After the end-of-dinner fiasco, Draco had been quick to retreat to his guestroom. He was in no mood to deal with the diplomatic formalities he surely owed his parents and his hosts: since the Patil girl had begun flirting with Harry, the night had gone to shit, and he had no intention to tread even deeper into the muck he had conjured up to begin with.

Besides, he appreciated the closed solitude that his own room afforded him. Rosebury House had elegant guestrooms that somehow managed to be just as cozy as they were regal. Draco's own was wallpapered in burgundy paisley, which was the same color as the thick bedspread on the sprawling four-poster bed. It had a window overlooking the North of the magnificent estate, next to which was a deep brown chaise longue. There was an armchair in that same deep brown by the bed, with a small table by it, which paired nicely with the dark green rug by the homey hearth, which crackled with a dying fire. Yes, a disastrous night was coming to an end, but enclosed in such a room —which was immensely comfortable and welcoming despite being far from Draco's preferred décor (usually restricted to darker, colder colors)—, he felt an almost warm lull in his own winding-down.

Yes, to be alone was something Draco relished.

The knock at the door, however, was a sure sign that he was to be disturbed even in this simplest of pleasures. Could the evening simply not get worse?

Perhaps if he ignored the knock, he thought, whoever it is might get the hint that he preferred to be by himself and simply leave. For an instant, it seemed as though Draco's strategy had worked: there was silence on the other end of the door. Calm, Draco sank deeper into the chocolate-colored armchair and allowed his eyelids to drop, closed, over his eyes. Peace, at last.

And then another knock came.

This time, Draco had to be clearer. "Leave me be, please!" he called, loud enough that he knew it would be heard without disturbing those in the guestrooms by him. But whoever was at his door either didn't hear or chose to ignore it, because the rhythmic knocking now morphed into an insistent rapping, which rose both in volume and intensity the longer Draco went without answering the door.

That was the last straw: whipped up into a fit of ire, Draco practically leaped off the armchair and marched decisively toward the door. Stewing, as he twisted the doorknob open, the hot anger that flowed through his blood itched to give this unwelcome visitor a piece of his mind. He was prepared to let a barrage of unkind words rain down on whoever appeared when the door swung open, and he would have— he would have, had his breath not been knocked back into his chest as soon as the door was clear open into the hallway. Because, on the other side, was Harry.

Harry seemed to be entirely oblivious to the shock he had induced in Draco. "May I come in?" Too stunned to respond otherwise, Draco silently ushered him in and swiftly closed the door behind him.

"Thanks," Harry said, pacing around the room as if to get a good look at it. "I wanted to make sure no one heard me."

Now Draco could speak again. "Where was this want for discretion when you were threatening to break down the door with your knocking, Potter?"

Harry halted in his tracks and spun around to stare Draco dead in the eye. "Potter?" He took a few steps closer, slowly, and with each millimeter he inched closer to Draco the blond man could feel the air escaping his body. "Since when am I Potter?" He was close now, close enough that Draco could feel the warmth of his breath. Harry's emerald green eyes, the glow of the fire flickering across them, bore deeply into Draco's grey pair. "Or have you forgotten when you called me by a different name?"

"What are you doing here?" Draco exhaled, attempting to conceal the breathlessness Harry had incited in him.

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Harry smiled, taking a step back and allowing Draco some room to lose tension. The mischievous glint was back: "Or, better yet, what do you want me to be doing here?"

"Getting out as soon as possible, I should hope," Draco mumbled, without really meaning it but not knowing what else to say in the wake of Harry's unexpected appearance.

"You get three guesses."

"I'm in no mood for games."

"Fine, we'll do it the boring way," Harry grumbled without losing the idle smile lazing across his lips. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Draco, he slowly brought his hand into his coat, digging around the inside pocket behind the lapel for just an instant. When his hand reappeared, it held a familiar silver glint.

"My cigarette case!" Draco cried, darting forward to grab the heirloom from Harry's grasp. His slender fingers caressed it almost lovingly, reveling in the re-encounter with a possession he had thought lost. The elation, however, soon gave way to an accusatory stare directed at Harry: "You took it?"

"Evidently," Harry said.

"Why?"

"Because I know you're a complete drama queen, so you would make a huge fuss about it when you figured out it was missing. You would make sure everyone knew your precious case was lost. That way, it would be understandable if I swung by your room later, because I could tell anyone prying that I was just dropping it off."

The implication was now pushing deliciously into Draco's mind, like a milky fog swaying over the highlands, but he was reticent to interpret it as such without confirmation. "So what you're saying is—"

"I wanted to see you, idiot," Harry exasperatedly completed the thought for him, stepping forward again and draping a hand around Draco's middle with such force that, had Harry's hand not been clasping his back, Draco would've fallen over backward. Even now, he felt his knees buckling.

"You wanted to– you wanted to see me–" he stammered, completely overwhelmed by Harry's proximity. The amount of times he'd dreamed about having Harry's hand find the small of his back again, feeling Harry's warm breath on his cheek, having Harry's lips hover dangerously close to his... you'd think he'd be ready for when it actually happened, and yet here he was, practically melting into a puddle under Harry's coarse touch.

"It's been a while, don't you think?" Harry whispered, pulling Draco even closer so that their chests were now pressed together. In the background, the hearth crackled, manifesting every spark Draco felt flaring up inside him.

"You could say that," Draco laughed breathily, looking anywhere but into Harry's deep green eyes. "I didn't expect you'd be here."

"I got Orlando to invite you," Harry smiled, evidently proud of himself. "He invited me for his birthday, and he happened to mention you offhandedly and how long it had been... it didn't take much to persuade him to extend the invitation to Ashcroft Manor."

"I imagine not," Draco said, trying to conceal with wit how flattered he was. "Knowing Lady Granger, she must have jumped at the opportunity to widen the party."

"Oh, sure, especially with the Lord Malfoy present," Harry said nonchalantly, playing into Draco's coyness for an instant before he bore his eyes back into his. This time, Draco could do nothing to escape his piercing gaze. "But trust me, no amount of social credit could've enthused Lady Granger as much as the prospect of your arrival exhilarated me."

And then he was kissing him, Harry's lips finding their way in between Draco's own thin pair, Draco's usual sneer dissolving into the passion commanded by the kiss. Draco's eyes closed and he felt his body swoon forward into Harry's: God, how long he'd longed for this! How many nights he'd spent imagining exactly this, the very moment when Harry's lips met his again, when the ardor he had spent months craving returned to his body and flooded it with burning heat. And now that he was living it, that his fantasies had materialized, it was better than he'd yearned for.

As the kiss deepened, Harry allowed his tongue to venture into Draco's mouth, pressing into the kiss with even more force, as if sating a dormant hunger. Draco smiled to himself as he eagerly received the stronger kiss: Harry had wanted this as badly as he had. Harry had spent the same weeks dreaming of him, thinking of him, craving him. He returned the increased passion avidly, allowing his teeth to graze Harry's upper lip and eliciting a muffled moan from him. Yes, after all these months, he still knew what made Harry tick.

Finally, they pulled away from one another, chests heaving. Any hint of icy tension had now completely melted, and languished in a quickly-evaporating puddle at their feet.

"Christ, Draco," Harry panted, "if you knew how long I've wanted this."

"It's all I've thought of since we last met," Draco admitted. However, the warmth that flooded his chest upon hearing Harry's words was quickly tinged green by a jealous flash of memory. "And yet you wouldn't have thought that you did, considering how friendly you were being to the Patil girl tonight—"

"Parvati?" Harry answered, cocking an eyebrow in evident amusement at Draco's jealousy. "Oh, she's just an immensely interesting person. You should hear her stories about having lived in India— it's fascinating." Met with stony silence from a cross-armed Draco, Harry brought a hand up to caress his pale cheek. "There's nothing there. You know I only have eyes for you."

"I wouldn't have known it," Draco said, jerking his cheek away from Harry's fingers. "Saying 'we're acquainted', ignoring me all dinner—"

"Will you let it go? I'm here now, aren't I?" Harry said, clasping Draco's hands in his. Draco tried to wriggle away, but Harry only held his hands more firmly. "Draco, look at me. Look at me." Reluctantly, Draco brought his gaze back to Harry's face, which was doused in earnest vulnerability. "I only have eyes for you."

This time, it was impossible not to believe him. "That's reassuring," Draco made one last feeble attempt at being snide, but his hands had softened in Harry's, and he wasn't fooling anyone anymore, not even himself.

"Good," Harry said. "It should be. And now," he began, leading Draco still by the hands toward the bed, "will you tell me what you've been up to all this time?"

"Counting down the days to the next Black family function," Draco said. "Like I said, I wasn't expecting to find you here, again, so much sooner than I was bargaining for."

"That makes two of us," Harry smiled. "The only good reason to look forward to a Black event, I would say."

They had met during the annual reunion of the extended Black family, one of the oldest and snobbiest aristocratic families in all of England, which met every year not because they particularly liked one another but because they enjoyed showing off their new respective luxuries and fortunes. Every time he went, out of commitment for his mother's maiden name, Draco was reminded of the peacocks strutting leisurely around Ashcroft Manor, yet here they clucked loudly about 'fieldhouses' and 'inheritances', rustling their own feathers in a self-congratulatory fashion that seemed to Draco a pathetic masturbation of the ego. But this year's had been different. Because, this year, besides the usually-solitary Lord Black (who was one of the only non-insufferable Blacks at these functions), a lanky, dark-haired boy had appeared, looking around the party with the naiveté of a lost puppy.

Harry had lost his parents earlier in the year, under circumstances Draco had always been too shy to ask and which Harry had not yet voluntarily disclosed, and was now under the tutelage of his godfather, the eccentric bachelor Lord Sirius Black III. As an honorary part of the family, then, it only made sense that he would make his debut— but Draco couldn't blame him for how uncomfortable he looked, stranded in the middle of an overcrowded room and puzzlingly out of place only in the way a tried-and-true middle-class lad could be when surrounded by the utmost echelon of English snobbery.

Draco was not a sociable person by nature, but as it stood, he had two options: either he could stay where he was and listen to his mother and aunt Bellatrix spit venom about how their sister Andromeda had gone and married a farmer (and an Irishman, no less!), or he could venture out of his shell and toward that awfully out-of-place boy by Lord Black.

The choice was clear.

As he approached, Draco caught snippets of the muttered exchange between the boy and his godfather.

"Why I couldn't just stay with Remus, or why Remus couldn't come..."

"Remus hates these things, and how would I introduce him? My companion?"

"So why do I have to be here?"

"Godson duties, I suppose. Besides, you're a part of the family."

"Remus, where are you when I need you...?"

Harry's lamentation was cut short when Draco strolled into view, both he and his godfather falling into silence when they spotted him.

"New here?" Draco said, but it came out a little more snidely than he had intended it. His sneering demeanor was second nature to him, but now he had to backtrack to correct it. "I mean– hi, I'm Draco," he said effusively, jaunting his hand forward a little too aggressively to seem fluid.

"Narcissa's boy, huh?" Lord Black smiled in recognition. "Must be right about Harry's age, then. I'll leave you lads to it," he'd said conspiratorially, clapping Harry on the back before disappearing to mingle with the rest of his unbearable relatives.

And there they were, alone, for the first time, in front of one another, and Draco had no idea what to do. Mostly because what the sight of Harry awakened in him was an entirely unprecedented feeling. Draco's mind, an incessant critic, took little time to fixate upon the imperfections of whoever it was he was meeting; Harry, however, utterly disarmed him, made him incapable of formulating any mocking remark in his own mind. Shorter than himself, Harry's skin was slightly less devoid of color than Draco's, and his unkempt hair and crooked ascot suggested he had little knowledge of how to primp himself for these high-class occasions. What gave him away the most, however, was how relaxed he was: slumping backward into the wall, he had little of the all-too-characteristic stiffness the Black family would have won medals for were it an Olympic sport.

Draco should have been entirely in command: he knew these reunions and their inner workings, and he was clearly at an advantage over this poor, clueless boy here— and yet, he had no idea what to say. "So, Harry?" was what he led with, grabbing onto a snippet of what Lord Black had said before he vanished.

"Harry," Harry confirmed, without reaching out his hand to meet Draco's, still extended.

"You look uncomfortable."

"I am," Harry said with a hint of a smile. "My father was a nobleman, but he gave that up to marry my mum. So I have no idea how to behave in these sorts of... contexts, let's say."

This had piqued Draco's interest. "A nobleman?"

Harry nodded. "James Potter. Son of Fleamont and Euphemia."

"I can't say it rings a bell."

"How could it? You would've seen him at these events, and considering he stopped attending when I was born, that would be little short of impossible."

"How come you're with Lord Black now?"

"They're dead," Harry deadpanned, and Draco was suddenly intensely uncomfortable.

"Oh." He gulped. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright," Harry said, looking away. "Not much we can do about it now, anyway."

Draco had absolutely no idea how to respond. Harry, for some reason, already made talking to him an impossible feat, and now he had ladled on a healthy layer of 'dead-relative' awkwardness. So, in a last-ditch attempt, Draco did something unprecedented: he was cordial.

"How would you fancy a look around the house?"

"Pardon?"

"Malfoy Manor, Ashcroft Manor, whatever you want to call it... A tour?"

"I wasn't aware I'd signed up for a museum visit," Harry said. "Besides, this house gives me the creeps."

"It's my house," Draco said, hurt.

"Oh. Sorry," Harry shrugged. "It's a beautiful place, but it's eerie."

For some reason, Draco kept insisting: "I bet if you had a look around it'd be less scary."

"Like I said, I'm not here for a museum visit."

"I'm not talking about the things everyone else sees, idiot. I'm talking about the secret passageways, the hidden nooks and crannies, the locked rooms..."

Now curiosity had alit in Harry, and an incipient smile began to play along his lips. "That could be interesting."

"It's not like you have much else to do," said Draco, the snideness returning, "unless you're really all that eager to become acquainted with the extended Black clan."

That did it. "Please get me out of here," Harry laughed. Peeling his back of the wall, he now stood upright and faced Draco, who was still a good head taller even with Harry at normal standing. "Where do we start?"

The rest of the evening had been the most fun Draco had ever had at one of these ghastly events, slipping in between hollow walls and climbing up dizzying turrets to show Harry every corner of the house he had grown up in and whose trap he had been trying to escape for as long as he'd lived here. With every corner they turned, with every increasingly tight corridor they squeezed into, the two men inched gradually closer until Draco had grown accustomed to the feel of Harry's body right against his, and the light flow of Harry's breath that made the hairs on Draco's nape rise.

The end of the tour had been Draco's room, a stately, impressive chamber with high ceilings and dark décor. The last of the dying daylight filtered in through a tall, narrow window, sending bits of light bouncing off the elaborate chandelier that swung above a four-poster bed with deep violet drapes.

"You must be some sort of vampire," Harry had teased as he'd walked into the room, his eyes eagerly combing every inch of it as if taking it all in. "This room seems a better fit for Transylvania."

"How did you know?" Draco played along, shutting the heavy ebony door behind him. "I've brought you here to show you my coffin."

"A fairly good vampirical host, then," Harry said, sitting down on the wide bed's deep green comforter without waiting for Draco's invitation to do so. "I would have thought it more monstrous."

"Like what?" Draco said, walking over to the bed and sitting down beside Harry.

Their thighs were glued together, separated only by the two fabric layers of their respective trousers, their hands mere inches away from one another on the duvet and their faces hovering close together. Draco's heart was beating so loudly he was surprised it hadn't burst out of his throat already. He felt a stream of blood rush into his cheeks and throb there, hoping the faint glint of the dusk would conceal his blooming blush.

"Like..." Harry began softly. His tone had changed now: far from the upbeat, joking voice he had employed throughout their whole tour, he now spoke in a lower, sultry lull. "Like, I don't know... I would've thought you would... bite me."

And that was when Draco had leaned forward and closed the gap between them, turning Harry's words into a fulfilled prophecy, and the rustling of bedsheets and quick discarding of a few garments on the floor had made Draco the most thankful he had ever been for a closed door and the heavy padlock slid into place there.

Now, facing Harry on the bed at Rosebury House, in almost an exact parallel to where it had all begun in Ashcroft Manor, Draco felt the same rush of heat and weakness course through him, as if this was the first time he had been this close to Harry. He felt the same uncertain expectation throb through him, that same limbo-like feeling of not knowing whether they'd take the plunge or end up backing out.

"Draco," Harry whispered, bringing him out of his memories and back to the present. Burgundy paisley. Deep brown chaise longue. Green rug and fireplace. But Harry's eyes spoke with urgency, and Draco sensed their time was running out.

"I'm glad you've come," he hurried to say. Now it was his turn to take Harry's hands in his, hold them firmly to his chest, press a gentle kiss down onto the knuckles of each. "I truly am."

"How could I not?" Harry smirked, basking in the warm tingling Draco's kisses sent through his hands and into his core. "But I really should be going."

"No," Draco whined, his hands closing even more tightly around Harry's. "No, don't go."

"Draco, I have to," Harry sighed, disentangling one of his hands from Draco's grip to brush his pale cheek with his fingers. "It's getting late, and there's only so long you can spend returning a cigarette case, and I wouldn't want to arouse suspicion—"

"Nobody saw you," Draco whispered, bringing his own free hand up to cup Harry's and keep it pressed against his cheek. "Nobody knows you're here. Except me, and I want you to stay here."

"I'd make this my guestroom too if I could, trust me," Harry chuckled lightly. "But what would your father say?"

"I don't care."

"You'll care when there's daylight," Harry said somberly.

He was right, and Draco knew it. Harry had to get going. But every fiber of Draco's body that wasn't his rational mind yearned for Harry to stay, for Harry to infuse him with the warmth he'd been lacking during his uncertain absence. And when every fiber of your being is arguing for something, it's hard to ignore, and it's much easier to shut down your power of reason and cave to the wave of sensuality that threatens to overtake you.

"Stay," Draco pled.

"I can't," Harry said, and he sounded truly sorry. Well, at least there's that.

"Stay, please."

"Draco, as much as I want to, I can't."

"Please," Draco continued to urge him. But he'd had an idea now— and, with any luck, it would work. Draco released Harry's hands and clambered over to the other side of the bed, where he took no time to undo the silken robe around him and let it pool at his feet. He now stood, almost entirely bare except for his underwear, before Harry— and yet, instead of vulnerability, he felt an almost awesome sense of power, knowing that Harry couldn't tear his eyes from his slender frame even if he'd wanted to.

"Trying to seduce me into staying?" Harry said, his voice coming out in a low growl that suggested it was working.

"Not everything is about you, Potter," Draco now reveled in having the upper hand so as to tease him. "I'm just getting ready for bed here."

Bare as he was, Draco unfolded the neatly-made bed and slipped between the covers, allowing them to bunch at his midriff so that his chest was still visible (and raised, even, thanks to the downy pillows of the four-poster). "See? Bed."

"Tease," Harry let out, letting on just how badly he wanted to mimic Draco.

And now the main objective was back. "Stay, please," Draco whispered, his snideness melting into a genuine plea. "Until I fall asleep."

"What excuse do I give anyone who asks?" Harry protested, but he was already taking off his shoes and discarding his jacket over the back of the armchair by the bed.

"It doesn't matter," Draco said, his chest bursting with the same joyful anticipation it had struggled to cage in ever since he'd seen Harry walk into the main hall in his riding getup. "You'll think of something."

"I'll think of something," Harry echoed, and now the entirety of his outfit except for his own underwear had joined his dinner jacket on the armchair's back. "But I'll leave as soon as you're asleep."

"As soon as I'm asleep," Draco promised, knowing full well whatever the night now held in store was anything but restfulness.

"We have a deal."

"I swear."

"Good, then," Harry said, slipping into bed beside Draco. He emanated warmth below the covers, and Draco squirmed involuntarily knowing his own cold skin would soon be warmed by the touch of Harry's. "As soon as you fall asleep, I'm gone."

"You're gone."

"We'd better get to it, then," Harry said, and reached over to the nightstand to turn out the solitary lamp. As the light died, leaving behind only the feeble glow of the dying embers, Draco basked in the dark wash of nighttime over the room and, as Harry rolled closer to him, prepared to melt into the secret sweetness of a night full of kisses.