A/N: This fic was requested by Stacey Jones2. I'm sorry I have no investment in Pansy as a character but I hope this will suffice!

I sigh as I push red hair out of my eyes. Again. I really should just get it cut. I scowl slightly at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes going automatically to the places that I don't like.

I have to admit, I don't hate my appearance as much as I used to. In the three years since joining the Auror department, I've grown more muscular, more toned than I've ever been. My limbs are still a little too long but they're no longer 'gangly'. My chest and shoulders are now broad, and usually draw the eyes of those who sidle up to me in bars, wanting to take home a member of the 'Golden Trio'. Probably just for bragging rights.

My skin is still basically one big freckle, but the pale spaces in between are now more tanned, courtesy of both job and hobbies that take place outside. My hair is the same as it's always been - vibrant red, thick, a little unmanageable. Nothing near as bad as Harry's, and not even in the same species as Hermione's. But not particularly anything else, really.

I look at my pale face, too much like all of my brothers' to really be called my own, and look at my eyes. Blue. Just blue. Unremarkable blue. I tear my gaze away from myself and sigh again, tugging on the Quidditch jersey and leathers. My team will be waiting for me by now.

Or not. They're probably already practising, assuming I'll be late, as always.

I joined the team after Hermione and I decided to go our separate ways. The break-up was amicable, which was more than could be said for the majority of the relationship itself. The fighting that was supposed to have eased when we finally admitted our feelings just worsened, and the make-up sex that was supposed to make it all worth-while ...

I wince at the memories of our two meager sexual encounters. Both awkward, neither satisfying. We had called it off after the second try, and since then our friendship was more solid than ever.

The split was two years ago. And still, that conversation rings in my mind, clear as though it happened yesterday. We had sat on my bed, each wrapped in a bed sheet, each disappointed but relieved at the same time. I'd watched her playing with her fingers, grateful that I could enjoy her company again without the pressure of needing to feel or be a certain way with her, when suddenly her head shot up and her brown eyes met mine.

'I think I need to go out and find who I am,' she said, the smile on her face more genuine than I'd seen in weeks. 'With who we became, our reputations from the war, I don't even really know who I am anymore. And I think it's time to find out.' She paused, apparently unsure if she should say what else was on her mind. Then she blurted, 'Maybe you should too, Ron. Maybe you need to ... explore a little.'

At the time I'd just frowned at her, confused, and she'd blushed and looked away, trying to change the subject. But now, in this present moment, I'm pretty sure I know what she was getting at. I think she knew, in that uncanny way she's always had, and still has to this day, of knowing me better than I know myself.

For the past year, I've been questionning my sexuality. I had wondered, in the first couple of months after our break-up, whether I might be bi-sexual, and had, as she'd suggested, explored a little. But mostly just in night-clubs, tipsy from a little too much alcohol and the thrill of doing something that seemed so illicit to me, with my only real experiences of life being heterosexual families that produce a lot of offspring. It had never gone further than kissing and maybe a little grope in the dark, sweaty spaces between grinding bodies and thumping music, but the more it happened, the less I found myself seeking female company.

My fantasies became more male-oriented, and even though I was still confused and a little ashamed I allowed my mind to wander down that path. I never shared it with anyone, but I didn't stop myself thinking, mentally exploring the idea.

I pull myself together as I exit the changing rooms, my eyes lifting the shapes high above me, shooting across the early evening sky. From their formation I can tell that practice is already well under way. I swing one leg over my broom and kick off, quickly joining my teammates.

'Weasley!' I turn, and catch sight of our team captain, hurtling towards me.

'Sorry, Jones,' I call before she can continue. 'More paperwork than I anticipated.' I can tell from her raised eyebrow and the set of her lips that she doesn't believe me.

'And yet Potter made it on time.'

'Of course he did,' I quip, giving her a broad grin. 'He's the Golden Boy. Where do you want me? Keeper, yeah? I'll just go relieve Marcus then.' I lean over my broom handle and accelerate towards the goals before she can say anything else. I know I'm cutting it fine, being late to practice so often, but I need this. This 45 minutes of freedom, of pure joy. I can't give anyone the chance to take it away from me. I catch Harry's eye as he passes me on his way down, free-falling, practice for catching the Snitch at speed. He shakes his head at me, but I see him smile at the wink I send his way.

I spend the rest of practice reminding Jones why she shouldn't - why she can't - remove me from the line-up for this years Cup Team. I stretch myself, leaning further off my broom than I should, taking risks, pushing myself harder and harder. I know I've overdone it when a searing pain shoots through my temples and my vision goes funny. Fuck, not now.

'Weasley?' Jones has flown over to me, concern evident in her furrowed brow.

'I'm fine,' I gasp as the world lurches around me. 'Migraine.'

'OK, Weasley, why don't you call it for today? She smiles at me then, the first I've seen all practice. 'Good hustle. Just ... try to be on time from now on, yeah?'

'You got it, Captain.' My hands are shaking slightly as I angle my broom towards the ground. I see Harry shift in his seat, about to follow me, but I wave him off, indicating that I'm fine. He frowns but nods, and turns back to the pitch to finish practice.

I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear voices in the changing room and stifle a groan. I had been hoping to avoid the team scheduled in to practice after us, but apparently I have absolutely no luck today.

It was a team of Healers from St Mungo's. They were OK, for a bunch of snobby scrubs-sporting medics, but in my opinion they had one major problem. And that was that Draco Malfoy was their seeker.

My jaw had dropped when they'd announced that he was on the team this year, and I'd silently wished them luck with that. Not that he couldn't play, of course. As much as I hated the ferret, I had to admit that he was always a decent Seeker. Not a patch on Harry, of course, but outside of that he could hold his own. No, it was his attitude that I was sure would bring them down, with a crash and a burn. I hadn't seen him myself since the Hogwarts graduation ceremony that I'd attended for Hermione and Ginny, and even though they both insisted he had changed a lot, I still had yet to see evidence of it for myself.

The little bastard seems keen to prove my point, as he starts in on me the second I enter the changing rooms.

'Well, well, Weasle-bee.' He smirks at me, his eyes dancing with glee. He's still the same height, a little shorter than me, and his eyes are still that cold grey. But he too has changed in the last couple of years. He's bulked out a little, but he's more lithe, more toned than muscular. He's stopped greasing his white-blonde hair back, and now it hangs softly in those grey eyes. He's already in his leathers, and his stance of arms crossed, one hip jutting out, his head slightly cocked to one side, gives his outline a soft, almost feminine look ...

'Hello, Weasley? Did you get hit with a bludger and lose your last brain cell out there?'

I tear my eyes away from his curves, and glower at him, turning away and marching towards my locker. I shoot over my shoulder, 'Not at all, Malfoy. I was just incredibly shocked to see that none of your team have thought it best to kill you and bury the body somewhere yet.' I hear a snicker from one of the Healers, and with my back turned I grin to myself.

'Lucky for me, my team actually enjoy my company. And my talent. Which is more than I can say for yours, if they've sent you off early. Couldn't handle your broom, eh?' More snickers, and I can feel my ears getting hot.

'I can handle my broom fine,' I snap back. 'Unlike some of us, I don't need something ridiculously expensive between my legs just to make me feel powerful.'

'You never know,' he counters, and the slight purr to his voice makes me look up, alarmed. 'Maybe you'd like it if you had the chance to ride something rich and powerful.'

The edge to his voice has his team chuckling awkwardly, and he raises one eyebrow at me suggestively. I immediately feel myself blush as some of my fantasies fly unbidden through my mind, but I push them aside as I turn and dig through my bag for a towel. Behind me, I hear the conversation move on to other topics as the team finishes dressing and starts to head out onto the field.

The healers all traipse past me, and I keep my eyes on my belongings until they're all gone. I finally raise my eyes and start a little. All but one, it would seem. Malfoy stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his eyes appraising me. It's not a confrontational look, but its charged with ... something. Something that makes me uncomfortable.

'What the hell was that all about, Weasley?'

'What do you mean?'

'I make one sleazy joke and you clam up on me. No fire, none of your usual crass, foul-mouthed insults. Just silence and blushing. What nerve did I touch, exactly?'

I bristle, the migraine that had been easing somewhat now stabbing at the backs of my eyes again. 'Fuck off, Malfoy. I'm not in the mood.'

Suddenly, he's in front of me. I stagger back into the lockers, even though he's a good couple of inches shorter and narrower than me. No, what puts me on the back foot are his eyes.

Silver eyes. I'd never noticed that the irises shone, glinted like that. And the look in those eyes is one of such passion, such anger, that they appear almost molten.

'You listen to me, Weasley.' His voice is low, dark, and I find that I'm holding my breath to hear him better. 'There is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay.'

My jead snaps back, so hard that it ricochets off the locker behind me. My hand flies up to the back of my head to rub my aching scalp, my vision swimming once again, but my eyes are still fixed on Malfoy.

'What ... what are you ...'

'That was the nerve I touched, right?' he goes on in that same tone of voice. 'Well, there's nothing wrong or shameful about it. I'm telling you, like I wish someone had told me. And if anyone gives you a hard time for it, you can just point them in my direction.'

'A-are you?' He snorts at my half asked question.

'Where have you been, Weasley? That cow Skeeter outed me last year, when I was leaving a nice dinner with - ' Something shifts behind his gaze, and for a moment I see a flash of pain, but then it's gone, the mask slipping over once more. 'So yes, I'm gay. Out and proud.' He pauses, and asks more softly, 'Are you not ... out? To anyone?'

'Um, no,' I breathe, then realise that I've just inadvertently confirmed to Malfoy, DRACO FUCKING MALFOY, that I'm gay. I pull myself up to my full height. 'And if you tell anyone, anyone at all, Malfoy, I swear - '

'Did you not hear what I said?' he snarls, and I shrink slightly at the venom in his voice. 'I just told you that I was outed myself, why would I then do that to someone else?'

'Because ... ' I'm staring at him, mouth slightly agape, struggling for words. 'Because ... you're Malfoy ... '

His eyes darken, and he turns away. His voice is quiet again when he says, 'Maybe I'm not that Malfoy anymore.'

I straighten up, intent on asking him what the bloody hell that's supposed to mean, when suddenly the clash of cleates on tile and the hum of excited voices fills the dressing room. My head whips around to the doorway as my team files into the room, people shouting, jeering, stripping off muddy clothes and heading for showers. When I turn back to say something to Malfoy, he's gone.

'Hey!' Harry's voice is loud, even in the sudden din, and I wince. He raises his hands, eyes wide, and murmers, 'Sorry. How's your head?'

'Shite,' I groan, the pulsing against my skull intensifying as people climb into showers. 'I'm just going to shower at home. See you there, yeah?'

'Sure thing. I'll pick up pizza on the way.'

'You legend.' I give him a weak smile before hoisting my bag over my shoulder and making my way outside. Once there, I head to the closest Apparition point on Ministry grounds and put the last of my focus into getting home.

I land in my bedroom at Grimmauld Place and sigh as the silence engulfs me, the pain easing instantly. I look around in the soft evening light. Creature has been in and made the bed with my favourite Chudley Cannons spread, but I flinch slightly at the luminescent orange and look away. My room is sparsley decorated, but clean. Harry and I spent a long time last summer making the whole building habitable (not including the three rooms that were so heavily bound and protected that we couldn't even approach the doorways). Now, all of the wooden floors throughout the home shine with a new coat of varnish, and the grey, chipped, fading walls have been repaired and painted.

My room is a soft turquoise, the colour of the sea in Spain where Harry, Ginny, Hermione and I went for our Summer holidays, the year after she and I broke up. On that trip, Harry proposed to Ginny, and I'd never seen my friend and my sister look so utterly, disgustingly happy. And the colour of my walls reminds me of the contentment we all felt during those weeks. It helps to look at them when the bad dreams come.

I dump my bag on the bed and rummage through it again, with the intention of taking a shower in my nice quiet en suite, but as I push things aside my hand brushes against a piece of paper. I pull it out and frown at the spidery scrawl, then feel my eyesbrows shoot up into my hairline.

Your secret is safe with me, Weasley. And if you need someone to talk to about this, to help understand, owl me.

~ DM