[Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.]

Title borrowed from Prince's Gambit by C. S. Pacat.

Seven years ago

Malfoy's elbow is in my face.

My hands are inching past the waistband of his ridiculously tight skinny jeans and he's trying to turn around in the cramped space of this fucking wardrobe we've snuck into like a pair of randy teenagers and now his viciously pointy elbow is in my face.

"Fucking— fuck this." He impatiently flaps one spidery hand at a burgundy wool coat, half-falling off its hanger between us and I help him shove it behind me with the rest of the clothes I'd carelessly pushed aside before pulling him in here. "Oh, yes," he sighs when I bury my face into the side of his neck and lick. "Fuck, yes, Potter."

He bucks his hips forward and I groan at the friction, denim covered cocks rubbing roughly together, bony fingers in my hair, and sharp teeth at my jaw.

"Did you paint these on?!" I tug fruitlessly at his blue jeans and he sniggers, his mouth clumsily landing on mine, whiskey and beer mingling on our tongues. "Why do you smell like chocolate?" I hiccup into his soft, flushed cheek, sliding one hand up under his un-tucked black shirt, immediately twisting the nipple when my fingers brush.

Malfoy gasps, jerking. "I may have let Pansy convince me to slather on some cocoa butter body...milk— lotion— cream... body butter...something," he eventually trails off, arching into my hand as I tickle the tip of the nub with the pad of my forefinger.

"'s nice," I mumble into his neck before biting into the crook, sucking on the sweet smelling flesh and making him growl softly.

"I suppose, if you want to smell like a bloody patisserie. I hate Pansy sometimes." His hands suddenly fumble with my belt buckle and he squints slightly in the semi-darkness, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

I brush some of it away and lean forward again, closing my mouth around his as he sighs, leaning in and deepening the kiss, slanting his head so his hair falls back onto his face, some of it getting in my mouth – and in my nose.

I pull away just in time and sneeze violently into the crook of one arm, once, twice, thrice, until Malfoy is shaking with laughter, his head thumping back onto the wood as he clutches his stomach.

"Fucking hair," I hiss, wiping my nose on the back of one hand, and he laughs harder, bending over in whatever space we have between us, drunkenly wheezing soundlessly. "Shut up," I grumble and stagger forward, the toes of my boot landing right on his bare foot.

Malfoy howls and I hurriedly clamp one hand over his mouth with a frantically whispered, "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"You idiot!"

"I'm sorry! Why are you barefoot in the first place?!"

"I had on new shoes and they were biting me!" he whimpers. "Can't you be more careful?! Bloody bumbling son of a—" He breaks off cursing midway, lifting his injured foot to clutch at it—

—and catching me in my groin with his knee.

The strangled sound that escapes me is by no definition funny because my vision literally blurs with the pain but all Malfoy does is bursts out laughing again even as he hurries to press into me with giggled apologies.

"Shit, Potter, I'm so sorry!" He's got tears in his eyes as he holds my face with warm, long-fingered hands and I hope the tears are at least partially from the pain in his foot because otherwise I might feel more than inclined to stomp on it again.

"You did that on purpose!" I choke out, desperately cupping my bits with both hands.

"No, I didn't, I swear! Oh Merlin!" He's still fighting for breath, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and even in the dim light of both our lit wands and through the blinding pain in my privates, I am startled to register, not for the first (nor, I'm sure, the last) time tonight, how gorgeous he is; how his skin is nearly milk white and yet glows pearly pink, how his smile doesn't seem slimy and malicious anymore but genuine and alluringly wicked, how his hair gleams fucking golden.

"'s golden," I slur as the agony starts to ebb a little. Some of the buzz in my head has cleared out, probably from the sudden, excruciating pain, but I still feel pretty damn good.

"What?" he asks distractedly, standing on one leg, leaning back into the side of the closet, examining his foot while holding his wand angled to throw more light on it. "What's golden?" he asks again, looking up.

"Your hair." I lift one hand to fondle a strand of the shiny silk and then tuck it behind his ear. "'s pretty."

"Thanks," he says on a slow smirk. "I should knee you in the bits more often."

I glare. "Har har. How's the foot looking?"

"Didn't break a nail or anything," he tells me as he tucks his wand in his pocket and carefully stands on the foot in question. "Yeah, 'm good." He Finites the Locking Charm and pushes the door open.

"Where you going?" I ask at once, grabbing his hand. Malfoy grins.

"We tried, Potter," he says kindly. "Calling that attempt a complete fucking disaster would be doing it a kindness. Now how 'bout another pint, eh?"

I stare sullenly at him for several seconds before I realise I'm probably not getting hard again for a while anyway – not if the continued throbbing is any indication. Malfoy laughs as if he's read my mind.

"Come on, Golden Boy," he teases, squeezing my hand before pulling out of my grasp.

And then he's prancing lightly out and back into the party, rolling up his sleeves that had slipped back down to his wrists, and I smile at the way the yellow light catches in his bright hair before I follow him.

Now

"Where the hell did you disappear to, eh?! I ask heatedly, falling into the seat opposite Draco and forcing the menu he's got his nose buried in down so I can glare at him.

"Why, good morning to you too, sunshine," he croons and then sighs, rolling his eyes when I shove my glasses further up my nose, cross my arms and continue to glower. "What are you whinging about?"

"Last night! You fucking vanished! Do you know whom I got stuck listening to prattle on and on?!"

He rests his arms on the table and lifts one dark blond eyebrow at me. "Pray tell?"

"That Rick Griffith guy!" I grit furiously and his silver eyes widen for a moment before Draco guffaws loudly, cheeks flushing with mirth. "Why does Parkinson keep inviting him to her thrashes?!"

"She's hoping either you or I will go out with him," he chortles. "Their mothers are close!" he adds, as if that explains it better.

"He wouldn't shut up about his fucking cactus collection," I spit and Draco laughs harder. "I hate you, I'm never going anywhere with you again. Where did you fuck off to anyway?" I prod suspiciously.

"You remember that big bloke with the blue Mohawk?" He grins as I immediately school my expression into the one of impassive disinterest I've mastered for when he starts ranting about his latest fuckboy.

"Seriously? You went home with him?!"

"Psh, no, he isn't even gay," he clarifies, rolling his eyes and picking up the menu again. "His brother is, though," he adds casually, glancing up through his lashes at me with a completely debauched grin, grey eyes sparkling. "So, so gay."

I lean back in my chair and gesture for the waiter. "I don't want to know."

"It's a miracle I'm fucking sitting right now, Harry," he tells me seriously and I click my tongue at him irritably. "Oh, would you grow up and not be a prude for once?!"

"I'm not a prude!" I flare up at once only for him to snort and throw me a look of incredulity. "Full English," I hurriedly place my order before the idiot can start again about his night.

And no, I know what you're thinking and I'm not in love with Draco. I just don't fancy listening to him describe his sex life in minute detail. That doesn't have to mean anything.

"Please tell me you at least got off with somebody last night?" he asks hopefully as we tuck into our breakfast some minutes later.

I don't answer him as I shove a forkful of sausage into my mouth. I can feel his gaze fixed firmly on me and chew steadily until I finally relent and look up, swallowing and then clearing my throat.

"I mean, I came close-" I start.

"Please don't," he sighs. "The whole point of going to the party was to—"

"As my wing man who fucking disappeared on me, I advise you not to finish that sentence," I say pointedly. He bites his lip on a grin, looking slightly guilty.

"Don't put this on me," he shoots back, frowning. "Since that fucking Simon—"

"For Merlin's sake, Draco, it's been four months!" I stab my fork viciously into each of the fried tomatoes on my plate. "Stop with the Simon-ing already!" I shake the shrivelled tomatoes off my fork and onto his plate.

"You stole the words right out of my rather talented mouth." He smirks as I huff exasperatedly. "It's been four fucking months – move the fuck on."

"What makes you think I'm still hung up on him?"

"Your refusal to pull! You're still hoping he'll come crawling back, aren't you?" he points an accusatory forkful of omelette and tomatoes at me, his eyes narrowing.

I'm laughing now. "I assure you, I'm hoping for no such thing," I promise. "And even if he were to come 'crawling' back—"

"You call me and I'll happily come drag the little bitch away." He smiles sweetly around his fork.

"You do remember it was me who did the breaking up?"

"I also remember it was he who did the cheating," he answers glibly. "Honestly, who cheats on Harry Potter? Who cheats on this?!" he gestures to me and I shift self-consciously in my chair. "I mean, look at you!" his voice rises hysterically, and I let myself grin.

"Shut it, Malfoy," I say fondly.

"Fuck off, Potter," he kicks me lightly in the shin. "And I promise I won't disappear on you again – not until I've secured a nice, tight arse for you to fuck through the night."

"Classy," I snort. "Brought up in a Pureblood household, were you?" I laugh despite myself and he flips me off even as he delicately brings his tea up to his pink mouth.

It's not as grossly absurd as it seems, trust me; Draco Malfoy and me – actual friends.

We have been for nearly seven years now, ever since that cringe-worthy failed attempt at a hook-up in that wardrobe (something we've vowed never to bring up), and I complain about his continued presence in my life almost as vehemently as I'm secretly thankful for it.

Complain about it because – well, he's Malfoy. He's rude, he's snooty, enjoys needling people to the point of having wands drawn on him (which he then laughs at), has a filthy mouth and is always shamelessly, smugly self-satisfied.

And I'm thankful because... he's Draco – he's incredibly witty, surprisingly generous, prone to random outbursts of pure, belly-warming kindness, is pretty darn skilful at what he does and above everything else, is fiercely loyal.

That little trait of his surprises me every single day – surprises all of us every single day.

Yes, he's one of us now, lift your jaw up off the floor and no, don't roll your eyes – it's really not that absurd.

"What are you doing down here?" Ron scowls, climbing off the elliptical as Draco strolls out of the elevator, yanking open the Velcro on his kickboxing gloves with his teeth. He smirks as he walks over and deliberately rams his shoulder into Ron's. "Can't we even get a workout in without looking at your pinched face?"

I increase the speed on my treadmill and focus on breathing in and out as I wait for the routine bickering session that's about to commence.

"Oh, do stop sulking, you big baby." Draco grins, slapping Ron across the head with the gloves and earning a sharp yelp. "Besides, the bet wasn't my idea, and honestly who bets on the bloody Canons against Pudd. United?!" he chuckles, coming over to steal my bottle, chugging half the water in one gulp. He swallows noisily, wipes a hand across his mouth and continues, "Your sister plays professionally! Really, Ronald, you ought to know better." He nicks my towel to wipe his face.

"Shut up."

"Ouch – such a scathing retort."

"I swear I'll hex you, I genuinely have no qualms."

"Yes, and I'll just stand here with my hands by my sides, just waiting for whatever second-year level hex you'll attempt to throw at me."

"Fuck you, you scrawny—"

"Really?! Would you even know how to? 'cause I'm not going to lie, love, I wouldn't mind it in the least - I've sneaked a look at the package and Granger is one lucky bint—"

"Would you shut up?! Merlin!"

"Awww, look at you turning all red, you homophobic, beet-faced wretch."

"I'm not homoph— Harry!"

"Yes, run to Harry, what else is new?"

"Would both of you shut your faces?" I pant wearily, slowing down to a jog and then hopping off the treadmill. I grab my towel back from him and pull my glasses off just as they're about to slip off my sweaty nose, mopping my face dry – I can smell Draco's cologne and sweat and vaguely wonder if it's at all odd that I can actually recognise his scent distinctly. "Could one of you come spot me?" I head over to the weights, both of them trailing after me, Draco continuing to burrow his way deeper under Ron's skin with next to no effort.

"Merlin, Harry, how much are you benching?" Draco drawls as I load the bar and lie down, Ron assisting me with the lift-off. "One would think you're compensating for your lack of brains with all that brawn."

Ron immediately snorts, holding one hand, palm up, under the bar as I start with my set. "Just 'cause your skinny, Curse Breaker arms can barely even support a five kilo dumbbell—"

"Oh, my skinny Curse Breaker arms can support a lot more than dumbbells, as my late night visitor from yesterday can confirm—"

"Oh no."

"I was on all fours for hours—"

"Oh my god."

"He was kinkier than even that Japanese-American bloke from last month, and that one was sick."

"Fucking hell, Harry, make him shut up!"

"Busy here!" I heave, breathing out steadily and starting another set.

"I mean, the things he had me do—"

"Okay, I'm sorry I called your arms skinny, just please shut it!"

"At one point, he had his whole—"

"Oh my god, lalalalala, I can't hear you—"

"Who even knew one can fit a whole—"

"STOP IT! I doubt even Parkinson is as slutty as you are."

"Does that do something for you, Weasley? 'cause I'm doing a little spotting of my own from over here, and if that's not a boner between your legs then I—"

"Fuck, you're repugnant!"

"Well, you're ginger, and I doubt anything's worse than that, so—"

"Ron!" I squeak as he abruptly disappears from my peripheral vision, the sudden distraction enough to make my arms immediately tremble with strain. "You wankers!" I can hear them shoving and pushing at each other, Draco sniggering, Ron growling expletives. "Fuck!" my arms bend back with the weight and Ron suddenly lunges back to catch the bar, staggering backwards with a grunt, right into Draco who topples back with a startled yell.

"Weasley, you—!"

"Woah! You okay there?"

Draco's shriek of fury is interrupted by a deep, unfamiliar voice and Ron and I quickly scramble around to see a tall, muscular brunet holding an armful of Draco Malfoy, whose limbs are sprawled out gracelessly.

Draco Malfoy who's staring up at his saviour with his mouth slightly open.

"I— yes," His voice comes out a breathless whisper and Ron rolls his eyes while I grin. "Thank you," he adds as the man courteously helps him straighten up.

The man simply smiles at Draco before looking over at Ron and me. "That ought to have pulled a muscle or two – you alright?" he asks me and something about the (what seems to be genuine) concern in his eyes irritates me.

"Yeah, I'm used to working out with these two," I dismiss, towelling my neck dry, and the man chuckles, a low, rumbling laugh that instantly has Draco standing up straighter and running a hand through his hair.

"I'm Draco," he says, smiling and shifting so that he's stood right in front of the man, his grey track pants suddenly hanging an inch or two lower than they were a second ago, his dark blue sleeveless gym vest riding up to reveal a broad strip of pale white hips and flat belly.

"Tristan," the man replies holding out a broad hand.

"Tristan - is that French?" Draco tilts his head and Ron snorts pointedly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Tristan chortles, wiping his brow with a fluffy white towel and throwing it over his shoulder. "Tristan Legrand."

"Oh, yes, there's a hint of that fabulous accent," Draco comments. "It always does something for me, that seductive little rolling of your 'r's that you people carry off with such flair."

"A lot of things do something for you, Malfoy," Ron says loudly and the glare Draco throws over his shoulder is directed at me, not Ron, and so I quickly smack Ron up the back of his head, dragging him away firmly by the sleeve while I sneak quick glances over my shoulder at the pair of them – Draco is standing a whole lot closer to him than he'd been three seconds ago.

I shake my head as Ron and I enter the locker room – guess we'll be hearing all about that tomorrow morning.

"WEASLEY!"

Draco's bellow is heard even over the deafening, thumping music and Ron's head snaps around, one long arm lifting in greeting as he fights his way through the packed dance floor over to the semi-circular booth we've secured at the back of the enormous club.

"Sorry I'm late," Ron pants, dropping into the faux-leather sofa seat and immediately grabbing Draco's tumbler of whiskey. "Hermione and I—"

"Were going at it like rabbits?" Draco scrabbles for his glass but Ron manages to drain it in a single gulp, grinning through the shudders as Draco glares.

"No, we had a—"

"Threesome with that ugly, bald sweat machine who lives across from you two?" Draco supplies.

"We had a fight," Ron snaps. "Tell me, git, when do you actually shut up?"

"When I have a cock in my mouth, of course," Draco answers without missing a beat, Ron shutting his eyes and sighing, Seamus and Dean's wolf whistles drowning out my own light sigh. "Tell me, moron, does a day go by without you pissing your wife off?"

"What makes you think I pissed her off?" Ron scowls at once. All of us just look at him impassively until his scowl deepens and he holds up both middle fingers. "She pisses me off plenty, just so you know."

"We know," Draco and I chorus.

Ron is eventually sent to elbow his way past all the sweat-soaked bodies to the bar to buy the next round, by which time Neville has finally arrived.

"Ha! I could smell the dung on you all the way across the room," Ron greets him. "Bought an extra pint and everything," he carefully Levitates five pints to the centre of the table, thumping down Draco's whiskey before him.

"It's fertiliser," Neville says patiently.

"It's dung, mate," Ron lifts his pint to him.

"Where's Zabini?" Neville turns to Draco who gestures to the throng of wildly undulating bodies.

"No, actually, I think I spotted him head into the gents' with two half-dressed birds," Ron informs us. "Bastard barely waved back," he adds hotly.

"Well, I suppose the half-dressed birds were a bit of a distraction." I look around lazily before my gaze snags on a vaguely familiar face. "Isn't that-?"

Draco lets out an excited squeak. "He came! Move, Weasley. Oh for fuck's sake, move your stupid flat arse." He shoves impatiently at Ron until he slides out of his seat.

"Who came?" Seamus cranes his neck to look over the crowd, trying to follow my line of vision.

"My date for the night," Draco says loftily. "How do I look?" he hurriedly takes off his jacket, throwing it to me.

"You invited Tristan?!" I ask incredulously as I catch the bundle of black, unwilling to admit that Draco looks fucking fantastic in his (what had to be uncomfortably) tight leather trousers and snug white t-shirt. His hair is carefully styled in that soft, artfully tousled mess and his eyes shine excitedly.

"Who is Tristan?!" Dean actually climbs up onto his seat to get a better look.

"Sit the fuck down, Dean, I assure you that he isn't that good looking," Ron says, bored. "He's just some cockwomble from the gym."

"He's not a—" Draco starts and then abruptly turns away with his middle finger held up. "Later, peasants!" he swaggers away and I frown after him until he's swallowed by the crowd.

Draco doesn't have 'dates for the night'.

Draco doesn't date.

I finally find him again, his bright head of gold shining as he reappears on the other side of the room. He saunters up to Tristan who'd until then been looking around blankly, tapping him on the shoulder and leaning up to say something (incredibly charming, I'm sure) into his ear.

I scowl as I watch Tristan grin down at him and then turn to indicate something to the barman, who in turn passes him two pints of beer, one of which Tristan hands to Draco – but Draco hates beer!

"Harry."

I look around, still grouching, to see Neville looking expectantly at me.

"What?" I say blankly.

"I asked you how you are," he smiles. "And you're distracted, obviously."

"What? No, no," I force out a laugh, "Not distracted. And I'm good. How's work?"

Neville shrugs easily. "'s great. Love those first years; they're always so excited."

"Yeah, until they realise they're going to spend the next seven years smelling of dung." Ron grins when Neville just sighs.

"I never noticed that smell," Seamus says thoughtfully.

"Yeah, because you reeked of it yourself," Dean informs him. "Olfactory adaptation and all that."

"Big words for someone who hasn't read a book his whole life."

"I've read plenty of books, thanks."

"Sure, I've seen him read before exams – or try to, at least."

Their voices fade out again as I discreetly look back around, trying to locate Draco and his 'date' before I realise they've disappeared completely.

Oh for heaven's sake, Draco.

"Is that chicken?" Draco appears out of nowhere and indicates hopefully to the half-eaten sandwich on my plate, gratefully grabbing it up when I nod and push it towards him. "'M starving," he mumbles as he takes a huge bite.

"Did you manage to crack open the vault?" I ask as Draco grabs the bottle of pumpkin juice Ron has just walked up with, gulping quickly to swallow down the hiccups I can see he was about to break into. Ron slumps into a grouch, and turns back around irritably to procure another bottle.

"And got fucking burnt in the process," Draco says morosely, shifting the singed collar of his robes aside to show me a patch of bandage below his shoulder. "I hate cafeteria food," he adds with a scowl, taking another bite and dropping into Ron's chair.

"See, this is why you need a partner," I tell him exasperatedly. "So you have someone watching your back."

"Curse Breakers work alone," Draco daintily tears the crust off the sandwich with forefinger and thumb.

"That's not true."

"Okay, I work alone," he amends, peering suspiciously at the shredded chicken stuffing between the slices. "Argh!" He nearly falls over sideways as Ron comes up and shoves at him.

"My seat." Ron pushes him again, this time successfully throwing him off.

Draco half-heartedly aims a kick at Ron and then looks around the crowded cafeteria trying to spot an unoccupied chair. Giving up after a second, he tiredly rounds the table and plonks himself on my thigh, chugging the rest of his juice while I sniff and grimace at the Healing Salve he reeks of.

"I'm beat already, and I have a date tonight," he abandons the last piece of sandwich and then pokes a finger into the beef pasty on Ron's plate, "I'm going to look like shit."

"You have a what?" I ask in shock, pushing at his shoulder as I peer around at his face to check if he's having us on while Ron yelps and pulls his plate out of Draco's reach.

"A date, Harry." Draco resignedly picks up the last of my sandwich again. "With Tristan."

"Since when do you fucking 'date'?" Ron asks through a mouthful of beef, sparing me from asking the same damn question.

"Since Tristan," Draco sighs with a dreamy smile.

"He's that good in the sack, huh?" Ron asks derisively.

"Wouldn't know, we haven't fucked yet."

Neither of us is able to reply for a moment Draco uses the temporary shocked silence to snag what's left of Ron's pasty, while I stare at the side of Draco's face, my stomach rolling with sudden discomfort.

"But...it's been over a week," I finally say weakly while Ron continues to gape at Draco, mouth hanging open.

"Has it only?" Draco chews thoughtfully. "Feels like longer." He pauses, giving us both conspiratorial looks. "I really like him."

Ron makes a high pitched croaking sound at the back of his throat, his eyes popping out, Draco grinning happily at him across the table.

I simply frown at Draco's small, round ear and start a rough mental countdown for how long I believe this idiocy will last.

Four hours later, I bang one fist into Draco's front door in a relentless, aggravating beat until I hear an irascibly bellowed, "Who the fuck is it?!"

"Tristan!" I bellow back, covering my mouth to muffle the rather unmanly giggle that instantly escapes me.

There's the hurried pattering of bare feet on wooden floorboards and then the door opens a tiny crack. I immediately heave one shoulder into the door, pushing it wider open, and firmly wedge in one booted foot in case he chooses to shut the door in my face.

"Fuck." He stumbles back as I force my way in with a grin. "Why are you using my front door, you bellend?"

"Because you've warded your Floo, you arse." I take in the sight of him in his stupid poncy black dressing gown with some sort of bright blue gunk all over his face and burst into a loud hoot of laughter. "Did a Crumple Horned Snorkack shit on your face?"

"Fuck you," he says, walking away and then pausing, turning back around with a small frown. "How do you know their shit's blue?" he asks curiously.

"They don't fucking exist, you nutter, they can have rainbow shit if you want."

I make a detour to his swanky kitchen, full of all the blindingly shiny appliances that the tosser barely even uses to grab a bottle of London Pride from the fridge.

"You're running low on beer," I inform him, taking a swig as I walk into his bedroom.

"Oh, go buy some yourself, I only stock that vile piss-water for you." He's standing before his full length mirror holding a set of cream and gold robes up against himself and squinting slightly. "Do these wash me out, you think?"

"No, Martha, it looks wonderful," I intone breathily, chugging some beer as he turns to scowl at me.

"Shut it, or I'll come rub Snorkack shit all over you."

"Why do you even have that stuff on?!"

"Pansy said it would do something or the other," he replies irritably. "I'm sure this is just some cheap crap from those horrid BeWitching Beauty pamphlets that she wanted to get rid of."

He suddenly sighs, throwing the robes onto his bed where several other sets of robes lie in a carelessly tossed pile. "Am I an idiot for hoping this works out?" he turns to me. "This thing with Tristan," he adds.

"Yeah, look, that's why I'm here," I toe off my boots and crawl onto his bed, beer in hand, leaning back against the headboard and stretching my legs out. "Ron's developed this heart thing caused by shock from your little announcement over lunch today."

He grins, turning back to the mirror to gingerly dab at the blue crap on his face with one stiffly held finger.

"We know what this is really about," I tell him matter-of-factly.

"Do you, now?" he narrows his eyes at me.

"Yeah. That pillock won't sleep with you until given a chance to get you drunk. And so—"

"I got plenty drunk that night at the club."

"And you didn't fuck?"

"We didn't fuck."

"Why?"

"Beats me," he throws his hands up and comes to sit cross legged by my feet. "He says he doesn't want things to move too fast."

We look at each other expressionlessly and burst out laughing at the same time.

"And you're still interested in him?" I slap my thigh, shaking with laughter.

"Call me mental, but I am," he shrugs, smiling crookedly. "Besides, it's been the longest time since I went on an actual date." He gets up and turns towards the en suite, Summoning a fresh towel.

"Wait, you're serious," I lean forward with a frown, "You're not joking about this?"

"No, why would I joke about going on a date?" He looks bewildered. "I actually like him, he's nice." Then he suddenly scowls. "And you're the one who keeps asking me to try being in a relationship for once, instead of sleeping my way around all of London."

"Yes, well, I didn't think you'll actually listen," I say honestly, sounding rather flabbergasted even to myself. Draco doesn't say anything to that, merely rolling his eyes and sighing though his nose. "So you've actually like... talked to him and stuff? This past week?" I finally prod carefully.

Draco purses his lips, lifting one eyebrow. "Yes."

"And?"

"And this is why I warded myself in," he says pointedly. "Pansy wouldn't shut up either and I don't want to talk about this yet."

"Why the hell not?!" I ask heatedly. "You won't normally shut up about the blokes you bonk!"

"And I haven't 'bonked' this one yet, so..." He shrugs like it's self explanatory and heads into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. I hear the scrape of the shower curtain being pushed aside, the squeak of a tap and then the rush of the shower running.

It's only several seconds later, when fragrant steam is billowing out the open bathroom door, that I realise I'm sitting motionless on his bed, utterly perplexed.

And a tiny bit terrified.

We cheer in loud bellows as Draco's dart hits the bulls-eye and he turns around, crossing one ankle behind the other and bowing jauntily.

"I bet you can't get three in a row," the random bloke from three tables over who'd challenged Draco in the first place pipes up. Draco rolls his eyes.

"Yeah? How much do you bet?" he raises one brow in challenge before going over to yank the darts out of the board

"Ten quid," the man shrugs a shoulder. "No biggie."

"Ten what," Draco asks vaguely as he walks back, before his head snaps up, eyes wide as he throws me a look that screams, 'shit!' "Ten quid, yes, of course," he hurries to say, and his challenger blinks around in bewilderment. "Sorry, I'm just legless right now," Draco affects a drunken sway with a wide grin and I hear Seamus and Dean snort into their beers while Zabini rolls his eyes, handing me a fresh pint.

I nod my thanks and look down the bar to see Ron entering the pub, waving him over as he spots us. As he begins winding his way through the tables, Draco takes position, holding the dart delicately between forefinger and thumb, the vibrantly pink tip of his tongue sticking out as he concentrates.

Ron's eyes brighten as he comes up to us; he creeps up behind Draco, motioning to us to be quiet with a finger on his lips, and at the last second, just as the blond brings his hand back behind his shoulder, Ron jumps forward with a roared, "HEY, MALFOY!" grabbing him around the neck, and Draco throws the dart about two feet to the left of the board with a startled squawk.

The four of us at the bar heave with laughter while Draco turns a dangerously threatening glare towards Ron who is still draped around his neck, hooting in triumph. Draco shoves him off, his lip curling as he stomps over to me.

"Couldn't you fucking warn me?!" he yells in my face. "You lost me ten quid!"

"I lost me ten quid, you mean," I chortle, taking out my wallet and quickly handing over a ten pound bill to the Muggle who was smiling bemusedly at the scene around him. The man takes his winnings with a crisp, "Cheers!" and wanders back to his friends, looking slightly relieved to not be around us anymore.

"Blaise, you fucking traitor," Draco gnashes his teeth as he glares at Zabini who's just pulled out another cold one for Ron.

"I'm just doing my job back here," Zabini drawls holding both hands up before hurrying off down the bar to serve a couple of giggling women who are twirling luridly colourful cocktail umbrellas at him to get his attention.

"Have you ever actually even seen Muggle money, Malfoy?" Seamus asks curiously as Draco squeezes his way between us both to pick up his drink that he'd abandoned on the bar in favour of accepting the random challenge a stranger had thrown at him.

"I hope I never have to." He mock-shudders.

"Git," I murmur, swatting my hand at his hip.

"Weasley, do shut up," he turns around to sullenly snap at Ron. "You sound like a dying, asthmatic whale."

Ron shakes his head as he clutches at a barstool for support, still wheezing with laughter as he points at a surly-faced Draco.

Draco smiles unexpectedly. "You're lucky I'm in such a good mood, you ginger wazzock. Or I'd be wrapping up your bollocks in a little red ribbon right now for Granger to put in a jar on the mantle."

"Why would Hermione want to store his balls?" Dean groans, thumping his forehead onto the bar, while I have a far more important question to ask.

"Why're you in a good mood?"

Draco turns his back to the bar, resting his elbows on it, and looks at me with a secretive little smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually." I frown – I hate it when he gets all enigmatic, when he smiles like he knows every last secret to the universe and there's no way in hell he's ever telling us even one of them.

He's been using that smirk a lot lately – ever since he started 'seeing' that fucking Tristan to be more accurate.

A month ago, when Ron and Hermione had invited us over for Sunday brunch one weekend and Draco had arrived late and slightly out of breath, Ron had asked him just where the fuck he'd been and he'd smirked that smirk and informed us that Tristan and he had just had their official third date the previous night.

"And I accidentally woke him up while I was leaving and then...activities ensued," Draco had said idly as he'd accepted the loaded plate Hermione had been holding out to him, nodding his thanks.

"And?" Ron had prompted, but Draco had merely shrugged. "Wait, you're not going to threaten to tell us in horrific detail just how thoroughly that eejit fucked you all over his place last night?"

"And this morning," Seamus had reminded around a mouthful of bacon.

"No," Draco had answered simply, shaking pepper over his eggs, and I'd instantly clenched up with unease. When we'd all stared at him with our mouths open, he'd finally looked back up at us, again, smirking that fucking smirk, and had dreamily sighed, "Because there are no words..."

Hermione had seemed rather grateful for that.

My frown deepens now as I continue to stare down at him now and Draco laughs. "It's a rather silly thing, nothing great really," he says breezily.

"So tell me," I press.

"Don't be a nosy parker," Draco chides gently, elbowing my chest.

"Tell me," I repeat stubbornly, frowning down at him.

"Tristan said he loves me," he replies bluntly.

Ron chokes on his first sip of beer, Dean leans dangerously far back on his stool to stare incredulously at Draco, Seamus looks at him with his eyebrows somewhere up near his hairline, and I feel my bottle slipping from my suddenly clammy grasp.

Draco turns around and imperiously calls out to Zabini for a refill as though he hadn't said anything unusual.

"Come again?" Seamus prompts, Dean thumping Ron on the back as the latter coughs violently.

"You heard me," Draco turns back around with his drink, leaning back once more, his hip against my thigh.

"I didn't," Zabini says, appearing out of nowhere as usual. "What'd he say now?"

"His boyfriend told him he loves him," Seamus says sombrely. Zabini's dismissive snort goes on for a full three seconds and Draco sharply pulls his tumbler up off the bar as if afraid that a stray booger might land in his drink.

"I'm hungry," Draco says suddenly. "Curry?" he addresses all of us in general, looking to his left to Seamus, Dean and Ron before glancing at me on his right. "Ditch that disgusting rag and come with us," he adds to Zabini over his shoulder.

"What was that like, having some bloke dropping the L bomb on you?" Ron asks hoarsely while Zabini mournfully inspects the faded blue dishcloth he has tucked into his belt as he wanders away to another couple of beckoning customers.

Draco rolls his eyes with a huff. "Merlin, Weasley, you're such a woman."

"Have you slipped him a potion?" Dean's eyes are narrowed as though he's actually considering it as a genuine possibility.

"Would I admit to that in front of two Aurors?" Draco deadpans, taking a long pull of whiskey.

"Did you say it back?" Seamus' eyes are alarmingly wide. Draco just stares impassively at him for a few seconds before emphatically mouthing 'woman' at him. "You did, didn't you?!" Seamus cackles, slapping his thigh. Draco is instantly irritated and I, until now just watching the rest of them interrogate him in (not stunned) silence, am suddenly holding my breath in anticipation.

"No, I didn't," Draco bites out, before quickly plastering on a grin, and I exhale silently. "Stuff happened immediately after he said it, so..." The wink he gives Seamus makes me nauseous.

"But you do, don't you?" Ron adopts a weird, cooing voice. "You luuurve him." He makes kissing noises, eyes closed in affected ecstasy, while Dean very pointedly leans away from him.

"Well, now you've got me all hot for you, Weasley." Draco drains his fifth drink of the night, spins his glass onto the bar and very purposefully marches around Seamus and Dean. Before the poor idiot knows what's happening, he grabs Ron's face to place a very wet kiss on his mouth.

Ron promptly topples backwards off his stool and Draco smiles sweetly down at him. "Come on back up here, Won-Won, let's snog a little more."

Seamus and Dean are helplessly wheezing with soundless laughter, nearly in danger of falling over themselves, Dean drooling slightly as he starts to hiccup, Seamus repeatedly banging his fist atop the wood as he watches Ron, brilliantly red in the face and obviously trying not to laugh, get to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster what with Draco still trying to wrap himself around him. A good many eyes are on us and I try unsuccessfully to hide my face behind my beer.

"Harry." Ron looks at me beseechingly, failing abysmally at trying to control his own helpless laughter. Draco has one leg wrapped around him and is rubbing his cheek on Ron's shoulder, singing the chorus from Celestina Warbeck's 'Hubba Bubba Bubblin' Heart'.

"You set my heart a-bubblin'," Draco brays right into Ron's ear when he finally stops struggling and just sinks back onto his stool, his face still beet red, is expression somewhere between resigned and endlessly amused as he sips on his beer and pretends like there isn't a blond limpet stuck to his side. "A hubba bubba bubblin'."

I'm grinning myself as I finally take pity and get up to prise him off Ron, but somewhere inside me there is a fervent prayer being sent up: to whomsoever it may concern – kindly ensure that Draco's heart isn't set a hubba bubba bubblin' by that Tristan, thanks in advance.

And not because I'm in love with him myself, fuck you.

"I'd like to remind you at this point," Zabini wanders back over. "That none of us have actually met this person – I'm still inclined to believe you've made the berk up."

"Harry and Weasley have met him," Draco instantly retorts as he leans into me, quite unaware that he's not standing upright. "Not that I care about what you believe," he waves one hand, "Now be a dear and pour me another." I pull back slightly and shake my head vigorously at Zabini.

"Er, no," Zabini complies, grinning at me and ignoring Draco's enraged expression. "You're sozzled enough as is. And coming back - when do we get to meet the fellow?"

"Oh, let's see." Draco climbs onto the stool I'd just vacated, straddling it and tucking one foot under the rung. "Are you free, say, next never?"

"How about I ask him to join us all for a pint the next time I spot him at the gym?" I ask casually, Draco immediately scowling at me as I sidle up beside him and rest one elbow on the bar.

"You'll do no such thing."

"Okay, then I will," Ron pipes up.

"Weasley," Draco says warningly.

"What's the fucking deal with you?" Zabini frowns. "Is he that stupid that you're worried to introduce him?"

"He's not stupid; I wouldn't be with him if he was," Draco grits.

"So bring him around next week," Dean challenges.

"Pft, still no."

"Scared?" I smirk, nudging his shin with one foot.

"You wish!" he says hotly at once. "You know what? Fuck you all." He slips off the stool and starts walking away. "Move your arses, I want curry."

I put Ron's mug of coffee in front of him and then check my watch.

"Isn't Draco supposed to be here by now?" I vaguely wonder out loud, flipping through the file Ron has open before him, half a dozen sheets spilling out of it messily.

"He probably went home first, I'm sure he's still fixing his hair." Ron's voice is muffled, his face buried in his arms as he sits slumped over his desk.

"Fortunately, my hair routine doesn't take that long; I don't have a horrid mane like yours or Harry's".

I turn around with a snort, grinning at the sight of the snooty arsehole at the door, huge white cardboard box in one hand, wand twirling lazily in the other.

"Morning, dunderheads." Draco breezes in and places the box down on my table. "You miss me?"

"No," Ron lifts his head long enough to say.

"How was Ankara?" I gulp down some of my truly horrid, lukewarm coffee.

"Glorious," Draco replies, conjuring three dessert plates and forks before prising open the lid of the box. There's a large circular cake of some sort, deep gold and heaped with what looks like slivered pistachios.

"What's that?" Ron immediately cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse without actually getting up.

"Knafeh." Draco gestures grandly with one hand. "Some sort of Turkish...cheesecake, I believe?" He peers into the box curiously. "Compliments of Mr. Yusuf Ahmed," he says and shrugs, slapping my hand away sharply as I go to poke a finger into the cake.

"Fucker." I pull my hand back and round my desk to sit down in my seat. "You figure out why the bloke couldn't open his dead father's old trunk then?"

"Oh, that old man had issues," Draco dismisses, cleaving out large slices. "He'd cursed it so only his daughter could open it. And that bint didn't want to open it in front of her brother unless there were lawyers present because she was absolutely certain that he'd claim sole right over the contents. Anyway, I did my bit and ran before I could be dragged into all the family drama rubbish," he says as he Levitates the largest slice onto a plate which he then sends floating towards Ron. "Here you go, you bellend," he says almost fondly.

"Cheers." Ron digs in enthusiastically. "You go meet your boyfriend yet?"

"Are you lot still not done poking your big, Gryffindor noses into my private life?" Draco hands me my plate with a scowl. I take a tentative bite of the rich cheese-stuffed filo pastry and moan at the wonderfully decadent sweetness that gushes over my tongue. "Good?" Draco grins, helping himself to a slice and then sinking into the spare chair, toeing his shoes off and putting his socked feet up on my desk. He hums around his first mouthful and then positively fellates his fork as he sucks the syrup off of it.

The sight doesn't do anything for me – well, doesn't do much for me; it maybe makes me shift just slightly in my seat so my cock doesn't— I mean, I am bent and... Honestly, the guy is such a tosser, who even eats like that?!

"—despite you all being such insufferable nosy gits, so there," Draco is saying now with the air of having agreed very generously to endure something rather painful.

"Seriously?" Ron is grinning slyly.

"What's this about?" I hurriedly ask, looking at anything but the way Draco's tongue curled around his fork, pink lips shiny with thick sugary syrup.

"We're meeting the git's boyfriend this Friday," Ron says, sniggering and nodding towards Draco who's frowning at me for not having paid attention.

"I won't hesitate to hex you under the table if you're not nice, Weasley," he warns Ron.

There's a knock and Emily, one of the junior Aurors, sticks her head in. "Auror Weasley, Head Auror Robards wants to see you."

"And for the last time, Weasley," Draco immediately says loudly, bringing his feet down and sitting up straight. "Stop inviting me to your ridiculous little tea parties! Some of us have work to do, you know?!"

Ron rolls his eyes as he shovels the last bit of pastry into his mouth, stands and picks up the case file I'd been perusing earlier. "Thanks, Em," he says thickly to the slightly bewildered looking young Auror. "I'll just be a sec." She nods and quickly ducks out, Draco grinning and deftly dodging Ron's attempt at smacking him on the head. "I'll see you ladies later," Ron calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

"So, what gives?" Draco sucks syrup off the pad of his thumb. "You pull this weekend?"

"Why do you ask me that every single time you come back from a work trip?" I frown and eat another bite of the knafeh.

"Hope, Harry," he says solemnly. "Hope that you might have done your cock a favour while I wasn't around to look out for it."

"I did my cock a favour this morning in the shower, my cock is happy," I say bluntly and he laughs.

"Did you ever call that twink you took home from at the club last Friday?"

I sigh. "No, and he wasn't a twink." Draco gives me his bored 'are-you-serious?' look. "Alright, so what's wrong with twinks?"

"Absolutely nothing! I'm sure he begged real sweet." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh, shut your face." I throw a scrunched up memo at him. "I'm pretty sure you beg real sweet too."

I've blurted it out before I can stop myself and Draco wryly lifts an eyebrow, lips curling into a small smirk, making my gut clench in an odd manner.

"So I've been told," he finally retorts, eyes gleaming wickedly and I exhale in a rush. "Oh, I have something else." He suddenly stands up and sets his plate down before digging around in his pocket.

He pulls out what appears to be just a long length of thick black thread, until I see something glinting off the end. He holds it out to me and I take the necklace, peering at the oval medallion that dangles at the end. The dull gold base has a pellucid gem stone in a deep green set into it, the extremely fine threads of gold running through the stone catching the light every now and then.

"Please don't tell me you nicked this from the cursed trunk," I say, examining the exquisitely beautiful pendant, the metal slightly coarse under my fingers. Draco clicks his tongue irritably.

"Ugh, honestly. I picked it up at the old bazaar." He frowns as he falls back into his seat and puts his feet back up on my table. "It's got some sort of archaic Protective Charm set into the tourmaline, and I thought why not, considering Weasley is probably the worst person to have watching your back out there." He snorts and then suddenly drops his gaze to examine his fingernails in a rather exaggerated show of nonchalance. "And it matches your stupid eyes," he adds with a small frown.

I grin at that, my belly filling with warm affection. "Does it?"

He shrugs. "I thought so."

I pull it on over my head and the gemstone comes to rest just past my sternum. "I love it," I say simply, tucking it into my robes and then down my shirt, prodding the thread down in past the collar; the pendant feels strangely warm against my skin. "Thanks." I throw a light Stinging Hex at him and he yelps.

He retaliates with a full strength Tickling Jinx and I slide off my chair with a heave of breathless laughter. "You're welcome."

His forehead is too big, I decide. His eyes are set too close. He's definitely hiding a bald spot on one side of his head.

Draco can do so much better.

Ron must have said something amusing then because everybody is suddenly laughing. I hurriedly chortle along and look down into my beer mug – I don't remember having downed quite so much of it already – so I don't have to look at the way Draco rests his chin on Tristan's shoulder as he says something into his ear.

'cause that's just what he's like, Draco. He's incredibly tactile and never thinks much of casual touching between friends and well, this is his boyfriend, so what can one expect? It had taken me surprisingly no time at all to get used to it, Draco unthinkingly touching me every now and then, when we'd first started spending time together. Ron spent several months flinching wildly and squinting suspiciously every time Draco so much as even casually slapped him on the back, but now he doesn't even bat an eyelid when Draco invades his personal space – because that's just what Draco is like.

So why in the name of Merlin's leathery left bollock does it bother me so much that Draco is sat pressed up against Tristan – pressed up against his boyfriend – so close that he's practically in his lap?!

I down the rest of my ale in one gigantic gulp and push myself to my feet to go get a refill.

"That was fast." Draco looks up at me surprised. "What, you and Weasley got a bet going on again?"

"I want in," Seamus says at once. "Fifty G's on Ron."

I roll my eyes. "We don't have a bet going on."

"What's the bet?" Tristan asks and I clench my fists as I try really hard not to roll my eyes again – sorry, but the git has the most nasal whinny of a voice.

Ron tosses back half a mug of beer and belches loud enough to make the people over at the next table look around in shock. "I don't mind," he announces, licking off his foam moustache and looking up at me hopefully. I gesture wordlessly for him to hand over his empty mug.

"Anyone else want anything?" I ask not really waiting for an answer and turning around to head to the bar.

"I'll take another too, if you don't mind," Tristan says politely.

I grit my teeth, tamping down every instinct that's screaming at me to whip around with an icy, I was just being polite.

I nod instead. "Sure."

"What the fuck is your problem with the man, Harry?" I mutter as I wait for Zabini to notice me slouched across the bar.

"Are you actually talking to yourself?"

The heady, sweet scent of him washes over me and Draco's hand is warm as he pushes it into my hair, fingertips pressing into my scalp, tugging gently at the roots, placing the nearly empty mug of beer in his other hand on the bar with a thud – I'd not taken Tristan's mug from him.

Um, oops?

"No." I grab him around the shoulders with one arm and vigorously muss his hair up. He curses loudly through reluctant laughter, bent at the waist as he walks backwards, trying to escape my grip.

"Annoying bastard," he mutters once he's successfully pushed me away, looking around furtively before pulling out his wand.

"Put that back in." I feel my eyes bulge as Draco grins, gives his wand a barely noticeable flick so that the next second, his hair is perfect again. "Dammit, Draco, at least don't do that in front of me," I groan.

"Shut up, you're not on duty right now" he tells me crisply, stowing away his wand. "BLAISE!" he suddenly bellows making me jump.

Zabini's head sticks out around the corner of the L shaped bar and he glares at us.

"Are you trying to get me fired?" he hisses as he walks up to us a few seconds later. "I have other customers, you know."

"Three more mugs of that bootwash you have on tap, please." Draco grins as Zabini stomps away. "Now, what the fuck is up with you?" He turns to me all businesslike.

I blink, my spine instantly stiffening. "What do you mean?"

Draco sighs. "Do you not like Tristan?" he asks bluntly but I can easily spot the strain of disappointment, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"What?" I force out a laugh – I don't think I do a very good job of it. "Of course I do! What makes you say that? Of course I do!" I realise I've said that already and abruptly fall silent, turning away as if to look out for Zabini, because Draco is looking at me with that expression – the one where his eyes are slightly narrowed as if in deep concentration, like he's wordlessly cast a Legilimens on me and can see exactly what's going on in my head.

"Harry."

I turn back around and then wish I hadn't. He looks crestfallen and I fucking hate it when he looks like that.

I try again, and this time, make more of an attempt to sound convincing. "I just – I've only just met him, yeah? I'll be okay once I get to know the bloke somewhat."

His expression clears slightly and he licks his lips, looking away and sighing. "I suppose I shouldn't have waited this long to introduce him."

I'm suddenly unable to pull my gaze off his lower lip, shiny with spit. "Well, technically, I've already met him before."

He finally smiles, a crooked little smirk that has me smiling back. "Yeah." He shrugs one shoulder. "I just – you've just been really quiet since we got here and I thought-"

"Nah, it's all good," I interrupt quickly. "Just sitting back and vetting the guy, y'know? And on Monday I'll probably go check if he has any records against him."

He laughs. "Don't you dare." He shoves at me roughly. I wrap my fingers around one bony wrist.

Draco doesn't pull away. This isn't an odd thing for us.

"Right, maybe I'll just sneak around and follow him for a few days then." I purse my lips over a grin and Draco glares at me as he bristles at the snide reference to Simon.

"If I hadn't followed that fucker around, you'd probably still be with him," he spits. "Still happily oblivious to the fact that he was fucking cheating on you."

"I'd been planning on breaking up with him even before you found out and told me anyway," I say airily and grin as his glare promptly intensifies.

"Like fuck you were, Potter." Zabini suddenly appears and slams down the three mugs, beer and foam slopping out over the rim and fizzing onto the glossy bar. Zabini curses. "When the fuck do you plan to come join us?" Draco asks him irritably, gently tugging his wrist free from my hand and picking up two of the mugs gingerly, making a face at the sticky residue on the sides. "It's on your request that we agreed to do this here."

"I get off in an hour, would you shut up until then?" Zabini replies exasperatedly, wiping up the mess he'd made. "And get one of the waitresses to take your orders until then, stop annoying me. It's fucking mad in here tonight." He slouches away muttering darkly under his breath about Friday nights and Muggles with drinking problems as I pick up my beer and follow Draco back to our table. I watch as Draco places one mug before Ron following it with a sharp slap to the back of his neck.

When he'd discovered that Simon had been fucking someone else behind my back, Draco had been over and beyond livid. A few days after I broke up with him, I'd learned (after a hysterically shouted firecall from Simon) that someone had cursed his mail so that it exploded in his hands and caused pus filled boils to erupt all over his face and neck. He'd spent a week in Mungo's.

When I'd cautiously asked Draco if it had been him, he had lowered one corner of his newspaper to look at me impassively, calmly denied having had anything to do with it, and had gone right back to reading. And that was that.

I'd known he was lying. He'd known I'd known.

Sitting back down next to Dean now, I sigh quietly in realisation – I owe Draco this; I have to make an effort with Tristan. He's never been with someone for as long as he's been with Tristan so maybe the guy really is alright?

And then Tristan pulls Draco closer with an arm around his waist, leans down and kisses him slowly, deeply – the kind of kiss you share with someone you're comfortable and familiar with; the kind of kiss that hinted strongly at what they might get up to once they're alone later in the night.

The kind of kiss that has Draco smiling softly into it and leaning up for more.

I finish my second beer a lot quicker than my first.

Come Sunday, we're all at the Burrow; I'm in the kitchen helping Hermione peel the hot potatoes by hand ("No magic, they turn hard!" Mrs. Weasley had called over her shoulder as she exited the kitchen) while Ron noisily searches around for the gravy boat Mrs. Weasley had instructed him to find, grumbling to himself in an unending stream about being asked to search for things that weren't even there in the first place. George and Bill are setting out tables end to end in the back garden as is usual when the Burrow was full to bursting with people, and Fleur's soft, euphonious singing drifts downstairs from one of the second floor bedrooms where she's tucking Dominique in for her nap.

Then the rickety old back door swings open and there's Draco's drawl greeting Mrs. Weasley loudly.

"Why do you children insist on wearing torn clothes these days?" I hear her ask exasperatedly and snort to myself as Hermione grins, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Draco. "How are torn jeans fashionable?"

"We'll get you a pair too, Mrs. W," he says and I can hear the wicked smirk in his voice. "Oh, Arthur would be so grateful, he'd probably write me into his will—Ow!" He's laughing as, judging by the sound of sharp slaps, Mrs. Weasley smacks him across the head. "This is Tristan. Babe, this is Ronald's mum – if I ever get fat, this lady will be the one respons—"

I don't hear the rest as I spin around with grit teeth. "Who invited Tristan?!" I hiss.

Ron pulls his head out of the cupboard he's peering around in and blinks at me. "I did. What, why? Hermione hasn't met him yet and Mum wouldn't believe me when I said Malfoy's actually seeing someone."

"But why would you invite him to lunch?!" I want to angrily stamp my foot to punctuate the question but Hermione is looking at me with an expression that's part quizzical and part careful consideration and I quickly drop it. "I mean, whatever, I don't care... I just—"

"Well, aren't you all the ugliest house elves I've ever seen," Draco waltzes in, clad in ripped blue jeans and a deep green t-shirt with a silhouette of a dragon on it – the black outline moves as he walks, the dragon flapping its wings and then settling down, curling around itself. The stupid tosser is wearing his black leather jacket again – the one I'd gifted him for his birthday last year – despite it just being a casual lunch at The Burrow. ("Do I seem the type to compromise on fashion? I mean look at me, I'm bloody stunning.")

He grins at me, his hair styled in that soft tousle he wears it in outside work, and bobs his head in a nod but all I'm aware of is that his fucking boyfriend is at his heels, smiling around as if he fucking belongs here.

He so fucking doesn't.

"Hey, ferret," Ron calls with his head back inside the cupboard.

"Nice arse, Weasel." Draco comes up to me and pokes a finger into one of the potatoes, hissing and pulling it back with a scowl. "That's fucking hot."

"You don't say." I don't look at him – or his boyfriend, "Always so observant."

"Shut it, Potty." He peers around me at Hermione. "Hullo, Granger. Long time."

Hermione smiles and wipes her hands on the bright yellow apron she'd borrowed from Mrs. Weasley. "Malfoy. And you must be the much talked about boyfriend," she adds, leaning one hip into the counter.

Tristan holds out his hand. "Tristan Legrand," he says with an idiotic little bow. "I know who you are, of course," he adds before Hermione can introduce herself. "I'm a fan," he says with a wink.

"Yes, but you're gay and she's married to me, so," Ron says loudly emerging from the cupboard with a large white ceramic gravy boat with little blue flowers under the rim.

Hermione and Tristan laugh while Draco throws a handful of potato peels at Ron.

"You git, Mum will throw a fit!" he yells. And then, "Wow, that rhymed."

"Oh, look at this mess." Ginny, tanned and more freckled than ever, clad in denim shorts and a sleeveless crop top, her flaming red hair cut up to her chin in a wavy bob, is suddenly at the kitchen door watching Ron attempt to clean up the mess with a huge grin. "MUM!" she bellows suddenly. Ron looks up with an angry hiss.

"Shut the fuck up, Gin," he grits as Hermione rolls her eyes and Vanishes the potato peels with a simple flick of her wand.

"Hello to you too," Ginny blows him a kiss as she saunters in, kissing Hermione's cheek and then flinging herself at me.

"Good to see you, Gin," I say softly, the familiar flowery scent of her soothing me somewhat. "Good game last week, I believe?"

She draws back slightly to grin up at me but keeps her arms around my neck. "Are you asking me or congratulating me?"

"I read the article," I laugh defensively.

"Yeah, but how 'bout actually coming to watch next time?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Healer Granger," Draco cuts in loudly, sounding rather irritated. "But I'm fairly certain that a person's voice box would work perfectly well even when said person didn't cling to The Boy Who Lived like a bloody barnacle, wouldn't it?" Hermione smiles around over her shoulder from where she and Ron stand at the sink, trying to repair a little chip Ron had gone and broken off the handle of the gravy boat with an overenthusiastic Scourgify.

Ginny rolls her eyes but pulls away from me and steps back anyway. "Oh fuck off, Malfoy. Like you don't cling to him all day like a fucking leech yourself."

Draco smirks, pointedly sidling closer to me. "And clearly that doesn't make you jealous at all. He's gay, sweetheart, make your peace with it already." I'm fighting a grin of my own and Christ, he's such an annoying fucker.

"Why's the ferret always around?" Ginny hooks a thumb in his direction and looks around scowling.

"And speaking of gay," Draco continues, "have you met Tristan?" He nods towards the newcomer.

Ginny turns around to see Tristan hovering in a corner. "Can't say I have." She tilts her head coyly at him; he waves back awkwardly. "Why, hello there."

"Yes, well, he's gay too," Draco supplies quickly. "He's my boyfriend, you see." He grins, and I deliberately close my fist around a potato, pretending that it's Tristan's kidney or liver or something as I squish it completely.

Ginny glances at Draco before turning around to give Tristan a look of exaggerated horror. "I am so sorry," she gasps, pressing a hand over her chest. "Oh, you poor thing."

Draco is instantly glaring, nostrils flared, at her and she flounces out with a satisfied cackle.

Lunch is a delicious, slightly noisy affair that lasts nearly a whole two hours and by the time Mrs. Weasley has charmed everybody's dessert plates to float serenely away into the sink inside, most of us are slumped in our seats, holding our straining stomachs.

Angelina shifts in her chair with a groan, one arm curved around her large bump. "I'm not eating again until I've got this thing out of me." George pats her rotund belly with a wide grin and she glares at him. "Did we just have a smug moment?" She narrows her eyes at him.

"No, not smug." George looks slightly panicked as he pulls his hand away hurriedly. "He kicking around in there again?"

She sighs. "Not for the time being, no."

At the other end of the table Bill, Percy, Mr. Weasley and Hermione are deep in conversation. Ron and Ginny are getting progressively louder as they argue Puddlemere United's supposedly unsportsmanlike conduct during their last game. Percy's wife, Audrey, and Fleur have miraculously gathered enough energy to force themselves out of their chairs to take Dominique and Molly Jr. to the village; the little girls love throwing Sickles into the wishing well in Ottery St. Catchpole that always sang back to the people throwing in the money.

Tristan is telling a slightly bemused looking Mrs. Weasley about being an investment something-or-another at Gringotts, droning on and on, and I vaguely wonder if she'd even asked the prat for his bloody lecture on the right way to 'double her Galleons'.

Draco has his head on my shoulder and is oddly quiet as he simply sits there with his eyes closed. I feel an inexplicable sense of satisfaction that it's my shoulder he has his head on and not bloody Tristan's but then I notice that Draco's left hand is firmly entwined with Tristan's right and I want to shrug his head off my shoulder in irritation.

It proves unnecessary though because then Ron says loudly, "Oi, mate! Ginny nicked the Snitch from her last match. Want to fly a game or two?"

Draco is immediately sitting up. "Oh, I'm definitely in. Honestly, I need to move my arse before I grow roots here and Mrs. W brings out more food."

"George?" Ginny leans around Ron to look down the table.

"If this one here doesn't mind," George says at once and surprisingly, Angelina smiles.

"Oh, go on then," she waves one hand, "I'm sick of you hovering around me like an anxious crup."

"Bill," Ron half yells down to the other end of the table. "Up for some one-on-one Seeking? Ginny has a Snitch."

Bill shrugs and nods, one ear still tilted towards Hermione as she spoke.

I look around counting. "So that's... six."

"Seven," Draco instantly corrects me. He lifts Tristan's hand and continues, "Did I mention this one here was Beauxbaton's star Seeker?" he grins. Next to him, Tristan grins and gives me a smug wink.

I have the sudden urge to stand up and violently upturn the fifteen foot long table, half empty platters of food and all.

"Great," I bite out instead, my clenched hands trembling as I stand.

I do not have a good feeling about this.

Yup, this wasn't a good idea.

This was the worst possible idea. Oh god, why did I agree to this?

This: Tristan and me; me and Tristan – Tristan and me and that fucking Snitch.

It's right bloody there. I can see it; I spotted it from dozens of feet away.

As did Tristan.

And we both shot towards it at literally the exact same moment, that idiot letting out a little whoop as I flattened myself on my broom. And he has the better broom; I'm on Ron's old Cleansweep.

But none of that is what I'm even talking about. None of it even matters.

Because despite everything, despite all of it, I am pulling ahead of him. I've already left him somewhere near my ankles as I pull ahead, my arm outstretched, fingers straining to feel the cool metal and the silver wings against my knuckles, my heart thundering in my ears as something that feels like white hot lava floods my veins, coursing through every last inch of me and I swear I feel like I'm about to spontaneously combust and take half the planet with me.

'cause I know what it is, that burning – it's pure, unfiltered, mindless rage; the kind that simply turns your brain off and lets that unrestrained, barbaric, physical force crash to the forefront to do as and how it fucking pleases.

Tristan is not getting the Snitch – not this one.

Because there it is, glinting beautifully golden under the sun, slyly flitting around as if just daring me to come catch it, passing lewd comments and voicing its unsought-for opinions and smiling that gorgeous, crooked little smirk that never fails to warm my insides—

At the first brush of the fine wings against my fingers, I feel a sense of relief so vast flood me that I nearly fall off my broom – not triumph, not that juvenile smugness – relief.

Because I got it, I got the Snitch. Me, not Tristan.

Tristan who is quickly coming up, his shoulders nearly on level with mine—

I grab the Snitch so hard that the delicate wings are cruelly crushed, my clammy fingers closing tight and unyielding around it.

And if that's not enough, another burst of fury explodes as something roars in my chest and before I know what I'm even doing, I've swerved sharply, right into Tristan's path, ramming my shoulder into his chest with enough force that I hear his breath whoosh out of him, knocking his broom completely off course with my knee. I have a split second in which I see his brown eyes widen in shock before he's spinning, totally out of control, a breathless little shout escaping him as he loses his broom entirely and hurtles towards the ground, his limbs flailing wildly.

I can't bring myself to look down as I soar in a wide circle around the hill. I hear the panicked screams and the shout of someone's spell to slow his fall. I hold the feebly fluttering Snitch in my hand and stare unseeingly ahead of me as I gradually lose height and circle lower.

Back to fucking reality where everything in my life is about to go pear shaped; I can fucking feel it.

Everyone is gathered under the shade of an enormous alder. I dismount and slowly near them; Tristan is stirring – not dead. Thank fucking god.

Hermione's bushy hair is obscuring most of him as she crouches over his supine form, already on Healer mode. Bill and George are stood side by side, watching Hermione and – my heart does a dizzying loop-de-loop – Draco is kneeling on the other side, bent over his boyfriend, speaking into his ear, probably comforting him. Ginny and Ron break away as they see me approach.

"What the fuck happened up there?" Ron looks like he's tamping down a laugh.

The lie slips out smoothly. "Lost control of the broom. Is he okay?"

"Bill softened his fall," Ginny glances over at the little group under the tree, "Hermione says he might have a broken shin but that he's mostly in shock."

Ron frowns, peering into my face. "You all right?" I quickly nod. "You got the Snitch then?" He grins down at my hand.

I unclench my fist and look down. The wings immediately unfurl and beat weakly, but the little gold ball stays in my hand, glinting softly in the afternoon light.

Swallowing hard, I finally look up, seeking out Draco once more, and my stomach drops.

He's looking at me now, back straight as he kneels there, and his expression downright terrifies me. I'd braced myself for a scorching accusatory glare – it's not what I get.

Shock mingles with slight confusion, his eyes wide and questioning, and the second our eyes meet, he smiles a small, completely bemused smile that I then realise is meant to be reassuring.

I'm standing here pretending that I didn't just push his boyfriend off his broom in a fit of utterly juvenile, uncontrolled, jealous rage and Draco, being the permanently hyper-suspicious Slytherin that he is, probably quietly knows that it was intentional and yet his first impulse is to assure me that he doesn't hold it against me – that he's not going to blame me for it...

My chest tightens, aches, and the tourmaline pendant he'd given me feels like a hot brand against it. My hand goes slack next to me, the Snitch flying away serenely, flitting between everyone's head in a hypnotic dance while I stand there drenched in realisation, my stomach solidifying into lead, sweat breaking out across my forehead.

This... this silver-tongued, golden-headed, utter fucking bastard who just loves to see just how far he can push and push and push people before they finally lose it and hex him in his beautiful, perfect fucking face, and who would also happily, without second thought, cast an Unforgivable for those very same people, and without whom my life wouldn't be half as vividly, disgustingly colourful; whose smug smirk I look forward to every single fucking day, whose presence in my life I have come to be fervently glad for... Fucking hell, the very thought of losing him to some irritating, French-speaking, moony-eyed twat-head makes my insides go cold with dread–

Oh. Oh.

I watch the three drunkenly swaying women cross the street, holding onto one another as they giggle shrilly, their ankles twisting dangerously as they fight to maintain balance on their ridiculous six-inch heels. They clamber into a taxi and I watch it trundle away.

A breeze whispers through my hair and blows the ash off the end of my cigarette. I pull in another deep drag, holding it down, letting the bitterness sink in, watching the way the bright orange tip burns its way higher up the tube of paper, leaving behind another trail of ash hanging precariously off the edge.

"You're ugly when you're grumpy."

I snort at the drawled comment and swivel my head around to face him from where I stand leaning back against the wall. He's holding a grease-soaked bag of chips, presumably purchased from the chip vendor who'd been parked right outside the club, in one hand, and one fat, half-bitten chip in the other, and is watching me impassively as he chews.

I watch the way one pale eyebrow hitches its way up his forehead under his blond fringe as he notes the ciggy hanging between my fingers – he's never approved. I'd given it up for him in the first place.

But now, I deliberately raise the cigarette to my mouth and inhale, letting the smoke stream out of my nose, while I maintain unwavering eye contact with him. The acrid burn in my nostrils grounds me somewhat as I take in the sight of him stood there in his fitted black t-shirt and stonewashed grey jeans tucked into bulky, olive green suede boots. His expression is carefully controlled, his hair flutters onto his eyelashes as it catches the breeze and his lips shine dark pink through the sheen of oil on them. He's beautiful – he always has been; I've always silently marvelled at it. But lately I can barely stand to look at him – not without being rapidly filled with a jarring sense of helplessness that makes me want to punch something until my fist cracks.

I finish my smoke and grind it out on the wall behind me. He eats another chip, sucks the salt off his thumb, pulls out another one and steps forward, holding it up to my mouth.

"You get grumpy when you're hungry," he presses the chip to my mouth and I stubbornly keep my lips sealed together, glaring at him, "and you're ugly when you're grumpy."

The piece of fried potato crumbles against my front teeth as he determinedly tries to slip the chip past them and into my mouth. I sigh, accepting it and chewing slowly, not really tasting anything as I try not to watch the way he once again slowly licks his fingers clean.

"Why'd you slink away?" He pops another chip into his mouth and comes to stand beside me, our shoulders brushing as he props himself against the graffiti-ridden wall. He smells of his sporty cologne and fresh, clean sweat. There's a small hickey on the side of his neck, just below his right ear. I hate him for a moment.

"I didn't slink away," I reply automatically. And then, "The music's too loud in there."

"It's never bothered you before."

"I have a headache."

"And the cigarette helps with that?"

"Sure does."

He doesn't say anything for a while, holding out the bag of chips in silence until I give in with another irritable huff and yank out one more. I chew it angrily, crossing my arms and looking the other way; an elderly Sikh gentleman is drawing the shutters to his little convenience store down the street, his bright blue turban standing out in the semi-darkness of the horribly lit sidewalk.

"Are you going to tell me about that giant stick you've had up your arse these last few days?"

Do you know that feeling when you deliberately behave like a juvenile fuck with somebody so that they know something might be up with you, but then when they call you out on it, your first impulse is to deny it and get annoyed that they're reading too much into you?

"What are you talking about?" Irritation and satisfaction collide within me and it comes out as a sharp bark as I look back around at him with a scowl. "What the fuck did I do now?"

His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under his fringe, and his nostrils flare in irritation. "I'm not going to stand here and enable your innate obnoxiousness, Potter." His lip curls into that ugly sneer and for a moment, it's easy enough to remember that he's Draco Malfoy, the same slimy fucker who stomped on my face and left me there to bleed.

But then I see the strain of hurt bewilderment in the resentment that's simmering in his narrowed eyes and the resulting blow to my gut feels like I swallowed an anvil. He's not that person anymore; he hasn't been for years.

I've had him around for long enough now that I've managed to recognise him for who he really is and detach that person from who he used to try to be as a teenager. Now he's just Draco, the permanent blond fixture in my life who does not know how to shut his filthy mouth and insists on keeping his inherent kindness buried under thick layers of scalding rudeness.

It's not like I've forgotten the past – it's what made us both work hard at transforming the equation between us into what it is today. And I'm in love with the git despite all that, despite everything he was - but mostly because of who he's now become.

"Sorry," I mumble now, concentrating on pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. "Just tired, I guess..."

"Then go home," he answers coolly, pointedly stepping out of the way as the smoke starts drifting towards him. "Go to bed." He starts walking away, shoulders stiff, fingers clenched around the half-eaten bag of chips.

"Draco." I've called out before I can decide what I'm going to say – even though there is so much I want to say to him. He stops and turns around halfway, the look on his face haughty and sharp. "I didn't mean to snap," I finally tell him. He doesn't smile or relax his rigid stance, simply standing there in silence until I shift uneasily on my feet.

"Are you coming back in there," he jerks his head in the direction of the club, "or do I tell everyone you left?"

I don't want to go back – Tristan had kept dragging Draco off to dance and it was the sight of them grinding together that had made me bolt outside for a smoke in the first place.

"I think I'll take your advice and go home." I offer him a tentative smile even as I'm assaulted by the memory of him undulating gracefully, pink mouth slightly open, eyes half-lidded, with his head thrown back onto Tristan's shoulder.

The corners of his eyes soften as he smiles back. "You're growing old, Potter," he says softly, mischievous twinkle back in place. "It's a little sad to watch."

"Fuck off." The fondness in my voice isn't unusual but it unnerves me anyway – I'm terrified that he might figure out how I now feel.

And I think a part of me is also terrified that he won't.

Ron is lounging on the sofa in nothing but a pair of nauseatingly bright yellow pyjama bottoms when I step out of the Floo. He's got a bowl of crisps balanced on his stomach and is flicking through channels on the television so quickly that the picture is just a blur.

"What kept you?" he asks with his mouth full as I shrug off my work robes and loosen my tie.

"Anderson asked me to sit in on a briefing after you left," I grouse. "Hermione not home yet?"

"She will be any second now." Ron lifts his feet to make room for me as I sink onto the sofa and Summon a beer. The fridge flies open too quickly and there's a blunt, cracking sound as two eggs land on the floor.

"Wow," Ron deadpans as I curse and wave my wand in the general direction of the kitchen. The mop is still whizzing across the floor in there a couple of minutes later when the Floo flares and Hermione appears in a blur of lime green.

"Hello, you two," she says, all warm smiles and kind brown eyes, shaking ash out of her hair. "How are my boys today?"

"How is Harry your boy?" Ron immediately frowns and both Hermione and I laugh as she pecks him on the cheek.

"Have you guys ordered yet?" she asks, slipping off her Healer robes. "I'm famished."

"Pizza's on the way," Ron says vaguely as an American sitcom of some sort comes on the telly. "Did you tell Malfoy to come? He wasn't in his office when I popped in earlier."

"I think he has plans with his boyfriend." I don't look at Ron as I answer and my stomach is suddenly in knots, just at the mention of Draco. "I didn't go confirm, though."

"How's his leg doing?" Hermione calls out from the bedroom and the knots tighten.

"The bloke's fine, love," Ron answers her, rolling his eyes. "He danced for a straight hour at the club last week. Much to Malfoy's pleasure," he adds the last bit to me under his breath.

"Good to know." She sounds amused. I don't say anything.

"He's really surprised me, though," Ron goes on and I grit my teeth around a mouthful of ale. "Malfoy, I mean. I can't believe he's been with that guy for as long as he has now – what, two months?" I don't reply once again and just sit there hoping he'll drop it. "I mean, one minute he's taking home three guys at once, and the next he has a steady boyfriend." Ron sounds more confused than anything and I suddenly wish I'd refused when Ron had asked me earlier today if I was up for impromptu pizza night.

"Could you turn up the volume?" I nod towards the telly and drink more beer. Ron complies, increasing the volume by about two bars and then continuing over the chorused laughter of the studio audience in the show.

"You think Malfoy's actually serious about this one?" Ron asks me directly and I shrug carelessly at once, wishing he'd just stop already. "Nah, I doubt it. He's a self-proclaimed slut, that wanker."

Something snaps inside my head. "Will you shut your face?" I bite out, not looking at him. "Seriously, just shut the fuck up? I'd like one evening without him being present in one way or another, thanks."

Ron makes an odd quack of a sound and I glance over irritably to see him frowning perplexedly at me with his mouth open. Hermione is standing behind him, dressed in a pale blue tank top over plaid pyjama bottoms. She's braiding her hair over one shoulder with quick fingers, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looks down at me in careful consideration.

"Who pissed in your tea?" Ron frowns.

"It's just—He's always around, isn't he?" I scowl down at the bottle in my hand, aggressively peeling off the label with my thumb. "And now when he isn't we're still bloody talking about him, so just stop already."

Ron sighs. "What did the idiot do this time?" he asks, sounding all patient and parent-y. "Did he hex your name-plate on the door to 'Happy Potty' again? He hasn't done that in a while now."

"He didn't do anything," I murmur. "I'd just like an evening without Malfoy present, that's all."

Ron straightens up from his seat and places the bowl on the coffee table. "Right, 'cause that's not weird at all, coming from you."

"How is it weird? This is Malfoy we're talking about." I realise it sounds absurd the second I say it – Malfoy hasn't been viewed as 'Malfoy' in a long, long time now.

"Yes, it's Malfoy," Hermione says carefully, twisting a hair tie around the end and throwing her braid back as she sinks onto the armchair, drawing her knees up to her chest. "And you've been joined at the hip with him for the past few years. Long enough to even make Ron absurdly jealous."

Ron splutters at her with a look of someone who's been unforgivably betrayed while I look over at him in genuine surprise. "You're jealous of Malfoy?"

"Nooo," Hermione draws out the word slightly. "He's jealous of you and Malfoy – together."

"What do you mean, 'together'?" I feel my face heat for absolutely no goddamn reason, and I can swear that's a knowing flicker of some sort in Hermione's eyes.

"You know." She waves her hand vaguely. "You get along brilliantly for two individuals who spent most of their teens trying to get each other killed."

"I never tried to get him—" I start hotly but she just grins and tuts softly with a 'you know what I mean' bob of her head.

"So what'd he do?" Ron repeats, reaching over for another handful of crisps.

"Nothing, I told you, he did nothing." I carefully avoid looking at either of them – the look in Hermione's eyes is making me break out in a sudden cold sweat.

"Harry." Her voice is so soft that it's barely heard over the television. Ron promptly turns it off, the idiot. "It's alright, Harry," she says gently.

Hands trembling, clenched around the bottle, I risk looking over at her. She's leaning forward slightly, her expression empathetic but also slightly pained. "I—" My voice is hoarse and I quickly clear my throat. "I haven't the slightest what you're on about," I croak, but I already know there's no use.

"When did you realise?" she asks quietly. I don't answer.

"What's this about?" Ron asks curiously. Neither of us answers him.

"Harry." Hermione's voice is firm and I sigh, placing my beer next to the bowl of crisps and leaning back on the sofa, pushing my glasses up onto my forehead and rubbing at my face vigorously. I can feel the beginnings of another headache. "You're going to have to talk to us about this at some point," she says bluntly and I drop my hands to glare at her.

"And what the fuck is the point of that, exactly?" I snap.

"There doesn't have to be a point, we're your best friends." She doesn't look ruffled at my less than friendly tone. "How long have you known?"

"How long have you known?" I retort exasperatedly and she grins slightly.

"What do both of you know?" Ron scrambles around on the sofa to sit cross-legged and glares at both of us in turn.

"A while." Hermione shrugs.

"And you never thought to bring it to my attention?" I don't bother masking the accusation in the question and she laughs.

"Would you have listened to me?" she asks validly. "Would you have even believed me?"

"I swear to Merlin, if one of you don't tell me what's—" Ron explodes.

"Oh my god!" Hermione turns to Ron impatiently. "Ron, we've talked about this. Harry's in love with Malfoy."

"You've talked about this?!" I burst out just as Ron turns to me and screeches out an incredulous, "What?!"

Hermione sags back in her chair with a weary sigh and rubs her eye with her knuckles. Ron looks rather queasy as he stares at me for confirmation and I suddenly realise that none of it even matters.

"It doesn't make a difference, alright?" I sound tired to my own ears. "It doesn't even matter."

"I'm still waiting over here for you to deny it, mate," Ron says weakly and Hermione clicks her tongue.

"Ron, don't be a baby," she says not unkindly before turning to me once more. "And what are you on about? Of course it matters. It's rather wonderful, actually."

"Is it now?" I ignore the soft squeak Ron lets out at Hermione's comment. "It's wonderful that I feel this way about one of my closest friends, who, oh wait, has a boyfriend."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I think all of us know that Malfoy's... 'thing' with Tristan isn't going to last."

"How do we know that?" I ask at once. "I don't know that."

"He's not going to settle on the first guy he enters a relationship with." She looks rather confident about it and I do not let myself be swayed.

"Or maybe he's in a relationship with him because he wants to settle on him," I point out, the now familiar helplessness bubbling up my throat, burning its way through me.

"Mate, I think Malfoy is just tired," Ron suddenly supplies and both Hermione and I turn to him, taken aback. He looks from her to me, looking like he regrets having spoken at all, but then adds in a mumble, "It's looked that way to me for a while, at least."

"What do you mean tired?" I ask sceptically, bringing one knee onto the sofa as I turn to face him. "Tired of what?"

Ron shrugs. "Sleeping around. Look, I'm not his biggest fan." He smiles crookedly. "But the git's alright. I know he's had this whole anti-relationship act he's had going these past few years, but he's bound to settle down some day, and it's not going to be with someone like Tristan," he declares flatly. I mouth soundlessly at him for a few seconds.

"Where is all this wisdom coming from?!" I finally manage and Ron grins guiltily before nodding towards Hermione.

"All I've ever said is that you and Malfoy would probably make it work if you both tried," Hermione says quickly, holding up both hands, palms out. "I swear we haven't been gossiping about you or anything like that."

I snort. "Right." I don't say anything for a few seconds during which Ron fidgets with the drawstrings of his pyjamas and Hermione's gaze fixed on me never wavers. "I would try," I finally say quietly. "I would try to make it work." I don't tell them how it genuinely feels as if I'll never get a chance to.

"So would he," Hermione assures me at once. "Not that either of you would have to try that hard. You're best friends." She pauses, mouth lifting in a wry one sided smile. "Progressing from friends to lovers is the easiest, most natural thing in the world – I speak, of course, from personal experience."

Ron makes a sappy, crooning sound and I want to kick him as he gets up to snog her shamelessly, Hermione laughing under her breath and pushing him away with a fond grin after a few seconds.

After days of resolutely not allowing myself to fantasise, I let myself slip for a fraction of a second – I imagine what it would be like to lean over and kiss Draco in front of my friends like that, without feeling self-conscious or awkward; because why would it be awkward to kiss him in company if we were together? There's nobody else I can ever be that comfortable with; nobody else with whom my affection will feel so completely natural, nobody else I would want to spontaneously kiss.

The years and years of missed chances and possibilities, the sheer number of opportunities I've let slip by – I want to laugh at how I'd taken it all for granted. All those times we were on the same team playing pick-up Quidditch and won, those easy hugs either one of us would initiate; every time we went to the cinema together, comfortably sitting side by side, not even noticing how our shoulders and arms pressed together warm and tight; Merlin, the number of times we've swayed home from the pub, utterly pissed, falling into bed next to each other in a fully clothed heap in either one of our flats – none of it ever seemed like a big deal.

Now, the thought of hugging Draco or being in close physical proximity to him in general – him with his abnormally bright hair, his puckish smirk and, fuck, that goddamn fucking mouth of his – makes me yearn with such startlingly intense want that for one insane moment, I want to go looking for him so I can vomit the truth out at him, leaving him to deal with this mess – because I am seriously beginning to doubt whether I can ever do anything about it.

It's not exactly been a fucking picnic, seeing and talking to Draco on a daily basis and pretending like I don't want to simultaneously snog and hex him every time I lay eyes on him. On the plus side, I've had a recent surge in cases that require hours of field work and have shamelessly exploited the excuse to keep away from the office (and Draco), and then have cited well-justified exhaustion to skip out on the usual bi-weekly post-work pints.

I hadn't had a chance to make my excuses for tonight – Draco's owl had merely stated the time and location and just those few short lines held the muted danger of Draco's patience running thin. And so I'd knocked back two tumblers of Firewhiskey to round out the corners of my simmering resentment and had Apparated to Draco's favourite club.

Now that I'm here, I want to head straight back home. Draco, Tristan, Parkinson and Zabini are all at the bar, waiting for the rest of us. I'd figured that if I turn up early, I can slip away in a couple of hours and keep Draco off my back for leaving too soon. But I'd forgotten the effect seeing him with Tristan has on me. It makes me halt in my tracks a few feet into the place and genuinely consider turning right back around and leaving.

Draco is seated on a barstool and Tristan is standing behind him, plastered close, his arm wound around Draco's neck. Draco has one hand clasped around that arm. The other hand is idly spinning an empty tumbler on the bar. He's listening to something Parkinson is saying, nodding, but his right knee is bouncing restlessly – I wonder at that. Zabini is standing beside Parkinson, eyes fixed on one of the cavorting girls who's making eyes at him from the dance floor.

I watch them, standing unnoticed in the crowded entrance of the club, and think about the last time I felt this unhappy. They're my friends, all of them – with the exception of Tristan – and yet suddenly, I feel as though we're back in Hogwarts, and that now this is Malfoy and his little posse. Draco feels separated from me suddenly and it's only now that I become aware of having thought of him as being joined to me somehow until this point.

Suddenly, Draco's slightly glazed gaze shifts from Parkinson right on to me as though he'd known all along to find me standing here. The way his eyes light up, the sheer beauty of the smile his face splits into, has me on the verge of turning around and bolting out the door and running as far away from him as my legs can take me. He slides off the stool, Tristan's arm slipping off him, and he strides up to me, shaking strands of his glossy hair out of his shining eyes.

"You look familiar," he drawls as he comes up to me. "Have we met?"

"No," I answer automatically as I hungrily gaze at him; I've never gone so long without seeing him. It's been almost a fortnight. The urge to touch him is overwhelming.

"Well, Potter. You look about the same since I last saw you – except for that giant wart on your nose that you're growing."

I can't help it; I reach out and lift a bit of his diagonal fringe off his face. He blinks, looking pleased, and throws an arm around my shoulders, steering me towards the others.

"What're you drinking tonight? It's on us."

"Us?"

"Tristan and me."

I can feel my insides slowly starting to freeze. So they're paying for things together now. Brilliant.

"What's the occasion?"

"It's Tristan's birthday!" he says brightly just as we walk up to the birthday bastard who grins and nods at me.

"Right. Happy birthday." It comes out stiffer than I'd intended. "Er... Just a beer," I add, when Draco stares at me expectantly. "Parkinson. Long time no see."

"I've been in Paris – work related," she replies, tossing her long sheet of dark hair back over one bare shoulder. "You're looking good, Potter. We should fuck."

She always does this and I always laugh, both because of the fact that I know she's being a hundred percent serious, and because it drives Draco absolutely insane, which is endlessly amusing.

Sure enough: "Just when I think you can't sink any lower, Pans, you prove me wrong," he says, lip curled, expression one of raw repulsion and not a little resentment.

"I need to sink down there to get my mouth on his bits, darling," she replies calmly, her many rings glinting in the strobe lights as she lifts her martini to her glossy siren-red mouth and sips delicately.

Zabini has vanished into the crowd as I'm served my beer. I sip slowly and engage in small talk with Parkinson, Draco watching and listening to us; I can feel his gaze on me, I can feel his bewilderment as to why I'm not conversing with him after not having seen him for so long. I can smell his cologne. I want to touch him again. I want to feel the press of his warm body against mine. I want to tell him everything I'm feeling, want to pour it all out and watch him try to deal with it and fail, just like I'm failing. I want and want and want.

I'm thoroughly relieved by the arrival of Seamus and Dean, who are almost immediately followed by Ron and Hermione. In the ensuing surge of everyone greeting each other, ordering drinks and wishing Tristan a happy birthday, I'm able to sidle away to the edge of the group, lean back against the bar and drink my beer in silence. Ron comes to stand beside me, talking loudly over the music with Dean, but I am relatively undisturbed and am able to successfully continue tormenting myself about the fact that Draco and his boyfriend might soon be announcing their engagement and a fucking spring wedding or something.

"Hi."

I genuinely hadn't noticed him gliding over to my other side. He's standing at my elbow, clutching a tumbler of what I'm sure is expensive scotch, and his eyes are not shining anymore.

"Hey," I reply. I don't know what to say after that when the silence stretches on and this is such an alien experience of awkwardness with Draco that it just exacerbates my stinging unhappiness.

"Feel like talking for a minute?"

I brace myself. "Yeah, okay."

But Draco doesn't say anything. He's just looking at me, right at me, gaze unwavering, and seems to be weighing something. This by itself is uncharacteristic as fuck. Draco almost never thinks before he talks.

"I was thinking," he finally says slowly. "I was thinking... Would you like to go to brunch with Tristan and me tomorrow? Just us three?"

I physically recoil, jerking back, my face twisting. Draco looks astonished at my reaction.

"I would really rather not, thanks," I've shot back before I can reign myself in to answer more diplomatically. Draco now looks astonished and hurt, in that defensive, arrogant way of his, and I find myself short on patience even though the fact that I've probably caused him hurt makes me feel godawful.

"Why?" he asks with obviously forced calm.

I can't be arsed to come up with a believable excuse. "Because I don't want to."

"Is it because of whatever problem you have with Tristan?"

I make an exaggerated display of shock. "Problem? I have no problem with your boyfriend."

"D'you have a problem with me?"

"I think that's the most idiotic question you've ever asked me."

"Go to brunch with us tomorrow."

"No."

"Why?"

"I already t— Why are you being so damn pushy, Malfoy?"

"I want you and Tristan to be friends."

I give no fucks this time. "I have no desire to be friends with that fucking arse-wipe."

Draco blinks, eyes wide but face otherwise empty. His gaze darts all over my face, his pink mouth slightly open as he makes an obvious effort to puzzle me out.

"I need to know what your problem is," he says calmly. "I'm not going to ask again."

I put my beer down with a thump and straighten up from my lounge against the bar.

"Then don't," I say dismissively, looking not at him but somewhere just above his head – because I can't, I just can't look at him any longer.

I walk around him and straight out of the club, and I know without looking back that he's watching me leave.

No, I don't immediately down a whole bottle of Firewhiskey and lie in a drunken stupor for the rest of the night. I get home, undress and settle down in front of the telly with no real intention of actually paying attention to it, and choose to remain sober the entire time. It feels as though I have a stomach full of snakes, twisting and coiling around, stinging me from time to time so I can feel the venom course through me and renew the helpless misery I'm drowned in.

He can go ahead and marry that Tristan for all I care. I'm done with him. I think I'd made that evident with my decision to walk out of that club earlier. I cannot voluntarily remain friends with him and watch him pledge himself to someone else when I love him the way I do, with the intensity with which I do. When I allow myself to acknowledge it, acknowledge that it is actually love, I physically ache all over. It feels cruel, twisted, that I spent all these years after the War as his friend when I could have just made him mine, any time that I had actually paused to reconsider how I feel and been so much more than just his friend.

Just as the magnitude of the fact that this very friendship is probably over is sinking in for real, there is a series of thumps on the front door, hard enough that I hear the doorknob rattle. I start, my vision clearing, my clogged brain registering the infomercial playing on the TV, and look around to check the time. It's a quarter past two.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

It's Draco.

Heart thudding, I pull off the patchwork quilt he'd had custom made for me for Christmas three years ago – it has photos embroidered in gold thread all over it, charmed to look lifelike; photos of my parents, of Ron, Hermione and me, of the Weasleys and me, of Draco and me. I take my time stretching and slowly walking up to the door. He doesn't stop pounding at the door the entire time, at one point even, by the sound of it, kicking at it.

Half a second before I open the door, I instinctively know he's very drunk. I already know it.

Sure enough, when I pull the door open, he nearly tumbles over inside, landing half on me and catching himself with his other hand on the door frame. He straightens up and sways dangerously. His eyes are bloodshot and pink but he's paler than ever as he stands there trembling, glaring at me. His hair is in disarray and he smells very strongly of alcohol.

"Took your time," he says hoarsely, looking me up at and down pointedly.

I don't give a fuck; it's not the first time he's seeing me in just my boxers. "What do you want?"

"Let me in."

I turn and walk back into the flat, leaving him to follow me in and slam the door shut. I switch off the telly, and fold up the quilt just for something to do, draping it over the back of the sofa and rearranging the cushions. When I don't hear anything from him for a bit longer, I turn to find him leaning helplessly against the wall, eyes shut.

I approach cautiously; I can't predict what he might say or do in this state.

"You should go home and go to bed," I say a few beats later when he's still not said anything.

He lets out a derisive huff. "What? Not going to let me crash here anymore?" His eyes are still shut and his chest is rising and falling as he pants softly. "I just want to know what I did wrong," he says suddenly, so softly that I almost don't catch it.

I feel a weird lump in my throat. "I don't know what you mean," I lie.

"Yes, you do. You won't talk to me anymore. You won't spend time with me anymore. You won't even fucking look at me anymore." When I don't respond he opens his eyes and abruptly lurches forward, teeth bared. "Tell me what's wrong, you worthless shit!"

I meet his alcohol-glazed gaze steadily. He's an utter mess, hair in his eyes and mouth, clothing dishevelled, veins popping at his temples. He's white as a sheet, which is usual for when he's angry or upset. Even his lips have gone pale. His neck is damp with sweat and he reeks of booze.

He's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on.

"There's nothing wrong," I say, deliberately calm because I know it will only make him angrier; Draco likes a bit of a fight when he's angry.

"It's Tristan, isn't it?" He looks like he's about to explode with fury. He speaks with calmness that I admire him for dragging together in the state he's in. "Tell me why you hate Tristan."

"Go home; you're beyond pissed."

If sparks shot out his eyes I wouldn't have been surprised. "Tell me," he says dangerously, "why you hate Tristan."

That's the third time in under a minute that I've heard that motherfucker's name and I barely just resist the impulse to cause Draco physical hurt.

"Get out," I say, and for the second time, turn around and walk away.

But Draco Malfoy is not someone you dismiss in a conversation. Because he's the one who usually does the dismissing.

I head down the corridor to my bedroom, leaving him standing in the living room with his eyes like flints. And then he attacks.

I hear him charge at me but before I can turn he's shoved me so hard that I nearly fall down flat. I stumble dangerously, catching myself, and turn, too shocked at first to react. He's fumbling clumsily and presently draws his wand, pointing it at me, his breath coming out in harsh rasps through gritted teeth. His hand is shaking, as is the entirety of his narrow frame.

I don't expect him to actually use his wand. But then with a heavy flick of his wrist he's thrown a jet of red light at me.

I've left my wand somewhere on the sofa and so I snap my hand to wandlessly block his Stinging Hex, staring at him in shock. He follows with one more, which I dodge, approaching him as I do. He throws out a third one which flies over my shoulder as I finally reach him, snatch his wand from his grip and fling it, with all my might, across my flat. I hear it clatter to the floor somewhere in the kitchen.

He shoves me again, planting both hands on my chest and pushing with all his might, and then follows it up with an attempted right-hook. I catch his fist as it flies at me and throw it away before pushing him away with measured force. He trips backwards, almost falling over.

"Enough," I warn. "Go home."

"Fuck you!"

"Go home, Draco."

"You mean nothing to me! Nothing!"

"Good. So get the fuck out of my house."

"You don't tell me what to do. I'm not—I'm not part of your fucking fan club. You're nothing but an—an uncivilised—"

He's right up in my face now, gnashing his teeth as he flounders for words, his eyes rolling drunkenly every now and then. I grab the finger he's jabbing into my bare chest and tighten my fist around it, an implied threat of a broken finger.

"And you," I grit out, "need to get the fuck out before I fling you out the door and leave your drunken arse there for the neighbours to find."

He yanks his finger free and slaps me across the face hard enough to make me stumble back. Before I can recover, he's stepped forward and shoved me again, screaming, "Tell me what I did to make you hate me again!"

And I'm done.

I grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall so hard that he gasps in pain. But he has no time to recover from that because I'm already kissing him.

I smash my mouth against his, my teeth scraping over his lips still parted on that gasp, and sink my tongue into his mouth, one hand still holding him by the collar, my other hand holding his face in place. With my brain completely turned off, I kiss him so hard that he gasps again, his mouth automatically opening wider under mine, his lips easily slotting with mine.

He makes a sound of some sort, a short whimper; then Draco flings his arms around my neck and surges into me, kissing me back like he's determined to win this fight too. Because it feels like a fight; it feels like we're competing again. I don't think. I just kiss. I taste his mouth and the booze on his tongue; I feel the softness of his cheek under my hand. When he pulls me closer, I plaster myself against him, pushing him bodily into the wall, and cup the back of his neck, my thumb landing right over the pulse point on his neck; his heart is racing like a bird's.

He's whimpering again now, even as he actively kisses me back, his hands buried in my hair. He's got one leg wound around my hip and we're grinding together. When I wrench my mouth free and push my face into his neck, he throws his head back against the wall, panting, and eagerly gives me access to lick the briny skin. His hips are moving fluidly but with no rhythm. I'm hard in my boxers as I suck bruises into his neck and I can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

He moans something on a whisper – I think it's my name – and it's this barely-heard sound that clicks my brain back on; it clicks reality back on. I think of the fact that he probably whispers Tristan's name like that; that he probably ruts against Tristan like this.

He tugs me back up by my hair and kisses me again, clumsily mashing our mouths together and sucking. I'm helpless as I kiss him back, helpless as I reach down to cup his perfect little arse and squeeze, making him kiss me even harder.

My brain wakes up some more. I'm perfectly sober as I do this. Draco is not.

With a burst of effort that drains me of everything I possess, I yank myself away from him. For a second, he surges forward, following my mouth. Then he goes still. He's not pale anymore but flushed a frantic pink. His lips are pink too, swollen and wet, his eyes wide, dark with arousal and wondering. He's panting, wheezing, through his mouth. I can see the bulge of his erection in his jeans.

Wordlessly, I walk away, leaving him standing there as I go into my room and loudly and pointedly lock the door behind me.

"Are you sure there's another box?" I ask wearily, peering into and then pushing away yet another box of books.

"Yes, Harry," Hermione sounds just as exasperated. She taps impatient fingers against the ladder I'm perched at the top of, my head and torso inside the musty smelling attic. "The box of ornaments my mother gave me isn't here. That's the one we're missing."

I lean forward and drag another box forward but inside there are just stacks of parchment bound into little piles with twine. When I peer closer, I recognise the tiny, neat handwriting.

"You've preserved all the notes you made in class?" I ask incredulously, my voice echoing.

"Well, of course," answers Hermione primly. "D'you need more light up there?"

"No," I answer morosely, lifting my wand higher and immediately noticing a box I'd not spotted earlier. It rattles and makes pretty clinking noises as I pull it towards me. "I think this is it," I open the box and find neat rows of beautiful little glass orbs, "Yep, found it."

We stack all the boxes of Christmas lights, decorations and ornaments next to the tree Ron had dragged in, with much groaning and swearing, half an hour ago. He's now dozing with his mouth open on the sofa.

"Tea, I think," Hermione says decisively, and I gladly follow her into the kitchen and settle down at the table as she makes the tea and pulls out packets of biscuits. "We should decorate your flat tomorrow," she says brightly as she sets my mug before me and takes a seat opposite me.

My stomach does an odd flip but I don't pause to ponder. "Nah. I'm barely ever home anyway."

"It's Christmas, Harry. And you have some really pretty decorations that you know I'll steal if you don't use."

I laugh. "Be my guest. I'm never the one to put them up, anyway."

"Hmm. Malfoy is particularly good at that sort of thing. I think he's mentioned how he used to watch the elves at the Manor decorate the place. And well, he does have excellent taste. He always does a fantastic job of doing up your place."

She's looking right at me as she talks, hands cupped around her mug, stray curls escaping her bun and bouncing against her forehead. I don't reply but I do rip open a packet of chocolate biscuits and dunk one in my tea.

"How long has it been, then?" she asks lightly.

I just shrug, but when she continues looking at me, I say, "Around three months, I guess."

"You guess?"

As if she can't tell I practically know the exact number of hours since I last saw Draco; since I'd left him standing outside my bedroom, kissed within an inch of his life, his wide eyes and pink mouth and shocked expression making him appear helpless and innocent.

"Hermione, I don't want to talk about him right now," I say pleadingly.

She doesn't look like she wants to humour me this time. "When, then?"

"Never," I say at once. I dunk another biscuit in my tea. It breaks off and plops to the bottom of my mug. "Perfect."

"You won't even tell us what happened."

"I told you. We had a fight. And that was that. We don't talk anymore."

"What kind of fight? What happened?"

I snogged the living shit out of him while he was legless and he actually kissed me back but none of it even matters because he has a fucking boyfriend and probably hates me and blames me for taking advantage of him anyway, I think.

"Just...a huge fucking argument," I say. "He tried to hex me. I asked him to fuck off. It was just...petty and nasty."

"That just sounds like any other fight you might have with Malfoy," she says, looking bewildered. "Why did this one result in you..."

Breaking up, I know she wants to say. I smile wryly.

Because that's what it's been like – Draco and I...broke up.

We don't talk anymore. We don't hang out anymore. We don't interact in any form or way anymore.

I go out with Ron and Hermione. On the nights everyone in the gang is meeting, I excuse myself. It's lucky that I don't meet the others as often as I do Ron and Hermione because the questions I'd have to face would make for some stupendous awkwardness.

I never ask Ron and Hermione about Draco, even though I know they do meet him on a semi-regular basis. I don't ask them what I'm dying to know – does he ask about me? Does he mention me at all? What's he like...without me?

It's not as if I've not seen him at all, though. Because that would have made getting over him easy. When have I ever been that lucky?

I saw him at work a couple of weeks after I'd kissed him. We'd passed in the corridor as I was on my way to my office. Ron was with me. He hadn't known back then that Draco and I had called it quits. He was blathering on about something as Draco and I had locked eyes; he'd looked perfect that day, just like he did every day. His gaze had fallen and I'd looked away. When we'd passed, Ron had smacked Draco over the head with the file he was holding and had hooted with glee that Draco hadn't been quick enough to dodge it. Later on in the office, he'd asked me if that had seemed weird because Draco always dodges.

Another few weeks after that, we'd had to call in Curse Breakers after a midnight raid that had turned out to be all kinds of fucked up. Ron had been injured and I stood next to him as one of the emergency Medi-Wizards had checked him. When I'd looked up at one point, my stomach had plummeted to see Draco in the crowd gathered outside the old cursed mansion we'd raided. Draco had been looking at Ron's supine form on the stretcher but when I looked up at him, he'd met my eye directly. Then his gaze wandered to my singed robes before landing on the pendant he'd gifted me, lying on my chest, the gold threads catching the moonlight. Ron and I had both been hit with curses. Only I'd escaped unscathed.

It's fucking weird without him in my life, I'll admit that much. I keep telling myself to try and imagine what it was like right after the War; when he and I hadn't pulled our heads out of our arses and become friends yet. It's...impossible. I can't imagine what life was like before Draco. That's how I see life now: Before Draco and After Draco.

"What time d'you have to be at Simon's?" Hermione asks now, getting to her feet and Levitating our empty mugs to the sink.

"I'm meeting him straight at the store. Around four-thirty, I think?"

"What store?"

"Rosenfield's."

"Fancy. What's he looking for?"

"Earrings, I think. For his mum."

"Now there's an idea," Ron ambles in suddenly, "I can give mum earrings for Christmas too."

"You gave her earrings last year," Hermione reminds him.

"Fuck." He scowls, scratching his head where the sofa cushions have flattened his hair. "I'm officially out of ideas again."

We decorate the tree together. Afterwards, I help Hermione put up lights outside and then decorate some more inside the house while Ron makes pasta. We've just hung up the stockings when he announces lunch is ready. It feels good to spend time with them, just like old times; just the three of us. It's always been effortless to be with them. Things have always felt like they're right where they're meant to be when I'm with Ron and Hermione.

Except that's exactly how it had felt with Draco too. And now there's a gaping hole that I know I can't ever fill again but, fuck it, I don't listen to the voice that tells me that.

Simon buys his mother the most unremarkable pair of earrings in the store. I don't claim to have impeccable taste in women's jewellery – that's something only Draco can boast about – but fuck, the pearl and garnet earrings Simon's picked out for his mother makes me feel slightly sorry for the woman.

"They're all right, aren't they?"

"They're great," I lie automatically.

"Are you getting anything? For Hermione Granger or Ginny Weasley or her mother?"

He always calls them by their full name. I don't know why. He used to do that back when we first dated too and it used to make Draco nearly piss himself laughing.

"Er, no. I've already picked out gifts for everyone," I reply. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, just waiting for my receipt."

"Mind if I nip into Quality Quidditch? I need broom polish." I'm already walking towards the door.

"Wait, I'm coming too!"

Has he always been so nasal?

I have the door half open and I look back when he whines, obediently pausing in my tracks. Someone tries to push the door open from outside and I stumble back.

"Oh, pardon me."

I freeze. Slowly, akin to a scene in a horror movie, I turn back around to see Draco in front of me.

His expression resembles what I assume mine is like. He's pink cheeked from the cold, a woollen cap pulled over his head, fashionably lopsided so that his fringe falls just so into his eyes; eyes that are very wide as he stares at me in mild shock. I stare right back because I don't know how not to stare at him.

"Hi," I say automatically.

"Hullo." He sounds decidedly breathless. Then, smiling: "Sorry. I didn't mean to almost kill you with the door."

I can't help it; I smile back. "Sorry for just standing there holding it like a dunderhead."

"You don't have to apologise for being something you just naturally are; you can't help it," he says, eyes twinkling, his smile turning mischievous and incredibly pretty.

It's like the last three months haven't happened at all. It feels surreal to stand here bantering with him like we haven't just gone weeks and weeks not talking to each other and pretending like I hadn't done what I'd done; like he hadn't taken it eagerly and given it back.

He wasn't in his senses when he did, I'm reminded. Oh. Right.

"Last minute Christmas shopping?" I ask because I don't know what else to say. I don't ever want to stop talking to him again.

"All my Christmas shopping is last minute, remember?"

"Indeed, I do. Let me guess. You're here for Parkinson?"

"Good guess. The bint is never happy with just a sweater. So now I've to find her a fucking necklace that costs me half my annual earnings."

"Make sure it's diamond."

"We're talking about Pansy. Of course there will be diamonds."

"I got the invitation to her Christmas Eve party yesterday."

"Oh, yes. Are you coming?"

"I think I might have to. It sounded a bit threatening."

"How do you mean?"

"When I opened the invitation card it started singing and I nearly soiled myself."

"It's her voice, actually. Did you recognise it?"

"Why d'you think I nearly soiled myself?"

He's laughing now. I cannot describe in words the perfection of the sight of Draco Malfoy laughing wholeheartedly. It's almost ethereal.

"Okay, let's go get you your broom polish."

Simon appears and takes my hand. Draco's smile vanishes so quickly, it's as though someone cast a spell. He goes pale as snow and his eyes turn so cold that for a flash of a moment I'm scared as I watch him take in the sudden appearance of a man I know he absolutely despises.

"Oh," says Simon, sounding rather cold himself. "Oh, it's you. Hello."

Draco doesn't answer. He's looking at me now and I'm tempted to look around for a Dementor because I am cold to the bone and feel like all the happiness has been sucked out from around me. The hopeful elation that had sprung up just from talking to Draco for a minute has just vanished, and I feel a gloom unmatched to anything I have experienced in the past three months settle over me. Suddenly, I just want to go home and be alone. Simon's hand feels clammy and unpleasant in mine.

Draco's gaze on me is white hot. I can feel disbelief, disgust and most of all, betrayal.

"Harry mentioned you two had lost touch."

And it's all so, so much worse suddenly.

"Did he?"

"We should all probably catch up, I suppose." Simon doesn't sound very enthusiastic about it.

"I'd like nothing less," Draco says with an icy smile. "Excuse me."

He goes to step around me and instinctively – involuntarily – my hand jumps as though to reach out and grab his. Draco notices and pauses, looking me right in the eye for a beat; just that one single beat where he's looking at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning, his nostrils flared. My heart, already somewhere in my belly, sinks right down to my boots.

He brushes past me, smelling like Christmas and expensive cologne and Draco, and I let Simon lead me out by the hand as he mutters under his breath.

"Can't believe you're friends with that Death Eater."

I snatch my hand free. "I've told you not to call him that."

Simon looks surprised although I have indeed told him not to fucking call Draco that.

"Well, it's just that he's so incredibly rude," he says. "And you have other friends. Better friends. He's just superfluous in your life, if you ask me." He shrugs and keeps walking at a brisk pace.

Superfluous. Draco. Right.

"I just remembered, I've to be somewhere," I say, pausing right in the middle of Diagon Alley, other shoppers continuing to hurry past all around me.

"Where?" Simon asks, looking put out. "You're supposed to come to mine for dinner."

Nothing sounds worse. "I promised Hermione," I say vaguely. "I'm really sorry. I'll owl you later, okay?"

Scowling, but looking resigned, he leans up for a kiss. My first instinct is to flinch away and look back wildly just in case Draco is watching. But I make myself lean forward and peck him on the mouth before Disapparating.

I go home and spend the rest of the evening putting up the entirety of the collection of Christmas decorations – including a miniature fake tree – which Draco had put together for me over the years. Every year he'd turn up with bagfuls of new shit to hang up around my flat. I do a particularly atrocious job and by the time I'm done, my house looks like a fucking joke, just dripping in lopsidedly hung up lights, bunched up tinsel and countless baubles. Draco would have a spectacular fit.

It's with that mental image that I get completely shitfaced and pass out on the sofa, the twinkling lights around the window frames the last thing I see.

"Mate, I'm sorry but he's really fucking annoying."

Ron says this as we watch Simon trot off to go buy the next round. It's just the three of us tonight. Hermione's still at work, Seamus and Dean are in Galway visiting Seamus' family, Neville is at Hogwarts for the holidays this year, and the Slytherin crown weren't invited for obvious reasons.

I just look at Ron who turns to look right back at me. Simultaneously, we burst out laughing.

"Why are you even with him? Didn't he cheat on you?"

"Stop. You sound like—"

I don't finish what I was about to say but Ron is already looking at me with that overtly knowing look on his face. "Like the ferret?" he rubs in.

"Fuck off," I mumble, looking over at where Simon is standing at the bar.

He's okay, I reason. He'd been very sincere in his apology when we'd gotten back in touch. And he's not bad looking at all. He's cute enough to attract the immediate attention of the bartender and I notice a trio of women whispering amongst themselves as they stare over at him.

He doesn't hold a candle to Draco, though. The very thought of it makes me snort. Simon is attractive in a way that when you look at him, you give him an appreciative once over. Draco is attractive in a way that once you look at him, it takes physical effort to look away.

"I can tell you miss him, y'know," Ron says wisely. I don't respond. "Especially because you're like...y'know? In love with him?"

I slowly turn to meet Ron's gaze. He looks like he's made a bold declaration but he has his head tilted in a way that says he wants an official confirmation.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" I note that I sound rather sharp but Ron evidently doesn't care about it as he simply shrugs.

"You as good as admitted to it that one time," he says. "And Hermione says that this fight you two have had has something to do with—with you, y'know...the way you feel about him."

"What else does Hermione say? What is it that you both think about me and my alleged feelings for someone we grew up hating?"

Ron's blue eyes widen comically large. "Woah! Where did that come from? I thought we don't talk about that stuff anymore."

"We don't," I bite out. "Doesn't make it any less true."

Ron is silent for a long beat during which I watch Simon lean idly over the bar, grinning at something the bartender is saying. Then, "So... You do, then."

"I do what?"

"You do...have feelings for Malfoy."

Ron and I don't often lie to one another. When we do it's about whose turn it is to fill out reports and which team we think will win the season. When he'd asked me whether I thought it was a good idea to propose to Hermione two months after the War I hadn't lied; I'd told him it sounded like a bit of a wild leap and that he ought to give it more time. When he'd asked me again five years after that, I'd offered to go with him to buy a ring to propose with.

I look at him now. He's watching me very intently. Like he maybe knows the answer but can't be sure but also has a good idea as to what I'm feeling and just wants me to say it out loud and be done with it.

I glance at Simon and then look right at Ron. "I—Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"You do have feelings for Malfoy?" I nod. "What kind of feelings?" He looks and sounds rather enthusiastic. I almost laugh.

I focus on the paper napkin I'm shredding. "I...guess I'm in love with him or whatever."

"For real?"

"Yes, Ron."

"And you're still with this dodgy wanker here?" He nods towards Simon who's now fishing galleons out of his pocket.

"Well, it's not like I plan to marry him so it's really no big deal."

Ron is shaking his head, looking very firm. "You should be with Malfoy."

"Why?"

"Because you love him?"

"It's a two-way street, mate. I'd prefer he feel the same way about me."

Ron snorted. "Anyone who looks at you both together can tell you're both always on the same page." I don't say anything. Ron says gently, "I've seen the way he looks at you. How he's always looked at you. You're both great together. I think you can rest easy about that."

"About what?"

"About the way the ferret feels about you. I think he's right where you are."

"Yeah? He has a funny way of showing it."

"How's he showing it?"

"He's with that fucking Tristan," I hiss through gritted teeth, crushing the rest of the napkin.

Ron snorts. "They broke up, like, more than two months ago. What's wrong with you?"

My neck actually clicks; I look up that fast. "What?" I whisper, leaning forward.

Ron looks astonished. "You've been that out of touch?" he asks and I want to smack him across the head the way Draco does sometimes. "I mean, I thought you've still been keeping tabs on him and stuff seeing as you're—"

I reach over and grab him by his jumper, giving him a small shake. "He's not with that fucker anymore?!"

Ron is staring down at my hand clenched in his jumper with a small frown which he then directs at me. "No. They broke up. And the ferret never told us why so don't ask me that," he adds in a rush before impatiently poking my hand, prompting me to release him.

I lean back in my seat, my vision going blurry. I'm breathing through my mouth, loud rasps that come out sounding like I'm choking. My heart is flinging itself around my chest, hysterical and slightly mad. I feel like I've been immersed in ice water, my arms and legs breaking out in gooseflesh and beginning to tremble.

Two days ago, I'd bumped into Draco, who is no longer with Tristan, at Rosenfield's and he'd smiled at me and talked to me like nothing was wrong between us and then he'd discovered, in the shittiest way possible, that I'm back together with Simon. Draco, who is no longer with Tristan, knows that I am back together with someone he'd once made colourful plans to kill. Draco, who is no longer with Tristan, now probably hates me more than he hates Simon.

Draco, whom I love more with each passing day, is no longer with Tristan and also believes I am in a steady relationship with someone he thinks is the lowest, most repulsive creature to live.

I jerk bodily, snapping out of my trance, when Simon places three pints on the table. He stares at me in confused wariness as he sits down and winds his arm through mine. Ron is deadpan as he takes a long swig of beer. I feel nothing, suddenly.

The current state of my life makes me yearn for the days when Voldemort would always be trying his best to kill me. Such a simple life it was back then.

I'm just turning down the speed on the treadmill from a fast jog down to a steady walk when I hear the clatter of the dumb bells being handled behind me. I wait until my heart rate slows, pulling off my glasses and wiping my face, vaguely wondering who else is in the gym on Christmas Eve. The place has been deserted all week. I hop off and chug some water before edging around the cardio equipment to peer into the weights section.

My first instinct is to duck away – because the bloke lifting weights is Tristan.

But I don't hide. I stand there – I inch closer, in fact – and I wait. When he's done with his set, Tristan's gaze on the mirror shifts; he finally notices me standing behind him.

Neither of us speaks for a moment but our gazes stay locked.

He's the first to look away; it feels like a victory. "I was wondering when I'd run into you again," he murmurs, setting the weights down on the stand.

I say nothing, watching as he picks up his towel and slowly walks towards me, wiping his hands, then his neck. I feel such intense dislike for him that it feels as though I might choke on it. The irrationality of it doesn't even strike me. The man has done nothing to personally offend me. All he did was date Draco.

He's touched Draco, I realise.

Suddenly, the dislike morphs into that burning hatred that, the last time I'd experienced, had made me shove this guy off his broom midair.

"So you're probably happy, then?" He pauses right in front of me, lifting his chin up.

"Pardon?" It comes out sounding overly polite.

"You two married yet?"

I just look at him. I don't want to make myself sound stupid by asking him to confirm that he is, in fact, talking about Draco. "No," I say steadily.

His lip curls. Anyone else might've been startled at the sheer disdainful anger on his face. To me it's just comical. "But you are with him now, eh?" he asks, face slowly starting to colour.

I simply smile. It is immensely satisfying to realise that he genuinely believes that Draco and I are together now; that Draco left him for me. Almost, I want to say.

"So? Finally got what you wanted?" he continues sourly. "Can't blame you, I suppose. Can't blame anyone who wants to fuck a slut like that." He pauses while my fingers tingle for my wand. "Wonder how long he'll last with you before he gets bored of your heroic cock."

I huff out a laugh, turning away.

Then, before he can so much as blink, I've turned back around, my hand clenched, shoving my fist so hard into his face that I hear a cracking sound as he flies backwards, sprawling onto the floor and lying there, motionless. I see blood on his face in the half a second I spare to glance at him before turning away.

I don't have time to wait around. I need to go home, shower, get dressed, break-up with Simon, and go find Draco at Parkinson's party so I can kiss him some more.

Well, I should probably tell him how I feel before I kiss him but I'm going to kiss him one way or another.

When I Floo into Simon's place I find he's not home. I'm irritated at this; he was supposed to be here so I could break up with him. Well, technically, he's supposed to be here because we were to head to Parkinson's party together but I'd had other plans and his absence is a fucking inconvenience.

I'm considering just breaking up with him via a note – real classy, I know – when there's a creak from his bedroom.

"Simon?" I'm relieved, and a bit excited, as I make my way inside.

"Who's there?" says a woman's voice, sounding startled.

I don't know who it might be. "Harry," I say blankly, pushing open the bedroom door.

"Oh." She turns just as I step in. It's Stella, Simon's sister. "Hello, Harry." She looks weary and upset. "I'm just here to pick up some of his things. The Healers say he's going to be there a while."

I blink. "What?" She looks up from where she's digging around in one of his drawers. "Healers?"

She straightens up. "Yes, his Healer's saying it might be some sort of infection but he's asked two others to look in on it and they are unable to figure out what those things are. At least they've drained most of the pus out and he's on anaesthetics so he's not in pain." Then she frowns, looking uncomfortable. "It's...sweet of you to want to check up on him even though he...you know. He can't talk with his mouth full of those boils, or whatever they are." She shudders, "but I'm sure he doesn't have much to say for himself, nonetheless."

My brain is struggling to put together some of this information but I am completely blank as I just stand there and watch her stuff a set of pyjamas into a bag.

Finally I clear my throat and straighten my back. "Erm. So, I've been out of town and just got back. So I'm not really sure what's going on. Is—is Simon okay? What happened?"

"Oh." She looks at me, eyes very wide. "So you...don't know that he...?" When she trails off and waits I just shake my head. She looks dreadfully ashamed. "Simon's had...a sort of accident," she says. "He... He had—He was with some bloke last night." She says it bluntly. "He's managed to tell the Healers what happened – I guess he wrote it down for them. His mouth and—and—" She turns red and clears her throat. "And his...bum—they're...well—They're infected with something. They don't know what yet." She sighs, looking worryingly close to tears of embarrassment while I digest the information. "One Healer mentioned it might be a dark curse of some sort. I suppose that's what one gets for spending the night with some charva you meet at a—"

But I'm not listening anymore. I'd stopped listening as soon as she'd said 'dark curse'. Because I know someone who is supremely skilled with dark curses; someone who works with dark curses. And this whole situation reeks of that person. And I know just where to find him.

The party is already busy when I arrive. There are trays of filled champagne flutes floating around. Soft music plays in the background. Parkinson's heavily decorated Christmas tree occupies one corner, dominating the room with how large and heavily ornate it is. There's an elaborately loaded buffet table lining one wall. A whole bar has been set up, complete with a very good looking barkeeper whom, I'm sure, Parkinson will be retaining for the whole night once everyone's left. I recognise nearly everyone I see and there are multiple greetings that I simply wave off.

I'm looking for just that one person as I push my way past people. I know he's going to be here. And sure enough, as I shoulder my way to the bar, he's standing there, clutching a flute of bubbly delicately by the stem. He's wearing a pale grey button down with thin silver stripes that catch in the light, tucked into black leather trousers. His hair is in his eyes, as usual. He's pink-cheeked and his lips are damp with champagne. When I emerge his gaze is instantly upon me, almost as if he'd been expecting me to appear from between those exact two people.

He turns away from the person he'd been conversing with, facing me properly. I walk forward but pause several feet away. It's only after a solid minute of us simply staring at each other that I become aware of the deafening silence around me. Everyone, the bartender included, is watching Draco and me facing off as though we're about to duel. The music continues, however, and I speak very softly.

"Did you curse Simon again?"

Draco calmly sets his glass on the bar. "Yes."

Why, my brain tells me to ask. "How?" I ask instead, because I am genuinely curious as to how he'd done it without getting arrested.

Draco smiles sweetly. "I have my ways."

"Tell me a bit about this one," I request just as sweetly.

His smile doesn't falter. "There's this guy I know; let's just say he's a friend, shall we? Muggleborn. Recently got out of Muggle prison. Was willing to do pretty much anything for a bunch of galleons." He clasps his fingers in front of him and bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes shining. "So I paid him to let me put a very specific curse on his cock and then paid him some more to drink some Polyjuice and attempt to seduce a serial adulterer I know into sucking his cursed cock. Turns out that the greedy little swine wanted to a lot more than just suck his cock; he wanted to ride it too! Such a pity it landed him at Mungo's. Such a pity." Draco shakes his head, looking very sombre.

But his eyes are sparkling with smug glee, with wicked triumph, and I have to work really hard at smothering the hysterical laughter that's bubbling up my chest.

"What about your friend's cock?" I enquire politely.

"Oh, his cock is just fine," replies Draco brightly. "He reported back to me after the deed was done and I lifted the curse and gave him a few more galleons because, after all, it is Christmas and he took on such a dangerous task."

"You do realise I am an Auror?"

"I do, Auror Potter."

"And that you just confessed to me about having used dark magic on someone?"

"Yes."

"In a room full of witnesses."

"Indeed." Then, when I don't reply: "Well? Are you going to arrest me?"

"No."

"Oh, good."

"Why did you do it?"

"Is this an interrogation, then?"

"Why did you do it?"

"I told you, my friend really needed the money."

"Why did you curse Simon?"

"Let's clear some things up, shall we?" Draco's smile is dangerous now. "My instructions to my friend were to try to seduce that sickening little slug. If your precious little boyfriend had remained faithful to you, he wouldn't be in this situation now, would he?"

I don't say anything. Every single eye on the room is on us. My peripheral vision recognises the shock of red hair somewhere to my left but otherwise, every single cell in me is focused on Draco.

"You...shouldn't have gone after Simon," I say just so that it's on record that I had objected to Draco's antics.

"You shouldn't have broken Tristan's face."

I feel like someone's punched me in the gut, feeling breathless as my face turns warm.

"Who...?"

"He owled me," Draco supplies. He's not smiling anymore. "He's at Mungo's too. I've convinced him not to press charges, by the way."

"He was asking for it," I spit. "He's vile. You never saw it."

"Is that why you did it?" Draco's eyebrow has gone up in his trademark expression of deep scepticism.

I pause for a beat. Inhale. Slowly exhale. Then, "You know why I did it."

"Do I?" Draco crosses his arms.

"You know why I did it," I repeat. Draco doesn't respond, now just looking at me with both eyebrows raised, his expression openly challenging. I swallow hard, gritting my teeth. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Right here in front of everybody we know." Draco lifts his chin, nose in the air, mouth set in a stubborn line. "Sometimes," I say, "I honestly can't believe that I am as helplessly in love with you as I am, knowing that you're probably the biggest bastard alive."

Draco goes scarlet right to the roots of his hair and tips of his ears. The rigid line of his mouth quivers a bit and then he bites the corner of his lip.

"Well—" His voice cracks and he hurriedly clears his throat. "Well, Potter. You...are capable of good taste, I see," he says loftily. He picks up his flute of champagne and holds it up to me. "To making the right choice at last," he says and drains the glass.

He's barely done swallowing before I've crossed the space between us, wound an arm around his waist, my other hand landing on his hot cheek, and kissed him. I hear the tinkle of breaking glass as he drops the flute, and then his arms are around my neck and he's kissing me right back, tilting his head and pushing into me with his whole body. There's a crazed sort of rushing sound in my ears but I am aware of the hoots, the screams, and the applause around us. I think it's Ron who says, "Blimey. Fucking finally."

But I'm not paying attention to anything but Draco; Draco's lips, moving against mine; Draco's mouth, sweet and tasting of champagne; Draco's long fingers clenched in my hair; Draco's soft cheek beneath my palm, his wiry body being bent backwards within the circle of my arm. It feels like my very first kiss. It feels like nothing has ever existed before this. It feels like this is the beginning of my life, like I'm being brought more and more to life the longer I kiss Draco.

I have no idea how long we stand there kissing except that we begin to attract a lot of protests. It's only when someone, Parkinson I think, threatens to hit us both with Stinging Hexes, that I force myself to wrench my mouth away. I pull back and look at Draco; he's flushed and breathing hard, eyes dark and twinkling, mouth red and already swollen. He's pressed incredibly close, his arms tight around my neck, his champagne-scented breath puffing across my face as he stares back at me – he's breathtaking.

Around us, the party has resumed.

"You heard me, right?" I pant quietly over the buzz of voices.

"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe I wasn't paying attention."

"You just want me to say it again," I accuse.

He grins, his gaze wandering to my mouth as he clasps his fingers at the nape of my neck. "Maybe," he says again.

"Well, maybe," I say pointedly, "I'm in love with you or something. It's probably just a phase, though. I'll probably get back with Simon once he's discharged."

I laugh out loud at the expression on his face and then wince as one thin hand curls firmly in my hair and tugs sharply.

"Next time it'll be something much worse," he warns me. "I know you're too decent to put him in danger like that."

"I am," I say solemnly, and then fake a sigh. "Fine. I guess I'll stay put with you. For the sake of Simon's safety."

"Good choice," he replies with a venomous smirk. "He's going to be in Mungo's until next year."

"You're rather horrible."

"You're rather fit."

I pause, blinking at him in surprise. He goes pinker than ever.

"I think that's the closest you'll ever get to saying you love me too?" I guess.

"Probably."

"You're with me just because I'm fit?"

"Obviously."

"Fine." Then I kiss him some more just because. "What now?" I ask once we've pulled away.

He looks a bit dazed from the kiss as he looks around us. "Now we...socialise, I think."

"And listen to everyone rag us about just having snogged in front of them?"

"Sounds exciting, doesn't it?"

I grin and lean forward to press our foreheads together. "Very."