Pansy stares at herself in the mirror. There are bags starting to form under her eyes. She knows she should have tried to get more sleep last night, but she had spent it tossing and turning in her bed, images of Agent Wood and the flash of his wand replaying themselves in her head. So she had gotten up early and gone back to the training room for another round with her favorite punching bag.

Now she stands in the training facility changing room and stares at the mirror. Her hair is still damp from her post-workout shower. She shivers as a bead of water escapes her bun and runs down the back of her neck. She reaches into her bag and pulls out some under eye concealer. Once she looks a bit more awake, she nods at her reflection and leaves the room.

She checks her watch as she makes her way down the corridor and finds that Dempsey has left her a message, summoning Pansy to her office. Without missing a step, Pansy alters her course. Within minutes, she is standing outside of the antechamber to the General's office. She squares her shoulders and enters.

Mortimer Banks, General Dempsey's assistant, looks up from his desk. He nods politely at her and motions to one of the empty chairs that line the wall of the room. She is not in the mood for idle chatter, so she picks a chair as far away from Banks as possible. If he finds this rude, he does not say it. In an attempt to look busy, Pansy raises her wrist and swipes through the messages on her watch. She has read most of them already, but Banks won't know that.

The minutes tick by and Pansy eventually lowers her watch, unable to distract herself further. Banks is now reading a memo and she watches as his dark eyes scan the page, flashing from one side to the other. She looks away before he can catch her watching him. She doesn't want him to think she might have any attraction to him.

That is always a problem with being one of the only women on the DMLEHS. Sure, General Dempsey is a woman, but they are few and far between in the hit wizard ranks. And for some reason, which Pansy finds irritating to no end, all of the men assume that she wants to sleep with them. And if she had a knut for every time she had said she didn't and the man in question just told her she would come around, her Gringotts account would be a whole lot shinier.

And so she had had to be the best and she pushed herself until she was. She saw the disbelief on so many of those ignorant men's faces whenever she got promoted ahead of them and she smiles at the thought. Sure, some people may call her a bitch, but it is a name she wears with pride, because in her opinion, bitches get stuff done.

"Major Parkinson," Banks says, snapping Pansy out of her reverie. She looks over at him. "She's ready for you now." She gives him a small, tight lipped smile as she heads over to Dempsey's office. Banks is one of the good ones, she thinks.

"Ah, Parkinson," Dempsey says as she enters the General's office. "Just who I wanted to see. Please sit." She motions at the pair of chairs in front of her desk and Pansy takes one.

"General," she says, inclining her head.

"We have located The Reliquary." As usual, Dempsey gets straight to the point. Pansy sits up straighter in her chair, not that she had been slouching. "It has fallen into the position of a," she pauses to look down her nose at the papers on her desk. "Of a Draco Malfoy." A shock of recognition goes through Pansy. She hasn't thought about Draco in years. They had begun drifting apart in Sixth Year, when it had turned out Draco was busy carrying out a plan to kill Dumbledore, and then he had not come back to school the following year. And while the Parkinsons had perhaps been acquainted with the wrong people and dabbled in the more grey arts, the Malfoys had thrown their lot in with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And so somehow she had not found the time to see Draco after the war, a predicament she sometimes regrets. But really, she barely has any free time as it is and what little she does, she mostly spends with Millie, Daphne and Izzy.

"I understand that Mr. Malfoy was in your year at school," Dempsey says. She looks up from her stack of papers. Pansy frowns, thinking for a moment that the General is referring to Malfoy Senior, but she realizes her error and nods.

"Yes," she says. "We were both in Slytherin together." She regrets her words instantly. She has spent the last ten years trying to distance herself from her house, at least in terms of her professional life. She is still so ashamed that the entire house had been sent away during the Battle of Hogwarts and is even more so since it had been because of her words. She has worked so hard to prove to everyone that she is better than that now.

"Ah, yes." Dempsey refers to her notes again. She must sense Pansy's unease, that or she notices the fact that Pansy is no longer looking her straight in the eye, but rather looking ever so slightly to the left of her gaze, because she adds, "Some of our best hit wizards have come from Slytherin. Ambition isn't always a negative trait, Parkinson."

"Of course, General," Pansy says with a nod.

"Now, I have heard some whispers through the grapevine that the Unspeakables are conducting their own investigation into The Reliquary, and I want you to get to it first. Our intelligence on Mr. Malfoy indicates that he lives at 34 Sorella Gardens. He appears to have a roommate." She lifts the top piece of paper and peers at another sheet beneath it. "A Gregory Goyle." Pansy is surprised by this information, but she does not let it show on her face. The last she had heard, Greg was in Azkaban, but clearly he was no longer there. She is not surprised that the two of them are still friends though. She doubts Greg has any other friends and she remembers how absurdly fond of Crabbe and Goyle Malfoy had been, even despite the fact that he had deliberately picked them as friends so that they could protect him from some of the older, meaner Slytherins.

"The pair of them work at Flourish and Blotts," Dempsey continues and Pansy can't help but snort in amusement at the thought of Draco in retail, a position that the Draco she remembers from school would have seen as pedestrian. "Is something funny, Parkinson?" Pansy quickly rearranges her features into her usual serious face.

"No, General."

"Good." Dempsey pauses and rests her elbows on the table, making a tent with her arms. She leans forward and rests her chin on her hands as she regards Pansy. Pansy does her best to sit still and straight. After a long moment of scrutinizing Pansy, Dempsey leans back in her chair. "If it were any other one of my agents looking into an old friend, I might have reservations, but Parkinson, you have shown that you are nothing if not professional. Don't make me regret keeping you on this case."

"I won't." Pansy almost salutes, but she senses that the meeting is not over yet.

"Good. I'm sure I don't have to tell you again how important this book is." Dempsey brings a hand up and pinches the bridge of her nose and Pansy realizes that the General looks even more tired than she herself does. "You have my permission to do whatever it takes to get it back." Pansy blinks in surprise. She knows the situation is serious, but she had not realized that it is whatever it takes serious. She nods her acknowledgment. "Very good, Parkinson. You are dismissed." Pansy stands and walks to the door of Dempsey's office. Once there, she stops and salutes before leaving.

Draco arrives home at half past five and immediately panics about the state of the house. Why hadn't he thought to tidy it this morning? An irrational thought, sure, because this morning he didn't think he would be bringing anyone over, but this acknowledgment doesn't help his current predicament. He pulls out his wand and begins waving it erratically around the room.

Various plates fly across the room and into their cupboards, narrowly avoiding the cups and glasses headed to a different cupboard. All of the drawers in the kitchen open as various and sundry cutlery and other cooking implements put themselves away. A blanket soars through the air, looking for all the world like the muggle idea of a ghost, and then settles, neatly folded, on the end of the sofa. This morning's Daily Prophet slinks along the tabletop, down the leg of the table and then finally over to the recycling bin in the corner. The table sets itself. A set of tarnished candlesticks swoops out from the corner of the room. They are met in mid air by the silver polish and a rag. Once they are gleaming, they settle onto the table and two dark blue tapered candles nestle themselves into the holders. Another flick of the wand and the candles are lit.

Draco starts to get out a bottle of wine before he realizes that he is not sure what Potter will want to drink. He does not want to seem presumptuous. But what if the wine doesn't have enough time to breathe? That's all well and good, but what if Potter wants beer? Do they even have any beer? Draco hurries to the refrigerator that Hannah insisted they get. Ernie had even rigged it so that it ran on magic. He pulls it open and sighs in relief when he sees a small collection of cans and bottles inside. He peers at them more closely and realizes he is not quite sure where they came from. He wonders if Greg has somehow already told Hannah about his upcoming date, because if he has, it seems likely that she might have come over and stocked their fridge. She was a thoughtful Hufflepuff like that.

Draco almost frowns at himself for the generalization, but then figures it is alright to cast a whole group of people as kind and caring. After all, everyone knows that Hufflepuff is the nice house and he doesn't think, or at least no longer thinks, that being nice is a thing to sneer at. Particularly not right now as his refrigerator is fully stocked thanks to his very kind friend. He shuts the door to the fridge and that's when he spots Hannah's note taped to the front of it. He had missed it in his rush to see what was inside.

Have fun tonight, lover boy, the note reads. Hannah has drawn a winking smiley face under the text. Draco smiles and then crumples up the note. It would not do to have Potter see that. He uncurls it after a moment and instead folds it and sticks it in his pocket like a good luck charm.

He glances at the clock and sees that it is now quarter to six. His stomach lurches with nerves. He still needs to change and so he takes the stairs up to his room two at a time. Although his closet seems to mock him while he tries to pick out an outfit that is both nice, but also not trying too hard, he makes it back down to the kitchen by two minutes to six. He takes one last look around and decides that everything looks fine. He sighs and sits down on one of the chairs only to leap up a moment later as he hears the doorbell ring.

He practically flies down the stairs and then skids to a stop in front of the door. He checks the hall mirror quickly and smooths down a stray hair. His reflection winks at him and he rolls his eyes at it. He tugs his shirt down one last time and then opens the door, in a way that he hopes looks casual and not like he is a giant ball of nerves.

Potter is standing on the doorstep holding a bottle of wine. He is wearing an awkward smile, a pale blue button down shirt and navy trousers. Draco is pleased to see that he has taken off the unsightly Gryffindor belt.

"Hi," Potter says.

"Hello," Draco replies. They stand there for a moment, neither of them saying anything.

"Can I come in?" Potter asks at last. Draco all but slaps a hand to his forehead.

"Oh, right. Yes, of course." He moves to the side and leans in what he hopes is a casual manner against the wall next to the door. As his hand touches the wall, he feels for the security ward and adds Potter to the list of allowed people. "Come in, come in." He gestures and Potter finally takes the hint and walks inside. Draco shuts the door behind him. "Uh, the sitting room is upstairs." He allows Potter to walk up the stairs before him and it is only when he is then eye level with Potter's arse that he thinks that perhaps he should have gone first. And now he is worried that Potter will think he is checking him out. Which, in all fairness, Draco is, but he does not want Potter to know that.

Of course, Potter is oblivious as it turns out. He is too busy looking around the house to even notice Draco, which makes Draco immensely happy about the fact that he had had time to tidy up when he got home.

"This is a lovely house," Potter says. He turns and hands Draco the bottle of wine. "Now, I'm not sure if we want to open just yet that as our dinner reservations are at eight, and I'm not sure if you want an entire bottle of wine before dinner? It might be a bit much, but then there are about two hours, so perhaps it would be perfectly fine and of course there are two of us." Draco thinks Potter is babbling, which he takes as a good sign. It means Potter is as nervous as he is. "And, then obviously, it also depends on how we want to get to dinner. Any ideas?" Potter runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly at Draco.

"Well, where is dinner?" Draco asks.

"Chelsea."

"We could take the Tube?" Draco suggests.

"You would take the Tube?"

"Why wouldn't I take the Tube, Potter? It's a form of transportation."

"But it's a muggle form of transportation," Potter points out, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

"I am aware." Draco stares at Potter for a moment, a serious look on his face, and then he cracks a similar smile. "I am not averse to muggle transportation, you know."

"Right, sorry. I just thought-"

"-That I was the same git you knew at Hogwarts?"

"I wasn't going to say git."

"But you were thinking it."

"No, I wasn't," Potter protests and Draco instinctively bursts out laughing at his discomfort before stopping himself.

"As you pointed out earlier, it's been ten years." He winks and then instantly regrets it. Who even winks anymore? "So," he says quickly by way of distraction. "What would you like to drink?"

"Well, if we take the Tube, that obviously takes longer than apparating." Potter is clearly still stuck on the question of transportation.

"Obviously." Potter narrows his eyes and glares at Draco, but there is no venom in it. In fact, Draco can see the ghost of smirk on Potter's face. Draco sticks out his tongue in playful response. He nearly bites it in his haste to put it back in his mouth. He is horrified at his behavior. What is he doing? This isn't even good flirting. And it is most unlike him, even for a ten years post Hogwarts Draco.

"And then there is a bit of a walk from South Ken to the restaurant," Potter continues after a pause.

"Well, then let's apparate," Draco says. It seems like the obvious answer. Potter nods his agreement. Draco glances at the clock on the mantlepiece. While it feels like he and Potter have been bantering for an age, it turns out it is still only seven minutes past six. There is plenty of time to finish the wine. "And let's have the wine. Thank you for bringing it, by the way." He walks over to the kitchen and rummages through his drawers for a bottle opener. As he starts to work it into the cork, he finally takes a good look at the label.

"Merlin, Potter. You brought Opus One?" He looks over at the brunet, who looks uncomfortable. After a moment, Potter shrugs.

"Hermione said it was good wine," he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turns and begins to pace the length of the living room.

"It is. Granger has good taste." He pulls the cork out with a pop. "Though, not in men." Potter snorts in amusement, turning back to face Draco.

"Don't be mean about Ron," he says.

"I don't date gingers." He pulls down a pair of wine glasses and pours the wine.

"That seems unfair to gingers."

"Fine, I would probably date some gingers," Draco relents. "But I wouldn't date Ron, even if he were asking."

"He wouldn't ask,"

"He probably still thinks I'm that same git he knew at Hogwarts." Draco walks over to Potter and hands him a wine glass.

"Cheers," Potter says, smiling warmly, and they clink glasses. Draco moves to the sofa and sits down. After a moment, Potter chooses one of the armchairs and lowers himself into it. "And yes, I imagine that Ron does still think you're a twat."

"Charming." At this, Potter chuckles. Draco ignores him for a moment in favor of his wine, which he swirls around in his glass, before raising the glass to his nose. He wishes he were better at distinguishing the different aromas of wine. He always just thinks it smells like wine, a fact that Hannah likes to tease him about. He tries, he really tries, to discern hints of blackberry or leather or whatever, but fails. He takes a sip and lets it settle over his tongue. It is good wine - very good wine in fact. Draco may not know how to discern the individual notes in a glass of wine, but he can tell if it's good. He holds the glass towards Potter.

"Thank you for the wine," he says. "It's really quite delicious." Potter gives him a small, tight smile. Draco decides to move the conversation on. "So now that we've settled on wine and transportation, are you going to tell me where we're going for dinner?" He catches Potter mid-sip of wine and waits for him to swallow the mouthful down.

"Mm, this place near my house," Potter says. He wipes an apologetic hand across his mouth. "It's called Made in China." Draco's eyes widen in surprise and delight. He knows exactly the restaurant that Potter is talking about. Oddly enough, he had gone there with Ian. The food had been delicious and he has been trying to find an excuse to drag Greg to dinner there, but Greg is somewhat wary of the muggle world and only ventures out when he has good reason to. Draco has tried to point out that really delicious food is a reason to leave the cocoon of the wizarding world, but Greg has yet to be convinced. Perhaps if Draco can bring home leftovers…

"I love that place," he says. Potter looks taken aback.

"You've," he stutters. "You've been there?" Draco nods.

"Also on a date."

"Oh."

"But I won't bore you with the details." Potter nods and takes a big sip of his wine.

"Sorry," Potter responds after a moment. "We can go somewhere else if you would prefer."

"No, no! Not at all. I've been wanting to go back there, but Greg hasn't wanted to venture out to Chelsea."

"Greg is aware that he can apparate, right?" Potter asks.

"Yes, but he's a bit nervous of Muggle London."

"He knows they don't bite, right?"

"I mean, unless it's while they're gagging on your," Draco stops himself before he says cock. "Shit, that's not first date talk." He slaps a hand over his mouth. Potter roars with sudden laughter and Draco sees his shoulders relax for the first time since he arrived. It seems Potter is as nervous as he is about this date. He lowers his hand and bites his lip. "Sorry," he says. "I haven't been on a date in a while." Potter waves his apology away, still chuckling.

"Don't be sorry," he says.

"Normally I'm not nearly so crass." Draco is unsure if this is strictly true, but he thinks he will blame his lack of any partner short of his hand for this particular outburst.

"You're not?" Potter asks. "More's the shame. I quite enjoyed such dirty things coming out of such a pretty mouth." Draco raises an eyebrow at him, surprised by this sudden shift in Potter's demeanor.

"Now, Potter, I must tell you. I don't fuck on the first date. So don't get your hopes up." Yes, you do, says Draco's traitorous mind.

"Well, damn. I guess I'll just have to wine you and dine you and see where it goes then." And now they are in uncharted territory and even in all of Draco's fantasies, the conversation has not gone here. Draco lets the comment hang in the air and watches as Potter's mouth slowly quirks into a smile. They stare at each other for a long moment.

"So," Draco says. "What have you been up to for the last ten years?"

"Not much. Been here and there."

"I heard you joined the Auror force."

"You heard correctly. How about you? Has it just been Flourish and Blotts?"

"Well, for a time I was working at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Were you? How did I never see you there?"

"I mainly worked lunchtimes. And in interior design." He laughs at himself. "I'm not really sure I can call it interior design. There was no real design in mind. It was a bit of a hodgepodge of things that Hannah could afford to replace at any given time."

"That was you?" Potter asks.

"At least in part."

"I didn't realize you and Hannah were so close."

"Well, we weren't in Hogwarts, but I'm sure you knew that." Potter nods and takes a sip of his wine. He doesn't try to fill the silence, so Draco continues. "She was one of the first people who really talked to me after the War. I mean, aside from my parents and my barrister." Now it is Draco's turn to take a sip of wine. He is not sure why he is opening up to Potter this way, but it feels good to share. "I guess I shouldn't have given the Hufflepuffs so much shit in school. They're clearly the nicest house."

"No shit, Sherlock," Potter says.

"Sure-what?"

"Sherlock," Potter says. "As in Sherlock Holmes." Draco frowns in confusion, so Potter continues. "It's a set of Muggle book about a detective."

"I'm not sure I understand the reference." Potter shakes his head.

"Never mind," he says. "It's not important. You were telling me about your time at the Leaky Cauldron." He gestures for Draco to continue.

"Right, yes." He takes another sip of wine. He thinks he is probably drinking it too quickly, but there's not much he can do about that now, except to slow down. "Well, Hannah and I became fast friends, and she hired me to work behind the bar, which was kind of her because not everyone was willing to take a chance on an ex-Death Eater like me."

"Wait, you did actually take the mark?" Potter asks. Draco grits his teeth.

"Yes and no," he says. Potter cocks his head to the side in confusion. "Well, because I was still in school when I joined, V thought it would be best to keep that fact a secret, so instead of a full mark, I just got a small snake tattoo." He pulls up his sleeve and shows Potter the coiled silver snake on his left forearm. "This way if anybody asked, I could say that it was a House tattoo, or something like that." Potter nods. "And then after…" Draco finds he can't say it.

"After Dumbledore died," Potter prompts. Draco is relieved that there is no malice in Potter's tone.

"Yes, that," Draco agrees. "After that, I left school. Mother insisted that we wait to give me the full Mark, although wait for what I was never sure. And somehow, it never happened. I think perhaps V forgot in all the other things that were going on. I came when everyone was summoned, so what did it matter? I was a Death Eater in everything but the full snake and skull.

"Greg has had a harder time of things as he actually got the damn thing. I'm not even sure when he had the time to get it. He was in Hogwarts for most of the war. We've done everything we can think of to fade it or cover it, but it's stubbornly still there.

"But anyhow, it doesn't matter that I don't have an actual Dark Mark, because everyone knows about my family and our involvement anyway." He can't bring himself to look at Potter, so instead he looks down at his hands. He silently curses his decision to go on this date. Dating muggles, while difficult in its own way, is much easier - there are no long, uncomfortable conversations about the past that he has tried - and is still trying - to put behind himself.

"Your mother saved my life," Potter says. His voice is quiet and when Draco looks up at him, he has a faraway look in his eyes.

"Yes, well, the Malfoys aren't all terrible."

"I never thought you were terrible."

"But -" Draco splutters.

"-Just misled." Potter puts his wine glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I mean, who the fuck knows who they are at sixteen? I sure as hell didn't." Draco works to keep his face impassive as a flood of emotions - relief, curiosity, gratitude - washes over him.

"You didn't always know that you wanted to be the savior of the wizard in world?" He asks. Potter gives short bark of laughter, behind which Draco can hear an aggrieved tone.

"I didn't want to be anything," he says. "If anything, I wanted to be bloody normal." He leans back into the armchair's soft cushions. "You try having teenage angst on top of being stressed out about some asshole constantly trying to kill you, all the while people are telling you that you, a teenager, must be the one who defeats him. Talk about pressure."

"It's a wonder you grew up so normal," Draco says, adding a hint of sarcasm in an effort to lighten the conversation again. He had much preferred the flirting part of their conversation. He is rewarded by a small smile crossing Potter's face.

"Ha, bleedin', ha," Potter says. "You're one to talk."

"Hmm. I suppose in our own ways we both had shit childhoods, didn't we?" Draco says. Over the past few years, he has started to realize that the childhood he had previously thought was rather sheltered and spoiled, was instead devoid of much emotional stability.

"Hogwarts was my salvation," Potter says.

"Mine too, now that I think of it." Potter looks as though he is going to say something, but then stops himself and instead picks up his wine glass and, seeing there is not much left in it, drains it. He stands.

"More wine?"

Harry is no longer sure what he is doing. Or, rather, he is, but his traitorous heart (libido?) is leading him astray. He should be more professional on this mission. He needs to wine and dine Malfoy so that he can learn about The Reliquary. And yet, here they are, having this deep discussion about the War and their childhoods.

It is all Harry can do not to bring up the fact that Malfoy was part of what made his childhood so rubbish. How much easier would Hogwarts have been if he and Malfoy hadn't been at each other's throats the entire time. But he supposed that was partly because of old wizarding family rivalries. If the Malfoys and the Weasleys hadn't hated each other, perhaps Ron and Malfoy would have gotten along that first day on the train. But instead, Malfoy had insulted the only friend he'd had at that point. He has worked hard to get past the fact that Malfoy was probably just parroting his father back then. And that really, he had grown up being told certain things about muggles by his parents, so of course he would be inclined to believe those things himself. Where would he have gotten any other points of view from as a child? In fact, over the years Harry has found this about many wizards, including some who had not been supporters of Voldemort.

He realizes that he has dawdled too long by the wine and walks back over to the living room area. He hands Malfoy his refilled glass.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He decides to take the bold move of sitting next to Malfoy on the sofa as opposed to going back to the chair he was in earlier. Or, rather, while Harry thinks it's a bold move, Malfoy doesn't bat an eyelid. But now that Harry is there, he realizes he is looking out at the room, and not at Malfoy. He shifts in his seat so that he is facing towards the blond and in doing so, he ends up bringing their knees together. And then once he has done that, he can't take it away again or he'll look like a twat. Merlin he wished he had tried harder during seduction class.

In Harry's defense, he knows he is better at doing this with women. The stakes are never as high because it is a rare occurrence these days that he will be as attracted to them as he will to some of his male marks. He tries to tell himself that he doesn't care what Malfoy thinks, but unfortunately that is not how attraction works. Why couldn't Hannah Abbott have been the person Oliver sent The Reliquary to?

But Harry knows the reason. Somehow, even after he hadn't seen Malfoy in years - years - he trusted him more with this important piece of government property. Not for the first time, Harry thinks that perhaps Malfoy was in on the whole thing. Perhaps they planned it together. This thought makes Harry somewhat sick to his stomach, which somewhat ironically makes it easier to lean forward and put a hand on Malfoy's knee.

"I heard a rumor," he says. "That you have also taken a liking to Gyrffindors, post-Hogwarts. Perhaps a certain Gryffindor turned Puddlemere United Keeper in particular?" To his delight, Malfoy flushes crimson. He watches as the other man takes a large gulp of his wine.

"I never said I disliked all the bloody Gryffindors," he finally says. He looks distinctly uncomfortable and Harry feels a stab of compunction.

"So the rumors are true? You did date Quidditch Today's most eligible bachelor?"

"Where did you even hear about it?" Malfoy snaps. Harry says nothing, instead letting the silence draw out. Malfoy downs another mouthful of wine. "Fine. We dated. Kind of. But that was years ago. And before you ask, I have no idea where the fuck he is. He broke up with me before he disappeared. Or more accurately, the asshole disappeared without even saying goodbye. He just fucking left." It is the mix of venom and hurt in Malfoy's voice that convinces Harry that Malfoy is telling the truth. And it is like a switch has flipped in Harry's mind and he is back to being nervous and awkward, only now his hand is still on Malfoy's knee and he's not sure has the courage to go any farther.

"I'm sorry," he says. Malfoy's demeanor softens.

"No, Potter, I'm sorry. No one wants to hear about their date's exes. Although, you did ask."

"Allow me to show you that not all Gryffidors are jerks," Harry says, and before he can think better of it, he leans forward and captures Malfoy's lips with his. Malfoy tastes of wine, which Harry should have expected, and his lips are soft and pliant, parting easily as Harry's tongue slips its way inside Malfoy's mouth. Malfoy pulls back after a moment. Harry tilts his head to the side, questioning without words why the kiss had stopped.

"You haven't finished wining and dining me yet," Malfoy says with a smirk. "We've only done the wine part."

"Are you complaining about the wine?"

"Not in the slightest. I was just making the point that I'm not that easy."

"That's a shame," Harry says. "I was enjoying kissing you."

"Well, buy me dinner and then we'll talk."

"More talking?" Harry arches an eyebrow. It is a skill he has worked on since leaving Hogwarts. Is it a skill he learned particularly because it used to drive him crazy when Malfoy would do it in school? Possibly.

"Oh, shut up, Potter," Malfoy says. "You're not nearly as attractive as you think you are." Harry grins.

"Oh, so you think I'm attractive."

"No, I think you think you're attractive."

"Sure."

"You're decent looking."

"Sure, yep, that's what you meant." Malfoy scowls at him for a moment then he leans forward, stopping just as his lips ghost over Harry's.

"You're much easier to deal with when you're not talking."

"Is that so?" Harry asks. He does not close the gap between them. Two can play this game.

"Yes." Malfoy tips his chin down and rests his forehead against Harry's for a moment before he sits back again, separating their faces, and the spell is broken. "But I guess I just have to put up with your inane chatter until later." He smirks and takes a sip of his wine. Harry regards him thoughtfully.

"So you're saying you need to eat first so you can get your stamina up?" Malfoy closes his eyes for a long moment and Harry can't tell if his is trying not to laugh or if he is trying not to hit him. He thinks he sees the corners of Malfoy's mouth quirk upwards but he can't be sure.

"You just wish you were so lucky," he says, opening his eyes again. "I already told you, not on the first date."

"Whatever you say," Harry says, throwing his hands up in defeat. But he doesn't think this conversation is over. Not really. Not yet.


Apologies for this being a week late - I was at a conference last week and had little to no free time. As ever, your feedback is appreciated. :)