Chapter 8
"Unbidden shadows of you formed yesterday"
Delerium – Poem of Byzantium

From his vantage point Draco could survey the entire dance floor, haloed in soft azure, the hue of the Mediterranean Sea. His kingdom. He enjoyed watching the people. It gave him a sense of dominion, of power. To know that these people relinquished control because of his club. It was heady.

Perhaps I do have a little bit of a voyeurism kink; he laughed at himself as he continued to watch the dancing masses.

So, like most nights, he scanned the crowd prior to descending the stairs. The clothed orgy—as he dubbed it—thronged in full swing. Bodies entwined together in an ancient ritual of courtship, men and women and their sacred mating dance. It enticed a small smile from his usually placid countenance. His eyes darted from couple to couple, sometimes watching a threesome performing intricate manoeuvres, until they fell on the last thing he ever expected to see. Harry Potter dancing. With a man. A dance that dripped with sex, causing Draco's blood to heat up and—surprisingly enough—eliciting a response of raw jealousy.

He knew Harry's dance partner; he was a regular at the club, picking up a new guy each weekend. He'd seen the man dance before and admired his smooth skills, the way his hips would grind, how he always kept eye contact with his partner as if he were the only guy in the club. That man always found someone to dance with and they always left the club together.

In a way Draco, who hadn't had a proper date in what felt like years, hated him.

But Potter? This man surely used his wicked sexual powers for evil if he could get Harry out on the dance floor, grinding like that, apparently having… fun.

Harry Potter had to be the straightest man Draco knew. And he certainly never had fun.

Before he fully realised that his feet had made any decisions to move, Draco found himself in the centre of the dance floor standing next to the vertical sex happening right before his eyes. His hand reached out without any direction from his brain and he thwaped Harry on the shoulder, causing the man to jump away from the hard chest and tight arse he'd been clinging to. Draco was unexpectedly relieved.

"I would ask to cut in, but unfortunately we have business to discuss." He scowled, eyes darkening like buried lies. Draco's brain tried fervently to take control of the matter, but something more commanding had commandeered his actions.

"Malfoy," Harry said, stating the obvious.

With a force of will, Draco tried to step back from the situation, give himself some time to review his unwanted reaction. "We can meet at a later date if you would prefer." Even to Draco's own ears he sounded petulant.

"No. I want to talk with you now. Just a sec, okay." The look on Harry's face seemed panicked, obviously off guard and Draco had a split second thought to give him that moment, but then pride welled up. Malfoys did not wait for other people. People waited for them.

Harry turned to blather something at the other man, who scrutinized Draco far more than should be expected. With an upsurge of annoyance, Draco said, "I don't wait 'just a sec', if you want to talk, we talk now," and he turned his back on the entire matter, leaving Harry to either follow or stay.

In a manner that might be undignified if he were not grace embodied, Draco swiftly moved through the crowd to the opposite side of the club, hoping the thankfully oblivious Gryffindor would remain behind for the blatant promise to get laid and not pursue him. He needed a moment to sort through the jumbled thoughts (Potter is gay?) and feelings (Potter is gay.) currently taking over his nervous system.

He never noticed a pair of very bright eyes watching him from behind the bar nor the delighted smile that developed on her lips.

I am not attracted to Potter. He had never even thought of Harry in such a way, let alone as a sexual creature at all, but watching him move on the dance floor, molding his own body to the tall brunette, his head thrown back in evident pleasure, opened doors in Draco's mind that he couldn't seem to close. He surreptitiously adjusted his trousers.

Shite, this didn't bode well.

"Draco, would you wait?" Harry called after him as he reached the base of the stairs. Draco took in a deep breath, schooled his features and turned to receive the flabbergasted wizard.

He noted that Harry's face burned a rather brilliant scarlet. This amused him. It was undeniably better to be amused by a flummoxed Gryffindor than dwell on his own uncertainty and misgivings.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Listen, I…" Harry ran his fingers through his hair, causing his black fringe to expose the crossed scars.

"Shall we discuss the paperwork?" Draco interrupted. He didn't care for any half mumbled explanation and truly loathed the possibility that Harry might be trying to apologize. He just wanted to get this over with so he could remove himself from the object of disturbance and think about what it could possibly mean.

"Umm, yeah. Sure." Harry nodded and followed the blond through the halls to the back rooms.

Draco immediately sat himself behind his huge mahogany desk, a buffer of protection between him and Harry. Clearing his throat, he adopted his usual outward indifference.

"So, did you discover anything after reviewing the documents?"

Harry seemed a bit off balance, but took the proffered change of subject with grace. "Nah, not really. I couldn't piece anything together. Listen… did you read all of them?"

"Yes." Draco wondered if the man worried about Hermione's revealed amorous intentions towards a younger Harry.

"Oh." There was a pause and after Draco didn't add anything, Harry continued. "Well, I was hoping you could return to Hermione's and help me ransack her place for that key thingy." He watched as Harry fiddled with his wand.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Ransack?" he asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. "Well no other way to do it really. I have no idea where to start," he said dismally.

"Fine. When would you like to do this ransacking?" He kept his eyes on the twitching wizard across from him, wishing he could crawl inside that fevered brain and know what thoughts ticked within.

"Um, whenever you can, I guess. Tomorrow?" Harry abandoned the wand twiddling and moved to finger the edge of his T-shirt.

"I can meet you there tomorrow. Afternoon?"

"Yeah, sure." Harry ran his fingers through his hair again and Draco couldn't help but notice how soft it looked following the fluffing. He grumbled at himself.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Nothing. Well if that's all, I do have other business to attend to tonight."

"Ah, thanks for meeting me." Harry stood, looking down at the floor then back up to Draco and smiled, a very soft lift to his lips. "See you tomorrow." And he left.

Draco let his head drop to the desk.

Life used to seem so simple. Sure he had a deranged maniac out to kill him, he had to survive the trials of childhood—including Dementors, werewolves, wicked teachers, kissing cute girls and deciding after all that he was gay—and he had to decide what to do once he finished school, but all in all, it didn't seem quite so complicated.

After all the twists and turns and little uncertainties, in the end he usually knew what it was he had to do.

The roof was rocky; tiny, sharp pebbles dug into his back as Harry shifted, staring at the stars as they danced amidst the encroaching clouds. He always enjoyed the stars; they were free in a way he would never be, in a way the name Harry Potter and his lightning bolt scar had never allowed. We were so young, he mused. We each thought we would triumph; our sacrifices would not go unrewarded. We would save the world. Snowflakes began to fall from the sky, slowly and delicately they alighted on his eyelashes, highlighted his dark hair.

The formless clouds sailed across the night sky, merging and blotting out the miniscule map of stars above, followed by a chilly breeze.

Harry shivered. He had lived his life, every waking hour from eleven until Voldemort's death, for a single event. The event transpired and now he stood on the winning side and by some unearthly miracle, he had survived. An event he harbored no expectation to prevail.

After time lapsed, slowly and solicitously, Harry stood, wrapping his robes around him tight, a comforting gesture, a sense of armor against the settling cold, a blank future. He picked his way along the roof to the stairs down, stopping often to glance up at the sky, perhaps searching for some answer in the cosmic maze.

His life, his younger years, his time in Hogwarts, all focused towards that one goal. Did he miss those years, a cost any carefree child should not have had to pay? He was wiser, he was stronger. Perhaps content with his choices, the ones he had made on his own. But something still lacked.

He had attained his life's purpose at age 20. What else was there to do? The future didn't hold anything special for him anymore. There was no prophecy, no guiding hand from Dumbledore, no one to dictate to him how he should live his life. He should feel relieved, shouldn't he?

These last four years just felt like filler.

He sighed, standing at the top of the stairs he looked up once more. No answer spoke to him from the heavens. No grand plan remained for him, only lonely days and faded pictures of lost friends, tinged with streaked sepia and sadness.

He could hear the wind whistle, picking up speed as it raced through the arms of the skeletal trees lined along the street below, denuded of their glory and vestments, digging out brief but terrible memories of the final battle. Another shiver danced down his spine like a snake sliding down the thin trunk of a yearling oak.

And now this curse on Hermione. The problems with the uprising Death Eaters. He hated that he was glad for the interruption to his daily life. He hated that Hermione's suffering gave him a sense of worth. Harry knew only terrible people felt such things.

He had his entire life ahead of him. He should be carefree and blameless, with days not so marked by guilt and despair. But the guilt was there, residing in his stomach, a swirling mass within him, alive with consistent nurturing. His childhood, his choices, were ripped from him and that he could accept, or so he told himself, but dragging his friends into it, Dumbledore's and Snape's death, Mr. Weasley's, Sirius' fall, Tonks, Seamus—the losses of so many… If he'd defeated Voldemort sooner… But no. He had vanquished his great evil. He had paid his dues.

He needed no outside force to define him any longer. Didn't he deserve a second chance? Could he recapture lost time?

It was a terrible thought to realise the most important moment of your life was over.

Maybe he was just searching for something, anything, to give his life a taste of meaning.

And while the gathering Death Eaters may not be his business, he couldn't convince himself that he should not be involved in Hermione's welfare. He would do anything he could to help his best friend. Even working with Malfoy. Even owing him.

With lingering thoughts swirling in a hurricane of confusion and solitude, Harry returned to his flat to sleep in a bed he hadn't favored in over a month.

Draco was at a loss.

What the hell? kept running through his mind over and over again. One minute Harry was sweet talking the Weasley girl the next minute he was practically rutting against a man Draco knew Harry hadn't met before. Harry wasn't gay, was he? He sure wore the mantle with pride last night. And the biggest question, the one that held the most importance; why in the world did it matter to Draco?

It didn't, did it?

With a crappy night's sleep and a mind that wouldn't move away from vivid images burned into the back of his eyelids, Draco seethed. What the fucking hell? He didn't want Harry. He didn't find him attractive. He didn't even want to think about the annoying goody goody boy. He blamed Granger. If it weren't for her contacting him about this wild goose chase of a project he would never have been thrust into Harry's presence.

He didn't deserve this. He worked his arse off for what he had achieved and where he had ended up. He did not bloody well deserve this.

He had lived through hell and survived. Didn't that earn him a break?

Above all else, he had survived. It was a point of pride for Draco that even when his luck met terminal velocity--after his parents' death, after Severus Snape fell on the battlefield, after his own efforts remained unknown and the cruel look of hatred burned from Harry's eyes, even after his rejection from the British wizarding world--he still continued on.

But what is the good in persevering when you have nothing left to live for? When everything you cared for turned to ashes and dust.

He grumbled some more, yanking himself out of his melancholy, driving himself back into a supportive anger. Sure, the people in his life were gone. But he had Rain. He would always have Rain and nothing else would matter.

People from all over wizarding England as well as the continent came to grace Rain. That meant far more than any Order of Merlin or gaggle of useless friends. Rain was his. He started it from nothing. Built up the monumental club from simple brick and mortar, basic construction charms. He was proud of his accomplishments and didn't Rain's popularity prove he had made something of himself? Didn't the consistently excellent reviews provide the evidence he needed to show he had succeeded?

But in one of those brief flashes of honest self-awareness Draco admitted that sometimes material accomplishments didn't mean much. Sometimes you just wanted someone to share your glory with.

Damn, when had he become such a sentimental fool?

And now it drew time for him to swallow his uncertainty and quirky melodrama and Apparate to Granger's flat to help that hopeless man find the decode key so he could quit himself of the entire situation as soon as possible.

Why in the world had he pushed for that Debt, the vow he forced Harry to make? What had he been proving? Sometimes his desire to dominate everything only affirmed itself to be more of a hassle. He desperately needed to learn to pick his battles; learn which spoils of war truly held value.

Stopping before a mirror to gaze at his reflection, he styled his hair, which had grown long in the front, grabbed his robe and Apparated.

With a sudden jolt he reappeared in his own living space.

Huh?

It was like trying to Apparate into Hogwarts and Draco unconsciously knew there was no way he could break through the anti-Apparition ward currently placed on Granger's apartment.

Cursing like a pissed sailor he Apparated before Granger's door and banged on the entrance. A quick scan of the area showed no Muggle muddling about and Draco was secretly relieved he wouldn't have to obliviate anyone.

The door flew open. "Who is it?" Harry demanded, opening his mouth for further choice words before he stopped in mid-tirade. "Oh, it's you." And then as if heaven's light illuminated his memory, Harry's eyes grew wide with a look of contrition. "Oh shite! Sorry. I should have warned you to Floo." Harry stepped back from the entrance, leaving space for Draco to enter.

Draco stalked in, still irritated, perhaps more so than he had any reason to be. "Well, shall we get on with this, Potter?" His words were short and clipped. Draco's eyes darted around the flat, looking at everything but Harry.

"Look, I'm sorry," Harry said in a flat tone.

"Oh Potter, do get over yourself." Draco finally turned his gaze to the other wizard. "There are vastly more important projects that currently require my attention. I don't have time to waste on your regrets."

"But you promised to help; you made a vow over it." Harry shifted from one foot to the other. This somehow calmed Draco down.

"Yes, apparently I did. Well, let us get started then."

"I've kinda examined everything, magically anyway. And nothing is hidden, by any spells I mean. It has to be something that isn't magically affected. I flipped through most of the books and had gone through her papers and nothing at all seems to be any kind of key or list or anything that seems to fit. I have no idea where to start." The flood of words finally ended.

"Are you done, Potter?" Draco asked, his composure perfected.

Harry, in comparison, looked unsettled and shrugged.

"Why don't you give me some space and I will see if I can find the key. I'll start with her paperwork."

"I told you, I already did that."

"Yes, and you admit to an abysmal level of cluelessness as to what you are actually looking for."

Harry shrugged again, a small storm cloud developing over his features.

"Just keep out of the way and wait."

Draco left Harry standing by the door.

He never liked waiting, wasn't all that good at it in fact. There was little doubt that Harry was a man of action and that sitting on the sidelines while someone else actively sought a solution was far too alien to him.

Draco took hours and Harry waited. The blond combed over files, examined curios and knickknacks—which were few—flipped through every page of each book, studied artwork, went through pictures, memoirs, and research and finally Harry couldn't sit any longer.

"Tea?" he asked.

Draco didn't respond.

"Malfoy, Tea?" Harry asked louder.

With a jerk, Draco looked up from a small wall calendar with images of Hawaii on the cover. "What?"

"Do you want tea?"

"Yes. Sure." He returned to flip through the months of the calendar.

Harry exited to the kitchen and put the teapot on the stove to heat. The stove had familiar knobs on it as well as other buttons and levers that Harry had no understanding of. His lack of knowledge hadn't bothered him before Draco's lecture about that stupid Sally Chip. Now Harry wondered what each one did so passed the time learning the mysteries of a wizarding/Muggle contraption. Mr. Weasley would have been proud.

Soon the teapot whistled its readiness and Harry set out two cups and poured the boiling water over the teabags.

"Tea's done," he called out. Harry sat at the dining table, eagerly looking around the kitchen in a way he hadn't before, categorizing the utilities as things he understood and those that he didn't.

Draco walked in, hair slightly disarrayed, a pallor to his complexion. Harry had counted at least five hours passing and his own anxious stomach reminded him that they hadn't eaten yet. "Want something to eat?"

"Are you cooking?" Draco asked incredulously.

"Well, I could. I know how to cook," he defended himself.

"Well knock yourself out, Potter. Awe me with your culinary prowess."

A snort escaped Harry as he rummaged through the cooler he had recently stocked up, his own kitchen abandoned since Hermione's initial cursing. As he pulled out courgette, cheese, garlic and other ingredients he asked, "Lasagna?" From the cupboard he grabbed the pasta and pan and started chopping up the vegetables.

"Malfoy, would lasagna be okay?" he finally asked again. "Picky little bastard," he mumbled to himself.

With still no response he turned and looked at the wizard. Draco stood in the centre of the kitchen, jaw hanging slack, eyes bugging at the huge, obscure painting on Hermione's wall.

"Weird painting isn't it. Can't imagine what might have gripped her about it. Too abstract. No heart to it, is there?"

"Potter…" Draco sounded breathless.

"What's wrong?" Harry immediately shifted into battle mode. Unsure of what affected Draco, putting him in some zombie mode Harry hadn't seen before. Years on the Auror squad taught him to leave nothing to chance.

"That's it."

"What's it?" he asked, confused.

"This painting. This is the key. It's been sitting here, right under our noses this entire time."