by blythe

[hp] currency 4

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 15:53:34 GMT

Currency

By Blythe & Circe

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE ~ PART FOUR

CHAPTER TWELVE

Somehow Harry wasn't surprised that Ron and Poppy were old friends. In fact, judging by the way she reddened the second they entered the shop, she'd fallen prey to the Weasley "charm" at some point in the past.

There were huge swathes of that past that were hazy to Harry to this day, and sometimes (like now, given the way Ron was blushing awkwardly back) he was grateful for that.

"Is Malfoy here?" he asked without preamble. He felt itchy-twitchy — not so much nervousness or eagerness as a disconcerting blend of both.

"Yes, he's downstairs, Mr Potter."

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Right, then. Let's get this wand of yours."

They descended the stairs to the workshop together, Harry wiping his suddenly damp palms against his trousers.

He hated going into situations where he didn't know what to expect; Ron being here helped, but maybe if he hadn't been things would be a lot simpler.

Too late for that now: there was Draco, standing in work robes before a vise holding the piece of birch. He had a strange little tool that looked like a cross between a scalpel and a scythe, and he was carefully using it to shave bark in long thin threads onto the floor. Clouds of pale green sparks were rising from the wood, circling Malfoy's inclined head before blinking out one by one.

"Malfoy."

Draco whirled around. With his free hand, he shoved his goggles up onto his forehead. The remaining sparks scattered. He looked dishevelled, competent, and utterly hot.

Harry's body tightened in anticipation and he took an unconscious half-step forward.

"Harry! You're early." The easy welcome in Draco's voice became a little more formal when he caught sight of Harry's companion. "And you've brought Weasley." He dropped the tool back down on the countertop and gave Ron a nod.

"Ron's fine," said Ron agreeably and Harry barely stopped himself from shooting his friend an incredulous look. Ron was right: more than just the store fronts had changed since Harry had been a regular part of this world.

Draco turned to Harry. The light down here wasn't good enough to read his expression, but maybe his mouth was a little tight? "You've come for your wand then, I take it."

"Yes." Harry swallowed. "You said—"

"I know."

There was a pause. Draco reached up and removed the goggles completely, dragging his hand through his hair and leaving it even messier than before.

"Give me a second."

There was a small door at the far end of the room that Harry hadn't noticed before. It swung shut behind Draco.

Beside him, Ron shrugged. "I'll just wait upstairs then."

Harry barely noticed him go. He crossed to the vise and looked at the half-started wand resting there. He catalogued with a glance the many bottles and books lining the top shelves. He took out his Blackberry and tried to check his email, but Diagon Alley did fucked up things to the emoticons and he put it quickly away.

Fuck. This was worse than waiting for the Yule ball to start.

"Here we are." Draco was back, carrying a slender crimson box. He passed it to Harry. "Open it."

The lid came off easily, revealing the treasure within. A golden tan, it was of a length to his previous wand, only slightly thinner. He glanced at Draco, but he had turned back to his tools.

Harry took a deep breath, lifting his new wand from the box. It was heavy in his hands, but he felt nothing beyond the expected ripple of magic against his fingers, not even the quiver of awareness he'd been sensing from the variegate little stone.

After his magic went, his old wand had felt the same as ever — maybe that had added to the frustration. Like he was letting the stupid thing down after everything they'd faced together. Until he'd broken it, run over it with an office chair of all things, and he'd been inconvenienced more than devastated by the ignominious loss. One moved on from things that were once important, Aunt Petunia said often, and given how she'd turned her life around, Harry figured she must know a thing or two about it.

He'd just. He wasn't expecting miracles, really he wasn't. He'd just thought that maybe it would, maybe, feel different from his old wand.

"Harry?"

He smiled weakly at Draco. "It's great, thanks. I really like the detail on the, um, on the handle. Very posh."

"I thought your colleagues might appreciate a little decorative scrollwork if you're going to be fiddling with it during your board meetings."

"Yeah." Harry looked down at the wand again, the slightest frown on his face. He raised his arm and sent the wand slicing down through the air. A blast of red and gold sparks shot from the tip, cascading down through the flying dust motes and sawdust onto the stone floor.

Draco raised his eyebrows. "You like it then?"

"It's great." Harry stowed the wand carefully away and put the box into his jacket pocket. He frowned again then shook off the disquiet. "Really. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

"So, how much do I owe you?"

Wordlessly, Draco passed him a long piece of parchment. It was a lot, but not as much as Harry had been prepared to be gouged for.

Their fingers brushed. Nothing. And if Harry was disappointed that Draco appeared to have changed his mind since that morning, well, it was just one more disappointment, wasn't it? He'd go get drunk with Seb and do his very best to forget it.

"I do take Muggle plastic when necessary," Draco said after Harry's moment of self-indulgent crankiness stretched to an awkward length.

"No, no, it's fine." Harry dug into his shoulder satchel and pulled out the sack of gold he'd converted from pounds with Ron earlier.

Draco's eyes widened slightly, but he made no comment other than, "I wish all my clients were so forthcoming."

"Right." Harry looked around the workshop again, but short of pushing Draco over a stool and fucking him senseless he couldn't think of anything else to contribute. "I'll be off then."

"See you around," Draco offered. He was toying with an edge of parchment lying on the worktable. A quill was hovering solicitously near his hand — clearly his mind was elsewhere, certainly not on Harry.

"Sure," Harry replied. The word tasted sour. "Be seeing you."

Ron was waiting in the main shop, examining a set of polishing cloths and doing his very best to ignore Poppy's speculative stare. "Done?"

Harry patted his pocket. He had a wand again, that was all that mattered. "Yeah, we're done."

Unable to face the thought of going back to his flat right away, and aware that Ron was eager to get back to Iris, Harry made his excuses and took himself off to LSB. He got in about two hours of work, filing the paperwork from the Paris trip then leafing through a pile of CVs for the new associate, but that just made him feel old and irritated. He flagged another cab down on Threadneedle Street and let the driver fleece him blind until they both got bored enough to forego the side-streets tour and drop Harry back home.

The really annoying thing was that he couldn't even work up the anger to want to hit Draco, which had been his fall-back for years. In a few short weeks, he'd grown to like Draco. Crap, he still liked Draco, that was the problem.

Harry had thought he'd understood that Draco wanted to keep it mostly business between them while there was, well, business between them. And now that the business was over … Well. Everyone had a right to change their mind, Harry supposed. It was just … disappointing.

The lights were on in the flat, a warm yellow flood.

Even though he was by now half-expecting it, he still felt a jolt when he saw Draco sitting on the large sofa, one arm laid casually along the top of the charcoal corduroy cushions. He'd shaved since the workshop but his fingers were still slightly grubby, as though he hadn't been able to resist picking up his tools one last time. They tapped out a rhythmless beat on the upholstery.

"I thought we'd finished," Harry said eventually. He removed the wand box from his pocket before slinging the jacket over a chair. In the kitchen, he grabbed himself a beer and took his time about it. Then he strolled back into the living room and offered the bottle to Draco.

Draco didn't take it. "For fuck's sake, Potter."

Harry cracked it open and took a long swig, feeling vastly, almost shockingly, more comfortable now he was on his own turf. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I find it hard to believe you weren't expecting me."

Harry had been so busy taking in Draco's appearance, watching the movement of his fingers, he hadn't even noticed the wand in his other hand. Didn't notice it until Draco swished it through the air and flicked.

Harry felt the tingle of unspent magic shiver through him, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"Good," said his wand-maker. "That's a good sign." He flicked again and caused goosebumps.

Hedwig watched from the windowsill, her yellow eyes following the movements of the wood with predatory interest.

"Surely mine doesn't need servicing just yet?" He took another slug of Stella.

"I meant to say the last time I was here—" Draco spun his wand in a complex pattern; an armchair slid across the floor and nudged at Harry's feet, knocking him into its embrace. "—you really should have wards. It's dangerous."

No, Draco was the only dangerous wizard who'd been in Harry's life since he'd moved in, but now hardly seemed the time to correct him. "I'll take that under advisement." Harry watched Draco continue to spin his wand, the movements idle now but just as deserving of caution. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Draco set his wand down on the coffee table. "We're not done."

"I thought we were."

"You felt nothing."

Harry went still.

"It didn't work for you."

"Well." Harry put the beer down. "I just."

"I know what you thought, it's painfully obvious. I'd be insulted if I didn't know the way your mind worked."

"You're starting to piss me off, Malfoy."

"Good."

"What aren't you telling me about my wand?" Harry demanded.

"I meant to tell you," Draco said, "show you, but you brought Weasley, and it wasn't. Appropriate."

"Tell me now."

Dimly Harry was aware of Hedwig hooting softly in the background, agitated by his tone.

"There's a final step. Audience participation, shall we say." Draco leaned back against the cushions. "There's a difference between a wand eagerly shooting sparks for a child and the way a wand gives its allegiance to a grown man. Ollivander—" Draco paused. "Ollivander knew that while the wand chooses the wizard, a strong enough wizard will have the mastery to choose the wand he wants." He looked at Harry, looking through him, as he quoted, "'Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master.'"

"Sounds like the sort of stuff you write about in your column," Harry said doubtfully.

Draco's smile was sly and amused. "It's the confluence of spells and materials as cast by the wandmaker, Harry; it's not like the stick is deciding these things on its lonesome."

Harry walked over to the counter and opened the box. The wand was still beautiful, still inert. He picked it up. "Show me how to do it then."

"You've got to take it from me."

"You already gave it to me."

Draco cocked his head. "Did I? Have I really given you what you want?" Harry's swift, involuntary glance downward caused Draco to laugh, low. "Didn't think so. Take it from me and make it yours."

Make me yours.

Harry pointed the wand at Draco. "Immobilis!"

"Protego!"

The wand skittered away, clattering under the table from the backlash. "When the hell did you learn all this wandless magic?"

Draco quirked his mouth. "Harry, I love that this is what concerns you rather than the fact that you can't even manage a third-year curse any more. Can we hurry up please?" He brought his hands together in one sudden motion.

The table shot away from them, even as Draco moved faster than Harry could track. Moved so he was jerking Harry by the lapels, pulling him across onto the sofa. Moved so he was straddling Harry, his thighs like steel against Harry's sides, holding him there.

"Fuck off—" Harry pushed upright, trying to dislodge him, but Draco — evil bastard — wandlessly cast the immobilis spell and effectively trapped him.

"The thing is," Draco said conversationally, leaning down over Harry so all Harry could see was dark lashes, his red mouth, his white teeth, "you just can't wait to fuck me, can you?"

Harry was utterly still, seething under the curse, and Draco settled himself deliberately, tucking his toes under Harry's knees and rocking, fucking rocking his hips into Harry just so, just perfectly, as he sneered.

"You think it's going to be amazing, don't you, you think it's inevitable, you bleeding heart romantic," and Draco rolled his eyes at that, his dirty fingers wrapping around Harry's jaw, prising Harry's mouth open with his thumb, and if Harry could have moved he would have bitten the bastard's thumb off. "Darling Harry, gorgeous Harry, you think I'll capitulate and bend over for you, just because I want you."

Swallowing was difficult; all his external muscles were paralysed, but Harry had to swallow, and it had to be around Draco's salt-and-dust fingers. Harry tried to convey I'm going to kill you as much as possible with his stare, but he was pretty sure the furious heat in his cheeks dulled the impact of any glare.

Harry expected laughter, more mocking, but Draco was merely watching him, running the pad of his thumb across Harry's teeth, as if to say, look where I've got you, and the truly fucked-up thing was that Harry's breath was coming in little stutters, and he couldn't do anything about it.

Draco slid his thumb out of Harry's mouth and down his jaw, leaving a wet trail of spit, cool and damp in the humidity. So much satisfaction was evident on Draco's face, yet Harry couldn't feel any creeping rage to tap into, to break Draco's hold on him, and it was beginning to hurt, his muscles tightly wound and rigid.

"If you asked nicely," Draco tilted Harry's head back, teeth scraping just under Harry's ear, "If you said please, I might fuck you. On your back, so I can see you take it. Because you need to get it through your head," and he was kissing Harry now, fingertips flicking lightly all over Harry's skin, Harry's face held in his grubby hands, "that wand or not, things regarding me won't always go your way, hmm?"

That last, the reminder, was enough. The spell was abruptly gone, along with Draco's weight, and Harry jerked to his feet. The jolt of sudden release sent bubbles surging in his blood, sent blood pooling down to his cock, thick and hot. He was breathing hard; the only consolation was that Draco was as well, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Without looking, Harry summoned the wand — it flew back into his hand, effortlessly — and he lunged forward, jamming it under Draco's chin, forcing his head back in imitation of how Draco had forced him.

"Malfoy," he ground out.

Draco's eyelids fluttered madly as the rest of his body went utterly still. Then Harry, not even thinking about it, lowered his wand and placed his hand against Draco's chest, pushing him steadily back into the cushions.

He kissed him: soft pressure turning more demanding as Draco's mouth opened underneath his. Harry angled his mouth, pressing deeper as his lip dragged briefly against the edge of Draco's teeth, sparking little shocks of sensation.

"I'd like very much to have the wand you made for me," Harry whispered against Draco's smooth jaw. He felt muscles shift as Draco swallowed.

"Harry."

"It's beautiful and I like knowing you want me to have this beautiful thing that you made. I like knowing you want me to be well."

"Harry."

Draco arched backward as Harry was jerked to his feet by the heat of the wand in his hand. It spun him around, a gross parody of apparating, but Harry wasn't going anywhere. He was rooted to the spot, aware only now of the fire he held in his hands.

"Oh my god." He kindled, magic flowing through him with the eagerness of blood let into a constricted limb. The pressure built and built until Harry was desperate to find release — he was tracing the air with familiar movements before he even realised his intentions: "Expecto Patronum!"

It hurt, but it happened. He did it. The stag was sluggish to form and nearly transparent, but it was unmistakable and there – oh, it was there — cantering around his living room before leaping through the plate glass and out into the night.

He felt powerful in a way he'd never felt before. It was a shadow of the pooling energy he'd once had at his disposal, but he'd never commanded it like this, deliberately and with purpose; never felt it as an extension of an adult self, as tool rather than childish assumption.

Draco's mouth was obscene against his ear. "You like it, don't you. Tell me how much you like it."

He was hard right now. Heat, all over. Gathering across the surface of his skin, intoxicating. He flexed his fingers, his toes, his biceps; all across his body, the muscle, the ligaments felt new. It was fantastic. Like being soaked in warmth after being cold and cramped for so long. He let himself bask in it, get drunk on it.

Draco pressed to him, his breathing quick and damp. His grey eyes were wide with interest, the pupils dilated and darting, back and forth, cataloguing every reaction, every detail.

"Oh," Harry crowed, exhilarated. His arm was shaking, the wand trembling in his palm. Every nerve ending burned.

"It's a conduit, not a cure." The words were rough in his ear.

Harry shook his head. He understood. He knew.

Draco moved even closer, tight against him; rapt. "You were a god, Harry. No one had your power, not even the Dark Lord. You could have been anything you wanted to be, had anything you wanted."

"I like banking," Harry said, barely getting the words out. The wand scorched. He loosened his grip, letting the heavy handle roll against his curled fingers.

Draco's huff of amusement rippled across his skin. "You really don't mind, do you. You don't care."

Harry fought for breath — gasping pants. Then he closed his eyes, screwed them shut, and set the wand down.

Draco's fingers tightened, nails scraping lightly through Harry's shirt, and Harry opened his eyes. The wand tip flared red against the surface of the table then banked.

Lifting his right hand, Harry stared shockily at the unmarred skin. Sweat covered his entire body; he ached like he'd run a marathon, like he'd flown after a summer locked away. He unclenched his other fist and looked down at the dull gold of Draco's hair.

"I miss it, yeah. You showed me how much. But I don't need to move the world."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Breath stuttered. Then Draco's mouth was on Harry's, sloppy and scalding, his tongue lapping quick, erratic strokes. Draco's pleasure was an audible thing: little growls between licks; greedy groans against the salt-corner of Harry's lips, the crease alongside his nose, the smooth skin at his temple.

Touching, oh god, touching. Harry palmed Draco's hip, reaching down just beneath the top of his trousers and tucking his fingers against the skin there. His knuckles brushed lovely warm skin as his fist twisted and took the waistband with it. He shoved at the thick fabric even as Draco's hand slid up and down Harry's throat, rubbing at Harry's jawline then moving to push at the solid muscle on his chest.

"Bed," Harry said, and Draco leaned up into him, tongue fucking his mouth with devastating thoroughness. His fingers seemed to have decided they really liked Harry's jaw. They splayed there, holding Harry in place while Draco kissed him in that same jagged, rocking rhythm that he'd been tapping before. Harry could feel the beat of it pulling at his blood in a very different way than the wand had – that was dizzying, effervescent – this was a lulling, pulling undertow. His cock, his balls, felt marvelously heavy with arousal and he pushed eagerly against Draco, was gratified when Draco groaned and pushed his own erection back.

"Floor," Harry said and Draco choked out a laugh before yanking him down.

Ripping at Harry's clothes, Draco stripped him down to bare chest in record time. "Oh, yes, Harry, well done, this is very good indeed." Draco's hands were all over him, rubbing and stroking, nails scratching. He leaned down and sucked one of Harry's nipples into his mouth.

"Fuck, yeah." Harry kicked off his shoes and yanked off his glasses. Then it was time to fumble with the buttons on Draco's shirt, grappling with Draco, who refused to give him room to maneuver. He winced a little when Draco bit down firmly.

"Harry, this is fantastic," Draco mumbled against his skin.

The last button tore away. With an exclamation of victory, Harry pushed the shirt off. He looked down and froze.

Draco half-lifted his head, expression muzzy. "What?"

"You cheat." Harry planted one hand on Draco's chest and gave him a solid push; gold glittered sharply against the gilded hairs running from his navel as Draco sprawled onto his back.

Then Harry was on him, bending close to examine the piercing, so close that his breath fogged the metal. Draco made a ragged sound of need, his hips jolting upward against where the weight of Harry's body had them pinned. At the noise, Harry immediately forgot his purpose, christ, he forgot his own name. He surged up to take Draco's mouth, almost violent with lust.

Fumbling between their bodies, Harry felt button and zip abruptly give. At the sudden, pornographic heat of Draco's cock they both groaned aloud, their kiss getting messier as Harry roughly dragged his hand back and forth a few times along the shaft. Getting the feel of him and fuck, he felt good swelling and throbbing against Harry's sweaty palm.

"You like this?"

"Oh, fuck," Draco growled, and he bit at Harry's chin; moved his seeking mouth down to bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder, worrying the flesh there as though trying to get a really good grip.

Harry fisted Draco's prick – hot, fat, eager – and Malfoy twisted beneath him.

"Harry," he choked out, "I'm absolute crap the first time, but I am a refractory god. I swear, you suck, you swallow, you give me one minute, I swear, I swear, after that, I'll make it more than worth your while."

Smooth, swollen skin blood-darkened with want and sleek with juice. Harry didn't wait, didn't reply: didn't want to do either. He just wanted what Draco wanted, Draco's cock in his mouth.

He went down on him slowly, his fingers tight around the base, swiping his tongue roughly against the hot skin. Draco wasn't that long, but thick enough that he fit snugly, eager in Harry's mouth. Harry hummed, swallowing firm and deliberate on his cock, happy when he heard the thud of Draco's head knocking back on the floor.

"Oh, fuck yes," from Draco, his thigh taut and shaking under Harry's grasp, trousers half-rucked down by a handful of the soft cord.

Sucking hard, Harry considered his new wand and the spells for removing clothes; thought about pulling back for five seconds and wrenching Draco's trousers off him, stripping him naked, but he loved the thought of Draco being so quick off the mark that he couldn't even undress.

"Yes like that, blow me. Yes don't stop—" Draco jerked his hips up against the hard grip Harry had around his cock, pushing the tip sweetly back and forth in Harry's mouth, rubbing over his tongue.

Draco's prick slid in his mouth salty and full; Harry sucked noisily, loosely, desire buzzing in his ears and making his feet tingle.

"There," urged Draco, "there there Harry just. Yesyes — oh, fuck—"

Draco clenched a handful of Harry's hair and held himself perfectly still, curving up, his body in a shameless arch of please.

Harry took him deep as Draco wailed. He came in a rush of thick fluid. Harry swallowed, then swallowed again. He knew a fierce joy as he slowly licked the rest of Draco's come from his lips.

Draco was flattened against the floor. "Oh my god," he mumbled.

Harry lay down beside him. "Yeah," he replied after long moment.

"Oh my god."

A blur of motion and Harry suddenly found himself pinned to the floor by Draco's insistent hips. Legs twined and twisted at Harry's calves. Draco smiled down at him, jaw sharper without the smudging shadow. White teeth, gleaming; a lazy curl to his lips. "My turn."

Whispered words and Harry was blessedly naked. Then warm, hairy thigh burned along Harry's skin and his mind jangled discordantly as white-hot want lanced through him. Naked was so good. Naked was very very good.

"Oh yes," Draco crooned and bit deeply again at the already bruised flesh over Harry's trapezius. Deep pleasure seeped down through the tissue of his muscles as they spasmed in immediate response.

"Hmmm," Draco murmured. A humid sound that made Harry ache. "So many possibilities – I feel spoiled for choice."

Draco had relaxed enough – his body animal-warm and loose from his orgasm – that Harry could have easily pushed him off and turned the tables, but Draco seemed to be enjoying himself enough that Harry would give him the benefit of the doubt so long as—

Draco bit harder and held; Harry lurched up against the confines of Draco's body. His cock was leaking now, glossy-wet and ready for touch, any kind of touch, just so long as Draco touched him there.

"Yes, good, that's very good, Harry," Draco smiled at him, those teeth again. "I think—"

"Christ, Draco, don't think."

"I think—" Draco paused. His breath hitched. Then he let go of his own weight and sprawled completely over Harry, so that, fuck, rubbing skin and eager dicks pressed together in this excruciatingly fantastic press of hard heat.

Draco was slighter than Harry, more than a head shorter, but like this he was an absolutely perfect fit. His hands curled around every bit of Harry they could find, firmly stroking. Then, at last: he found Harry's cock between their bodies and ran his fingertips around the foreskin, pulling it away from the thick head and dabbing at the clear liquid pooling there.

Intense pleasure, before Draco pulled back, ignoring Harry's cursing, and leaned down to kiss the blunt tip. A sly slide of his tongue in the slit and Harry nearly lost it, had to fight back the urge to come all over Draco's fucking grinning face.

"Sex is a bit like wandmaking," Draco told him thoughtfully, and Harry groaned in horror and frustration.

"No, really." Draco sat up across Harry's thighs, digging his heels sharply into the bottom of Harry's arse. Harry couldn't stop himself from pushing up a little, cock trapped between them.

"Mmm," Draco appreciated, grinding down. He reached one hand casually behind him to stroke the underside of Harry's balls while the other – yes – the other played almost absent-mindedly with the twenty-four-carat and wood piercing that Harry had tried to examine before Draco had distracted his attention.

"It's all about finding that subtle alchemy, about getting it right for each person. Better than potions because you can mess up and it doesn't explode in your—" He stopped with a wry lift of his eyebrows, reading Harry's expression. "Well, you know what I mean."

Harry blinked myopically at him, part nearsightedness, part blinding lust. "What I know is that you're a cock-teasing bastard who can't actually do wandless magic after all."

Draco smirked and glanced down. "You like that, do you?" He sounded smug, but his voice was breathless.

Of course he liked it, the idea of putting a sliver of wand right through the middle of your own skin was absolutely brilliant and the marketing possibilities were endless, but he was hardly going to admit that.

There was no need — Draco was on him again, kissing him with exhausting thoroughness until Harry rose up onto an elbow, into the kiss and beyond it. He reached out and touched the thin skin of Draco's stomach, trailed down until he reached the rounded top of the piercing. He flicked.

Draco cried out, his head flinging back, muscles straining. Harry went to do it again, but Draco's strong hand covered his, moving it forcefully away. No talking then, just Draco manoeuvring him backwards and Harry letting him. Draco's face was utterly still, his mouth slack with want. Even summoning the condom and lube was done quickly, economically, all his attention on Harry.

It was like Draco's potion all over again: nothing else existed, just how hard they both were. Draco was liberal with the lube; overly generous in a way that hinted less of concern and more of a dirty, creative mind. He slathered the stuff onto his fingers, rubbing heavy-handedly at Harry's crease, his body heat warming the stuff and making it oh-so-easy for Draco's thumb to insinuate itself against the fluttering muscle there.

Draco's mouth planed across the ridges of Harry's abdomen as his thumb continued its slippery circles. Fantastic sliding and pushing and then — oh yes — just the tip of Draco's thumb was inside Harry, easing through the clinging flesh to press at all the right spots.

Heat and sweat prickled across his bare skin; the plush pile of the rug chafed across his back. Draco's left hand was moving steadily over his own cock, fitting on the latex and unable to resist a few pumping strokes to help. Inside Harry, Draco corkscrewed his thumb, adding another finger and then another in glorious pressure until Harry's body adjusted and limbered to his satisfaction.

"Shhh, now, yes, that's right." Draco urged Harry's legs up and around his waist. He was pressed as near as he could be, kneeling with his legs spread wide. Harry flexed his muscles and drew Draco in closer, gasping when the head of Draco's cock began its slow, even push.

"Harry—" Draco's eyes were closed, his mouth tight with concentration. His body juddered as he struggled not to thrust. Bugger that. Harry locked his ankles. And pulled.

"Harry—"

Then they both shuddered as Draco began a quick rhythm, one that Harry, somewhere in a few-and-far-between coherent area of his brain, recognised from the irregular finger-tapping. A cadence that Draco could keep up in sex, apparently, and if Harry could bottle it, package it, and convince one of his mates to sell it on the FTSE, he would.

Draco's breath was coming in gasping hiccups as his hands wrapped around Harry's prick, giving him a clumsy sort of handjob made sexier by the fact that he could barely keep it up in the moment.

It was audibly wet: Harry's cock was leaking pretty much continuously and Draco kept accelerating matters by leaning down to swipe the head clean with his flat and most-excellent tongue. All this as counter-point to the fast and shallow little thrusts inside him. A snap of Draco's hips sparked fantastic friction as the grinding movements began to wear past the lube.

Harry's need to come was sudden and urgent, blasting through him with sharp talons. "Draco," he warned and bucked up his hips, his cock catching along the callouses of Draco's hand. Draco abandoned any semblance of control and he climaxed: buried, shaking. Harry shouted, coming moments after in long, ecstatic bursts that striped Draco's hands, his own chest.

Still pulsing weakly inside him, Draco slumped forward, his forehead resting on Harry's hip. "Christ Merlin fuck, Potter." He managed to pull away, just barely, and collapsed once again on the floor beside Harry.

Eventually Harry forced his eyes open. "Next time," he slurred. "You're fucking me first and I'll take my bloody chances."

Draco chuckled in Harry's ear. His arm curled around Harry, drawing him near, drawing him down into sleep.

His waking was a study in contrast, mind coming to instant sharpness while his body lazed in a daze of satiation. Everything was pleasantly sore, from his calf muscles to his arse to his swollen bottom lip. He stretched and fumbled for his glasses.

"Draco?" Over on her perch, Hedwig hooted at him in answer, her eyes heavy-lidded and her feathers fluffed.

"Hello, sweetheart. Gave you a show, did we?" Harry extricated himself from the sofa and padded across the room, naked, to feed her a mousey treat. She clicked her beak at him soundlessly.

Owls were a bit hard to read in the shagging-approval-department, but given the lack of biting, Harry assumed she was fine with the festivities.

His wand was still where he'd left it. Harry took it up, letting it rest in his hands. It was his; he could feel it. No uncertainty, that was the incredible thing. It was solid in his hand. If he used it, it would work. Not healed, no, but it was a change. For the better.

And new was good. New would be good for Harry.

He grinned at Hedwig. How did it go? A complicated swoop of the wand, a tiny flick of the tip. "Avis," he called, and watched with unrepentant glee as a little drunken sparrow weaved toward his owl, sending her retreating in indignation to the bookshelves.

It was when he was opening the window to let the birds out that he caught sight of Draco on the terrace, wearing Harry's robe and staring out into the night. From this angle he looked small and ruffled. As Harry watched, Draco half-turned to better see something off to the east, and suddenly there was nothing harmless about the economical way his body moved or the way his face tilted keenly in the half-light.

Harry felt his cock throb and swell. He leaned into the wall, letting the cool pressure soothe his erection, but he must have made a noise of some kind because Draco turned fully to see him.

The hunger flared, met an answer, and Harry found himself outside before he knew it, kissing him, hot and open-mouthed.

"Took you long enough," Draco complained into the kiss.

"I take it you want me again then?" Harry laughed; well, tried to laugh, the sound came out strangled and impatient, even to his own ears. "Tired of waiting?"

"I've been waiting since you walked into my shop, you bespectacled git."

"You haven't called me that in years." The wooden slats of the terrace were cold against his bare soles, he noticed vaguely.

"Haven't seen you in years. This is better."

"Yeah."

Harry pinned him against the railing, feeling the give of Draco's body and the moment when the pressure grew too much. He eased off, grabbing the lapels of the robe and pulling them apart so he could draw his fingers against Draco's pectoral muscles, his nipples, the hair running up to his arching collarbone.

Draco's head lolled backward, and Harry caught a glimpse of his eyes, wide and wanting with glints from the illuminations on the river lighting the grey.

Harry thought about the hesitant way Draco had stared down at the street the other morning on this same terrace and then he thought about the hungry way he had looked at him, after, and then he thought about the fierce way Draco had looked at him just moments before. Then he thought about nothing at all but how tasty Draco's throat was, how the musk-surface of it was delicious underneath his roving mouth, how Draco's shifting limbs and eager body bent to Harry as they forgot about the vertiginous drop behind.

"Fuck, Harry. Fuck."

Harry nudged a thigh between his legs and felt Draco sway back again, his shoulders spreading voluptuously against the hard rail.

"Can I have you like this?" Harry cupped Draco through the robe, letting his hand pluck teasingly at the fabric, rubbing terrycloth against the underside of Draco's balls. Perfect, heavy globes and they felt so, so good like that.

"Yeah, yeah, please, yes," Draco panted, sprawling precariously backwards. If the rail digging into his back hurt him, he showed no sign.

"Turn around," Harry ordered, voice rough. He had to tamp down the surging lust that had his cock throbbing as Draco swiftly shrugged off the robe and curled around the railing, willing to be fucked senseless in the London night.

Harry eased him forward, pushing at his back, his buttocks, until he could viscerally imagine the city filling Draco's fluttering vision — the fantasy turrets of Tower Bridge, the midnight-still water — oh, fuck it.

He covered Draco, his chest pressing against arching spine. Harry let one hand find Draco's full cock while the other stroked urgently between the crease of his ass, rubbing and working his spit against the skin there.

Draco made some sort of approving noise and moved into his touch, lifting up onto his toes to give Harry a bit of extra leverage.

"If I try to accio a condom from here I might accidentally deprive that woman of ill-repute on the corner of her livelihood," Draco complained.

"You want me to stop and get one?"

"If you stop, I'll have to kill you." Draco shot Harry a calculating look over his shoulder. "Bet you're such a tart that you've got some out here."

Harry bared his teeth in reply and shoved Draco back into place over the rail, letting his fingers tangle lingeringly in the messy hair before yanking at the handful.

Draco yelped.

"Under the cushions as a matter of fact," Harry told the back of Draco's head smugly, and reached down to snare one when he felt the edge of the sunlounger rap obligingly at his legs. He spared a moment of appreciation for Draco's navel engineering.

"Potter, what the fuck are you waiting for?"

Harry made quick work of the packet, dropping the spent wrapper to the street for some community-minded matron to curse over in the morning. He palmed his prick a few times, feeling it harden as he stroked it on. The slick latex tightened with brief pleasure-pain, dulling outward sensation and focusing inward.

As Draco's legs spread wide, Harry crowded up against him, letting his cock rub between the crease where his fingers had played. Draco's shoulders were hot to the touch and the muscles of his upper back rippled under his circling hands.

"Need more?" Harry asked, the words barely audible. Joking over now, he just wanted to be inside Draco. Not enough lube, not nearly, but if Draco didn't mind—

"S'okay," Draco rasped, and thank fuck, Harry thought before it was the last thing he thought.

He slid in, inch by inch, and the angle was fantastic, completely difficult, bloody perfect. The tendons in his arms strained as he braced himself up and into Draco. Both their bodies trembled with the effort of holding together, but now, in him, finally, Harry couldn't bear the thought of pulling away.

He let his hips set their own erratic rhythm and the bliss coiled low as he lost track of time inside the heat of Draco's body.

A deeper surge had Draco groaning beneath him, a throaty noise that echoed against the metal rail and tumbled out toward the river. On a ragged exhale Harry pulsed inside Draco, once, twice, and had to stop, slow, pause before he blew the rest like a bloody teenager inside the man he'd wanted to shag since he was a bloody teenager.

"Harry."

"Yeah," managed Harry, resting his sweaty forehead against Draco's back. His hips snapped forward, his cock slid deeper with a sweet burn.

"Harder," Draco urged. Then, "Harry, this is fun."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, panting in his ear. The parabola of the city widened and spun as he saw stars.

Draco said something then, but Harry didn't hear it, he only felt Draco stiffening against him, felt the excruciatingly fantastic clench around his aching cock.

Harry thrust, fast, faster, and then, yes, yes, the world was glorious around him and the rushing in his ears went on and on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"… they're looking to isolate the protein and purify it to a very high quality …"

Harry tuned out a bit, and rummaged about in his desk drawer. He fished out the plastic carrier bag that Julie had given him earlier.

"A belated birthday present," she'd said, "Because I don't see you fiddling with that stick anymore and because I refuse to nick any more pens for you from the supply cupboard."

"Beetles. Yes, that's right." He stared at the I'm-not-as-think-as-you-drunk-I-am Tate lettering on the bag. "Come on, I don't bloody remember, Suresh. The beetle-y kind."

"That's 10-15 litres." Pausing to listen, Harry shook his head though he hadn't actually bothered with the video conference so it wasn't as though Suresh would be able to see him. "No, no, it's actually an advantage. The scale up to time-to-market means that we'll be ahead of the game by the time the regional patents are approved.

Inside the bag was a fantastically-fiddly puzzle. Thousands of tiny metal £ signs all jumbled up together on a black magnetized base. You could run your fingers through them! Make towers with them! Sculpt them into an even bigger £ sign! It was love at first sight for Harry. Julie would be rewarded for this loyalty, he thought contentedly. Though there was still no way he was going to let her drag him to a Walkabout.

Christ, he loved a good shag. It made business so much more enjoyable.

He was just nudging the puzzle into pride of place on the green baize, right beside the snowflake owl, when Seb knocked on the door and stuck his head into Harry's office. "Drink tonight?"

Harry held his hand over the receiver. "If this deal goes through, you're buying. No, wait, my round because my year-end bonus will be able to buy four pubs and a brewery and eight of you twice over."

"Stop your preening, Wiz, and I'll see you at the Black Friar."

Waving him off with a rude gesture, Harry went back to the call; five minutes later, the conversation had veered away from biotech and into the recent surge in the export of India's manufactured goods.

The traffic blasted along from Blackfriars Bridge, thrumming at the edges of the over-loud conversations going on outside the pub. Pint glasses sloshed, dripping perilously near to the designer heels worn by the office girls. All of whom had fled to the loos to tart up with their hair tongs before heading down to impress the same blokes they worked with day in and day out. Incomprehensible.

Twice Harry had glanced over his shoulder in the last ten minutes, certain he'd felt magic being bludgeoned against the flow of traffic. But when he'd looked, there had first been a young couple hurrying against the red and the second time the older gentleman had looked quite convincingly muggle.

Maybe it was embedded into the road itself. Seeing as there were probably plague pits directly below them, it wouldn't be surprising. Bloody City of London, he thought with huge affection.

The third time Harry felt magic trickle across his shoulderblades, Harry nearly didn't look. But the feeling grew until he half-turned, looking out across New Bridge Street to find the source.

And there he was, just a glimpse of him, bright in a blue leather jacket against the dull grey buildings and flashing metal cars.

Harry shifted on the paving stones, stepping backward on one foot as he tried to (without being obvious about it) get a better view. Then, for once obliging, the traffic slowed and he watched as Draco Malfoy weaved his way across the road.

Harry disengaged from the conversation and came out onto the sidewalk to meet him. "Wondered if Hedwig made it in time."

"She did."

"Good," said Harry. "You're here." Draco's jacket had a high military collar and burnished silver buttons and Harry really wanted to—

"Here I am," Draco agreed. His hand came up to hold Harry in place, his fingers tangled in Harry's hair, sifting and pulling as he angled Harry exactly where he wanted him.

In a perfect alignment of desire, everything skewed as Draco's mouth slanted over his. Kissing him, over and over again; so fucking good: the feeling of Draco's mouth on his, the give to Draco's lips there at the end, then drawing back and kissing him again. Over and over, over and over, good. Fuck.

Panting against each others' mouths now. Harry worked at Draco with rough swipes of his tongue, demanding that he open for him, let him in. Then Draco's mouth fell open and Harry licked at it hungrily, hooking his thumb at the crease to open it even wider so he could drag his tongue at the smooth gums, over the edge of a tooth, into the warm wet. Just like Draco liked to do and served him right.

Dimly, very dimly, he was aware that Seb and the others were hollering something at him. For as long as possible he ignored them, ignored everything except Draco's legs pushing between his and the feeling he was tumbling, everything rushing past him in a stream of light and sound and sensation.

"Potter, oi, Potter!"

He lifted his head reluctantly. Seb was yelling about interest rates. Or something.

"He thinks he's always right," Harry muttered by way of explanation.

"We'll get along then. Going to let me stand you a drink?"

Harry ran his hand through his hair, pulling himself back together. Didn't usually get so lucky on pub nights. "Sounds like a good deal."

Draco laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Life." Draco looked up at him, smiling. "Life, Harry Potter, merchant banker, is bloody funny."

~ END ~

[hp] currency 3

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 15:24:50 GMT

Currency

By Blythe & Circe

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE ~ PART FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harry was attempting to enjoy the Saturday morning summer sunshine. He was also fervently wishing he'd never explained venture capital to Malfoy.

"Did you cut them a tiny percentage or did you just move the manufacturing to the Far East?"

"They don't exactly come out of this poor, you know." Harry jammed his mobile in the crook of his neck while he rearranged himself more comfortably on the lounger. "What do you care?" He squinted up at the sun and idly watched the sparks dance against the blood-amber of his eyelids. Catching some rays in usually rainy London. All those partners who'd gone to Lanzarote for the weekend would be pissed.

He could hear Malfoy's sniff down the phone line. "I am the proprietor of a small business while you lot are always trying to screw over the little guy. Someone's got to rein in your rampant capitalism."

Harry laughed. "You're having me on, aren't you? You of all people are not insisting on social and economic equality."

"Don't be absurd. I'm merely pointing out that the rich should be allowed to get richer without filthy middlemen like yourself skimming from the top."

"I haven't even asked you how much this wand is going to cost me. We'll both be glad of that skimming when that bill comes."

"Oh, I think you'll find I'm good value for money," Malfoy said airily. He looked happy with himself.

"Fuck! How the hell did you get up here?"

Harry sat bolt upright. Malfoy had apparated onto his roof garden, just a couple of metres away. Malfoy tapped the screen on his mobile before shoving it in a pocket. "Traceable in more ways than one," he announced.

"I think it's frightening, you embracing muggle technology," Harry said. If Malfoy was going to be smug, he sure as hell wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of being embarrassed.

"I own a mobile and a hi-fi system. I've hardly dabbled. And you're naked." This last came with a fair amount of heat, and Harry felt his skin flush.

"And you're early. I wasn't expecting you for hours."

He stretched, deliberately taking his time. Through slitted eyes he watched Malfoy watching him. Harry didn't say anything more. Served the bugger right.

"Hmmm," said Malfoy. He was wearing a cream linen nehru and faded khaki cargo shorts. His hands were jammed into a set of pockets; a battered brown leather satchel was looped over one shoulder. The scruff was very appealing. Malfoy gave him one more lingering once-over then wandered over to the railing. He peered over the edge and took a quick step back. "This is all a tad over-the-top for a bit of greenery."

While Malfoy's back was turned, Harry grabbed a towel from a nearby deckchair and wrapped it around his waist. "I'll take my urban jungle as high as I can find it," he said, "just as long as I get a tree or two."

"Since when was a potted palm a tree?" Malfoy was staring at him again. He wore a complicated expression that was several parts interest and more than a little consternation.

Harry liked it. "Since I moved to Wapping," he replied shortly and stood up, towel bunched loosely in one hand held against his hip.

Malfoy appeared to be fixated by the towel. "For a second there – well, let's just say you're reviving fond memories of the Quidditch change rooms."

"Thank you and fuck off, Draco Malfoy, for completely ruining my own fond memories."

"I'll wait here then, shall I?"

"You could come in." Harry surprised even himself with the flip invitation. He hadn't expected it, hadn't fully realised he had it in him.

Draco's eyes widened, happy interest flickering across his face. Then he grinned. "Harry, today won't be that bad. I promise — it's quite easy to avoid the new age weirdoes at these things."

Relief and disappointment and anticipation, all at once. "So you say," Harry joked, playing along.

Malfoy was still standing by the edge of the roof when Harry re-emerged, dressed casually in red trainers, jeans and the tightest black t-shirt he could find.

Oh well. He wasn't that mature.

"I thought I might drive," Harry said, swinging the car keys in Malfoy's face.

Malfoy looked at him aghast. "Drive? In a car? Are you mental — no, I know you're mental, don't answer that. Are you completely self-absorbed, still?" Malfoy plucked the keys from Harry's hovering hand and tossed them over the side of the building.

"Oi!"

"Oh for the love of Mordred." Dracio slid his wand out of his leather sleeve holster and accio'd the keys back. "If you're going to be a girl about it."

"What's your problem with cars?" he parroted Malfoy. "It can't be the muggle technology You've got a hi-fi. I'll bet you're even a Morrissey fan."

Malfoy's face was a picture of sufference. "Get. Over. Yourself. I know you move money around for a living, but surely you must have a modicum of social conscience. Wasn't there some talk about you saving the world at one point? What did you do, decide to give that away with magical society, as well?"

The Harry of a few weeks ago would have jumped on that, probably hit Malfoy then walked away.

Maybe Malfoy sensed that, because he quickly added, "I'm only agitated because of the fossil fuels, you understand."

"You're cracked."

Malfoy shot him a calculated look. "How's your magic today?"

"Better as soon as I get that wand off you."

"Then we'd better get going. Can you Apparate?"

Harry thought about it and grew queasy. "I'd rather not."

"I suppose we'll have to take the car then. I'll bet it has a sun roof. You're just the type." Malfoy looked resigned, then suddenly hopeful. "Oh, can we put the roof down?"

Malfoy adjusted his satchel across his shoulders. "It's a nice day. Let's make this quick and grab a beer. You owe me one."

As they walked across the vast parking lot toward Alexandra Palace, Harry commented, "I didn't know they had anything but fireworks here."

Malfoy glanced up at the old BBC signal tower in the distance. "Fireworks, skating, granny dances, you name it. They also have an antiques fair here every month. I flogged off all of Mother's hideous china here for a small fortune." Malfoy looked pleased with himself, as usual.

Harry felt that urge to smack him again. "I did not agree to come antique shopping with you, Malfoy. You said we were getting stuff for my wand!"

"We are." Malfoy pushed open a set of ornate double-doors. Inside the foyer there were posters proclaiming the Summer Rock and Gem Show.

Malfoy led him over to a reception desk where he flashed a card and was handed two badges by a blowsy woman who quite clearly liked the look of them. Malfoy winked at her.

"Stop that," muttered Harry, pinning his little badge to his shirt.

They went through another set of doors to the exhibition hall, and Harry was greeted with a high Victorian ceiling underneath which sprawled a bewildering spread of trestle tables. Some were groaning with mineral specimens, sparkling crystals and sliced geodes, while others were an orderly array of gemstone boxes or bead-strands laid out in piles. A few stalls exhibited fossils, with ammonites and sandstone prevailing. The table nearest Malfoy had a sign proclaiming Shark Teeth: 40,000 Years Old.

Malfoy made a small noise of displeasure and flicked imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Ick. All these zealots in one place. Come on. Please don't make small talk with anyone wearing anything dangly or purple. Or both." He dragged Harry by the elbow toward a table at the rear of the floor.

"Ah, Draco." A tall, middle-aged man with a ginger beard and a rather leonine hairdo called to them in an accent straight out of Benelux. "I did not know if you would make it. Do you have anything for me?"

Harry stood by as Malfoy shook hands with the man. "Anton. Good to see you. I do have something for you, this time." He rummaged in his satchel, pulling out a package that lessened the bulky bag considerably. "How's business? Anything new?"

"I just went to Hong Kong last week, did you forget? There is nothing new. It is all treated this and dyed that. No quality turquoise for you this time."

Malfoy scowled. "Bugger. I really have to go out there myself, don't I?" He rubbed at his forehead. "Well, I need some alexandrite. Uncut, gem quality, nice and clean."

Harry coughed, pointedly.

"Oh!" Malfoy looked sheepish, which was an interesting soft touch to his sharp features. "Sorry! Anton, Harry, et cetera. The alex is for Harry."

Harry, who spent most of his working life being introduced to European men in specialty trades, made with the small talk until Draco's impatience became visible. He left them to it.

He meandered around the vicinity, picking up quartz crystals, selenite pebbles (a lovely blue), animals carved from different rocks. There was a mottled black-and-white carving of an owl that he quite liked. Thinking of Hedwig, he turned it over. Twenty-seven pounds, snowflake obsidian.

"Could I get this?" The woman behind the table was wearing a purple t-shirt with a celtic design.

"Course you can," the woman said in a thick West Country accent, "do you collect?" She fished around underneath her table and pulled out a wooden box.

"Me? No," Harry said, "I just like owls." He pulled two twenties from his wallet and gave them to the woman.

"Wise and judgemental," she said, sliding his box into a bag, "a bit unlucky, too, if you're to believe old stories."

Harry smiled. "So I've been told — thank you — but I've been lucky so far." He turned around, looking for Malfoy. "Cheers."

He found him by a stall laden with what looked like copper and iron ore, sifting through a bowl of coins and keys. Malfoy reached behind him, not even looking up to grab Harry's arm.

"How do you do that?" Harry couldn't decide if it was showing-off or charming.

"Slytherin survival skill. Look at these, do any of them look funny to you?"

Malfoy had laid a line of the metal objects on the table. Harry peered at the keys — they were flat ironwork with intricate motifs worked into the handles and the flange. They were obviously very old (Harry thought they might be medieval, he had seen some keys in the Museum of London that looked similar), but he couldn't see what Malfoy thought was interesting. The coins at least he knew something about, having spent a summer interning with the private bank attached to Lombards. They were Roman and Tuscan coins, typically marked, the sort the little showcases in the Lombard foyer had proudly displayed.

"Dunno about the keys," Harry began, "but the coins are third and fourth century Italian states." He picked one up and examined it, turning it over. "They look pretty standard except—"

He looked at Malfoy, who was nodding and looking pleased. "Except for goblin markings around the edge, which are something peculiar to, well." Malfoy dropped his voice, "Guy who runs the stall isn't one of us. I think we should take these and donate them to the BWM."

Harry shrugged. "If you think so."

"You really are a heartless capitalist, aren't you?"

"Through and through," Harry grinned back, amused by Malfoy's treasure-hunting glee. "What's with the keys then?"

Malfoy picked one up and held it up so Harry could see the tracery. "Alchemical symbology worked into the motifs, it's all very complicated. I'll have to decode it all — what?"

Harry snickered. "And you think I'm the one with the esoteric numerology? You're just as dull as I am, Malfoy, admit it."

He only got a sniff in reply as Malfoy picked up the keys, shoved his satchel into Harry's hands, and started haggling with the booth owner.

Harry was examining the alexandrite — letting it sit in the palm of his hand, running his fingers along the edges, feeling that drugging warmth seep into his skin — when Malfoy finally rejoined him.

"Well?"

"Yeah," Harry said. There seemed no doubt now that Malfoy was onto something with this wand business. Fuck. He hoped so. He stowed the gem carefully away in the satchel once more and reluctantly gave it to Malfoy.

"Right, drink?"

"Absolutely."

CHAPTER NINE

The following Wednesday, Harry bunked off from a staff meeting to nip out to the West End. He passed the driver twenty quid and turned to give Petunia a hand out of the cab. Across the street, in front of Harry Winston's, a tall bloke in a blue suit held open the door of a Bentley while an older lady wrestled her fur coat out into the sunshine. Harry gave him a nod of camaraderie, musing that if one's type was expensively-dressed Eastern Europeans, Bond Street was rapidly becoming ground zero.

"Thank you," Petunia brushed down her skirt, "I know you could have driven us but I just get so nervous since—"

"It's fine, Auntie P. Honestly." Harry buttoned up his jacket, motioning Petunia in front of him. She wasn't as protective of Harry as she was of Dudley (for which he was profoundly grateful) but she was superstitious and didn't like him driving.

"Don't call me Auntie," she whispered over her shoulder as the Sotheby's doorman greeted them good afternoon. "You never know where you might meet a nice man."

Harry grinned. If there was one thing he'd never expected to share in common with his aunt, it was an eye to the main chance.

Stepping out of the elevator, Harry ushered Petunia into the foyer for the main sales rooms. He wasn't an auction house regular; usually he was here for expensive catch-up lunches with the leggy brunette in the black minidress, waiting for them with catalogues and a boarding-school smile.

"Afternoon, Harry," Mina said, kissing him on the cheek.

"Jesus, you're gorgeous," Harry kissed her back. "Why is it that you won't marry me, again?" Gay he might be, but he'd always been a sucker for a glossy ponytail.

She laughed and held up the fuck-off ruby on her left hand.

"I hate him," Harry said. "Petunia, I'd like you to meet my friend Mina Hafiz. We did the MBA together at Manchester, and now she advises the big international buyers here. Mina, this is my aunt Petunia, who's here to see the Chinese ceramics." He stopped, turning to his aunt. "Is that right?"

"Nineteenth century furniture and crafts is first," Mina said, shaking hands with Petunia and giving them both a substantial catalogue. "Ceramics is at four, and I must say that it is all," she dropped her voice, "fantastically under-valued."

"Really?" Petunia flicked the pages of the catalogue, already making notes with her pen. "Oh, look at these adorable little elephants."

"Mina," Harry cautioned, "don't lead my aunt astray. She has a very nice Edwardian terrace house, but there's no room for Ming vases in the front room."

"Ignore him," Mina said to Petunia, "the one time I let him have a bidding paddle he nearly paid fourteen thousand for a stone wheel from the Pacific Islands."

"It was stone money!" Harry protested. "A giant, three metre high coin. It would have looked fantastic in my living room."

"You would have needed a builder's crane to get it into yours, darling. Now we must move along; I have seats reserved for you both."

As they waited for the auction room to fill, Harry flicked through his catalogues while Petunia and Mina enthused about Victorian butter knives. The Asian vases and statuettes did nothing much for him, though the jade was quite beautiful. He wondered what Malfoy thought of jade; all week he'd been surreptitiously poking about the internet for information on alexandrite, but Malfoy was right — it was so bloody rare there was no point in pursuing it in any commercial investment sense.

He came across a long thin object that was labelled as a porcelain tea stirrer from the fourteenth century, but given his newfound knowledge, Harry reckoned on it being some Shanghai wizard's wand.

Realising he might as well get used to it, another Malfoy-related thought crossed Harry's mind, and he leaned over to Mina. "Do you have a coin person here?"

"We have a whole department of numismatists, Harry." Mina's expression reminded Harry just why she'd kicked his ass on their degree: she was cleverer than everyone else and you never forgot it. "Why?"

"I found some bits and bobs at a fair," Harry whispered, as a hush fell for the auctioneer.

"Later," Mina mouthed, winking.

Harry sat back, letting the bustle of the sales slip in and out of his attention. The coins were sat on a bookshelf at home, giving off the faintest echo of long-ago trade every time he touched them. He'd have them appraised, maybe raffle them off at LSB for the prestige of the museum donation. It was all tax-free, everyone would win.

He shifted, slipping his hands in his jacket pockets; it was cool in the climate-controlled room. Right at the bottom was a warm object, and he remembered it was the snitch from Malfoy's workshop just in time to stop himself taking it out. He closed his hand around its gently snoring surface, wondering if it were something precious to Malfoy, something that needed to be returned in kind.

CHAPTER TEN

Poppy ushered him through with few questions, the anticipatory sparkle in her eye as she pulled on her cloak making it clear that working late was the last thing on her mind. The bell tinkled merrily behind her as she locked him in.

A handful of times in this new shop and it still felt strange that Ollivander was gone. Funny how certain aspects of the Wizarding world felt immutable. He wondered sometimes if it was because his first adventures in magic had been protecting the philosopher's stone. Live forever, never change.

Well, it hadn't done Tom Riddle any good, had it? Maybe that's why Harry'd gone into finance; most prospects had a short life span and experience taught you to get out while the going was good.

It was getting easier, though. Maybe familiarity bred the contempt of whatever usually made him feel so crap; the magic didn't bludgeon like it had the first few times. Which was good, because Harry needed to be able to think, here. Malfoy—

What about Malfoy?

It still seemed so strange. Malfoy of all people, doing this for him — really doing it, as in, going above and beyond. Sure it was his business, but there was good service and then there was helping a mate. It had been a long time since anyone had done something for Harry without expecting anything in return.

He reached into his pocket and gently touched the snitch.

Malfoy was seated at his workbench. A silvery birch branch was resting on the countertop; runes were marked with black ink against the bark and a small handsaw leaned against it. Next to it, a darker wood glowed faintly green with magic. Some kind of preservative, Harry guessed, though he didn't claim to be an expert.

Piles of parchment surrounded Malfoy, who was busily scribbling away. He didn't look up but said: "Pull up a stool if you want, but for Mordred's sake, don't skulk. Serious thought is going on here and the last thing we need is another Porlock."

Harry could tell without looking that the alexandrite was on the far table in the corner. Excited, he started to say something to this effect, then decided that it would a bit redundant.

Malfoy crossed his final 't' with a flourish and beamed up at Harry. His hands were covered in ink and, as he rubbed his nose distractedly, it transferred in a dark streak.

"You've got—" Harry leaned over and wiped it away. Then he sat back, feeling rather stupid.

Malfoy paid the moment no attention whatsoever. His eyes shone with the sort of fanaticism that Harry remembered quite well from years at boarding school with a houseful of Slytherins.

"I've just written an absolutely scathing Bad Magic attack on the current trend for wizards to seek muggle treatments for cancer. Oncology is a highly complex medical science and the affect of radiation on wizard physiology is, well, shall we say, it's not a good idea. But no, because St Mungo's is overstretched as it is, those dimwits at the Quibbler are publishing story after story about witches with breast cancer taking muggle medicines. Absolutely shocking. Government policy will have to change, of course, but the Ministry is so wrapped up in the post-war infrastructure developments that the issue's all being passed over for something sexier. Bloody Shacklebolt."

Harry wasn't to be outdone. "I didn't vote for him."

Malfoy stared at him, clearly caught about to launch into another rant. He laughed. "No, neither did I."

"I mean, I liked him and all, but he was a copper. Police shouldn't run the state."

"How much did you drink today, Harry Potter? I've heard about you City boys."

There was something so loose and relaxed about Malfoy like this. It made it easy to remember why he'd come.

"I've got something for you."

"Oh?" Malfoy asked, still amused.

Harry corrected himself. "No, actually, it's more something I want to show you."

Malfoy leaned in. "Will I like it?"

"I think, yeah, you will."

"Well?"

This was the awkward part. "It's not here. Exactly. The thing is, we need to Apparate."

"But you can't—"

It was one of the things that Harry was always wary of; the way his magic faded in and out was probably likely to get him splinched if he could even muster the strength in the first place. "Not such a good idea, no," he replied.

"Floo then," Malfoy said, motioning to the squat little fireplace in the corner. "We're past the rush hour."

"Actually, we'll need to Apparate. And I've got to take you."

Malfoy caught on quickly, thank god. It wasn't the sort of thing Harry felt comfortable spelling out; he was barely comfortable doing it in the first place.

"Ah." Malfoy rose from the table, paced around to Harry and linked their arms. He smelled like woodsmoke. "Tell me when, then."

Harry took a deep breath and focused very hard on the place he'd visited only once before. He pictured it exactly, pushing everything else — tomorrow's meetings, Malfoy's scent, everything — to the back of his mind.

"Legilimens," Malfoy murmured against his ear. There was a fleeting, ticklish touch inside him, warmth so warm, the sensation of spinning as Malfoy yanked them into the quick circle-step, then—

Flung unceremoniously out of the spell, they were pushed by momentum into a jog across the scrub. Malfoy came easily to a halt but Harry staggered, falling forward roughly onto his hands and knees. The dead grass itched at his sweating palms, prickled painfully through his trousers, but he didn't have the strength to get up.

"Harry?"

Harry didn't reply; he couldn't, not yet. Not with the grit of magic sandpapering its way through his veins. He let his head droop as he fought to control his breathing and swallow down the bile.

Malfoy's hand was cool against the back of Harry's neck. It helped. It was good to focus on something else.

"Harry? I could cast rennervate if you'd like."

"N-no," he managed. "Just give me—"

Malfoy gave him the time he needed, and he didn't say a word until Harry was finally able to totter to his feet. But the second Harry was upright, he started in. "You're an idiot. A total wanker. You should have told me how sick that would make you."

Harry shook his head. Arguing was too much effort.

"Of course, I should have known because I'm not as big an idiot as you, but that's not the point."

Harry managed a weak smile. He was starting to feel a bit better. "No. That is."

"What?" Malfoy asked, half-turning to look behind him. "What could possibly be worth making yourself ill for? Hold on, don't tell me. You've lured me out here, you madman, probably to kill me and hide my body in some latent adolescent revenge scenario, though it does give me some solace that you'll have to dig the hole the muggle way as your wand isn't ready yet. I suppose ..."

Malfoy's voice trailed off and his eyes widened. He glanced quickly at Harry, who was careful to keep his face expressionless. "Wait," Malfoy said. "Where are we?"

Harry just stepped back a bit, enjoying the melodrama, and gestured for Malfoy to precede him. The path was rough, stones jagging out at the edges of the worn dirt track. It led up an incline choked with thick weeds and strewn with vicious nettles.

Malfoy gave him one bright, suspicious look before picking his way up the hill. Harry followed at a more moderate pace, letting himself adjust to the high levels of magical energy battering at him. He was three-quarters of the way up when Malfoy crested the summit. Harry stopped, watching as Malfoy's back straightened and his slight figure went rigid.

He smiled.

When Harry reached his side, Malfoy leaned over and thwacked him solidly across the chest. "You fucker. Bless you. You fucker. How the fuck did you get us here? I love you. How?"

A slender stone obelisk rose from the ground ahead of them. Beyond it stretched a wide field of perfect, luminous green. The velveteen grass shone in the moonlight, each blade glistening with dew that reflected the night back at the endless sky.

All the hairs on Harry's body were standing up on end. It was that kind of place, the sort to drive a banker to poetic drivel. Harry moved closer to the obelisk and placed one scratched and dirty hand against the smooth stone. The strangest shiver spread across his shoulders as the magic around him transmuted to sympathetic welcome.

Malfoy glanced at him, disbelieving, then flicked his gaze down to the carved inscription.

"Queerditch Marsh," Malfoy breathed. He shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wild with light. "Who the fuck let you in here? It's supposed to be Unplottable!"

"It is." Harry let his fingers trail across the stone, loathe to lift them from the heavy warmth. "But I saved the world."

Malfoy was no longer listening; he was charging down the slope to the field, running headlong with the enthusiasm of a first-year. He paused at the verge, suddenly tentative, then he boldly stepped out onto the grass. A look of utter bliss lifted his face.

"Look at you," said Harry softly. He raised his hand and the pleasant languor stayed with him, wrapping around him as he loped down to meet Malfoy.

"Harry, Harry, Queerditch Marsh!"

Queerditch Marsh. Quidditch was born here, eight hundred years before Harry discovered it anew with a stolen Remembrall at Hogwarts.

Quidditch.

Weeks at the Burrow. Long hours spent leafing through the latest magazines or playing pickup with Ron, the twins and Ginny. Listening to the international matches on the WWN. Reading Krum interviews while ignoring overdue homework and Ron's jealous temper. Flying—

"Queerditch Marsh," Harry answered, and the grin that stretched his mouth was so wide that it hurt. "You're giddy."

"You're giddy, too." Malfoy hooked his arms around Harry's waist, leaning against his back. He bit, once, twice, at Harry's neck where he'd soothed only minutes before, and it was sharp. Brilliant. "I can't believe it. I feel like I could look over my shoulder and see Gertie Keddle herself. This is amazing."

"Mmm," Harry agreed and shifted around so he was watching Malfoy's face. He pulled out the snitch, which woke with a jostle and immediately leapt up to hover happily above their heads.

"Oh." Malfoy took a shuddering breath. "You're welcome," he said.

Harry's hands roughly cupped the base of Draco's skull; his fingers pulled at Draco's hair. "Let's do it," he urged, and his voice sounded harsh against the soft night.

Malfoy's arms tightened around him. His fingernails scraped down the bit of exposed skin above Harry's waistband. "Now? Here?"

"Yeah. You and me."

The broom was crude, transfigured from a tree branch and augmented by the innate enchantments of the place, but it was all they needed to take to the sky.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Harry undid the latch on Hedwig's cage, beaming as she shuffled out onto the sill. "Good morning, sweetheart," he told her, and gave her an owl treat before her good-natured nipping turned into a need for Skele-Gro. "No post for you this morning. May be late home, too."

He left the owl preening by the open window. The pink pages of the FT awaited, but he was already late getting to the office; Harry had slept more soundly the previous night than he could remember sleeping in a very long time.

Outside it was still fresh, the day's heat still lingering over the estuary rather than London proper. Harry halted just outside the converted warehouse that housed his flat, gazing up into the brilliant sky.

Overhead, Hedwig flew from his open window, circling in lazy loops before disappearing over the rooftops in a beautiful white blur. He watched her go, knowing she'd be waiting for him at the office. Spending a few minutes stretching, he enjoyed the slow burn in his muscles, tested the eagerness in his feet.

Harry's morning run took him down to the Thames Path and to Tower Bridge, where he wound his way past the Engine Rooms and narrowly avoided commuters. Shad Thames led him to the dueling empires of Red Ken and Sir Terrence, then through to London Bridge, and further on, the twisting cobblestones by the Clink. The usual old-magic itches rubbed at the corners of Harry's consciousness but this morning they didn't seem to bother him as much as usual. He didn't even swear at the cyclists who sped past him like lycra-clad bludgers.

That feeling of flying … not even the sturdy slap of his trainers on the pavement could ground him enough to erase the sensation. Harry closed his eyes, blocking out the sounds of the working river and the chatter of distant traffic. Just the wind on his face and the memory of flight.

Hot muscle, shifting under his fingers, and the curl of a strong back against his breastbone.

Back across at Southwark, then north, until he took a childish pleasure in scattering as many pigeons as possible in the final steps. On his way into the office, Harry smiled at a scholarly type juggling a laptop case and a shopping bag full of photocopies as she headed to the Guildhall archives.

Inside, Harry fumbled to yank his lanyard free of his sweat-soaked t-shirt so the guard on the door could see the hideous plastic. Once, during a reliable week, Harry had transfigured the pass into something a little more tasteful, but the resulting uproar in the post 7/7 security state that was London hadn't been worth the effort.

At this early hour the lift was empty, a fact for which Harry was eternally grateful. He hated the shifting, gormless stares of people waiting for their floor.

He paused briefly at his office to grab his spare suit, then hit the gents'. The shower was hot and strong, kicking his brain back into gear after the endorphin-pumped euphoria of the exercise. Still shaking the final drops of water from his towel-dried hair, Harry bumped into Seb as he headed back to address the rather alarming backlog of email awaiting him.

"Property prices—" Seb began, waving a copy of the self-same newspaper that Harry had shamelessly ignored an hour before. "There's some interesting—"

"Piss off," Harry shot over his shoulder. "No interest in mortgages, now or ever. Boring as hell, and I don't give a toss for prime rates."

"Your loss."

"I'll take my chances." Harry held out his hand, but before he could touch the handle, his office door swung open.

Draco was sitting in Harry's chair, bare feet propped up on the July trading analysis as he nursed a cup of tea with obvious satisfaction.

Eyes widening, Harry glanced back at Seb, but he'd already back into his own office.

Very carefully, Harry stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "Hi," he managed in greeting, feeling as though the planet was off its axis by at least a few degrees.

"I hate mornings," Draco announced. "But today's seemed particularly nice."

"Not bad," Harry agreed and thought again of the night before. "But it would be nicer if you took your feet off my desk."

"All these gadgets," Draco observed, picking up the telephone headset and examining it with clinical interest. "How do you ever get any work done?"

"I don't, generally. I have minions."

Draco snorted and swung his legs down. "You're so full of it. You're a total workaholic. Look at all these filing cabinets, they're all stuffed with your report thingies. Yes, yes," he held up a hand to forestall Harry's protests, "I know you say it's very competitive and unpredictable, but it looks like tedious twaddle to me." He sniffed, flicking through the papers on Harry's desk with pursed lips. "Ooh, crossword. Did you finish it?"

"Seven across, but I thought of it yester—"

"Aplomb. No wonder it took you a while."

Harry took his suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the door, shrugging it on. He had three meetings during the day, all clients, all requiring maximum first impressions and none needing Draco Malfoy. Not when Draco was already the sum total of what was on Harry's mind anyway. "Hurry up and drink your tea so you can piss off out from under my feet."

Draco laced his fingers together and cracked the joints. He rose from Harry's chair with a showy bit of reluctance. "To tell you the truth, I'm hiding from Poppy. I'd promised her the day off, but with school beginning in a few weeks business is mad."

"Then shouldn't you be there?"

"Absolutely, but there's only so many pushy mothers a man can handle. It's not like a first year can master anything more advanced than swish-and-flick anyway — a twig would be of as much use. Oh, stop fretting, I'll be off shortly. By the by, this half-naked thing. It's getting to be a habit of yours."

Harry took a tie off the hanger and slung it around his neck. He didn't even try to fight off the smirk. "I'm told that the weight of anecdote is not data."

"Let me," Draco murmured, stepping forward, his eyes flashing dark for a second as he wound the silk into a windsor.

He was more deft with a tie than any wizard ought to be, Harry thought, watching Draco's fingers create the knot, tighten it and settle it at the base of Harry's throat. The sheer intimacy of the gesture rendered Harry jittery and speechless, his skin prickling at Draco's proximity.

"Very smart," said Draco, stepping back and slipping a hand to Harry's waist. His expression was inviting.

"You are short," was all Harry managed.

"I'm not wearing shoes." Draco scowled, tightening his hand on Harry's hip and pulling him incrementally closer. Harry had to close his eyes in frustration.

"Can't," he said shortly, "not here." The prickle of his skin was now heat, flooding tension and want across him.

Draco bristled. Irritation at the interruption evident, he waved his hand over Harry's shoulder and the door closed properly and clicked locked. Wandless.

Harry's lust hit him in full force, literally staggering him forward until he was pressed tight against Draco, driving him back against the wall.

"Where, then?" Draco rasped.

He looked dazed, and Harry could only imagine how utterly fucking fantastic a compliant and scratchy Draco Malfoy would be in bed. Harry kissed him, all wet heat and addictive. That bit of throat. Right there.

Draco stopped him, breathing hard. "Not here."

"Where, then?"

"Come to the workshop tonight. Around nine."

That broke the spell where nothing else would. "It's finished?"

Draco stepped apart, fingers coming up to brush quickly against Harry's tie then falling away. "It's finished."

"Okay," Harry said. "Okay." Excitement bloomed, mingling with arousal. "Here, let me—"

He turned away for a second, just one, but it was enough. When he turned back, Draco had gone.

He couldn't say no, and in the end, he didn't want to. Iris was home and Ron had invited him round for dinner. It was an infrequent enough invitation that Harry hadn't wanted to risk the companionship they'd recovered by refusing and besides, nine o'clock was taking forever to arrive.

Left to his own devices, Harry probably would have stayed at the office, but whether he would have been able to accomplish any work was another matter entirely. He had visions of calling Buenos Aires and thinking of Draco Malfoy, writing reports and thinking of Draco Malfoy, organising next week's diary and thinking of Draco Malfoy. Easy, then, to say yes, and show up at their doorstep with a bottle of Beaujolais and some flowers for Iris.

"Oi," Ron said when he'd opened the door and seen Liverpool Street Station's finest bouquet. "Get your own."

Iris — petite yet rather busty with a razor-sharp mind and bright blue eyes behind designer spectacles — took the flowers in the spirit they were intended and welcomed him in.

Their flat was on the ground floor of a house in the good part of wizarding Hackney. It was just off the canal and surrounded by kebab shops that actually served edible donar with decent hot sauce — magic indeed. Ron's natural inclination toward mess was augmented by Iris's excellent taste and Harry found himself liking them together more and more.

"Who's learning the bagpipes?" Harry asked, eyeing the tartan instrument squatting in the corner.

Iris stuck her head around the kitchen partition. "One of the brothers. I have no idea which."

"She loves my family," Ron said.

"I can tell." Harry propped his feet up on a pouf and looked at his watch.

"Oh-ho."

"What?"

"Come on, Harry. You haven't been round in months. I knew there was a reason you said yes."

Iris poked her head into the room again. "Harry, I realise I should be circumspect but the crostinis are burning and I can't be arsed. Will it bother you if I—?" She brandished her wand in the air.

"No, that's okay. I feel fine, thanks."

Ron beamed. "Really? That's new."

"Yeah. All this stuff about my wand's meant I've been exposed to more magic than usual. Think it's building a tolerance. And Draco — did you know Draco moonlights as some science guy? — he told me to take vitamin C like the muggles do. Apparently they think it builds their immune system against germs, but really it acts like a kind of antihistamine against bad reactions to latent magic."

"Draco, huh."

"Ron."

"Nothing. I said nothing."

Iris came in and plonked herself down on the squashy sofa beside Ron. "I heard nothing."

"I'm getting my wand tonight," Harry told them, already regretting the words before they were even out.

"That's interesting," Iris said with a polite disinterest so seemingly genuine that it would have fooled if Harry hadn't known better. No wonder she was rising through the ranks so quickly. If she hadn't screamed "powerful witch" from every pore, he would have been tempted to recruit her himself.

"Fantastic!" Ron said. "I'll come with you."

"Uh."

"No, it's perfect. I've got to swing by the shop anyway to pick up something from George, and I'd love to see what Malfoy's been up to. I'll just come with, won't be a bother, give you a bit of backup if you need it."

Harry stared at him. Clearly he'd been mistaken. Iris was a very bad influence on Ron Weasley. Ron's grin grew wider at whatever expression he read on Harry's face. Harry sighed. The girls at the office would be fainting into the watercooler by now.

"That'd be great," Harry said. Then added, "You're a bastard, by the way."

Iris burst out laughing. "Crostini?" she offered.

The night was cool yet pleasant when they let themselves out of the flat and headed down to the high street to hail a cab.

"Joking aside," Ron said, loping easily half-a-step ahead of Harry, "I am curious to see the setup. You don't mind, do you?"

Harry thought of how Malfoy had felt against him in his office this morning. "Well—"

"And I know you how it bothers you—"

Ron's freckles were dark against the pale oval of his face. Harry felt a sudden tightness in his chest. Here, then, was the reason for the laughter, the reason Ron would leave his lady on a rare moment at home. At the heart of it, here was his oldest friend.

"Thanks, Ron."

Ron nodded firmly, the matter closed. "S'alright."

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE ~ PART FOUR

[hp] currency 2

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 15:24:01 GMT

Currency

By Blythe & Circe

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE~ PART FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

Harry crossed the road into Smithfield Market just as the last of the packing trucks were pulling away. He couldn't help himself — he craned his head up to look at the roof, a gesture he repeated every time he came here. It was amazing really; hard to believe the place was a meat market. Of course, historically, it was also a place where they burned witches and slaughtered rebel nationalists. Very nasty.

Some days the dragons on the arch stretched a claw at him, but not today. Not for the first time that week Harry's hand twitched to his jacket pocket and came back empty.

He cut through St Barts to one of the arcane, boutique-y side streets that mazed back to Aldersgate, then paused in a shop doorway. Goyle and Smithfield weren't exactly Marauder's Map quality directions and not even his trusty A-Z would be helpful. Thanks awfully, Poppy, Harry thought, and cursed Malfoy. Tuesday evening, just as they'd agreed, but Malfoy wasn't in the shop when Harry'd stopped by. Of course he bloody wasn't. No, instead it was Goyle, Smithfield, Slytherin sodding obfuscation, and an unnecessary trip to Diagon Alley, when the last thing Harry—

He took a deep breath.

Maybe he should just head to the Great Eastern, he thought, and have a drink at the Aurora Bar. It wasn't too far away and the tall, blond Russian consultant who'd been at the office on business all week had a sixth floor room and a standing offer for Harry to fuck him. Which, given the suspect state of Harry's files, might not be a bad idea.

"Gah," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He really needed that damn wand.

"Excuse me, sir, we're closing." A large man with a bad moustache opened the door, gave him a speaking look (and the message wasn't polite), flipped the OPEN sign backward, and shut the door again.

Harry obligingly stepped back out into the street. He peered through the window, however, happy for the distraction. It was a jewellers — the crest of the Goldsmith's Guild on a little plaque in the display — and there were a number of diamond and platinum engagement bands there, the usual fare.

"I've already ordered for you. Why are you skulking around out here?"

He whirled around. Malfoy was standing behind him, hands jammed into the pockets of an over-sized black jacket with a high mandarin collar. Since Harry had last seen him, Malfoy had acquired stubble in varying shades of gold (no errant ginger for him, of course) and a smudge of dust across the bridge of his nose.

There were a number of things he could say, but Harry wasn't at school any more, nor was he fifteen. He was a successful merchant banker with a flat to die for and an owl who loved him. He wasn't going to get into a pissing match with a stick-fiddler who'd always driven him mad. He was bigger than that.

Stepping closer, Malfoy cocked his head as he studied the display. "If that's an F colour, I'm a garden gnome. I never work with diamonds. No magic in them."

Harry smirked. "There is if your money's on a coup in Sierra Leone."

Goyle and Smithfield apparently translated into Goyle's of Smithfield — an intimate little place by the Guildhall of the Worshipful Company of Butchers.

Harry was surreptitiously watching their fellow patrons. A clearly Muggle couple was laughing over their aperitifs, while at the gracious curve of the bar a witch who bore more than a passing resemblance to Cosine Sinistra drank brandy with a handsome older wizard.

Muggles and wizards. It boggled the mind.

"Surely you've been to enough restaurants in London to realize that not even wizards drink enough to cover the overhead."

Harry shook his head in wonderment. Times changed and he'd been out of the loop. "So, is that really—?"

"Hogwarts professors have social lives, Harry. I know, I know, it's hideously embarrassing, like catching your parents having sex."

Images of Lucius Malfoy flooded his poor, already beleaguered brain. "Ugh."

"Yes, well, imagine my virgin distress when she deflowered Blaise and he insisted on telling me about it in graphic detail during double Arithmancy."

"Wait — Zabini and Professor Sinistra?"

"Harry, even the fortune-telling horse knew about that one." Malfoy paused, rubbing his thumb over the bowl of his wine glass. "You know, I really had guessed solicitor."

"Order more wine," Harry said, and took a bite of blue cheese and walnut. His initial impatience had softened under the influence of the first bottle and the anticipation of the main course to come.

Malfoy tossed off a mock salute and bent his head to the waiter's. Harry was momentarily captured by the aesthetics of the scene and he was taken off guard when a broad shadow fell across their table.

The last time he'd seen Gregory Goyle was just before those final days at Hogwarts. The Slytherins had gradually disappeared from school — Malfoy one of the first, Goyle one of the last — and then things had gotten so complicated that worrying about classmates he'd never liked was the least of his priorities.

He didn't remember Goyle being quite so smiley though.

"Draco, stop molesting my staff."

"Greg, so good of you to leave the kitchen long enough to say hello. That's sarcasm, by the way; you'd have time to know that if you stopped working so hard."

"Harry, nice to see you. Draco said you might be stopping by."

Harry blinked and then again. Goyle's shirtsleeves were rolled up underneath his pristine white apron. The snake of the Death Eater's mark was surrounded by flowering ivy, a tangle of ink turning ugly to interesting and maybe even beautiful.

"Goyle. Uh, hi."

"You see," continued Malfoy, "Greg doesn't understand the concept of work-life balance."

Harry shook his head. "So says the man with bits of wood underneath his fingernails."

"And the markets never sleep, yes, yes, I do realise that I'm preaching to the unconverted, Harry, but I believe that restaurant or no, this man should take more than one holiday a year—" He paused. "—and by that I mean a holiday, not an excuse for interior design."

"You said you liked the Moorish influences in the tilework." Goyle looked long-suffering.

Malfoy sniffed. "And so I do. And the couscous was excellent. But that's not the point."

Harry sat there and listened, hands underneath the table twitching for his wand and toying with his mobile instead. There was something so surreal about the fact that he was dining in this particular company that it almost defied thinking about. Hermione would have been proud, he thought with the tinge of regret that always accompanied those sorts of memories; she always did go on about inter-House cooperation.

"Greg, I'm hungry," Malfoy was whining.

"The bream is superb tonight," said Goyle. And if it was hard to think of Malfoy as "Draco" it was downright impossible to think of this burly restaurateur as "Greg".

"Fuck the bream," said Draco Malfoy. "Bring me my venison."

Harry managed to restrain himself until he was down to the final tender morsel of his exquisitely seared fish.

"So, when can I have it?"

Malfoy blinked, pausing in his rapt contemplation of the pomme frites. "Smooth as ever, I see."

"I thought I'd be getting it tonight." Harry could hear the petulant note in his voice and hated it, but the edginess had been building all week. Being without his wand meant that he'd missed the inside track on the Beijing deal. Being without his wand had meant that Ethan hadn't come down the four points, not even three. Hell, being without his wand had meant Harry'd had to wait for a black cab.

It was intolerable.

"I'm sorry?"

"So am I." Harry frowned across the table.

Draco flicked his hand into the air, motioning to the waiter.

Stifling his impatience, badly, Harry waited until the dishes had discreetly vanished themselves. "Malfoy, I'm not trying to be rude, but I really must have my wand. A wand. Any wand."

"Why?"

"Because—" He lowered his voice but it didn't stop people glancing over. "Because."

"Why?"

"Malfoy, I don't want to make a scene in your friend's restaurant." Harry ground out."I'm paying you for it, what difference does it make?"

"Potter, why do you need a wand so badly if you can't use it properly?"

The abrupt use of his surname, the audacity of the question, the return of bloody Malfoy shocked him into silence.

The other man leaned across the table, his grey eyes narrowed and cold, mouth sneering. "You want a wand, Potter? I can give you a wand. Anything you want, won't make a difference and it's not like you'd know any better. That stuff about the wand choosing the wizard, that's not half of it and I'd explain if I thought you'd give a damn."

Harry drew back, feeling absurdly like he'd been struck and not liking it one bit. He remembered now: he didn't like this Malfoy. He didn't like the thought that this Malfoy didn't like him.

"I just need a wand," he snapped. "I—"

Malfoy sighed, pouring large amounts of sugar into the Turkish coffee that had appeared in front of him. With the simple motion he seemed to deflate, shrink back again to a slightly rumpled man with faint circles under his eyes and touchable hair.

"Harry, you were happy to sit down and dine with me an hour ago. A bit pissy, maybe, but I'd attribute that to your natural tendency towards being a git rather than any deliberate malice. I've already told you that you're not my average customer — and trust me, it's no flattery. Listen when I tell you that a wand isn't going to solve your problem."

"I know that. And I thought I already told you that I've done the Harley Street route."

"Harry."

He wasn't going to get into this here, not in Goyle's restaurant. Not in front of everyone. But apparently he was, because it seemed that Malfoy was just as adept at getting under his skin as he had been all those years ago, whether he looked the part any longer or no.

"Do you think you're the first to hassle me about this? Do you think I haven't tried everything. Anyway, what the fuck do you care? It's no business of yours."

Malfoy regarded him over the rim of his cup. "For what it's worth, I do care. You're not the only one who takes pride in his work. And I'm sorry for—"

"Don't even think it."

"—for being an ass just now," Malfoy finished smoothly. "But it would help me greatly if you explained more completely your symptoms."

Not pity, then, thank Christ, but maybe something worse. "I should have known."

"Oh?" Malfoy's tone was stiff again, icy, a sharp contrast to the burning of Harry's own words. Harry felt something twist inside him: was he pleased that he'd effected this, that Malfoy still responded to him in this way?

"Nothing works, alright? Sometimes it does, mostly it doesn't. I can't even sit here without the dishes and the cooking and whatever the hell perfume Professor Sinistra's wearing doing my head in. Is that what you wanted to hear? If a Death Eater came after me, I'd be as helpless as a muggle."

This being Goyle's restaurant it probably wasn't the best time to admit that. For all he knew, Flint was sous-chef while Crabbe washed dishes.

Malfoy said nothing, just sat there looking smaller-than-Harry-remembered in his too-big black jacket. Then he put his coffee down with a clatter. "Harry, the days when I cursed your marmalade with impotence charms or actively plotted to kill you are long past."

"I suppose you're into healing then? Is that why you're so interested? Can you mend my damaged aura, Malfoy? The crystals — I should have known."

Malfoy's face reddened almost comically. Harry felt perverse satisfaction that he'd finally cracked that cold façade and found the heat.

"The cryst — fuck Merlin, no! I'm a scientist! Ollivander trained me!" Malfoy's wand fell from his sleeve into his hand as he jerked up from the table, rattling the sugar bowl. He spun viciously in place and:

Harry stared blankly at the space where Malfoy had been, the rippling aftershocks of the disapparation crawling up his arms and tightening the muscles of his shoulders.

Right. Well, that was probably one of the stupider things he'd done lately. There went his wand. There went Malfoy.

Goyle loomed.

"Pudding?" he suggested.

"Erm," said Harry. "Can I get the bill?"

Goyle sat down in the seat Malfoy had recently vacated. Harry stared at his tattoo. "I didn't really mean that," Harry said, meaning all of it, meaning none of it.

"Sure you did," said Goyle.

"Yeah."

"When I was twelve," Goyle told him, "my mother put me on the Kwikspell course. If it weren't for Draco, I probably would have gotten laughed out of Hogwarts."

Harry had a sudden, vivid memory of just how large Gregory Goyle had been at twelve and thought it highly unlikely. "Oh," he said lamely, painfully aware that he was only a fourteen-sickle purchase away from Kwikspell's Remedial Charms Primer himself.

"He was only trying to help," said Goyle.

"That's what they all say," muttered Harry, but his anger was fading, replacing itself with that familiar blend of frustration and self-pity. Chased by regret that he'd clearly offended Malfoy, who probably was only trying to help.

There was a painful pinging against Harry's temples and Malfoy snapped back into existence. Harry felt an almost disproportionate amount of relief. Malfoy began throwing stack after stack of parchment down onto the table.

"Prophet, Sunday the 18th. My column debunking the myths about muggle wi-fi affecting wizarding health. Prophet, three weeks ago. That bollocks about yarrow influencing the magical potency of a fetus. Dangerous and irresponsible, and can you believe it, the mediwizards they've quoted from St Mungo's weren't even consulted before The Quibbler went to print—"

For the first and hopefully only time in his life, Harry looked to Goyle for an explanation.

"Draco writes the Bad Magic column," Goyle said.

And clearly that was supposed to mean something?

Malfoy ignored them, saying eagerly, "You went to see Clytemenestra Kingsfoil, I'm sure. She's since been banned from practicing in Britain. Who else?"

Letting his fingers riffle through the pages of the nearest newspaper, Harry said, reluctantly, "The prominent Healers. Ones with discretion. But when there were no results, I stopped. I couldn't exactly trust that my problem would stay secret and back then, well, I didn't want to put my friends in danger. If it got known that I couldn't—" He stopped, started: "And I don't mind, most of the time."

"Hmmm. By no results you mean no immediate results, I assume." Harry looked for the insult, but Malfoy appeared more thoughtful than disparaging. "I need to think about this."

"I thought you'd been thinking about it all week."

Malfoy's swift little smile was as engaging as it was unexpected. "No immediate results doesn't mean no results."

Goyle's big hand came down on Harry's shoulder briefly before he disappeared back into the kitchen. Harry watched him go, bemused, then turned back to Malfoy.

"I want a wand." Harry stared at him until Malfoy's pale brows rose in acknowledgement. He needed to make it very clear.

"Why?"

"Why do you care?"

"Why do you want a wand so badly?"

"Because I'm a wizard, for fuck's sake!"

There was that smile again. "In that case, I'll expect to see you in my workshop for further tests," said Malfoy, and Harry was left discomfited, watching that smile and wondering just whose point had been made, after all.

It was long past midnight.

The moonlight on the Thames was weak and grey, filtered to negligibility by the promise of next morning's rain. Harry stood at his bedroom window, watching the buoys bob and definitely not thinking about Draco Malfoy.

The annual report of a Korean shipping company lay unopened on the slate bedclothes. He turned his mobile phone over and over again in his hand, considering. He sat on the bed and picked up the report.

Fuck it. Tossing the Koreans aside, he dialed the number. A few moments later, the phone rang.

"Harry."

He lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. "Everything started to go wrong and then it kept on not working. I was never very good at any of the subtleties, you know. It was always so easy. I guess that's because everything else was so hard. I'd just want it, and it would happen. Just before I kil — yeah. It was so strong." He swallowed. "I never had to think about it, about the magic. It was just."

"Part of you."

"Yeah. Part of me."

He'd never mourned it properly, until this very moment, and it hurt.

"The Healers, the worst ones were the ones that tried to make it into my fault, something in my mind. One of them, this asshole, said I was repressing, said I was feeling guilt over what happened." Drawing an unsteady breath, he continued, "Another one said I was afraid. That I'd seen what my magic could do, what I was capable of, and this was a natural defense mechanism, my body's way of telling me no."

Harry waited, but there was no response. Hesitantly, he said — and the words took a while to come because he'd never said them aloud before — "I wondered if it's because I died."

There was a small sound on the other end of the line. After a moment, Malfoy replied, "The weight of anecdote is not data. If we're going to look at possible causation, we might as well throw in the fact that you grew up in a dismal muggle cupboard or the fact that I never once saw you eat a green vegetable during six years at school."

"Thanks, Malfoy. That actually helps."

"Think nothing of it," Malfoy said briskly. "All part of the twenty-four hour service, apparently. You know, Harry, some of us do have business hours."

Harry laughed, when just seconds before he wouldn't have thought it possible. "I'm sorry about tonight," he said.

"Yes, well, the cupboard is responsible for your appalling manners, that's indisputable."

Maybe it was because he'd already said so much. But he couldn't stop himself, couldn't stop his next words from tumbling out. "What sort of men do you like, Malfoy?"

He could feel that old Malfoy smirk.

"I like the ones who make me laugh." Then Malfoy was gone, the echo of his own laughter trailing down the line, brighter than the moon outside.

CHAPTER SIX

Open now for a good chunk of the year, St Pancras International had lost its shiny new sparkle but still maintained that certain gloss that only high-vaulted neo-Victorian retrofits funded by multiple levels of government and rabidly active local business associations could successfully pull off.

At quarter past seven in the morning, the longest champagne bar in Europe didn't tempt, though Seb was an ardent supporter of the platform champers shag. In his honour, Harry did a reflexive trawl of the morning café crowd as he passed through on his way to the down escalators. Christ, but it was easy to spot the visitors from the continent mixed in with the ill-dressed commuters. He shook his head – partly in astonishment, partly to drive away the Portuguese man trying hard to hand him a free paper. He would never understand the appeal of British high street apparel, Kate Moss included, not in all of his magically-extended lifetime.

Harry had tried to time it right, but unfortunately he was a bit early up to the platform. This meant that he was subjected to a good five minutes of waiting before he was allowed to board the train.

Waiting ... right by the wizarding travellers' lounge, which was hidden between the third arch and a rank of luggage trolleys. Not quite so bad as a stroll through the City, but far from comfortable. One imagined the comforts of the lounge itself were manifold given how the dissonance was making his teeth ache, but Harry was damned if he was going to attempt a walk through the solid wall to see for himself.

Julie, bless her, had booked him Business Premier. So it was with a sigh of distinct pleasure that he eventually settled in, soothed his ruffled nerves and took advantage of the unlimited express breakfast.

Somewhere under the Channel he started to think about Draco Malfoy, so he took that as a cue to pull out the executive summaries that would, Suresh promised, make clear to him how a protein from a Cameroonian bug would cure Alzheimers and stop Harry forgetting what day to pick up his drycleaning.

It wasn't that Harry wasn't interested in the details: he quite liked reading the New Scientist on occasion, but the average chemist's enthusiasm for a groundbreaking discovery meant they omitted vital details like how long R&D was going to take and just how much capital investment they expected for test tubes. Thankfully, the literature wasn't too dense, and by the time the train pulled in Harry was quietly convinced they were on to a good prospect.

Gare du Nord bustled as he pushed his way through the commuters (as opposed to the ill-dressed visitors from the island) and made his way out into the sunshine. The offices of Cortech were situated in Paris's biotech hotspot, just down the rue from the Institut Pasteur, so he flagged a cab and went over his notes en route.

He presented himself at the desk. "Harry Potter. Ici pour Jerome Roubichaud."

"Attendez."

Harry had met Jerome before, at a biotech conference in Alsace where Harry had blagged his way through free champagne and the pain of listening to absolute gobbledygook for three days. But it had netted him a lot of useful contacts — the French were big into biotech, third in Europe, and like any good Brit Harry was always happy to stick one to the Germans by scooping the next big thing before they did.

Jerome had a lot to offer Harry. Even if he didn't know it yet.

"Harry!"

Perfect English inflection, perfect Gallic complexion, bloody fantastic ass. Yes, Harry thought, grinning in welcome and warmly clasping the other man's shoulder: Jerome did have a lot to offer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"He'll tell you to make an appointment and clear off," Poppy told him frankly.

"No, really." Harry hooked his forefinger in the knot of his tie and pulled it loose. "He told me I could drop in anytime I was passing." It was vaguely true, if taken out of its original context.

Convivial didn't seem to work on Poppy tonight; given how many PAs he'd been through before Julie, Harry couldn't help but wonder what Malfoy had done to inspire such loyalty.

He blinked at the finger jabbing directly between his eyes. "Your idea. Your responsibility. If he comes out throwing things, I will clear the path for them to hit you."

Laying aside the accounts ledger she had been working on — the painstaking hand-drawn columns made Harry's mind reel from inefficiency — she jumped off her stool to head out the back, where presumably Ollivander's had some sort of consulting room.

Most likely Malfoy would have a fit if his precious schedule was interrupted, but during his walk home Harry had reasoned that someone whose workshop was such a terrifying mess couldn't be all that upset at a little bit of impromptu overtime. Hence the Diagon diversion. It was only seven, still light outside and warm; plenty enough time to pick out whatever bits and pieces Malfoy wanted to put into his designer wand, and maybe they could make it to the pub afterwards. A pub on Charing Cross, thanks very much.

"What the bloody hell is so—" Harry heard Malfoy's grumbles precede him down the hallway; Poppy slid back onto her stool with an I told you so expression of amusement.

"Potter. What do you want? Do you realise — of course you realise, you just don't give a rat's arse, do you — I have a customer. I'm trying to concentrate. Why are you bothering me?"

Harry had expected Malfoy to be a bit irked. Counted on it, really: he'd quite liked the twitchy ranting Malfoy fell into when he thought someone was being an idiot. He hadn't really expected him to go off one quite this much though.

"I have seen you use a telephone, so ignorance of that particular mode of communication can't be your excuse."

When in doubt, blame the post. "Hello," Harry said blandly, "I'm sure I sent Hedwig with a note." Malfoy's raised eyebrows conveyed that an owl-based excuse absolutely wasn't going to cut it, but Harry forged on: "Don't know what must have happened to her."

A small skeptical harrumph from Poppy put an end to any thoughts Harry had begun to entertain about offering unbilled advice on book-keeping. No subversion of the company structure by engaging the workforce, it seemed.

Malfoy was regarding him. "You need my expert consultation right now, I suppose?"

Before Harry could get his tongue around a reply, a lanky teenage girl in the new Falcons kit appeared from the corridor.

"Mr Malfoy? Can I put these down now? The red one's starting to make my hand go numb." Harry couldn't see what she was holding, but her palms were open in front of her. Malfoy held his hand up for pause at Harry and turned to retrieve the items, his tone much less aggrieved.

"The red one, you said?" A notebook flew into Malfoy's hand as he rummaged in his coat pocket for a pencil with the other. His agility gave Harry a flash of adolescent competitiveness — I can do that too — but it didn't linger.

Malfoy scribbled quickly and then shoved everything back into his pockets. "I'm so sorry we've been interrupted. Mr Potter would also apologise but he's an actuary so he has no manners."

The girl glanced over enthusiastically at Harry's name and Harry recognised her as Angelina Johnson's younger sister. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a frilly yellow dress and throwing petals from a basket at George's wedding.

Harry sighed. "I'm a banker."

Malfoy waved his hand dismissively; Harry ignored the little payback smile that followed.

"Hallo, Naomi," Harry held out his hand — a bit of a City reflex, but Naomi had the same upfront poise that her sister possessed and she managed to shake hands and flick her ponytail back at the same time.

"I hope you'll have your name on that shirt next season." Harry nodded at the Falcon's strip. According to any Weasley you asked, Naomi was a dead cert for a first division career.

"I've got a summer spot on the juniors."

"That's brilliant," Harry said.

"And your old trophy," Naomi went on, "actually, I got a bigger one because I broke your record for time."

Harry appreciated a frank display of ego in a young woman. "For whistle-to-Snitch?"

"By six minutes, 22 seconds.

"You've ruined my day," Harry said, impressed. "My week. Year."

Naomi flushed a little. "So my mum said I could have a new wand, like. That why you're here, then?"

Malfoy, leaning against the counter, folded his arms loosely across his work coat and cocked his head to the side, expression sliding into interest. He coughed. Meaningfully.

"Yeah," Harry said hurriedly, quite aware Poppy was observing the scene as if it were David Attenborough's take on conflict resolution in the urban male. "Look, love, about that." He beckoned Naomi to come closer.

Out of Malfoy's line of sight, he reached into his pocket. He'd meant to stop by the optician for his new glasses on the way to Diagon Alley, so he had about three hundred quid in his wallet.

"You're pretty quick on the uptake if you beat my record," Harry winked. "It's just, well, I got my appointment time wrong and I'm pretty busy."

"Ha, right," said Naomi. "Course."

To his credit, Malfoy was following along. "Don't be so vulgar, Mr Potter. You're offending my customers."

"Uh," Naomi shook her head vigorously, "No he's not." She grabbed the notes and shoved them in her pocket, and Harry let out a breath of relief that she'd been a good sport. "Really not. I'll just come back tomorrow then, alright?"

Malfoy sighed, glaring at Harry. "No. Same time next Monday."

Harry supposed a better man might feel more contrite about paying off Malfoy's customers to suit his own ends, but a better man would probably be managing the produce aisle at Tesco and queuing up for the bus every morning.

"I'm off after this," Poppy gestured at the ledger on the counter. "Do you need anything?"

"No no," Malfoy said absently, still looking at Harry, and Harry realised that those disconcerting grey eyes had been on him almost unwaveringly since he'd appeared. "Just lock up behind you, ta."

Leaving Poppy casting a nasty-sounding alarm spell, Harry followed Malfoy down the hallway. He wondered if Malfoy would mention the late-night phone call; there was a strange current of familiarity in his demeanour that Harry could only attribute to the midnight disclosures about his problem.

Malfoy stopped in front of a door; Harry peered past him to see a couple of comfortable chairs, their fabric patterned in diamonds by shafts of evening sun through the leaded windows. The room reminded Harry of some of the nicer LSB offices: heavy oak, airy light, intermittent piles of paper. The table was nothing like LSB, though: it was strewn with bits of wood and crystal.

"Hmm," said Malfoy. "I think downstairs might be more suited to our purpose." He took out his wand and the clutter on the table began to organise itself into a series of wooden trays, stacking up neatly to be buckled by a leather strap.

"Do I not get your fancy consulting chambers?" Harry asked, leaning on the doorframe as Malfoy shifted the trays up onto a tastefully arranged bookshelf.

Malfoy looked around him as if he'd never considered the room might be appealing. "By all means, if you wish. I just anticipate you'll be a difficult case whose wand requires obscure elements, and these kits," he tapped the top tray, "only cover so much."

"You're the expert," Harry said.

"Also I'm lazy, and I don't fancy hiking the stairs from the workshop much more today. And I'm dying for a cup of tea."

"Six and a half minutes, eh? That's got to sting." Malfoy had his head tipped back, guzzling Earl Grey, and Harry was watching him swallow.

No he wasn't.

"I've moved on," Harry said drily, Ron's voice at the back of his head. "Besides, I'll bet you fifty Galleons it was only a Plumpton Pass."

Unaccountably, Malfoy's tiny smile seemed dazzling. Harry glanced away, down at the dented wooden surface of the workbench he was sat at. His untouched teacup jittered slightly in the saucer, and Harry stopped it with his fingertip. Anxiety was always the hardest thing to hide.

"Oh — oops, don't drink too much of that. Sorry, wait a second—" There was a scrape of metal on wood as Malfoy summoned a small stool across the floor. He hefted a large glass bottle down from one of the high shelves and poured out a measure into a goblet.

"—you should have this." Malfoy jammed the cork back in with the heel of his palm and gave the goblet to Harry.

"What's in here?" Harry sniffed nervously at the liquid. It was a potion, moving almost imperceptibly of its own accord; the consistency of cream, but the colour of a quality Dutch beer.

"Nothing that will harm you. I'm not going to try and poison my customers, obviously." Malfoy frowned slightly, as if he were more confused than affronted by Harry's question, and dunked his finger in the potion, sucking it off with a pop.

"See?"

Yes, I see, Harry thought. Either Malfoy actually was a single-minded geek about this wandmaking business, or he was an irritatingly laidback kind of flirt.

"It smells chalky." Harry swirled the goblet around and watched the liquid cling to the sides, dropping back down. "Like earth." He took a cautious sip, watching Malfoy across the table from over the top of the goblet. Surprisingly, the liquid didn't taste chalky; it tasted like resin, like salty sap, but with some kind of effervescence that kept it from sticking and glugging in his throat.

"All of it," Malfoy gestured, and Harry drained back the last, tipping the goblet up into his mouth. The odd taste remained, and Harry gulped down the glass of water that Malfoy slid over to him.

"It's to aid concentration. It'll just stop you thinking about whether you've got clean socks to wear tomorrow, or, I don't know, the fluctuating yen. Whatever's on your mind that won't help me."

"Just so you know," Harry said, "if you are poisoning me, I have friends in low places."

"Oh how fascinating," Malfoy blinked at him. "Did you know that Terry Parkinson is my godfather?"

It was hard for a City banker not to skirt the edges of the Clerkenwell syndicate, geographically if not professionally. Harry had managed to stay off the Parkinson radar since he'd made the connection that Pansy's father and the less-than-mainstream financier were the same bloke. Shell companies were one thing: money-laundering from a man who could cast Imperius was another.

"There's a businessman who's maximised his crossover potential," Harry said casually.

Malfoy laughed.

The sun had begin to set as they talked, the sky peachy through the glass doors at the far end of the workshop. Harry watched as Malfoy brandished his wand around, adroit and precise, murmuring spells as he went. The goblet flew off to some far corner; a new set of trays appeared on the work surface in front of them; lights flickered on under the bench, revealing a light-panel beneath Malfoy's omnipresent pile-of-papers. Sitting down opposite him with a thud, Malfoy rucked his hair back and clasped his hands behind his head.

"So how much of this do you want explained as we go along? I don't imagine they taught you much science in your accounting course."

After his two days at Cortech Harry felt like a latent bio-boffin. He definitely had an excellent grasp on the RNA transcription processes involved in neurogenesis. At least ... he remembered the buzzwords. Technical vocabulary always stuck in his head, because after seven years at Hogwarts, clearly his brain translated all weird bits of jargon into spell incan'tations.

It would probably all go over his head — but he did think it would be fun to watch Malfoy in nerd-mode.

Harry tugged authoritatively at his cuffs. "Just keep talking until my eyes glaze over."

"Very well." Malfoy picked up his quill and tapped an imaginary point in the air.

"We know pretty much nothing about magic. Scientifically, that is. Biochemically, we're at about the same level as Aristotle was as regards physiological mechanisms—"

"Okay, okay, eyes glazing already." Harry held up his hands. "Think Sunday Times supplement level of detail."

Malfoy looked only mildly put out. "Lightweight."

"I spent last week in Paris listening to Alsatians rattle on about cyberbotanica and bioinformatics. And you don't have the sexy accent to make it worth my while."

"Says the Surrey boy," Malfoy coughed.

"You still see most of your old friends?" All of a sudden, it seemed very important to Harry that he know all about Malfoy's life outside Ollivander's. "Goy-Greg, Pansy ... I guess that was Theodore Nott?"

Malfoy put down his quill and started to unstack the pile of trays. "You sound surprised. Why wouldn't I still see my friends?" He glanced up at Harry, bemused. "That Sorting business was about relationships just as much as personality, you know."

"So are you seeing anyone?"

When Malfoy frowned, one side of his face squinched up entirely, rearranging his even features into lopsidedness. Then the frown morphed back into the maddening little grin of amusement that Harry was beginning to think of as Draco's natural state.

"Not so as you'd notice," Malfoy said.

"How carefully do I have to look?" Harry shot back before he could stop himself.

"Oh dear," Malfoy shook his head, "I think you've metabolised my potion far too quickly."

The efficient way that "metabolised" rolled off Malfoy's tongue was terribly appealing to Harry. So was the skew of Malfoy's collar, pulled aside by the weight of his work coat, revealing skin. Harry leaned forward slightly.

"No no no, Harry. It's not me that I need you to concentrate on—"

There was a slight whistling through the air as Malfoy brought his hands together; the crack was sharp, cutting through the singular tug that kept him riveted on Malfoy. All of a sudden it broke: the dazzling aura surrounding Malfoy diminished, and Harry darted out his hand from reflex.

"—focus on your magic. That's better," said Malfoy.

Caught between Harry's fingers, a snitch vibrated. Its wings were a beautiful flutter of silvery motion, the surface textured and warm and alive. Harry breathed out slowly, realising with relief that the snitch wasn't hurting him, wasn't causing that queasy discomfort like most magical objects.

"Mmm," murmured Harry, cupping the snitch between both hands, letting it batter against his palms. The buzz was wonderfully familiar, an old friend he'd missed for years. It wasn't just the snitch; as well, the prickle of awareness at the base of his skull was newly resurgent, slotting his senses back into a world where they had more than five capabilities. He eyed up Malfoy's wand, sitting on the bench at arms reach, wondering what he might achieve.

"I like this potion," Harry said, stroking his thumb along the spine of the snitch's wing. "It helps."

"So do I," Malfoy said ruefully. "Sadly, the body builds up a tolerance. I'm sure it'd be classed as restricted if I bothered to register it properly."

"You should patent it." Harry opened his palm as the snitch folded its wings into itself and began to respire sleepily. Carefully, he put it in his pocket.

"Ever-vigilant for a business opportunity, aren't you?" Malfoy tutted. "You ready?"

Harry nodded. He felt unusually — pleasantly — calm. He'd never been overly enthusiastic about the mumbo jumbo yoga classes Ahmad occasionally conned him into, but it was the closest he'd come of late to his present sensation of ... connectedness.

"What do I do?"

"Tell me what you like," Malfoy gestured to the trays. He opened a drawer to his side and took out a strange contraption that looked like the innards of a pair of binoculars perched on a brass stand. "Or what you don't like, if that's easiest."

Divided into dozens of square compartments, the trays were full of different types of wood; strange scales, sinews and feathers, bits of dried plants; the last tray held rough crystals and rocks of different colours and translucency.

"Wood first." Malfoy placed a tray in front of Harry. Most of the compartments were completely inert to Harry's touch as he dithered over the slivers of wood and bark, their contents grey and insipid.

It wasn't too bad, though. Harry took his time, enjoying how little effort it took to sense the background thrum of magic. "These are the only two I like." He picked out the pieces, one a milky colour, the other dappled and knotty, and dropped them into Malfoy's outstretched palm.

Two more trays of wand-wood and only one other sample appealed, a golden piece with a straight grain. Malfoy made small noises to himself as he wrote notes, peering through his magnifying contraption alternately at Harry and the samples.

"What are they?" Harry couldn't make out Malfoy's handwriting upside-down.

"Cedar," Malfoy held up the dappled stick, "everyone likes the smell. This is rowan, and that's holly, which is probably just force of habit."

"I liked my old wand," Harry said. "Can I not have holly again?"

"The rowan will be more effective." Malfoy sat up. "It might take you a little longer to get used to, but what suits you as a teenager isn't necessarily going to work for you as an adult."

Harry felt a little sidelined. That wand had (not to understate matters) done plenty for him as an adult. "How do you know that?"

"Because it's my job." Malfoy turned the binocular-thingy around so the main lens was facing Harry. "Your old wand worked so well for you because of its history, Harry. Not through being perfectly suited — except for the phoenix feather, that was a bit of genius on the old man's part — but because you, in a manner of speaking, made it your bitch."

Malfoy smiled. "And now I'm going to make you an even better wand. Here, pay attention for two minutes while I explain." He held up the piece of holly took and took another from the tray. "At a very basic level, magic interacts with your body as a waveform, like light. Look through the big lens, just at the outline of my left hand."

Through the glass, Harry focused on the edge of Malfoy's fingers. The lens magnified everything, showing the nibbled tips of Malfoy's fingernails and smudges of ink over callouses. His hands were outlined with an untidy vibration, like the air molecules were brawling with magic.

"Wow," Harry said, pulling back to look at Malfoy's contraption, "this is brilliant. You normally only see magic—"

" —when it's about to kill you, yes." Malfoy looked terribly smug, but Harry didn't blame him. "Look again, right hand this time."

Harry swivelled the lens and peered at Malfoy's other hand. The magic around the piece of wood seemed much more orderly. Concentrating, Harry could even make out a regularity in the way the air was vibrating, a steady sort of oscillation that seemed to perfectly suit Malfoy's low-key persona. "So that's presumably your wand-wood?"

"Apple," Malfoy nodded. "I'm not fond of holly, so it's a more extreme difference than I was seeing on you, but I wanted to make the point that there's a systematic basis to all of this. Ollivander knew it but he didn't bother with it after a while. But then he was pushing two hundred."

Malfoy put the pieces of wood back in their trays and set them aside, turning the rowan around in his fingers. "I have some lovely heartwood that'll do nicely," he said absently, and then snapped his head up. "Right, so. To make a long story short, wands are a conduit for magic. You get a boost from anything that interacts positively with the natural frequencies you happen to buzz at. But wood and core are just the norms of the European craft, a lot of East Asian wands are ceramic, for instance."

Harry had heard a lot of passionate pitches in his career, yet Malfoy's fondness for his vocation wasn't overwhelming, just quiet and genuine. "What about the gemstones?" he asked. "That's new?"

"My own little harmonic amplification," Malfoy said, "useful and sparkly."

The core was done and dusted in a moment; Harry had poured over the trays despondently while Malfoy had rummaged through a back cupboard.

"Don't even bother," Malfoy called, "I know I have one here somewhere." He returned to the workbench with even more dust smudges on his white coat, clutching a handsome crimson feather in a piece of cloth.

"Phoenix?" Harry took the feather; almost immediately, it suffused him with the happiness of cloudless skies and a warm fireplace, and he laughed. "That would be a yes."

"That was Ollivander's real gift," Malfoy wrapped the feather up in the cloth again; careful, Harry noticed, not to touch it. "He had a knack for choosing the right kind of core. Probably helped that he travelled so much, saw so many things. There are cupboards and boxes in this place I still haven't sorted through."

"Do you? Travel much, I mean?"

"Poppy does most of it," Malfoy said. "I hate portkeys, long-distance Floo is still too experimental, and aeroplanes make me nauseous for days. If there's a train or a boat I'm alright."

Harry made a face. "Urgh, I hate boats. I had to take the ferry to Rotterdam once and my colleagues all thought I was drunk."

"Ah, the unpredictable joys of a magical constitution," Malfoy grumbled, rearranging trays again. "I wrote about it a few months back. One of the apothecaries off Knockturn was trying to get rich importing muggle gingko extract and claiming it stopped any sort of motion sickness. Obviously it doesn't, it just makes the person remember in detail how they threw up all the way to Majorca."

Harry eyed Malfoy. "That sounds like personal experience."

"Moving on to the gemstones," Malfoy yawned. "Sorry, I've been doing this since seven this morning and I'm knackered."

Harry tried not to sound disappointed. "I was going to suggest a quick drink afterwards. It's a nice night."

Malfoy paused as he adjusted the lens stand. "Perhaps not," he lifted his head up to smile, a little bleary now that Harry looked closer. "But I will most certainly say yes the next time you offer."

"Noted." Harry took in the array of crystals in front of him. "Choosing?"

Malfoy nodded, yawning again and summoning his teacup.

No-one in Harry's circle had any acquaintance with gemstones other than the panicked office consultations about engagement rings. The furthest Harry got in identifying the stones was guessing that the dark green ones were emerald and the nice blue ones were sapphires. Quite a few held some sort of resonance, though none gave him the thrill of the wood or the feather.

"They all feel ... vaguely useful," Harry picked up an intriguing column-shaped crystal, sea-green on the outside with a pink and white centre, a sort of Brighton Rock. "What's this?"

Malfoy glanced over. "Tourmaline. It's called a watermelon slice, with those colours. Poppy has it in her wand, actually."

Flamboyant enough to suit her, Harry thought. "Where'd you find her?" he asked, curious.

"Not so much found as acquired," Malfoy told him with a wry grin. "Her father's a proper Welsh nutter, a kind of nature journo for the WWN. Very ... enthusiastic. Poppy came in one day about two years ago with a fantastic collection of dragon scales and after I found out she knew where to get Diricawl feathers, well. If I'm not careful she'll be a full partner before I know it."

The warmth of recollection still in his eyes, Malfoy suggested, "Hold the rowan while you're choosing. It'll give you some contrast."

Malfoy was right; as soon as Harry closed his hand around the smooth piece of wood, the gemstones took on different grades of intensity. He chose two that felt better, brighter than the others, and set them aside. "These two are okay. Next tray?"

Malfoy made his scrunched-up face again. "I knew you'd be difficult. No, there are no other samples. Just my own collection." He sighed, put down his tea, and picked up the two stones Harry had chosen.

"Iolite." Malfoy looked interested. "This isn't that popular. It's strange, it works with two different types of magic. Has this property called pleochroism—"

"I thought it was a sapphire," Harry interrupted. The potion was beginning to wear off; he could feel his attention slipping.

"Used to be called a water sapphire," Malfoy mused, getting up. "And zircon. Hmmm. Might work, but it's far too brittle for you. I only ever put it in wands for old ladies who just use their wands on special occasions."

Harry briefly flashed back to the be-hatted customer from his first visit, and thought about how such a garishly twinkling gem would suit her.

"Right." Malfoy placed a large shallow case on the table, snapping open the clasps on the sides to open it out. Inside, dozens of clear boxes contained dazzling gems - proper cut stones, the type Harry saw in Theo Fennell's window at the Exchange. Each box had a small hand-written note card bearing the gem's name and what Harry thought must be the carat weight.

It was a beautiful collection, and Malfoy looked pleased when Harry said so.

"How long have you been a rock nerd?" Harry teased.

"Since my mother hired goblins to quarry out a lake just before I went to Hogwarts. It annoyed my parents if I got grubby and talked to the diggers, so of course I did. They're completely bonkers, those creatures, but they know their precious stones."

Harry picked up his piece of rowan and started to examine the gemstones. Some of them were huge and seemed to be of interest because of the flaws in the crystal. One piece of quartz had a starburst of gold threads inside it ("Rutilated quartz," Malfoy explained) and another cloudy flat stone looked like a miniature landscape of green moss.

"I like — oh. Fuck." Harry backtracked over the piece he was reaching for, feeling the strangest shiver spread up his forearm and across his shoulders, a liquid flush that made him shudder. Malfoy glanced at him sharply and flicked his gaze down to the stones.

"Which was it?"

"Wait—" Harry started to pick them up one by one, knowing as soon as he touched the right box. He plucked the lid off and took the stone from its cushion, cradling it in his palm. It was a deep green sparking with hints of other colours, cut in an oval about the size of his little fingernail.

"Alexandrite," he read from the card, "Urals, Russia." Harry closed his eyes briefly. "Never heard of it, but it's the one for me."

"So I can see," Malfoy said softly. "Tell me what it feels like?"

"Warm. Shivery. Powerful, like magic is buzzing in the tips of my fingers." Harry reached over and tapped them against Malfoy's forearm, aware that he was breathing rather fast.

"Ow, static." Malfoy flinched. He watched Harry through the lens for a moment, shaking his head slightly. "Good god, it's definitely the one for you."

Malfoy cast a daylight version of Lumos with his wand. "Let me show you something." He levitated the stone in the air between them, suspended in the light at the tip of his wand. The colour was fascinating; the greenest of greens, yet Harry kept seeing gold and red flashes from the facets.

"Now watch. Nox, Lumos," said Malfoy, gesturing upwards to turn on the artificial lights over the workbench. The alexandrite was now a blood colour, just as intensely red as it had been green, and giving off the same multicolour flashes.

"That's not magic?" Harry blinked, catching the stone as Malfoy dropped it back into his palm.

"Nope," said Malfoy. "Just an accident of geochemistry. They're absolutely beautiful, but extremely rare."

"Damn," Harry frowned.

"And horrendously expensive. That one is probably worth your secretary's salary."

Harry pressed a finger against his stone, loath to stop the heavy warmth. "So what does that mean?"

Gently, Malfoy took the alexandrite from him and placed it back in the box. "It means we go to the gem fair next week," he grinned. "And you get to bring your chequebook."

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE~ PART FOUR

[hp] currency 1

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 16:51:23 GMT

Currency

By Blythe & Circe

Harry wasn't at school any more, nor was he fifteen.
He was a successful merchant banker with a flat to die for and an owl who loved him.
He wasn't going to get into a pissing match with a stick-fiddler who'd always driven him mad.

Note: This story was conceived and begun before Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows were published.
Certain details deviate from that canon while others borrow from it.
GENERAL DISCLAIMER

CHAPTER ONE

Harry just had a feeling that biotechnology was the way to go.

"Absolutely fucking brilliant," he said, gesturing emphatically to his empty office. Suresh was in Delhi, sitting outside his hotel room on the balcony, and Harry could hear the honking clamour of the street over the telephone. Either that or it was a very bad line, but LSB paid a small fortune for decent satellite connections. Harry liked to think he was getting some South Asian atmosphere in his working day.

"And you're back when — next month, yeah?"

Suresh's Brummie drawl sounded again in his ear.

"Great," said Harry. "I'll give you a call in a few weeks to make sure it's going through and when you're back we'll have a paperwork party and blitz the details." He laughed. "Yeah, fair enough, I'll get Julie to block out the day and we'll cap it off with a dozen well-deserved beers."

The job was a venture capital sideline; not the firm's usual bread-and-butter, but they let Harry dabble in new investments as he wished because of his perfect track record. He'd never missed an opportunity or made a bad deal — his clients always came in under their asking price, his contacts were always generous with Exchange gossip, and Harry seemed to have a knack for knowing the market mood six months in advance. His colleagues had taken to calling him the Wiz, but sometimes the irony made Harry wince.

Harry twirled his wand between his fingers. The wand was a great conversation piece with new clients, and Harry wasn't going to disillusion them that his little idiosyncrasy actually clinched a significant number of his business arrangements. Tricks of the trade, after all.

"Suresh, pass on my regards — it's namaste, isn't it? — to our new colleagues. Yeah, you too. Cheers."

Harry rang off. His wand rolled off the desk when he swivelled around, trying to extract the phone headset from his collar, but he barely noticed; he was already tapping out numbers into a fresh spreadsheet, engrossed in the possibilities for the new investment.

The company Suresh was negotiating with was well-established in delivering industrial applications for enzymes, but they'd bought a patent from an organic chemistry student at Imperial and were launching what they termed "adaptive body solutions". A lot of it was speculative, but Harry was interested in anything that could be possibly be marketed as a smart drug. Just the words doubled the asking price when a company went public. Not that Harry knew anything about that kind of stuff — the last time he'd heard about enzymes it had been on a commercial for clothes detergent, and if they'd been mentioned in Potions, he'd most likely had his mind elsewhere.

They would have been cheap at twice the price, given the research location in Delhi, but Harry had convinced the investment director at Clinique — cosmetics companies were always on the lookout for new science — to chip in with capital in return for first options. He'd only resorted to a slight Intensification Charm, so he felt quite inclined to grant himself full credit for scoring that particular success.

Pleased with a few basic projections, Harry leaned back in his chair and swung around to gaze out the windows. The Gresham Street offices were his favourite. They were small and old-fashioned compared to the swank minimalism of the Leadenhall premises, but there his window looked out on the Gherkin, all glass and steel. Here at least his view skimmed the tops of the Georgian and Victorian buildings that had survived the Blitz, rising to the magnificent gothic façade of the Guildhall beyond.

Harry supposed the architectural resemblance to Hogwarts gave him some feeling of familiarity and comfort, but most days Hogwarts seemed a very long time ago, far away. Pigeons made a sporadic attempt to flock along the window ledges, but Hedwig hated them, and even though she was getting older, she still terrorised any sky rats that hadn't been scared off her territory.

It was beginning to get dark out there, finally. It was early August and even though half the office was on hols, Harry found himself working late regularly, continually tricked by the long days. Leaving on the high note of a new investment sounded like a good plan, and there were a few cold beers in the fridge at home that would do nicely out on the terrace. He spun back around and—

Fuck.

The crack his wand made as the heavy chair wheeled over it and snapped it was as ominous as it was impressive. His wand, already invisibly patched up in places, lay sadly on the floor in three splintery pieces. Harry could have sworn there was a silvery haze around the bits, like a Christmas cracker that was overloaded with explosive powder.

Gingerly, he picked up the shards and laid them out on the front page of the Financial Times. "Fuckity fuck," he muttered, trying hard not to give into the cold sweat that threatened. His magic wasn't wholly predictable, granted, but it was pretty much buggered now unless he could get this fixed.

Which meant going to Diagon Alley, which was just below skinny-dipping with piranhas on Harry's to-do list.

"Argh." Harry put his head in his hands and sighed, trying to think, trying not to think. He stared blankly at the bookshelves until Benjamin, a junior financier, tapped lightly on Harry's door.

"Got some mail of yours, Harry," Ben said. "Again. I think someone at reception is dyslexic."

Harry took the envelopes. "It's the B and the H, yeah?" Benjamin's last name was also Potter, but Ben was from Newcastle, and absolutely no relation that they knew of. "Ta."

Ben wished him a good night and left, and Harry turned over the envelopes in his hands, smiling. It was gratifying when a solution presented itself, he thought, even if he was a bit thick for not having remembered the whole concept of owl post.

Halfway through typing his letter, Harry paused. What exactly was the etiquette here? He'd never really been well-acquainted with Ollivander, so to speak; aside from the few, necessary visits to the shop, and the visit the old man made at the beginning of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Harry couldn't recall seeing him more than two or three times. Back at school, Harry had asked Dumbledore whose side Ollivander was on.

Dumbledore, inscrutable as ever, had shaken his head. "Difficult position for a person to be in, Harry."

"So," Harry had persisted, "you think he's alright, then? He's just keeping customers?"

"Ollivander has friends and relatives in many walks of life," Dumbledore had said. "And I do not think he would declare allegiance to any one person. Besides, he is very old. He was a friend of Mr Flamel's, who you will remember. I doubt he sees our present conflict as anything more than a passing trouble."

Now, remembering, Harry paused and deleted what he'd written. The least he could do was write the note the old-fashioned — wizarding — way.

The stationary cupboard was locked, and Harry had to hunt through the ring of keys on Julie's desk to get it open. Experimentally, he tried using a pen as a wand, but even Alohomora wouldn't work for him.

Just another reason why he saved doing magic — if he could — for when he had to.

"Wow," Harry blinked, confronted with all the bound notebooks, heavy-duty watermarked paper, two-tone financial ledgers and embossed pens in the cupboard. No wonder this was kept locked away from the rabble. Next time he got given some flimsy spiral-bound jotter from the Viking catalogue it was going straight into the bin.

Back at his desk, Harry found his Mont-Blanc (a golden hello gift from LSB) and tested it out on a scrap of the heavy paper he'd pilfered.

Ollivander's
Diagon Alley
London ML1
6 August 2008

Dear Mr Ollivander,

As evidenced by the enclosed, I require your assessment of my wand for repair. The wand met with a simple physical accident; no magic was involved in its breakage. Is repair possible?

I would be most grateful if we could conduct communications via owl-post, as business matters detain me from visiting you personally. In addition, I require my wand as soon as is possible, and will recompense you accordingly for a speedy repair.

Wishing you good health and the continued success of your ventures,

Yours sincerely,

Harry Potter

Lees, Sattersthwaite, Brassey & Co
Blackwell House

Guildhall Yard
London
EC2V 5AE

Harry wrapped up the letter and the pieces of the wand in the Financial Times. He stuck the ends down with sticky tape, but when it came to attaching the packet to Hedwig's leg, she hooted indignantly and dug her claws into the little parcel.

"Fine," Harry glared, "If you drop it, don't bother coming back."

The owl had grown even more cantankerous in her old age, and seemed to strongly disapprove of his exile from the world he grew up in. It was like having a crochety great-aunt who clucked and disapproved but then showered you with sweets and the occasional hug. Like now, when Hedwig tilted her head to let Harry tickle her feathers, and Harry smiled, because it was very simple and very sweet. "You know where you're going, love, but don't come back here. I'm off home."

The owl flapped her wings impatiently, the tip-feathers swiping Harry's glasses down his face. He straightened them as she took off from the window ledge, flying west. "And wait for an answer!" he shouted, amused when a few stragglers in the courtyard turned up to see who was yelling. He waved at them, and one waved back enthusiastically.

Christ, he thought, ducking his head back inside. It really wouldn't do for the firm to hear their star investment banker was yelling at birds and waving to Japanese tourists.

Definitely time to go home.

There was still a distinct smell of barbeque lingering in the house. He'd left a note for the cleaner to leave the windows open to get the air through, but the charcoal meat odour remained. At least the trays were clean — the burnt-on bits scrubbed into oblivion by Mercia, bless her — and the spare sausages were presumably what was under the tinfoil in the fridge. Ah, yes.

Harry pulled out the plate and squirted some brown sauce over the sausages. He hadn't meant to use the new outside cooker so soon, but Toby and Ahmad had shown up last night after their arty film club at the Barbican, freezer packs in hand, and demanded Harry cook their meat. The nibbles at the cinema had been vegan, moaned Toby, and it just wasn't natural. So they cranked up Harry's new hotplate, and set to burning the shit out of steaks and sausages.

Seemed like a good idea at the time. In retrospect, Harry thought he might have to read the instruction manual, or at least ask Julie. He was sure she'd said all Australians were born knowing how to work an outdoor grill.

He took the plate, a bottle of Becks from the fridge, the manilla folder with his projection print-outs, and a fork, and shouldered open the doors to the terrace. His second summer there, and the plants were starting to flourish in their pots, making the terrace garden look a little more permanent and less like a hotel.

He'd fallen in love with this place as soon as he'd seen it. The converted development at St Katherine's Docks overlooked the Thames; the flat was on the top-floor, Tower Bridge was on the right, Canary Wharf to the left, the City behind, and a good view of the restaurants along Butlers Wharf strung out in front of him.

He felt surrounded by people but not intruded upon; part of the City yet able to leave it behind, and it suited him perfectly. Harry didn't really like the ocean but he loved the riverside, with the regularity of the tides and the busy, predictable flow of boats to the Pool.

By the time he'd worked through the projections, prioritising them for discussion with Suresh, it was fully dark. The lights inside provided enough illumination to see, but Harry lit the big citronella candle as well, hoping to keep the bugs away. He picked up the crossword he'd started that morning with breakfast and was engrossed in the last few clues, writing out the possibilities, so he didn't notice Hedwig until she flapped once, heavily, above him.

"There you — hey!" Hedwig dropped the envelope she was carrying and snatched up the last sausage, retreating up to the roof. "That was my sausage," Harry said, but she ignored him and munched happily.

"Spoilt brat," he muttered, reaching for the envelope. "Hope you hate the sauce."

He tugged open the envelope with his fork — parchment was tough — and pulled out the contents. A folded note, a clipping of some kind, and a business card fell to the table.

For a moment Harry looked at the business card suspiciously. It was flipped over and all there was on the back was an 07 number. Sure, Ron had told him that wizards were more comfortable with Muggle technology, but a mobile?

He picked up the card, turned it over, read it, and put it down.

"Hedwig."

The owl hooted cheerfully.

"Did you go to Ollivander's?"

Another cheerful hoot.

He picked up the card again. It was slightly textured, expensive. It also had Draco Malfoy's name on it.

"Um," said Harry, and opened the note.

6/8/2008

Potter,

Your wand is well and truly beyond repair. Not even the old man could've helped you. Speaking of, he's been dearly departed these past seven years. Surprised you hadn't heard.

Am afraid you will have to tear yourself away from seclusion and come get a new wand. Don't go near the mail-order jobs, they're crooks and thieves; besides, mass-produced wands are rubbish.

Presuming you want a bit of privacy, so I look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience, as long as your convenience is tomorrow evening at six-thirty.

Thanks for the kind regards re: business, have enclosed Time Out's bumpf FYI.

DM

PS: Assuming by the address you are either a lawyer, dentist, or a banker. The mind boggles.

Yeah. The mind did boggle. The last he'd seen of Malfoy was when Andromeda Black hauled him off in the aftermath, trunk in tow. Someone had mentioned that Malfoy and his mother had moved to Switzerland, and then Harry had been too involved in other things to ever think of him.

But.

Malfoy was a shopkeeper?

Harry thought he'd better get another beer.

CHAPTER TWO

"Harry?"

The door closed behind him with a bang; he'd have to get someone in to fix the loose hinges. The last decorators Petunia had employed were a bit slipshod with details.

"Yeah, it's me." He dropped his briefcase under the hall table and swiped the wet from his hair and shoulders where the sudden downpour had caught him. Tubby, a ginger tabby that was starting to live up to his name, sprang out and raced past Harry for the kitchen. "Bloody cat."

His aunt's voice came from the front room. "It's only Thursday, dear. I thought you couldn't get a booking until Sunday?"

Harry stopped on the second step and peered through to where Petunia was sitting on the couch, book in one hand, television remote in the other, looking like she'd been caught with her fingers in the pie. Richard and Judy nodded mutely in the background. He rarely saw his aunt laze about in front of the telly; she was always just off somewhere, just back from something, four projects on the go.

Not for the first time Harry thought life had done her a roundabout favour.

"Just getting some old stuff from upstairs," he said, "Sunday's still on, promise." He flashed her a grin and she nodded.

"What—"

"Running late already." He took the stairs quickly before she could ask questions. The flat had two bedrooms, one of which Petunia had converted into a sewing room. And then into a place to dry flowers and herbs. A darkroom, although that hadn't lasted long. At present she appeared to be dabbling in rug-making, although Harry wasn't quite sure. They looked like rugs. At any rate, he was perfectly happy to indulge her hobby-of-the-month, whatever it might be.

Shifting aside a contraption that looked like some kind of loom, Harry pulled down the stepladder to the crawl-space in the roof. It wasn't quite an attic, but there was room enough for the three trunks and a platform across the beams to hold his weight.

The trunk at the back (his school case; peeling stickers and dented everywhere) was so heavily strung with protective charms that Harry felt immediately queasy at the magic resonating in the claustraphobic confines.

The other two trunks weren't spelled so he popped the locks on the middle one, hoping the mothballs had worked. Camphor wafted out from the piles of clothes and sports gear, and Harry stared for a second, feeling the blood rush in his ears.

Heavy weather cloak. And he could go.

Harry thought longingly of his invisibility cloak, but quickly quelled the desire. No point in wishing, not when a bloody third year charm on a piece of luggage made him want to chuck his guts.

No, there'd be no easy route through the gauntlet of Diagon Alley to Ollivander's. Harry rummaged in the trunk, musing. Why had Malfoy kept the name? He'd never seemed the kind of person to run a business without his own name plastered in huge sparkly green letters above the door.

But then, come to think of it, he'd never seemed the type to actually earn a living, so who the hell knew?

Underneath everything was his blue cloak. He hadn't grown that much taller since he was seventeen, and then it had skimmed the ground. It had a hood, too, and the rain meant he could pull it up without getting funny looks. In seventh year it wasn't the done thing to go around with your face shrouded, but maybe suspicions like that were something that only occurred in wartime.

Harry closed the lid and dropped the cloak through the hatch. For a second he was tempted to lean over to the far trunk, just to see what would happen to the recognition charms. He could feel the spells, like an internal hum, but this morning his magic had been so bad that he couldn't even summon his toast. Being rejected by his own trunk was really not going to be good for his self-esteem.

Down the ladder, Harry brushed himself off and shook out the cloak. "Going now," he called, bundling the cloak into a plastic bag. "Don't get up — I'll ring you later, shall I?" He leaned on the doorframe for a second. Antiques Roadshow was on, and Petunia was scribbling in her notebook. Harry guessed that rugs were on the way out and car boot sales were on the way in.

"I have a friend who works for Sothebys, Auntie P. Can get you admissions to the big sessions, if you'd like."

"Ooh. That sounds terribly professional." She tapped her pen. "Perhaps I should just start with the school fetes, work my way up to it."

"The offer's there. I've got to go. Taking an umbrella, I'll give it back to you on the weekend." Harry clicked the door shut, knowing her attention was already back on the telly and the Edwardian cake-stand some girl had picked up for a fiver.

CHAPTER THREE

Diagon Alley was like a bad dream. The rushing in his ears when he'd opened the trunk was nothing compared to the virtual panic Harry felt now, trying to skirt the central thoroughfare, head down, focusing on his shoes. He had no curiosity to look in shop windows, to see what had changed. It all made him feel resolutely ill. Getting through the Leaky Cauldron had been terrifying enough. He'd blanked out twice at the brick wall and would have still been there, frantically tapping stones, if a young bloke hadn't come along and offered.

"Sequence is a bit old, mate," the wizard had said. "Gets changed every season now."

"Been out of town," Harry had muttered. "Thanks."

Trudging past Gambol & Japes, doing his best to avoid puddles, Harry pulled out the clipping Malfoy had enclosed with his note. It was from Time Out: Magic London, Harry hadn't known there was such a thing. It was weird. Intriguing, but weird.

GEM OF AN IDEA

Sick of the old stick? Wand need some pizazz? An old establishment with new ideas may be what you need. Drawing on recent developments in magical gemology and alchemical physics, Ollivander's is offering a new range of bespoke wands that claim to be highly attuned to the individual. The core of your new wand may contain the standard hair, feather, sinew or scales, but it will be supplemented with other materials chosen in conjunction with the Wandmaker to create an efficient and sympathetic level of magical resonance. What Time Out finds exciting is how Ollivander's new wands integrate gemstone materials in the tip, to concentrate your wand's focus and precision and decrease the level of energy required for spells. We were treated to a fascinating consultation session (S15 for up to two hours) in which we tested over twenty different gemstones and core-alchemy combinations. Our staffer's verdict: "It lives up to the hype, and looks terrific with my new robes!"

Ollivander's, Diagon Alley, London ML1.

Nearest PubFloo: Diagon West or Belfry
Open Monday–Friday 12–6, other times by appointment.

All very well and good, but Harry hoped he could just luck on some inoffensive off-the-shelf jobbie that would do the trick. Wands were ridiculous anyhow; not small enough to shove in your pocket without doing yourself a damage, and not long enough to feel like you were brandishing something threatening. Harry certainly didn't want anything encrusted with rhinestones.

The outside of Ollivander's was just the same as Harry remembered; a new window display, but the rain was near to driving now and he certainly wasn't going to get soaked appraising at Malfoy's advertising strategy. The door made a distinctive bell-tinkle when he pushed it open.

"You must be Harry Potter," said a female voice in a strong Welsh accent. A woman in a strange white jacket like some sort of medieval lab coat nodded at Harry from behind the counter. Her hair held streaks of colour in londonpaper purple and she looked the type of witch who wouldn't have a clue what he was on about were he to make the joke. She jumped off her stool and picked up a bunch of keys. "Draco said you'd be here about now."

"Is he here?" Harry glanced around the shop, which had lost the ceiling-high ramshackle shelves, and now sported a couple of low couches and a coffee table in one corner.

The woman turned the keys in the front door and gestured for Harry to sit down. "He's with a customer, taking longer than he thought. I'm Poppy. D'you want a cup of tea?"

"Cheers. Do you mind if I?" Harry unclasped his cloak, which was dripping on the wooden floor.

"Course not," Poppy said. "You not have rain-repelling charms then?"

Harry shrugged off the heavy cloak and handed it to her. "Must've worn off, I guess."

"Aqua vici. There you go, while you're wandless." Poppy hung up Harry's cloak on a stand behind the door. "Have a seat. He shouldn't be long." She buttoned up her dusty jacket and disappeared down the stairs behind the counter.

Harry sat on the squishy couch. A cup of tea clinked into existence on the table, accompanied by a plate of biscuits a moment later. Harry took a piece of shortbread, dunked it in his tea, tried to judge whether the nausea he was feeling might preclude the refreshments, and set everything back onto the table. Deciding abstention was the better part of valour, he looked around.

Behind the counter, the high shelves from Ollivander's day were still standing, but they appeared to be rather well-organised and labeled with the names of wand woods. The counter itself was glass and contained a lit display of what looked like crystal specimens. A big old-fashioned till sat on the glass top, brass gleaming.

It probably counted as modern technology in Diagon Alley, Harry thought.

On the opposite wall a tastefully framed poster showed Harry What's In Your Wand?, but instead he thumbed through the pile of magazines — Witch Weekly, The Prophet, Sorted! — on the table, battling the anxiety he'd felt since entering the Leaky.

He had just started reading an interview with the Catapults' manager when he heard a door open.

"You're looking at three to four weeks for sourcing—" Harry couldn't make out what Malfoy was saying, but he hadn't lost the clipped tones that had grated so badly in school.

"That's fine, Mr Malfoy, thank you ever so much for your help," simpered a wispy lady's voice. Harry got to his feet and barely quashed the impulse to slip out the door, rain or not, before they saw him.

Malfoy's customer was wearing an enormous hat that reminded Harry painfully of Neville's grandmother and her taste in millinery. Malfoy — or at least his feet, the woman's hat blocked Harry's view — ushered her to the door.

"You'll owl, of course."

"I'll be in touch, Mrs Feversham," Malfoy said. "It's always a pleasure to see you." Malfoy was using the same tone of voice Harry employed when he wanted to get rid of difficult prospects. Insufferably polite with a firm hand to the door.

"Draco!" Poppy reappeared and Harry grinned; he knew the assistant-to-the-rescue drill well. She jerked her head in Harry's direction. "Six-thirty?"

"Ah." Malfoy stepped back from opening the door for his customer and glanced over at the waiting area. Tow-headed and supercilious, he looked just the same as he had at school, save the work-coat and a mad-professor kind of scruffiness.

Harry couldn't help but feel the familiar irritation at Malfoy's smugness masquerading as a smile, but then Malfoy gave Harry the kind of appraising look that forestalled any need for an inquiry after Mrs and Junior Malfoys.

Which was surreal. And, well, not entirely impossible, but still. Flattering, and surreal. By the time Harry had recovered Malfoy had already turned back to Mrs Feversham. "You'll excuse me?" He ushered her out the door and locked it behind him, dropping the keys in his pocket.

Harry took the offered hand as a reflex.

"Harry." Malfoy was obviously going to be a grown up.

"Malfoy." Strange, bizarre. Malfoy looked grubby on closer inspection. His coat was covered in smudges and there were feathers stuck to his trousers.

"Sit, sit." Malfoy shrugged off his jacket, pocketed his glasses and brushed at his trousers. "Sorry about the wait. Daft old bat likes a wand for every occasion and her bloody grandchildren indulge her with more weddings and babies every year."

Harry sat back down in his seat as Malfoy clicked his fingers. The biscuit plate doubled in size, bringing with it another cup of tea and a pot.

"It's fine—" Harry started, queasily wondering if it would be rude to ask Malfoy to stop it already with the macaroons.

"S'cuse me," Malfoy said, gulping down tea until the cup was finished.

He poured another, during which time Harry gave him a more surreptitious checking out. Malfoy'd always been so pointy that he hadn't any baby features to lose. There were crease lines about his eyes, too, and they were not unappealing. But he was still short.

"So which was it?" Malfoy leaned over the table and picked a HobNob from the bottom of the plate. He sat down on the couch opposite Harry.

"Which was what?"

"My guess." Malfoy brushed away crumbs. "I'm veering towards a barrister. That's a bloody nice suit, and you were famously one to believe your own hype."

"Wrong." Harry found himself grinning. The onslaught of magic in the shop hadn't lessened, but he thought maybe he could cope with it now. Building up a tolerance? Or maybe Malfoy was just that distracting. "Although my line of finance requires a particular sort of pushy arrogance."

"Stockbroker," Malfoy mused. "Qu'elle bizarre."

"Banker. Investment. The suit's Paul Smith."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"You expressed interest." The back-and-forth gave Harry an odd kick; this was Draco Malfoy, for fuck's sake, and ten minutes ago he'd been giving himself an ulcer with nerves over the whole thing.

Malfoy regarded him from over his teacup. Harry couldn't see if he was smiling or not. "All the other accountants okay with you being queer?"

"About as happy as your customers are with you, I'd guess."

"You being my customer, would you like to come down to the workshop?" Malfoy's face was a perfect blank, but maybe there was a teasing tone to his voice? "Bring the biscuits."

Imperious as ever, Harry thought, but he followed anyhow.

"You're not going to give me a little cup and ask me to give a sample as well, are you?"

The remark obviously didn't translate, because Malfoy didn't look up from the notes he was making in his ledger. "Hmm? Nearly done."

Harry hoped so. The questions were innocuous enough, if not exactly information he ever thought he'd be sharing with Malfoy. He'd never even really thought about what kinds of spells required more concentration, which ones didn't need the incantations. He just did it.

When he could. And that was the problem — explaining how unpredictable his magic was now. Harry could think of about five million other things he'd rather tell Malfoy about himself, including embarrassing sexual experiences and how he'd cheated on his accountancy exams.

He glanced around, waiting for Malfoy to finish scribbling. The workshop was the kind of unrestrained chaos that gave Harry screaming fits. A bit of mess he could cope with, but every single available surface was piled high with ... stuff.

Malfoy had spread out a huge ledger and a set of scales, and he piled the forlorn scraps of Harry's broken wand into the balance, adjusting the weights. "You ever get worried that it was completely gone?"

There was a curious expression of sympathy on Malfoy's face. The direct gaze unnerved Harry and he looked away, but then felt ridiculous at his own foolishness — he stared people down in meetings all the time, he was a bloody expert at intimidating gazes, so why did Malfoy have to make him feel all of thirteen again?

He settled for halfway, and watched Malfoy's hands.

"Hmm," Malfoy said, putting down the quill and weaving his fingers together, turning them over and flexing the knuckles. It made Harry think of Incy-Wincy Spider.

"So you presumably saw all the relevant experts and Healers and that kind of—"

Harry sighed. He really didn't want to go through this, again. The entire Weasley family had gone on at him. Ron had grilled him. Arthur — Arthur! — had lectured him. "Yes," he said shortly. "Nothing can be done. It's all very predictably unpredictable."

"You're not simply bipolar, are you?"

Harry snorted. "I wish. At least there's potions for that."

Malfoy was regarding Harry like an interesting specimen, a kind of detached eagerness on his face. "And Granger couldn't come up with any grand plan for you?"

The mention of Hermione made Harry blanch. Surely Malfoy knew.

"Ah, sorry. I read about the accident and honestly forgot." Harry got his staring ability back and gave Malfoy a hard look. There wasn't any indication that he was less than genuine, but his gaze was still focused on Harry, unwavering. "My apologies."

Malfoy didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter much further, so Harry just nodded, relieved to have the subject dropped.

"Well, I can certainly make you a much better wand, and calibrate it to your, as you say, weirdo magical fluctuations as much as possible," Harry watch Malfoy scribble in his neat handwriting something that looked like fourier transform. "But that won't help the real problem."

"Leave it. It's fine."

Malfoy just raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. "Harry, you've been greener than Millicent Bulstrode's fourth-year dress robes since you stepped in here, but whatever you say. I'll have to have a think about this tonight and get back to you tomorrow. "

A sudden thought occurred to Harry. "You don't live here, do you?"

"Hmm?" Malfoy brushed his hair off his face distractedly. "Wait ... and twelve is thirty-nine grams." He returned the slider on the scale balance to the centre and dusted off his hands. "Live? Here? Good grief no."

Harry waited for him to go on, but Malfoy just gulped a mouthful of his tea, eyes narrow and considering. He made a show of placing the cup on the saucer and turning the handle around before looking up at Harry and grinning.

"You're fishing for details, Harry, it's vaguely flattering." Harry made a strangled sound as he continued, "I'll give you a ring tomorrow."

He may have been scruffier than Harry remembered, but Malfoy was just as irritating as ever. "Thanks," Harry said ungraciously, and stood.

Malfoy was chasing biscuit crumbs around the plate and didn't look up.

CHAPTER FOUR

"—you won't get a straight answer out of Harry on that one, mate."

"Hmm? Sorry?" Harry tuned back into the conversation, realising he'd been staring blankly out over the silvery swell of the river. They were seated by the windows on the top level of the Tate Modern.

Sebastian forked up a mouthful of the guinea fowl and chewed, swallowed, grinned. "David wanted to know where you went to school."

It never ceased to amaze Harry how much the City thrived on the old boys network. The first few months of bluffing his way through financier meetings and client events had been excruciating until he'd overheard one of the partners at the Gordian Group boom that his alma mater was St Botolphs Institute for Buggery and Business, and he'd decided then that a bit of eccentricity went a long way and the truth about where he went to school was probably the best way to go. Now he just loved the reaction he got.

David, however, appeared to be one of those unfortunate blokes with no sense of humour who got into financial law because they were too dull to think of anything else. He blinked blankly at Harry's response.

Harry sighed. "Private school. Very small. You'd never have heard of it."

Still a frown.

"Scottish," Harry offered. Seb snickered and Harry kicked him under the table.

"Ah," David said, understanding dawning. If one could count on anything it was the provincial prejudices of City bankers. "My sympathies."

"I had counselling," Harry said, but David just nodded sagely as if that were entirely appropriate, and Seb choked on his G&T.

Halfway across the Millennium Bridge, Harry demanded, "Remind me again why I had to suffer through that?"

Seb looked pained. "He's a bloody good advisor, Harry. And you should be making vast amounts for yourself with your portfolios, but you piss all your tips away for the company."

"Yeah, and they give me gratifying big chunks of it back every January," Harry said, "besides, you can't tell me he doesn't make a killing out of his clients. And what does he do? Look stuff up and write letters. Lawyers are just glorified librarians with ego issues."

Seb held up his hands. "Fine, fine. Don't say I didn't give you the opportunity, when you're begging me for an Iberian summer on my new Beneteau 50."

"You don't even sail."

"I'll hire crew. Young, pretty, willing crew."

"Enjoy your fantasy life a lot, don't you?"

"One has to, living in Belfast."

As they passed underneath the shadow of St Pauls, Harry felt an itch between his shoulder blades and a buzzing at his nerve endings. Bloody Christopher Wren, he thought. Whether it was the architect himself who was the wizard or some overeager fuck of a sorcerous stonemason, all of Wren's churches set him on edge.

As if starting the Great Fire wasn't bad enough.

Harry shuddered as the old magic tickled at him again, and Seb cast him a concerned look. "Forget to sell short, old man?"

Being without his wand was making Harry jumpy. It was ridiculous. "Remembered an errand," he said. "Meet you back at the office?"

"Conference call at four," Seb warned.

"Got it."

As soon as the coast was clear, Harry dug into his pockets for his mobile. Scrolled through to M. Jabbed the call key. Harry let it ring eighteen times, enough to wander all the way to other side of Paternoster Square, before hanging up in exasperation. Fine. So Malfoy had become acquainted enough with Muggle technology to get himself a mobile, but not enough to put a bloody answer service on it. Typical.

He watched a group of tourists, trying to decide when to try again.

The phone buzzed in his palm. Private number. Yeah, right.

"Harry Potter." Just in case.

"You rang?"

"Do you treat all your clients like this?"

"Hold on one second."

Harry spluttered.

"Sorry about that, things were threatening to explode. Hello." Malfoy was all pleasantness. It annoyed Harry, who wanted to be annoyed.

"Hello," he said tightly. "Today would be Wednesday. Three business days later."

"Excellent observation — ah. I was meant to call you, wasn't I?"

"I realise that the pace of life is a little slower for you, Malfoy, but some of us have busy workloads. Were you planning on getting back to me at some point this century?"

There was a clinking sound in the background. "Are you always this polite?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Rarely. Look. Can't you," he dropped his voice, the tourist group were moving near, "owl me some sort of temporary replacement? I don't care if it doesn't work as well as my old wand. It just has to work, end of story."

Malfoy made a tetchy sort of noise down the phone. "Harry. You're not exactly a one-size-fits-all man these days, if you catch my meaning."

Patronising git. "Thanks."

"Regarding your new wand. Would next Tuesday evening suit you?" More clinking.

"What? No. Fuck. I suppose it'll have to, won't it?" Harry tipped his head back and huffed out a breath.

"The only other out-of-business-hours appointment available is Friday fortnight," Malfoy said cheerily. "Take it or leave it."

"There's a Mr Weasley here for you, Harry, but he's not in your diary?"

Harry looked up, highlighter in hand, from the two trend forecasting reports he was comparing. They were totally, utterly different, even on the blue-chip keepers. The forecasters themselves always made Harry cringe with their earnest presentations; Trelawney would have been terribly proud of their conviction. "Sorry, Julie?"

"Mr Weasley. Downstairs in the foyer." Julie shifted her feet a little, tapping the phone handset in her palm. "Shall I tell them to send him up, or are you ..."

Her eagerness was obvious. He bit back the urge to grin and replied, "Busy? Yeah, but we wouldn't want to keep Ron waiting, would we? Tell him to come up."

Julie nodded and turned back around in the doorway, speaking softly to reception. Harry marked his place with his green highlighter and kicked back his chair to get up. He always liked to watch this bit.

When the lift made its soft chime announcing a floor stop, Harry leaned back against the wall by the water cooler and surveyed the open-plan office. About twenty of the secretarial and research staff were there, in various states of busy endeavor, and two of the three office doors besides his own were open. Plenty for an audience, Harry thought.

Ron wasn't halfway across the thirty strides to Harry's office before the head-turning began in earnest. Harry counted six nudges and two hand-pressed-to-mouth gestures amongst the stares. He was shaking with silent laughter by the time Ron reached him.

"Alright, Harry?" Ron clapped him on the shoulder gently, and up close Harry saw he wasn't oblivious to all the attention. There was a faint blush under his freckles.

"Good, mate, you?" Harry steered Ron through the door and turned back quickly to assess the state of the floor. At least half of the women and not a few men had their eyes fixed on Harry's office. Julie had her mouth open and a glazed look on her face, and Harry leant over to tip her jaw back up. "Catch flies, you will," he said, and gave her a little wink.

Door safely closed, Ron straddled a chair, picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and started munching. "What are they like, then?" He gestured with a nod to the outside offices. "Thought I'd grown an extra head."

Harry burst out a laugh. "Christ, Ron, do you even look in the mirror? It's Nob Central in here most days and then you waltz in looking good enough to eat, what'd you expect?"

"'m no' foll'win," Ron said through a confused mouthful of apple.

Harry laughed. "You're all tall and broad in that t-shirt and jeans, and they get whiney little eggheads in off-the-rack suits from Debenhams if they're lucky." He paused. "Except me, of course, but tailoring is wasted totally on this lot."

Ron made a long-suffering face. "Don't try and fool me with your poncy rubbish. I knew you when you couldn't tell a dress robe from a dressing gown, and I know you're still a monumental fucking slob. Mum would have a fit if she knew how often you had your cleaner round."

"Yeah, well, housekeeping charms are a bit beyond me, some days," Harry meant the comment to come out lightly, but it had a bitter edge. Some conversations were still painful, and in his present predicament Harry was a bit short-tempered about the whole idea of magic.

Ron winced and opened his mouth, presumably to apologise, but Harry waved it away. "It's alright, really." Harry plonked himself down on the couch and put his feet up on the table. "How are you, anyway? Speaking of domesticity, how's things with Iris?"

"Eh," said Ron, trying for nonchalant but unable to keep the smile off his face, "she's off in Singapore this week, but we just had a lovely weekend in Helsinki. And she wasn't working, for once!" Ron scrubbed his hair. "Just wish I got to see her a bit more, yeah? She has all her stuff at my flat, and she gave up the lease on hers, but it's not like we're living together, even. All her mail gets sent to her office, and she hasn't even complained about the decor." He squinted at Harry. "That's not right, is it?"

"Don't ask me about the fair sex, mate!" Harry put up his hands. "Besides, you've a bit of track record with high-flying women, haven't you? Shouldn't you be an expert at this by now?"

Ron's girlfriend Iris was definitely following the pattern. She was the Head of the Department of Intercultural Magic for the Ministry, as well as being a Special Representative for Britain in the International Confederation on Magic, a global initiative for greater cross-cultural understanding of magicks. Ron was, by his own admittance, essentially her toyboy. Not that Ron seemed to mind; he always gave Harry the impression of being as interested in Iris's work as she was.

Ron sighed. "Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you. I mean, it's great having loads of free time and everything, and there's always owls, but ..."

"... you're not getting laid on a regular enough basis?" Harry finished, picking up a banana and peeling it at Ron.

"Something like that, but I guess if I really wanted sex every night after dinner I wouldn't be with her. It's just short bursts of all-day shagging followed by long dry spells." Ron screwed up his face for a second and laughed. His elastic expressions always made Harry warm; they were one of the things he had missed dreadfully in the time he'd been, well, distant from Ron.

They were still a little careful around one another, even after years of slow reconciliation, both conscious of feelings that were sometimes raw and unresolved. Every now and then they'd have a good yarn over a few beers, and they'd chip away at each other's regrets and resentments; speak frankly about what had happened to Harry, about how they'd both been useless to each other after Hermione died, and they'd edge a bit closer to the absolute trust they once had, which made Harry happier than he'd been for a long time.

"So, not that this is related to long dry spells, how'd it go with Malfoy?" Ron smirked at him.

Harry choked quietly on his banana and tried very hard not to colour up. "Ha-ha, good one. Fine." He stuffed the rest of the banana in his mouth, time to compose himself. "Par' fwom," he said, swallowing, "he can't seem to get it done in any reasonable period of time."

"Do what?" Ron had a sly look on his face that Harry really didn't appreciate.

"Fix. My. Wand." Harry glared. Ron looked suspiciously twinkly-eyed, so Harry cut him off before he could say anything. "Don't. None of those jokes are funny. Not one. Anyhow, how come you never told me that Malfoy inherited Ollivander's?"

"You never asked. Besides, I figured a Malfoy update was the last thing you wanted."

"True." Harry very deliberately did not enquire after people in the Wizarding World unless he was in an unassailably good mood.

"He's doing really well, I hear, expanded the business with new inventions. There was an article about it in—"

"Time Out, yeah, he gave me a copy." Harry snorted. "Just seems odd, you know. Why didn't he just buy some mansion in the south of France and slope around Monaco with the rest of the homeless aristocracy?"

Ron looked at Harry curiously, speaking slowly. "Uh. Perhaps he's different, now, not the same as at school? Like ... you?"

"Hmmph," Harry said testily.

"Plenty of that lot turned out to be passable human beings," Ron shrugged and stretched out. "Some of the cases Iris tells me about'd turn your hair grey. Even in my job ... there's a bit more to worry about than class snobs, you know?"

Ron's live-and-let-live attitude was all very well, but the truth was that Malfoy had not conformed to Harry's expectations or his predictions, and that was disconcerting. When he gave it a moments thought, he always assumed that the Wizarding World, and all its inhabitants, would go on pretty much the same as when Harry had abandoned it. It always irritated him when he found out that wasn't the case.

"So anyhow," he swerved back to the topic of his wand, unwilling to get into discussion with Ron about recent history, "I signed up for this super-fancy wand thing, all tailor-made and enhanced and etcetera. Figure it's only going to make things better to have a wand that's more attuned to my magic, such that it is."

Ron gave him a wry smile and pulled his own wand out of his boot. "I'd like to get one, someday, but I'm wholly superstitious about the old stick. If it ain't broke, I'm not fixing it just yet, no matter how many bells and whistles Malfoy's come up with."

"Fair enough."

"That mean you'll be in Diagon Alley next week? We should meet up for a drink and a game."

"Did we actually finish the last?" Harry tried to recall the muzzy events of the long-past chess night.

Ron grinned. "Buggered if I know. I'm sure I won if we did."

"I'm sure you did, too."

"So, you up for it, then? Ollivander's isn't the only place that's changed. There's a new—"

"Ron. Um."

"Oh. Right," said Ron, wistfully. "Magic."

Harry nodded, staring at the floor for a second. He shoved his Blackberry into his briefcase with his phone and the forecasting reports; he could look at them this evening on the terrace if the weather held. Right now the sun was shining and he couldn't bear to be cooped up any longer. "I'll walk you out."

"Blimey, Harry," Ron said in low tones as they stepped into the office to an audible lull in conversation, "be nice if you had a back entrance I could use next time."

Harry stared. Ron's mouth twitched, and they both burst into laughter. "Ron, I thought you'd never ask."

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE~ PART FOUR

[arcadia]

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 12:42:38 GMT

By Nature Desire To Know

The mathematician's patterns, like the painter's or the poet's, must be beautiful;
the ideas, like the colours or the words, must fit together in an harmonious way.
Beauty is the first test, there is no place in the world for ugly mathematics.
- G. H. Hardy, mathematician.

SCENE ONE

It is wintertime at Sidley Park, close to Christmas, and thus a few months since our last sightings of the Coverly families--in both eras. We begin in the present day. The room in which these scenes take place is identical to that featured previously, though we start with a relatively empty table in the centre of the room: only the tortoise, a plate of green leaves covered by a food umbrella, and a few paperbacks of modern philosophy, belonging (as we discover) to CHLOE COVERLY. A Christmas fir tree, undecorated, stands in one corner of the room.

CHLOE is standing on a chair by the french doors. There is a painting (Poussin's "Les bergers d'Arcadie") leaning against the wall; CHLOE has taken it down in order to peel at the wallpaper behind. HANNAH JARVIS and VALENTINE COVERLY come into the room, she carrying her coat, scarf, and two large folios, he carrying a tea tray.

HANNAH: Hello, Chloe. (She drapes her belongings over a chair and puts the folios on the table, moving Lightning the tortoise to make room, and tearing him a fresh piece of lettuce from the plate.)

CHLOE: (Turns, briefly.) Oh! Hello. You're back. He's been fed. (She doesn't sound very pleased.)

HANNAH: Lucky Lightning. Yes, it turns out I have one more chapter's material to research. Your mother found more of the Croom garden diaries. It's very kind of your family to be so accomodating to academics nosing around their libraries and follies.

CHLOE: Well, all the leaves have fallen. The park's completely bare now and we're all bored. Is that shortbread?

VALENTINE: Sorry, Chlo, the teapot's not big enough for three.

CHLOE: Typical. Trust you to choose the antique. (Looks meaningfully at Hannah) Mummy'll have a fit.

She pulls off a strip of wallpaper violently.

VALENTINE: You're the one vandalising the Regency-copy block prints. I think you should get down.

CHLOE: Rubbish. They're not right.

VALENTINE: There's nothing wrong with the walls! Get off the chair.

HANNAH: No, Chloe's right, they are wrong. It bothered me for weeks.

VALENTINE and CHLOE turn from their bickering to look at HANNAH, who is pouring the tea.

HANNAH: It's a post-Napoleonic purple. Well, it's mauve, to be exact. The Victorians went mad for lurid colours once they'd figured out the chemistry. Unfortunately they're all terribly unflattering to the pasty English complexion.

CHLOE: (More interested) That must be why all the best costume dramas are Austen and not Dickens.

VALENTINE: Chloe's reading Media Theory at Sussex.

CHLOE: Val, you're an arse. No one reads anymore. (To Hannah) I started my B.A. in September.

HANNAH: Good for you.

VALENTINE: (Dismissively) Redbrick.

CHLOE: (Irritated) Val!

HANNAH: Magnolia and chestnut are much kinder.

VALENTINE: But this is wallpaper. I thought you did gardens?

HANNAH: People in gardens. Promenades around the hedge maze. Liaisons in the summerhouse--oh. (She drinks her tea.)

CHLOE: I don't suppose you've heard from Bernard?

HANNAH: (Laughs) Hardly. You saw our exchange in the Times?

CHLOE: Oh, be like that then. (CHLOE turns back to the wallpaper. HANNAH and VALENTINE take their tea over to the window seat, where they sit.)

VALENTINE: You were terribly subtle.

HANNAH observes CHLOE for a moment before turning her attention to VALENTINE.

HANNAH: (Quietly) English departments are being sucked dry by Media Studies. Everyone wants to write a thesis on Eastenders.

VALENTINE: Did you know Reading closed its Physics department due to lack of interest? No-one's interested in the fundamentals of the universe anymore, it's all brand advancement strategies and book deals. I did mean your letter about Byron and whatnot. Dahlias.

HANNAH: Not too opaque, I hope?

VALENTINE: I had to read it over to make sure I didn't miss the implication. I'd become rather more accustomed to you calling Bernard a wanker.

HANNAH: But that's the game! It would be extremely poor form to come right out and say nyah nyah nyah.

VALENTINE: Nature has a special section for clarifications and corrections.

HANNAH: (Bemused) Well. Mutation must drive our evolution. But it's not an aspiration for literary scholars.

VALENTINE: No, no, the journal, Nature. There's no dishonour in being incorrect. Science expects it.

HANNAH: It's a right jolly nuisance if you have to rely on force of personality to convince everyone you're right. Or how big your prick is.

CHLOE makes a disapproving sound but doesn't turn.

VALENTINE: Chloe thinks it's all dreadfully unfair and that everyone's viewpoint is valid and worth considering.

CHLOE: Situated! Contextual! (She steps down off the chair and we can see an area of wall different to the rest has been revealed.) You don't acknowledge where it is that you're speaking from so you can't be expected to appreciate your own biases.

HANNAH: (To VALENTINE) A budding relativist?

VALENTINE: Who's the philosopher you're reading, Chloe? Derrida?

CHLOE: (Sorting through her pile of books) We did him before half-term. Now it's Deleuze.

HANNAH: Post-structuralism already?

CHLOE: Yes, it's amazing.

HANNAH: Amazing is one word for it.

CHLOE looks sharply at HANNAH and VALENTINE. HANNAH is poker-faced. VALENTINE has switched off and is looking at the exposed area of the wall.

CHLOE: Where's Gus? I want him to help me move the other painting.

CHLOE frowns and leaves, calling for her brother. HANNAH goes to the table and looks through the books CHLOE has left.

HANNAH: Continental philosophy is its own very special brand of teenage rebellion.

VALENTINE: (Morosely) I'd rather she'd taken up crack cocaine. I think it'd do less long-term damage to her brain. In the summer she was reading PD James and now it's a constant stream of tripe by the--these obscurantist idiots who borrow terms from mathematics--beautiful, simple mathematics, raped and pillaged by such total frauds--and she thinks it's telling her something utterly profound about human nature.

HANNAH: You shouldn't rule out the possibility just because you go about things differently.

VALENTINE: Properly. With an hypothesis and a test!

HANNAH: There's great utility in theory!

VALENTINE: You know as well as I do that the only ideas worth a jot are derived empirically. Reasoning from flaky analogy won't contribute to the sum total of human knowledge. It just keeps people from working in marketing.

HANNAH: I almost wish the dogmatic Nightingale was here for this. You're not really saying that the sciences should have a stranglehold on knowledge?

VALENTINE: No, I'm just--

HANNAH: Sectarianism is tedious and it made you cry, if I remember rightly.

VALENTINE: Hannah! Science--starting from mathematics, up to its pinnacle in biology, (He laughs) no, you know it's true--

HANNAH: (Holds up her hands) Oh no, I'm having no part in it.

VALENTINE: --History--

HANNAH: Ah.

VALENTINE: And the arts. The ones where people create things.

HANNAH: So what about politics? Economics?

VALENTINE: If there was a desperate need, that could just be history with some predictive statistics.

HANNAH: Law?

VALENTINE: (On a roll) Again, history. Lawyers are glorified librarians. They just look things up.

HANNAH: I shall tell that to my solicitor when I want a mortgage. But Val. There's a great deal of psychology when one considers the social functions of law.

VALENTINE: Psychology is just biology writ large. It's organismal ecology with allowances for theory of mind and cultural inheritance. There's no need for any new ologies. (Scoffing) Social science, please.

HANNAH: And so what happened to chaos and contingency?

VALENTINE: (Darkly) Parasites.

SCENE TWO

The same room, in 1811. The only difference is that the wall which CHLOE was stripping free of wallpaper is now plain cream, and without any paintings hung upon. SEPTIMUS HODGE is sitting at the table folding a paper chain. Occasionally he stops to cut a new strip out of the newspaper in front of him, and adds it to the ever-lengthening chain. He is tapping his foot to the sounds of the piano--an innocuous folk song bearing some resemblance to Once in Royal David's City--coming through from the music room.

THOMASINA COVERLY (now 16) comes into the room holding a plate containing two oranges. She is followed by JELLABY, the butler, who is carrying a large basket of pine cones and trying not to sneeze.

SEPTIMUS: (Suprised) My lady! I thought you were a-wassailing all this afternoon.

THOMASINA: My brother did not care to walk out and sing! He has said he is a man now and cannot make the high part. We shall never have harmony again.

SEPTIMUS: I would venture to say that you perhaps never did.

THOMASINA: Do they teach the arts of sororal distress alongside Homer and Lavoisier at Eton? You are very right, though perhaps you should not say so. Augustus is quite intolerable.

SEPTIMUS: I refer only to music.

THOMASINA: I do not.

THOMASINA places the plate of oranges on the table. Plautus the tortoise starts to walk towards the fruit; THOMASINA redirects him with a lettuce leaf.

SEPTIMUS: Jellaby, has the lady of the house converted us all to some new form of conifer subsistence?

He nods at the basket of pine cones, still folding the paper chain.

SEPTIMUS: I have become accustomed to tea at a quarter to four. Are pine cones the fashion now, rather than fine scones?

THOMASINA laughs at the attempted rhyme.

JELLABY: Lady Croom means for their construction as a Christmas centerpiece for your table, Sir.

THOMASINA: (Disgusted) Mama sent me into the garden to gather them like a squirrel. Just put them on the table, Jellaby, I shall pile them haphazard in the Romantic fashion once we have done our lessons.

JELLABY puts the basket on the table with a patient air. He takes up the empty tray and teapot left by VALENTINE and HANNAH.

JELLABY: Tea, my lady, Mr Hodge?

SEPTIMUS: We are creatures of habit. Please.

JELLABY leaves. The music stops.

SEPTIMUS: (To the basket) My schoolroom table needs no decoration beyond the fruits and seeds of thought.

THOMASINA: I have brought you an orange, Septimus, do not be cross. You may either eat it or I shall preserve it for your wardrobe.

SEPTIMUS: Am I so fortunate as to choose my own Christmas gift?

THOMASINA: Mama wishes me to demonstrate I have learned not only Pythagorus this year. She would prefer I embroider you a case for your eye-glasses but you would only use it for an ink-blotter. I shall approximate the golden ratio with cloves stuck in your orange instead; that will be a happy medium of art and science.

SEPTIMUS: She cannot object to such a project.

THOMASINA: She will, though she should not. It will be my excuse to have the Jerusalem artichokes as a reference rather than be made to eat them. We may share the other orange. Will you peel it for me?

SEPTIMUS holds up his arms, around which are draped lengths of paper chain.

SEPTIMUS: I am twelve foot in chains of your making already.

THOMASINA: (Looking at the bare Christmas tree.) Oh! I did not mean for you to make such a great deal while I was gone.

SEPTIMUS: You were out hoarding for winter. We have been industrious. (He tears a final strip off the newspaper.)

THOMASINA: Is that the Times?

SEPTIMUS: No! I would not make baubles from such erudite reviews of literature. It is your mother's Gazette. From Thursday.

THOMASINA: So we are hanging our tree with royal proclamations and engagements!

SEPTIMUS: And bankcruptcy and war.

THOMASINA: (Thinking) All the world's affairs.

SEPTIMUS: (Quietly, collecting the paper chain into a neat pile.) You are very pensive. I suggest Hegel as a remedy.

SEPTIMUS slides one of CHLOE's philosophy textbooks over the table. THOMASINA hands him the orange which he proceeds to peel carefully, taking all the peel off in a single piece. THOMASINA flicks through the book.

THOMASINA: I would rather Bernoulli or Fibonacci.

She sits at the table, opening one of the folios that HANNAH brought into the room. Inside, the sheets are ruled in tables, and they are densely filled with numbers.

SEPTIMUS (Offhand) I have been continuing with your rabbit equation in idle moments.

THOMASINA: (Delighted) Septimus! Is this meant to be my Christmas gift?

SEPTIMUS: Hush! That is a scandalous thing for a young lady to suggest.

THOMASINA: (Leafing through the pages) There are hundreds of figures.

SEPTIMUS: And they are all different. (He looks over the table at the folio, passing THOMASINA a piece of orange.) I shall leave it to you to plot them, Cartesian-style. You may intimate to your mother that you are planning a pattern for lacework.

THOMASINA: (Gloomily) We do not have a sheet of paper large enough.

She plays with her pencil and eats pieces of the orange, absently staring at the wall. JELLABY enters, carrying the tea tray, which he sets down on the table after nudging Plautus aside.

JELLABY: Will that be all?

THOMASINA: (Suddenly) Oh! Of course we do!

THOMASINA takes her pencil and the first sheet from the folio, and crosses the room to stand on the chair that CHLOE had previously stood on.

SEPTIMUS: (To JELLABY) One moment. (To THOMASINA) My lady?

THOMASINA: (Drawing lines of a grid across the wall) Here is our imperfect Cartesian surface.

SEPTIMUS: I am sure Lady Croom referred to it as magnolia, newly painted. Please step down.

THOMASINA: Oh no, I am quite safe.

SEPTIMUS: Jellaby, if you would be so good as to stay. Perhaps ... by the door.

SEPTIMUS crosses to stand beside THOMASINA, holding out his hand as if to offer assistance from a carriage.

SEPTIMUS: I did not mean my tables to encourage such vandalism. We shall apply to the butcher for lengths of paper. Come down now.

THOMASINA: No, no. My Uncle Brice has sent back rubber from India that will take the marks off when we are done. (She stands on her toes, leaning on Septimus's shoulder.) You shall need to draw the lines where I am not tall enough.

SEPTIMUS: (Mock-defeat) You have the only pencil in the room.

THOMASINA: Then you shall read out each pair of numbers and I shall place a mark at each junction. Jellaby shall hang the tree with your paper chain of the world's accomplishments, and we shall see what secrets become revealed.

SCENE THREE

THOMASINA, SEPTIMUS and JELLABY do not leave the room but remain, carrying out their tasks quietly in the background: JELLABY trimming the Christmas tree, and THOMASINA plotting coordinates on her grid according to SEPTIMUS's instructions. At some point JELLABY leaves, and THOMASINA and SEPTIMUS switch roles. A fern-frond pattern begins to emerge from the numbers produced by Thomasina's equation.

The present day.

HANNAH: So I take it your grouse weren't part of an iterative equation in the end?

VALENTINE: It's all very seductive, this chaos thing, patterns within patterns. Californian dinner parties thrive on it. Everyone who's everyone in system dynamics is at the Santa Fe Institute. Chartered flights to Oslo to pick up the Nobel, that sort of thing. But it's ultimately a dead-end. It doesn't tell you anything new about ecology. Just gives a pithy description to the indescribable. Sells popular science books.

HANNAH: You are bitter. Who was the parasite? Did you get scooped?

VALENTINE: No, not really. (Pause) You could say chaos was the parasite. Itchy little bloodsucker of an idea, hitchhiking along proper biology--you know, useful science--using up one's valuable resources.

HANNAH: You don't believe it?

VALENTINE: There's nothing to believe. It's all interpretive, like Chloe's post-structuralism. It's just not useful. Might as well have been your hermit, stuck out in the park scaring small children with his long fingernails and integrative calculus. That was the one thing Bernard was right about.

HANNAH: Oh, I missed you just a little bit, Val. (She smiles.)

VALENTINE: (Laughs) So what was the upshot of it all? Bernard. There was no Radio 4 follow-up for us not in literary circles.

HANNAH: The good stuff happens at conferences, of course. He'd submitted a paper and had to retract it at the last minute--literally last minute, after the program was printed. Flyers posted in the foyer: "Cancelled - Dr Nightingale's plenary on Byron: Backstabbing, Bad Reviews and Bloodsport".

VALENTINE: Oh, how awful.

HANNAH: His department passed him over for Chair, too. Hung out to dry like the sheets on your washing line.

HANNAH nods in the direction of the garden visible through the french doors. There is a silence, during which both of them try not to smile or laugh, but are not completely successful.

VALENTINE: (Perhaps tactfully trying to steer the conversation elsewhere) I nearly had a mental breakdown in a laundromat.

HANNAH: Hmmm? Oh, washing. Are we still on parasites?

We again hear music from the adjoining room, a ragtime jazz version of Christmas carols.

HANNAH: Is that Gus?

VALENTINE: Yes. He's the brilliant one in the family.

HANNAH: (Fondly) Yes.

VALENTINE: I'll get to the parasites, I promise. I was watching the towels go around and around in the dryer. This was when I was an undergraduate. The halls of residence at my college were so rubbish the laundry room was always flooded. So in winter we had to traipse off to the laundromat.

HANNAH: (Snorts) I can see how that would cause you great distress.

VALENTINE: Now it's you that's being the class snob.

HANNAH: Did you actually ever go near a household appliance before you left for university?

VALENTINE: I did--

HANNAH: Television and hi-fi doesn't count.

VALENTINE: Yes! The microwave.

HANNAH: It's mostly a gender issue, I imagine, anyhow.

VALENTINE: (Grumbles, crossing his arms) Why can't you people say sex when you mean sex?

HANNAH: I only say sex when I'm having my picture taken. Like cheese, only not as manic.

VALENTINE: Prude. (He doesn't mean it.)

HANNAH: So what was your breakdown about?

VALENTINE: I had this one green towel. Everything else was grey or blue. I kept watching the way it circled around inside the drum, but I could never predict just when it would fall from its arc.

He draws circles in the air to demonstrate the motion of the tumble dryer.

HANNAH looks very serious and thoughtful. She is looking at the patch of wall where SEPTIMUS and THOMASINA have plotted out the pattern from the "rabbit equation". It has taken the shape of a coiled fern. While VALENTINE continues his story, SEPTIMUS files the folio page back in the covers.

SEPTIMUS: You may continue your plotting tomorrow. I shall find a suitable piece of artwork to conceal your efforts so far. (He leaves the room.)

VALENTINE: Hannah?

HANNAH: I am paying attention, sorry. You must admit this is an odd story.

THOMASINA piles the pine cones on the plate, stacking them neatly in a tower. She pulls a ribbon from her hair and ties it around the top cone.

VALENTINE: I got quite obsessed with the thing. I started taking my laptop into the laundromat. That's not such a smart thing to do in the dodgy bit of the Cowley Road. But I wanted to work it out. I thought perhaps I would write to the manufacturers with what I'd found, but the woman who gave out the change and soap wouldn't let me have an address.

HANNAH: Val, most of us read Hello or think about what we'll have for tea if we're sat watching the dryer. Try not to make eye-contact with anyone else. She probably thought you were on something.

VALENTINE: (Somewhat exasperated) Oh, how very pragmatic of you.

SEPTIMUS comes back in, carrying the Poussin painting. He props it on the chair, but it hardly covers the fern pattern. He looks, suppressing laughter, at THOMASINA, who shrugs merrily back. He puts the painting on the floor and they both sit at the table to read.

HANNAH: Pragmatism isn't a bad thing. (She stands, brushing crumbs off her trousers.)

VALENTINE: (Hurriedly) No. Sorry, sorry, no, I didn't mean it to sound like that. Sit down. It's a virtue really. We should all aspire to it. It's just that, well. You'd get the leeway, wouldn't you?

HANNAH: Asking questions in a laundromat?

VALENTINE: No! Bollocks. No--

HANNAH: Well?

VALENTINE: Hannah, I'm rubbish today, I'm sorry. I'd blame Chloe but that's just lazy. No. I mean, as an author. An historian. If you were scribbling poetry in a desperate-looking notebook, wearing an interesting scarf. I had a laptop and probably some mustard on my shirt collar. And I was incoherent about an equation. I'm not very good with communicating.

HANNAH: Yes, yes, you're positively atrocious!

VALENTINE: Don't tease. I don't teach, you know. Just research. I'm alright at conferences, when I can just reassure myself that everyone speaks the jargon and knows what I'm on about. I don't have a clue about explaining things without being a patronising bore. Best not to.

HANNAH: And now you've really lost me. A green towel, a nervous breakdown, no students ... and mustard? (She's properly teasing VALENTINE now.)

VALENTINE: It was--it was a tractable problem. Something that I could solve. If I could work it out, we would know something that we didn't before. I don't know. It seemed so very important at the time.

HANNAH: It was just a blow to your ego. Like all of this business.

She waves her hand at the room, the folios, and at SEPTIMUS and THOMASINA, who are leaving. The ragtime music stops, but the piano soon starts again as 19th century carols.)

HANNAH: We simply all want to be correct, no matter what our discipline. I'm back here to look at these interminable diaries, these pages upon pages of numbers, because I want to be correct about the version of events I tell.

VALENTINE: But I don't care about it being me that solved the problem. It's getting the problem solved at all.

HANNAH: Bollocks. Academics don't make natural cogs in the system, Val. Ego drives us just as much as politicians.

VALENTINE: But it's not the only thing. We have ... nobler goals. (He's laughing at himself now.) Less tea and more festive sherry required, I think. But you must agree that our goals are Facts. Capital F. Even you.

HANNAH: Cheers.

VALENTINE: You're more of an empiricist than a theorist anyhow.

HANNAH: That's your highest form of compliment.

VALENTINE: I did ask you to marry me.

HANNAH: Well. That's factually incorrect. You asked me to be your fiancee.

VALENTINE: Ah. Back to parasites. On that issue I shall have to publish a retraction.

HANNAH: (Bemused) Oh?

VALENTINE: Will you ever forgive me? Tell a fib and say I've broken your heart for evermore.

HANNAH: I'm crushed, Valentine, you're as fickle as your namesake--what were your parents thinking?

VALENTINE: Tradition, I think it's in Burke's ...

VALENTINE trails off. He looks properly at THOMASINA's drawing on the wall, frowning slightly.

HANNAH: InsistentlyBut what about parasites?

CHLOE comes back in with GUS, who smiles broadly at HANNAH.

HANNAH: Hello, Gus. Wonderful music.

CHLOE: Valentine's seeing a bug lady.

CHLOE and GUS set to work taking down another painting, this time one over the fireplace. It is awkward and takes them some time.

VALENTINE: I met a parasitologist. Conferences, like you said, it's where the good stuff happens. I was talking about my chaos model and the grouse. "Lagopus lagopus population levels demonstrated by random but patterned chaotic cycling."

HANNAH: Catchy.

VALENTINE: Accurate. Or not, as it turns out. She put up her hand and told me she had a paper coming out the next week demonstrating that it was all caused by parasites. Nematode worms, revolting little creatures. It made perfect sense. Terribly elegant experiments, too. I was quite beside myself.

HANNAH: I'm amazed you spoke to her after that.

VALENTINE: Oh no, we had plenty to discuss. Field studies, genetics ... much more exciting than oscillating peaks on a laptop. We're collaborating now.

CHLOE: (Snickers) We call it shagging.

HANNAH: I'm very happy for you. Scientifically and romatically.

VALENTINE: (Pleased) Thank you.

They both consider the fern while GUS and CHLOE take down the picture.

VALENTINE: The resemblance is remarkable.

HANNAH: It can't be anything but the girl and her tutor.

VALENTINE: I'll look through that folio with you. I never thought that's what the tables could be.

HANNAH: I'd just thought them random numbers. Chaos, I suppose.

VALENTINE: It's much more beautiful, hand-drawn.

CHLOE: (Scraping away above the matelpiece) I have no idea what you two are on about, but I've got a friend who works at Laura Ashley.

VALENTINE: See if they'll call it the Coverly Pattern.

HANNAH: (Surprised) That's not too trivial for you?

VALENTINE: You write books. I publish papers. We could give Thomasina's equation a bigger audience through Homes and Gardens than any citation index would measure.

HANNAH: I think this is called outreach activity. How modern we are.

HANNAH and VALENTINE sit at the table, slowly going through the folio, while CHLOE keeps to her task, and GUS is heard playing in the background.

END

Written for Yuletide 2007, here, in a version with an embarrassing large number of formatting errors and a rubbish title, doh. The title is from Aristotle ("All men by nature desire to know").

[hp] corridors of power: epilogue II

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 22:14:33 GMT

Corridors of Power

Being An Originally Intermittent Account
of the Political (Mis)Adventures
of the Viscount Northallerton, Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon;
and the Rt. Honourable Harry J. Potter,
Member of Parliament for North Southwark and Bermondsey (Liberal Democrat).

Epilogue, Part II

He was speaking easily, with inexplicable intimacy, with something like anger.

"I believe you want some of the things I do. The trouble with you, you like to sit above the battle. I don't know that I've got much use for that. You're prepared to get your hands a bit dirty, but not very dirty. I'm not sure that that's as creditable as you would like to think. I must say, I sometimes lose my respect for people who know as much as you do, and still don't come and fight it out."

He gave a comradely, savage grin, then broke out: "Anyway, just to begin with, don't you think you might treat me as a moral equal?"

This was my second surprise–so sharp, it seemed I hadn't heard right and simultaneously knew that I had. We looked at each other, and then away, as one does when words have burrowed to a new level, when they have started to mean something. There was a pause, but I was not premeditating. I said: "What do you want? What do you really want?"

[He] laughed, not loudly this time. "You must have learned a little from your observations, mustn't you?"

His body was heaved back in his chair, relaxed, but his eyes were bright, half with malice, half with empathy, making me take part.

–Corridors of Power, C.P. Snow

THE LORDS CHAMBER
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
Unidentifiable mid-December 2006

This time the Vanishing Cabinet's portal was behind the Throne. Harry opened the door, squeezing by Draco's side and announcing, "Next stop," –and got a faceful of tapestry.

"PTAHH."

Draco hauled him back. "Please don't vandalise the Cloth of State."

"How was I to know there'd be a bloody great carpet in my face? Yuck." Harry screwed up his nose. "All I can taste is mothballs."

"Charming," said Draco.

Harry kissed him.

It wasn't the first time. That was years ago, in a cab back from the Guildhall where they'd met Mayor Livingstone, a casual piece of detective work on Draco's part because Harry had been looking at him over dinner and no-one that universally flirtatious could be exclusively straight. The cab stopped for Harry on the Shad Thames and Draco had leaned in, touching his lips to Harry's, and Harry's hand had rested on the back of Draco's neck for a long, sweet second before the cab driver said "Nine pounds twenty, mate."

Now Harry kissed him hard, open-mouthed, and he really did taste of mothballs. Revolting.

"Thank you so much for sharing," Draco pushed Harry back. "Take any more liberties and I'll jam this–" He shoved the tip of the rapier into the knot of Harry's tie, "–where it hurts."

Harry smiled innocently.

"Gustamente," Draco grumbled. The foul taste disappeared. So did Harry, slipping behind the tapestry into the Lord's, leaving Draco to bite his lip on the dilatory ghost of the kiss, suspecting he had missed something very important, before he followed.

In the Chamber, Harry craned his neck up, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to get comfortable in an ill-fitting suit. "Bloody hell." He took off his glasses and squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at them. "Bit sparkly in here, isn't it?"

It was a little more decorative than the Commons, Draco would agree, but then your average airport was more aesthetically pleasing than the MPs' chamber. "What would you like to know?"

Harry had ambled over to the seats where the Lords Spiritual sat.

"Ah, you don't want to sit there," Draco warned–too late, as Harry recoiled from the oily fug of Bishopry that lurked about the clergy benches.

Harry scowled. "Not really enjoying my visit so far."

"That's because you're common."

His glasses back on, Harry looked over them down at Draco. "Oh, how many years have you been waiting to use that one?"

Draco smiled and dropped down onto the Woolsack. "A few."

"Where do you sit?"

Draco waved at the space in front of the doors. "The benches that cross the chamber. Ergo, the Crossbench."

"Who do you sit with?" Harry's tone–impossibly–brought back memories of his parents enquiring after Draco's term at school. That was just wrong.

"It's Parliament, Potter, not Potions."

Harry snorted. "Debatable."

"Whichever of the Baronesses has taken a shine to me that week," Draco flicked his hair back. "So yes. Perhaps you are right. But it's always been an unbeatable strategy; I know all the intrigues."

"I just read Guido Fawkes."

"How unsurprising that you consider a libertarian blogger to be a reliable source," Draco snorted, but he didn't pursue it. Everyone read that website. It was like Perez Hilton for Westminster. Leaned back on his elbows–the cushion was so squishy, why had he never come in here for a kip?–Draco watched as Harry made his way about the chamber, rubbing his palm over the carved animals in the wooden balustrades and muttering.

"They don't talk back," Draco called out, "at least, not for me." That was the problem with spending years in a place like Hogwarts: you expected anything with a face, no matter how inanimate, to be able to hold a conversation.

"Me neither," Harry said glumly, which pleased Draco to hear.

Harry stopped. "There's a dead spot here."

"What?" Draco craned his head around. It was amusing him to track Harry's reactions, his small frown and tense shoulders; he was obviously having the same discomfiting response to the Lords that Draco had to the Commons.

Harry moved to the right, paused, and moved back to the left. "Just here."

"Oh," said Draco, "that's where the Law Lords sit."

*

"Bit too ornate for me," Harry said, slumping down next to Draco. His eyelids were heavy, blinking slowly. "But this is comfy."

"I might have thought our colour scheme to have been just your style."

"Well, ditto. But reverse. You know."

Draco made a face and stretched. "For the record, I actually have a colour dislike of the profound green. Thing." He thunked his head down; the parts of him that were decidedly interested in Harry's proximity and the ebbing lull of Christmas cheer were not clamouring as loudly as the parts that wanted to sleep. "Suits you, though."

"Are we talking fashion or–" Harry's yawn was contagious, but Draco was pleased to see it, "–or politics?

Draco fumbled at his watch. "It's nearly–good god–four in the morning, I think you overestimate my powers of metaphor."

Harry laughed and got to his feet. "I overestimate your staying power, lightweight."

Bleary, Draco sat up. "I'm an old man of thirty. Take pity."

"As if." Harry picked up the sword from the floor and turned it over in his hands, whistling low. "This is–" he broke off, looking frankly at Draco. "This is really pretty. No wonder you're half-asleep."

Something in the way Harry appraised his effort made Draco momentarily irritated. He snatched it back. "Yes, well, some of us have to work for our achievements."

Harry pressed his lips together to trap some sort of smile and raised his eyes to the ceiling, like that was supposed to make a point.

"Thanks for the, uh, glimpse of hereditary privilege," he said. "Get some sleep, Draco."

Draco squinted at the spot Harry had apparated from. Contrary prat.

OFFICE OF THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (COMMONS)
Thursday 10th May, 11:21 am

"Everyone thinks I'm Zac bloody Goldsmith!" Draco tossed the book on Boris's desk. "I have had three people–today!–asking me all about Hugh and Jemima!"

"Yes, well, there are certain similarities of background." Boris–alternately pointing his wand at and fiddling with the buttons on the television–was not taking Draco's concerns seriously; he wasn't fazed at all by his own sister publishing a find-and-replace expose of the Kensington set. Squib bitch.

"Please. I would never marry someone called Sheherazade. He bothers me, Boris. Can't you buy up his dreary save-the-planet periodical and make it into a Sunday supplement for your rag? Don't you have underworld connections?"

"Calm down, there's a chap." Boris looked up from his anchovy toast–somehow he had the head of catering, Mr Bibbiani, on 24 hour call–and tapped on the back of the book. "My dear sibling did badmouth that Freyberg boy for you."

True. "Valerian," Draco made a face. "Makes sense it's an ingredient in emetic potions, don't you think?" Draco had harboured the pleasant notion that he was actually the youngest sitting Lord in the House until the 3rd Baron Freyberg had come back from what was basically a gap year in China.

Boris slapped the side of the television set. "Stupid sodding–where's my wand? Acclarobeebus. Didn't know you were chummy with Seb Coe, though. I take it that was you two at tennis, throwing strawberries from the box?"

"Yeah, he's a friend."

"Not a bad move, having friends who head the Olympic Commission."

"Never crossed my mind," Draco grinned. "Not really the sporting type–oh, look, finally." Onscreen, Tony Blair strode around a suburban carpark, shaking hands and waving, before the cameras followed him inside a village hall.

"So, let me get this correct," Draco grimaced after Blair had left the podium to cheers and applause. "He announced in September that he'd announce within a year that he'd leave, and now he's announced that he'll leave in six bloody weeks, and that lot are happy clappy because they're going to get the dourest Scot in all dourdom as their fearless leader?"

Boris scrabbled a hand through his startled-duckling hair. "It'll be the pensioner, the prat, and the po-face Protestant in the Commons, sad to say."

"Your own party leader," Draco tutted. "Did you just call David Cameron a prat?"

"Like the Greeks, boy. Like the Greeks. Allegiance to ideas, but no man. Like you and Potter, eh?"

For all that it stung the remark seemed to be a throwaway bluster, but Draco eyed Boris skeptically. "You might say that; I couldn't possibly comment."

An unsent email (one of many):

Subject: [Saved Draft] (no subject)
From: The Office of Lord Malfoy <malfoy.d@hol.gov.uk>
Date: Monday 21st May 02:39
To: Harry <hpotter@libdem.gov.uk>

Harry,

--

THE DORCHESTER
PARK LANE, W1
Sunday 27th May, 4:14 pm

"Everyone?"

"Everyone." Blaise pushed a memo over the table between the scones. For once, Draco hadn't the appetite for clotted cream. "All three major parties, plus the Greens, the Scottish parties, Sinn Fein and–what are you like–Plaid Cymru?"

Draco was momentarily distracted by Blaise's ability to pronounce Welsh. He hadn't heard such a lilt since his nursemaid Laurie was sent off by an irate Narcissa; presumably he'd inherited his father's predilection for a pretty... accent.

He brightened. "So that's good!" He glanced up at Blaise, who was eyeing up the hotel lobby, convinced the Beckhams were staying here. "Right?"

"Possibly," Blaise returned his attention back to their afternoon tea. "Depends on your perspective. Either Lord Malfoy was allowed to claim his Viscountcy, enter the Lords on a technicality and then generously and indiscriminately donated across the political spectrum. Or you entered the Lords because of said indiscriminate donations." He surveyed the sandwiches. "Not such a wise idea to do it all on the same day, in retrospect."

Draco lounged back in his chair. "But I have no cause to anticipate calls from the Metropolitan Police at six in the morning?"

"I doubt it," Blaise said. "At least not as regards this. You might want to cut back on the gangland rentboys."

Draco blew across the top of his Assam. "That was just the one time. You know I don't really share your enthusiasm for fucking random Muggles–ooh."

They both peered over at the reception desk, where the former England captain was signing an autograph. "Except that one?"

"Except that one."

"Hmm." Blaise folded his fingers together across his stomach as he leaned back again. "Speaking of Potter, I take it by your availability on a Sunday afternoon–"

"We weren't speaking–"

"Oh, but look, now we are. So as I was saying, you're clearly not shagging your way together around the European mini-break hotspots, which means you haven't taken my advice and offered to demonstrate your unparalleled enthusiasm for giving–"

"–If you don't mind," Draco glared, "I will attend to the details of my personal life in my own time and in my own fashion. "

"Oh, just get on with it." Blaise made a great show of stretching in the chair and hooking his arms over the back. "Bad enough I should become the secretarial cliche and take an interest. Now we've established your financial idiocy was completely non-partisan, the least you could do is provide the House clerks with some hardcore gossip."

THE PEERS LOBBY
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
Friday 8th June, 6:20 pm

"–and in addition to my duties in the House, I'll have further such meetings later today. So no, thank you." Draco smiled pleasantly at the lackey from the Foreign Office who was lamely trying to recruit for an Inter-Party Parliamentary Interest Group on Angola. Africa was over once the indie musicians had started wearing their little rubber bracelets. Draco was all about South America now.

There was an elderly chuckle behind him.

"I understand that you're representing the sporting honour of the Upper House later today, young man." Peering over his half-moon specs, Lord Naseby slapped him on the back. "Won the trophy once myself, back in my day in the Commons. Wasn't called the Annie then, of course. Wasn't such a thing as Crossbench, either."

Draco smiled politely and let Naseby reminisce on to himself until it clicked. Fuck. All this distraction with Potter and he'd completely forgotten about the pool tournament.

"Misspent youth, then?" Naseby, his bowtie bobbing gently, was asking where he'd learned to play.

"Absolutely squandered," Draco nodded.

ANNIE'S BAR
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
7:36 pm

"Here you are, sir." The barman pushed Draco's Guinness across the counter and nodded. "Good luck with it."

"Cheers." He downed a few mouthfuls and went through to the billiards room. Three of the other quarter-finals were already underway; Draco noted with some relief that Shahid Malik, who most people thought should quit politics and go professional, wasn't to be his opponent. He was already obliterating some poor flunky from the Home Office.

Draco didn't see anyone he knew in the knot of people around the table until Ed Balls–a Labour member tipped to be on the frontbench when Brown took over and who ate all the Jaffa Cakes at Ways and Means committee meetings–turned around and nodded in greeting.

"Sorry, long queue at the bar." Draco sat his beer down on a side-table, gave his jacket to the porter, and started to turn his cuffs over, half-listening to the conversation.

"–it's a good point, we should get the whips onto it–"

"–appalling that there's no portfolio." That was Balls: big booming voice to go with his name.

"–there's a position outside Cabinet under Education, but nothing specifically for child welfare–oh, there you are."

Draco turned his head at that voice.

"Needed to steady your nerves, did you?" Harry–Harry–was perched on the edge of the table, rolling the white ball back and forth with an insouciant flick of his wrist, his head inclined at Draco's beer.

Potter was the absolute last person Draco either expected or wanted to see right now. It had been a couple of weeks since the Incident, but that had been scarcely enough for Draco to look at his headboard without thinking of Harry's knuckles gripping it, let alone dispel the rest of the mindfuck Blaise had pulled.

Discreet enquiries had revealed this Penelope chit to be the horsey type of Dorset gal with two labradors in her LandRover, the sort who wrote a 'Country Diary' for The Face in between skiing in Finland and raves in Dubrovnik. Not a sniff of magic about her, which might account for her finishing with Potter if there was need of any other reason besides his gigantic ego.

And yet. No small black Pottercloud had appeared in Draco's office, huffy with indignation; there were no rancourous emails or an ill-tempered Hedwig, so Draco had to assume that Harry was so laced up that night he'd forgotten he was hexed.

It didn't allay the apprehension that churned up a small corner of Draco's stomach as Harry watched him. Under the disorienting table downlights his face was only half visible, his expression ambiguous. Draco felt his own tighten in response.

"How sweet of you to come along, Potter." It came out sharper than Draco expected. "I don't necessarily need the moral support but it will be so nice to have someone to keep the drinks coming." Draco brushed past Harry and instead turned his attention to the cue rack, picking out one with a heavier wrap so he could take a few really solid shots and blow out the cobwebs. He hefted out the cue and glanced up at the players' blackboard, where his own name was paired with– "Oh, fuck off."

"Pete came down with a nasty case of salmonella, poor bloke." Harry pushed off from the table and scooped his hair back. Perhaps he was the picture of concern for the benefit of colleagues, but Draco was wise to Harry's previous involvement in convenient food poisoning cases of fellow Liberal Democrats. "Called me earlier and asked me to step in rather than just give you a free pass. I told him I wasn't exactly Jimmy White–"

"That's snooker." Draco eyed Harry suspiciously. All that time with the Weasleys and no clue about pool? He was unconvinced. Harry was surely just out for a little tawdry revenge.

"See?" Harry grinned at the few bystanders in what Draco understood was meant to be interpreted as a self-deprecating fashion. "I'm just here to put up a bit of token resistance."

Draco shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "If you feel up for the humiliation. By all means."

*

Harry started the first frame with a piss-poor break. Draco watched his stance carefully and decided Harry was not acting incompetent. He just... was. No forethought beyond the immediate shot, and no economy of movement–save beyond his usual annoying dexterity. It begged the question why he was here, but Draco was tired with Potter-shaped conundrums. It would be something blunt and obvious, no doubt.

Draco relaxed a little and concentrated on setting up his own shots, calling a ball in succession in each of the corner pockets. He missed the fifth on the side with too much topspin and frowned at the baize.

He looked up to see Harry leaning on his cue, watching seriously. "You're good."

"Your standards are questionable," Draco lifted his glass towards the table. "Have at."

He'd left two easy setups for yellow on the table, and Draco was relieved despite himself when Harry sunk one of them. A complete lack of competition would have been tedious. Draco stepped up again and pocketed two more, leaving a final red and the black at opposite ends for his last turn. He drained down his Guinness, felt himself smile over the top of the glass. He liked playing pool. There was something infinitely relaxing about the ceramic click of billiard balls and the wax and wane of triumph.

"Where'd you learn?" Harry came around to survey the table, hooking the cue over his shoulders. The gesture left no doubt in Draco's mind that Harry was a novice. But the question? Draco looked at him disbelievingly: the Slytherin common room had gone through three tables with overuse, not counting the one that Greg and Millicent broke in other pursuits, and it was hard to believe that the other houses hadn't been similarly outfitted.

"School, of course," he replied, chalking up his cue. He added quietly, "The pockets move about and the table changes shape. Much more difficult."

"Ah," said Harry. "I didn't know that about you. But then, I suppose, I didn't ask." He raised an eyebrow at Draco, holding his gaze with a tight smile. The air was heavy even when Draco broke eye-contact to nod at the table.

"Yours."

The unobstructed side-shot eluded Harry, and he turned back from the table with a small shrug. Draco unclenched his grip from around his cue and stretched out his fingers. The distraction of being watched was nothing much compared to the prickly flush of realisation that Harry, perhaps, had a point.

He chalked the cue again, considering all the angles.

This was, however, a simple sort of sport, so Draco pocketed the final two with loud, satisfying thunks.

"Malfoy, first of three," the porter announced. A bar flunky came over with a tray of champagne flutes, but Draco waved her off. Half of a million pounds worth of wine in the Government Hospitality cellars, and they still tried to flog off antipodean fizzy in the bar. Disgraceful.

*

Draco made the next break and thought he might run out the frame until his fifth ball trickled to a stop an inch from the pocket. He looked up at Harry and glared.

"Shame," Harry said, lining up to bank off the top rail. It looked like the shots were pocketed properly, but only because the Muggles in the room couldn't see the air ripple where Harry was using the cue as a bloody great wand.

"Spare me," Draco muttered. He was above Potter's shenanigans, honestly. They played back and forth, Draco sinking a ball and curiously–to the onlookers–missing the next, Harry blatantly cheating and following his score.

Three balls left on the table, and Harry clapped him on the back. "Don't worry," he said, pocketing the black, "I'm sure it's just a minor setback."

*

Up at the bar, Draco tapped his fingers on the counter, contemplating migraine seizures for Harry and a Bloody Mary for himself.

"You forfeiting, Malfoy?" Harry sauntered up. "Best of three, remember."

"You're doing about as well as Cameron's A-List, Potter."

"Thought you needed the competition," Harry blinked at him. Draco hated having his own words thrown back at him.

Harry peered in the mirror behind the bar, ran his thumb across his jaw. "Bruised my face on your bloody coffee table. It's gone," he said conversationally, "which is good–for you–because I'd decided if it was still there when I saw you I was going to repay the favour."

For a brief second Draco wondered if Harry was going to actually clock him one in front of all and sundry, parliamentary priviledge notwithstanding. But Harry went on:

"Then I thought maybe that kind of tit-for-tat was getting a bit old."

"You–what?" Confusion was always a good fallback. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you–"

"Draco Malfoy," Harry shifted in close, his voice pitched low against the background hum. "You're fucking impossible, you know that? Four years of crazy flirting, and then you give me a concussion?"

Draco spun his head around. No-one was watching them, which was just as well, as he had a horrible suspicion his cheeks were pink. "The head trauma wasn't, um, deliberate."

"Dimwit," Harry looked up impatiently at the ceiling. "I was pretty sure we'd gotten beyond that phase of our relationship, you know."

"Two Guinness, gentlemen."

Drinking a mouthful gave Draco a moment to think, but the only useful thing he could come up with was that thinking, as pertained to Harry and himself, had perhaps declined in general utility.

"Harry, I just–" Draco ran his hands back through his hair before he realised the gesture wasn't even his own. Fucker. "I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head, brows drawn together in bemusement, looking intently at Draco as a smile broke out on his face. He brought his hand up, skimming the lightest of traces across the faint line across Draco's cheeks, one then the other. "You're still crap on your follow-through," he said softly, and picked up his drink, heading back to the table.

*

Draco's concentration was pretty shot; Harry didn't use a jot of magic and the last game was still close. Between turns, Harry was carrying on the discussion that had been underway when Draco arrived. It seemed he was trying to motivate some kind of initiative for a Minister for Children in the next session. As far as Draco knew, Harry had nothing to do with child welfare beyond godfathering the next generation of Gryffindors, but maybe there was some sort of tiresome personal demon the Boy Hero had to work through via legislation.

Talk turned to the recent edict that MPs were no longer allowed a sofa in their offices. Draco–who had stared appalled at the Estates and Facilities minion who'd shown him the room he was supposed to share with two other Peers of the Realm, then promptly converted a service cupboard into his corner office with the help of several enlargement charms–shared a conspiratorial glance with Harry. He knew damn well that Harry had done exactly the same thing.

Balls was adding: "–apparently the village is approaching the population density of Dar-es-Salaam."

"I hate the way people use the term Westminster Village as if it's some sort of gentle hamlet in the Cotswolds and not a ghetto of power-mad lunatics," Draco said, "Present company included, of course." He pocketed the black in the far corner with a decisive crack.

"Two games to one, Malfoy," concluded the porter over a smattering of applause.

The tension of their earlier exchange came flooding back to Draco as he leaned over to shake Harry's hand, but he managed: "Do you have plans, now?"

Harry looked up at the parliamentary monitors before replying. "There's a division shortly."

Right now, Draco hated democracy. "Ah."

"It's." Harry screwed up his face a little. "Sorry, it's important."

"Of course."

Someone called: "–Potter, are you coming?"

"Yup," Harry said, letting Draco's hand go.

*

"Congratulations, Lord Malfoy," the porter said, handing him his suit jacket. "Through to the semi-finals."

At least something went in his favour.

*

Draco's footsteps clipped loudly on the marble of the Common's Lobby.

"Potter!"

Harry paused at the door of the Commons, knotting his tie as the Doorkeepers started to close up.

"Quick," Harry said. "Gotta vote."

Deepbreath. Deepbreath: "After?"

"All yours," Harry smiled, and disappeared into the Chamber.

ST STEPHENS CLOISTERS
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
10:11 pm

"Who goes home!"

In the days when London was subject to pea-souper fogs, Draco supposed the evening cries of the police might have been helpful to cab-seeking, late-voting MPs, but on a summer evening whose only menace was the odd German tourist photographing Big Ben, the coppers just looked a bit embarrassed. He propped himself against the arch and watched the Palace empty of its inhabitants, streaming out to taxis and the tube, a few hardy souls clipping lights onto their bicycles and donning helmets.

After twenty minutes spent rearranging various objet d'art in his office he'd decided fresh air was the thing and sent off a note to Harry by the House runners.

Footsteps.

"I do love defeating the government." Harry's head poked around the little alcove Draco had discovered.

"That's something of a pasttime for you, isn't it?"

Harry lounged against the wall next to Draco, his jacket unbuttoned and tie off again already. For someone so fucking gorgeous he always managed to make a suit look dishevelled. "Vanquishing evil, one early day motion at a time."

This was–good. Familiar. Draco could trade snark with Harry for approximately ever. It went some way towards stupefying the flibbertigibbets in his stomach, too.

"Vanquishing?"

"I got a little further along in your thesaurus," Harry turned towards him, "it has been some time–"

"– a long time, yes," Draco cut him off, certain there was some explicable reason for why he hadn't done this earlier, but equally certain that it could wait, and kissed him.

Harry's mouth was pliant and slutty, opening hungrily as Draco pushed him back against the wall, and for the long moments of frantic snogging Draco felt nothing but warmth and pleasure and the overwhelming relief of being kissed back. Kissed back with purpose.

Kissing, kissing, Draco hadn't kissed someone like this for years. It was insanely good.

"Wait–" Harry pushed him back, straightening his glasses over heavy-lidded eyes as he glanced behind them into the passageway "–not here–Draco–"

Draco's head was spinning, dopey with off-kilter kisses; daft things like where they were seemed such a minor concern, but he liked watching Harry's mouth move when he spoke. "Hmm?"

"–people. Just around the corner." Harry's hands slipped over Draco's shoulders, threading into his hair, tugging. That felt very good, too. But there were little lines of concern above Harry's glasses. Hmm.

People. Crap. In the public eye, yes, if you peered over from the tube station.

Draco shook his head. "Charm, charm, thingy charm." He drew a hasty obfuscation in the air around them, turned back to Harry and–where was he?

"Harry?"

"Here, you nob," Harry said, breaking Draco's sloppy charm and coming into view again, "you alright?"

Draco stared at him. No, he thought, I just kissed you and it was so good I'm shaking like a fairy dust addict without a fix and I just screwed up a child's spell because I can't think straight and I kissed you in the fucking Houses of Parliament without so much as a closed door or a statute of secrecy to hide behind and I kissed you. "Fine. You?"

"Same," Harry said, with just a hint of a crack to his voice, and Draco felt a little better.

"Want to–"

"Yes."

"Oh, fuck," Draco said, and he loved a good suit, he really did, because the seams were well-stitched and held up to a thorough manhandling such as Exhibit A, Harry Potter, firm grasp on Draco's lapels and hot, impolite kisses that just went on and on. "Say yes again."

"Yes–ngh, christ–" Harry's voice went up, "–yes."

Indeed, thought Draco, shoving his thigh between Harry's legs a little further and grinning, I will not say no to that. At all. Hello.

But there was still the location problem. "Office?"

"No. No fucking way."

Draco paused, drew back a little. Stubbornness narrowed Harry's gaze.

"Come Monday we can do every broom cupboard of this bloody building," Harry's voice was rough, and that made the flibbertigibbets in Draco's stomach do an entirely different kind of nervous canasta, and the heat in his groin was more urgent. "But right now I want to fuck you, and then you'll need some sleep, because in the morning I'll want to fuck you again, and I don't fancy the couch in your office is that comfortable."

He paused. "Draco?"

Draco swallowed. "Who says you get to–"

"You do. Later is negotiable."

"But I don't" just would not make it past the thought stage into actual spoken words. Draco, in subsequent rationalisations, put that down to the resolute certainty of Harry's expression which said because I wish it to be so and you won't stand a chance, and Draco was never very good at withstanding that sort of implacability, and if he was going to do something profoundly reckless like have sex with Potter, why not go the whole jolly hog and set it up for maximum emotional disaster?

"You'll owe me, you have no idea."

Harry shrugged, crooked up the side of his mouth into a saucy invitation. "I like pretty much everything."

"I'm particular," Draco said, "I'm sure you're surprised."

"I think you're probably a bit repressed."

Draco kissed him for that, digging his fingers into the soft spots at the base of Harry's neck. "Were we leaving?"

"This is where you say 'Back to mine,' I think." Harry pulled him into the far corner of the alcove, pressing kisses along his jawline. The marble against Draco's back was still warm from the day, but Draco shivered a little. This would not do.

"One of the reasons I don't–" Draco swallowed. Harry was working at Draco's tie. With his teeth. "–like you is because you invade people's space without invitation."

"You kissed me, Draco."

"You're also a bit dim."

Harry snorted. "Leave it out. You'll like it better on your turf. And you can throw me out."

It was a point, and the ache in Draco's chest was not getting any better with all this palavering about, and he'd stopped even thinking about the ache down below, probably because all the blood available for his brain was still cliche, yes, down below. "Fine," he sighed. He tugged Harry's head up. His thick locks of black hair were a proprietary sight between Draco's fingers, and for a moment Draco wondered what the fuck he'd agreed to, and then Harry bit him on the earlobe and sucked hard and all equivocation became like last week's news, and he yelped:

"Apparating?"

Harry tipped back his head and scrunched up his chin, flickering mischief. "Nah, lets take a taxi."

"Come again?"

"You don't like the idea? Bit of a thrill in the dark–"

"Buh-ya-mm–" Draco couldn't decide how to start his sentence. "...magic," was what he spluttered, hoping it conveyed something like: as much as I'd like to get my hand on your cock in the back of a black cab let's save the exhibitionism for the future and please can we apparate right. fucking. NOW.

Bollocks, he must have said the last bit outloud, because Harry's grin went all twitchy and smug:

"Impatient, are we?"

Cheeky fucker. Draco couldn't wait to wipe the arrogant smirk off Harry's face.

"On occasion, yes. Where did this nasty streak of self-control come from?"

Harry leaned a little harder into him, which was a big yes, everywhere. Draco hadn't thought to move his gaze away from Harry's mouth: smart decision, on reflection, because Harry licked just under his top teeth and grinned, and Draco thought–ridiculously–but we banned fox-hunting, didn't we?

"Self-control? I had a brief career as a contract-killer for the state, remember?–ohhh. You like that, your face, Draco, you've–"

"Nothing," Draco bit down on his tongue, suddenly aware he had no idea what his face was doing.

"–too late, saw it," Harry said, and shoved his hand between them, heel of his hand straight onto Draco's cock and pressed, and moved, and squeezed, and Draco went stupid at the knees with that sort of of direct handling at the best of times and now? Was not Draco's finest hour with respect to composure, but at least he had the presence of mind to muffle the groan he couldn't help with Harry's shoulder.

Firm shoulder. Muscles shifting. Draco wanted to bite down so badly.

"Yeah," Harry said, warm voice in his hair, "you like it and you're hard and you're close," and Draco wanted more of that, wanted him to keep talking so he wasn't sure why he said:

"shutup, shutup,"

but Harry, Harry took no notice whatsoever and kept his lovely grip on Draco, wanking him firmly through his trousers. The wool gave fantastic friction but the buttons were fucking deadly and Draco was under no illusion that Harry wasn't aware of that fact. No illusion whatsoever.

"Good?" Harry's stroking turned into fingertips, teased an outline of Draco's cock, lighter and lighter. "I'll get you off right now if you want."

Draco breathed. Air in, air out.

Harry shoved his whole body against Draco to murmur in his ear: "Make up for lost–"

Concentrating, now. "So help me god, Potter, if you get splinched it's your own fucking fault–"

*

"It's kindof hot that you can do that while you're getting a hand-job," Harry said when the apparition pop faded.

"Impending climax. Focusses the mind," Draco panted, trying to regain his breath as well as he could with Harry wrapped deliciously around him. "Let me go and then bloody well finish what you started. Properly."

Harry tightened his hold, one hand splayed through Draco's hair, the other restless on his rear, humid breath pooling at Draco's collar. "One or the other. I like it here."

No fucking kidding, thought Draco, groaning at the pleasurable spasm when Harry's cock rubbed against his own. But... no. Dry-humping was not an option here. "Harry," Draco stumbled them against the back of the chesterfield, "I will throw you out in the street. Behave."

Muttering, Harry unwound himself enough so Draco could actually move his arms.

"Better." Draco's hands twitched between indecision and want. Possibly also from the urge to smack Harry across the mouth, which was pleasantly familiar and hadn't been irrevocably damaged by this whole kissing thing, so perhaps matters weren't dire just yet. The lights were slowly glowing as they registered Draco was in the room, showing Harry to have the kind of wanton colour in his cheeks that made Draco's pulse race.

"Wait." Harry blinked and frowned, looking around. "Where's this?"

"My house," Draco replied, composure regained enough to prioritise kissing the corner of Harry's mouth, "like you said."

"This isn't–"

"Less talking, more touching." In his lust-addled haze he'd apparated them to the sitting room, and now he was trying to steer Harry through the hallway without letting go of him.

Harry stopped, held them still. "No, where are we?"

"Hallway, en route to the bedroom. First right, flight of stairs, second left, your clothes on the floor–"

"–It's different."

For heavens sake. "Other house. Wimbledon."

"But why have I never been here?" Harry demanded. The rest of his body was still, like he was ready to spring. Or explode. As gratifying as Harry's tantrums could be Draco did wish he could sometimes just pack it in for ten minutes. Five even.

Draco tugged at him. "I invited you once. We only got as far as the pub."

"Once." Harry regarded him closely.

In Harry's glasses, Draco could see his own reflection, lit from the side by street illumination through the windows. That was too distracting: he slid them off into a pocket, but Harry continued:

"Once in four years. What the fuck is up with that?"

"A man's home is his sanctuary." He'd meant it to come out caustic but it merely sounded plaintive. "If I'd invited you in, I'd never have got rid of you."

"That's just vampires–"

"It's a personality type," Draco said, because he'd seen all variations on a Penelope and what they looked like afterwards, and if there was one thing Draco had honed to perfection it was the desperate art of self-preservation. It was just a shame about now.

"I am not–"

"Harry," Draco curled a palm around Harry's jaw, pressed his forefingers to Harry's mouth, "do shut up." Draco held his gaze, the both of them quiet, breathing quick and shallow.

It felt like a very long time to be so close together, just looking. Draco's pulse seemed to become audible.

Then Harry swallowed, and the muscles shifting in his throat made his skin terribly enticing, and Draco couldn't not: he angled Harry's face and kissed him, opening his mouth right over Harry's answering response, wet and urgent and fantastic.

From there, the sequence of events in between the hallway and the bedroom was a little hazy.

*

There was the undressing in the doorway, difficult because they were glued to each other:

Draco pressed against Harry, seeking the taut friction of his body. "What do you like?" Kissed the smooth skin under his eyes, Harry's lashes flickering uncontrollably.

"Your mouth," Harry tipped his head back, his hips forward, "don't stop, don't stop kissing me."

Easy to oblige; Draco couldn't stop touching him, tasting him, the salty dip of his sternum, his hard and eager nipples through the soft cotton of his shirt. He kept missing with the unbuttoning charm and gave up, took Harry's shirt off with impatient, clumsy fingers. All the while, Harry didn't shut up; little noises, soft gasps, "there, yes, yes–"

"Oh, you're beautiful," Draco ran his hands across the broad expanse of Harry's chest, sucked rosy bloodmarks down his sternum while he unbuckled Harry's trousers. Harry's breath was hitching, and Draco stood to kiss him, rubbing himself against the hard length of Harry's cock while he worked their trousers down, drinking it in as Harry bit his lip and moaned into Draco's mouth.

*

There was, fuck, there was this:

"Oh, fuck, fuck," Harry groaned, "so good, your mouth, it's just–" His hands clutched, agitated, at the back of Draco's shirt as he fought with the compulsion to let go and push inside. Draco felt of sharp rush of satisfaction; he knew how good he was at this, and the powerful contradiction–being on his knees but in complete control–never failed to thrill. He paused, waiting for Harry to settle, then scraped the flat of his tongue hard up against the underside of Harry's cock, humming with pleasure as that got him another groan. Good, Draco thought, coaxing Harry's hands up to grab the back of his head.

"Yeah," Harry threaded his fingers through Draco's hair and smoothly pushed his hips forward like that was all he'd ever wanted, filling Draco's mouth to the back of his throat. Draco closed his eyes again and let Harry fuck his mouth, gorgeous length grazing along his tongue so perfectly that Draco couldn't help his throaty, coaxing noises, wanting Harry to push all the way inside, thrust himself into his mouth so Draco couldn't feel anything else.

He grabbed Harry's hips and held him, taking him deep, sucking, his own prick fat and twitching with every noise he pulled from Harry, loving the breathy grunts and gasps he made when Draco used his tongue.

"Close," Harry whined, "Draco–"

"Mmm," Draco licked swipes around him, salty and hot, "Come then, come for me–"

That made Harry jolt: "Stopstop–jesus–" he pushed at Draco's shoulders, reaching down to grab the base of his shiny cock, heaving in a breath, "–not. yet. Want to fuck you–"

It was amazing how idealistically long-term Harry could be, even on the brink. Draco rose and wrapped his hand around Harry's own, interweaving their fingers. "Too late, Harry, just give it up," he murmured, tightening and pulling a long stroke that made Harry rise up on his toes and slam his head back against the wall, shuddering as he came in spurts all over their hands.

*

There was Harry, post-orgasmic and laconic, showing off, snapping his fingers:

"What are you doing?" Draco's shirt tightened about him, buttoning, tucking; Harry straddled him, naked, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip with a slow grin.

"I wanted to take your clothes off properly," Harry said, settling himself over Draco's lap just so, "since you won't be putting them on again for some time."

"Oh," said Draco, because as much as the blithe assertion was Potterishly arrogant Draco had no problem with the general concept.

Harry's hands were surprisingly small as he whispered quietly to buttons and cuffs; his deft gestures so near that Draco could feel the heat of his skin as the fabric did what Harry told it to do, rolling back and rustling away.

It was like–no, he was–being slowly unwrapped. Harry's spells were overladen, leaving trails on Draco's skin humming with magic. The silk of Draco's tie was almost unbearable when Harry coaxed it in spirals around Draco's forearm, slipping like water between his fingers, and Draco couldn't help shivering.

"Now what shall we do?" Harry spread his hands wide on Draco's chest, finally touching him properly, the spell residue like a warm embrace, heavy and encompassing.

"You feel good," Harry said, "let me–" and Draco felt the shift in the air around them, felt an insistent, hot fluttering at the base of his neck.

"Oh–" Draco stilled, realising what Harry was doing; willing the automatic bloom at the edges of his own magic to stop, he drew back in the eager strands that were furling out to meet Harry's. Stay, stay. "Not yet."

Harry made a frustrated noise against Draco's neck. "Hmm, you really are repressed."

"No," Draco breathed out slowly. "But you–you're the sort of person who eats pudding first."

Harry smiled, and the fluttering subsided, but not before Draco's senses snagged on the displaced echoes of Harry's own; colours shifted off-spectrum, fuzzy edges, a faster heartbeat, all intoxicating, nameless shards of Harry, and they reeled him in, dizzy and out of control.

*

There was this conversation:

"Were you jealous?"

"–No. Harry, come on."

"You were jealous, that's why you cursed–"

"I hexed you. More, come on–slowly."

"Cursed, and one day I'll find out that curse and maybe I'll not report you to the Ministry."

"It's not–it's not–Unforgiveable. Yes, there, there there–"

"It should be."

"You wouldn't. Again."

"I might, you don't know."

"I d-do know. I–I–Oh. Ohh–-."

"You're fucking gorgeous like this."

"Don't stop. Keep your fingers–oh god, there. Course I was jealous."

"Tell me why."

"Don't stop."

"I won't. Tell me why, Draco, and I'll suck you off."

"Sweet fucking Merlin is it always this much–stop stopping–bargaining with you?"

"Ever beg like this for anyone else?"

"..."

"Didn't think so."

*

And finally, this:

"Are you close, Draco, close?" Harry's eyes were so wide; Draco nodded, because he couldn't speak, he was close, and the edge was so tempting, so lush, and he wanted to keep fucking him forever–

–and then Harry's hand on his cock was slick and manic, pumping him hard, no finesse–but, oh, pressure, friction; Draco arched and cried out when Harry slid off him and down the bed, grabbing Draco by the hips and engulfing him in his mouth, hot and sweet, sucking hard and screwing his fingers back into Draco's body. Too much, and Draco shuddered, spilling himself into Harry's mouth and tightening so hard around Harry's fingers he felt them twist inside him, sweet bursts of pleasure as he came.

*

In the small hours:

"Hmm?" Draco opened his eyes, sleep-fuzzy. Harry was opening the door. "Don't go."

"Is the loo alright?"

"Hmmm." Draco closed his eyes again, smiling. He drifted off until Harry shifted the covers, settling himself in, tucking his knees behind Draco's.

"I'm not leaving," Harry kissed Draco's shoulder.

"Good," Draco said.

LAMPTON HOUSE CLOSE
WIMBLEDON, SW19
Sunday, June 8th 11:42 am

"Want to have dinner at Granita?"

"It's closed." Harry was standing at the kitchen bench, his hair curling wet on the edges of Draco's robe. Draco had had it made for him in Shanghai, but all the bespoke silk embroidery in the world had never looked so good until now. A small mountain of toast crusts was piled on the newspaper. "There's a good bar there now, although if you want to sit outside you're basically in a bus-stop–"

Draco moved closer and kissed him. "It was–" Kissed him again, licking sweet marmalade from the corner of his mouth. "A figure of speech."

"Bugger," Harry's frown dimpled into a slow smile, "thought you'd be too well-fucked to be clever this morning." He ran his hands down Draco's back, pulling them together.

"You'll have to try harder. Mmm."

"Spent all weekend trying–"

"Spent being operative. That's quite a gift you have there, Mr Potter."

Harry looked down, smirking. "Yes, yes it is."

Draco laughed. "Actually, it's more like my gift." He took the last piece of toast from Harry's plate. "Happy Birthday to me."

ST STEPHEN'S TAVERN
WESTMINSTER, SW1
Monday, July 23rd 4:42 am

"–on the Woolsack?" Blaise's expression was halfway in between horrified and congratulatory.

Draco fought to keep a straight face. "Rumour mill working overtime, I'm afraid." He fished in the packet for the last of the crisps. "And in the end, too dusty."

"I can't believe I encouraged this," Blaise shook his head, but his little smile made it not entirely censorious.

Outside, the weather was chucking it down relentlessly against the leaded windows. The House was overrun by smarmy environment know-it-alls with their climate change prophecies of doom. Draco thought if he heard the word emissions uttered one more time–outside a pornographic context–he was going to hex the hapless fool.

Not that he was a global warming skeptic: quite the opposite. It was just patently obvious that the wettest British summer on record was Brian Haw's fuck you to the SOCPA legislation. He and his hippy mates in their tiny tent on Parliament Square had been–quite openly–constructing the mother of all rain charms for weeks. Draco had some sympathy for the man and his ongoing anti-war protest, but it was such a shame when talented wizards put themselves forward so openly.

What with one thing and another–Blaise buggering off to the south of Spain, and Draco spending much of his free time indoors–they hadn't got around to reporting the whole affair to the Office of Meteorological Misadventure.

On the television over the bar, the afternoon news cut to the sodden expanse of College Green, black cabs inching along Millbank in the downpour. Harry had spent an extra ten minutes that morning attempting to match a shirt and tie for the cameras–all for nothing, as everyone being interviewed was buttoned up in their macs, huddling under umbrellas.

As it was, the new Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families delivered most of the announcement, but it was quite refreshing to see the rumoured cross-party collaboration with the Lib Dems being announced to the media.

*

"Heineken for me. Guinness for you." Harry pushed a fresh pint across the table to Draco, beads of water dripping off the ends of his hair.

"No umbrella?" Blaise snickered, standing up. "I'll just be–"

"Sit down, Zabini, I only have two hands and the barmaid can't find a cucumber for your bloody Pimms." Harry stripped off the sodden coat, dumped it over the back of the chair, and darted back to the bar.

Draco bit back a laugh at Blaise's face. "Go on, stay."

"Fine," said Blaise, dubiously, though Draco wasn't fooled. "I'll count this as a working lunch."

Handing a glass to Blaise that was more fruit salad than actual liquid, Harry dropped one of the free London papers–the purple one–on the table. He tipped back a good third of the pint glass, and turned the paper over to the front. "Problem."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Draco.

"You are joking me," said Blaise, snatching up the paper.

HAVE I GOT NEWS FOR YOU, shouted the headline. Underneath: BORIS THROWS HIS HAT INTO MAYORALTY RACE.

Draco considered the matter. "It's not really a problem," he said.

"It's a fucking disaster," Harry spluttered, "he might win. The tube delays are bad enough without a Tory nob diverting funds into cycle lanes and Roman empire re-enactments."

"Yes, he might win," Draco smiled into his Guinness, glancing up at Harry with a brief wink, "But then it occurs to me that there'll be a job opening."

Harry looked over the table at him, and grinned.

I always wanted to write an epilogue. Oh good intentions. Thank you to circe_tigana, who asked me "but how do Harry and Draco get together?" approximately one billion times in the last year, and who made sure I eventually told her. ♥

[hp] corridors of power: epilogue I

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 22:03:17 GMT

"You want to know my political views, don't you? Why haven't you asked me?–Though I can't answer in one word. First of all, I haven't changed much as I've got older. I've learned a bit more, that's all... As I told you, I've never been dedicated to politics as a real politician is. But I've always been interested. I think I know something about power. I've watched it in various manifestations, almost all my life. And you can't know something about power without being suspicious of it."

–Corridors of Power, C.P. Snow

HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
Unidentifiable mid-December, 2006

Draco was a tiny miniscule insignificant little bit tipsy. "Nothing that a brisk taxi to the nearest walk–oomph!"

"Shh," Harry said, overloud, and Draco found himself pulled past the velveteen rope blocking off the public area and into a murky arterial of the Lobby. Harry, whose idea it must have been to stay at Bellamy's past three, was also perhaps quite plastered, his cheeks flushing.

"Rosily," Draco said to himself, liking the sound.

"You are so very strange." Harry leaned back against the flocked wallpaper, balancing on his shoulderblades and heels. "Show me the Lords Chamber, go on."

A private tour? Draco ran his thumb over his chin, considering both the question and whether to pluck the piece of tinsel from where it nested in Harry's hair. "You show me yours first."

"Got something to hide? Or you just a bit embarrassed 'cos it's smaller?"

"Not at all." Draco grinned. "Can't have you feeling demoralised at how impressively... hung it is, though."

Harry snorted, unfolded himself from his slouch and led them down a narrow clerical corridor. He'd cast some sort of spell that illuminated the lights dimly, salutory brightening as they walked past. It was very charming, as was the view Draco had of Harry from behind. "Mine's got leather, you know." He looked back at Draco amusedly. "Are you–"

"Velvet," Draco countered, "A big squashy velvet cushion in the middle of the room."

"Toffs." Harry pushed open a door marked 'Ways And Means'. "Always have to go one better. Through here."

Draco peered into the doorway. It looked like a Vanishing Cabinet.

"Vanishing wotsit." Harry cheerfully brandished his wand. "In you go!"

Somehow Draco had envisioned his career ending in a slightly more dignified and definitely less cabinet-y way. This was a low blow. "Er," he started, but then Harry shoved him bodily in the cupboard and stepped in after him.

"Don't be daft, Malfoy, if I wanted to do you in I'd think of something vastly more creative." Harry's smirk disappeared into black as he clicked the door shut.

"I'd also make sure I could see you, if I were–" Harry continued, so close that Draco was certain his own swallow must be audible "–oh, where the bloody hell is it? Stay still." Draco did as he was told; it was dark, Draco was sleepy, and Harry's body warmth against his side was like a stupefying spell all of its own.

Harry rapped knuckles at the backboard behind Draco, shifting distractingly. "No closet jokes," he murmured.

Draco twitched. "Wouldn't dream of it." Sounds of rattling at a handle.

"Aha." The door popped open, and there in front of them were the green leather benches of the House of Commons.

*

"Clever," Draco conceded. Perhaps Harry had read more of that Magical Westminster book than he'd let on, although a certain disdain for locked doors was part of the Standard Potter Operating Procedure. Harry, who had yanked the handle off the door, gestured out to the Chamber and motioned Draco in front of him. Draco tripped out of what appeared to be a wall panel, loosening his collar against the atmosphere.

He was habituated to it in the Lords, this tangible concentration of the will to power. A manifest, impoverished magic, it was hungry for focus, for something or someone to wield it. In the Lords Draco recognised it as vibrant and companionable, but it was different in this room; stickier, more cloying, more restless.

Draco waggled his fingers and thought–inexplicably–about plums. A Black Doris smacked neatly into his palm. "Look at that," he nodded at Harry. "I wanted a plum and your House of Commons gave me an plum." It was tart and perfectly fleshy when he bit into it. "Bet that doesn't happen too often."

"What? Don't really like stonefruit. It's unnatural." Harry had shoved his hands in his pockets and was trying not to be obvious about watching Draco eat.

Draco sucked hard on the plum stone, then aimed it at one of the snuff-boxes by the door. Score. "Ten points to the landed gentry."

"Ha bloody ha." Harry picked up the silver mace resting on the Clerk's table and flung himself into what Draco supposed was the Speaker's chair. Draco wandered about a bit, testing the seats–the leather worn shiny-smooth by political bottoms–and peering under the benches, but it was bloody distracting with Harry watching him and running his fingers back and forth along the engraved silver stem of the mace.

Draco stopped at the Speaker's chair and kicked at the base of the carved throne. Of course, being solid oak, the chair didn't move. "Stop that."

Harry tipped his head back; his grin looked like a frown in his upside-down face. Draco looked at him closely, surprised to see a few strands of grey in Harry's dark hair. He didn't feel drunk anymore, just heady.

"Stop what, Draco?"

"Fondling that... nob."

Harry laughed, but he didn't blink, and he didn't stop his idle stroking. "Why?"

"You'll call up the unseemly ghosts of backbenchers past." Draco stepped back before he really did ruffle Harry's hair and broke his gaze away to glance at the centre space. The hotel restaurant carpet was divided by tatty yellow borders. "What are the lines on the floor?"

"Observe!" Harry sprung up from the chair, mace in hand and playful, and leaned across the bench. He threw something to Draco, a cheap plastic pen emblazoned with the portcullis logo. "Make yourself a sword."

Draco snickered. "Anything in particular?"

"Oh I don't know," Harry shrugged airily, "Middle-class, me. The only sword I ever used was Godric Gryffindor's–"

"Showoff."

Harry grinned, and leaned his weight on the mace like a jaunty umbrella. "You will notice, Lord Malfoy, that these lines are–come here, stand on that side–just more than two sword lengths apart."

Draco looked up from his newly-transfigured pen, which was now a silver rapier with a wire hilt. He swung it up, watching the metal embellish itself with engraving and tracery, and felt rather pleased with himself. The feel of the weapon in his hand wasn't quite as thrilling as aiming a wand at someone's heart, but it was a satisfying second.

Oh, they hadn't done this for years. He caught Harry's eye, and the look they shared felt momentous and childish all at once, an acerbic sort of delight in just how far they had–and hadn't–come.

Without looking away, Draco extended his arm, shifting but resolute when Harry engaged his sword with the business end of the mace.

"This is not exactly an equally matched competition," Draco said.

Harry nodded slowly. "That's very true."

Draco's Christmas-party-addled brain was not up to sorting out that one. He'd think on it later.

"So anyhow," Harry tilted his head at the floor, "the lines are meant to prevent rowdy duels in the chamber. Speak from in front of them and you've overstepped your mark." His arm wavered slightly. That mace had to be awkward, the embellished crown making it top-heavy. Draco nudged at it with the tip of his blade, forcing Harry to hold the weight up higher. The mace jittered with his effort. "Possibly your average MP used to be a bit smaller–ow." He glared at Draco and dropped his arm, rubbing at his shoulder.

"Put that bloody thing back where you found it," Draco laughed. "Thank you for the history lesson."

Harry looked sulky. "I think it's a good story."

"I was being genuine, you idiot." Draco swished the blade at his side thoughtfully. "Think I'll keep this as a souvenir."

"Tour's over," Harry said, "Get back in the closet."

CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE
THE EMBANKMENT, WC2
Tuesday 16th January, 2007 10:07 am

Arctic didn't begin to describe the breeze off the river. The icy wind hurt Draco's eyeballs. He squinted against the grey expanse of the Thames as a Zabini-shaped form exited from the base of the Needle. "I don't know how you can abide that bloody portkey malarkey."

Blaise slapped the haunch of the sphinx and it moved its paw to let him collect his briefcase. "Takes me twenty minutes to get to the Place de la Concorde this way, and nineteen of that is Customs–fuck, it's cold, what kind of crap warming charm is that?"

Draco had taken the Needle Network to New York once and spent most of his tour of the UN trying to keep the resultant nausea down. "I'll stick to the Eurostar, thanks."

They set off down the Embankment towards Whitehall. Blaise was jubilant underneath his mockery of the French publishing house who had contracted his book. "They'd read the precis piece I wrote for the Statesman and fixated on a throwaway line about the reality television model of public life."

Draco smirked but kept his comments about Blaise's avid Big Brother fixation to himself. "And?"

"So they're convinced this is the next Freakonomics and want the whole idea spun out. It's ludicrous."

"Of course you'll do it."

"We're none of us above exploiting common stupidity for fame and fortune. What shall I call it?"

"Britain's Next Top Prime Minister?"

"I thought maybe 'Political Idol'."

"Hmm." Draco decided to capitalise on Blaise's convivial mood and decided to pop the question straightaway. The reaction was unsurprisingly difficult.

"I find it hard to believe you are unable to find an aspirational young thing to open your mail and answer your phones."

Draco developed a keen interest in the new scaffolding around Nelson's Column. "I'm particular."

"Did you even interview anyone from that pile of resumes I left for you? There were plenty of capable–actually, plenty of capable and pretty–candidates there."

The truth was that Draco had desultorily flicked through the top of the pile before dumping them all in the rubbish bin and following the whole sordid lot up with a banishing charm. He didn't want an efficient piece of eye-candy pretending to run his office. He wanted someone who could match him for scotch, someone who disagreed with him about the Schilling, someone who still despised the Weasleys. He wanted Blaise back.

"You're bloody useless, you know that? For one thing, there's an unemployment crisis right now, and you should be impressing the powers that be with your willingness to hire some Ministry higher-ups over-educated offspring. For another thing, you needn't have hardly anything to do with them, because as I can recount from personal experience, you don't exactly have a diary full of commitments–"

"See, this is exactly why you must come back. I need to be bossed about."

"You don't take one single bit of notice of what I tell you!"

"Please?"

"Oh, Draco." They had stopped at the corner of Northumberland. Blaise gave him a look that was treacherously pitying. "You really are terribly sweet, but if you're lonely I can't fix that for you."

"I didn't say that," Draco snapped. "I just offered you an excellent, well-resourced office in which to write this book of yours." He sniffed and turned to keep walking. "I'm merely looking out for your well-being."

THE LORDS CHAMBER
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
Thursday 8th February

Unstarred Questions. The standard back and forth played out on the floor with nothing more riveting than the Lord Brabazon of Tara assenting to a new clock for the Queen's Room. Draco had one ear to the chamber while he scowled at the parchment from Gringotts and his printout from Barclays.

Banking was a special branch of Dark Magic.

Not one that Draco particularly cared for, either; one had to deal with scuttling, gormless goblins and their endless bureaucratic gatekeeping, and the wizarding lot were no better.

No proper aristocrat examined the world of finance too closely. Draco was no different, but he had an extra level of distaste for the retro-colonialist acquisition methods of Gringotts. Curse-breakers? Please. One couldn't, however, kick up too much of a fuss about the spoils of Empire when one's own nest egg derived from the sale of property and objet d'art most definitely not acquired through entirely humanitarian channels, so Draco shut up while the Guardian classes tut-tutted about the Elgin Marbles.

Momentarily distracted by the Baroness Byford's question about gangmasters–which, it turned out, were not so much doyens of organised crime but people who employed students to pick their apples–Draco wondered if Boris had an accountant that he might borrow. Theodore's stepmother had been the Malfoy financial adviser, once upon a time. Theo had shared her bizarre fondness for sums, but that was of no use to dwell upon. It stung enough that the parchment had to be delivered by personal owl–Laertes was capricious and wary and his markings were like freckles, and Draco suspected Theo left him the Nott owl in the same sharp-edged manner of all his gifts.

Draco turned back to the lists of figures, scrutinising the amounts transferred between the accounts and jotting down anything remarkable that appeared as outgoings. How could anyone be expected to maintain a memory of personal expenditure four years after the fact? About the only thing that popped out immediately was the twenty thousand that made the difference between the Lexus and his DB7, and the only body that profitted from that was Aston Martin.

The press were calling it "cash for honours", as if one merely wrote a cheque and took one's seat in the House. An aide at Number 10 and Blair's tennis partner had been collared by the police; Draco had considered carefully with whom he'd strolled around the links at Brands Hatch, but thought he'd not lost a round to anyone of particular influence.

It wouldn't hurt to be careful. Draco folded the bank statements and returned his attention to the chamber, whereupon he was intrigued to find that, according to Her Majesty's Government, over nearly two thousand anti-social behaviour orders had been issued in the last six months, yet not a single one to John Prescott.

THE RAYMOND AND BEVERLY SACKLER GALLERIES
BRITISH MUSEUM, WC1
Thursday 15th March, 1:37 pm

For a weekday, the Museum was fairly quiet. Only one coach outside when Draco had greeted the lions, and very few school parties running amok around the Rosetta Stone. Not so many people that standing under the tessellated glass of the Great Court didn't feel like a small part of the sublime, but just enough human presence to keep the half-ghosts and dry old magics under control.

As always, the Near Eastern rooms were buzzing. Mummies, mummies. The muggles always went stupid over the mummies, as if the whole process of yanking out a brain through the nose and wrapping a body in old bandages was somehow the greatest achievement of Ancient Egypt. It put Draco in a petulant mood to see the crowds cooing around some rotting carcass when less vulgar treasures were all around them.

One young girl had her face pressed to the glass of a case full of seals and scarabs, resolutely ignoring the tugs and yells of her siblings. Draco thought she might have some promise, so he used a replica charm on a chalcedony barrel seal and let it drop into her pocket.

"Her parents'll probably think she nicked that." Harry shook his head. "More harm than good, you are."

"It'll be a formative experience," said Draco dismissively, annoyed at his slip. Harry had appeared out of nowhere from behind a statue of Nimrod.

"Uncharacteristically generous to a random muggle, though." They headed down the Mesopotamia corridor to where the gaggle was less goosey.

Draco brushed down the front of his jacket. "Excuse me, I just passed a board resolution to make even more of this great treasure-chest of an institution freely available to the daytrippers from Skegness, so there'll be no aspersions about Malfoy generosity, if you please–no, this way, the Sumerian rooms."

Harry frowned. "The committee meeting's at two. Where are we going?"

"Public funding board is at two. I want to show you something brilliant." Draco steered Harry by the arm to a small case where a row of miniature clay tablets sat, nondescript among the four thousand year old mercantile weights and domestic bowls. He pointed to the smallest tablet, completely covered in an indecipherable, close-packed script. It sat next to a leather pouch, half-disintegrated; the description label indicated the pouch was worn to carry the tablet around the neck. "Look, the last one." He looked at Harry to see his reaction, but Harry was staring at him instead, his mouth open.

It wasn't a terribly flattering look, but it did have a singular appeal. Draco observed the shiny details until Harry spoke:

"You're on the donors board?"

Incredulity was fine, really. Draco hadn't been brought up to deal with outlandish displays of appreciation. "You don't think I joined the Museums Select Committee because I had a few spare afternoons, did you?"

"I–Yes! That's exactly what I thought. You know. You have tasteful Chinese vases in your office." Harry waved his hands about in the language of sheepishness. "And Boris. I thought he'd detailed you off on his Shadow Culture portfolio, you know–"

Draco laughed. "You thought Boris was outsourcing to me? That's kind of hilarious."

"It's just... surprising."

"I long to hear your motive for preserving the nation's treasures, then, given that altruism is a new one to you."

Apparently the reason was obvious, the way that Harry raised his eyebrows. "I like to keep an eye on what artefacts surface. Stupid Ministry decision to merge the collections here without proper monitoring."

Bless. Harry was still mucking in after all this time. Draco found that thought quite comforting. "You might just have the museum's acquisition reports sent to you every quarter instead."

"Hmm." Harry cut his glance to the side. "I really like the restaurant here?"

Draco pressed his lips together to stop a smile escaping. Seemed he wasn't the only one uncomfortable intersecting meaningfully with the charity sector. "Airy dismissal is my thing, Harry, it doesn't really work when you look earnest and determined."

"–uh, so, anyway, you were saying about this thing..." Adjusting his glasses with careful precision, Harry peered into the case in front of them, reading the label. "... water spell!"

"Deliquescere," said Draco, looking about as the glass dissolved. As always, the Abyssinian and Sumerian empires got no love: there was no-one else near their case. He reached down and pressed his fingers into the hollow in the middle of the tablet. Immediately, the incisions that made up the cuneiform script began to move, marshalling into a crude outline of the room, then into a facsimile of the museum itself with its round Reading Room in the middle; finally, they stilled into a sketch of the surrounding neighbourhood. A swirl of vee-shapes swung from the museum's position up to one corner of the tablet, a large square outline, and hovered about the centre.

Draco spelled the glass back and watched the script scurry back to its original position. "Russell Square fountain," he mused. "Last time it pointed to the ground floor mens toilets."

Harry glanced up at Draco, clearly taken. "I do love a clever map charm," he said, almost wistful. "Can't believe that it still works, after all this time."

"Probably took a year to construct," Draco said. "Not like what we do–a quick flick, disposable spells, nothing permanent."

Harry snickered, turning Draco's wrist to look at his watch. "We'd better go: it's nearly two. And it's progress, Draco. You'd be the first to complain if you had to build up a Lumos from light wavelengths and heat insulation and... whatever else you need."

"I have an appreciation for a well put-together bit of magic," Draco eyed Harry, "is that a new suit?"

Rm. 407
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (LORDS)
Wednesday 25th April, 2:23 pm

"Hola?" Blaise was in Seville.

"Don't practise your Eurotrash on me." Draco pushed his fork into the soft peach of his hakuto and took a mouthful. The Japanese confectionery on Piccadilly was deadly. "Learn Japanese. Then you can come to Minamoto and order me these squishy sherbet things–"

"Chingate, baby," laughed Blaise. He became so mellow in the Costas; Draco thought it was the sangria. "Are you done yet?"

"Recess is still a number of weeks away. Although with all this dilly-dallying from Blair we could have a no-confidence vote tomorrow." The thought of the summer prorogation was making Draco feel strangely bereft, but the loans scandal was still nagging at him. He hadn't thwarted Potter's Private Bill to trip up on that. Two months of quiet research made him realise (a) how much he'd taken Boris's advice to heart ("Politics is now, boy, you can sort out documents when they send the bailiff") and (b) that Blaise considered Basque to be an acceptable basis for his filing system. ETA separatist Basque, at that.

Blaise was talking: "Can't chat now, but come down at the weekend? There's an intercontinental floo point at the Alhambra."

Draco wrinkled his nose and pushed his plate across the newspaper on his desk. "Too many Spaniards." Time to bite the bezoar. "Blaise, have–"

"There's more Spanish people in London in spring. Don't be morose. We'll take you to Gibraltar, they have an M&S, you'll feel right at home–"

"Shh. Have I given anyone large sums of money in the form of party donations?"

A sigh.

"What? Well?"

"Draco, I was just about to go and fuck my wife. Can't this wait?"

"Fine." Draco hung up. It was only early afternoon, for pity's sake. The Mediterranean climate turned everyone into savages.

THE ALBANY
PICCADILLY, SW1
Thursday 3rd May, 12:07am

The ring of the telephone gave Draco such a start that he dropped Baroness James' last in the bath. He fished it out reluctantly: the mystery plot was lacking twistiness and a bit of water damage could only help. Getting up suddenly–and the sauna-like temperature–made his head spin, and he stared stupidly at the dark screen on his mobile until he realised it was the porterage calling on the hall phone.

"Yes?" Draco dripped on the floor as he juggled a towel and the telephone, wishing the damn thing would respond to a summons like any sensible piece of magical furniture.

Burrell, the porter, sniffed delicately. "There is a–" Draco could hear the reluctance to use the word "–gentleman calling, my Lord Malfoy."

Draco loved the Albany, he really did. As far as historic apartments in St James with permanent floo hookups and adequate plumbing went, there was none finer. It just got a bit tiresome feeling like he was in a Regency novel everytime someone came over for a drink.

"Who is it?" Draco looked at the clock; it was past twelve. He accioed his robe and slipped it on with a frown.

"A Mister Harry Potter for you, sir." A cough this time. "He is somewhat... indisposed."

Draco could make out bleats of protestation from Harry in the background. "Send him up, then. Is he capable of finding his way?"

"I believe the gentleman–" the porter's voice was cut off by Harry's slur. "Draaaaco. It's me."

"Of course it's you." Draco pressed the lift code and hung up.

*

Draco wrenched open the door, quite prepared to give Potter a bollocksing for turning up ratfaced on his doorstep on a Thursday night. The rain-soaked sight swaying damply in the hallway was utterly pathetic.

"Good lord, that's even a rented tuxedo, isn't it?" Draco winced. Harry wouldn't be getting his deposit back on that. At least he hadn't stooped to Ming Campbell's level and hired Robbie William's suit-maker for the street cred.

"Hi." Harry looked straight at him with the overly-focussed gaze of the alcoholically augmented. "Wanna come out?"

"No, you fucking idiot, I do not." Draco pulled him in; Harry's wet shoes squeaked on the hardwood. It was bucketing down outside, being London in the springtime. "Even if it weren't midnight, it's revolting outside and you hardly look like you're capable of standing upright, let alone being charming company."

"Hi," Harry said again, and wrapped his arms around Draco, hugging him with a little sigh.

Draco stood very still. Harry's hair was wet-spiky and cold against Draco's cheek.

"Alright," said Draco quietly.

Harry let go and stumbled past Draco and into the reception room, mumbling something that sounded like "everyone wants charming." Draco followed. Harry shrugged off the sodden jacket and tossed it onto Draco's club chair, flailing about in the middle of the room before shoving his hands in his pockets. "There weren't any. Um. Any cabs." His glasses were fogged, sliding further down his nose as he sat down on the couch. "Aaaand. Couldn't apparate."

Draco thought wistfully about his cooling bath. "Uh-huh. How much have you had to drink?"

"Lots."

"Anything else?" Draco had seen Harry snort coke right off Alex James's forearm; besides, even the Tory Leader admitted to a bit of recreational Class A use. If Boris's stories about the Bullingdon Club at Oxford were true, Cameron's entire future consisted of his scandalous Brideshead escapades being drip-fed to the public. Harry would do well to be more circumspect. At least when Draco indulged in pharmaceuticals he could blag them off as Dutch health supplements.

Harry's head thunked on the back of the couch. "Possibly."

Draco decided to press the point home. "Poor darling. You must be feeling dreadful."

A tiny little groan, which Draco supposed was one of assent. That first moment with your eyes closed, sitting down: that was the killer.

"Throw up on my rug and I'll extract your fingernails," Draco said, and went to put the kettle on.

*

"Where were you, then?" Draco was unaware of any parliamentary social events that'd been on that night, leastwise, not any dull enough to require the presence of an Opposition backbencher, and not any exciting enough that Harry wouldn't be noticed.

"Fabian's Boat Party," Harry said, appearing to concentrate very intensely on holding his teacup. Draco hoped he would manage at least a few mouthfuls; he'd splashed in Goodwyfes Clarity but you could never trust a store-bought potion.

"Fabian as in your mate Fabian with the silly name or Fabian as in–"

"Young Labour thingy. You have a stupid name." Harry dropped his cup into the saucer with a clatter. "There's charms in this tea, tastes funny."

Draco snickered. "What were you doing, infiltrating their ranks to suss out defectors?"

"I was–never mind." Harry blinked at Draco before grinning, but it wasn't a smile that reached anywhere near his eyes. He looked down at the teacup then up at Draco. "I should, you know, go," Harry waved in the direction of the fireplace, "that works, right?"

"Floo?" Draco frowned. "No. I really don't think I fancy explaining why your head is in Bermondsey and your feet are in Piccadilly to anyone, starting with the Ministers For and Of and working down to the gutter press."

Harry scowled. "I. Am. Fine." He tripped on the rug as he stood up.

"Sit," Draco summoned a wand from the mantelpiece. "Just sit. Don't move. Could you please attempt to remember what you partook of this evening besides alcohol, so we can return your motor skills to passable and, and I can go to bed?"

"So bossy," Harry pouted.

Draco rolled his eyes and cast something generic and anti-narcotic, only to have it batted back at him with a swipe of Harry's hand. The spell sunk into his lungs like overactive air-conditioning and for a brief second Draco knew with absolute clarity what he'd got wrong on the last problem set in his final Arithmancy test.

"Don't touch me." Harry's voice was suddenly belligerent. "Said I was fine."

Whatever thrill Draco felt at Harry's swift display of magic was cut short by a surge of irritation. "You're drunk," Draco snapped, "and you're sulking a wet spot into my art deco upholstery–"

"Penelope dumped me," Harry said, picking at a thread on one of the cushions.

Draco sighed and picked up the teacups. "I'm sure Penelope was a lovely girl for all of the two weeks you've known her, but you just need to sleep–"

"Five months."

One of the saucers landed on Draco's bare foot. The ache was profound.

"She said I was moody and difficult." The decorative button popped off in Harry's attempt to unravel the cushion.

"You are," said Draco slowly. "I'm sorry, did you say months?"

"Yeah." Harry sat forward with his head in his hands, damp hair obscuring most of his face apart from that scar that never faded. "I dunno. It just. Hurts a bit."

"Good." Draco's wand trembled in his palm, and he didn't even have to think the stunning spell before Harry slid forward onto the floor, still as stone.

Rm. 128
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (LORDS)
Friday May 4th, 9:27 am

It was a very busy morning.

That it was morning at all and the corridors were packed was singular; Lords kept ladies-hours as a general rule, and as a more specific rule Draco kept something he thought of as lunch-hours.

The end of session brought about the usual scurry to pass through public Bills that everyone was tired of nitpicking and couldn't be bothered to think about over summer. It also created a trading-floor atmosphere of deals and brokerage regarding the fate of smaller bits of private legislation. The Written Answers Session dissolved into politely hysterical laughter when the Earl of Sandwich, in all seriousness, read out a statement regarding the position of Very Tall People as a public transport interest group.

Right at this second Draco needed the folder on Azerbaijan which he had inconveniently left behind in his rush to leave that morning. More accurately, he'd left the folder in the flat, which he'd been in not so much a rush to leave as numbly furious at Harry fucking Potter and his five fucking month... Penelope.

And then furious at himself for being furious in the first place.

He'd apparated to his quiet, leafy, conspicuously-lacking-Potter Wimbledon home, had a cup of chamomile, chased it with a very large glass of Norwegian brandy, and fallen asleep. He woke up at half-four from a dream where Harry and Margaret Thatcher were redecorating his bathroom, cursed his subconscious, and decided that even if the incapacitating hex had worn off, Harry was so trolleyed he was probably just snoring on the carpet.

The point remained about the folder. Whether Harry remained also was a point whose accuracy Draco cared little about establishing in person, so he was sending Blaise.

GO 2 FLAT & PICK UP
GRN FOLDER ON DESK
AM IN SELCOM MTNG
NEED PRESENTATN
NOTES TX D

"Malfoy, isn't it?"

Draco looked up from his mobile. "Sorry, what? Yes." It was the supermarket chap, Sainsbury. Draco had exchanged pleasantries with him a couple of times but found it awkward; he was a Waitrose man through and through on account of their Bakewell tarts. Baron Sainsbury was another who'd been questioned about his loan to the Labour Party. Draco hoped it didn't actually cost two million in donations to become a Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State.

Tilting his head, Sainsbury frowned at the door. "You don't happen to know if this is the room for Welsh Affairs?"

One imagined a strapping Pembrokeshire beauty named Morgan lurking the other side of the doorway. "No," Draco said blandly, "this is Human Rights. As such we don't deal with Wales."

Sainsbury gave him the long look of one unsure if there was an acceptable joke being shared. "Right. Cheers, then."

His phone beeped with Blaise's reply as Sainsbury strode off:

IF I HAD A
FORELOCK I'D
BE TUGGING IT

The knot in his stomach eased a little. Nerves were acceptable: this was a crucial meeting. Draco had asserted a useful position in the select committee and didn't intend to let a little personal disorganisation throw him off his game at this stage.

*

"Here you are, m'lud."

"Took your time," Draco whispered, flipping through the folder Blaise had procured. "Your dawdling might have impeded the progress of enlightened capitalism in the former Soviet republics. And I had to let Colville give his naff presentation first, the little upstart."

Blaise gave him a half-smile, but he didn't mention Harry or indicate anything untoward. "You'll be fine. Let's have a drink later when your committee decides how to bring democracy to the marauding oil barons of Central Asia."

Baroness Trumpington–a former Naval Intelligence girl at Bletchley Park who told gleeful espionage tales and did the Telegraph's Sudoku at top speed–appeared at the doorway with a piece of shortbread and the very same MP for Stourbridge fawning at her elbow. "You just about ready then, Draco?"

"Absolutely, ma'am," Draco straightened his cuffs. "Thought-provoking piece there, Gerald. Hope I can follow on and do you justice."

THE ATHENAEUM CLUB
PALL MALL
9:22 pm

The braziers on the terrace gave off a comfortable heat, once the coals had stopped spitting sparks that endangered one's trousers. It wasn't yet summer; the humidity of the previous week had been dispelled by yesterday's rain and it was still cool in the evening.

Draco recounted the Select Committee point-scoring he'd managed with his report on trafficking in Central Asia, but two glasses of chablis and a decent langoustine dinner and Blaise still had yet to mention a word about his trip back to Draco's flat. Perhaps there was nothing amiss when he'd got the papers; no vandalism, no enraged Potter hexing every item of furniture so it bit off Draco's bollocks next time he sat down. Stranger things had happened, so Draco just counted himself lucky and steered the conversation back to Blaise's book.

"I thought I might have a chapter based on Wife Swap," Blaise stretched back in his chair as the waiter cleared their table and replaced the wine.

"What, have people swap parties?"

"Don't you think it's a marvellous idea?"

"Only for the clarity it would bring to the notion that there are no real differences between political manifestos." Draco stabbed a toothpick into the olive bowl and shifted his chair to face Blaise. "One only has to attend any cocktail function in SW1 to realise the only difference between Labour and Conservative is the amount spent on booze."

"You're cultivating the cynical soundbite, I see."

Draco snorted. It had been a very long day. "Says you."

"Perhaps I might quote you," Blaise smirked, "as an anonymous Crossbench Peer, reformed Tory, Green Party wannabe, with close ties to the Lib Dem backbench." He leaned forward. "Interesting case study. You'd not be so much a wife-swap as a swingers party all by yourself."

There was an edge to Blaise's tone that Draco really didn't care for, but he wasn't going to take the bait. "Whatever helps you sell copy." He refilled the glasses.

"Of course, what the rest of the world doesn't know is that you're not a political dilettante at all."

Draco looked about for eavesdroppers. "Blaise, what the fuck are you going on about?"

"Is there a civil liberties committee that you are not an active member of? Granted, your approach is eclectic, but if one looks for a theme–"

"I don't have a... theme!" Draco flicked an olive pip over the balcony rail emphatically.

Blaise raised his eyebrows. "I, contrary to both expectations and promises, find myself now doing significant administrative work on your behalf–"

"Yes, I think that's what you'll find a secretary's job description covers–"

"Shut up. And compared to last year, when you had just one meeting a fortnight, which I remember primarily because of the trauma involved in choosing a judiciously moderate colour for your tie, compared to then? You have become a positive workaholic."

"I'm a little busier," Draco conceded. "But you said yourself that the life of the idle rich loses its charm after the first decade."

"Don't get me wrong–cheesecake? Thanks, no–" Blaise waved away the waiter hovering with a dessert menu, "–I've no problem with your latent vocational passion. I'd just assumed you'd rather not lose your credibility as an aristocratic naif in the process."

It was always white wine that made Blaise enamoured of his own vocabulary. Draco poured the last of the bottle into his own glass and frowned.

"Disguise," Blaise explained. "Plausible deniability and all that."

"Oh, I fully intend to blame any scandal on my staff," Draco said, trying not to think about the discomforting situation of Lord Levy and the complete confusion he had about his own particulars. "Or perhaps follow Lord Lucan's example. Minus the homicide, of course."

Blaise's tone was light, which was warning enough in itself, as he didn't take jokes about exile particularly well. "You might not want to leave incriminating evidence of either your actual competence or your hypothetical scandals lying about where Potter can see them, then."

Fuck, here it was. Draco made a noncommittal noise and took a very large mouthful of his wine and started cataloguing to quell the panic. Gooseberry on the nose, almost a Sauvignon, chased immediately with a watery peach–

"You do know he was in your flat this morning, don't you?"

Draco let the glass clatter noisily on the table, splashing over his hand. "He what?"

Blaise's mouth twisted as he glanced at the mess, but he didn't remark on Draco's charade. He laced his hands together and settled them back behind his head. "Yes."

"I hope you threw him out?" Draco busied himself with an Extufare before the wine could drip onto his trousers.

"Eventually, yes." Blaise–the bastard–paused until Draco looked up at him.

"First I waited until he'd got himself off all over your sheets."

"My–" A blush of heat ripped through him and made Draco's skin hurt; he couldn't not imagine it, Harry laid out and breathless on his bed. Willing the image to linger, he closed his eyes for long seconds until he realised that Blaise had not just said that to titillate Draco's imagination. Draco swallowed, his mouth suddenly parched, and stared at Blaise. "What?"

"Technically, I suppose your sheets are unsullied." Blaise slouched back in his chair, legs spread, wine glass dangling recklessly from two fingers, and stretched his neck to the side with an air of listlessness. Now, Draco thought, was not the time for Blaise to be flirting with him. Really not. Especially not in a shirt with that many buttons undone. "I have no idea about the rest of your personal belongings, though. He may have gone through your–"

Leaning forward, Draco caught Blaise's wrist. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Tell me what he was doing."

"Come here." Blaise, speaking softly, let his hand fall open in Draco's grasp, and Draco's chair nudged at his knees, pushing him forward. "You want to know how he looked?"

Blaise's voice was all mischief and uncomplicated, and Draco could ignore that, he absolutely could, if it wasn't for the fact that this was about Harry, and Blaise knew it, had no compunction exploiting it and enjoying Draco's reaction.

"Let's see. He's tanned; his arms especially, they're tight with muscle. Must be all the–is it rowing that he does? I'm certain you've said." Blaise shook his hand free and stroked his thumb along Draco's forearm. "Just here."

Draco wrenched his arm away, breathing out hard. "Blaise–"

Blaise ignored him. "He was naked, too. This wasn't just some quick relief session. He was spending some quality time getting comfortable, I think, because your sheets were all rumpled."

He hadn't made the bed the day before. Draco wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"He was. Sprawled," Blaise murmured, leaning forward, "on his back, with one heel on the footboard, and he was pressing his hand on the middle of his chest while he stroked himself."

Oh, fuck. Draco could hear himself taking sharp inhales of breath, had to wet his lips, his mouth was so dry. His blood surged, pooling in his cock. His cock. Harry's– "His–"

"You'll think it's perfect," Blaise brushed his fingers across Draco's mouth, sending furious shudders down his spine. "He likes to fuck his hand, too. Sharp little thrusts up into his fist, digging his fingers into his thigh. He was trying to hold back and make it last, biting down on his lip. I was standing in the doorway, and I could hear him making noises in his throat."

The picture was so vivid, so mind-breakingly hot that Draco was lost in his own mind, imagining Harry's slick skin damp against his dark sheets, how his back might flex as he worked himself. Draco's arousal flared when Blaise skated his palm across his cheek, but he barely registered the movement until Blaise was right in front of him, shaking his head as he leaned over Draco.

"Hopeless."

But–Draco was doing a good impression of a guppy, gasping and swallowing, trying to comprehend what was going on. "What?"

"You want him so very badly," Blaise's tone was flat, curt. "You disappoint me. Where's your sense of entitlement, Draco?"

Draco just blinked.

"I lied, you idiot." Blaise stood up and brushed at his jacket. "Potter was nothing more than fully dressed and puzzling over your photo album when I found him."

"Wait–" Draco heard the glasses rattle in a sympathetic echo of his own state of mind "–he was doing what?"

"He said you'd hexed him something wicked."

"He deserved it," Draco muttered, trying to shove the naked-Harry pictures out of his head and work out how to shove Blaise off the balcony without anyone noticing. His thoughts were still reeling; Blaise had strung him along so beautifully. "And you're a fucking wanker–"

"It adds credibility to your jealous boyfriend act if you actually are the jealous boyfriend, all right?"

Draco stood up, shaking with the remnants of arousal and his indignation. "For fuck's sake, Blaise, what do you care? You couldn't give a shit about Harry–"

Blaise hugged him, suddenly, hard. "No, you twit, I give a shit about you. And it fucking kills me to intercede on his behalf, but you are unbearable and need to get laid." He tightened his grip, but Draco could hear his smile. "Just not by me."

*

Draco sat on the terrace for some time after Blaise had left, aiming his wand absently at the moths that headed for the porch-lamp. They were in for a scorching death anyhow; the spell just hastened it along.

End, Part I ~ Part II

[hp] untitled

Thu, 19 Jul 2007 21:05:28 GMT

written for circe_tigana, who suggested we might like to kill off our favourites before JKR did so.

SCENE: A cafe in Mile End, London. Formica tables. Plastic chairs. Cigarette stains. A general air of menace. The full english.

Vincent Crabbe slouches his bulk sideways in the too-small chair. He's on the door. Hood's pulled over the worst of his face. The doorbell makes a pathetic tinkle.

"Wand." Crabbe's got his own out, plain as day. They don't care about the Muggles at this point in the enterprise.

"For fuck's sake, it's me, you fucking twat."

Crabbe doesn't move his wand from Blaise's ribs or his gaze from the curry and chips on the nearest table. "Wand."

The paranoia is warranted: Cosine Sinistra's Floo had up-to-date encryption and yet she was still recovering from a suicide house-elf blast in her front room. Blaise hands over his wand.

"Other one, innit."

Vincent's always been a terrier.

Pansy gets the same treatment, even though she's come with her Dad. Blaise looks at Draco and raises his eyebrows at that. If Terry Parkinson's here, it's the big time. Action plans. Terry doesn't sit with them, of course. He heads for the counter and stands with his arms crossed, broad back to them all in his cashmere coat, directing the Croatian girl behind the counter on just how he likes his tea.

Draco's lining up the salt and pepper with the HP sauce. His hands are shaking when he begins to speak. Blaise would be charitable and put it down to being shitscared for his life, but he thinks it's likely the drugs.

Theodore's become such a bad influence.

They're there most of the morning. Muggles come in, go out. They all fall silent--not that anyone would notice--when Vince stops a freckly boy with the recognisable sniff of Hufflepuff. Vince takes his wand (new) and Pansy breaks it on the back of her chair. Her father nods slightly and she grins.

"... yes, yes, wands out, knives out, no liquids in my carry-on--ladies, hello," Theodore solicits a couple of Muggle girls through the doorway, "shall I take my shoes off? Am I a threat? Are we on orange?" He's so wired he doesn't notice the clatter of Mr Parkinson's cup meeting saucer. Beams around the finger he's biting, over at the table, wink, wink, wink while Vincent checks all four--five--items that Theodore passes him. Blinks at Draco until Draco smiles at him. Pansy looks at Blaise, horrified.

Blaise puts an arm around Draco's shoulder, resolute.

Cheese and onion toasted sandwiches seem to do for everyone. Theodore crashes; his fingers drumming the mintgreen tabletop grown slower, erratic. Vincent stands and walks around, watches the freckly boy disappear into the toilet. Draco finishes his story, bleeding at the corners of his fingernails. Blaise's hands are cramped from encrypting notes on the fly, but they're done.

Pansy shifts slightly, undoes a button on her cardigan, peers out the window of the cafe. "It's Milly," she yawns. In the rain, there's a figure running across the road to the door. She gets closer: she's speaking to them.

"What's she saying?" Draco frowns. His hands have stopped shaking.

The freckly boy comes back out of the toilet. He looks nervously at them all like they're seventh years and he's been given an important message.

He points a wand at Draco.

The green is quite beautiful.

[lotrips] two to tango 2/2

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 21:43:13 GMT

co-written with shaenie, this part with cameo by sparcck
characters from lotr_porn

::

It's exactly like Jeet Kun Do, actually, or not exactly because it's a lot closer, he can feel Nic's breath hot on his neck and Nic's fingertips like little starbursts of unexpected sensation (except not unexpected, not really, just unexpectedly good sensation, pleasant, like sunshine on bare skin) where they are pressing into Bill's lower back (Nic's thumb has crept beneath the hem of his shirt, Bill isn't sure when, but the rest of the fingers on that hand are behaving themselves, so Bill decides not to say anything). Nic's other hand is higher up, the side of his thumb against the back of Bill's neck, the other four fingers splayed between his shoulder blades (long fingers, Bill thinks distractedly, because his left hand is in a similar position on Nic, mirrored and reversed, but similar, and his fingertips don't reach anywhere near as far).

It's like Jeet Kun Do because when Nic moves, Bill moves, reacts, counters, shifts, and it's easy to take the things Nic had shown him and just tweak them slightly, modify them for the differences in proximity and position, and he does that every time he trains, and he sweats like this, too, so he shouldn't be surprised, though it doesn't seem like he's actually been working all that hard, so maybe it's just the fact that Nic is fucking radiating heat. Bill has met people like Nic before, people that just run a few degrees hotter than everyone else, but he doesn't think he's ever been this close to one of them; maybe it's normal to react to people like that by running a little hotter yourself.

He isn't thinking of much of anything except the heavy pulse of music and the coordinated tangle of body parts shifting in time with it, his mind distant the way it is when he is sparring, barely participating, sort of along for the ride, like every sparring match, fight, or fuck Bill has ever been involved in.

Not until Nic shifts his hips a little differently, and Bill shifts in response, which ends up aligning their hips and tucking them together, and Nic makes a low sound, breathy like a sigh, but a little harsher than that, directly in Bill's ear.

Bill shivers, an inexplicable pulse of something twitching along his skin, something that originates right where Nic's breath had hissed warmly, right behind his ear, and slithers down to the base of his spine where it blooms into something hot and familiar.

What? he thinks (but he shouldn't be surprised, should he, because he's just bloody thought about it being like sparring or fighting or fucking, three things that Bill gets hard for, which he knows, which happens every time he does any of the three and he's learned to sort of ignore since it isn't something he can change, but he is surprised, he's fucking shocked because he, it seems, is not the only one; he can't quite think why that should surprise him either), and wait, but he only thinks it.

He doesn't actually give in to the impulse to scramble away from Nic.

He ignores it, instead, because that's what he's always done, and because if he does scramble away from Nic, well… That would mean something. That would make it mean something.

And it doesn't. It's just an involuntary reaction to a heightened level of certain chemicals in his blood.

It doesn't mean a bloody thing, so he ignores it.

::

"You're fine," Nic says, and he means it in all sorts of ways; Bill is fine, adept, even, now that he's shed the self-consciousness. He's still skittering his gaze away from Nic though--every time Nic looks, Bill averts his eyes, until he's distracted more by the sudden tenseness across Bill's shoulders, his almost-falter, and it takes a second to register.

And then another second before Nic clicks that he's hard, too, and well, that's really just par for the course, but it's interesting. And it mightn't mean anything, but it also might mean something, and Nic is nothing if not willing to press an advantage--or a hard-on for that matter--when it presents itself. His hand is light on Bill's back until he digs the heel of his hand gently in, canting Bill towards him a little more, and the friction is barely there but there, nonetheless, and good, and Nic can't help the little sound that escapes him.

He didn't actually want to use this as an opportunity, but Bill is more-or-less in his lap, and some chances are too good to pass up.

"You're fine," Nic murmurs again, his head tipped to one side so he can watch Bill's face, watch the flittering expressions, but this time his voice is deliberately close, as is the way he tightens his hand up through Bill's hair, cradling the back of his skull, tufts of hair feeling damp between Nic's fingers.

::

Wait, he thinks again, and are Nic's fingers threading into his hair?

Nic's eyes are glittering at him, tiny storms trapped in his irises, and he is smiling a little, but for a change it isn't exactly mocking or teasing, it's… something else, Bill doesn't know what the fuck it is, but he looks away from it deliberately, cuts his eyes away to some point over Nic's shoulder, and he can feel himself frowning, his mind suddenly very much involved in what had been something safely mindless three seconds previous.

Nic's hand is pressed firmly against his lower back. Nic's hand is pressed very firmly against his lower back.

Wait, he thinks one more time, and he no longer cares about moving away making this mean something. It's abruptly urgent that he get away from Nic, that's enough dancing, thanks very much, because he is too hot and he is uncomfortably aroused (which has nothing to do with anything dammit) and because he can feel Nic's eyes on him.

He glances back at Nic (his head is still slightly canted, and Bill realizes he's looking into Nic's eyes from closer than he's ever looked into another bloke's eyes -- if one didn't count the guy that had stabbed Bill his first year on the streets) and says, "Nic, wa--"

But Nic doesn't hear all of the sentence, because Nic doesn't wait, Nic kisses him, and Bill makes a choked sound of disbelief and dismay and just stands there, music forgotten, but with his hips still pressed up against Nic's firmly enough to cause prickling tingles of pleasure.

::

Maybe it's posture, but Nic has the tiniest of height advantages on Bill. He can't exactly maneuver him, but he can tilt Bill's jaw up so his mouth falls open, somewhere between outrage and expectation, because it hits him, suddenly, that it's not just some kind of diffuse lust that he feels. He wants to kiss Bill, properly, wants the kind of wet, open kiss that provokes a whimper.

And Bill is stupidly trying to talk to him, and hasn't anyone told Bill that this is about when most people shut up and give in?

Bill's mouth is still slightly open when Nic kisses him, somewhere in between leisurely and necessary. Nic slides his hand around to stretch his fingers across Bill's face, his thumb along Bill's jaw, and there is the loveliest of capitulations when Nic feels, actually feels the catch in Bill's breathing, the stop in his throat, rumbling underneath his hand.

Nic wants to groan, himself, when for the briefest of moments Bill's mouth warms open into his, and it feels like the kiss is going to go on and gloriously on.

::

Wait, Bill thinks again, but very faintly, and Nic's mouth is furnace hot and wet, and Nic has a deft and wicked tongue. Not that Bill would have expected less.

He kisses like Keira, balls out, his attention utterly devoted to it, but also not like Keira, as he's not girl-soft and he's… he's fucking aggressive and almost brutal, and Bill can feel the burn of Nic's stubble against his chin, can feel the long, warm curl of Nic's thumb along his jaw and, of course, he can feel the steely heat of Nic's erection jammed against his own, which is obviously very different, and…

Wait! and there is nothing faint about it this time, because he is… what the fuck is he… Jesus bloody Christ, Nic is fucking kissing him (and rumbling, Nic is rumbling at him, in his throat and in his chest, Bill can feel the subtle vibration of it), and that's just… that's not…

He jerks back, pulls away and shoves Nic at the same time, puts some distance (only a couple of feet for now, but that has to do because Bill is staggering and dizzy, his equilibrium lost somewhere along the line) between them, and drags the back of his hand along his lips harshly.

"You," he says, and, "what?" but neither of those words actually create an entire sentence, and Bill doesn't know what the fuck sentence he'd been going for anyway.

Doesn't matter, though, is absolutely irrelevant, because he's leaving now, he's fucking getting out of here, and he turns, looking for his boots and his keys and the fucking door because he's turned around, now, and he doesn't fucking know which direction he's facing.

::

If I grab him, thinks Nic, hazily disappointed but not really surprised, he'll freak out. And possibly break my nose.

"Bill," he says softly, "I told you, you were fine." He plants his palm in the middle of Bill's chest (which is rapidly rising and falling, he's breathing hard, and Nic is too, but there's almost something like panic in Bill's expression) and walks him backwards the two steps until he's against the wall. Nic lets his hand hover, quite willing to pin the recalcitrant fucker like a moth until he calms down.

"I'm sorry," he says, "about kissing you." He isn't, because he had to. But he is, because he should have known, shouldn't have been so bloody cocky, should have just left it for much, much longer. He shrugs. "I'm impatient."

Bill is glaring at him, furiously it would seem, but he hasn't bolted, and he hasn't thumped Nic.

Yet.

::

He brushes Nic's hand away from his chest, and Nic drops it, but it doesn't fall to his side. It stops about midway and hovers there, and if Bill didn't know better (if he didn't know Nic was smarter than that), he would think Nic was prepared to do that again.

The idea makes Bill snarl a little, and he shoves aside furious confusion long enough to take a good look at Nic's face, to try and read what he sees there.

It's not challenge, though, which is what Bill half expects. Not really. He looks a little uncertain, and while not exactly repentant, he does look like he's aware that he's made Bill horribly (horribly horribly fucking horribly) uncomfortable.

And Bill still wants to get the fuck out of here, away from him, but he can't quite make himself do it.

Because Keira… because…

Because lots of reasons. Because he doesn't know why the fuck not, dammit.

"It's," he begins, thinking okay, but it's most certainly not okay (not remotely, Bill is yards and miles and fucking light years away from okay, for fuck's sake), and Bill shakes his head and takes a deep breath, and just says, "What the fuck, Nic? What the fuck?"

::

Fuck's sake.

"It's very simple," Nic says slowly. "You ask me to teach you to dance. With touching. Which, I recall, you instigated."

"And," Nic continues, bracing his arms on the wall either side of Bill, "Backstory. In which various non-orthodox sexual encounters underscore the ambiguity of... us." When in doubt, be a smartarse. Usually works.

"Also, Little Bill did not seem averse to my presence." Nic bites his bottom lip for a second. "And I, inexplicably, think you're fucking hot. But I'm also stupid enough to kiss a straight boy, so who knows about my judgment, eh?"

Nic runs out of arguments, so he kisses Bill again, presses him hard back against the wall and gasps wetly against his mouth when he pulls away, before Bill can push him.

::

It's brief, wet, and noisy this time (noisy because Nic makes a noise, a gasp-y sort of sound, not because Bill does), and Nic pulls back before Bill quite gets his hands up to shove him.

And smirks at Bill, his eyes bright with… with whatever the fuck it is that drives Nic to do shite like this, at any rate, Bill has no idea what that might be, and he just…

He just snaps, he almost fucking hears it in his head, brittle and abrupt, and he grabs Nic, his fingers skating a little along Nic's bare chest, which is damp and offers little purchase; he slides his foot between Nic's, hooking his ankle and propelling Nic, stumbling, face first into the wall as Bill steps smoothly aside.

Nic manages one step back before Bill arranges himself in a position offering maximum control with minimum effort, and slams the heel of his palm into the middle of Nic's back, bracing himself to hold him there. Nic's hands go up against the wall, to push off, but Bill has the leverage, and he's not going to fucking let go, not this time, not when all Nic wants to do is fuck with him, not when letting Nic go almost guarantees that Nic will respond with the sort of physicality that is not readily combated with Bill's superior strength and knowledge.

"What the fuck," Bill growls, punctuating it with a little shove that makes Nic huff a little, "is your bloody damage, mate. I'm not your fucking uncle, and I'm not someone at one of your little moonlighting soirees, Dominic. I'm not going to fucking take your bullshit. I'm not going to fucking let you play with me. This is not a fucking game."

And he isn't even sure what all of that means, what precisely he means, but he's certain he's angry, his blood is pounding in his ears (and in his cock, fighting and fucking, often not all that different in Bill's experience, so what does it say that he keeps fighting with Nic?), and he's furious with Nic, furious and he wants to fucking make sure he bloody knows it.

He removes his hand from Nic's back and takes a step away with that in mind, and he's more than fucking hoping that Nic is pissed off or hurt enough to come around swinging; he's fucking counting on it.

::

There's a point, outdoor climbing, where Nic's fear of heights (climbing helped bully it into submission, but it surfaces, occasionally) completely overwhelms him, and he freezes on the face and can do nothing but count his breaths until it passes. For some whacked-out reason, the same thing happens now. He's not scared--not in the least--he's just... stuck. How the fuck Bill knows about his deal with Oliver, how he twigs on about Ian (if that's what it is, Nic has no idea), it makes his breath catch and his heart double-thump, just like vertigo.

So he just has to breath, and count, and lean against the wall like it's some kind of forty-metre chimney route. He should be worried, concerned, that Bill knows details Nic would rather keep to himself, but what's making his blood thump hot is not that, but injustice, and frustration. Because Bill thinks Nic's playing with him, teasing him, whatever. Fucking idiot.

"I'm not fucking with you, Bill," Nic says, and where he gets the restraint to say it quietly, to resist spinning around and lashing out, never mind the (probably bloody) consequences, he has no idea. He doesn't want to turn around and look at Bill, because he's pretty sure he's fucked up whatever might have happened there, and well.

Nic is just not used to disappointment.

The thought occurs to him that he should probably just leave--never mind his shoes--and attempt to stay out of Bill's way in future. He doesn't have a clue why the man is here, really; he's too fucking smart, that's blatantly obvious, and he doesn't appear to have Nic's excuses for fucking around on his uncle's dime.

Leave, his brain says, but, uh, no. Curiosity, and cats, and he has to turn around against the wall, hands out (no weapon, comrade), and level his gaze to Bill's.

::

It only pisses him off more.

By all rights, Nic should at least fucking try to defend himself, and Bill can't help feeling that he's easy fucking pickings, and not only for Bill.

For his creepy fucking uncle and for the fuckers at the parties Nic gets dressed down and drugged up for, and it just pisses him off, that he fucking does that, that he fucking risks himself like that, without thought, without a single fucking thought to what could go wrong, what will go wrong eventually, because things like that always do.

Bill knows it, he's fucking seen it too many times, and he knows full well that he's angry because he's afraid for Nic, but that doesn't bear thinking about.

Homicide, Narcotics, and Vice are all the same in the end; you always end up cleaning up something heartbreaking, something that makes you wonder who the pretty girl with the tiny blue heart tattooed on her left shoulder blade -- the one who couldn't be more than seventeen -- had pissed off to deserve to die like that, and does her mother even know where she is?

And it's only worse the deeper into it you get, because it becomes all too clear how it happens, how easily, how quickly, when you meet a bright, beautiful boy-man with a blinding grin and melted chocolate eyes, who smiles and lounges and smirks at the danger that is too close for him to perceive, and you watch him fucking devolve into someone who shakes and cringes if you look at him right, who knows when to duck out of a room before the fucking starts if he doesn't want to end up part of the gang-bang, who knows how to lie and smile at the same time.

And as horrible as that is to see, even more terrible are the ones that have no idea of any of those things, the fringers, the ones who only dabble in that world and return to their safe little lives with no understanding of how it can be, those who are so toked up and blissed out that they don't see the danger until it's raping them in back alleys or in "private rooms" at "private parties."

Those are the ones that always look like they're sleeping to Bill, even stretched out on a slab with their skin faintly grey and their bodies so fucking still.

Nic is a fringer, slip-sliding across the line from the everyday world to the other one without thought or worry, oblivious to reality.

And Bill has dreamed about that fucking party again and again, and he doesn't know which is worse: the nights that he wakes up sweaty and hard and unable to get back to sleep, or the nights that he wakes up sweaty and fucking terrified with Nic's face behind his eyelids, still and grey, and not sleeping.

And he's still so fucking angry he could slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, angry because he's young and thoughtless, angry because he's confusing and complicated, angry because he believes Nic when he says he isn't fucking with Bill, believes the look on his face right now, his open hands, and the hitch of hesitation in his voice when he had said it, and that just makes it worse.

He doesn't slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, of course.

And he doesn't say, "Then never go back there, never toke up and strip down, never fucking let me catch you being so bloody stupid again," either.

He doesn't say anything.

And he doesn't step back, either, out of Nic's space.

He just stands there.

::

Huh.

Maybe Nic's too used to the company he keeps. Maybe he's been around people who live their lives however, whatever, wherever, without any kind of censure, and he's used to it.

Because it takes a little while - the entire time he's watching Bill's face, and the confusing little tempest of emotions that seem to cross it - but it slowly sinks in.

"Huh," he says. "Why don't you say what you really mean?" Nic tries not to, but the acid creeps into his voice.

Bill's eyebrows draw together a little, but he doesn't reply, because, well, Nic doesn't let him.

"Which is, not so much that you're averse to the idea--" he flicks his gaze down to Bill's crotch, which is unmistakably displaying an appreciable hard-on (and Nic isn't so pissed off not to feel smug about, ha, straight-boy, ha fucking ha) -- "but more that you're averse to me, the original slutty good-time boy--"

He pauses, and smiles tightly at Bill, and swallows.

"-- and I'm good enough to tolerate, and perhaps have a few laughs with, but definitely not good enough to satisfy whatever extra code of ethics you appear to have for men, because, Boyd, take a fucking look around you, at the people you work with, at the people you socialise with--"

And that is meant to include Keira, but it's also meant to include Orlando, because, well, fuck knows what's going on there.

"--no-one here is exactly the fucking poster child for Christian family values, you know, and the flip side of that is that people know when to snog someone for fun because they can get away with it, but they also fucking know that when they kiss someone--" he pokes Bill in the chest "--they better bloody mean it, asshole, and I did, and maybe if you'd get the stick out of your arse for a minute you might be able to look beyond all this--"

Nic waves his arms around, trying to think of a word to encompass the make-believe, shiny, thing that Johnny creates, and fails miserably.

"--stuff," he concedes, "and not just assume that everyone is playing with you, or bullshitting you, or what-the-fuck-ever, and if you can't you're clearly in the wrong fucking place, mate."

He blinks, because, "And anyhow, why the fuck are you even here?" Nic can't stop, now, even though he knows he's ranting. "Why are you slumming it with the dregs, huh? You're too fucking smart to be a bloody secretary, or whatever it is that you are, and you know, the only reason I didn't smack you is it's pretty obvious you'd cause more damage than I could possibly hope to inflict, and what the fuck is someone like you getting out of this, mate?"

He has more to say, but he needs to breathe.

::

Bill lets him rant -- it's fairly clear to him that he'd managed to hurt Nic's feelings, which hadn't been his intention at all, and if someone had asked him if he thought it was even possible to do, Bill isn't sure what he'd have said -- and he can't help the dull throb of sympathetic pain that rises in his own chest as Nic spills out vitriol in typical Nic fashion, disorganized rambling that splashes his hurt all over the place.

He chooses to ignore the last few sentences of Nic's outburst; he can't answer those questions. He won't. So he shunts them out of his mind; he can deal with them later, if need be.

"I don't assume that everyone is fucking with me," he says, and his voice is an unsteady reflection of the nerves and adrenaline still coursing through his blood. "I assumed that you were, because that is what you fucking do, Nic. You've done it since the first time we spoke, and how the fuck am I supposed to be able to tell the bleeding difference now?"

Nic actually winces a little at that; Bill supposes (or hopes, maybe) that he recognizes the truth of that enough for it to sting a little.

"And I'm not bloody averse to you, Nic," he growls. "I don't give a rat's arse who you shag or how bloody often." Then he pauses for long seconds, because... well, because that's not true, is it? No. It's not. And he drags a hand through his hair, and looks at Nic hard for a moment (Nic's face is uncharacteristically solemn, his mouth drawn into a line; he doesn't look happy -- and Nic always looks happy -- and Bill feels an unexpectedly sharp pang of guilt over that), and then he sighs. "I think your uncle is very very bad for you," he says honestly, and Nic's eyes go wide for a moment, and then veil themselves completely enough that Bill can't guess what he's thinking. It's not something Bill would have expected from Nic, but... well, he doesn't suppose he should really be surprised. Nic is nothing if not unexpected.

"I think he's very very bad, period, actually, but that doesn't really matter to me, except as it concerns you." Which isn't totally true, but is true enough for the moment, maybe, is true in the sense that it's the thing that bothers Bill the most about McKellen right now. "And I think that you do stupid things without any real concept of how dangerous they are." Nic's eyes narrow slightly, and glitter with what might be anger. "Not all the time, but often enough to..." ... scare the shite out of me... "... worry me."

Nic makes a small sound, a kind of grunt (disbelief maybe) and shifts slightly to his left, like he's about to walk away, and Bill moves quickly, and his right hand slaps against the wall, blocking the way in that direction. Nic looks at Bill's arm for a moment, then looks back at Bill, brows furrowed in a way that makes Bill think about Nic's expression the other day in the editing room, when Nic's eyes had been clenched shut so hard that it had drawn his brows together in a similar fashion, and it's pointless to deny the very visceral reaction of his body to that expression.

"It doesn't have anything to do with your fucking morals and ethics, Nic. I understand very clearly that I am the one with the 'stick up my arse' in that department, and that has nothing to do with you... any of you, here. I... I'm not built for..." But he doesn't know the words for what he isn't built for, doesn't know how to say it without sounding demeaning, and he doesn't mean that at all.

"What I really think is that I don't understand you. You confuse me. You're unpredictable and that makes me nervous, and I don't deal very fucking well with being nervous."

And he doesn't know what else to say, and he isn't sure he's made a whole lot of sense anyhow, but he adds, "And I've never thought of you as slutty," because it's true.

::

Each time Nic opens his mouth to interrupt Bill, he doesn't know where to start. By the time Bill runs out of steam and is mentally toeing the ground, Nic feels the nagging need to resort to his compulsive listing habit, if only there were pen and paper, and he wouldn't look like a special-needs retard.

He scrubs one eye with his palm, not quite sure of himself, hating it, fucking detesting feeling unsure, inspecting his fingernails while his jaw clenches with something that feels horrifyingly like nervousness.

"You know nothing about Ian," Nic says, shaking his head, "I don't even... I don't have a clue what you think you know. But that's... that's not anything to do with me. Or you. Or me and you. Really."

Liar, liar, pants on fire Nic thinks, but there is too much about Bill that echoes of Ian for Nic's brain to cope with.

"But it's, uh, it's sweet that you give a shit. I mean that. Baffling, but sweet." He tries a frowny smile. "I can take care of myself. And I don't mean to be confusing. I thought I was pretty obvious."

"I'm pretty fucking confused now though. The last thing that made sense was the bit with the snogging. It all went downhill from there."

JUST SHUT UP, Nic's brain groans.

"What I mean, is, I still don't know exactly why you objected to the bit with the snogging. All this blah-blah like a couple of women--"

::

Take care of yourself my arse, Bill thinks, but he suspects saying it would only make this already extremely awkward situation exponentially more awkward.

"Nic," he interrupts, and Nic actually shuts up for a change, surprising him enough that he forgets for a moment what he had been going to say when he'd interrupted, and he rubs tiredly at his face with the hand that isn't still braced against the wall, still blocking Nic's most likely path of escape (even though he isn't sure why he wants to block Nic's escape, and it no longer looks much like Nic is going to be attempting escape), feeling scattered and stretched thin. He sighs. Then he remembers. "Even... even if I didn't object to the snogging on the principle that I'm much more inclined towards birds than blokes," he says, "much much more inclined, to the point where I've only ever snogged one bloke, who took me by surprise, and who is standing in this room with me right now--" which is maybe a little pointed, but is most certainly true "-- I would still object because I am seeing said bloke's best friend."

He pauses for a moment, and Nic is frowning at him, his eyes cloudy and dark.

"And I'm not at all confident in my ability to explain to her what I was doing snogging her best friend, and I'm not in a hurry to have to try it."

Which is true, although not even close to the whole truth, which involves so many other factors that Bill is hard pressed to imagine how the hell he could name them all and still sound even remotely coherent, though the one his mind seems to stumble back to quickest is the one he keeps dreaming about, the one in which Nic is oh so still and oh so grey and definitely not sleeping.

And I don't believe that bollocks about your uncle, Nic, and I don't think you do either. And, just for the record, you couldn't defend your way out of a paper bag.

::

It is so hard for Nic to stop smiling, and when that fails, it is even harder to stop the smile being a foolish, stupid, lip-biting grin that makes his cheeks quiver.

"She, uh," Nic has to look down again, because he's not going to take the chance that his expression (which probably looks a bit fucking smug) will piss Bill off and earn Nic a slap, or something, not that that's altogether bad, just probably not useful at this point in the campaign, "might not mind, you know, in fact, she might be, um, the opposite of minding?"

He reaches out to Bill's pocket, stops halfway (thinking better of that), and gestures to Bill's cell. "You could call her. Or I'll call her."

::

What? Bill thinks sharply, and finds himself taking a half step back. Nic catches his shirt in one hand, fingers curling into the slightly sweat-damp material and fisting there, and Bill just looks down at Nic's hand, feeling... almost disconnected with surprise and uncertainty, and, "What?" he says, frowning.

Nic is smiling, Bill can tell, even though he's looking down (and Nic had grabbed him without even looking up to do it, another indication that he has excellent spatial awareness as relates to himself, and would probably be pretty fucking useful in a fight, with some practice, and Bill is aware that this line of thought isn't anything but an attempt to distract himself from the matter at hand, and regretfully forces himself to dismiss it as unimportant at the moment), and he seems quite seriously willing to just give Keira a call.

And tell her what? Bill's brain demands disbelievingly, and Bill echoes it aloud again, because apparently when he's truly surprised (the kind that makes you feel like you've been kicked repeatedly in the bollocks), there is no barrier between thought and speech (which is a dangerous thing indeed.)

"And tell her what?"

::

Now he really wants to snicker.

"Uh... she can kill two birds with one stone?" Nic can't help it, and a choked laugh escapes.

Actually, Nic doesn't have a clue what Keira would really think about some kind of... thing, but he knows her pretty well, and it's a ninety-percenter that the idea isn't unappealing. Nic finds himself wishing he'd had a chance to have a yarn to her lately, although he might not have actually said how's about a threesome, he might have asked if he could molest Bill a tiny bit, and, well. She knows what I'm like, Nic thinks, and if Josh could figure it out, Keira must have seen it coming a mile away.

Nic tries to compose himself before looking up. Bill hasn't shied away yet--his skin is just there, fingertips distance, warm and probably freckled or something else utterly incongruous and adorable, tempting--thank Christ, but Nic gets the feeling Bill is expecting a proper answer.

"I don't think she would have the objections you think she might," Nic says softly, like trying to coax a kitten, "but you're right. You should tell her. Ask her. I should ask her."

Just bloody do something, you twit, Nic wants to say, so I can stop fannying around here and get you back up against this wall.

::

"Ask her if it's okay if you snog me?" Bill demands, and he's actually smiling a little, because... well because it's the most bloody ridiculous thing he's ever said out loud. "Ask her if...? I don't... I'm not... I mean... um."

::

"You don't have to," Nic says, in a rush (come on come on come on), "I will. Phone. Give. Unless you have other objections--no, don't answer that, I'm sure you think you do, unless you have important--"

It's at this point where Bill tips forward, unbalanced because Nic has tugged a little on his shirt, that Nic stops, because Bill's hand has moved towards his pocket, consciously or unconsciously, Nic doesn't really give too much of a fuck anymore.

"--nope, good, so we'll just take it for granted she'll be fine and you can come here, and," Nic tucks his fingers firmly in the belt-loops of Bill's jeans, and pulls him in, firm and snug and oh yes, hard, nice, and regards him for a few seconds of satisfaction, and leans in to kiss him, but.

He doesn't kiss him, he stops, a tiny distance away, Nic stops, because this is the point where Bill has to want it, or Nic has fucked up royally, and his chest feels so fucking tight, breathing hurts, because all this has to be for something, and Nic wants that little distance to disappear so much it fucking aches.

::

Oh, Bill thinks, because he hadn't exactly expected that, and Nic is really, really bloody warm. And the urge to jerk away, retreat from Nic's heat -- not to mention the hard length of Nic, which is now firmly wedged against the hard length of him -- is there, but Nic's got his fingers hooked in Bill's beltloops, and it seems fairly pointless to attempt it.

Not that he can't get away if he wants to; of course he can. Could. Theoretically.

But Nic is looking at him, and he looks more serious than Bill can ever remember seeing him, almost solemn, his eyes wide and watching Bill with that deep intent, that little furrow between his brows, and there is tension around Nic's lips, in the set of his crooked jaw, and Bill can't figure what the fuck is going on.

Wait, he thinks, and closes his eyes for a second, because seeing Nic from so close is really fucking distracting, and he can't fucking think. It's not that much better with his eyes closed, actually. He can feel Nic's breath wafting hot across his face, across his lips, and Nic is... not trembling, exactly, but tight and tense, nearly fucking vibrating, and it's no wonder the bloke runs so bloody hot, his molecules must be rubbing against one another at ungodly speeds or something, and friction creates heat.

As though Nic can read his mind -- perish the fucking thought! -- Nic's hips press slightly forward, and yes, friction, yes, heat, and Bill lets out a heavy, gusting breath (apparently he had been holding his breath, color him surprised), and Nic says, "Just... just come on," but it's less a demand and more a plea, and his voice makes Bill shiver.

And yes, okay, yes, Nic is different than any other bloke Bill's ever met, and he affects Bill like no other bloke Bill has ever met, and maybe he's never been all that interested in men, but Nic is different, and it seems pretty fucking stupid to deny that (and impossible, for that matter, he's been fucking trying).

"Nic," he says, and opens his eyes.

"Bill," Nic says, his voice a throaty whisper, and Bill shivers again (what the fuck, what's with all the fucking shivering?).

"If Keira gets pissed off at me, I'm kicking your bloody arse."

Nic grins at him, bright and fierce, for an instant, and Bill doesn't quite have the presence of mind (or the desire, some helpfully honest bit of his mind points out, bugger it) to pull back, and actually he's tipping his face up slightly and one of his hands has snuck out to brush fingertips across Nic's naked chest, and Nic is kissing him again, except this time Bill is kissing back, and Nic's mouth is just as bloody hot as the rest of him.

::

"Almost," Nic breathes, and kisses Bill again, properly definitely amazingly finally kisses him, open-mouthed and pushy, and he steers Bill around (who is beautifully pliable and fluid under Nic's hands, and maybe this is Johnny's kick, direction), and shoves him, murmurs, "perfect," one hand curled about Bill's hip and the other about his collarbone, "right there. Against the wall."

Bill opens his mouth, and it is pink and wet and stupidly girlish, but the set of Bill's jaw is not, and his dick is most definitely not when Nic grinds up against him as obscenely as he possibly can. Gonna show you he thinks above the urgent need in his cock, and his buzzing fingertips, gonna spoil you, although for what or who Nic doesn't know.

He's perfectly capable of being gentle, but not now, not when his pulse races at the thought that Bill has never been kissed by a bloke before, that Bill doesn't know how fucking competitive and consuming and aggressive and honest it can be, and Nic shudders hard into him, because that thought spikes demanding lust all down his spine, Bill in his hands, his head tipped back, eyes half-closed and gorgeous, so fucking sharp and gorgeous.

::

Nic doesn't shut up even while he's snogging apparently, and some distant part of Bill that isn't actually involved in the snogging is amused.

The rest of him isn't remotely amused, because Nic keeps pulling back to shift them around, and that involves Nic stopping to look at Bill (what the fuck is he looking at, then?), which requires Nic to stop, and just at the moment the not stopping seems vitally fucking important to Bill.

As long as he's actually involved in it, for one, he doesn't have to think about it, and that's good. Not only that, but it's really fucking good, nothing, fucking nothing like what he'd thought (not that he'd actually really thought much about it), and Nic is just standing there directing the storm-grey intensity of his gaze at Bill, demonstrating once again that weirdly Nic-centric focus, and it's starting to fucking aggravate him.

"Stop stopping," Bill growls, and it's not all that different to curl his fingers into Nic's hair than it is to do it to Keira, except it seems a lot easier to pull (and far harder than it would ever occur to him to pull Keira's hair), and Nic makes a short, gruff little sound (and Bill's hips are apparently connected to those kinds of sounds on some level, as they jerk forward, and Nic grinds against him hard in response, knees bent, and whoa, oh, bugger that is good) as Bill jerks him close, and Nic gasps into Bill's mouth, which feels impossibly and recklessly triumphant for some reason.

Nic's hand on his hip jerks at the waist of Bill's jeans, tugging the material down enough to slide the side of his thumb along the angle of Bill's hip bone, and he is shocked breathless by how that feels, because it's just his fucking thumb, but Bill's eyes flutter closed and he shivers (more fucking shivers, but he's finding that a bit less annoying now, considering the circumstances) and Nic surges forward full body, whether intentionally or reactionary, Bill doesn't really care. He barely feels his head thump back against the wall, and realizes at the same time that his hands are traveling up Nic's ribs, and that he can feel the hard ridges of them beneath the flexing muscles of Nic's abdomen under his fingertips, and it sends brutally urgent messages to his cock.

"Bugger," he hears himself mutter, and has no idea why.

::

Part of Nic would be quite content to keep Bill pinned here for the next three hours, feeling every little rumble and whimper and jerk that he could coax out of Bill, kissing him unhurriedly and thoroughly. Bill kisses like--like a series of locks, ratcheting up and plateauing, and it's addictive to find what pushes him upwards, the little surge of adrenaline when Nic bites down into Bill's lip, when he evades Bill's mouth for a second too long to hear the little stuttery sound of frustration caught in Bill's throat.

But then. Here they are, and, well, talk about your fucking foreplay, and Nic has been looking at Bill's dick for too fucking long, and feeling it for not long enough, even though his own cock would agree that the snugged up friction going on is pretty bloody good, but--nothing would top off Nic's evening like wrapping his hand around Bill's cock and bringing him off. Nic has no illusions about reciprocation, but he does want to push and see where he gets, even if he tries to tell himself it's just instinct (haha, gay urges) when he twists his wrist around and breaches jeans and boxers and whoa, skin, and--

"Huh," he groans, sighs, and leans his forehead on Bill's cheek.

::

"Fuck!" Bill bites out, except it comes out a lot fainter than he'd expected, barely a breath, as Nic hand curls, hot and strong, around his cock.

The first thing he thinks is that there really is quite a marked difference between a bloke's hand and a girl's hand. Nic's hand is harder, and Nic's not afraid to fucking squeeze (not that Keira is, she's quite proficient with her hands, obviously, but Nic is stronger), not afraid to twist his wrist and slide his thumb carefully over the head of Bill's cock, pushing back foreskin and smoothing the dampness there around the crown, and Bill's knees threaten to buckle at the hard grind of pleasure clenching in his middle.

Nic breathes heavily along his jaw and neck, and Bill can't quite pry his eyes open. He's also making a noise, a quiet, choked sound unlike nothing he can recall ever hearing pass his lips before.

And Nic smells so fucking good.

The second thing he thinks is, he's probably got about a minute to stop this before he can't anymore.

And he thinks Nic is probably right, he thinks Keira wouldn't be all that bothered to find out that Nic and Bill had engaged in a little recreational snogging, but this... this is too far, and besides that...he's not quite certain of where this is going and whether or not he wants it to go there (except for the part of him that Nic's hand is currently curled around, stroking at a slow, steady pace that probably shouldn't be pushing Bill toward a sticky mess in his jeans quite so quickly -- that part of him is all for where this is going), and it takes a whole lot of fucking effort to uncurl his hand from around the back of Nic's neck and move it down to Nic's wrist instead, stilling Nic's hand.

Nic's breath stills for a moment, and he pulls back, brows furrowed, a clear question in his eyes. "I don't think--" Bill says, and then pauses to rephrase. "I'm not sure..." He sighs. "I can't do this," he manages. "Keira... I..."

Nic is nodding, showing what seems like an amazing display of good sense to Bill, though he doesn't actually move away, doesn't actually uncurl his hand from around Bill's cock. He nuzzles at Bill's cheek a little instead, and Bill's head tips to the side all on it's own, giving Nic free access.

As soon as he realizes it, his cheeks heat up, and he clears his throat gruffly.

::::::

It's been a long long time since Ian has been high like this, and he watches Dominic's face bubble up and brown on the edges. Maggie's letter is already dust, lovely fine-grained black dust that he considers rolling his last ball of opium in. His body goes next in a long line, down down to his soft cock and Ian feels a shudder in his chest right around where his heart is, like he's dying, perhaps.

Or maybe burning away. In thin layers over the years, he's burned each leathered, useless topskin away, compressing, perhaps, diamond-hard.

Mixing metaphors. Stephen would be appalled.

The opium keeps away the need to crush and smash, and his hands are loose and steady when he feeds the flames the rest of his beautiful nephew.

His mobile is hard and shiny in his palm, the screen a mosaic of digital plum blossoms that he can't figure out how to remove after Dominic had got to it. He presses 1, watches Dominic's name scroll across the tiny display.

"Dominic," he murmurs aloud and his lips feel thick and lovely.

Come home. I have a surprise for you.

::

The vibration against his arse is pleasantly peripheral until it seeps into Nic's consciousness that that's actually his phone ringing. He's tempted to ignore it, but Bill is still--not rigid, exactly, but clearly hesitant--against him, and Nic is not going to make Bill unhappy if he can at all help it.

Nic can wait. Nic and Bill can wait, because he wants Bill to talk to Keira, doesn't like misunderstanding, doesn't like discomfort or sneakiness or mistrust, and he wants Bill to be comfortable. Preferably on a soft surface, heh.

A little squeeze, and he smoothes his hand out from Bill's pants, reluctant to leave the humid, silky skin there, storing up the sensation for later perusal. "Sorry," he murmurs into Bill's neck, shifting his weight back into Bill full-length, ready to brush off whoever is calling.

He doesn't even look at the number on his phone, just jams his thumb on the tiny button.

"Hallo, 'm busy," he says, and he almost wants to yawn.

::

He'd figured Dominic was possibly at the production offices or with that girl, nevertheless his languid, just-fucked voice makes all the hairs on Ian's neck stand up, but the opium keeps him plateaued, and the cheeky answer forces a surprised chuckle out of Ian.

"No, my darling boy, it's your uncle."

::

"I remember you," Nic says, and he's smiling, remembering (operant conditioning to Ian's voice, or something), "where are you?"

Sorry, he mouths at Bill, stepping back slightly to lay his free hand across Bill's stomach, flat under the shirt, reluctant to not touch.

::

Something like mild anxiety crawls through Ian, but it feels more like a combination of desire and dominance and a spiraling despair. "Just the question I was calling to ask you. It's a lovely night and it's been so long since we spent one together."

::

Inexplicably, Nic feels his cheeks heat up, and he turns to lean against the wall, trying not to feel like he's been caught with his pants down. Metaphorically or otherwise.

He can't quite bring himself to look at Bill, not after what he'd said about Ian. And not now.

"Did you have anything particular you wanted to do?" he says to Ian, opportunity for entendre deliberate; not that he doesn't want to see Ian--Christ, he really does--but a little resolution to his current over-stimulated situation might be a bonus.

::

He likes that, Ian decides, he very much fucking likes that, because there's submission in that growly voice, perhaps not enough for the untrained ear, but enough for him. The anxiousness spirals out, makes his fingers and toes prickle almost pleasantly, and he lets himself sink into the lounger, unbuttoning the top two buttons to slide his fingers over his own collarbone, imagining what he'll do to Dominic's when he comes home.

When he comes home.

"Dominic," he says slowly. "I always have something particular in mind I want to do."

::

Hook, line, sinker, fried fucking mackerel, and Nic feels reeled in, every time, but it's the kind of pull he can't resist. Too much promise, too exciting and unpredictable, and Ian is so much more than Nic feels like he could ever be.

"Do you," he starts, "shall I bring anything home, then?" He clears his throat slightly, still not looking at Bill. "Anything to pick up?"

::

It's not until Nic turns away to lean against the wall and his hand falls away from its warm resting place against Bill's belly that Bill starts to prickle uncomfortably. He steps away, rudimentary politeness dredged up from some distant boyhood lesson, but he doesn't step far enough away that he can't hear the conversation, and he doesn't look away from Nic's flushed cheeks.

Nic lifts one arm and rubs at the back of his neck, and Bill watches the smooth play of muscle beneath Nic's California-boy tan. It doesn't help the thumping, urgent need in his groin and lower belly, but he does it anyway.

He'd just spent well over ten minutes liplocked with the bloke -- and there it is again, that bloody shiver -- and he's not willing to do that and then refuse to look at him.

But it isn't until Nic mentions home that Bill figures out who the hell he's talking to, and he tightens furiously, and the pulse he'd been feeling in his cock for the last several minutes travels up to his temples. He's hands curl into fists -- McKellen, fucking McKellen, Ian fucking McKellen, Bill thinks, and Nic is going home to him, and there is a gruff, purring kind of rumble in Nic's voice that Bill now recognizes very well as Nic's turned-on voice, and he is not exactly surprised by the bluewhite jealousy (it's the same, the exact same way it feels to watch Keira talk to Mortensen, he notes, but distantly, there will be time to consider what that means later), but he isn't quite prepared for it either. He clenches his fisted hands, and his knuckles crack very loudly.

Nic finally glances over at him, and the way his eyes cut quickly away just knots Bill's belly up even more, and not in the good way in which it had previously been knotted.

"Nic," he says, and doesn't fucking bother to keep his voice down. Let McKellen fucking hear. "I'm going to Keira's."

::

It's rather queer, the wicked spike that seems to gently sink into and pierce Ian's chest and the non-reaction he has, everything slowed down but not quite dulled by the opium, still sweet and spicy in his mouth. That voice, Scottish and sharp, too sharp, the same possessiveness he hears in his own voice when he talks to Dominic, about Dominic, when he looks at him, thinks about him.

Ian's first reaction would never have been this drowning despair, this utter betrayal if not for the drug, and maybe he should send the deed to a small country to Depp in thanks, because for once, his comfortable trust in himself and, more importantly, in Dominic would have failed him.

Bloody cunting Scotsman, he can see him in his head, the softness on that craggy face and the devotion on Dominic's, he must have been bloody blind.

Barely a pause to take this all in, one Dominic would have felt, and it's enough. "Am I interrupting something, love? Because if you have other plans..."

::

"Uh..." No. It appears that if Nic did have other plans, they're looking for their keys. Nic feels his stomach lurch when he catches the stormy look on Bill's face; no mere displeasure at being interrupted, but something far worse, far more intimate. It's flattering, almost--got your attention now, boyo, haven't I runs through his head before he frowns at his own smugness--but Nic still has no clue why Bill might disapprove of Ian so very much.

Exact nature of their relationship aside, he's Nic's uncle, his family, and it's frustrating. Nic can't help but feel... irked.

He smiles tightly, Bill just out of arm's reach. Ignores Ian's spot-on guess (bastard), and shrugs. "No plans, it seems." Nic looks the question at Bill, but there's a blank response.

How did this go all pear-shaped so quickly?

::

Bill jerks his head slightly, and his neck cracks.

No plans, Bill thinks, and crushes the sting of it down, lets the anger well up there instead. He nods shortly.

"All right," he says, or growls, more like. "If you change your mind, that's where I'll be." Then, softer, "Don't bother if you go there first."

Nic frowns heavily, his eyes deeply dark, brows contracted fiercely; Bill sees that his knuckles have gone pale with exertion where his fingers are curled around his phone. Nic doesn't do anger often enough for Bill to be familiar with it, but he recognizes it nonetheless. Well. So be it.

"Your choice," Bill murmurs, but because he's an arsehole, and because he might not get another chance, he leans in and kisses Nic hard, the first kiss he's initiated himself, the first deliberate advance (and maybe the last), and it's hard and furious and on the phone with his uncle or not, Nic's mouth slides open beneath Bill's, slick and sweet, and Bill doesn't hesitate to take advantage of that because no matter what else happens, he doesn't fucking want Nic to forget it.

He doesn't look back when he walks out, but he listens to Nic's quick, harsh breathing for as long as he can hear it.

::