Harry went home from Hermione and Ron's, not feeling much better than he had before he went. It was as good to see them as ever, but he was distracted, thinking about Malfoy, and Auror training, and Teddy, and that note from Charlie that was still burning a hole in his pocket. He decided to walk the last few blocks home to clear his head, and pulled out the note to look at the last sentence.

Pick up where we left off last time? -CW

Harry sighed. Molly had apologized the first time she'd asked them to room together at the Burrow. "I'm so sorry, Harry, dear; I know Charlie snores, but you're the only two who are single, so it's really the only option." Then she'd rattled off the names of the couples: Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, and left Harry feeling quite alone.

He didn't like to think about the details, but it didn't take long for things to get a bit out of hand. Suffice it to say, the snoring had hardly been a problem at all, and he'd woken up in Charlie's arms at the last three family gatherings. Every time he thought about it, he felt a sinking sort of guilt in his stomach, even worse than what he felt about sleeping with Malfoy.

Things were a lot easier back when he'd shared a room with Ron at the holidays, he mused. They'd also been a lot easier before he broke up with Ginny and started sleeping with her brother.

Did he want to pick up where he'd left off with Charlie Weasley? It was just one more thing that Harry didn't know.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Draco Malfoy sitting on the front step of 12 Grimmauld Place until he was nearly at the door. The late evening light was dim, and Malfoy didn't see Harry at first, either. He was looking down at a piece of parchment that was clutched tightly in his hands. He wore a smart looking suit, gray with a slight sheen to it, the sort of style that Harry had seen in some of the nicer shops in Diagon Alley. Harry realized quite suddenly that he didn't know what Malfoy did during the day. He must have a job, Harry thought, or did he? Perhaps he still lived off the Malfoy family fortune, and did nothing but laze around in expensive-looking suits all day. It was a rather appealing thought.

"Malfoy?" Harry said tentatively. "What are you doing here?" He realized that he was still holding the note from Charlie, and shoved it deep into his pocket.

Malfoy's head snapped up and he got to his feet in one smooth movement, dusting off his suit. It fit him impeccably, Harry noticed. He thought that he might even like the suit better than Malfoy's plush white robe, although he'd never tell the prat any of that to his face.

"Potter," Malfoy said coldly, though his trademark sneer seemed a bit half-hearted. Harry looked curiously at him. Malfoy folded the parchment carefully and put it in his suit pocket.

"What are you doing here?" Harry said again, and then another thought occurred to him. "How do you know where I live?"

Malfoy chewed on his bottom lip in a way that Harry, for all his years of staring at Malfoy, had never seen before. "Everyone knows where you live, Potter," he said at last. "My moth—I mean, my family just about had a conniption when we heard that you, of all people, inherited the old Black house."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling foolish. Right. It was easy to forget that Malfoy had all these connections—to Teddy, to Sirius, to Grimmauld place. Malfoy was more connected to the people and places Harry loved than Harry was. It was not a comforting thought.

He opened his mouth to ask Malfoy for the third time what, exactly, he was doing there, but before he could, Malfoy reached out and grabbed his hand, something unreadable in his eyes. Harry stared down at their clasped palms in surprise. He could see the cold cloud of Malfoy's breath in the December air.

"Potter, just—" Malfoy sighed, chewing on his lip in that new, unsettling, un-Malfoylike way. "Just, please. Invite me inside, all right?"

Feeling slightly disoriented, Harry unlocked the door and led Malfoy into Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"Kreacher!" he called, and the elf appeared with a sudden crack. He and Malfoy looked at one another in surprise, and Kreacher's face spread into a pleased smile.

"Master, you is bringing home guests?"

"Er—hello, Kreacher," Harry said awkwardly, looking between the two of them. "Yes. A, ah, guest. Please, ah, put a pot of tea on for Malfoy and myself, would you?"

"Malfoy?" said Kreacher happily, looking from Harry to Malfoy. "You is young Master Malfoy?" Malfoy glanced sideways at Harry, but didn't say anything at all. Something was definitely wrong with him, Harry thought. He couldn't imagine a scenario in which Malfoy wouldn't take gleeful advantage of being called Master in Harry's home.

"No," Harry told Kreacher, irritated. "He is not your master. The tea, please." Kreacher frowned at Harry before Disapperating with a loud crack.

"He came with the house," Harry said shortly, avoiding Malfoy's gaze as he led him into the sitting room. But of course, Malfoy knew that already. "Have—er—have you been here before? To Grimmauld Place?'

Malfoy chewed on his lip again. "Once or twice, when I was a child." He absently patted the pocket where he'd stashed the parchment, and didn't offer up anything else, so Harry didn't either. He tried to imagine a young Malfoy visiting Walburga Black with his mother. Sirius would have been in Azkaban by then, with his brother and perhaps his father already dead. It must have been a dark, depressing place.

The pair of them settled onto opposite ends of the sofa, avoiding each others' gaze. Harry had no idea what to do with a version of Malfoy who wasn't snide or rude or drunk or naked. "How—er—how is your mother?" he asked tentatively.

"Don't ask about my mother, Potter," Malfoy snapped, sounding like himself at last. "I didn't come here for small talk."

"Okay. Why are you here, then?"

Malfoy didn't answer, and they sat in silence for what seemed like several endless minutes. Harry's curiosity and irritation mounted. Their relationship—no, their arrangement —was built on secrecy and discretion, and Malfoy could have ruined everything by showing up at Grimmauld place tonight. Suppose someone had seen Malfoy sitting on Harry's steps. Suppose Ron and Hermione had come round with him and he'd had to explain Malfoy's presence on his doorstep. Malfoy, presumably, knew all of these risks. And yet he'd come here , to Grimmauld Place, on a Wednesday night. To Harry, though Malfoy made it clear on a semi-regular basis that he never wanted to see him again.

He thought about asking Malfoy these questions, but he didn't seem open to questions at all. He wasn't like any version of Malfoy Harry had ever seen before. His eyes darting around the room nervously. He smoothed down his hair twice in ten seconds. He jostled his knee up and down, and patted his pocket. Harry wondered what had been written on that piece of parchment.

"Something a bit stronger than tea, then?" Harry asked at last.

Malfoy let out a long, slow breath through his nose. "Yes," he said, sounding relieved. "That would be good."

Harry poured them each a glass of Firewhiskey and brought Malfoy's over to the sofa. But to his surprise, Malfoy grabbed Harry by the wrist and pulled him down beside took the glass of Firewhiskey from Harry and downed half of it in one gulp.

"That's expensive," Harry said, irritated, but Malfoy ignored him, leaning in closer, until Harry could feel his hot breath on his cheek. Harry shivered, and didn't pull away.

"Malfoy—"

"Don't speak," said Malfoy. "Just—I just—" His eyes glistened, and for a brief moment, Harry thought that he was going to cry. But then he was pulling Harry in and kissing him roughly, his arm encircling Harry's waist. Harry pulled back, startled.

"Take this off," Malfoy muttered, tugging at Harry's shirt. "Take everything off."

"Wait," Harry said. "Let's—let's go to the bedroom, before Kreacher comes back." He grabbed Malfoy by the arm and led him up the stairs.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Malfoy had drained the rest of the glass of Firewhiskey. He placed it on the bedside table, and Harry watched as he slipped out of his suit jacket and shirt, exposing the smooth, pale chest and the light dusting of hair that lead beneath his trousers. As agitated as he was, he draped them carefully on the back of Harry's chair before unbuttoning his pants.

Harry's breath hitched; he'd seen Malfoy undress like this countless times, but never in his home, never without being a bit tipsy himself, never on a Wednesday night. He glanced around the room, feeling somewhat embarrassed at the state of things; the bare walls, the unmade bed, the owl treats scattered on the windowsill. But Malfoy didn't seem to notice any of that. Silently, he closed the distance between he and Harry, and pulled him toward the bed with singular focus.

Harry pulled back one last time.

"Malfoy, are you sure—"

"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy growled, unzipping Harry's pants and pushing him back against the pillows. "Just—try not to act like a fucking Hufflepuff, for once in your life. Pretend it's Friday and we've just left the pub, or just—just, please ."

And Harry complied. He let Malfoy peel off his shirt and unzip his pants. He let Malfoy straddle his lap and bite his neck. He let him pull his hardening cock out of his pants and take it into his mouth, sucking him desperately. Harry let Malfoy touch him everywhere until he couldn't take it anymore and pushed Malfoy onto his back, sliding their bodies together until they were slick with sweat and desire and nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

Harry let himself be Malfoy's distraction, because he wanted it, too.

When they had finished, Malfoy lay on his back on top of the covers, his breathing ragged, his eyes closed.

"Malfoy," Harry started to say, but stopped short as one wet tear and then another slid down Malfoy's pale cheek. There was a time, he thought, when he'd have liked the idea of a miserable, crying Malfoy, but he found that it wasn't nearly so satisfying as he would have thought.

"Malfoy—"

"Don't say anything," Malfoy said sharply, his voice cracking. "Just—don't."

Harry paused. "Okay," he said at last. "I'm going to sleep. But you can stay, if you want."

Malfoy didn't say anything, but after a while, he muttered a cleaning charm and crawled under the covers beside Harry. He stared up at the ceiling, and in the growing darkness, Harry opened his mouth half a dozen times to ask him half a dozen questions.

What was that about? he wanted to say. What was on that parchment? Why are you here?

But he didn't. Maybe in the morning, Harry thought, as his eyes drifted shut. He'd ask Malfoy about all of it in the morning, whatever it was.

But in the morning, Malfoy was gone.