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Published: 2012-05-29 Words: 14245
Bitter Honey, Green Night
Summary
An inn, an Auror, a criminal, a mystery.
Notes
.
There's mud on the floor. Melted snow mixed with dirt fills the cracks in the old wood. The air is
stale, a mixture of burnt pine and tobacco, sickly sweet, irritating his nose that has yet to adjust to
the sudden warmth. Draco sniffs. Snowflakes slip down the length of his black cloak and join the
slush on the floor. He wrinkles his nose and steps forward; the dirty floorboards creak beneath his
feet.
He looks up at the girl standing behind the counter and smiles as soon as she nods her greeting.
She turns away to attend her customer, an old man with a pipe and many slurring words to share.
His clothes are fancy; he must have been more important than Draco.
Draco's smile slips and he looks around the inn, painted golden by the candlelight and numerous
Christmas decorations. They're tacky and battered and have failed to make the inn look cheery,
but rather reminded him of a pile of old ornaments hidden in the attic because they have lost their
lustre. The wireless is on, playing a soft tune with joyful tinkling bells ruining every note. The
place looks deserted and Draco thinks about following the wisdom of the masses and leaving
before the inn's depressing apparel sinks in.
A chair scraps the floor in the distance and Draco takes a step forward to see past the stone
archway separating the dining room. There's a man sitting in the corner, newspapers laid out
before him on the table and a candlestick with five candles hovering near his head, looking more
hazardous than helpful. The firelight reflects in the man's glasses.
Draco still thinks it would be wiser to leave this place, but he doesn't have the luxury of wisdom.
The iron coat stand bends his way and Draco accepts it as a sign rather than a quirk of magic. He
takes off his cloak, pulls off his scarf and lets the stand feel useful. It straightens and lifts Draco's
coat out of reach, looking too smug for a meagre iron stick.
Draco runs a hand through his hair and stands beneath the archway. He hesitates before taking
another step. It's too warm and too bright; Draco doesn't think he can handle so many twinkling
lights. The blend of green and gold blurs his vision. He strides forward, however, trying not to be
loud and not to be quiet.
Only one table in the room is occupied. Draco pauses next to it and grips the back of an empty
chair. The man doesn't look up, though he must have noticed he has company. Draco takes a
moment to study him. The man's white shirt looks thin and there's no cloak in sight. He must have
rented a room and come down for a late night drink. The cheerful, hovering candlestick
illuminates a lengthy article with a large black and white photo of the Minister for Magic. The
Minister smiles and waves up at the man as he reads.
Draco's throat feels dry and he struggles not to cough.
"Small world," sounds tempting, as does, "Fancy meeting you here," but Draco bites it down and
says, "Potter."
Potter looks up. His hand twitches, then clenches into a fist, right atop the Minister's photo.
Instinct is a curious thing, Draco thinks. Potter has calmly ignored the unexpected company, but
the mere sound of Draco's voice has made him want to reach for his wand.
"Malfoy." Potter nods, not hiding his surprise. He looks around as though expecting to see more
old classmates hiding behind Draco and declaring it's time for a Hogwarts reunion. Draco can't
blame him; they've barely interacted since the war.
Potter looks expectant. It's Draco's turn to speak, he's aware. Don't ask why he's here, Draco
instructs his mouth, which rarely obeys him. Don't explain why you're here. Don't comment on the
weather. The list of topics grows thinner by the second. The reflecting fire in Potter's glasses hides
his eyes. Not seeing which emotion they hold isn't helpful.
Draco's gaze flickers over Potter's messy dark hair. "You still don't own a comb, I see," he says.
Oddly, Potter's hand relaxes at the dig, as though Draco's insult has convinced him all is right with
the world. "If I comb my hair, people might not recognise me. It'd cost me free drinks and
autograph requests." For a second, Draco can't tell if Potter is joking, but the corner of Potter's
mouth twitches and he adds, "Well, which will it be?"
Draco stares. "Sorry?"
Potter's lips stretch into a wide smile, even though he clearly fights to contain it. "Are you here to
buy me a drink or ask for an autograph?"
It takes Draco a moment to recover. "I'll buy you a drink, Potter, if it stops you from begging. It
would be unseemly. I'd rather not witness it."
"That's quite all right," Potter says. "I'm sure you have better things to do." He looks down at his
newspapers and falls silent. Draco has been dismissed. It's not surprising — the handful of words
is more than they've said to each other in five years.
A log crackles in the fireplace, disrupting the silence. Draco runs his hand through his hair again;
it's wet and sticks out on ends, and the movement only serves to ruffle it further. He bends his
neck, pulls his sleeves over his fingers and relaxes his shoulders.
"You won't ask me to join you, will you?" he asks.
Potter looks up, his mouth open as though he intends to speak, but no words come out. It must
have worked. Draco must have looked like a frozen puppy about to be kicked out in the cold.
"Well, if you want . . ."
The reluctance in Potter's tone doesn't stop Draco. He pulls out a chair and sits.
"I do want." There's no need to look wretched anymore and Draco smiles. "My choices are
limited." He jerks his head toward the old man sitting at the counter. "It's either him or you. I'm
afraid he won't appreciate my jokes."
Potter glances at the man before switching his focus back to Draco. "And I will?"
"You were always a responsive audience, if not appreciative."
"And you must have an audience?"
"Obviously. It's the holidays, Potter. Am I to drink alone, read and listen to the wireless? How
sad. No offence meant," he adds, insincere.
Draco can see Potter's eyes now; Potter's gaze is sharp and disconcerting. He looks too suspicious
not to ask the question Draco wants to answer as soon as possible.
Sure enough, Potter sighs and asks, "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
"Following you around, obviously," is Draco's prompt reply. "Hoping to catch a glimpse of our
much-worshiped hero. Caught the last Portkey for Edinburgh just for that."
Potter waits, the picture of patience.
Draco laughs and shakes his head. "I'm here on business, what else? I was supposed to meet
someone not far from here." He dodges Potter's gaze. "It seems I've been stood up, though.
Thought it better to wait somewhere warm, either way. I certainly didn't expect to run into Harry
Potter . . ." Stop, Draco's mind screams and he shuts up. Potter stares at him, silent. "And you?"
Draco blurts out. Potter's eyes narrow and Draco regrets asking. He tries to fix it, knowing he'll
regret that, too. "No, wait, don't tell me. You're here on very important Auror business. Let's see .
. ." Draco looks around, pausing on the girl behind the counter. "You're investigating our
esteemed yet uninterested host? Or the man she's entertaining? I have to say, he does look
suspicious. That pipe could be used as a weapon. Or . . . perhaps you're more concerned about the
possibility of killer pine trees attacking the guests? I'm glad you're here, then. There's a shocking
number of Christmas trees in this inn; I couldn't fight them on my own. I just hope I didn't blow
your cover."
Potter opens his mouth to speak, but Draco continues; he can't stop.
"No, of course not. I'm sorry — I forgot. You didn't comb your hair, so you couldn't possibly be
undercover."
"I had no plans to investigate anyone in this inn," Potter says. "Nothing here seemed particularly
suspicious. Christmas trees notwithstanding."
Draco notes the past tense and forces a smile. "Until now," he says ominously, mocking. "Sorry to
disappoint you, Potter. My business here is merely illegally tedious, but hardly illegal. But please"
¬— Draco leans forward — "investigate me, Auror Potter, if you so desire."
Potter's eyes widen and only then Draco realises how suggestive his tone has been. The innkeeper
finally appears and Draco has no time to ponder Potter's reaction.
"Anything for you, sir?" she asks.
Draco looks up. "Oh please, don't trouble yourself. I didn't mean to interrupt your very important
conversation by my presence."
The innkeeper stands up straighter, even her dark curls seem to draw themselves up with pride.
"No trouble at all. I'm quite finished."
Draco smiles widely. "Excellent. I'll have — is that mead?" He glances at Potter's glass, filled with
golden liquid. He shakes his head and tsks. "I'll have some mead, too." He leans in closer to the
innkeeper and lowers his voice. "We're rebels — drinking when we should be working."
"I'm off duty," Potter hastens to say, as though worried the innkeeper will think ill of him.
She ignores everything but Draco's order, however. "Certainly. We have the finest mead you can
find in Edinburgh. Oak-matured, of course. We use cinnamon —"
"Yes, yes." Draco waves her off. "That will be fine."
She turns sharply and leaves, her curls dancing behind her.
Potter's gaze is fixed on Draco. "She'll spit in your mead, you do realise?" he asks.
Draco frowns and considers Potter's conclusion. Then he calls out, "Miss Glas — it is Miss Glas,
isn't it?" She turns and nods. "Just bring the whole bottle," he instructs. "And . . . I'll open it
myself, thank you."
She quirks an eyebrow before turning away and Potter chuckles. "Has it ever occurred to you it's
simply easier not to be rude?" he asks.
"I'm not the only one rude here," Draco counters and pulls out his wand.
He expects Potter to react, take out his wand and shout, "Expelliarmus," but Potter's smile is in
place and he sits perfectly still, arms crossed on his chest. Draco nonetheless thinks that if he tries
to cast a curse at Potter, he'll be bound on the floor before the words make it past his lips.
Banishing the thought, Draco waves his wand at the multitude of candles and extinguishes their
flames. Another wave and the shine of the Christmas lights dims. One more flick and the hovering
candlestick attaches itself to the table, its attempts to regain freedom and light its candles futile.
Draco's magic lingers in the air for a split second; it's pale blue tinged with green and Draco can't
help staring. The green seems to vanish last.
"Have the lights been rude and you had to kill them?" Potter asks, full of false sympathy.
Draco drags his gaze away from the faded spell light and tucks the wand back to his pocket.
"Now your poor myopic self can't read," he says. "You haven't folded your newspapers, Potter. It
would only be polite considering you have company."
"Rude or not, how will this stop me? It might be difficult for you to think so far ahead, Malfoy,
but I can simply turn the lights back on," Potter says slowly, emphasising every word, as though
speaking to a small child.
"You can, but you won't." Draco smiles, smug.
"I won't?"
"If you turn them back on, I'll just turn them off again . . . It would be very childish. We can't
stoop to that. What would Miss Glas think of us?"
Potter rubs his temples and then reaches for his glass. His Adam's apple bobs as he leans his head
back and swallows the sweet drink. His throat is long and pale, Draco notes, distracted.
"Fine," Potter says. He puts the glass back on the table and folds the newspapers. "Tell me a joke,
then."
"A joke?"
"You've offered."
"Right." Draco frowns. He's sure he knows quite a few jokes but none occur to him. The few he
remembers ridicule Muggles and their way of life.
There's laughter in Potter's eyes, as though he has guessed Draco's thoughts.
"Right," Draco says again and clears his throat. "What's the difference between a hag and
Firewhiskey?" He waits for a few seconds, then adds, "You're supposed to say what."
"Of course. Sorry." Potter fails to look contrite. "What?"
"No difference. Spend enough time with either and they'll both try to eat your liver."
Potter looks as though he might laugh but he doesn't quite manage. "Did you think of that one
yourself?" he asks.
"I suppose it's funnier after you've drank a bottle of Firewhiskey," Draco acknowledges, but
doesn't surrender. "What's a hag's favourite pick up line?"
"Seriously? Are you obsessed with hags?"
Draco glares.
"Sorry." Potter relents and asks obediently, "What?"
Draco smiles, leans forward, and gives Potter a suggestive once-over. He lowers his voice to a
purr. "Why, don't you just look edible?" he coos.
Potter freezes, then lowers his gaze and chuckles. It sounds nervous, but seconds later he glances
back up and the only emotion Draco can see in Potter's expression is amusement.
"I have many more," Draco brags.
Potter grimaces and reaches for the mead again. He makes a gesture with his hand as though to
say, "Go on, then. If you must."
The mead in Potter's glass is disappearing more rapidly than expected. Draco smiles and thinks of
another joke.
*
Potter's face is red, mead and laughter doing their job.
"I don't believe you," Potter says once he regains his breath.
"It's true," Draco says seriously. "Where do you think I got the idea to Polyjuice Crabbe and
Goyle into little girls?"
That sets Potter off again. His laughter is quiet but his smile is wide, showing off a row of straight,
white teeth. His lips are as red as his cheeks; he has bit down on his bottom lip several times to
stop himself from laughing. Futile attempts, every single one of them.
"Poor Goyle." Draco shakes his head. "He didn't know it had been a gift for Pansy. Would you
believe Millie dumped him after that?"
"How unfair!" Potter cries. "He was merely willing to experiment."
"That's what I said." Draco nods; it hurts his head so he stops. "I said, ‘Millie, the bloke is
prepared to wear lacy knickers for you — he's a keeper,' but . . ." Draco gives a long-suffering
sigh. "He kept them, you know. Carried them around in his robe pocket for a year. It was
positively endearing. Completely fucked up, but endearing. And sad, I suppose." Draco stares at
his fingers, wrapped around his empty glass. "Say what you will about Goyle, but he was a good
bloke. Dimmer than a tree, but more harmless than anything," he adds fondly.
Potter has stopped laughing; he must have picked up on something in Draco's voice.
"Was?" Potter asks, his tone gentle.
Draco's throat constricts. He pours more mead into his glass and takes a sip. The sweetness burns
his tongue and leaves him with a slightly bitter aftertaste.
"He died a few years ago," he says. "He owed some gold to the wrong people. They cursed him
and . . . " He wants to explain Goyle had been tortured to death but can't form the words. "The
healers didn't reach him on time," he says instead.
Potter's forehead furrows. "I didn't know. I've never seen Goyle's name mentioned in any report."
"He moved to Ireland a few years ago. His mother told me what happened, two months after his
death."
"Oh. I'm sorry," Potter says, looking apologetic for not saying it right away, but instead
questioning Draco's story.
Draco shrugs. "We hadn't really kept in touch." He huffs, suddenly angry. "Idiot. He could have
still asked me for a loan."
Pity creeps into Potter's gaze. Draco ignores the heavy feeling in his chest and changes the subject.
"What about you? I assume you've kept in touch with all of your admirers?" He doesn't wait for
Potter's answer but instead looks at Potter's left hand. "No ring. I'd expected you to become Mr
Ginny Weasley by now."
Potter's smile is forced. "I find it hard to believe you've missed all those headlines two years ago,
so I assume you just want to gloat."
Draco laughs. "Ginny Weasley Replaces Potter with a Broom," he quotes. "Is Beater's Bat Better
Than Our Hero?"
"You made those up!"
"It's how I remember them." Draco laughs at Potter's outrage. He has missed seeing Potter's
temper flare. "Damn Quidditch players," he says, imitating Potter's outraged tone. "They even
pushed you down on the Witch's Weekly Most Eligible Bachelors list. Only number seven."
Draco gasps. "How scandalous! At least Miss Weasley's fiancé is number twelve. A small bit of
comfort is better than nothing."
Potter scowls. "You're a gossiping old lady. I've always known it."
Draco eyes Potter's expression. He can't tell if Potter is merely indignant or genuinely upset. "You
know what's curious, though?" Draco leans in closer. "I've read nothing about your personal life
since. I did read, however — just last week — that Miss Ginny Weasley, her fiancé and his much
discussed Beater's bat are staying in Edinburgh for the holidays. Is that why you're here? To do
something vile and utterly inappropriate? I'm not judging. I just want to take pictures."
Potter blinks. "You're far more informed than I am. I had no idea they were here; I'm in Edinburgh
on business."
"A likely tale."
Potter sighs audibly. "Don't be stupid. Ginny and I broke up years ago and we've always been
friends—" Potter shuts up. "Why am I justifying myself? This is none of your business. You're
mad. And drunk."
"Exactly!" Draco frowns. "I'm not drunk. Or mad," he adds quickly, then continues his line of
thought. "You're very defensive. It's suspicious, I have to say."
Potter stands by his decision to stay silent. It doesn't bother Draco.
"I did think you were here on business but . . ." Draco looks around. "Well, you don't look very
busy to me. May I make a suggestion?" he whispers conspiratorially. "At this point, I'd go after
the Quidditch players who are above me on the list. Ginny's fiancé . . . that's a lost battle. Those
Quidditch robes are tight; everyone has seen his bat. Be reasonable and admit defeat."
Draco must have hit a nerve because Potter sits up straighter in his chair. "This won't be as
entertaining in a few days once you read all about what I've been doing here today," he says with
an air of dignity.
Draco feels his heart thumping against his ribcage. He scoffs. "Potter Saves World by Sitting in a
Dodgy Inn. Oh yes, that will certainly make the papers."
Potter gives him a filthy look. "As will cracking a smuggling ring that has been distributing illegal
potions out of the country for years."
Draco's smile widens; it feels frozen on his face. "Please say cracking again. You growl it, did
you know? I love it. It sounds powerful. Look . . ." Draco pulls up his sleeve and shoves his arm
toward Potter. "I have goose bumps."
Potter looks at the ceiling as though asking for support from a deity above.
"I'm sorry, I really am," Draco lies and pulls his arm back. "I just . . . I'm not an Auror, obviously,
but if you can crack ¬— I'm not saying it right, am I? Do forgive me — crack a smuggling ring by
sitting down and drinking mead, I have to ask myself, why the hell aren't I an Auror? I could do
that. I drink mead and things just crack. I think I found my true calling."
Potter reaches for his glass, but it's empty. Draco promptly grabs the bottle and pours him more
mead. Potter stares at it for a second before he looks up at Draco. He seems to hesitate, his gaze
calculating, but eventually he speaks.
"I apprehended a wizard this morning. He was in charge of Portkeying the potions across the
border. He doesn't seem too bright, but I'm certain he knows quite a bit about the people he works
for. He's . . . incapacitated at the moment, so I've left him with a healer, but tomorrow I'll Apparate
him to the Ministry for questioning. I'm sure he'll be cooperative and provide me with a list of
names."
Draco bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. "I see . . . let me get this straight. You've arrested
a potential witness, who could solve your case for you, and then left him unprotected and went to
have a drink? I see this ending well. Truly."
"As do I." Potter leans forward; there's barely any distance between them. Draco finds it hard to
focus on Potter's words. "See," Potter continues, "right before I'd . . ."
"Incapacitated the evil yet not too bright wizard?" Draco suggests.
"Exactly. He sent a message to someone. His associates, I imagine. I expect them to be quite
worried by now. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to extract the witness from our grasp." Potter
pauses and then grins. "Which would be fortunate. The man has the Trace on him. We might not
even need him to talk. He might lead us straight to his accomplices and provide us with firmer
evidence rather than just a list of names."
Draco forces a laugh. "Don't you think they'll anticipate the Trace?"
"You haven't thought of it."
"I'm not a hardened criminal." Draco looks away, but he can still see Potter's green-eyed gaze; it
follows him. He blinks to clear his vision. "I can't be, remember?"
"I remember." Potter nods. He eyes Draco speculatively. "The Brand on your magic expires
soon."
"Yes, a few more weeks and I'm free of it," Draco says, smiling. He dares to look up at Potter
again.
Potter doesn't smile back. "Until it does, your magic will leave a Signature. Performing illegal
spells would not be impossible for you, though, merely foolish."
"Fortunately, I find foolishness impossible to achieve," Draco says gravely.
Potter bursts out laughing. "Saying that after all those hag jokes! Quite bold, honestly."
"I know it pains you to admit it, Potter, but I have some good jokes. I recall you laughing.
Uproariously."
"Yes, well, I'm drunk."
"Yes, you are. It's the only thing that explains your belief you'll catch any criminals tonight."
Potter's laugh sounds forced this time. "No, I think not. I'm sure I know how these people think.
It's a small organization, small enough to nearly escape our notice. Just like you," Potter grins,
"they aren't hardened criminals. I think they're merely desperate individuals trying to earn some
gold on the side. They aren't ruthless enough to eliminate the witness, nor experienced enough to
think of the Trace. They're just anxious to not be mentioned, which is why they'll panic, rush in
without thinking and make a mistake." Potter stops smiling. "Not very wise of them. They've all
but been caught. It would be smarter to cooperate than add to the list of charges. The
consequences would be minor, if they would just come forward."
Potter's eyes are as green as the pine tree behind him; Draco has to look away. "Well then," he
says and raises his glass. "Here's to foolish criminals falling into Potter's trap. May they rot in
Azkaban, just as they deserve."
Potter stares at him for a moment longer, then straightens and accepts the toast.
Draco lets the mead burn his throat.
*
For the third time that night, the innkeeper wipes their table with a dirty rag.
"Do you think she fancies me?" Draco asks after she leaves.
Potter snorts. "I think she's eager to see us retire for the night. It is quite late." His tone suggests he
agrees with the innkeeper's sentiments. Draco pretends not to notice.
"Just as well. I don't fancy her, either," he says.
"Why not?" Potter asks. "She's attractive. She's a pureblood . . ." He grins as though his only goal
is to tease not to accuse.
Draco tilts his head and feigns surprise. "My personal life has yet to be headline news, but surely
you read the social pages? If you do, you'd know that my dating preferences aren't based on blood
status these days."
Potter's expression doesn't change; he doesn't look shocked.
"But you knew that," Draco concludes. "You merely wanted a confirmation. Who's a gossiping
old lady now?"
Potter shrugs. "Most of those articles were written by Skeeter. I tend not to trust everything she
says."
"Reasonable philosophy. I have to say, the article about my alleged relationship with the Harper
twins was a complete fabrication. It was only ever a momentary lapse of judgement — hardly
something I'd call a relationship."
Potter's mouth twitches. "I suppose this explains why you keep a close eye on Witch's Weekly
Most Desirable Bachelors list. And Beaters' bats."
Draco laughs; the sound is too loud to his own ears. He can feel his cheeks burn, not from
embarrassment or the heat but from the copious amount of mead.
"Miss Weasley's fiancé is quite impressive. Though . . ." Draco pauses to stare at Potter. "She
always did have good taste in men, I'll give her that." Potter's cheeks look red, too. Draco can't be
sure if that's the mead's doing. He grins and adds, "Present company excluded, of course. No
one's infallible."
Draco awaits Potter's reaction, but a whoosh of magic behind him distracts him and the room
darkens. He can see outside through the window behind Potter. The snow still falls heavily,
snowflakes swirling in the light of the street lamps.
"Did Miss Glas just turn off the heating?" Draco asks in a stage whisper.
"She seems quite cross," Potter murmurs. He sounds amused. The soft light of the Christmas
decorations doesn't let Draco see Potter's expression.
Draco glances her way. She's scrubbing the counter vigorously, as though the grubby wood is the
reason she can't go to bed.
"How subtle of her." Draco sighs loudly and adds, "I fear that next time she'll point her wand at
us. We really should go to bed." Draco nods. "You should invite me to your room."
He can't see Potter's face clearly, just colourful Christmas lights twinkling in his glasses. It looks
funny, but Draco is too nervous to laugh.
"Is there a reason you can't rent a room?" Potter asks. "Or go home?"
"I'd go home if I planned to sleep. But I had something more pleasurable in mind."
The wireless isn't on anymore; Draco hasn't noticed until now. It's eerily quiet. He can hear
himself swallow.
The silence stretches, and then Potter finally asks, "What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Draco can't stand not seeing Potter's face anymore. He takes out his wand and lights the candles
on the table. Potter looks composed; he doesn't even look drunk, though his cheeks are still
flushed.
"It's quite simple," Draco says. "Let me demonstrate." He picks up his glass, but then notes it's
empty. He frowns and pours some mead from the half-empty bottle. "Observe," he instructs.
Potter looks baffled, but he stares at Draco as asked.
Draco takes a sip, then licks the sweetness off his lips.
"There it is," he says, grinning. "How very focused your gaze is, Potter." Potter's eyes snap back
up to Draco's, but he must have known it was too late. A blush creeps down toward his neck. "Do
you know you've been staring at my lips the entire evening?" Draco lowers his voice to whisper.
"You know what I think? I think you want to kiss me." He waits for Potter to deny it; he looks
forward to proving Potter wrong.
Potter's reaction is not what Draco expects.
"What sort of business?" Potter asks.
"Pardon?"
Potter's jaw tightens. "You said you were here on business. What sort of business?"
Draco shakes his head in genuine disbelief. He had expected Potter to ask this question sooner,
not wait until now. "You're paranoid, Potter," he says and puts his glass down. "But if it will
make you feel better . . . My family owns a townhouse in the vicinity. I was meeting a potential
buyer."
"You're in dire need of gold, then?"
"I don't need the house, but I can always use the gold. It was a generous offer." He shrugs. "Too
generous, obviously. It seems the man changed his mind. Though, I suppose I could have waited
at the house for a bit longer." Draco purses his lips and grimaces. "I got bored."
Potter doesn't believe him. He stares at Draco as though waiting for a better explanation.
"Oh for fuck's sake!" Draco snaps and picks up his wand. He had left it on the table when he'd lit
the candles. "Here. Have this if it makes you happy." He offers the wand to Potter with a scowl.
"Honestly, am I that terrifying? What do you think I'll do to you?"
Potter looks at the wand, blinking at it in surprise, and then slowly reaches out, pulling it from
Draco's grasp. The wood drags against Draco's skin, his fingers itching to grab it and not let go.
"When I said you can have it, I meant for tonight, obviously. Not forever. You little thief," Draco
says as Potter pockets the wand.
Potter visibly relaxes. His grin looks sly as he opens his mouth and Draco interrupts him.
"If you say, ‘Finders keepers,' I'll smash this bottle on your head."
Potter snorts. "All right, then."
"You want me to hit you with the bottle?"
"No, that won't be necessary." Potter frowns for a moment. "Well, it would probably be a more
sensible wish, but I'm drunk, so . . ." Potter looks straight at Draco. "I meant, all right, let's go up
to my room."
Draco's mind processes Potter's words slowly. "Oh."
He waits for Potter to laugh and say he's only joking, but instead, Potter hesitates and then says,
"Unless you've changed your mind."
"No!" Draco says quickly, grateful his dry throat has allowed him to speak.
Potter nods, then pushes his chair back and stands.
Draco feels dizzy and wonders if he'll manage to stand up as well. Still, he eyes the bottle of
mead, tempted to take it with him. They haven't drunk much, he thinks. The bottle looks half-full.
He resists the mead and stands. His feet are unsteady, but he doesn't stumble as he leads the way
up the stairs.
*
The room fills with candlelight the moment they enter. Candles float near the ceiling, their soft,
flickering light probably hiding the dust. The bed is small, but it still takes up most of the space in
the room. The sheets are old and grey, and Draco hopes they're at least clean. There's a small
closet behind the door, a dirty green backpack on the floor beside it and a sturdy-looking table
with two wooden chairs next to the window. A black fur-lined coat with the Ministry emblem on
the front is tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair.
The door clicks shut and Draco turns. Potter watches him in a way that makes him wish he hasn't
surrendered his wand.
Draco forces a smile on his face. "Nervous?" he asks.
The word barely passes his lips before Potter leaps forward: in one second he stands by the door
and in the other his lips are pressed firmly to Draco's, his hand cradling the back of Draco's head.
It's too gentle, too soft, at odds with Potter's abruptness, and Draco freezes, not knowing how to
react. But Potter's fingers grip Draco's hair and he tilts his head, his tongue coaxing Draco's mouth
open and to that Draco knows how to react.
Potter tastes like honey and cinnamon, a bittersweet reminder of the mead they've consumed. Not
that Draco needs reminding. He feels as though they're spinning, his head pounding and his heart
ready to burst through his chest. Draco's fingers slide against Potter's ribcage, partly to steady
himself, but his intent gets lost and his hand moves up and down in a slow caress. Potter's skin
radiates heat through his shirt; he feels Potter's heart beat just as wildly as his.
Potter pulls back, breathing heavily against Draco's lips; his eyes are unfocused and his lips seem
fuller, redder, as though Draco has bitten them. He doesn't remember doing it. The dizziness
intensifies and Draco looks down quickly and pulls Potter's shirt out of his trousers. He attacks the
tiny white buttons, but they refuse to give. They cooperate with Potter, though; his hands seem
steadier, but his fingers move too slowly. Draco leaves Potter to it, grabs his hips instead and
bends down to press a row of bites and kisses along Potter's jaw. He drags his lips to Potter's ear,
pulls the earlobe in his mouth and bites down.
Potter jerks away with a grimace; he doesn't like that. Draco shrugs mentally and directs his focus
to Potter's neck. Potter's shirt is undone and Draco slides his fingertips over the pale skin, over
dark, sparse chest hair, the flat stomach, and then lower to where the hair thickens and disappears
beneath Potter's trousers. Potter's hand catches Draco's wrist, pushing Draco's exploring fingers
away. Apparently, Potter doesn't like that, either.
Potter is thin, Draco notes. As thin as he ever was back at school. But his grip on Draco's wrist
can't be broken. Draco tries; he pulls and twists, struggles to pry Potter's fingers apart, and
wonders where all that strength is coming from when nothing he does frees his wrist from Potter's
grasp.
"Is there a no touching rule that I'm unaware of?" he asks. His throat feels scratchy and raw.
Potter grabs Draco's other wrist, too, and kisses him again. Draco doesn't even try to free himself
this time.
Unbidden, an old childhood memory comes to his mind as Potter walks him backwards to the bed,
his grip on Draco's wrists still tight and his kiss slower, more skilful than the first one they shared.
Draco remembers sneaking to his father's stables to admire an old Abraxan restrained with an iron
fence and a heavy chain. It was a powerful animal with huge wings and sharp teeth. Draco would
steal apples from the kitchens and bring them to the horse, and it would rip them from his hands,
greedy for its favourite fruit. If it wanted, it could have crushed Draco's bones with its teeth
without the smallest effort. But it never did, and Draco knew it never would. No matter how
sudden and sharp its bites were, its teeth never grazed Draco's skin. It made Draco feel powerful,
so powerful he couldn't stay away. Not even his father's fury after he had caught his son with his
small hand between the horse's teeth could make Draco give it up. It had cost the horse its life.
Draco doesn't even remember its name, but he remembers that feeling all too well; he feels it now,
with Potter, and tries desperately not to ask himself why.
It worries and distracts him; he lets Potter push him down to the bed and press his hands to the
pillow, trapping him beneath his body. It doesn't help that Potter's lips are firmly on Draco's,
skilful flicks of Potter's tongue leaving him breathless.
Every nerve in his body is strung tight by the time Potter pulls back to kneel between Draco's
thighs. His hand cups Draco's crotch, delicately at first, then pressing more firmly, massaging,
squeezing, his grip hardening with each gasp that escapes Draco's mouth.
Draco tries to wish his clothes away; it's too warm in the room, his body is on fire, he feels like
he'll jump out of his skin. Above them, as though agreeing with Draco, the candle wax melts,
droplets disappearing right before they reach their heads.
Potter's too slow. He pulls Draco's trousers and underwear to Draco's thighs, but then stops, his
fingers frozen on Draco's hips. He stares at Draco's cock: it's heavy and curves upwards, falling
towards Draco's stomach.
Draco lifts up, annoyed to find his hands still pressed to the pillow next to his head, just as Potter
had left them. Potter's breathing is shallow and his pupils blown wide. He seems hesitant, as
though he doesn't know exactly what he's doing.
Draco feels the corner of his mouth twitching. "Never seen a cock before, Potter?" he asks.
Potter's reaction is predictable: his expression hardens, all hesitation gone in an instant. He grabs
the waistband of Draco's trousers and tugs.
"Help me pull these off," he says. It's the first thing he's said since they entered the room. His
voice is so low Draco thinks he can feel the sound reverberate in his own chest.
Awkwardly, their limbs getting in the way on the small bed, they get rid of Draco's trousers and
pants, his socks and boots, which have already dirtied the sheets. Draco wants to pull Potter's
clothes away, too, but Potter distracts him with a kiss and Draco doesn't insist. He wonders if
Potter is tempted to run and wants to keep his boots on just in case the urge becomes too strong.
It doesn't bother Draco; he likes the scratchy feel of Potter's clothes, the way the coarse fabric of
his trousers drags against the sensitive skin of Draco's inner thighs. Potter kneels on the bed
between Draco's spread legs, his hands warm and heavy on Draco's hips, and Draco sits up to
bury his hands into Potter's wild hair as he kisses him.
"Give me my wand," Draco whispers, moments later, catching his breath.
Potter's hands grip Draco's hips tighter, but then he relaxes and reaches into his pocket. He hands
Draco a wand: his, however, not Draco's.
Draco lifts Potter's right hand, points his wand at Potter's palm and murmurs an incantation. He
casts two more charms, one at Potter and one at himself, for necessary protection. Potter can't
seem to look away from the slick, sticky liquid covering his palm. I could Stun him, Draco
thinks. I could Stun him right now and he wouldn't even notice. Draco strokes the wand in his
hand. The wood feels strange and cold in his fingers. He wonders if Potter gave him his own
wand for a reason. Perhaps any curse or hex directed at its owner would backfire.
Draco tosses the wand to the floor.
"You know what to do with that, right?" he asks. Potter shoves him backwards on the bed. Draco
laughs. His ability to predict Potter's reactions is oddly comforting. Determined to break Potter's
newfound composure, Draco lifts his legs up and bends them at the knees, exposing himself fully
to Potter's gaze.
For a second, he's sure Potter will back out, turn tail and run. His green eyes are impossibly wide
behind his glasses. But then Potter drags his left hand down Draco's thigh and grips his arse,
thumb stroking and pressing against Draco's hole. A shiver forms in Draco's lower back and
spreads slowly through his whole body.
"Now I do see goose bumps," Potter says and Draco looks up.
Potter's hand slides upward; his fingers barely gaze Draco's balls and cock, then push Draco's shirt
away to expose and caress his stomach. Draco can't stop his shivers.
"Lots of goose bumps." Potter's crooked smile is unlike any Draco has seen before on his face. He
wants to study it, analyze it and commit it to memory, but Potter looks away and the moment is
lost.
And then Potter is pushing a finger inside him and Draco stops caring about everything else.
Potter is slow, unbearably slow, but he breaches Draco steadily, never pausing until his finger is
as deep inside as it can be.
Draco wants to tell him to hurry, to skip this torture and fuck him already. The words are on the
tip of his tongue as Potter takes his time and moves his finger at a steady pace. He almost screams
it after Potter dutifully adds another finger as though he's read an instruction manual on the subject
and now wants to follow each step to the letter. Draco wants Potter inside him, but he doesn't
want to stop him. Potter stares at his fingers moving in and out of Draco with so much
concentration and reverence Draco wants him to never stop. He wants him to stay like that, eager
to give Draco pleasure without seeking his own.
The temptation to stroke himself overwhelms him, but he twists his hands into the sheets and tries
to resist. Potter's pushing three of his fingers inside Draco now; he's no longer as slow but thrusts
them deep, the burn of the stretch not nearly enough to interfere with the ache building low in
Draco's spine. Draco grips the sheets tighter and hears himself moan. Potter looks at him, mouth
open, forehead damp, looking like he struggles for each breath.
"Go on," Potter says and Draco's balls tighten; he can't hold himself back any longer. The tension
builds slowly, contracting his muscles and suspending pleasure for a long moment before his
release rips through him. He clamps down on Potter's fingers as light bursts in front of his eyes.
It takes his body forever to relax. He can't stop contracting around Potter's fingers; he doesn't even
mind the sticky mess cooling slowly on his stomach. His breathing slows down somewhat after he
makes a conscious effort to calm it, but in the next moment his breath is stolen from him again:
Potter leans forward, his fingers still inside Draco's arse. His lips hover above Draco's stomach for
a second, his breath hot and damp against Draco's skin, and then his tongue tastes Draco's come,
carefully, as though unsure it's a good idea, before he presses closer and gives Draco's sticky skin
a sloppy open-mouthed kiss.
The bed shakes and squeaks under the force of Draco's shivers. He can hear buzzing in his ears. It
doesn't stop, not even after he opens his eyes and tries to will it away. Potter jerks upward, looking
utterly lost before his gaze falls to the floor. He pulls his fingers away, gently but hurriedly, his
face and neck red and blushing even harder as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He climbs off
the bed, leaving Draco to fight his confusion. Draco lowers his legs and stretches; his whole body
aches, though not unpleasantly.
Potter bends down and picks up his wand. It vibrates and burns white in his hand and Potter stares
at it as though he'd never seen such a display in his life. He sits on the edge of the bed and doesn't
take his gaze off it, even after the flames vanish.
Draco wants to ask what's wrong, but he fears he already knows what the message Potter received
had said. He rolls to his side and fixes a smile on his face.
"I bet we could enlarge this bed," he says. He wants to reach out, grab Potter's forearm and pull
him down next to him, but he doesn't dare. He can't see Potter's expression, just the side of his
face that's slowly losing colour.
"I'm drunk," Potter says. He sounds tired. His fingers clutch his wand; they're still slick, their pale
skin shining in the candlelight. Draco's arse aches pleasantly at the sight. He can barely focus on
Potter's words.
"The potions are in the closet by the door. Bottom shelf."
Draco blinks. For the briefest second, Potter's statement makes no sense.
"What?" Draco asks, even after his confusion has cleared. His stomach rolls.
Potter isn't looking at him; he's still staring at his wand. "The potions I confiscated today. You
brewed some of them; they bear your Signature. That is why you're here."
Pressure builds in the back of Draco's head; it spreads to his ears and face, burning his skin along
the way. It edges to his throat, constricting it painfully.
He wants to deny it, but he wants to hear the answer to another question more.
"You knew?" he asks as loudly as his aching throat allows him. He feels betrayed, though he
knows he has no right to feel that way. He wishes he wasn't naked. He pulls his shirt lower to
cover himself.
Potter's eyes snap to Draco's. They mirror the hurt Draco feels, as well as surprise. Potter laughs
suddenly; it sounds hollow and bitter. He turns away, shakes his head and pulls at his hair.
"Merlin, I'm such an idiot," Potter tells himself, his voice filled with fury.
It feels like a punch in the stomach. Draco wants to turn back the time and deny everything while
he still had the chance, even though he knows it would have been pointless. Potter would find out
eventually. That had always been unavoidable. Postponing the moment makes no difference,
except that Draco had never planned to see Potter's face and listen to his voice when he found out.
"Knew." Potter spits the word. "I was sure they would send someone to distract me. I've been
waiting, and then you were just there. I told you about the Trace, expecting you to warn the
others. I thought I'd catch you red-handed. But you've never left my sight. And then you gave me
your wand. I thought . . . I thought I was wrong. Paranoid, just like you said." Potter snorts. "I
forgot how selfish you are. You don't care about the others. You betrayed them in a heartbeat.
You just wanted to save yourself. Get hold of the evidence that incriminates you."
Draco wants to defend himself but doesn't know how. His sits up on the bed and pulls his knees to
his chest. "I didn't know—"
"Didn't know what?" Potter turns sharply; his green eyes burn as brightly as his wand moments
ago. "You knew I had the potions. If you hadn't guessed before, you knew the moment I told you
about the Trace. You knew I wouldn't leave the evidence with the bait. You knew I haven't been
to the Ministry. You knew they had to be in my room." Potter pauses as though waiting for Draco
to deny it. When Draco doesn't, he grips his wand tighter. "Your friends have been caught. As
planned."
I didn't know I'd feel sorry, Draco wants to say, but instead he says, "They aren't my friends." He's
glad there's at least something he can deny. "I'm not . . . I don't do this for a living, Potter. I just
—"
"Wanted to earn some easy money? Better than selling properties, isn't it? This probably looked
like it was made for you. Once out of the country, no one would check the potions for Magical
Signatures — Stop looking like that," Potter snaps. "You have no right to look like the injured
party. Just take the potions and get the hell out."
Draco looks up, shocked. "You won't arrest me?"
"Arrest you?" Potter scoffs. "Your plan worked so well. You volunteered to deal with me,
sacrificed your . . . sacrificed the worthless people who aren't your friends, and then you made
sure I'll never mention what happened here after you disappeared with the potions. Wasn't that the
plan? Blackmail? You have a witness, Miss Glas, who couldn't possibly have any doubts about
what happened in this room, not after all that flirting, and the Brand ensures your Signature is on
every spell you've cast. It's all over the inn; it's even on me." Potter grimaces. "It's even on my
wand. Can't blame you for that one," he adds bitterly.
Draco's vague, scattered thoughts merge to fit within the plan Potter has outlined. It was never as
detailed in his head, but more of a set of reactions and decisions made in the moment. "I didn't
know you'd be . . . interested," he says but doesn't add he'd hoped for it.
"Well, aren't you lucky?"
Draco doesn't feel lucky but doesn't say so.
Potter huffs and tosses Draco's wand on the bed. Then, he directs his wand at the closet and hisses
something incomprehensible; the closet door squeak open. "Another Auror will be here in a
minute. Just . . . go."
That strange feeling resurfaces again, the one that overwhelmed him when Potter pushed him on
the bed earlier. It bubbles inside Draco, pressing in on his chest. He fights to push it down but he
can't. He leaps from the bed, suddenly eager to escape. He doesn't look at Potter as he pulls on his
clothes and boots; Potter doesn't look at him as Draco walks to the closet, picks out a small
wooden box from the bottom shelf and leaves the others.
He pauses to stare at the back of Potter's dark head. Loud footsteps echo outside, moving closer to
the door. Draco panics, wondering why he'd been stalling, but then Potter flicks his wand in a
complicated loop and the air around them shudders.
Draco grips the box in his hands and Disapparates before he can say something stupid, like Thank
you.
*
The box feels heavy in his hands.
It had felt heavy when he had put it on his desk. It had felt heavy when he had hidden it in a
drawer. It had felt heavy when he had thrown it into the fireplace and it's still heavy now while he
stands in the hallway, leaning against the wall, waiting.
"You may come in," a young Auror says as he pauses at the doorway and peeks outside.
Draco pushes away from the wall and straightens. He smirks at the Auror, just to remind him how
wrong he'd been when he'd claimed Potter was too busy — and too important, his tone had said
— to see Draco now. "It's Christmas Eve," the Auror had proclaimed, as though he believes crime
must respect that and give the Auror Department respite.
The Auror points to an office to his left with a curt "There," and abandons Draco in favour of
lounging in his chair and methodically throwing wrinkled paper balls into the bin, perhaps eager to
prove he's no one's errand boy and Potter's visitors are to open the doors for themselves.
The large room is half-deserted and sparsely decorated. Someone has turned on the wireless and
jaunty notes echo in Draco's ears. He hurries along to Potter's office, eager to escape the familiar
atmosphere.
Potter sits behind his desk, quill in hand, and glances up when the door clicks shut behind Draco.
He gives a half-nod and says, "Malfoy," then looks back down to scribble something on the
parchment in front of him. It looks staged, Draco thinks. Potter behaves exactly as he had back at
the Glas Inn. He'd feigned disinterest then; he's feigning disinterest now.
Draco strides forwards and sets the wooden box on Potter's desk. He wishes it doesn't look so
battered and singed at the edges, but it's too late to fix it now.
Potter doesn't lift his head but looks at the box over the top of his glasses. "Is that a Christmas
present? I'm sorry — I didn't get you anything."
Draco remains silent; he didn't come here to exchange pointless banter.
Potter sighs and sets his quill down, leaning back in his chair. Apparently, he's no longer
interested in pretending he has work to do. "Honestly, Malfoy, what do you want? Did you fill the
vials with pumpkin juice and came here to tell me you've only ever wanted to sell some quality
juice to the unfortunate?"
"The content is unaltered. I'm here to turn myself in."
Potter's eyebrows rise so high his glasses slip down his nose. He fixes them with an irritated jerk
of his hand, and then studies Draco for a moment. "Are you trying to imply you were involved in
the Edinburgh smuggling ring? I'm afraid that case is closed."
Draco sets his jaw. "I've been a part of it for a year. I've brewed hundreds of potions for them.
Some of them quite dangerous. I've earned a small fortune." He bares his teeth. "Made my father
proud."
Potter looks stricken and Draco presses on. "So, in light of newly presented evidence, perhaps the
case should be reopened." He's sure Potter will start yelling any second now, tell Draco how
irresponsible he'd been and how disappointing his behaviour was. However, Potter looks away
and shrugs.
"It's Christmas. I don't fancy being presented with new evidence. Too much paperwork."
"I'll stop by next week, if it suits you better."
"No need," Potter says, harsher now. "Like I said, the case is closed, you're free to go."
A vein in Draco's temple throbs. He opens his mouth to say he'll find another Auror, then, one
who will listen to him, but the office door bursts open, sparing Draco the bother. Ron Weasley
storms in, nearly running over Draco in his haste. The door snaps shut behind him.
"Harry, are you done? We have to go. Hermione will get suspicious if I don't — Draco Malfoy is
in your office, did you know?" Ron Weasley pauses in the middle of the room and looks Draco
up and down.
Weasley is still taller than him, Draco notes, resentful, but then he ignores unwanted thoughts and
grabs the wooden box from Potter's table. He shoves it in Weasley's hands, pressing it much too
hard against his midriff.
Weasley cries an "Oof!" of surprise and has little choice but to accept the box with a grimace.
"Er," he says. "I didn't get you anything."
Draco would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of hearing the same stupid quip twice, but
he refuses to lose his focus. "You'll find illegal potions with my Signature on it inside," he says. "I
was a part of the group caught in Edinburgh, but Potter failed to arrest me."
Weasley blinks at him, then he glances at Potter.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Draco can see Potter shake his head.
"I'm confessing a crime, Weasley. Pay attention," Draco snaps.
"Right." Weasley looks between Potter and Draco again and then takes a hesitant step toward
Potter's desk.
"I'll be done here in a minute, Ron. Just leave the box here," Potter says, staring at Weasley
intently.
Draco's hands clench into fists as Weasley sets the box back on Potter's desk, looking unsure, but
unwilling to contradict Potter.
"Later," Potter mouths at Weasley as though Draco can't see it.
Weasley scratches his head and grimaces, but then moves to the door.
"I always knew you'd be a shoddy Auror," Draco growls. "You're supposed to apprehend
criminals, not ignore them in favour of sucking up to Potter."
Weasley's expression hardens and Draco gleefully waits for an indignant explosion.
"Sure, I'll arrest you," Weasley says calmly instead. "I'll just . . ." He turns the doorknob and
opens the door. "I'll go get my shackles. You wait right here." Weasley shakes a finger at Draco
and, with a final glance at Potter, leaves.
Furious, Draco turns around only to find Potter has picked up the box and thrown it into the
rubbish bin. It vanishes instantly.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter?"
The muscle in Potter's jaw twitches. "Don't be daft," he snaps. "I've already handed in my report.
What do you expect me to do? Say, ‘Oh, sorry, some potions went missing, but I forgot how to
count and didn't notice it right away.'"
"I don't care. You don't have to say anything about the Glas Inn, just say I've come forward after
—"
Potter's incredulous laughter interrupts him. "There are witnesses who saw you there; you think
I'm as stupid as to neglect to mention your name in my report? But I told the others I'm positive it
was someone else on Polyjuice." Draco looks away, and Potter snorts and continues, "Yes, you've
made it easy for everyone to believe that. Every single person we've arrested told us they've sent
someone to the inn to deal with me and every single one of them gave us a different name and
description. So far the list of suspects includes the Minister's nephew, the Harper twins and Witch
Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor Number One. Congratulations on that. I suppose that's one way
to get hair for Polyjuice." There's bitterness in Potter's tone that Draco finds intriguing. "I said I
was Stunned," Potter says, still sounding bitter. "And then when the perpetrator couldn't get the
potions, he ran away. It's unlikely we'll ever catch him." He rubs his temple. "I can't change my
story now."
"You thought of everything," Draco notes, impressed.
"So have you."
"I had a good reason, what's yours?"
Potter's fingers tap against the desk. "I'd rather have others think I'm careless than to let them
know how stupid I've been."
"Right." Draco purses his lips. "Of course. Seems to me I shouldn't have even bothered with
Polyjuice; you had it all sorted. How dedicated you are. You're even prepared to make yourself
look incompetent, just to make sure I don't go to Azkaban."
"I had little choice," Potter says through his teeth.
"Oh, you had a choice, Potter. You know what your problem is?" Draco stalks to the table, fury
building inside him. He sets his hands on the desk and leans in to glare down at Potter. "You're an
arse."
"I'm an arse?" Potter's breathing speeds up, possibly out of anger, or indignation, or something
else entirely.
"You think I'm an idiot, Potter? You think I didn't notice?" Draco asks. "How eager you were,
how awkward, how careful, how new and strange it all was for you? Oh I remember how it feels
to have a naked, willing man in front of you for the first time." Potter's eyes darken and Draco
lowers his voice. "I wasn't the only one with a plan that night, was I? Tell me, how many times
have you read those articles Skeeter wrote about me? How many fantasies have they given you?
Just like you said, you were dutifully waiting for a suspect, and then I was just there. So clearly
guilty, so obviously eager to seduce you, and you thought why not? You knew you'd let me
escape the moment I began flirting. How could you let the chance slip by? What a perfect
opportunity to live through some of those dirty fantasies, to see what it's like at least once. And the
best part? You can tell yourself for the rest of your life how that traitorous Malfoy got you drunk
and seduced you. Otherwise, you wouldnever."
Potter barely breathes. "You're delusional."
"Delusional? That's an excellent description of you, if you really think you'll ever manage to
convince yourself you didn't want it despite knowing why I was offering. It's why you're so
desperate to get me out of Azkaban. You feel guilty. Does paying for my services makes you feel
better about yourself?"
Potter shakes his head but Draco doesn't let him speak.
"Or are you that ashamed of your desires? So much that you're willing to break the law and let
your friends think you've been Stunned by a random criminal, rather than risk them finding out
you did naughty things with a man?"
"You're ridiculous." Potter's shoulders shake with anger. "I'm not ashamed."
"Really? Tell me . . ." Draco looks at Potter's right hand, clenched into a fist on the desk. "Does
Weasley know where those fingers have been?"
Potter snatches his hand from the desk and a deep blush creeps down his neck.
Draco smirks at him in victory. "What I want to know," he says, "is how much do you regret your
Auror friends catching the others so quickly? You never even had the chance to fuck me."
Potter winces. He looks like he wants to deny any regrets, but instead he repeats, "I'm not
ashamed." He lifts his chin stubbornly. "I've never thought there's something wrong with —"
Draco laughs. "Oh Potter, you think I don't know exactly how you feel? It doesn't matter you
never thought there was something wrong with preferring men. You know others do. You know
what people say, you know what newspapers write. Even your open-minded little Gryffindor
friends, who will agree with you and assure you they don't think there's anything wrong with it,
either, remind you all the time it's not so simple. How many times have you seen them read an
article, possibly about me, and then make a joke ¬— not to be nasty, but to be funny — and you
had to force a laugh despite feeling like you've just been punched in the stomach?"
Potter looks down and fixes his glasses, though they don't look like they need fixing.
Draco huffs and straightens. "You might not be ashamed of what you want, Potter, but you're
ashamed of not being brave enough to admit it."
Potter says nothing and stares at the parchment on his desk for a long moment. He looks
embarrassed, but Draco doesn't feel as victorious as he thought he would.
"Is that all? Anything else you want to say?" Potter asks at last. "If you believe all you just said is
true, then you must have known I wouldn't change my mind and arrest you, so why are you here?
To prove a point? Why care? You got what you wanted."
Draco runs a hand through his hair. He did come here to prove a point, but that hadn't been the
only reason.
"I just wanted to . . . " Draco steels himself. "I wanted to apologise."
"By telling me I'm an arse?"
"You are an arse," Draco says, though he can't find enough anger within himself to say it with
much conviction. "But I'm a bigger arse." He grimaces and looks down at his hands. "And a
criminal, obviously. So, I'm sorry. Not because I . . . I'm sorry because I remember saying, years
ago, during my trial, that the Brand is cruel and unnecessary. I guess I was wrong. It's been too
mild a punishment." Draco waits, not sure what he expects Potter to say.
"Are you sorry enough to stay away from the Dark Arts?" Potter asks quietly.
Draco's fingers feel cold. He curls them into a fist, fearing they'll shake. "That's the plan."
"Sorry enough to prolong the Brand?"
Draco looks up at Potter, taken aback. "What?"
"It expires soon. No one else knows it, but you did break the deal with the Ministry. You avoided
Azkaban, but that doesn't mean you should avoid having to deal with any consequence."
"Why on earth would I agree? No one else knows, you said it yourself."
Potter gives him a long look. "You just said you don't plan to do anything illegal. If that's true,
then why does it matter?"
It matters, Draco thinks. It matters because every time he casts a spell, he can see it: The Brand's
magic scatters in the spell's light, specks of green glowing brighter the darker the spell is. It's
threatening, like eyes of a wild animal burning green in the night, and logic and instinct both tell
him to run and hide, but he can't help feeling tempted to see how brightly the green can burn, how
close he can he get to danger before the beast leaps at his throat. He doesn't want to see it
anymore. He's looked forward to not seeing it anymore.
He wants to say no to Potter and he opens his mouth to decline, but there's a look in Potter's eyes
that Draco wants to eradicate. The look that says Draco is full of lies just as he's always been. A
hopeless case. Someone who'll always choose the easy way to get ahead. Someone who should
be kept on a tight leash or else he'll hurt himself as well as others. Draco hates the Brand, but he
hates that look more.
"Fine," Draco says and waits to see if Potter will be surprised.
Potter merely nods and says, "Good. Stop by after the holidays and we'll sort it out."
"Just like that?" Draco asks. "As far as the Ministry knows there's no need for it. What will you
say why —"
"That's my concern. I'll take care of it." Potter's tone is brusque.
"Of course you will," Draco mumbles. Potter gives him a questioning look and Draco shakes his
head. "Nothing. I'll be here."
Potter nods. "Anything else?" It sounds like, "Will you leave already?"
Draco shakes his head again, feeling like he hadn't done what he came here to do at all. He feels
worse than he did before.
Potter's eyebrows rise and Draco realises he's lingered too long without saying a word. He says,
"Merry Christmas," trying, but failing, not to make it sound bitter, and hurries out of the office.
He vaguely hears Weasley yelling something about shackles, but he ignores him and flees. It's still
early in the day, but he really needs a drink.
*
The mead at the Leaky Cauldron tastes like piss. Like beer that's been sitting in the sun for hours.
Draco is not even sure if he's drunk or not; it doesn't seem like there's much alcohol in it. His head
throbs and the pub spins, but he still feels like shit and the mead should have fixed that three
tankards ago.
He points to the tankard as the landlady steps behind the counter. "Another one," he says, then
hurriedly adds, "Please," remembering the lecture the blonde girl had given him half an hour ago
when he had just tapped the tankard and said nothing. She was in Hufflepuff back at school, he
remembers. They always give the most tedious lectures on politeness.
She doesn't look like a Hufflepuff when she smirks at him and grabs the bottle of mead. She
uncorks it, but then pauses suddenly, looking behind Draco.
"Er," she says, "perhaps you've had enough for today?" She sets the bottle down to demonstrate
it's not a question.
Draco's teeth grit together. He glances behind, knowing who he'll see. Potter stands two paces
away, looking official and imposing in his dark Ministry cloak, though the image is ruined by a
mass of melting snowflakes sprinkled over his black hair and a large, stuffed hippogriff beneath
his arm.
Draco turns back to the landlady. "Anna," he says.
"It's Hannah. Mrs Longbottom to you."
"If you say so." Draco nods and then takes out a leather pouch from his cloak pocket. He shakes
the gold onto his palm and lets it fall on the counter, clunking heavily. He doesn't count it, but it
looks like an impressive pile. "I am a paying customer and the man behind me has an orange
hippogriff. Who will you listen to?"
Hannah eyes the gold, then quickly scoops it with her hand. "Sorry, Harry," she says as she serves
Draco the mead.
Potter sighs and sits on the stool next to him.
"You could arrest her," Draco says in mock-comfort after she leaves to attend other customers.
"She all but robbed me."
"You really should go home, Malfoy."
Draco swallows a large gulp of mead. "Are you following me, Potter?"
"Hardly. I had late Christmas shopping to do."
"Bought yourself a little hippogriff, did you? Good for you, Potter. You only live once."
Potter snorts. "It's for my godson, Teddy Lupin."
Potter says Teddy with so much gentleness, Draco's throat constricts. He really is drunk, then, he
concludes. He puts the tankard down and squints in thought.
"I'm related to that kid," he says. "Never saw him in my life, though. No, wait, I did. Passed him
on the street once. He was very . . . green."
Draco looks sideways and sees Potter smiling fondly.
"His hair turns green when he's embarrassed or scared. He doesn't like crowds," Potter says. "It
turns orange when he's happy."
The affection in Potter's tone irritates Draco. "That makes no sense," he says, dismissive.
Potter shakes his head and laughs. "I know." He turns to Draco, then, his smile still full of
affection, but Draco knows it's not meant for him. "You should meet him. You'd like him."
Draco frowns. "You're basing your conclusion on what, exactly?"
"He's terrified of hags."
Draco blinks, then laughs. Moments later, he composes himself enough to say, "I might visit him,
then, just to scare him to death with my hag jokes."
"You could do that." Potter agrees as though Draco's offer had been kind. "Come on, I'll Apparate
you home," he adds, growing serious, and slides off the high stool.
Draco grabs his tankard, irritated. "You don't know where I live," he points out.
He hears Potter huff. "I'll Apparate you to my house, then."
Draco looks at him and arches an eyebrow.
"You can sleep in the guest room," Potter adds hurriedly. His ears are red. Perhaps they were red
before but Draco hadn't noticed. "Or you can just tell me where you live."
"Obviously." Draco grins. "But now I don't want to."
Potter shifts his weight from one leg to the other and clutches the hippogriff beneath his arm so
tightly it looks like he wants to strangle it. "I'll just Apparate you to Malfoy Manor, then."
Draco groans in disgust. "You'd have me spend Christmas with my parents? I'm not drunk
enough. And I suspect they aren't drunk enough, either. I'd rather rent a room here." Draco
considers that option more carefully. "Though, I just gave all my gold away."
"Oh for fuck's sake, just . . . Come on, Malfoy." Potter grabs his forearm. Draco can feel the heat
of Potter's skin though his cloak. Or perhaps he merely imagines it. He wants to shake off Potter's
hand, but a few people in the pub are looking their way. Granted, they could have been staring at
Potter and his hippogriff, but Draco doesn't want to risk a scene.
He stands up, but not before he finishes his mead; he has more than paid for it, after all.
They walk outside to the small courtyard with a high stone wall that hides the entrance to Diagon
Alley. It's dark and deserted; their only company is an old rubbish bin and tireless, swirling
snowflakes. The Christmas shoppers have gone home to celebrate the holiday with their families.
It reminds Draco of something.
"Don't you have plans for tonight?" he asks. The fresh air clears his head and he escapes Potter's
grip. Potter doesn't look too happy about it, but he doesn't try to recapture him. "I thought you'd be
with the Weasleys," Draco adds. "Decorating and stuffing your face and all that rot."
"I will be," Potter says. "I'm stopping by at Andromeda's first to get Teddy; she's not feeling well
and she wants to rest."
"Oh."
"I really did just mean to offer you a place to sleep this off." Potter brushes a snowflake from his
cheek; he's not looking at Draco. "I had no ulterior motives."
"Right. I knew that," Draco lies and nods. He must have looked pathetic because Potter adds, "I
could make you breakfast in the morning." He hesitates. "Or you could just tell me where you live
and —"
Draco leaps forward and snatches the hippogriff from under Potter's arm. Potter barely puts up a
struggle and his surprise quickly turns to exasperation. "Or we can just stay here and you can act
like a drunken idiot," he grumbles.
Draco grins down on his prey. "I like him." The hippogriff looks up at him with a frozen, happy
expression. "You're not dangerous at all, are you? You great ugly brute." He smirks at the
unblinking toy when it fails to snap at him and slash his arm with its talons. He can hear Potter
snort.
The snow falls heavily, soaking the stuffed animal's soft, orange fur. It's looking at him with big
doe eyes, so innocent and unreasonably happy that Draco wants to punch it in the face. A
snowflake falls directly on the brown iris and Draco brushes it away with his thumb. "I don't want
to prolong the Brand," he says, though he hadn't planned to say any such thing. But the words are
spoken and Draco decides not to take them back. He thinks Potter kicks snow with his boot, but
he doesn't look up to check.
"Draco . . ." Potter says. The name sounds like a sigh full of frustration. "The Brand was never
meant to be a punishment. It was never meant to be a bad thing. Back then, the Ministry was far
more interested in your father. They wanted to ship you off to Azkaban for a brief period, just as
an example, and that's it; you'd be free in no time. But I didn't let them." Potter's tone is full of
conviction, as though the Ministry officials stand before him right now and refuse to see reason. "I
insisted on the Brand. It was supposed to give you a chance. A chance you needed. I thought that
if we threatened you with Azkaban, gave you a reason to stay away from the Dark Arts, you
would do something worthwhile with your life. It didn't work as well as intended, but there were
times I thought you were capable of something much worse than smuggling illegal potions for
profit. Having your magic leave a trace was only ever meant to protect you from yourself."
Draco shuts his eyes. He knows all this; he's always known it. No one else has been offered the
same deal; no one else had their magic branded for five years, no one else had Potter seated in the
courtroom during their trial, his eyes full of doubt and pity. Draco is aware of it every time he casts
a spell. He knew it when he went after the people who had tortured and murdered Goyle. In the
moment before he let them go, in the moment he wanted to cast the darkest curse of all
and couldn’t, he knew exactly who to thank for that. In the state he had been, in his rage, it would
have been so easy if not for the green of the Brand, staring at him, filled with disappointment. If
not for Potter, he'd be a murderer by now; his very soul would have been ripped apart. But Draco
already owes Potter his life, he owes him his freedom, he can't owe him this, too.
"You know," Draco says and forces himself to look at Potter. "I realised something back at the
Glas Inn when we were together and you were . . . you were so hesitant, so distrustful. I think I
knew you'd figured me out right away, but I just didn't care. Because I trusted you. I trusted you to
save me, to make it all better. And today, I was ready to yell my confession in the Ministry
Atrium, let everyone hear it, because I knew, I knew you'd find a way to save me again. I don't
know why you do it, whether you feel responsible for me, or if it's just how you are. Or you are
just . . ." Draco laughs without humour. "Or you're just attracted to me and it confuses you. I
almost felt better when I told myself you only helped me back at the inn because of your own
damn issues, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. You're still obsessed with saving me. You still want
to prolong the Brand and here you are now, appearing out of nowhere just to make sure I get
home safely."
Potter's brow furrows; he looks affronted. "I just wanted to help you."
"I don't want your help, Potter!" Draco snaps. He wants to calm down, but he can't. "Don't you
see? I trust you more than I trust myself. Every time I screw up, I know I only have myself to
blame, and every time I do something right, I know I haveyou to thank for it. So I don't want you
to help me. I don't want you to always be there, pointing at every rock on the road and warning
me not to trip, looking at me like you know I will trip, and then waiting to catch me before I fall. I
want you to stop . . ." Draco's voice breaks and he pauses to draw a breath. "I'm lying." He snorts.
"I do want you to take care of me. I want you to take care of me in every possible way
imaginable, but I need you to stop."
"Right." Potter's tone is cold and his expression devoid of emotion. "Sorry I even bothered, then. I
guess if I ever find you bleeding in a ditch somewhere, I should just turn the other way and leave
you there to rot."
Draco's head hurts. He wishes he were sober, or at least less drunk, so that he could explain
himself better. "No, Potter, that's not what I'm saying. I'm asking you stop trying to control me
with spells and that saintly attitude of yours, to make sure I never end up bleeding in a ditch. I
need you to stop trying to fix me before I break. Don't you get it? Every time I screw up, my
reward is to have you make it all better. And what a bitter reward it is. Because I know I don't
deserve it and I know I have nothing to offer in return."
Potter's expression softens, but he shakes his head and looks down at his boots. "But if we don't
prolong the Brand . . . I'm sorry, but I just don't trust you enough to believe you'll stay out of
trouble."
Draco buries his fingers into the orange beast he's holding. "I don't really believe it, either. But
that's my point. I want to give myself the chance to earn my own trust, as well as yours. You mean
well — I don't doubt that — but I'm not your responsibility, Potter. You're not my caretaker. If I
screw up, it's not your fault, it's mine." Draco steadies himself. "I really don't plan to screw up
again," he adds more quietly.
Potter shifts his weight; he must be cold. Draco's fingers and toes feel frozen, too. He can't even
feel his face.
"All right," Potter says after awhile. "No Brand." He nods as though trying to convince himself
it's not a stupid decision. He squints at Draco. "So, er . . ." He pauses, bemused. "Now you want
me to step aside and let you Apparate home by yourself, but I can summon the Healers if you
Splinch yourself, right?"
Draco snorts. "You're hopeless. But, yes, that's the idea."
Potter looks like he's mulling over it but can't make heads or tails of Draco's words. Several long
moments pass and then Potter bites his lip, looking coy all of a sudden. He smiles slightly. "You
know, it's funny, in retrospect, but I did have ulterior motives to offer you bed and breakfast . . ."
Potter trails off and then clears his throat. "I was actually planning to ask you for help."
"That is funny," Draco agrees, surprised. "In retrospect or otherwise. Help with what?"
"Er . . ." Potter shifts his weight again. "I was thinking about what you said today, back at the
office, and you were right about some things. So I thought, maybe, I don't know, you could yell at
me again sometimes. It's infuriating, but helpful."
Draco's lips twitch. "I'm having a crisis here, Potter, haven't you noticed? I'm not sure I can help
you or anyone, as tempting as the offer to yell at you is."
"You know how I feel, you said it yourself. And, well, you're . . . out. People know about your
preference."
Draco laughs. "Yes, well, I just wasn't careful enough and it made the papers. I probably wouldn't
be out otherwise."
"Your parents know, don't they?" Potter asks, guessing right.
"I drink too much, sometimes," Draco says, remembering the last Christmas he spent with his
parents. "And I say all kinds of things that perhaps I shouldn't. There's an advice, if you want one.
Get drunk and babble."
Potter smiles a little, but looks disappointed.
Draco sighs mentally. "What did you tell Weasley? About me?" he asks. "He must have realised
there's something funny going on."
"Dodged it for now." Potter gives a half-shrug. "He has his own problems at the moment. He
needed me to help him pick out an engagement ring for Hermione, so he let the subject drop
quickly enough. But . . ." Potter grimaces. "I thought I might tell him. Soon."
Draco blinks. "Not about me and what happened at the inn, surely?"
Potter grins widely. "Actually, I was thinking, if I tell him about you, he'll be so horrified, he
might be more focused on trying to fix me up with nicer blokes than on the fact I hadn't told him
before."
"Right." Draco glares at the snow covering his boots and then stomps to shake it off. "I suppose
you'd like that. A selection of nicer blokes Weasley picked out for you."
Potter makes a strange sort of sound, partly a whine and partly a frustrated sigh. "What's that
supposed to mean?" he snaps. "You just said you don't want to have anything to do with me and
now you're acting like —"
"I never said that," Draco interrupts quickly. "I said I didn't want your help. I never said I didn't
want your . . . If I say cock, will it sound too crude?"
Potter doesn't laugh; he stares at Draco so intently it looks like he's trying to read his thoughts. "I
don't understand you," he says. "How do you expect me to be around you, when I don't even
know what you want from me and what you don't want from me?"
Draco can't help laughing. He feels lighter, calmer, it's not even as cold as it was moments before.
The leash is loose and Potter isn't running. Not running away and not running to catch him. Draco
breathes in the crisp fresh air. "Don't worry, Potter. I'll point it out very clearly to you, every time."
"Sounds complicated," Potter grumbles.
"I imagine it will be," Draco admits quietly. Potter doesn't say anything and Draco waits for as
long as he can before he adds, "Since you don't seem to have any plans for tomorrow morning, I
could stop by and then show you where I live. I'll even make you breakfast."
"I'll have Teddy for the day. He'll be spending a few days with me," Potter says. It sounds like a
refusal, but a reluctant one.
Draco huffs. "Fine. I suppose he can come, too." He grins. "I'll tell him all my jokes."
Potter's smile is as bright as snow. "Okay, then," he says. His cheerfulness doesn't last long,
however. "I'd invite you to come with me to the Weasleys, but —" Potter laughs as Draco
grimaces. "Yeah, not a good idea, obviously. I just hate the thought of you spending Christmas
Eve alone — what?"
Draco bares his teeth. "This would be me, pointing it out to you, Potter."
Potter blinks, looking utterly confused. "Er . . ." His expression clears somewhat. "I just tried to
fix you before you broke?" he asks, unsure.
Draco's anger dissipates. He laughs. "Yes, that is what you just did. I'll spend Christmas Eve
where I feel like. It's not your problem. But believe it or not, Potter, I can handle solitude without
breaking down and crying myself to sleep." He makes a sad grimace. "Do you cry big sad tears
when you're alone?"
Potter shakes his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry."
"There, see, it's not so complicated." Draco smiles, then adds, "But I should probably go before
you say something stupid again and we end up fighting."
Potter gives him a dirty look, but it's devoid of any real anger, just as Draco's words have been.
"Er, aren't you forgetting something?" Potter asks and tilts his head. A snowflake falls on his
upper lip and Draco takes two steps forward, unable to resist the invitation. He catches the snow
on Potter's lip with his tongue and pulls Potter in for a kiss. Their lips are cold but the kiss is
warm, and even Draco's frozen toes bravely attempt to curl.
After a long moment, he pulls back, rational thought returning to him. "Er," he says. "You meant
the hippogriff, didn't you? I almost Disapparated with it."
Potter's eyes are full of laughter. "I did. Not complaining, though."
Draco presses the toy against Potter's chest. "You can bring him tomorrow, too. We've bonded."
Potter pushes it back to Draco. "You can give him to Teddy, if you want. To make up for all those
jokes you plan to tell."
Draco grips the hippogriff and walks backwards. "I'll consider it." He grins, already planning to
buy Teddy something else. "I guess I'll have company tonight, after all. You win this round."
"We'll call it a compromise, the company being inanimate and all," Potter says, laughing.
"See you tomorrow, Harry," Draco says and Disapparates before Potter can comment on the use
of his name.
For the briefest moment, as his magic swirls around him, Draco can see the green of the Brand
sprinkled in the light. It mixes with the whiteness of the snow, the orange of the hippogriff in his
hand and the green-eyed man standing a few steps away.It looks jolly, Draco thinks and smiles
when he reappears in his flat. He sets the hippogriff on the sofa and pulls out his wand.
He has a Christmas tree to decorate.
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