Okay, just to clear up a few things: I won't be so careless with grammar and time now since I'm doing this story seriously. I know the story is a tiny bit hard to follow stylistically, but that's because I'm hoping to write something a little different than everything that I've seen. Since I've been asked, the years of the story shift between 2007 (when Weston is in the cave and killed) and 1999/2000 (where the students leave to go to the future) short passages about Draco and Harry's relationship will be in the years 2005/2006, except for the one short passage by Hermione which takes place in 2000. The places it takes place are as followed: Draco and Harry in 2007 live in a small house in Muggle London, as does Hermione and her family. Weston, the auror of the prologue travels on missions from New York City to London to France, where we meet her at her death. I'll be putting dates and locations at every switch so that you can follow along. Ok, I'll stop blabbing for now, and onto the story.

A Cafe in England, December, 2005

Draco Malfoy, recent graduate of auror training, pushed through the Christmas crowds which were gathering all about the Muggle street. He passed through a deserted side way and reappeared, walking down Diagon Alley. Impatiently, he checked his watch as he walked, he was running late. Draco had his hood pulled over his head, but not because he was cold, in fact it was a mild winter. There was another reason.
"Papers here!" shouted a little wizard, standing on a stool. "Read all about it! Draco Malfoy back in town! Harry Potter's Ex: A friend tells all!"

Crowds had gathered all about the little urchin, and Draco couldn't help but smile to himself. All lies, and what wasn't a lie was printed by mistake. At least in Paris, no one cared who he was, whom he had dated. They were interested in what he had to say, as one of the best potions masters in the world. But now, back in London, he was confronted with the fact that he, like Harry Potter, was an enormous celebrity.

Funny that the only person who could understand was the same person he was avoiding.

Draco pushed into cafe through the crowd and removed his hood. As if on a cue, everyone turned to stare at him. Great.

"Mr. Malfoy, sir," said one of the waiters, too overly excited and deferring. "Mrs. Finnegan is waiting in the VIP room for you."

"Thank you," Draco threw over his shoulder carelessly, and walked to the back. Sitting on a chair, smiling sweetly was Hermione.

She stood, and a significant bulge about her stomach appeared. Without waiting for his reaction, she reached over and kissed him across the table. "Draco," she said softly. "I missed you so much. It was too cruel of you to stay away for so long."

"Seems you were busy enough, Mrs. Finnegan." Draco smirked.

"Godsdamn Seamus," she said, smiling to take the venom away from the words. "Twins and they're a week late already. If I don't have these babies before the New Year I'm going to put a spell on him the likes of which no one has ever seen. I can barely get into my desk at school. I know the students are laughing at me."

"Oh, Mione," Draco laughed. "I doubt they'd have the nerve. You're the strictest teacher in Hogwarts since Snape."

Hermione rolled her eyes tiredly. "Enough about me. Tell me all about Paris, and the conventions. "She reached her hands across the table and took Draco's in her own." How've you been?"

Hermione didn't need to ask that question. She could see the weight the too-thin man had lost, leaving him positively ghostly. His usually lively gray eyes were mainly blue and listless, but the beauty was still there, the wizard's aristocratic beauty. But now he looked as though it was another burden he had to carry. Hermione's chest was heavy with sympathy.

"Grand, grand," Draco said, taking out a cigarette. "Oh, Granger, don't you believe me?"

"Shit, Draco," Hermione sighed. "I don't. You and Harry-- no, don't interrupt me. Listen for once. I never saw two people who were so meant to be together. You two, you're everything to each other. Harry's dying without you, Draco. And I know you feel the same way. Please, talk to him."

A dim fire, a slow pain appeared in Draco's eyes, bringing in some of the old liveliness. "He betrayed me, Hermione!" Draco hissed, in a sore voice. "He saw one thing and assumed the worst. Harry fucking Potter can do whatever he wants, and truly I don't care anymore. I can't live my godsdamn life worrying about the papers, about the whole Auror community thinking Draco Malfoy's cracked because he left Harry Potter."

"He's sorry, Draco," Hermione said slowly. "But you have to admit it looked bad."

Draco stood up. "He should have trusted me, Hermione. That's what it comes down to. He saw Malfoy and he forgot all about us. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'll come by and see you and Seamus sometime."

"Draco," Hermione called, before he left. But the door closed and Hermione sat alone, her head in her hands.

Harry had gotten used to a few things in the past six months. He had gotten used to making his own coffee, though it tasted like mud, he would drink it down compulsively. Draco had been the one to buy the cappuccino machine which now sat dusty, in their London flat. Now, Harry's London flat. But still, Harry hadn't gotten used to many things.

He would come home from the Ministry, and open his mouth to call Draco's name, to tell him about his day. Harry would turn over in bed and be shocked to find a cold, empty spot where Draco usually slept, curled into a beautiful, bony white ball. But worst of all was the vacant spot in the living room where Draco's baby grand had stood. There was no more music, no more inky compositions composed in the midst of passion, no laughter and playing. There was no Draco.

Harry had faced it, within the first week of Draco being gone. He wasn't just in love with the man that was true enough. He needed him. There was nobody in the world that made him feel instantly secure, safe and at home. The first home he'd ever known had been with Draco, and though he'd left nearly everything behind in their relationship, Harry realized the home wasn't the fancy flat. It was Draco.

He stood on the balcony and looked out to the horizon. Draco was back in town, and for a moment Harry let himself fantasize-- Draco was there, the dust of their belongings was gone, he was laughing again, there was music and rhetoric and witty, absurd conversations held in place by Draco's chain smoking. And at night there was the endless expanse of Draco's white skin, the distinct smell of his body, and the feel of his mouth, red, beautiful, alive.

But like ashes dissipating, when Harry opened his eyes there was only the noisy street below and no one else.

Hermione Granger-Finnegan and her husband Seamus were having a brilliant Christmas party at their home in Belgravia. High ranking members of the Ministry, socialites, former Hogwarts students, and others were crowded into the beautifully red and green apartments. One of the last guests to arrive was Harry Potter.

"Harry fucking Potter," Seamus said genially, slapping Harry's back a little too harshly. "Its genius that you've come. I can't get Hermione away from the Ministry for one moment, they're begging on hand and foot for her to work there. And the rest of the time Ron Weasley's making cow-eyes at my wife."

Harry tensed. Was that still going on? Three years before, for what was the briefest moment in history, Ron and Hermione had been engaged. Hermione had forgotten it all, perhaps, by now, but it seemed Ron hadn't.

"Sss no problem of mine," Seamus shrugged drunkenly. "I like the chap good enough. Draco's been a real angel, keeping us apart. Won't want any scenes on Christmas, eh?"

"Guess not." Harry said shortly. So Draco was here. Of course he would be Hermione loved him to death. It seemed so long ago that he had called her mudblood . . .

A sweeping staircase was covered in fir and at the top sat a little girl with curling yellow hair, looking down at the grownups below. "Hallo Uncle Harry," Sarah Finnegan said boldly.

"Sarah Marie Finnegan," Hermione said, sweeping out of nowhere. "Didn't I tuck you in?"

"I don't wanna sleep," Sarah stamped her foot, looking too absurdly like Hermione. "I wanna to see the party! I'm not too little, Mama!"

"Oh, Sarah," Hermione said, looking furious. "I'm going to put you to bed!"

"No!" Sarah wailed, protesting against her mother's hand. "I wanna see the party!" Her bright green eyes searched out the guests, and amused, Harry watched them settle. As if the room parted, Harry saw Draco, dressed in black, talking animatedly to Dean Thomas.

"Uncle Draco!" Sarah squealed, managing to escape Hermione and run into the blond man's arms. "Oh, Uncle Draco, you were away for so long."

"Aye, that I was, pretty miss," Draco said teasingly, "Did you miss me?"

"Yes," Sarah said accusingly. "Mama wants to send me to bed."

"Ugh," Draco said, "Beds are disgusting things. When there's so much fun to be had in Storytown."

"Will you tell me a story, Uncle Draco?" Sarah squealed.

"No, he will not," Hermione stamped her foot. "Sarah, stop trying to wheedle your godfather. Draco, she ought to be in bed."

But Draco's heart had already been won over. "One story," he said, smiling charmingly at Hermione. A smile that pierced Harry's heart. "Come along, Princess Mona Lisa; let's slay some dragons with our golden swords."

The crowd reappeared, chatting all around him, but Harry followed behind Draco and Sarah as they made their way to Sarah's bedroom. Harry sat down outside the open door and listened to the story Draco spun, a sweet children's story; full of royalty, pastries, vanquished enemies and true love. Stories that any father, wizard or Muggle, would tell their little daughter. But Draco would never be anyone's father, no matter how brilliantly he might have done it.

"I love you, Uncle Draco," Sarah's little voice said tiredly.

"Love you too, Sarah."

How easy it was for Sarah Finnegan, all of three years old, to tell Draco Malfoy she loved him. And how much Harry Potter, watching the retreating shadow of Draco going down the stairs; wanted to do the same.

Ron Weasley was very drunk halfway through the party. He tottered sadly throughout Hermione's house, looking at the things she had with Seamus. Remembering the day she came to him, while they were still engaged and telling him she was pregnant with Seamus's baby.

"Harry," Ron protested to the arm taking him outside. "Lemme go."

"You won't embarrass yourself tonight, Ron," Harry said with a frown. "Pull yourself together, mate."

"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle," Ron said, slurring his words. "When all you've been doing all night is thinking about fucking Draco Malfoy. He looks like a male supermodel, doesn't he?" Ron teased mercilessly. "A fucking good looking god."

"You're not yourself," Harry said, backing away from Ron and the pinpointed emotions Ron had spurted. The night was fast becoming a disaster.

Harry stopped in place. There, it was. The monotone sound coming from Hermione's piano. Draco was playing something. And it was the Birthday Composition, a present a wizard had composed for his lover, who died at sea. It was terribly painful to listen to, and yet there was a little crowd surrounding Draco at the piano. Watching him play as if entranced.

The composition began plainly. Stark, plain, single melody music, almost medieval and boring. And then in began a swirling of emotion in tune, high and lows, quickened and slowed as if spinning in a circle too quickly, or riding on a rollercoaster. Or falling in love. Harry wanted to cover his ears and scream, bang, anything to cover the brilliancy of Draco's music. He was playing maddeningly, insultingly. He was playing to wound him as badly as he was wounded.

Then the applause and it was over. Harry stayed outside, unwilling to come in. It was too cold and yet he stayed, freezing. Anything but not to go inside and face Malfoy. Anything.

He heard the sound of a match and a cigarette was lit. "You are avoiding me, Potter." Drolling.

Harry was about to protest, but then he shrugged. "You would think that."

"I would because it's true, Harry," Draco said. Harry's back was still turned to him. "It's been six months; you can at least pretend to be over me."

"You are such a--" Harry turned around and fell silent. Draco was standing there, like a fucking golden god, like Ron had said. He was beautiful, shimmering like an avenging auror, the black clothes and cloak highlighting the white.

Draco watched his amused face. "A what?" He asked. "A Death Eater?"

"I never thought that," Harry said, protesting. "You were studying the Dark Arts, Draco. Behind my back. For years."

Draco took a pull on his cigarette. "I did what I needed to do, Harry. They are still after us, they're after Hermione and Seamus and Ron and their little kids. And who else? Severus, Remus, who else would be after us?"

"You couldn't beat them at their own game, Draco! It was madness."

"Madness would be not knowing what they would pull. There will be a reckoning, Harry. I want to know everything. I'm not going in there with my eyes closed."

"So now you're eyes are open, are they?" Harry turned away, shivering.

Draco looked at him. Hermione was right, he wasn't well. His face was dark, troubled. His green eyes had lost their luster, and he was abominably thin, all the tiny bones in his face were threatening to come out. But he still wore those ridiculous glasses and his hair was still everywhere. Covering his scar. Draco watched him shaking, too proud to go inside and admit coldness and defeat.

As if on an impulse, Draco opened his cloak. "Come here, you mad fool," he said, pulling Harry into his arms, and tucking his cloak around him. Harry shivered against him, his arms stiff at his sides. But he had tucked his cheek onto Draco's shoulder and he was leaning against him.

"Harry," Draco said hesitantly. Harry wrapped his arms about him and was hugging him tightly.

"When this is all over I'm going to marry you," Harry whispered against Draco's neck, causing little ripples in his skin. "I want to wake up every morning and see you. I don't want to fight anymore," Harry moaned. "I don't care. I wouldn't even care if you had the Dark Mark. I can't. It's horrid, everything without you."
"You know I don't have the Mark," Draco said, touched. "You know that."

"You didn't say yes," Harry said, abstractedly.

Draco laughed. "You didn't ask me a question."

"I did," Harry insisted. "I asked you to marry me."

"You never did any such thing," Draco shot back.

"Fine," Harry said, exasperated. Draco always had to win every single fight. But Harry didn't care anymore. "Draco Malfoy, marry me, please?"

"I don't know," Draco said archly. "I'll have to think about it. Ow! You bit my neck, you little Gryffindor bastard."

"You. Didn't. Answer. Me." He said, breaking up each word into a group of little kisses he applied to Draco's cold red mouth.

"Yes." He said seriously.

It was a strange thing, the way the cold night air, the snowflakes and the tears mixed together in a salty, impenetrable cloud as they kissed. Nothing else seemed to matter as they stood there, bodies and mouths clinging together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When they stopped for breath Draco noticed the snowflakes had formed white line across Harry's eyelashes and he kissed them away before their mouths met again, a tangle of tightened limbs, meeting tongues and matched souls.

Looking outside her kitchen window, Hermione Finnegan watched Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy kiss. The kiss was mildly shocking to watch, Hermione felt, though she could not put what she felt into words. It was as if the kiss was threatening to constantly become more, as if each was trying to consume the other, break the other into pieces and claim him for his own. It was a devouring, fierce sort of love that Hermione watched between them, nothing like the mild infatuation she had once felt for Seamus.

Hermione let the curtain close and patted her stomach thoughtfully. She had just seen true love for the first time.