A/N: Lots of good questions were raised in response to the last chapter. I will attempt to address them as best as I can, if not directly, then somewhere in future chapters.

Thank you so much to alwaysariyana, coriander, Lanfear1, vote-larry4prez, B Madden, lilylupin7, SlytherinRomantic, sotty-chan, Sierralia, sanzo, Purple Raveness, Sophie Malfoy, Eowyns Entity, lucius, SexayPirate, Wolven Spirits, Wolflady, Goldensong, CannonFodder, and

DecemberxMoonlight (Does Sebastian really remind you of Cruel Intentions? Actually, his appearance is based loosely on some of my favorite musicians and his actual character... I'm not entirely sure where that came from. He can be much like Lucius, Draco and Nicholas, but he has something they don't: he is actually rather nice. )

gorgeousbown eyes (Purely coincidence, actually. Though there are some things I share with the characters. For example, like Harry, I positively adored Nicholas.)

Maira (James is just flirting. His hormones seem to be the only thing to escape the war unscathed. He recognizes Harry from the things Harry said when they first met.)

super-sailor-saturn39 (Gabriel/Bates is the drummer. He was also a surgeon. He isn't described in detail because he hasn't really done or said much yet.)

AniD (a pleasure hearing from you, as always)

Angel (I think Sebastian's ability to identify Harry via empathy or Legilimency depends on what Harry is thinking/feeling when Sebastian reads him, usually by accident. For example, from empathy, Sebastian can tell that Harry is sad, but that isn't enough to identify him because sadness is a common emotion. In the instances where Sebastian does read Harry by Legilimency, he might get that Harry is thinking of Lucius or James or possibly Draco, but that doesn't identify him positively as Harry Potter either. Does that make sense?),

Mags (James recognized Harry by something he said when they first met. ),

and Xikum ( You're right. There is definitely a need for them to come together as equals, but that is complicated by fear. The most obvious fear is on Harry's part, but I'm sure there's fear on Lucius' side as well. Feel free to email or IM me if you'd like to discuss the matter further.)

Harry is quite drunk. He has attempted to drown his sorrows only to discover that his sorrows had learned to swim. Vaguely, as he downs his innumerable glass of brandy, he wonders how on earth that happened. He used to be so good at being numb. It was how he survived being the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Fought, the Boy Who Ran. Now, as he sat in Lucius' favorite chair, his sorrows seemed to overwhelm him even as he struggled somewhat uselessly to beat them back.

Don't think about it. Draco's dead. New information doesn't change anything. He's still dead. They're all still dead. That was the bottom line wasn't it? No matter what Harry thought happened, the end result was the same. Draco was dead. Harry knew it with an uncomfortable finality. He had performed the rites himself, rinsing the body and performing the charms that would allow Draco's body and spirit to rest. He had personally delivered Draco's body to Lucius. He had attended Draco's funeral.

Before those memories can blossom inside his mind's eye, Harry takes a swig of brandy. The burn cuts through the hazy images in Harry's head, chasing them away for the moment. He closes his eyes, ignoring the pressure building behind them. He refuses to cry. Crying never gives him anything but a headache.

"That's my glass, Mr. Scryer." Harry opens his eyes. He glances over his shoulder to see Lucius shutting the door to the study, still wearing his dress robes. Harry closes his eyes again.

"I didn't think you'd mind," he says. His voice sounds beyond tired, even to his own ears.

"Oh, I don't, but I'd like my chair, if you don't mind." He opens his eyes again to see Lucius standing before him. Harry puts down the glass a bit sloppily and rises to his feet. He stumbles almost immediately. Lucius catches him, clucking. "Tsk. We are a bit of a mess, aren't we?" Harry says nothing, just leans against Lucius' chest. He tilts his head back to look at Lucius. In a fit of alcohol-induced boldness, he brings his hand to Lucius' face, his fingertips ghosting over the blond man's cheek, along the curve of his jaw, over his lips.

"Magnificent," Harry whispers to himself. "But then, it runs in the family, on all sides, apparently." Lucius says nothing, merely gazes back at Harry, who suddenly takes in the expression on Lucius' face, the set of his mouth. Lucius looks as he did the day of Nicholas' funeral—the same weariness, the same quiet sadness.

"You're hurt," Harry says. "That's my fault." The corners of Lucius mouth quirk.

"In part, yes. However I'm no more hurt than you are, I expect," he says, glancing at the glass on the table.

"No, I suppose not," Harry replies, grimacing in anticipation of the hangover that would visit him in the morning. In retrospect, drinking that much had been a stupid thing to do, but to be honest, Harry had known that it was a stupid thing before he had started.

"I have a theory, Mr. Scryer, if you'd like to hear it." Harry removes himself from Lucius' arms and leans against the fireplace, bracing himself physically as well as mentally for Lucius' theory.

"Let's hear it," he says. He hears Lucius settle into the chair behind him.

Harry has a mental flash of Lucius enthroned in his chair, silver eyes narrowed in thought and calculation as they always were when Lucius reached his checkmate moment, his fingertips pressed together as he waited for the precise moment to strike. That is the Lucius that Harry is familiar with: the shrewd bargainer, the master manipulator, who could engineer a moment right down to the shallow breath Harry takes as his shoulders tense in anticipation. The image is so vivid that Harry glances over his shoulder to assure himself that it is only a product of his imagination. Product of imagination or no, Harry simply knows Lucius too well. The older man looks exactly as Harry pictured him. Harry shudders, turning back to the fire. He waits for Lucius to begin.

"The Lestranges killed someone very dear to you, possibly a parent. Motivated by revenge, you joined the war. During the war, you met my son. You loved my son and that his death was devastating to you. Perhaps you blamed yourself for his death, but were able to console yourself with the thought that it was an accident, that at least Draco didn't know it was coming. I think that's why the knowledge that it was a deliberate action on Draco's part that ended his life was so upsetting, especially since it was news you could hardly expect to hear at a party." Harry is grateful that the fireplace is holding him up. He sighs deeply, straightening his shoulders.

"It is a good theory, " he acknowledges. He turns slowly to face Lucius. "However, Draco and I were never lovers," he says with a smirk he definitely does not feel. Lucius is unfazed.

"That was not part of my theory. Draco bonded only over blood. It was a hang-up of his, I guess you could say."

"Perhaps that was your fault," Harry says, unable to keep all the blame out of his voice. Lucius shrugged.

"Perhaps it was. My wife and I stressed the importance of lineage."

"Of blood."

"There is ancient magic in blood. It is a powerful binding force. You cannot escape it," Lucius says a little sadly. Harry flexes his hand thoughtfully. "Watch me," he murmurs, low enough so that Lucius cannot hear him above the crackle of the fire.

"Did you love Draco?" Lucius asks, pushing the half-empty brandy glass across the tabletop. It is a nervous gesture, very unlike Lucius. Harry's eyes narrow.

"Why are you so keen to know?"

"It is an amusing thought," Lucius admits. Harry snorts.

"Thank you. I was just starting to forget what a bastard you could be." There is glint almost like amusement in Lucius' eyes.

"You misunderstand. The thought is only amusing because it brings me pleasure." Harry raises an eyebrow in Lucius' general direction. Lucius answers with an eyebrow raise of his own. "It's nice to think that someone was in love with my son," he says, by way of explanation.

"He deserved it," Harry replies, grudgingly. He grips the mantle tighter, feeling a bit lightheaded.

"Not many would agree," Lucius says.

"Not many knew him well," Harry says, shaking his head as he tried to collect himself.

The room gives a rather nasty lurch. Harry's legs crumple under him. Lucius, evidently expecting something like this, catches him. "May I offer you a chair, Mr. Scryer?"

"I don't want a chair," Harry mumbles, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks as he realizes just how close to Lucius he is. It pushes through the remains of anger and grief, through the distorted haze of drunkenness. He is extremely discomfited, the heat from the fire, from the alcohol in his blood, from the blush spreading across his face, and emanating from Lucius' body combining to make him extremely hot and bothered in ways that he is not finding pleasant at all.

"Let me go," he says, pushing weakly at Lucius.

"Let me get you a chair."

"I don't want a chair, damn you."

Lucius chuckles. Harry is painfully aware of the sound—the velvet rumble it makes in Lucius' chest. He is discomfited to find that being this close to Lucius is exactly like he remembers—exactly as he still very vividly remembers. He pushes at Lucius again, managing to extricate an arm.

"If I let you go, you'll fall," Lucius replies, shifting Harry in his arms. The additional friction is the last thing Harry needs. The memory of the last time he was this close to Lucius comes to him so clearly that he swears he can feel Lucius' lips burning against his. He wrenches away with a moan of anguish, collapsing into the nearest chair. Lucius looks startled. "What on earth was that noise?" Lucius asks, thoroughly bewildered.

"I can't get you out of my head," Harry confesses miserably, hiding his face behind his hands.

There is a decidedly awkward moment of silence between them. Harry is half-aware of what he has said. He is also half-aware that Lucius should have made a clever reply half a second after that, but there is nothing. Harry looks up to find Lucius regarding him intently. "Perhaps, what you need, Mr. Scryer is a bed," he suggests. Harry knows Lucius well enough by now to know that there is no trace of innuendo in the blond man's comment.

Having already proved his spectacular lack of balance, Harry is not allowed to walk the realitively small distance to Lucius' room. Or Harry's room, as it was now more properly. He is carried, despite his attempts to get away from Lucius, to clear his head. Once inside the bedroom, Lucius helps Harry remove his shoes, his glasses and the dress robes James fought tooth and nail to put on Harry earlier in the evening. Harry fights to gain control of himself, rubbing his temples. Lucius hands Harry a glass. "What is it?" Harry asks, more out of curiosity than suspicion.

"Water mostly. It will prevent the monstrous hangover you're due for and help you sleep." Harry takes the glass. "Dreamlessly," Lucius adds as an afterthought. The look on Harry's face is grim but appreciative. He downs the contents of the glass. It is cool and soothing where the brandy burned away the worst of his anger.

"Thank you," he says. Lucius nods slightly in acknowledgement. He takes the glass back from Harry, pushing Harry gently back among the pillows.

The moment Harry's head hits the pillow, a great shudder goes through his body and with the sudden release of tension comes the tears. He is inwardly appalled at the way he falls apart, not surprised, but rather mortified that he has crumbled this way in front of Lucius Malfoy, of all people. However, he knows that he has been holding them in too long to be able to stop it.

To his surprise, Lucius arms wrap around him. Harry buries his face in Lucius' chest, clutching at the fabric of his robes, partially for support, partially to hide his face from the man that should have been his archenemy. It is an amazing feeling, to cry in someone else's arms. No one has ever done this for him. Crying had always been a shameful admission of vulnerability, an act endured alone and hidden whenever possible.

When the tears subside, Harry pulls away. He covers his face, wiping at it ineffectually, trying to hide the remnants of his weakness. Lucius pulls his hands away from his face gently, tilting Harry's chin up. Harry sniffles, green eyes wide. He brushes the strands of hair back from Harry's face, kissing his cheek with near-reverence. "You are so beautiful. A right pain, but beautiful." Harry gives a small, sad smile.

"I'm not who you think I am," he whispers.

"How do you know who I think you are?" Lucius whispers back.

Harry doesn't dare answer that.

"Sleep," Lucius says, rising to his feet.

"Stay," Harry asks. Grey meets watery green. Lucius nods. Harry sinks back among the pillows.

For the first time in what may have been years, Lucius prepares to sleep in his own bed.

Well, you know how it goes-- complaints, suggestions, comments, and criticisms all equally adored. Review!

Love,

J. Silver