Draco felt the dread wash over him the moment he smelled the sparkling, unfamiliar scent filling the air. He studied the small crystal bottle in his hand.

Instead of his usual aura concealer, he'd grabbed something else by mistake. Of course the bottles were indistinguishable save for their tiny, handwritten labels, lined up in a neat row in the cabinet. Lucius had insisted upon it. "An orderly mind begins at home," he had pronounced, leaving Draco to squint and suffer to find his aura concealer every morning.

Lucius was the one with the Veela heritage! He ought to have been sympathetic!

Draco seethed as he squinted at the slanted handwriting: Casanova's Castle Nouveau, the label read. For enhancement of thy most naturale charm. Liberate one's inner siren! (Organic.)

"Bollocks," Draco groaned.

"Mind your language!" the mirror chided.

"Pronuncio," Draco sighed, waving an idle hand at the bottle. Immediately, it began to speak, listing off ingredients and safe use practices. "Casanova's Most Potent Perfume wears off in twelve hours. Do not use with any other scents," it warned ominously, "or the reek of its most potent interactions shall make you wish you were dead! Have a nice day!" With that, the bottle fell silent.

The reek of death was perhaps more enticing than unsolicited attentions drawn by his most naturale charm, Draco mused. Though his past self would have adored the spotlight, turning heads as he swanned through the streets and into shops with an ethereal glow, times had changed. These days, when the spellbinding effect wore off, his sputtering victims were more likely than not to drag him before the Wizengamot and charge him with attempted Imperius or something equally absurd.

Hesitantly, Draco tested a tiny drop of the aura concealer on a tiny spot of perfume. It was true: the reek filled the room and clung to his clothes and hair, a foul mixture of Quidditch sweat and sauerkraut.

There was nothing for it. Draco would have to spend the next twelve hours in hiding.


He had not been hiding twenty minutes when a sharp knock sounded on his door. "Draco, dear," his mother called, at once polite and stern. "Our guest will be arriving in a few minutes, and I hope you will be ready to receive her." Underneath the calm was a current of warning: Draco had grown up around this fearsome woman who had managed to lie to Voldemort. He knew when she meant You should have been downstairs already.

He pulled on a thick turtleneck and dress jacket, charmed with an impervious spell usually meant for rain, hoping the thick wool would smother his naturale charm. At least their guest, the elderly and very feminine Mrs. Faure, was unlikely to trigger any stray amorous thoughts. He knew from experience that any libido would only add fuel to his Veela charm.

Draco took the seat next to his mother, who immediately wrinkled her nose, and furthest from Mrs. Faure. "Ahhhrmm." Narcissa cleared her throat sharply. Draco ignored her.

Narcissa glanced at Dolce the house elf, halfway across the room to Draco carrying a pot of tea. She froze and looked up at Narcissa with wide, confused eyes.

Narcissa flicked her eyes at a different seat. Draco motioned her over with a slight jerk of his head. Narcissa warned her away with a cold glare.

Their silent tug-of-war lasted a full minute while doddering Mrs. Faure absently sipped her tea.

Dolce made up her mind. She scurried away from Draco, giving him a desperate, apologetic look. She set the teapot at the seat, across from Narcissa and next to Mrs. Faure.

Draco suppressed a sigh as he got up to switch seats. "My apologies, mother. I was distracted," he said smoothly.

The moment he sat down, Mrs. Faure got a glazed look on her face. Draco watched in horror as she took a deep breath and slowly leaned towards him. Her mouth began to pucker.

"Oops!" Draco yelled way too loudly, knocking the whole pot of tea all over himself. Narcissa gasped. Mrs. Faure blinked. "Owww! Merlin, that's hot! Erm, I'm so sorry, I must go change!" He sprang up and fled the room, not daring to look back at his mother's disapproving face.

Back in the safety of his room, Draco tugged off the shirt. "Episkey," he gasped, sighing in relief as the red, blistered skin settled back into its usual pale glow. He stared morosely at his lovely seafoam turtleneck, the fabric hand-woven by selkies and embroidered with finest unicorn hair. It was terribly magic-resistant—no amount of spellwork would fully exorcise the dark stain. He put it into a basin to soak.


"If you'd left more time to get ready, you wouldn't have made that mistake," Narcissa hissed from the corner of her mouth. "Don't slouch." Her face bore a fixed smile. Draco trailed along behind her, through the sunny streets of Diagon Alley, feeling ridiculous in his raincoat. His own smile was far more forced.

"It's not my fault all the bottles look the same," Draco hissed back, making no effort to adjust his posture.

"You're far past of-age, Draco, it's childish to blame your mistakes on others," Narcissa admonished him coolly.

"If I'm of age, why does Father still dictate the color and shape of what bottles I keep!" Draco retorted. He glanced around and brought his voice back under control. "But that's irrelevant. Seeing as I'd already used the perfume, what was I to do?"

"Oh yes, I'll grant you had to extricate yourself. You were to come up with a more elegant plan. Honestly, it's like you weren't even sorted into Slytherin."

"Like you know what the house stands for," Draco grumbled.

"Cunning, and ambition—"

"Sure, if your ambition is to be a bootlicker!"

That last part had come out a bit loud. People nearby were staring. At least their eyes remained sharp—Draco supposed the ridiculous raincoat was doing its job. He pulled it more tightly around himself and patted his trousers pocket where he'd stashed his aura concealer. Just in case of emergency. The sooner he got to the Apothecary and collected the ingredients, the quicker he could return home. He just hoped today wasn't plagued by a Golden Boy encounter, which happened with alarming frequency. Potter seemed present on every corner, always wearing an irritated scowl. Public appearances as a public figure, Draco supposed.

Stupid Potter had filled out nicely from Auror training, and yet had failed to update his wardrobe an iota, and now every one of his robes was tight—tight around his arms, tight over his back, the fabric pulled taut across his chest. Draco felt his aura grow stronger just at the thought of the stupid git. Passersby were turning to stare at him. He firmly turned his thoughts away from the bane of his existence and broke into a run.

He sighed in relief as he crept into the Apothecary and shrugged off the raincoat.

"Malfoy."

Draco froze, a shiver starting in his gut and winding its way through his chest. He quashed it firmly, taking none of his usual pleasure in today's inopportune Potter sighting. Usually he loved provoking the poster boy of all things good and moral, tossing out a targeted insult here, a well-timed sneer there, delighting in the furious and helpless spark in Potter's brilliant eyes as he wrestled between hate and the urge—no, the need—to be a model citizen.

Meanwhile, Draco would sweep out in swirling robes before apparating home, to savor the image of the Golden Boy, eyes burning with turmoil as he struggled to keep himself in control. And sometimes, he'd touch himself, lazily stroking himself while he imagined Potter losing control at the mere sight of him. . . .

Only now that his fantasy was about to become a reality, Draco wanted nothing more than to escape. "Potter," he said in tight, clipped tones, backing away a step, yet he couldn't stop his gaze lingering on the tousled black hair. He imagined tangling his fingers in it, reaching down to the roots and being the one to ruffle it into that shape, the daydream springing unbidden to his mind. He felt his body grow warm and his aura seep through his sweater: he had to get out now.

"I'm just here to make a purchase, so if you'll pardon me, I'll be going," he heard himself say, almost managing to sound calm, the words coming out just a hint too fast. Never in his life had he appreciated his upbringing more than that moment.

Potter raised an eyebrow. "Not so fast, Malfoy. Are you in some kind of hurry? Got any dark plans?" He was advancing, step by step.

"Merlin, Potter, you're terrible at interrogation!" Draco burst out before he could stop himself. "Got any dark plans, really now? Not even Gregory would answer that."

That earned him an angry growl. Hands shot out and grabbed his shirt—"Stop!" Draco shouted, a second too late, as Potter stepped right into his aura. He blinked, his eyes going glassy and dazed, and Draco knew he was in trouble.

"Potter, back off!" Draco yelled, shoving Potter hard in the chest and sending him a tiny step back. Spellbound or not, Potter's reflexes had been honed by seven years of seeker training followed by another five in Auror training, and Draco's hardest shove had hardly moved him. The scent of Potter's magic hung in the air, a sizzling charge heading straight to his groin and out his pores. Draco desperately tried to calm his thoughts.

Potter shook his head, growing a little more alert for a brief moment. "What are you doing?" he snarled, holding his head. "Is this a dark spell?"

"Really, Potter, you can't just tack the word dark onto all your sentences. I knew your vocabulary was limited but this is beyond—" Draco did not get to finish his sentence as Potter shoved him back, coming too close again, crowding into him with his too-tight robes stretching over that chest that Draco had made the mistake of touching.

"I know a lot of words!" Potter insisted. "You just make me so angry I can't think straight! I know you're up to something; I've fought off the Imperius often enough. This is no ordinary spell, and I won't let you get away with—"

"Potter!" Draco interrupted: He was so close that Draco was nearly poking him. "Stop that! I'm not trying to start a fight!" In desperation, Draco sprayed Potter in his scrunched-up face with the aura concealer and sprinted for the door.


He had not taken three steps when someone grabbed his arm and apparated away with him. Draco blinked and took in his surroundings. "Potter, is this Grimmauld Place?" He snapped.

"Er. . . sorry?" Potter looked confused for a moment, before the dazed look slid over his face again. He leaned in close and took a deep breath, and Draco couldn't help lean in a little closer himself—

"No," Draco said, because if this went any further, Potter would resent him in twelve hours, and possibly accuse him of a nefarious plot. None of his fantasies had ended with himself in Azkaban. "No," Draco repeated louder, and reached for his wand.

"Expelliarmus!" Potter said almost lazily, sending Draco's wand sailing across the room in an arc. He touched his wand tip to the hollow at Draco's throat. "Try that again, Malfoy. I dare you."

Draco winced. "You're out of your mind, Potter. You'll thank me tomorrow." His other hand came up, still holding the aura concealer—smelling like death was surely better than being dead.

"Put that down." The wand jabbed into his throat. "Slowly now. Put it down."

Grudgingly, Draco moved his hand over and set the bottle down on the nightstand. "Are you sure?" He asked, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. "You—" Draco swallowed, his throat faintly bumping against the wand. "You'll be cross for real tomorrow. This isn't you. . . it's my aura." And my arousal, he didn't say, hoping that Potter was such a poor student he wouldn't remember that inconvenient fact. Truly, he had only passed Care of Magical Creatures due to Hagrid's blatant favoritism.

"I won't hold it against you for something against your control," Potter said instead, sounding oddly sensible and almost amused. He summoned Draco's wand neatly, with a minute flick of his own, and held it out.

"What's this for?"

"Well, I'm so much better at dueling that I'm not afraid of you. I like a bit of excitement," Potter grinned, withdrawing his own wand and tucking it into a holster strapped on his arm. Standard-issue Auror equipment, Draco noted, for casting simple spells hands-free. Slowly, he reached out and took his wand, his eyes never leaving Potter's. A duelist's intention is written in the eyes, Professor Snape had warned him, and with Potter it was true: The man dueled with raw power, without an ounce of subtlety.

Draco dealt in subtlety, never looking at either his wand or his target. The wand was barely in his hand before he abruptly changed speeds, giving it a small, quick twist and hissing out a stinging hex aimed right at Potter's wand arm.

"Ow!" Potter yelped, rubbing the stinging welt. His eyes glinted with something akin to glee. The next stinging hex sailed over his head as he ducked and incomprehensively stepped closer, pressing his face into Draco's sweater and breathing deeply. His hands went under Draco's shirt with seeker's speed, bunching it up and tracing over his stomach and ribcage. It was annoyingly effective: Draco found himself writhing, too breathless to gasp out a curse or aim his wand. He fought back a moan. Gritting his teeth and ignoring his own hardening cock, he made to knee the Golden Boy in his golden balls, and found himself pinned against the wall with Potter's thigh between his legs instead, his teeth grazing his neck.

"Stick with the Golden Snitch," Potter said breathlessly, as if reading his thoughts. "You've never beaten me before. Why did you think you could start now? Last chance," he added, his eyes flicking between Draco's wand and aura concealer. "I'll count to three. Enough time for you to use one. . . or the other. One."

Draco looked at the bottle, then dubiously at Potter's hands still resting on his skin.

"Two."

He reached for the bottle. A faint flicker crossed Potter's face: a flash of disappointment before he schooled it away.

"Three."

Draco never did look at his wand or his target.

"Flagrante," he whispered, a single spark shooting from his wand and hitting Potter in his bulging trousers.

Potter staggered in surprise and sensation. "Incarcerous," he snarled, and Draco's wrists flew above his head and attached to the wall in heavy shackles. Not the usual ropes, but that was likely due to the excess magic bursting out of Potter like a star throwing off heat. Slowly, he removed Draco's wand from nerveless fingers and set it on the stand, next to the potion.

His wand traced down the front of Draco's sweater, slowly, almost gently rending it apart, a garish parody of the curse he'd wielded in sixth year. The shirt fell open, revealing the scar underneath. Potter traced the raised skin with a single finger, looking up at Draco with haunted eyes.

"Hey," Draco said indignantly. "You didn't ruin my expensive merino wool sweater to feel guilty."

Potter nodded. The next pass was with his tongue, tracing the scar from where it started at his navel, up over his chest, licking and sucking at the delicate skin of his chest, little nibbles that would undoubtedly show up as bruises. He ended at the soft skin at his throat, moaning as he inhaled Draco's enhanced scent. His fingers released the buttons of Draco's trousers, light teasing touches that were gone too soon. Against his will, Draco bucked his hips chasing after the touch.

Potter's grin grew wider. "What's that? Was there something you wanted?"

"No," Draco replied, stubbornly.

"What a pity." Potter swirled his tongue over Draco's nipple, making him whimper.

"I'll ask you again," Potter said, his voice going low and husky. "Was there something you wanted?"

"No!" Draco insisted.

Potter's voice whispered "impedimenta" in his ear, and warmth flowed from his hand into his pelvis, freezing him agonizingly in place.

"Urgh!" Draco gasped.

"Ready to yield?" Potter asked

"Never!" Draco yelled.

Potter got a glint in his eye. "I won't need the Imperius curse to convince you," he said. In a flash, he was on his knees and Draco moaned out loud.

"You liked that, did you?" Potter teased. The pressure was building up, but Draco couldn't move—he was frozen in place, more and more pressure building into an ecstatic rush.

As if sensing how close he was getting, Potter pressed a flat palm against his arse. Draco didn't hear the whispered spell, but a warmth spread through him, relaxing him and making him tingle. His eyes rolled back into his head as he finally gasped out a single word.

"Please."

He felt Potter smile as he pulled back. "Finite," Potter whispered, and Draco sagged against the wall, breathing hard.

Potter grinned while watching Draco, panting and chained against the wall. When he was done, he cleaned them both with an unbothered wave. Then his brows furrowed in concentration, and he pointed his wand at him again. Draco instinctively tensed.

"Reparo," Potter tried on the shirt. Nothing happened, and Draco almost laughed at Potter's crestfallen expression.

"The seams are unicorn fiber, it's magic resistant," he scoffed. "You have to knit it together."

"With knitting needles?" Potter looked horrified.

"No, you bloody wanker. You can use magic to physically move the threads, you just can't fix it with a spell." So, centimeter by agonizing centimeter, Potter attempted to coax the threads into place, the tip of his wand moving in tiny loops. The repaired rip sat puckered like a scar.

"It looks fine," Potter said, defensively and a touch delusionally.

Draco nodded, and only then did Potter release his wrists. Draco seized his wand and apparated away in a hurry, unwilling to watch the gleaming stupor leave Potter's eyes, to be replaced with disgust. Like a coward, he resolved to never cross paths with the blasted Savior again.


Draco resolutely avoided his usual routes, having no desire to see Potter or the charge of coercion he was sure to bring. He kept to himself, instead sending orders by owl.

A month passed. One morning, Narcissa handed Draco a letter, addressed in an untidy scrawl. He opened it, mystified.

Haven't seen you around Diagon Alley recently, not even at VeriTea, your favorite tea shop.

That was all it said—just an idle observation. It was unsigned. Draco tossed it into the fire.

Another month passed.

Scamander's shopkeeper says you haven't been by in weeks. Does your family simply not use Centaury's Lily-Livered Lilac Lift brand of garden fertilizer anymore?

"This is troubling," Narcissa mused. "I knew the Aurors were keeping tabs on us, but this is quiet extreme."

Draco stared blankly at it, remembering third year when Potter had spied on him on the train, or sixth year when he'd discovered him having a cry in the loo. He wished he could be more surprised.

The third letter was even more intimate.

I know you're out of broom polish. There is only one shop in all of Magical Britain that carries Professional-Quality Nimbus-Model broom polish, and none of your friends or affiliates have been in to purchase it for you, nor have you been there in disguise. Are you alive?

This time, his mother gave him a look that was more knowing than alarmed. Draco couldn't possibly fathom what it meant.

The next month, he received a small parcel in the mail, soft and clumsily wrapped. "It passed through the wards, so it's not malicious," Narcissa told him far too calmly. With tremendous apprehension, Draco peeled back the corner.

Inside was a cream sweater, the same brand that he'd worn that day, and made of the same luxurious merino wool, in exactly the right size. Draco read the note in disbelief.

Look, Malfoy. I'm sorry I wrecked your nice sweater. Is that what you're mad about? Stop avoiding me, okay? Come meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at seven. I promise I won't hex you.


At half past six, Draco pulled on the ruined sweater, the front still bunched into a puckered slash. He paired it with a sharp blazer in forest green, buckled on shiny boots with a subtle heel. He brushed his hair until it shone, giving it a light spray of Sleekeazy to make it glow. He swept his bangs to the side and fastened them in place with a golden hair clip: a jeweled sunflower set with emerald leaves. He pinned a small sunflower to his lapel to match. Last of all, he ran his wand over the repaired sweater, and the crudely-repaired gash sprouted a tiny vine pattern: delicately-embroidered leaves and sunflowers of French knots. The yarn settled in place, making the seam look natural, like it belonged on the sweater. Draco looked in the mirror and smiled.

Two identical bottles sat on the bathroom shelf, labeled in his mother's neat script. One read Aura Concealer; the other, Casanova's Castle Nouveau. Draco studied the two of them, perched side by side: a crossroad stretching before him.

He pocketed the bottle of Casanova. He took a deep breath. He apparated.