A Very Public Affair

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: Have you heard the latest? Don't tell anyone but … Exposed: Pureblood in baby battle! Suddenly, Harry was the latest Prophet gossip: the boy who'd had an affair with Draco Malfoy, the notorious pureblood…

Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini

Categories: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe (AU)

Status: Un-betaed

Chapter Three: Part Two

The Kitchen seemed to buzz with activity. When Draco went down there to get Severus some water he found Harry-still in the bathrobe-busily blending soup, the tumble-dryer turning, pans simmering on the stove. "I thought you'd be hungry by now," Harry explained, his face a little flushed. "So I made some lunch. I'll go upstairs while you eat it," he added hastily, remembering he was supposed to keep out of his way.

Draco almost did a double take, Harry looked so different. With his hair all mussed like that, and the colour in his cheeks, he looked startingly attractive, almost beautiful. Taken aback, unprepared for him to look anything like human, let alone this, all he could say was, "You haven't got any shoes on."

"I've only got one pair and they're really grotty."

"What about your clothes?"

He pointed at the tumble-dryer.

"Are they all you've got?"

Harry's face hardened a little. Of course they were all he'd darn well got! Couldn't he see that? Acidly he said, "If I'd known I was coming to stay I would have brought a trunk full of designer clothes with me."

Immediately after he said it he wished he hadn't; after all, it wasn't his fault that he'd ended up here and been dumped on him like this. Expecting him to get mad, he was completely surprised when Draco gave a rough laugh. He didn't speak but went away and came back with a thick pair of woollen socks that he held out to him. "My godfather uses these when he goes walking. They should keep your feet warm."

Slowly Harry walked over to take them. It was such a small thing, probably meant nothing to Draco, but it was a long time since anyone had shown him any kindness and it brought silly tears to his eyes. "Thanks," he said huskily as he took them.

Shrugging, Draco turned to get some water.

"I'll make some soup. Do you think your godfather might like some?"
Harry ventured.

"Let's give it a try."

Draco went upstairs carrying a tray, leaving Harry to eat alone, and he didn't come own again until an hour or so later for his own lunch, by which time his clothes were dry and Harry had dressed again.

He left him alone to eat, spending the time looking round the house. Every room seemed to be filled with books relevant to potions, and the more he looked at it the more it grew on him. He was examining a thick book, Asiatic Anti-Venoms, back in the sitting room, when Draco came in.

"I've never seen so many potions books like this before," he explained.

Draco realised then it was no muggle in his godfather's home but chose to answer Harry for now, and question later. "My godfather has a passion for anything related to Potions. He's a Potions Master. He's been collecting them most of his life." He saw Harry's puzzled look and said, "There are more books galore in the study, if you're interested."

Draco went back upstairs, dismissing the boy from his mind. Severus woke again for a while and he gave him his potions, but soon he was asleep, his breathing laboured, painful. Draco brought the pillows and duvet from the cupboard in the hall, made up a bed on the settee in his godfather's room and spent the night there in a lonely vigil.

In the morning his phone rang. It was Mrs. Edwards, saying that the lane was blocked with snow and she couldn't get through to the house. Later the police rang and said the main road was blocked, too; they didn't know when they could get there. He would've owled the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but his Eagle owl, Octavian was delayed by the weather. So he was stuck with Harry indefinitely.

He hadn't slept much; the settee was too short for his six feet two inches. And the previous night there had been a long drive to get here, as apparating the long distance to Severus' house in his frame of mind would've surely resulted in being splinched. He was dog-tired but full of deep anger against the fate that had done this to his godfather, against the boy for hiding in his car, definitely against the snow and even-God help him-because Severus hadn't taken better care of himself and had allowed himself to become so ill.

The days stretched endlessly into one another. The skies were so dark outside that Draco sometimes didn't know whether it was night or day. He slept only when Severus did-and that was only lightly, continuously waking to listen again to his godfather's agonised breathing. Sometimes he was a little better and managed to talk, although it was obvious it pained him. Those moments were precious to Draco, making up for wasted opportunities, for enforced separations. The Healer phoned every day, but there was little help or advice he could give. The roads were still blocked, but he had left plenty of potions; there was nothing else he could do.

At least Draco didn't have to worry about preparing food; Harry had taken it on himself to do that, to do the washing and even clean the house. When Draco came downstairs he would find him working away quite happily, or else curled up in the armchair in the sitting room, deep into one of Severus' books on potions. They didn't talk much; he wasn't interested in him, but he was grateful that he had taken it so many niggling worries off his shoulders.

One morning, when they'd been there nearly a week, Harry came into the kitchen to clear away after his breakfast and found him still there, slumped in the armchair and deeply asleep. He had always been intimidated by him, but he looked so vulnerable now. He moved to look at him, at the strong, lean face with is square chin, wide forehead and straight pale brows. His features were clean-cut, finely drawn, but his good-looks weren't the first thing that you noticed about him-it was his determination and self assurance that came across most strongly. You got the impression he would be irritated at being liked for his looks; it was his personality that was all-important.

Studying him, Harry thought that if he had met Draco in other circumstances he would have been attracted by him, the way young are often attracted by the hint of ruthlessness and power in a man.

He thought he'd better wake Draco, and said, "Mr. Malfoy." Then, more loudly, "Mr. Malfoy." He didn't even blink, but he was so soundly asleep. He hesitated, but then decided to let him sleep on and instead went upstairs to the invalid's room.

It was the first time he'd seen Draco's godfather, and Harry knew at once that he was dying. His own godfather, Sirius Black had looked just like that, so pale and sunken, when Harry had gone to say goodbye to him before he'd died, ten years ago now. Sitting down in the chair where Draco had spent so many hours, he quietly kept watch while he slept.

It was over an hour before Draco woke, doing so with a start. Immediately he ran upstairs and was furious when he saw Harry by his godfather's bed. Grabbing hold of his arm, he propelled him outside onto the landing. "Why were you with him?"

"You were asleep, so-"

"Did he call out? Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were so tired. I thought-"

"Who the hell asked you to think?" Draco suddenly snarled. "You keep out of there. I don't want him waking to find some stranger with him instead of me. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," Harry answered shortly, his colour rising. Tugging his arm free, he headed towards the stairs.

Watching him, seeing the injured set of his shoulders, Draco gave an inner groan. "Look, I didn't mean…" But he was already running down the stairs.

The sleep had done him little good; for the rest of that day he kept dozing in the chair and jerking awake. In the afternoon Severus' breathing seemed to have eased a little and Draco looked at him hopefully, wondering if, against all odds, he would recover. Towards the evening, hardly able to keep his eyes open, Draco went down o the kitchen to make himself a drink. Harry, reading in his room, heard him go, and return some minutes ten minutes later. Then came the most terrible sound-a great cry of anguish followed by, "No! No! Oh, God, no!"

Leaping up, he ran out onto the landing. Draco came slowly out of his godfather's room, his face completely white and rigid with shock.

"What is it?" What's happ-?" Harry suddenly realised, and his heart filled with sympathy for Draco.

His voice slurred, unnatural, he said, "He's dead."

Harry reached out a tentative hand of comfort but he didn't even see it. Brushing past him, Draco went down the stairs and into the sitting room where he'd left his mobile phone. Even though he had expected this, the shock was so great his mind was refusing to accept the finality of it. It was as if that part of his mind and all the emotions that it would evoke had been blanked off, and he was concentrating entirely on practical things. With a hand that visibly shook, Draco called the Healer and told him.

"There's a snowplough in the village now," Draco was told. "I'll get the driver to come up your lane and I'll follow. They've already cleared most of the road, so it shouldn't take too long."

But it was over three hours before they heard a noise outside and saw the lights of the vehicles. Draco spent the time pacing the floor in the sitting room, just striding up and down, refusing to think, to feel, while Harry stayed quietly in the kitchen out of the way, sensing his need to be alone. The Healer, looking tired out, dealt quickly with the formalities. Severus' body was taken away and then Draco and Harry were alone again in the silent house.

Draco had gone up with the Healer to his godfather's room and hadn't come down. After a while, Harry went upstairs and got ready for bed, but as he came out of the bathroom he heard what sounded like a groan, and stood irresolutely on the landing.

Inside the room Draco stared down at the empty bed, the mental padlocks of occlumency he had put on his mind slowly dissolving as he began to accept Severus' death. And, because he held back his feelings with iron will-power and determination for all these hours, his feelings completely overwhelmed him as he relaxed. He was consumed by a tidal wave of grief that robbed him of all self-control. He went out of the room, staggering, holding onto the door jamb as if his legs wouldn't support him.

Harry saw that his arm was up across his face and he looked in deep distress. Going to him, he took his Draco's arm and he leaned heavily on him. "I wasn't there!" he exclaimed brokenly, anger and guilt adding to his grief. "All these hours-and yet I wasn't there when he went, when he needed me." Swinging away from Harry he leaned his head against the wall, beating at it with his clenched fists. "There was still so much to say. I didn't even get to say goodbye to him."

"Perhaps he didn't wake," Harry soothed. He shut the door of the room and tried to pull Draco away. He let Harry lead him. His body was shaking not only from grief but from utter exhaustion, he saw. "You're so tired; you must sleep now."

There were no other beds in the house so he guided Draco into his. He was still muttering incoherently and shaking his head from side to side in deep grief, blaming himself for going downstairs. "I shouldn't have left him. I shouldn't have left him."

"You weren't to know."

Harry sat him on the bed and bent to pull off his shoes, tried to push him back onto the pillow. But he got agitatedly to his feet and strode up and down the small room as if he were in a prison cell. Then abruptly he sat down again, his head in his hands.

Words were a waste of time; it was too soon for them, Harry realised. So he sat down next to Draco and put comforting arms round his shoulders. His body was shaking and for a while he couldn't control his grief-the terrible pain of it, the dreadful fatigue that left him without the strength to hide it.

Somehow it didn't feel strange, holding him like this. Draco was still a virtual stranger, and yet Harry knew exactly what he was going through-understood all the raw emotion that engulfed him. It didn't seem at all incongruous that Harry's slight strength should support him, that he should lean against Harry while he went through these first terrible spasms of ache and loss.

Harry went on holding him for what seemed a long time, but eventually Draco's trembling eased a little and he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and lifted his head. Harry went to move away but Draco turned within his arms. His eyes, dark and still wide with shock, held his. Harry was wearing just an old shirt that he'd found in a drawer, a man's, much too big for him and coming down to his knees. Draco, his face intense, reached out to touch it at the neck.

"This was his."

"Yes." He tried to say sorry, thinking that he was offended by it, but the words died in his throat as he looked into Draco's eyes and began to understand even more.

Slowly Draco ran his fingers down over Harry's chest. "You're so alive," he said huskily, his voice strained. "So alive."

Harry caught his breath at Draco's touch. Instinctively he knew what Draco wanted-and why. His godfather's death had made him realize his own vulnerability, how precarious life was. He needed to be close-very close-to someone, to convince himself that life could go on. For a long moment Harry looked deeply into the intense grey eyes that held his, then stood up and slowly lifted the shirt, pulled it over his head and stood before Draco in all the beauty of his naked youth.

Draco groaned as he looked at Harry, a sound almost of agony, then reached out a trembling hand to touch his waist, his thighs. "Are you sure? Oh, Merlin, are you sure?"

For answer Harry leant forward and placed his lips against Draco's.

The trembling in his body was so strong that Harry could feel it even in this light touch. For a moment he just let Harry kiss him, but then Draco surged to his feet, his hand behind Harry's head, his mouth taking Harry's now in urgent need. Still kissing him, making small animal sounds against his mouth, Draco somehow dragged off his clothes until he, too, was naked. He touched Harry's nipples and ran kisses down his throat as Harry arched against his arm, he let his other hand run free over Harry, glorying in his living warmth, the velvet softness of his skin.

Draco's need for Harry was dreadful, the deepest hunger he'd ever known, an ache so bad that he could scarcely bear the pain of it. He needed to shut out the pictures in his mind, to experience the joy, the certainty of sexual fulfillment-to convince himself that life was sweet. He needed it so badly that nothing else mattered, not conscience, convention, not even common sense.

In the young, pliant body in his arms he knew he would find solace, would assuage the devils of guilt and grief that haunted his mind. His hot, unsteady hands pulled Harry close to him so that he could hold him against his length, feel the heat of him. He heard Harry gasp when he put his hands low on his hips and held him against his growing manhood. That excited him unbearably. He wound his hand in Harry's long dark hair and took his mouth again, letting passion have free rein. Harry was excited now, Draco could feel it in the heat of his skin, hear it in his gasping breath, and touched his throbbing hardness. Harry's hands were on him, as eager as his own.

With a cry, Draco swung him onto the bed. His hair spread like a fan across the whiteness of the pillow. He saw Harry's face below him, his features sharpened by desire, but it was the heart of him Draco wanted-the one place where he could find the peace and fulfillment he craved. So he took him, took him in desperate, driven hunger. No tender act of love this, but a savage need for reassurance to overcome the primitive age long fear of morality. And as excitement came, engulfed him, Draco wanted to shout out that he was alive-alive!

He fell asleep almost at once and slept long and deeply, held in Harry's arms in the narrow bed. Some hours later he half woke, still too exhausted to be fully aware of his surroundings, but realised he was in bed and that the room was dark. He felt the man beside him and without opening his eyes he reached for him. Harry kissed him, murmured his name, used his hands and body to arouse Draco, then pushed him back and came over him, and slid down his awakened hardness, taking his own pleasure, his long cry of excitement filling the room as Draco gripped his ass and thrust up harshly as he took his won pleasure, riding Harry roughly till he released.

When Draco finally woke it was to a feeling of immeasurable peace. He was alone in the room and sunshine, of all things, shafted through the window. For a little while he lay there, knowing that he had made love and savouring the wonderful feeling. But slowly, and then with a sickening clarity, remembrance came. Severus was dead-and he had taken Harry, the young boy who had foisted himself on him but nevertheless had had a right to be safe from him. At first he was appalled, not only because he'd done such a thing with his godfather newly dead-Severus he knew would have been quite amused by it-but because he might have taken Harry against his will. But then he remembered that Harry had been a very eager participant and that guilt eased a little. But not his conscience. He should never have done it. There were no circumstances that justified what he'd done.

But Draco wasn't the type to brood on the past, on what couldn't be undone. Swiftly he got up, went to the bathroom and dressed, then ran downstairs.

Harry was in the kitchen. He was keyed up with excitement. Last night had been out of this world for him, a revelation of what sex, fantastic sex, could be like. He felt so good, so content and happy. He had never known that sex could make you feel like this-walking on air, wanting to laugh for no reason at all, to sing and dance around the room. Even if the sun hadn't been shining it would still have been the most wonderful day.

What Draco finally came in Harry ran to him, looking eagerly at his face with the intimacy of shared knowledge. But Draco didn't take him in his arms as Harry wanted. Instead he put him gently aside. "There are a lot of phone calls I ought to make."

"Oh. Of course." He stood back. Draco moved towards the door but Harry said impulsively, "Draco?"

Half turning, he gave a crooked kind of grin. "We'll talk later. In about half an hour. OK?"

He nodded, satisfied, and Draco went out to the study. He was gone for longer that he'd said; it was almost an hour before he came back. Harry supposed that he had been informing other members of his family of his godfathers death, and he wondered how long it would be before the funeral would take place. Draco, he was sure, would stay on here until then, so they could still be alone here together. Excitement rose at the thought.

But this thought was immediately shattered when Draco returned and said, "I've been in touch with other relatives; they'll be coming here as soon as they can." He paused then said heavily, "About last night. I suppose I ought to apologise, but I'm afraid I'm not sorry that it happened. I needed you-and I'm pretty certain you needed me almost as much." He didn't wait for Harry to speak but went to, "But the fact remains that I took advantage of you being here. For your sake I shouldn't have done that." He shrugged. "But I did, and I'm grateful that you were so-accommodating." His grey eyes rested on Harry's face. "And I'd like to show my gratitude by giving you this. It should keep you while you sort yourself out." And he held out a folded piece of paper.

Harry didn't take it. He could see it was a cheque. Anger flared through him. His chair fell over as he sprung to his feet. "What the hell do you think I am-a prostitute? I didn't do it for money!"

Draco, too, stood up and came round the table. Catching hold of Harry's arm, he said forcefully, "I know that. It isn't a payment."

Harry laughed bitterly. "What else would you call it?"

"It's just a token, a way of saying thanks. What other way do I have?"

There were a million ways, Harry thought. Like taking him in his arms and saying how wonderful it had been for him. Draco could have kissed him, smiled, said he wanted it to happen all over again. Now. Tomorrow. That Harry was important to him now. But all he'd said was that he needed him, he'd been there, available, and so he'd taken him. Used him, in other words, but was going to assuage his conscience by paying for it! Harry felt a great surge of humiliation, and what had been wonderful suddenly became tainted and dirty.

His voice tight, Harry said, "I'm leaving here. Now!"

Harry's pride and dignity astounded him. Draco had expected him to take the money with relief, if not with pleasure-not act as if he'd somehow defiled him by offering it. He was destitute, for heaven's sake, and he'd only wanted to help him, to show his gratitude in the most practical way possible. But maybe it was better this way. Draco didn't want Harry clinging round him, creating a scene when he asked him to leave, so he said shortly, "I've already arranged for a taxi to collect you. The trains are running, so it will take you to the nearest mainline station."

Harry stared at him, his face stony. "You just can't wait to get rid of me, can you?"

Draco paused, his eyes resting on his face, seeing that his anger gave him beauty. He felt a terrible reluctance to hurt Harry, but he knew it had to be done. His voice expressionless, he said, "One of the people who's on their way here, who will be arriving probably later today, is my wife."

The train was almost empty. Harry sat next to the window, looking unseeingly out at the fleeting landscape, the snow gradually giving way to patchwork fields and bar-branched trees. Draco had given him money for the fare to London and he'd had to take it. And just now, in the pocket of his anorak, he'd found the cheque he'd tried to give him earlier. It was for an immense amount, enough to keep him for ages. He would have liked to just tear it up, but he'd be an utter foll to do that. He could have afforded that kind of gesture when he'd thought there was a chance of staying with him, but not now that he had finally kicked him out. Out of his bead, out of his life.

He felt hot tears sting his eyes, but somehow blinked them back. What else had he expected, for heaven's sake? He'd been bound to kick him out eventually, and if he'd hoped for something more then he'd been kidding himself. He had to forget that night. Forget Draco Malfoy. It was time to start a new life for himself, and the easiest way to do that was to forget he even existed.