lap. Tilting his head towards Draco, he marveled that his partner, for all that he had known him for nearly two years, had possessed this skill that he knew nothing about. And yet, far from feeling resentment towards the kept secret, Harry instead felt wonder that, even as he knew him so well, there were still hidden treasures yet to be unearthed. Small things, seemingly inconsequential things, that could only lead to him loving Draco all the more.

As Draco turned slowly towards him, eyelids sliding open to reveal a sparkling warmth in their deep greyness, Harry felt a wave of love well within him for the the young man who was his partner. The decision he'd been mulling over all night seemed already made for him. It wasn't daunting anymore in the least.

I truly do love him. And really, if I were to pick a moment, I would choose tonight.


It was nearly midnight when Draco followed Harry through the door into the hotel suite. Stepping onto thick, pale carpets, he felt a smile curl his lips.

Like so often tonight, he's done it again. How well Harry knows me.

Their night had been perfect; intimate, yet not bereft of amusements that were exciting not only for their refinement and unexpectedness. Draco couldn't deny that he had enjoyed the play – heartily enjoyed – and their subsequent dining rivalled the best he'd had in the Wizarding world. Though his condescension towards Muggles was generally little more than a farce these days, he could admit that there was an inclination towards of belief in Wizarding superiority. It was only to be expected, he knew; he'd been raised with such beliefs. Yet every time Harry showed him more of the Muggle world, the world he had grown up in, the foundations of such beliefs wavered ever more noticeably.

The hotel added it's own sway, and the suite just as much. A double room of lounging and sleeping quarters, the paleness of the walls and floors contrasted simply yet impressively with rich satin bed sheets of a dark navy, matching couches that simply begged to be used, and smoothly polished cabinets of ebony. Even Draco's disdain for one of those Muggle televisions – a ridiculously big one – couldn't put a dampener on the high-class impression of the ensemble.

Slipping his jacket off, he hung it neatly on one of the dutifully placed hooks beside the door and turned to Harry. His partner was gazing about the room, his own jacket folded in his arms, as though assessing it for its serviceability. Draco took the moment to simply look upon him, as he had so often that night.

Fitted outfits truly did suit him so well, clinging to the lines of his slim form and leaving little to the imagination. He'd dressed to match Draco, though Draco could hardly compare them both. He knew he looked smart in Muggle dress – of course he did; why wouldn't he? – but there was something different and entirely appealing about Harry. Draco could hardly keep his eyes from him, his delicate features that suited the equally

delicate glasses so well, the intricate coil of braid falling over his shoulder, small hands and slender fingers that Draco had just witnessed breathe life into the stagnant coldness of the piano downstairs. Had Les Miserables been any less enjoyable and he was certain he wouldn't have been able to draw his eyes away from him.

It was only when Harry shifted uncomfortably that Draco realised he was aware of his silent observation. Yet the slight flush was hardly as deep as that which usually afflicted him when under intense scrutiny. Stepping towards Draco, he fiddled idly with his jacket, swapping it between arms unnecessarily.

Before he could speak, Draco broke the silence. It seemed important that he just say it, just so that Harry knew. "Harry, you've likely already realised, but I had a truly wonderful evening." He smiled, taking the final step between them and cupping his hand around Harry's cheek. "I couldn't imagine a better birthday. Or with better company. Thank you." And with that said, he leant forwards and pressed a kiss upon Harry's lips.

It was soft, and gentle, and faintly sweet from their fondue. And yet it ended to quickly when Harry pulled his head away minutely. Draco frowned questioningly, only to lean away himself at the look of intense honesty in Harry's eyes.

"Harry, what...?"

"Draco." The voice was quiet, barely a whisper, yet filled with the same intensity as Harry's gaze. It was enough to still Draco's tongue instantly. "Draco, will you sleep with me?"

Of all the things to anticipate spilling from Harry's mouth, that had not been one of them. Draco felt his breath catch, his mind short incredulously, and the only word that could stutter from his mouth was "What?"

A small smile lifted the corners of Harry's mouth. "I'm asking, because I know you wouldn't. Will you sleep with me?"

No, it definitely hadn't been a trick of his ears, of wishful thinking. Curling the fingers still holding Harry's cheek, Draco struggled with a swallow. "I didn't think you'd want..."

Harry's smile widened slightly, faintly coy. "Draco, I have wanted to. With you. I just haven't... been able to." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and raising a hand to press against the fingers that held his cheek. "Thank you for waiting. I'm sorry it took so long."

It was a marvel, truly, this quietly confident young man before him. Draco had never seen this side of Harry before, and it swept his feet out from underneath him. Or, it would have, had they not been rooted so firmly, weighted so heavily, to the ground. Bloody hell, I'm like a blushing virgin... How horribly embarrassing. And yet... Draco couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. It was almost too miraculous to comprehend.

But Harry was staring at him, that steady intensity unwavering in his green eyes. Draco was captivated; the words slipped out of his mouth unawares. "You have no idea how much I want to say yes."

"But?"

"But, " and Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he brought his free hand to cup Harry's other cheek and dropped his forehead to the fringed brow, "I'm scared. I don't want to hurt you." It was unexpectedly easy to say those words.

Gentle fingers stroked through his hair with such tenderness that heDraco opened his eyes once more. Harry was smiling gently, and perhaps it was simply how closely they now stood but Draco considered he saw a faint flicker of uneasiness in those deep, wide eyes. "Thank you, Draco, but... I'm scared too. And that doesn't mean I don't want to." Soft lips pressed against Draco's. "Will you say yes? Can we try?"

What could Draco do but agree? There was only so much a man could take. Drawing a ragged breath, Draco nodded. "Yes. God, yes." He didn't have to look to know that Harry's smile deepened. He could feel the radiance like a shining beacon of warmth.

Leaning back slightly, hands still cradling Harry's face, he drew another steadying breath. "I think, though, that I, um... what do you... how did you want to...?" He trailed off awkwardly, feeling a faint flush rise in his own cheeks. It was only made deeper by the breathy laugh Harry uttered. Mortification rising, Draco would have scowled at Harry at any other time had he been anyone else, except that he wasn't. It was Harry, and under the radiant warmth of that smile and the sudden realisation that relief was what spread it so widely, Draco felt his own grin resurface. "Tease me and I'll hex you."

Harry shook his head and struggled to get a hold of his silent laughter. "I'm sorry, I think I'm just nervous. I didn't mean to." He bit his bottom lip to stem his amusement. "That was mean."

"Not mean, just, well." Draco shrugged, glancing to the side to escape the mixture of nervousness and merriment in Harry's stare. "Just very appropriate. Maybe a little too appropriate. I honestly don't really know what I'm doing. I mean, I've read books, but there's only so much that they can tell. And, " he took another deep breath. "The main thing I've realised is that it's really not at all like sex between a man and a woman. It's so much more..."

"Complicated?"

"Yes. Yes, you could say that." The constant warmth in Draco's cheeks didn't help with his enunciation. The topic was strangely awkward, given how serious and genuine the subject. And though he had so desperately desired to consumate their love, Draco was nothing if not daunted by what he'd read. It was more complicated, and he'd felt something akin to terror upon reading the various anecdotes on 'preparation' and 'stimulation'. Not that it wasn't helpful, he just hadn't quite expected that there was so much to it. Still, he'd learnt a lot of the theory, enough to warrant asking some important questions. "Which do you...? I mean, would you prefer...?" Why is it so bloody difficult to say?!

Harry stared at him blankly, blinking slightly before comprehension dawned. "Oh, you mean -?"

"Yes, I mean..." And dammit, Harry was struggling not to laugh again. Draco would have turned away in frustration as well as embarrassment had he not known it for what it was; despite his apparent confidence, nervousness was evident in Harry's eyes. It just seemed to be expressing itself with very uncharacteristic bubbliness. He could only wait for Harry to quell the near-hysterical merriment to reply.

When it did, Harry met his eyes with a loving fondness that eradicating any lingering feelings of affront. "You're freaking out, aren't you?"

Draco shook his head in denial, though he doubted it fooled either of them. "Not freaking out, no, but I think we can both acknowledge our mutual anxieties."

"Then let's acknowledge them," Harry said simply. He shrugged. "Don't think about the bad things that could happen, Draco. Focus on the good." Patting the hands that held his cheeks, Harry gently extricated himself from Draco's grasp. "You don't even have think at all, Draco. Just let me do it."

"But..."

"Just give me a few minutes, okay?" And with a brief kiss, Harry turned and slipped into the bedroom. Or at least through the bedroom and into the bathroom that Draco hadn't noticed before, so perfectly camouflaged was the door to its surrounding walls. There was a flicking noise preceding yellow-white light spilling across the carpet before Harry closed the door with a gentle click. Moments later, the muted sound of a shower thrummed through the thick door.

Just like that. Just like that and Harry was taking care of it. Draco was ashamed to feel an upwelling of relief, but he couldn't deny it. He knew he was out of his depth, in this context at least, and though he struggled to think about the how, Harry did not. Sighing heavily, he slipped his shoes off, placing them beside the front door to the suite, and padded into the bedroom. The mattress was soft and thick, sinking beneath his weight as he settled onto the edge. Silence, save for the distant hiss of water hitting tiled floors, spread throughout the room.

Initially, it was numbness that gripped him. Then nervousness, a nervousness Draco hadn't felt since he'd been with Pansy all those years ago, and even then it felt different somehow. Deeper, and exponentially vaster. Then came the guilt – how could he actually be doing this? What kind of a monster was he to do this after everything Harry had been through? – then the wonder. Harry had actually asked him, asked him, because he wanted him. And despite the lingering guilt, Draco knew that he had never wanted anything more profoundly in his life. Wanted anyone more.

By the time the shower silenced, Draco had fallen into a floating cloud of thought. A cloud that immediately dissipated when the door creaked open and Harry half peered out.

All of the nervous bubbliness was gone, leaving only the intensity, the seriousness, that seemed far too mature for a seventeen year old. But it wasn't only that which caught Draco's eye, stilled his breath in his throat. Barely perceiving the door as it swung open, Draco was rendered speechless. And for once, he didn't even care.

They'd never shared moments of absolute intimacy before, and so Draco had never seen Harry naked before. The memory would stay with him forever; slender, pale limbs, the soft curves that were so different to a woman's yet impossibly even more beautiful. The faint sheen of residual water glistened upon his skin, setting it alight in a glow under the whiteness of the bathroom light behind him. His hair was loose, dripping slightly from dampness and curling across his bare shoulders.

There were scars. Draco knew this, even though he hadn't seen them all. Pale scars, faded with time, that criss-crossed his skin in broken patterns. Yet even they were

somehow beautiful, despite knowing from where they'd came. Draco hardly saw them for the breathtaking canvas they streaked across. But more than the beauty of his skin, the glory of each line and every shadow, was the gentle hesitancy in his eyes, freed from their glasses. A desperate desire for confidence warring against his natural uncertainty.

The thought of 'nothing can possibly be more perfect' was immediately disproved as the words "You're beautiful" slipped from his lips and a flush flooded Harry's pale cheeks. Draco knew that that was perfection.

Later, Draco would remember the rest of the night in broken pieces of continued perfection. The silent movements of Harry stepping across the bedroom, wrapping his shower-warmed arms around Draco's neck and sinking into a kiss. Somehow his clothes were shed and they fell, clinging to one another, upon the impossibly soft mattress.

Hands had never been more necessary, and Draco suddenly found he didn't have enough of them. Aching to touch every inch of Harry's body, fingers caressing soft, smooth skin just as he felt the returning inquisitive touches dancing across his own arms, his legs, shoulders and chest. Holding that dear face to pepper it with kisses and entwining tongues ferociously until they both struggled for breath. It was warm, hot even, and the taste of lust, the scent of passion, hung in their air.

But above all... When Harry pushed him onto his back, had straddled his hips and settled himself above Draco's arousal. When his small fingers slid along his length, coated in cool, conjured wetness and he couldn't help but groan. When he had – oh gods – when he'd raised himself slightly onto his knees, concentration at odds with the breathlessness and flushing of cheeks, and sunk down upon Draco's hardness and there had been just so much heat, the tightness, the warmth. The perfection.

Draco had never experienced the like before. For there was nothing to compare to making love with one's soul mate, with his most loved person in the entirety of the world. He was sure that potent adoration had surely been pouring from his skin as he gazed upon his partner, his lover, his heart, as he rode him in steady undulations, each twist of hips drawing an invigorating lance of pleasure to his brain, sending sparks dancing across his eyes. Bucking beneath Harry's slender form, his hands grasped desperately on clenching thighs as he pounded and thrust and writhed in those bewitching moments. The only sounds in the room were their harsh pants, the wanton moans, yet even they were drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears when Draco came in a sharp cry and torrent of cascading pleasure.

Nothing could ever compare.

It was inconsequential, how long it lasted. Time didn't matter, not in that grand hotel room with its contrasting colours, its Muggle television and the impressive views that would undoubtedly be seen from the beyond the curtained windows. Draco lost himself in Harry, in the sheer ardour of lovemaking as they clung to one another time and time again. Every ounce of pent up passion, the waiting that had hardly seemed of consequence before, was released in a glorious climax of coupling.

What could have been days or only hours later, Draco curled in exhaustion around his partner, fingers stroking though his hair. He didn't have to look to know that Harry had fallen to sleep; the soft, shallow breaths brushing against the skin of his throat was indication enough. Closing his eyes, he was unsurprised to feel the smile blossom across his cheeks. Happinness was a word not nearly large enough to encompass that which he felt.

Drawing Harry even closer into his arms, Draco felt himself slip into the darkness of slumber. For what greater lullaby could there be than the steady breathing of one's soul mate as they inched unconsciously closer into one another's arms? Exhaustion drew him into a world of dreams, yet even the wonders of the imagination paled in comparison to reality.