Chapter 8: Up To A Point
The following weeks leading up to and then succeeding Christmas would have to be, Draco would admit, some of the best days he'd had in a long time. For a number of reasons, despite his brief confrontation with the Keep or Forget and Harry's almost-anger, he found himself to be quite… happy.
Foremost yet in many ways most trivially was his latest investigatory work. The very day following his meeting with Krax, Draco was called into Lurring's office and assigned to a new case. That in itself was unexpected, given that unless a critical situation arose, transfers rarely occurred so close to Christmas. Draco considered, however, that Lurring saw it as a punishment of sorts; far be it from the exciting and engrossing missions of some of the more high-impact operations, that which he was assigned to was nothing if not sedate. Boring, even.
Except it wasn't to Draco. Malicious brewing of potentially explosive potions just outside of Kent? He could hardly ask for something more suited to his area of expertise and interest. Draco had been in his schooling days, and remained to that day, fond of potions. More than that, he was good at brewing. Knowledge pertaining to such an area just seemed more easily retained. So Lurring's supposed punishment? It was hardly a punishment at all. Especially seeing as the investigators Draco was set to work alongside, even their assigned Director of Investigations, were less knowledgeable than he. There were few things Draco enjoyed more than silently and efficiently both proving his superior knowledge and disproving the fumbling attempts of his colleagues.
The second favourable exception to his Christmas seasons arose on the first day of his three-day break for festivities. As was regular for Christmas, Draco accompanied his mother to visit his father in Azkaban. Many would perhaps see such a visit as a sorry affair; saddening and stressful if nothing else. Draco had never really liked it, and not only because he'd never quite been able to conjure a protective Patronus. Such an inability made such visits just that much more taxing.
Not to Draco. He didn't feel much of anything anymore for his father's circumstances, and a lot of that had to do with the fact that Lucius Malfoy was no longer all there. Never a strong man, he'd fallen prey to the effects of the dementors within the first year of his twenty year imprisonment. Visiting him was like visiting a ghost of the man he had once been, and over the years Draco was gradually becoming less able to remember just who that man had been. Lucius barely even registered their presence upon visiting, which was the biggest part of the reason that Draco and Narcissa rarely visited outside of their annual Christmas trip nowadays.
That year, the visit was not favourable due to any particular change on Lucius' front. If anything, Draco could hardly tell the difference between the man he'd seen twelve months before and that which hunkered listlessly in his chair before him that year, head bowed and not even raising his gaze to peer through the bars of his cell upon their arrival. He was perhaps a little thinner, if possible, his hair a little more lacklustre and the glassiness of his eyes slightly more pronounced. All were characteristics of a victim of dementor effects on the road to never returning. It was a sorry state.
Yet Draco couldn't quite bring himself to feel sad. That ship had sailed years ago, when he'd shed his last tears for his father's fate in the wee hours of the morning before resolutely resolving to spare no more. Nothing could be done and that was that.
What was exceptional about the visit was Narcissa. Draco's mother had become a quiet woman over the years. Almost a ghost herself, she spent more time silent and drifting around her modest house in the Wizarding reserve for war victims and families than actively participating in life. Introverted didn't even begin to cover her state; she hopped from menial task to trivial hobby and temporary interests like a bumblebee wafting between flowers, and left most of them half unfinished.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, however, as they visited Azkaban, she seemed markedly more aware of her surroundings than usual. Enough that, when they stepped into the dark, dank and cold walls of the prison, her face immediately scrunched into a semblance of distaste and she even went so far as to openly profess her inclination to be away from the site. Such an inclination didn't dampen in the slightest upon seeing her listless husband. Like Draco, Narcissa had hardened herself to Lucius' fate. They'd moved on, not so much because they wanted to but because they had to. There was not even a flicker of pity in her eyes as she gazed upon the man's bowed head.
Within minutes of arriving, Narcissa turned to Draco. "Well, this is abominably disagreeable. Hardly a way to spend Christmas Eve. Shall we away?" And just like that, for the first time in years, Draco and Narcissa left to spend the day before Christmas away from one of the darkest recesses in the Wizarding world.
Many would think them hard-hearted, Draco knew. He knew that Theodore didn't entirely approve of his disregard for his father, that Blaise was ambivalent, Daphne vehemently approved and Millicent claimed she did while hiding her unease. He didn't really care what any of them though, however. It was not the Malfoy way to dwell on the past. Such an approach would only handicap future progression, would only chain him in stasis and regret rather than allowing him to clamber his way from the well of darkness and back into the potentially fruitful light.
Draco had never been overly fond of darkness.
Their Christmas Eve, and their Christmas for that matter, was spent first dining at the Parlour, one of the richest and most competitive restaurants in Wizarding Britain, and then retreating to Narcissa's house to do nothing save relax and revel in the peace of solidarity. The now completed labyrinth around her house only added to the effect, creating a thick wall of interlocked, two meter hedges twice as long as the path leading up to the door. One could only manage to successfully glimpse over the hedging when in the single upstairs guestroom. Narcissa never went up there, though; Draco suspected she quite liked the sense of isolation the hedging afforded.
Well, it was peaceful until mid-morning on Christmas day with the arrival of Pansy, Blaise and Gregory. Unfortunately for Draco, he hadn't been able to shake their persistent pleas to flee to his doorstep rather than spend yuletide with their own families. Or at least Pansy and Blaise fled. Greg seemed to simply assume that he was invited, and Narcissa's usual yet still surprisingly warm welcome of him did little to dissuade his beliefs.
Yet, even with the tiresome assault of his friends, Draco found he experienced a remarkably jovial Christmas. Or at least as jovial as he tended to allow celebratory circumstances. His good humour was only heightened by the knowledge that Millicent, abandoner of the ball that she was, had been roped into attending the formal festivities of her extended family. That in itself was satisfying enough; unlike Millicent, the Bulstrode family was remarkably enthusiastic for commercial holiday seasons, with their parties usually ending up in the papers at least twice a year. Even more satisfying were Pansy's smirking reminder that Millicent had been required to bring an escort or else have one of her cousin's act in such a role for the duration of the celebration. She hadn't brought anyone – all of her friends had delightedly denied her desperate invitations that rapidly descended into threats – and the thought of a puppy-like, enthusiastic attendant tickled Draco fancy wonderfully.
It detracted from the aching shortness of his holiday period, at least, but then he could hardly complain. Dark witches and wizards didn't pause in their antics for the festive season. If anything, it seemed to entice them to act up all the more.
The third positive point was Jack. Draco was surprised to realise that the bird's unexpected mania sat upon him so heavily. He wouldn't have anticipated it to be of any particular consequence to himself; Jack was, after all, just a bird.
But that Friday, when Jack didn't arrive and demand entry into Draco's house with his usual tap to the window, Draco found himself oddly… saddened. It was pathetic, really, to find himself put out by being stood up by a bird, but he couldn't quite hold off the melancholy that settled upon him as he sat at his dining table with a half-eaten tray of meatballs and pasta and listened to the echoing silence that was the absence of knocking beak on glass.
By twelve o'clock that night, Draco had to face the reality that Jack wasn't coming. That whatever insanity had shaken him had coloured any semblance of fondness the merlin might have held for him. If birds could feel fondness, that was. Draco didn't really know if he even wanted the bird to return in the first place; he could still feel the painful searing, the thin slicing of talons into his fingers and the fear that those slices would slip through his inadequate defences and claw out an eye. Could birds go rabid? Was that what had happened?
Was Jack sick? Was that what had happened?
If the merlin was rabid – or sick, or… or simply insane – Draco wasn't entirely sure he wanted him around. Their clash had only reaffirmed his preconceived conception that all animals were crazy, they all hated him, and he would be a right fool to attempt to approach any of them, even those who seemed tame. Perhaps especially those who seemed tame; they were probably doing it to trick him in the first place.
Still, quite without realising it, as he drifted towards his bed, Knox-ing out lights as he went, Draco couldn't help but pause at the window to his bedroom and flick open the curtains. Just to check.
And there was Jack.
He hadn't tapped on the window. He looked frozen, more like a statue than a bird and colourless in the darkness of night and light snowfall. Neck tucked and wings hunched like a little, bowed old man, even through the gloom Draco thought he looked miserable. And when Draco's Lumos illuminated his flat black eyes, that misery very definitely resembled something bordering on sheepish remorse.
Slowly, cautiously, Draco slid the window open. Jack didn't move, staring unblinkingly up at Draco. His only motion was to tuck his head slightly, in a little bow that seemed almost submissive. Except that Jack was hardly submissive. If history dictated anything, it was that the bird knew what he wanted and would demand it to the death. Memories of a shrieking bird flapping about his house, revelling in his sense of entitlement, seemed starkly juxtaposed to the silent, mournful creature on Draco's windowsill. It seemed so… wrong.
Clicking his tongue, Draco folded his arms and regarded the little bird with a frown. "What are you doing?"
Jack didn't reply. Or if he did, it was only to tuck his head even more firmly.
Sighing, Draco took a step back and to the side, sweeping an inviting hand into his bedroom. "Well? Are you going to sit there all night or are you going to come in? It's cold outside, in case you haven't noticed. I'd rather not turn my house into an ice brick, thank you."
Jack cocked his head slightly. He seemed curious, almost… surprised? Did birds get surprised? Maybe Draco was just projecting again. He was very aware of the fact that he was indeed talking to a bird, a bird who wasn't even replying with the linguistic capabilities of a parrot, and that such conversations were hardly much better than those conducted by the schizophrenic to themselves. He chose to ignore that reality.
"You didn't even knock. How was I supposed to know you were there if you don't knock?" Jack tilted his head back the other way and Draco clicked his tongue in frustration. "Look, if you're going to come in, hurry up already. I'm shutting the window if you don't."
Whether it was Jack somehow understanding Draco's words or simply a flight of his own fancy, decisiveness finally took hold of him once more. The merlin shuffled forwards in a near silent flutter of wings and flapped across the room to perch daintily on the back of Draco's desk chair. Not, Draco noticed detachedly, on his desk and the piles of papers strewn across it. Perhaps Jack was learning? Or maybe he truly did feel remorseful rather than his usual objectionable?
Closing the window, and trying very hard not to let the unexpected upwelling of relief at the merlin's presence show, Draco sniffed and made his way to his bed. "There's some leftovers on the dining room table. Don't make a mess." And, without glancing towards the bird to determine if Jack understood that too, he folded himself into bed. There was a chittering "ki-ki-ki-ki-kee" from across the room and another flutter of feathers, but Draco determinedly ignored them. Jack could do whatever he liked; Draco had already spared enough headspace for him that night.
He tried not to let it effect him when, come morning, the merlin was still nested on the pillow beside his head. Nor when, a full three times that following week, Jack arrived and tentatively – tentatively? – knocked in a request for entry on Draco's window. Rabid or insane though the bird may have briefly been, apparently whatever had gripped him had also instilled a mounting loyalty. Draco didn't know how he felt about that. Or at least, he tried not to acknowledge the strange warmth that settled upon him every time the thoroughly irritating rapping on his bedroom window rung through the house. He should have been angry, repelled by the bird after his attack. He couldn't fathom why he couldn't even grasp such deterrence.
Placing Jack's rekindled affection alongside Harry's heightened companionability left Draco feeling positively popular with his wealth of not-quite-friends. That was the final cherry on top of his Christmas sundae. For despite the fact that Harry claimed he was still angry at Draco, still worried by his apparent foolishness and inclination towards self-destruction, their relationship in the weeks approaching the upcoming Friday Night positively blossomed.
That, Draco rationalised, was probably the element of the Christmas season that Draco found the most rewarding. He wasn't oblivious enough, not determinedly ignorant enough, to ignore what stared him right in the face. He was certainly not as oblivious as Harry was.
Chats in the hallway lasted at times up to minutes, and just as often as not regarded topics pertaining to that which was very much not work.
Almost every evening, Draco found himself trekking through the floors of the Ministry by Harry's side, simply to be in his company for a few more minutes of the day. He could never quite decide whether it was happenstance that found them leaving together or if Draco actively sought Harry's company out, but he was grateful for the moments.
Harry had taken to pausing for a chat when he passed Draco's office, and Draco, hesitantly at first, began to do the same. When he felt the urge to trek all the way into the Field Auror's sector, that was. The Thursday before their short holiday for Christmas found Weasley actually seeking Harry out when they'd become too engrossed in a debate of the usefulness of charmed leather over dragon hide for protective purposes, the subject of which Draco could fathom neither where it had arisen from nor why they both found it so interesting. Suffice to say he enjoyed it nonetheless, even more so for the vexation Weasley failed to hide and the smile of farewell Harry gifted him with.
Even better than that was the gift that Harry gave Draco on the Friday before Christmas with the words "Merry Christmas. I figured since I was giving something to all my friends…". Draco felt only an instant of guilt that he hadn't considered purchasing anything for Harry in return before Harry, shuffling awkwardly, had wished him farewell and disappeared into the Floo. Draco had waited until getting home to open the red and green box and had been left with a somewhat confusing mixture of emotions for what he unearthed.
Chelsea buns. A half dozen of them all individually wrapped in clear cellophane and glistening with glaze and drizzled white icing. It would have seemed random, unexpected, and completely irrational as a Christmas gift. Except that Draco loved Chelsea buns. There were few foods on earth, if any, that he'd rather partake of. That Harry had known to gift it to him… Had Draco told him he liked them? He must have, but that Harry had remembered was….
Harry truly went above and beyond for his friends. Draco almost made himself depressed to think of what he gifted to Weasley and Granger, to the Weaslette, who were his real friends. The Chelsea buns were delicious, however, and worked wonders on his potentially brooding mood. Even Jack seemed to think so, picking at a morsel like a sparrow at worms when Draco finished of the last of them half a week later.
That reality, and the steady, euphoric and entirely nerve-racking approach of Friday Night with Harry, would in itself have made Draco's Christmas. On top of everything else it was as near to perfect as he could approach. The only blemish on the scene was the Oath, the increasingly exceptional situation in Devon, and Draco very obvious exclusion from it all.
It was to be expected really, given that he'd sworn an oath on the Oath Rod that effectively rendered him useless in any investigatory role, regardless of the fact that he knew with no hint of arrogance – it was simple fact, after all – that he was one of the best in the department. That any assistance he could render would need to be extricated like a buried splinter by the combined efforts of three superiors made his involvement far too much trouble for the benefits he could afford. Draco wondered if Krax regretted the decision he'd made, but didn't even consider asking. There were some boundaries he knew better than to cross.
His exclusion wouldn't have bothered him so much in most any other situation, except for two key features. One, that the situation in Dartmoor was becoming increasingly complex, intricate and delightfully significant, and Draco wasn't allowed any of it. And two, that Harry was a deeply embroiled participant in that situation, and Draco wasn't allowed any of it.
It was almost a revisit to the jealousy of his schooling days, though this time coming from an entirely different perspective.
Draco was excluded from the situation. That much vexed him. So, in an attempt to alleviate his irritation, he focused on the one aspect that he'd circumstantially discovered he was able to discuss. The fact that the Elites were Animagus.
That was intriguing.
Unfortunately for Draco, in the scant amount of spare time he had in the office, he'd unearthed little to nothing that could further his knowledge on the subject. To say that the Animagus status of the Elites was classified was an understatement. He could find nothing. Even using Pansy's connections, expressly those linked directly to the Animagus Licensing Approval sub-department, unearthed nothing. No records whatsoever. His attempts at extricating anything further from Harry had similarly amounted to nothing; Harry demonstrated a remarkable skill in dextrously and subtly diverting the conversation when Draco attempted to pursue it, or simply smiling and very obviously and deliberately once more diverting the conversation.
No, intriguing didn't even begin to cover it. Draco found the need to know nag at him like a persistent itch. He'd found himself on more than one occasion grumbling to Jack about his predicament, and hadn't the care to stop himself, even knowing as he muttered that asking questions of the merlin would amount to nothing. Jack, for his part, seemed to find it amusing. The clucking chitters he replied with sounded very much like laughter.
By Boxing Day, Draco had reached his limit. He resorted, with much hesitancy, to requesting the direct assistance of the one person who could route out just about any secret. The rumour leech herself. And it wasn't Pansy.
Daphne Greengrass' personal estate was nearly as large as Malfoy Manor. She'd owned it outright since she was seventeen, and it had been awaiting her whims empty and immaculate except for the dutiful house elves since her birth. Unlike most of Draco's friends, she'd denied the rebellious flair for independence that urged them all to find their own slightly less extravagant homes when graduating from Hogwarts; Daphne had no hesitancy in indulging herself.
Honestly, Draco couldn't blame her. The house was gorgeous, and carried not even a hint of the taint of the war. Why wouldn't she embrace it?
That was how, on Monday morning at exactly ten fifty-one, Draco found himself seated in Daphne's parlour and sipping tea while the slight blonde woman affixed him with a calculating stare.
Contrary to popular public belief, Daphne could talk. It was simply that she chose not to. Theodore was more than happy to act as her mouthpiece, and Daphne appeared to find no dispute in allowing him to fulfil such a role. When she was alone, without anyone to fob redundant or inconsequential questions onto, she did indeed speak. Many found, after such conversations, that her use of a mouthpiece was a blessing in disguise. The reality of her personality hit Draco surprisingly hard at every confrontation, even after so many years.
"Really, Draco?"
Sipping his too-bitter tea and refusing to flinch at the whip-crack of Daphne's quiet voice, Draco forced himself to shrug. "It's simply a curiosity. Nothing particularly strenuous. If you don't feel inclined, I won't push it."
Daphne's eyes narrowed dangerously. If Pansy was a stalking lioness, Daphne was a viper, through and through. An aggressive one at that, and not partial to provocation. "You're asking for me to use my connections for one of your passing fancies?"
"Yes."
"You dare to ask me, without offering anything of worth in return, for my assistance?"
"Yes."
"And you're well aware that I have every right to make a demand of you in return? For this… curiosity of yours?"
"Yes?" Draco was very aware that his reply sounded more like a question than an agreement. He sipped hastily at his tea once more. It didn't taste any better for being drunk quickly.
Daphne regarded him with eyes narrowed to slits. She was a veritable hypnotist with that stare, and could very well scare anybody she desired into spilling their innermost secrets to her. It was likely what made her one of the best journalists in Europe; unlike Pansy and her column in Witch Weekly, Daphne unearthed the truly delectable rumours. The facts that had been buried for years and people had died to protect, the stories that would destroy families and bankrupt the wealthy. And Daphne wafted those stories into the open, only ever restraining herself for just the right incentive.
Dangerous? Yes, Daphne was a very dangerous woman. One would never pick it to look at her pretty, silent countenance, eyes typically downcast and face devoid of expression.
There was an increasingly painful pause that suspended in the air. Draco was just beginning to experience the intense urge to jump to his feet and make a hasty departure from certain death when Daphne spoke. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, Draco. You've got balls."
It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Draco released a faintly shuddering sigh of relief. It was a struggle to keep it hidden from Daphne, and even when he'd regained his composure he wasn't certain that he'd adequately managed it. "Thank you, Daphne."
"What is it exactly that you want me to find?" Out of nowhere, Daphne conjured a Self-Refilling Quill and parchment and settled herself more comfortably into her seat. She didn't look any less intimidating for it. If anything, the impression Draco was left with was nothing if not a coiled serpent, eyes peeled and fixed upon its dinner as said meal edged unwittingly closer.
Placing his teacup deliberately back in its saucer, Draco sniffed. "The Elites. I want any and everything you can find, but particularly that pertaining to potential Animagus forms."
Daphne glanced up from the parchment she'd elegantly dotted with shorthand. "You have reason to believe they are Animagus." It wasn't a question.
Draco inclined his head. "I trust you know to keep your tongue held."
"Of course. For a price."
"Naturally. And what is that price?"
"All in good time, Draco. I never rush into decisions." The slight curl of Daphne's lips was terrifying. Draco knew from past experience that he would most likely regret seeking Daphne's aid; she more often than not held onto such favours for years, recalling them once more at the most inopportune moments. "Anything else? Any relevant details to be noted in particular?"
"I trust your judgement on the matter," Draco said. Daphne tipped her head in acknowledgement and scrawled for far longer than would have seemed necessary given his statement. He wondered if she did it to unhinge him; she certainly almost succeeded if that had been her intention.
Which was how, on Thursday evening, the night before his not-date with Harry, Draco received a bundle of papers, notebooks and photographs from the straining clutches of Daphne's Great Horned owl. It was an impressive parcel to say the least, and that evening Draco learned far more about the Elites than he'd ever held any desire to know beforehand.
Like the fact that there were thirteen of them – the magic number, naturally – but that number had been whittled down from fifteen when two over-enthusiastic hopefuls proved 'unfitting'. The file on that situation didn't specify as to the nature of how they didn't quite fit.
He learned more about the families and livelihoods of the six witches and seven wizards than he'd had any inclination of knowing. The name 'Weasley' cropped up far too much for his liking.
He gained a chronological history of their operations and exploits in dribs and drabs, some of which he'd already known and some that he hadn't. Those few had remarkably little on the relevant matter.
Which was the main problem, really. Like holes in a crocheted blanket, the story of the Elites as a whole was very definitely missing key elements. The results of a number of operations, mostly those that Draco hadn't already known, were some of them. It would appear that, like Draco, Daphne's sources were only afforded a very censored version of events. Very censored indeed.
That, and the very distinct lack of reference to Animagus forms. It was all the more frustrating because Draco knew – knew – that those forms existed, and yet even Daphne had been unable to unearth more than a whisper of those forms. There was reference to Norma Wixen, with a detailed outline of her Animagus form. She'd long since been publicly recognised for the dainty white mare guise that she could assume, however. And then there was the speculation over Heath Harley; was he a snake, a frog or a rat? How anyone could possibly mistake one for another given the involved animals was beyond Draco, so he could only conclude that the speculation around Harley's form was purely that: speculation.
It obviously frustrated Daphne, at least as much as it did Draco as he muttered and cursed his way through the pages. He could tell by the use of red ink, as well as the deeper than necessary scratchings of quill on parchment as she notated and circled. On several instances the quill had poked holes in that parchment. Daphne hated being left in the dark even more than Draco did. She likely took it as a personal slight that she was unable to find the information Draco requested.
There were some references, however, that Daphne and hence Draco found of interest. Words in newspaper articles, subtle suggestions that, when looked at with the knowledge of the transfiguration capacities of the Elites, could be tongue wagging.
"The Wild Hunt Runs Again," was one such heading that drew a smirk on Draco's lips. The words "running like a pack of wolves' or 'descending like birds of prey' were others. The metaphors and euphemisms seemed to crop up more and more the further Draco looked, and he just had to wonder… maybe he wasn't the only one who had stumbled across this secret, yet maintained its secrecy.
Draco knew he was being uncharacteristically persistent with the case. The Elites had never truly interested him at all past the fact that Harry was a part – and the captain – of the squad. But he simply couldn't help himself. Excluded as he was from the operation in Devon, it was almost a physical need with which he pursued the knowledge.
That, and his attempts to rationalise to himself that Harry – Merlin, that Weasley – was an Animagus. That would take a while to sink in still. Harry may have been an exceptional wizard, but Draco never would have expected him to be capable of such a delicate and complex form of magic. He certainly hadn't expected as much from Weasley.
Thursday night, as he set down the final photographs Daphne had sent him upon his desk, Draco set himself the task: tomorrow night, he would pull at least that secret from Harry's lips. Dammit, he would get something he desired out of the following night, even if he had to drag it to light with his teeth.
The Alarm Charm jolted Draco with surprise, vibrating the wand in his pocket like a nervously quivering mouse. Blinking at his reflection in the mirror in surprise, he drew his fob watch from his pocket and peered at it. Nine o'clock.
He'd spent nearly two hours readying himself.
He hadn't taken that long since his schooling days.
Pausing for only an instant more to run one more finger across the smooth perfection of his hair, Draco nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave. He cleaned up nicely, he knew. His newest pair of casual yet upstanding dress robes were tailored to fit perfectly, his dragon hide boots buffered to a matte shine. His hair was groomed immaculately and fingernails clipped and polished. There was truly nothing save a quick Breath Refreshing Charm that he had left to do for himself to reach utter perfection.
Draco had no idea why he felt nervous.
Pausing only to draw a thick cloak around his shoulders, he stepped from his front door into the night, heading in rapid strides to the Smittson's View Apparation point. The cloak held the duel function of both repelling the persistent cold of mid-winter and concealing his very non-Muggle attire from curious and ignorant onlookers. Besides, it matched his boots perfectly.
Harry had given Draco the coordinates to the Apparation point nearest the Falcon's Nest earlier that afternoon. They'd found themselves once more departing from the office side by side, sharing companionship that they'd been devoid of for the past few days due to the weight of 'covert' operations on their shoulders. Harry's particularly – Draco had barely seen a glimpse of him as he nearly ran between offices – but also on Draco's. To his delight, the malicious brewer had proved to be more slippery, his roots embedded far deeper, than anyone had expected. A long string of unsolved black market exchanges were in the process of being examined for his involvement. Draco loved every second of it.
Pausing at the Floos, Harry had spared Draco only a moment's nod and confirmation to "meet at nine?" before disappearing into the flaring flames.
Draco had stepped through directly after. From the moment he reached his front door, he found himself functioning mechanically, running through his readying routine with barely an inkling of awareness. Which was why, two hours later, he'd been surprised at just how much time it had taken him. Apparently his subconsciousness was similarly finicky when it came to readying himself for a night out.
With Harry.
The point Draco Apparated to, in the middle of Griffin Street, was similarly in the middle of Wizarding Britain. That in itself was a benefit; he often found it incredibly tedious, the need to accommodate Muggle awareness as he Apparated around London. Over the years, Draco had been forced to re-evaluate his prejudices against Muggles and Muggleborns – though due more to necessity than any particular desire – and the distasteful lather that had once coated his tongue at even the thought of the magic-less dregs of society now no longer arose. Some were competent, to a degree. Some.
But even so, he had always and would always feel more comfortable away from Muggles. The only reason he'd chosen to secrete himself in Smittson's View was because, by and large, he felt more comfortable away from wizards, too. At least Muggles didn't know him by sight.
The Falcon's Nest was the hub of the street. That in itself was remarkable given what Theodore had told him of the establishment as well as its newness. But despite being only young, it was definitely the most popular of the half-dozen clubs along the street. A long, winding line trailed from the door, a column of fidgeting, chattering and laughing witches and wizards that didn't seem to begrudge the lengthy wait. Draco by-passed them all to take himself to the very front of the line.
"I'm here with Harry Potter," he murmured to the burly bouncer that intercepted him with folding arms. "Draco Malfoy."
The tall, heavyset wizard regarded Draco for a moment before inclining his head and stepping aside, allowing entry through the double doors of the club. Because really, who didn't at least vaguely know what Draco Malfoy looked like? And who in the world would want to impersonate him?
The Falcon's Nest was unlike any club Draco had ever been in. Mostly, this was because the majority of the space within appeared nothing much like a club at all. A large building, the far end was consumed by a dance lined by pews for the weak kneed after too long under the lazily swirling overhead lights. The resounding notes of a smooth record player throbbed music onto a scattering of dancers that appeared nothing if not entirely removed from the world at large. That was fairly typical, even if the music was a little alternate.
There was a bar, too, situated along the wall between the front door and the dance floor. A trio of bar tenders shook and poured and shot mixing charms at colourful concoctions before palming them off into the waiting hands of their clients. That too was typical.
What was not typical was the calm and hushed restaurant three-quarters filled with quiet diners chewing sedately upon aromatic, exquisitely colourful dishes. Unconventional too was the modest, pristine stage and podium just to the side of it, outfitted more for a lecturer or political speaker than for a band. Surprising was the spiral stairwells in each corner that lead up to a bird's nests of booths that overlooked the floor below.
As Draco stepped through the entrance, he peered around himself with barely concealed interest. He was not one to visit clubs on general principle, but he had to admit that after Theodore's acclamation and Daphne's silent approval he had been interested. His expectations hadn't quite prepared him for what he would find, however. Not the layout or the mystical scenery scene that painted the walls and swayed slightly as though in a breeze. The fluttering of wraith-like bird conjurations overhead created vibrant spots of sparkling light on the otherwise night-dark roof scene, and the trills of said birds could just be heard beneath the playing record.
Mystical was a very good word to describe the Falcon's Nest. And though Draco had never seen himself as one to appreciate such fancies in the past, he could certainly see the appeal. It was quite… calming. Unexpected, given what the mere presence of the dance floor would otherwise suggest.
It took him several moments to spot Harry. He was secreted in one of the upper story booths, the emptiest of the four and furthest from the bar, and from a distance Draco could see he appeared thoroughly engrossed in something on the dance floor as he idly swirled his drink.
That wouldn't do at all.
Quashing any lingering feelings of unease – because Draco would not allow himself to feel any; they were entirely irrational feelings anyway – he strode towards the corresponding stairwell and made his way up to the booths. He wove his way silently through the minimal assortment of round tables and matching chairs, refraining from even acknowledging the half-glances of the other patrons, with single-minded focus. Harry noticed him when he was but five steps away, and the smile he afforded him should definitely have been illegal.
"Draco!" He exclaimed, as if he hadn't been standing less than half a dozen feet away. As if he almost hadn't expected Draco to come at all, which was entirely ridiculous considering Draco was the one who suggested. He paused in step to offer Harry a raised eyebrow while subtly drinking in the image he made.
Muggle clothes, of course. Harry always wore Muggle clothes unless in work attire or at a formal gathering. Draco found he couldn't begrudge the drift from stereotypical Wizarding fashion; if anyone could make casual jeans and dark green button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows look like model material, it would be Harry. It was such a far cry from what had once been a gawkish, awkward adolescent it was obscene.
And maybe that was simply Draco's personal opinion, but he doubted that given the articles in every other magazine and newspaper on a regular basis. Draco was very satisfied with the fact that he was sure – certain – that he'd been one of the first people in the world to notice. Even as 'enemies' in school, Draco hadn't been oblivious to his appreciation. And that was before he'd even fully accepted his sexuality. When Harry had added to his diminutive height, laid some muscle over his previously scrawny frame, it was almost impossible not to notice.
Unfortunately for Draco, Ginny Weasley had gotten there first. Well, there was the fact that the pair of them supposedly hated each other that too got in the way, but Draco didn't deign to think about that anymore.
"Do attempt to refrain from overtly expression your jubilation, Harry. People will stare," Draco said as he stepped once more towards the table and folded himself into a seat.
Harry, his smile slipping none for the reprimand, followed suit. "I'm just happy you actually decided to come. It was touch and go for a while there, I thought. But hey, what do you care for drawing attention? You used to love being in the thick of things in the good old days."
"The good old days?" Draco arched his eyebrow once more, but his thoughts were instead upon Harry's other words. I'm just happy you actually decided to come. Innocent enough, to a pure mind perhaps, but Draco had never considered himself particularly partial to purity. And if he chose to take them for a thinly veiled euphemism… well, Animagus Harry might be, but Draco doubted he was particularly skilled at Legilimancy. He just couldn't see it in the Auror Captain.
Harry nodded easily. "You always had your little tag-alongs. Something of an idol in Slytherin, weren't you?"
"Idol doesn't begin to cover it," Draco replied with a modest sniff. It was true. He had indeed been well established in his schooling days, when the Malfoy name had been exalted and respectable. Though stained by the war, that name still encouraged respect in the right circles, more than the forced amicability of society as a whole, but Draco hardly revelled in it. Avoided it, more correctly. How times had changed.
"Would you like a drink?" Harry broke into his thoughts. Draco drew his attention to the folded menu propped in the middle of the table. "You tap your choice with your wand and they'll bring it up."
"I would expect no less," Draco replied, reaching for the menu.
"You're a real snob, you know that?"
"I do try."
Ordering a regular Firewhisky, because Draco was traditional like that, he settled himself into the ambiance of the scene. Within moments, quite without his realisation, Harry had drawn him into conversation and any lingering nervousness faded into nothingness. Barely a handful of platitudes and pleasantries were exchanged before they fell into a casual discussion as though they had merely taken a moment's break from doing so. How Harry managed communication quite so easily was beyond Draco; despite the fact that they only spoke intermittently, he always seemed capable of initiating a casual conversation at the drop of a hat. It was almost as though he had a script for every given situation stored in inventory. Draco had to wonder at the foundations his childhood provided to develop such abilities.
By the time the waiter arrived with Draco's Firewhisky, they had become thoroughly embroiled in a debate over the legitimacy of beater Jenkin's suspension from the Glenacre Ghouls two weeks prior. Draco kept up with the quidditch league as a matter of principle despite no longer playing himself, but he had not engaged in such discussions with anyone in years. Not even Blaise bothered with him anymore despite professions of his own continued interest, and Greg's tendencies had dropped when he'd finished school and left the team behind.
"All I'm saying is that if they were so worried about possible concussions, then there needs to be instilled stricter guidelines as to the specific allowances for Beaters," Harry was saying persistently, finger poking at the table as though to highlight his words.
"That's preposterous," Draco countered. "If a beater can't control the force he puts into a swing, he shouldn't be a beater at all. That's his very role in the match."
"Yes, but the very act of whacking a bludger at someone pretty much makes the odds of potential injury highly probably. You wouldn't find Muggle sports allowing that sort of thing."
"Muggle sports? You mean like the one where you're fouled for even touching another player?" Draco snorted derogatorily.
"I'm not sure which sport you're referring to."
"There's more than one that have that rule?"
"Yeah, well, it's sort of in keeping with the whole 'playing safe' theme."
"Playing safe? How very Muggle."
"That is the general idea, yes," Harry smirked. "I suppose Muggles just have a more pronounced sense of self-preservation than witches and wizards do."
Before Draco could reply, their waiter, clad in a uniform of green and black, arrived and placed an ice-filled tumbler of Firewhisky before him. The young blonde man barely spared Draco a glance before turning to Harry and setting down a bottle of some dark-tinted liquid of which Draco couldn't make out the name.
"On the house, Harry."
"I've already had one 'on the house'," Harry replied, flashing his easy smile at the young man.
Blondie shrugged. "Uncle Gerold said you've pretty much got free reign on the bar taps." He smiled winningly in a grin that was so suggestive that Draco nearly twitched with the urge to lob his tumbler at the man's head. "You've still never told me what you're holding over his head."
Harry shrugged, disregarding the question. "It's not really anything all that special."
"Then why won't you tell me?"
"Well, if Gerold doesn't want to tell you he's keeping it from you for a reason."
Blondie pouted. "I feel so excluded. You won't ever let me join in your games with you, Harry."
This time Draco's fingers really did twitch, and it took every ounce of his mental strength to suppress the urge to indeed crack his glass over the young man's head. Flirting? Oh yes, Blondie certainly was flirting. For a moment Draco had almost forgotten that the Falcon's Nest was a gay bar. While a little alternate, it didn't have anything that particularly screamed LGBT. More than that, apparently the ambiance of the club had reduced the fervent need for dancers to rub and grind against each other, or the drunken to lock onto one another in mindless sucking and salivary exchange. Apart from the occasional pairs of men or women – and sometimes men and women – dancing loosely with one another, there was nothing. Even the diners appeared to be composed more of mixed groups than exclusive couples.
But of course, the only individual in the club that chose to openly flirt with those not expressly their partners had to choose Harry as their target. And, as suggested by Blondie's words, they had to be the nephew of the club owner. Harry had mentioned briefly several days before that he was on good terms with the owner Gerold. Apparently those terms were very good, good enough to extend to the man's family. Blondie's smile definitely suggested he was quite fond of Harry.
The only thing that prevented Draco from acting was the fact that Harry very obviously did not reciprocate those feelings. His whole body language, from the slightly withdrawing lean of his posture to the friendly but reserved smile he gave the younger man, said he held nothing of the same interest. Blondie obviously didn't realise, but Draco wasn't terribly concerned. If the boy couldn't see it, woe be it to him when he was eventually let down. For some reason, Draco doubted that faithful and ardent pursuit was really the way to win the affections of the Saviour of the Wizarding world.
Harry and Blondie exchanged brief words, nothing more than superficial and redundant pleasantries and questions that sounded more compulsive than anything, before Harry seemed to register that Draco was maintaining his silence. He very deliberately turned towards him and offered a smile that Draco delightedly recognised as being better than the one Blondie had received.
"Draco, this is Francis, nephew of Gerold who owns the place. Francis, this is Draco."
"Oh, I know who he is." Francis – though Draco preferred Blondie – spared him a glance that he was all too familiar with. In short, it was recognition, attempted friendliness and acceptance, and largely disregard. Draco didn't really care either way, but the little almost amiable smile vexed him. Why even try? "Everyone knows who Draco Malfoy is."
"That they do," Harry agreed, his smile turning into more of a smirk. When had he become so proficient at smirking? He'd certainly seemed incapable of anything so subtle in their teenage years.
Francis switched his attention back towards Harry with a beaming smile. "Not as famous as you, though."
Draco almost snorted aloud, and had to smother it in a sip of whiskey. Suck up. It would have been disgusting to watch if it wasn't so amusing. Harry seemed to think so too from his expression, but Francis seemed largely oblivious. More than that, he seemed intent on engaging Harry in another attempt at conversation, only ceasing his attempts when another young man, head of dark curls and an almost submissive disposition, appeared at his side.
"Francis, your uncle's looking for you."
Francis paused mid-word, pouting to the intruder. "He is not. He just doesn't want me talking to Harry. Don't make excuses for him, Kevyn."
Kevyn rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, sharing a knowing smile with Harry and offering a faintly apologetic one to Draco. Evidently, such occurrences happened quite frequently. "Either way, he wants to see you."
Grumbling, Francis obliged, his disgruntled expression alleviated only briefly when he spared one final beaming smile for Harry. Kevyn remained only long enough to receive a gratefully mouthed 'thanks' from Harry and offer another apologetic glance towards Draco before following the blonde man.
"Well," Draco drawled. "Someone's popular."
Harry actually winced. "Was it that obvious?"
"You'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid to have missed it."
Sighing, as though he was nothing if not wearied by the situation, Harry shook his head. "Gerold said he had a bit of a crush."
"A bit? I'd say he's more than a little infatuated."
"It's just a crush, Draco," Harry said, and he sounded almost cautioning in his rebuff. The effect was dampened slightly, however, by the faint flush of his cheeks. "Besides, he's just a kid."
Draco took a casual sip of his whiskey. "He couldn't be younger than seventeen. I can't imagine the owner of this establishment allowing an underage worker. Even if they were his nephew."
"Especially because he's his nephew. You don't know Gerold. He's a little overprotective of him."
"Perhaps he believes unfulfillable pursuit is for the best?"
"Yeah, probably. I doubt he'd be all too fond of Francis seeing anyone. Especially someone six years his senior."
"Even if that someone was the Chosen One? Salazar, this Gerold must have high standards."
"Please don't call me 'the Chosen One'," Harry groaned.
Draco chuckled. The words, "Oh, that is the least of what I could call you," were on the tip of his tongue, but he somehow managed to hold them back. He leant back casually in his seat. "That's the only problem, then?"
"Hm?"
"That he's too young. That's the only issue? You've no prior attachments?"
"Well, it's not the only issue. If I wanted a relationship, I'd hardly look for it from someone barely an adult. I don't fancy myself a cradle snatcher." Harry's nose twitched as he fought back a smile. "But what's this? Are you poking around my love life again, Draco?"
"You make me sound criminal. I'm merely curious."
"Why? Because you don't have much of one going yourself?" Obviously realising the harshness of his words an instant after he said them, Harry winced. "Sorry. That sounded…"
"Crude, yet truthful." Draco shrugged, not allowing himself to be effected by the comment. Draco didn't want a relationship. Or at least, he didn't want just any relationship, and not just with anyone. Harry's presence seemed to become suddenly more pronounced. "And yes, you're right. So now, as my… friend, it is your duty to let me live through you."
There was an unexpected pause as Draco took another sip of his drink. When he raised his eyes to Harry, it was to behold an expression he'd never seen before. Faintly confused and somehow satisfied. "What?"
Slowly shaking his head, Harry dropped his gaze to the bottle in his hands. "Nothing, just…"
"Oh, pray, don't leave me in suspense."
"Just that you've never called me your friend before."
Draco paused himself this time. He'd heard himself say the word, of course. Heard it right after a frantic and objectionable mental debate over his use of the word. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. "Well, aren't you?"
Harry offered him a crooked grin that was entirely worth any discomfort he may have acquired from the situation. "Definitely."
"Then why are you objecting?"
"I'm not objecting. I'm just surprised. I never saw the great Draco Malfoy as being one to acknowledge he had friends."
Draco regarded him flatly for a moment. Then, very resolutely turning to face the dance floor, he replied in a cool tone, "Potter? Shut up."
Harry only laughed in reply. Draco hoped that he couldn't discern the faint warmth that was rising in his cheeks and tickling his neck. And he very, very much hoped that Harry wasn't proficient in Legilimancy. If he could read the real intentions off the surface of Draco's thoughts… well, Draco wasn't entirely certain of what he would do, but he didn't think he was ready for the rejection that was a very likely possibility. He could only sip sedately at his drink and offer a condescending half-smile in return.
As far as nights out went, it was relatively standard. Which, for Draco, meant that it was hardly usual for him at all. He hadn't been out with a single person – one that he fostered a one-sided attraction for at that – in… in possibly forever. Whenever that realisation surfaced, he found himself becoming taut with discomfort, only for that tension to ease rapidly when their conversation took its frequent interesting turns. It even managed to distract Draco from the very brief yet lingering shadow of the conversation that had passed following Francis' departure.
He didn't mean to focus on the fact that Harry had not once claimed he wasn't attracted to the young man. The niggling voice in the back of his head simply wouldn't silence.
But in spite of that, in spite of the roiling and repetitive track of his thoughts, of what he refused to consider to be a hope, Draco enjoyed himself. Because that's what it was like with Harry. In a word, enjoyable. In more than a word… so much more than that. He'd never have guessed ten years ago, not in a million years, that he would actually find himself enjoying talking with his once-rival.
As usual, they spoke of work, both dancing around the subjects of their own current occupations without revealing any particular facts. It was always a safe area, discussing something so neutral.
And yet that faded into discussion of friends and colleagues and, though Draco had little to no inclination to hear about Weasley and Granger and their antics, he would listen because Harry spoke to him and anything he said was an insight into his character. A character that Draco very much wanted to become affiliated with. It helped that much of what Harry shared held a note of fond exasperation for Weasley's stupidity, or Granger's persistence.
Draco shared his own tales of woe for those he at times barely considered his friends. Which led to speculation of schooling days gone by, of the current status of Hogwarts, which somehow jumped to politics, then took a dive back into quidditch, and briefly even mentioned the lingering effects of the Muggle Cold War that had left a still standing impression upon the Wizarding world of America.
It was unconventional, to say the least. Before eleven o'clock, Draco was long past regretting that he'd been avoiding spending a night out with Harry. Regret it he had, but the thought seemed negligible now. It was far too easy to be… natural. Or at least as natural as Draco ever allowed himself to be.
The table was littered with bottles and empty cups by the time midnight clocked by. While the benefits of befriending the owner of the club may have seemed profuse at first, the detriments in the form of uninhibited liquor intake were rapidly making themselves known. Draco was already experiencing the throbbing beginnings of light-headedness and Harry had long since switched to Butterbeer rather than the spirits he'd been drinking beforehand.
The tables and chairs they were situated amidst were relatively empty, despite the undulating mass of individuals that now populated the ground floor of the club. Draco had questioned Harry on the nature of their isolation – there was not even ten others in the little bird's nest, and none had spared Draco and Harry's corner table an instant of attention in the past half an hour – and discovered that it was something of a V.I.P. section. Draco wasn't complaining; it actually felt quite nice to be afforded such privilege. Quite nice indeed.
Harry let out a heavy sigh, drawing Draco's gaze from where it was affixed on a speaker at the podium. The middle-aged witch, a honeycomb of mousy hair coiled atop her head, was proclaiming something or other about the disadvantageous effects of the latest brand of Invisibility Powder that was circulating the market at present. Draco wouldn't have spared her even a second thought if not for the fact that she was so obviously a very learned individual, her angle more focused upon justifying her opinion and expanding into the misuse of magical experimentation in the name of commercialism. It was actually quite interesting.
Not, however, as interesting as the reason for Harry's almost mournful sigh. At least, that's what Draco fuzzy mind was telling him. He glanced at Harry for a moment before following the train of his gaze to the crowd below. What he saw made him freeze. Or at least freeze as much as he could in his semi-drunken state.
At eleven o'clock that evening, the Falcon's Nest had opened the bottleneck of its front doors wide and allowed the number of patrons to double. Such a procedure was, according to Harry, done in respect for the diners looking to have a relatively tame and quiet meal without the euphoric enthusiasm of partiers.
Not that 'euphoric' really described any of the clients at the Falcon's Nest. Each and every one of them seemed to possess something other, something almost like class, that dissuaded submersion into full-blown intoxication, and of which Draco thoroughly approved. The dance floor had extended, the bar acquiring several more pairs of hands for assistance, and the music increasing in volume, but it was nothing even as rowdy as the Lodestone was known to become at times. And the Lodestone didn't even have a dancer floor as such.
With the influx of clients, the reason the Falcon's Nest was dubbed a gay bar became slowly apparent. Couples. There were couples everywhere, and many didn't show the bashful hesitancy of the earlier patrons. Draco and Harry had shared a bemused conversation or two over several courtship rituals that oft ended as badly as they did successfully. But jest as they might, Draco had found their discussion a learning experience in and of itself. For though Harry might joke and shake his head at the couples woefully, there was something in his gaze, some falseness in the spread of his smile, which suggested it wasn't entirely whole-hearted.
If Draco were to label it, he would call it longing.
That barely seen longing was now written even more prominently across Harry's face as Draco turned his full attention upon it once more. Elbow propped on the table and chin resting in one hand, Harry gazed down at a couple of young men held loosely in one another's embrace. Their faces were picturesque in bliss and ardour, and even from a distance, even through the dim light that cloaked the dance floor, Draco could see that to them at least no one else in the world existed. Not in that moment.
And Harry was watching them. Longingly.
Draco's tongue spoke before his mind had fully given it his permission. "See something you like?"
Starting slightly, Harry blinked rapidly and turned towards him. "Sorry?"
Draco gestured his glass towards the couple. Or at least as much in their general direction as he could manage across the distance. "Those two."
Harry turned slowly back towards them, his face falling into a guarded expression. "What about them?"
"Don't play daft, Potter. I saw how you were looking at them. So. What is it?"
Harry fell silent for a moment. It irked Draco slightly, but he rationalised that at least he wasn't denying it anymore. When Harry did eventually speak, it was slow and hesitant. "I just… it seems… nice."
"Cuddling in public like a pathetic pair of lovebirds?"
"When you put it like that it just sounds stupid."
"There's a reason for that," Draco replied, widening his eyes pointedly. Harry rolled his own in return, but his shoulders hunched slightly, chin dropping in an almost dejected manner. It was horrifying enough to witness that Draco actually felt a brief twinge of that damnable guilt arise within him. "You're jealous of their relationship?"
Harry glanced towards Draco without raising his head. "I think more… envious than jealous."
"I don't follow."
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It's just that I've never really had anything like that."
Draco arched an eyebrow. "What, not even with the Weaslette?"
"I wish you wouldn't call her that," Harry replied flatly. " And if I had, don't you think Ginny and I would still be together now?"
Draco sensed he'd struck a chord and immediately dropped any inclination to discuss Ginevra Weasley further. Besides, he didn't think teasing and snide comments were really the right approach in the given context. Harry actually seemed to be opening up of a sort. Draco couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement for the fact. An excitement that he had to crush like a bug beneath his fist for its foolishness.
Bowing his head, ceding, Draco moderated his tone. "I didn't mean to suggest. It was merely in jest."
"I know," Harry said after a moment. "Sorry. I guess it's just a sore spot at the moment."
"At the moment? I thought you said you weren't looking for a relationship?"
"I'm not looking," Harry replied with emphasis. "But that doesn't mean I can't hope it would find me. Searching would just end in… in disaster."
"And why is that?" Draco asked, genuinely curious. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to turn down Harry. "Surely most every witch with an ounce of sense would leap at the chance to date the famous Harry Potter." He tried to mask the sincerity of his compliment behind a mocking tone and thought he managed fairly well. Hopefully.
"That's precisely the problem," Harry replied, frowning slightly. He ran a hand through his hair in his familiar gesture of awkwardness. "That's… that's the problem."
"You don't want someone to express attraction for you for your fame?" Draco hazarded a guess. It sounded like a very Harry thing to worry about. In his own family, name, fame and fortune had been everything. For generations matches between purebloods had been established based on such external traits. That had all changed with the revolution of sorts in recent years, and with it Draco had happened upon the understanding that most families and relationships didn't operate that way. It had taken a solid six years to reach the conclusion that modern marriages were more likely to be built on mutual love and trust than expectations and progressive desires for boosting one's political station. He'd always sort of known that some families acted in such ways, but it had never really seemed applicable to him in the past.
But things were different now.
Harry nodded his head in reply. "Yeah, there is that too." Then he clamped his lips shut.
Perhaps it was the half-dozen glasses of Firewhiskey that Draco had downed that night, or perhaps it was just that he had been denying himself such a possibility for so long that when it finally bared itself as a real possibility he overlooked it. But when realisation hit him, he couldn't stop himself from speaking. "Perhaps it's not the witches attention you so desire?"
Harry maintained his silence, but from the twitch of his cheek and the tightening of his jaw Draco knew he wasn't far from the mark.
"I've hit the Niffler's nest, haven't I?" Pause. "I guessed right?"
The glare Harry turned upon him did more to incite his overwhelming attraction than anything excepting perhaps his smile could have. There was wariness and hesitancy there, but also a bubbling anger the likes of which Draco hadn't seen directed towards him in years. It was as intoxicating as his whiskey. More so. "And? What if you have? Do you have a problem with that?"
"Hardly," Draco replied. And then his body acted for him, in a fashion that his mind, though belated, entirely agreed with. He almost couldn't breath for the rising delight that coursed through him.
Leaning across the table, Draco caught the back of Harry's head in one hand and, tugging him forwards, drew him into the kiss that he'd been positively burning for years. Harry was frozen, warm lips that tasted faintly spicy unmoving. Beneath Draco's hand, at the top of his neck, his muscles had tensed and Draco knew without looking that every other part of him had tautened to bowstring tightness in a similar kind.
Until it all melted.
Like an icicle beneath a Condensation Charm, Harry sunk towards Draco, into the table and leaning back into the kiss. Draco, moving his chin and adjusting his head to deepen their contact, nearly groaned as tentative fingers reached for the back of Draco's head, cupping him just beneath both ears. At the same moment, Harry's lips parted, allowing the questing probe of Draco's tongue to dip inside, fully tasting him for the first time.
This was what bliss must feel like. And Draco had wanted it for so long that he almost didn't know what to do when such a miracle fell within his grasp.
He cursed the table between them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the part that wasn't fully focused upon touching Harry, feeling his hair tangling beneath his fingers, the warm softness of skin, the smell of sweat and cologne and that spicy wine that Draco simply must try, he cursed that hunk of wood. It seemed to be the only thing that stood between him crossing the distance between them to cleave their bodies together until not a hairsbreadth remained between. But in being denied that, the simple act of hands to head, to cheeks, to jaw, the softness of lips on lips and the nip of teeth that twinged in the best possible pain, was perfect. The very sensation of tongue stroking along tongue sent tingles of pleasure coursing down Draco's spine. He could only push himself deeper into Harry, pressing closer to prevent even the hint of breath from escaping his grasp.
When they finally drew apart, both gasped. Draco felt not the slightest embarrassment for the fact, however, heady with the aftereffects of their kiss and the arousal that swum through his veins. Besides, he wasn't the only one to be so compromised; Harry did so too just as ardently. And though they still retained their seats, both unmoving to circle that damned table and close the distance between them, there was no withdrawal either. Harry's hands sat firmly upon each side of Draco's neck, cupping gently as though he was afraid he might cause damage with the simple touch of his fingers. Draco retained his grasp upon Harry's head, fingers half-woven through his hair just as resolutely.
When breath became possible once more, it was Harry who spoke first. "I…" He paused to swallow, eyes flickering briefly to the side. "What was that?"
Draco couldn't help himself. He was caught in the heat of the moment, physically thrumming with the need to touch Harry, to feel him, to savour that which he had longed for so long. The realisation of reality, of a possible chance to win Harry's affections, was headier than any wine. Without thought he resorted to the one thing he knew could maintain his level-headedness.
Sarcasm, mockery and jest. The safety approach.
"I would think that was fairly self explanatory," Draco smirked. "Surely you've done as much with Weaslette."
Harry huffed a breath that was more of a gasping chuckle than a sigh. He didn't actually seem all that affronted by Draco's teasing. "I meant…" He had to pause again to swallow, the sound inaudible over the seemingly distant hum of music. His eyes dropped for a moment, flickering towards the table, down his chest, to the side, before they rose once more. And when he met Draco's own, Draco found that he couldn't look away. There had always been something captivating about Harry's gaze, regardless of whether they were filled with the intensity of anger or disdain or amusement.
Or, in this case, wary, hesitant, yet definitely present hope. And, dare Draco think it, desire?
"What I meant was you… you kissed me."
"I did. I'm glad you realised."
"You kissed me. And I kissed you. And…" Harry's eyes widened slightly, unblinking. "Draco, what does this mean?"
Sighing in exasperation to cover up the swell of batting butterflies in his belly, Draco tugged sharply at the hold he had on Harry's hair. Hard enough that it actually rocked Harry in his seat, though he didn't seem any worse for wear for it. "A kiss is a kiss." Let Harry make of it what he would. Draco knew what he wanted, but he wanted Harry to reach that conclusion, afford that desire himself rather than simply assuming Draco's. If, that is, such a conclusion was a possibility.
The kiss though… surely that was an indication?
"But we're friends."
"We have already established that earlier this evening."
"Friends don't kiss one another, Draco."
Draco shrugged with forced casualness. "They might."
Harry shook his head sharply, nearly tugging free of Draco's grip. Draco's fingers unconsciously tightened. "Not like that they don't."
Oh, fuck. He's playing the friend card. No way in hell is he going to back out of this situation using the friend card. Forcing himself to shrug nonchalantly, Draco leant back slightly in his seat. It took even more effort for him to force his fingers to loosen from their handhold, lowering to the table. Assuming a casual expression – and Merlin, did it take effort – Draco smirked. "Well, some do."
Harry's own hands had slipped from Draco's head at the same time, but blessedly he hadn't pulled away into his own seat. While Draco had settled himself with false ease back into his own seat, Harry still leant forwards across the table almost eagerly. His frown was confused, however. "What do you mean by that?"
Surely the alcohol must have been addling Harry's brains, Draco thought. No one could be so oblivious. Surely. Draco had unearthed a potential lovers interest in Harry, a chink in his literally straight-laced sexuality that was nothing if not beatific, and best of all that interest had possibly been extended to encompass Draco. That kiss, that single kiss, had surely been more than a mere impulse, more than simply reactive. Surely it had some meaning.
Regarding Harry with a faintly condescending smile – for he feared that if not condescension, desperation would certainly slip forth – Draco cocked his head. Harry peered up at him with head down, face a picture of wary confusion that was so unfamiliar upon his features yet he wore so well. "I don't want to impose upon your delicate sensibilities –"
"Draco, don't be a prat."
"- but surely you've heard of such situations before? What better partner to have than a friend? You share at least some common interests, and if relieving other necessary tensions is included in the relationship…" Draco trailed off suggestively. He doubted he would have been able to finish his words anyway. Hopefully – hopefully – Harry wasn't being too deliberately obtuse to overlook such an obvious suggestion. It wasn't ideal, true; for the first time in perhaps his entire life, Draco found himself actually wanting a relationship. An actual relationship. But if Harry wanted -
"Friends with benefits? Is that what you're suggesting?"
Draco didn't want that. He didn't want that at all. But if he must, he would take anything he could get. If that was all Harry was comfortable with, he would accept that. For now.
Forcing a smirk onto his lips, he shrugged once more in a repetition that was becoming almost wearisome. "I certainly wouldn't say no. You're not appalling to look at."
Harry was silent. His face was still slightly upturned towards Draco, his eyes fixed and unblinking and captivating. Draco felt like a mouse frozen by a snake's hypnotic gaze. His expression, however, was unreadable. Draco had never seen it so guarded. Or at least he hadn't in years. He couldn't even gleam a hint of what lay beneath that surface.
Finally, Harry spoke. It was in a slow, measured tone, low and almost a whisper. "Is that… what you'd want? Is that what you do in… for relationships?"
Draco cocked his head. He schooled his features to mild consideration, while inside his thoughts raced at a million miles an hour. The soft intensity of Harry's kiss still settled upon his lips, and he clung to that as his only means of protection from rejection. He shrugged once more; it was becoming difficult to do so now. "I've never really been one much for relationships. So yes, typically I would say such would be my usual circumstances."
It wasn't. They weren't usual, not by any means. Draco didn't initiate any degree of physical intimacy with his friends, not since Hogwarts and the disaster of a relationship with Pansy. Millicent always teased her that she had been the catalyst for Draco's discovery of his sexuality. Pansy was, naturally, torn between horror, affront and delight at the prospect.
But when it came to lovers, Draco rarely saw the same person twice. Occasionally, if the chemistry was particularly exceptional and his partner agreed, they would meet on subsequent intervals. But that was only rarely. Becoming acquainted with someone on that level, being so vulnerable, was… well, terrifying wasn't a word that Draco liked to use in relation to himself, but it was somewhat appropriate.
The only person that Draco could even consider himself initiating an actual relationship with, one of those friends as lovers as partners and companions sort of ideals that Witch Weekly always ranted about, was Harry. And his desire for such had been so long in existence that he doubted he could shake the want if he tried.
With a hooded gaze, fighting every moment to maintain calm and composed, Draco observed Harry. He observed his silence, his muted staring, the slight twitch of his lips – his lips, Merlin they'd never looked so tempting – and catalogued them all to his inventory of 'Harry'. And he noticed it, the exact moment that Harry pulled away. That he begun to withdraw from his forward leaning across the table and curl back in upon himself in that wary confusion he wore so well. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, before he spoke.
"I… I think…" He paused, swallowed, and abruptly stood up. "Excuse me for a moment." And without a second more of pause he rose from their table and strode in the direction of the stairs.
Draco watched with a carefully stoic gaze. He had to, and all he could force himself to do was stare, for inside he was a riot bordering on panic. Every urge within him screamed to leap to his feet, to race after Harry and demand to know exactly he was thinking, to blurt out the truth of the feelings he'd harboured for years now like a bumbling schoolboy. But he couldn't. He was rigid and frozen and unmoving. As cool and composed as he always was. He just watched.
And because he watched, so carefully and studiously, he saw the glance Harry cast over his shoulder before disappearing. A glance that made his heart sink. It was as closed and guarded, as wary and unshakeable as it had been at its worst in the past. Only briefly, but it was enough that whatever hopes had flared and arisen so jubilantly evaporated like fog before a Lumos charm.
Just a little bit of Draco shattered and disappeared along with it.