Draco turned the corner of Cockburn and Wentworth. It was good to be almost home. One day in France, one with his mother, and one accidental Apparation to Beaulieu had kept him away from home for three days. Three long days. Hopefully, Harry was at home and would be willing to forgive him for being an arse. Draco started to run.

Vera Henderson was a snoop. There was no doubt about it. All the neighbors on Wentworth Street knew it; everyone, it seemed, except the boys that lived in the rented flat across the street from her.

Mrs. Henderson had lived on Wentworth Street for the last thirty years, which was almost as long as she'd been married to Mr. Henderson. Since his passing, she'd become a bona fide busybody; and made it a point to know everyone's business.

She let the curtain fall from her hand and scuttled off toward the door. The Malfoy boy was coming home, and if she hurried she could catch him before he went in.

Her ample bosom heaving with each step, she scurried out the door, her shawl drawn around her shoulders.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she called, waving her hand as she crossed the street. "Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco stopped at the screeching of his name. He recognized the woman huffing her way toward him. It was the little old lady from across the way. Harry had told him about her. She seemed harmless, a bit nosey maybe, but then again - Draco knew that people who seemed the most harmless were sometimes the most dangerous. Sighing, he waited for her to reach him. It was bad enough to have Apparated to Beaulieu in a state of anger. Worse still to have to wait until morning to get to a Floo station to get home. Now this old Muggle…

"A word in your ear Mr. Malfoy?" the elderly woman panted, clutching her chest as she caught her breath.

"Yes, ma'am," Draco said. Since his business catered to both Muggles and magical folk, he'd learned to be polite to Muggles.

"It's about Mr. Potter," she said, narrowing her eyes slyly at Draco.

Draco frowned. What about Harry?

"He came home three nights ago with some nice-looking young man. I think Mr. Potter may have been drunk…" she paused.

Draco's head snapped back. What the hell is she talking about? he thought. He studied her face for any trace of deceit or treachery. Best to play it cool for now. "Oh Mrs. Henderson, surely you're mistaken. Harry doesn't drink. Well, at least not to excess. You know, a pint of ale or a glass of wine now and then."

Mrs. Henderson shook her head, her frizzy grey curls bobbing with the motion. "Oh no, he was quite drunk. I could smell the liquor on him. The both of them," she said, watching him carefully, and then continued. "I went out to give them a piece of my mind, the two of them acting like fools, singing, or at least Mr. Potter was singing… "

Draco cocked his head, but kept his face neutral. "Now, Mrs. Henderson, he's a big boy, I suppose he can drink a bit too much if he wants," he said in the best casual tone he could muster.

"Mr. Malfoy, that's not what's upsetting about it. He was draped all over him!" she said. "And then he kissed him! Right on the lips! In the middle of the street!" the elderly woman exclaimed.

Draco stared at her, speechless.

"Now, dearie, it's alright. I know it must come as a shock," she said soothingly, patting his arm. "But, Mr. Malfoy, is it possible your flatmate is a queer?" Mrs. Henderson asked in almost a whisper.

Draco swallowed. She didn't know about them. "Did Harry mention his friend's name?" he asked in an attempt to deflect her question.

"Why, yes he did. He called him Ollie," Mrs. Henderson said. She tugged on Draco's sleeve to get his attention, the poor lad looked dumbstruck. "He said he loved him. The Ollie fellow."

Draco stood still in a state of shock. Could it be?

Draco paled. And to Mrs. Henderson's eye he looked vaguely sick. Not that she blamed him in the least. It was perverted for a man to kiss another man. Not to mention in the middle of the street. And drunkenness was no excuse, either.

She watched Draco flee to the door and let himself in. She'd be upset too, if she found out that her flatmate, if she had one, was gay or lesbian or whatever they called them these days. Poor man, she thought as she crossed the street back to her house. She'd have to ring up Ethel down the block and tell her all about that nasty Potter boy.

Draco slumped against the wall. Harry, with another man. He was devastated, he felt sick, almost to the point of retching. Mentally calming himself, he ran a trembling hand through his hair. But, wait! The Muggle had said Harry had been drunk. Perhaps that's all it was. A drunken kiss. Maybe it meant nothing at all. But, Ollie, Ollie…

Draco slid down the wall into a pitiful heap on the floor. It was Oliver Wood just like his mother had told him! That was the only Ollie that Harry knew. Harry's first crush. Oh gods!

Moments, maybe hours later, Draco picked himself up off the floor. It had gotten dark in their flat, now his flat. He whispered a Lumos and looked around. Clothes were strewn about the place, and a lamp had been knocked over. Looking around the room he spied a piece of paper on the end table near the overturned lamp. Quickly he grabbed it up and read it.

"I'm going home." was all it said in Harry's familiar scrawl.

The paper fell from his limp fingers. What did he mean "home"? This was Harry's home!

Draco hurried out into the night. The cold December wind bit at his face and fingers. Whispering a warming charm, he hurried down the street. He had to find Harry… before it was too late.

xxxxx

Harry lifted his head. The room was blurry and a little fuzzy around the edges. Something rough and bumpy scratched his face as he laid his head back down. And who the hell was poking him in the shoulder?

"Arry," came a soft Scottish burr. "Wake up mate! You've been out for almost two days," said Oliver Wood, prodding the limp form sprawled out on his sofa.

"Oliver?" Harry groaned. What had he drunk at the pub? He remembered a pint of ale, no make that two, and a shot of Ogden's, and… he had no memory of what else. But, whatever it was, it had packed a wallop.

"C'mon now, I said you could stay and sleep it off, but Merlin, I would have thought you'd be up by now."

Sitting up, the covers falling from his bare chest, Harry fumbled for his glasses. His hand met Oliver's. "Thanks," Harry said. He had no memory of coming here. Pushing his hair out of his face, he stared at Oliver owlishly.

"How'd I get here?"

"Harry, you were pissed out of your mind. I found you down at the Leaky's backroom," Oliver said, a little grin on his face. "And it's a good thing I did," he continued. "There were a couple of blokes eyeing you."

Groaning, Harry buried his head in his hands. He didn't remember last night at all. Oh shit!

"Look, Harry, you've got to go. I've got company coming," Oliver said, a frown crossing his face. He didn't want to throw Harry out, but he'd been looking forward to tonight since last Thursday. "Here, stand up and get your clothes together, and I'll fix you a coffee. It'll help, I promise." He left the befuddled man standing unsteadily in the middle of his parlour. Oliver smirked. Who would have thought that Harry Potter was a stripper when he was drunk? He'd had a hell of a time calming Harry down after he'd insisted on going to his flat and leaving a note for Draco. He'd never seen a drunk change personalities so quickly! One minute crying over a note, then tearing his clothes off, asking what was wrong with his body and why didn't Draco want him, and then to staggering around the flat knocking things over. It wasn't like he'd ever leave an old teammate in that condition! He'd finally convinced Harry it would be better to stay over at his place until Draco came home. At least that was the original plan.

Harry wrapped the blanket around his waist and started gathering his clothes. He looked around the apartment and found his socks near the fireplace. Picking up what he could find of his clothing, he padded into the bathroom and shut the door; a bit scared of what he'd find looking back at him from the mirror when he turned around.

Oliver came out of the kitchen, a large mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He'd have to get Harry out of here quickly. His company was due in half an hour. Oliver had missed him beyond belief and with his crazy training schedule with Puddlemere United he'd barely seen him at all this month. Luckily, his lover wasn't the jealous sort, but he didn't want to risk it. He crossed the room and banged on the bathroom door.

"Harry, hurry it up!"

Opening the door, Harry had a mug of black coffee shoved into his hand as he stepped out. He winced as a bit of the hot liquid slopped over the side and splashed his hand.

Before he could take a sip, Oliver handed him his knapsack.

"Hang on, "Harry started to say.

"Love to chat, Harry, but I have a date, and you need to get out of here," Oliver said, pushing a half-dressed Harry toward the door.

Harry turned as the door closed behind him. He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes, set the mug on the floor and then began doing up the buttons on his shirt. All at once it came back to him. He'd walked out on Draco. He frowned; it wasn't that big a thing, was it? Draco had acted like a twit. Gods knew Harry acted like a twit all the time. Maybe, he should go home. But what would that prove? Nothing would change. Draco would still be working himself to death, Harry would still be sitting home alone most nights, and other nights he still be sitting home with an exhausted Draco. As much as Harry cared for him, he couldn't bear to see him like that. Draco was irritable, distracted, and generally a pain in the arse these days.

Harry turned and started down the stairs. He wasn't going to go back to their flat. Luckily he was on leave from the Ministry, so he wouldn't have to call in and arrange another week off. Harry needed time to think; to organize his muddled thoughts, to think about Draco, and what he really wanted in life. He'd lived so long doing what was expected of him, and maybe now it was time for him to discover what he really wanted for himself.

Lost in his thoughts, he turned down the last set of stairs, and a tall, tanned man brushed past him. "Sorry Harry!" the man called over his shoulder, then headed up the steps, taking two at a time.

Harry turned and frowned. The man looked familiar, like someone he'd gone to school with at Hogwarts. He was a little taller than Harry, and had the same dark hair as Harry's, but he couldn't quite place him. He almost reminded him of Neville. No matter, it wasn't unusual for people to call Harry by name. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and everyone knew the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry opened the door and shivered as the cold December wind hit him in the face. Perhaps he should talk to Ron. No, that wouldn't do. Ron didn't mind Harry being gay, but he wasn't the best one to talk to about relationships. Look at the Lavender debacle. Maybe Hermione? No, she still hadn't forgiven him for daring Ron to kiss Blaise at their last party. Harry shuddered at the memory of the shiner she had given him. Perhaps, the Weasleys. They were like parents to him. Even if they had no advice for him, at least he'd have somewhere to spend the night; and he really didn't want to be alone in some inn somewhere. He was feeling a little needy and sick right now: the firewhiskey and ale and whatever else he'd drunk hadn't exactly left him hangover free. Harry stuck out his wand, and waited. Cursing, he sat on the curb; any other time the Knight Bus would be right there, but, of course, not tonight.

xxxxx

A loud pop echoed in the cold night air. Draco clutched his coat together tighter and pulled his collar up. It was colder here than back at Wentworth Street. He headed down the street toward the last building on the right. There it was, the block of flats where Oliver Wood lived. Maybe he could convince Harry to come home. That is, if it wasn't too late.

Draco jammed his hands into his pockets and walked a little faster.

"Draco Malfoy?" Oliver said hesitantly after he opened the door. "What are you doing here?" Oliver hadn't expected to find Draco at his door; he'd half expected to find Harry slouched against the door frame, drunk, when he answered the bell.

Pushing his clenched hands in his pockets, Draco calmed himself before answering.

"Is Harry here?" he asked brusquely.

"Harry?" Oliver replied in a confused tone.

"Yes, Harry," Draco repeated impatiently.

"No, he's not here," Oliver said, and nervously glanced back into the dimly lit room.

Draco stepped closer to the entrance, and tried to peer around the door, but Oliver moved to block his view. Draco could see that he was half dressed, his shirt undone, and his trousers half-zipped.

"Well, my neighbor said he was with someone named Ollie," Draco said in a cool voice, but if Oliver had been looking, he would have seen the opposite in Draco's clenched fists.

"Oh her." Oliver said laughing. "She came up and started lecturing Harry about being drunk in public." Pulling a face, Oliver mimicked her in a high pitched cockney voice. "Aye, Mr. Potter, a fine sight you are, staggering down the street."

"And she said he left with an Ollie, and I assume that's you," Draco interrupted.

"Aye, Harry left with me, but he's not here," Oliver replied and glanced over his shoulder again.

A muffled male voice called, "Oliver, I'm getting in the shower…"

Glaring, Draco pushed against the door, but Oliver had it firmly blocked. Apparently Oliver Wood was a strong bloke, and playing Quidditch for Puddlemire United had kept him fit.

"Get out of the way," Draco growled, reaching for his wand

"Draco, I'm telling you mate, he's not here," Oliver insisted and then started.

A tanned arm circled around Oliver's waist, and long thin fingers caught the dark curly hair on Oliver's stomach through his undone shirt.

"Baby, come on, the water will get cold," the voice crooned.

Draco could see a thatch of unruly black hair behind Oliver, and in one brief flash he spotted Harry's jumper wadded up in the corner off to the side of the doorway. The one he'd given him for his birthday because it matched his eyes.

Inhuman strength can come to a person at the most stressful times. Not that it is any different for a wizard. Draco shoved at the door, his wand clattering to the floor. Oliver and the owner of the tanned arm tumbled to the floor in a heap. Panting, Draco stood above them, his fists clenched. He didn't need a wand, he'd take on Oliver Wood any time, and right now was good for him.

Oliver picked himself off the floor and pulled the other man up. Draco watched as Oliver wrapped his arms around the dark-headed man, still blocking his view of the man, and then murmuring something in his ear. Draco saw the shock of dark hair bob. Oliver nodded and, then turned and glared at Draco, before putting his arm around his lover.

A shocked gasp escaped Draco's lips and his cheeks flushed a hot pink. Holy Fuck!

"I told you he wasn't here," Oliver said angrily, his arm around Neville Longbottom.