Misuse of Muggle Artifacts

Draco smiled when Potter stepped out of the fireplace.

He allowed himself to continue smiling as Potter brushed off his robes and attempted to neaten his hair, but as soon as Potter began glancing around the crowded pub, obviously looking for him, Draco assumed a more suitable expression. When Potter spotted him at his table in the corner, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Potter asked, as he pulled out a chair and seated himself at Draco’s table. There was just the slightest hint of self-consciousness in Potter’s voice. Draco felt the corners of his mouth curling up again, despite his best intentions. He’d started to wonder if perhaps he’d been reading things wrong. But what other explanation would there be for Potter’s self-consciousness than—

"Did I miss some?" Potter asked, looking down at his robes.

"As a matter of fact, you did." And Draco did what he’d thought about doing nearly every time he’d seen ash on Potter's face in recent months. He reached forward and swiped at the spot on Potter’s cheek, brushing softly, twice more, until his cheek was clean again and Draco had no excuse to do anything but withdraw his hand.

Potter stared at him, and Draco felt suddenly stupid. After nearly a week of nothing, why had he let a hint of a tone and a spot of ash compel him to reach out like that?

He looked down at his hands, cleared his throat, and then realized this was hardly better than his impulsive reach across the table. Carefully recrossing his arms, he met Potter’s curious gaze. "Really, Potter. You’re left covered in ash nearly every time you travel by Floo. One would think you were two years old, rather than two decades. Your incompetence astounds me."

Potter rubbed at his cheek, blinking, then shrugged. "I’ve never liked traveling by Floo. And I’m not twenty yet."

Potter would almost certainly have preferred to Apparate, Draco realized, wondering once again what could have caused Potter’s difficulties, and if Potter would ever admit to them. For Merlin’s sake, he probably couldn’t even cast a decent warming charm.

But, he thought proudly, that, at least, didn’t have to remain a problem.

"I have something new for your friend," Draco said.

This one was risky. Draco knew that. Potter would be wearing it at all times of the day, not just in the evening, or early hours of the morning, and the possible consequences could be… But Draco had to know. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his newest creation.

"A ring?" Potter asked, obviously surprised.

"Yes, a ring. A ring that will keep its wearer at a comfortable temperature at any time of night or day. No need to renew a warming charm. Or to cast one at all, for that matter." Draco was careful to check for a response to that, but Potter’s expression didn’t give anything away.

"But look, that’s not all it does. Here, put it on." Draco reached forward and slid the ring onto Potter’s first finger. "Do you feel any change in your temperature? Do you feel warmer?"

Potter didn’t respond, and Draco glanced up to see that Potter was staring down at Draco’s fingers, still resting lightly against the silver ring on Potter’s hand.

"Potter?"

Potter looked up, startled. "Er…yes. Warmer."

"Comfortable?"

Potter looked back down at their hands. "Yes."

"Good. Now watch this." Draco twisted the ring, one full turn, and it disappeared. Or seemed to. Draco could still feel it, after all, and surely Potter could too. "See?" Some of his appreciation for his own cleverness was coming through in his voice, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. That had been a difficult bit of spell-work.

"Yes." Potter’s lips quirked. "Or, I don’t see, actually. Which I suppose is the point."

"Exactly. Now you--r friend can wear it anytime, and no one will be the wiser." Potter would never have worn it around him otherwise, he was sure.

Potter took the ring off—it regained visibility as soon as it was removed—and set it carefully down on the table. Draco couldn’t help feeling disappointed, even though he’d known Potter wouldn’t leave it on right in front of him.

"How much?" Potter asked.

"No cost. This one can be a Christmas gift. For your friend."

Potter stared at him. "What about the ones you owled to me after our meeting last week?"

"Those can be gifts too."

Draco shifted uncomfortably at Potter’s bewildered expression. The time had long passed when he’d enjoyed taking Potter for all he was worth, and the thought of taking money for these most recent… No. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.

Looking for a distraction, he took a sip of his wine, then caught the barmaid’s eye and gestured toward Potter with his half-empty goblet. She was occupied delivering drinks to a rowdy table of goblins holding what appeared to be a hen party, but she gave him a hurried nod. When Draco looked back at Potter, he was staring down at the ring. "So you don’t want me to pay you anything?" Potter asked. "For the ones from last week?"

"That’s what 'gift' generally implies." Draco's irritation was quickly chased away by the jolt of adrenaline he felt as he prepared to ask the question. He took another sip of his wine, placed the goblet back on the table, then scooted it until it was resting exactly where it had been before he’d picked it up. "Do you know if your friend has been using them?"

"I’ll, uh, have to ask him," Potter said, running a hand through his hair. "And get back to you." Well, fuck.

"Right. Well, make sure he uses this one as soon as possible. I’d really like to get some…feedback from him. I put extra effort into this one."

Potter’s expression was unreadable. "Did you?"

It was truly infuriating when a person insisted on parroting back, in the form of a question, every bit of information they were given. Draco might have told Potter this, but then Potter’s eyes met his, and Draco forgot to say anything for several moments. "I did," Draco finally said. A slow smile crept onto Potter’s face. He looked amused, but also…almost fond. Draco had no idea what Potter found so amusing, but he couldn’t help smiling back.

He wished he hadn’t when someone cleared his throat and Draco looked up to see Ron bloody Weasley, in his red Auror trainee robes, standing beside their table, staring at them. "Neville said he saw you two having drinks together last week, but I couldn’t quite believe it." Weasley laughed as if he’d made a joke, but there was little humor in his expression as he glanced between them.

"Really?" Harry finally said. "I didn’t see him."

"For some reason," Ron said, "I’m not surprised. Harry, could I talk to you for a minute?"

With an apologetic glance, Harry grabbed the ring and followed Ron to a spot against the wall. It only took Draco two tries to properly cast the spell that would allow him to listen in on the conversation.

"—can’t possibly still be looking for leads in the Ministry. That explanation made sense for the first month, maybe. How long has it been, a year? Neville said you two looked like you were on a date, and you know what? He was right. That’s exactly what this looks like. Is there something you want to tell me, Harry?"

"We’re not on a date," Potter said, and Draco would have tried to read his oddly blank tone of voice if he hadn’t been too busy trying to figure out what the fuck Weasley meant about leads in the Ministry.

"Then why are you still meeting with him? What reason do you still have to be buying these pieces of junk from him?"

"They’re not junk," Harry said, sounding indignant. "Here, look at this one."

"Does he even have permission to be selling all of these things? I’m sure he doesn’t. I ought to report him."

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t have the list of Proscribed Charmable Objects memorized, but Dad sure talked about it enough, and I know there are a lot of—"

"Look, I’m sure these aren’t on that list."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can’t say."

Weasley looked hurt, and frustrated, and Draco felt a stab of vicious pleasure.

"I’m sorry," said Potter. "But look, even if a few of these things were on that list, so what? How would owning them be any different from owning…Dumbledore’s Deluminator? It looks just like a Muggle cigarette lighter."

"I suppose I’d never thought about it. But that’s not the point."

"You’re right. It’s not. The point is, you have absolutely no reason to report him for misuse of Muggle artifacts. These are all harmless, they’re not dark magic—"

"I wouldn’t be so sure of that—"

"--and they’re all in the hands of wizards," Potter continued, clearly irritated.

Wizards, plural? Did Potter have some sort of personality disorder?

Weasley tried to speak, but Potter cut him off. "Look, Ron, just say you won’t cause him any trouble. His parole only ended five months ago. He doesn’t need any legal problems right now."

Weasley stared at Potter for a long time.

"Fine. I won’t report him. But I think you’re being an idiot about him, I hope you know that. And what do you get out of this? Do you just feel sorry for him?"

Come on, Potter, Draco thought furiously. Tell him of fucking course not! Tell him you depend on me, need me, that I’m the only one who can--

"If you had seen him that first day, you would have felt sorry for him too," Potter said quietly.

Draco’s hands began to shake, and he clenched them into fists.

"Somehow I doubt that," Ron said dryly.

Potter took a deep breath. "Ron, I need to tell you something."

"Well, I hope it’s that you’re coming back to Auror training. Or taking Kingsley up on his offer. The Ministry’s as cleaned up as it’s going to get, and I’m finishing accelerated training next month, and it’s not right—"

"Ron! I really need to tell you something, and it’s not about Auror training, so shut it." Potter took another long breath. "It’s something I should have told you a long time ago. I…"

"Sorry for the wait. Can I get something for your friends?"

Draco spun around to look at the barmaid, and the spell ended. He wanted to curse her for interrupting him when she had, but the damage was done, and she was standing there, waiting for their order.

Harry closed his eyes tightly, fighting against the relief that was making his hands tremble and his legs go weak. His eyes felt prickly and hot. When he finally opened them, Ron was standing there staring at him, looking unhappy and awkward. "Thanks, Ron," Harry finally said.

"Hey," Ron said gruffly, and shoved at Harry’s shoulder. "Don’t worry about it."

"Right."

Ron crossed his arms and stared at Harry for a moment before clearing his throat. "Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to get going. We have a field exercise tonight in Stealth and Tracking. Starts in half an hour."

"All right," said Harry, and glanced back at Malfoy. He wasn’t looking at them, or at anything, as far as Harry could tell. His face was strangely, tightly blank, and there were three glasses on the table. "It looks like Malfoy ordered you a drink."

"Probably poisoned it," Ron muttered, before catching Harry’s expression. "Right. Sorry. Look, I’d stay and drink it, I really would, but I can’t. If I wait much longer, I’m going to be late, and I’m really not supposed to have anything stronger than butterbeer before these training exercises."

Harry nodded, and Ron turned to go, but then something occurred to Harry, and he grabbed Ron’s arm. "Wait. It’s going to be cold tonight. Wear this. It’ll keep you warm. If you twist it, it’ll even turn invisible, not that I’m sure what use that is, but…"

Ron stared at the ring before heaving a long-suffering sigh and placing it on his finger.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said again.

"The next time Hermione wants you to wear her newest badge, I don’t want to hear a word about it."

"Not a word," Harry promised.

Ron gave him a small smile, then glanced back at Malfoy, his smile sliding into a slight grimace as he Disapparated.

Behind him, Harry heard a strangled cry of distress.

Malfoy was staring, horrified, at a disembodied arm on the table in front of him.

Harry ran to the table and made a low, choked sound as he saw the silver ring.

"Potter," said Malfoy, scooting his chair back from the table and sounding near-hysterical, "That’s an arm, why the fuck is there an arm there?"

"It’s Ron’s…" Harry began, and couldn’t finish, didn’t want to finish. There was no time to talk about it. His mind was searching, frantically, for the right action to take. He needed to find Ron. Where would Ron have Apparated?

A woman at the table nearest them screamed shrilly as she caught sight of the arm.

Harry made a grab for it, as if someone might step in at any moment and take it, prevent him from finding Ron and fixing him, when Ron returned, pale and trembling, with a loud pop. His freckles were standing out stark on his face, and his red sleeve was hanging loosely, but he was Ron, and he was going to be okay, and for the second time that evening Harry was so relieved he wanted to cry.

"I feel like a bit of an idiot," Ron said, his voice strained. "I Splinched myself. I can’t believe I did that." Then he looked at the table and sounded a bit more normal as a note of indignation entered his voice. "Oy! What’s Malfoy doing with my arm?"

Malfoy, face even paler than usual, thrust his hands into his pockets and backed away from the table.

"Did he grab it?" demanded Ron. "What’s it doing on the table?"

"I don’t know, it was just there, as soon as you Disapparated," Harry said in a rush. "Look, Ron, we need to get you to St. Mungo’s."

"No, I’ve already got the bleeding stopped. And we covered this spell in basic first aid. If I don't handle this myself, I'll never hear the end of it. We can go in to St. Mungo’s if I botch it. Can you just…" Ron gestured at the arm on the table with the wand held in his good hand. "Stick it back on and hold it in place for me?"

A minute later, Ron’s arm had been reattached, with a bang and puff of purple smoke. A couple minutes after that, Ron had left again, blushing as he very obviously took himself through the three D’s before attempting another Apparition.

Harry glanced around at the other patrons in the pub. The hen party was too boisterous for the goblins to have noticed the commotion, but several other people were still staring at them.

It was so strange, bizarre even, that something like that would have happened.

Then Harry realized why Ron must have Splinched himself, and felt utterly horrible.

"Potter," said Malfoy, and Harry looked up. Malfoy was staring at him, looking cold and determined. "I need those items that I owled you back. All of them. Now."

Draco had managed to push down the horrified nausea, silence the panicked voice in his head that kept screaming, that wasn’t supposed to happen, had braced himself for the fury and recrimination he expected to find in Potter’s gaze, but Potter just looked miserable and distracted, as if he’d forgotten Draco was even there.

"What?" Potter finally said. "Why?"

Draco wasn’t certain what to do with that. "Potter?" he said cautiously. "What would you say just happened there?"

"Ron Splinched himself."

"He just Splinched himself," Draco repeated. "For no reason."

"No, not for no reason. He was upset. I told him something, and he…he must have been more upset about it…than he let on." Draco drummed his fingers against his upper thigh, wondering if Potter had dropped Auror training for mental rather than magical deficiency, after all.

"What did you tell him?"

"I…I can’t say." Potter had been speaking distractedly, almost as if he’d been talking out loud to himself, but now his eyes met Draco’s and his gaze sharpened. Draco didn’t know what to make of the strange, intense look Potter was now giving him. "Maybe I’ll tell you later, all right?

"Right," Draco said tightly. "Well maybe I’ll tell you later why I need these items back."

Potter finally seemed to register Draco’s initial request. "What, all of them?"

"All of the ones I gave to you last week." The comb. The watch. The cloth. Draco swallowed. The previous excitement, anticipation, and frustrated desire he had experienced whenever he’d let himself think about those objects now mixed unpleasantly with new and unwelcome feelings of shock, horror, and shame. Draco shoved all the feelings away, lest his nausea return and overpower him.

"Why?" Potter asked again.

Draco crossed his arms and glared at Potter through narrowed eyes. "You didn’t pay anything for them. There’s no need for explanations."

"You said they were gifts."

"Yes," said Draco, "they were gifts, because I felt so very sorry for your friend, but I’m afraid I need them back. Now. This isn’t up for discussion."

Potter looked briefly hurt, then angry. "I’ll have to talk to my—"

"Oh, drop the act, Potter! We both know this friend of yours is a work of fiction!"

Potter took a sharp breath, and stared at Draco. Draco couldn’t believe he’d said it either. A year’s pretense had just been shattered in three angry seconds. But damn it, he didn’t have time to play games.

"Fine," Potter bit out, grabbing Draco’s arm. "You want them back? Come on." He intended to side-along Apparate them, Draco realized.

"What? Potter, we both know there’s no way you can—"

He felt the familiar pressure, and the pub twisted away. He found himself standing outside of a strange, cylindrical building at the top of a hill.

Draco’s mind spun. Potter shouldn’t have been able to do that. "Potter, where are we?" He inspected the overgrown yard and the surrounding hillside. It was cold; the sun would be setting soon.

"Luna Lovegood’s house. You’d better hope that she’s home. And that she’s feeling far more generous than you." Potter knocked loudly on the door.

For the first time, Draco seriously considered the idea that Potter had been buying these items for a friend all along. "Lovegood? She…" His head swam with memories of Lovegood’s face in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, of the overpowering fear he’d felt during that entire time. He hadn’t seen her, aside from a few glances at the Battle of Hogwarts, since then. "She has the things I sent?"

"One of them."

"She has problems with her magic?"

"No, I just thought she might like to have it."

Draco struggled to control his emotions. He’d think about the implications of Potter’s responses later, after this situation had been dealt with.

The door opened. As unprepared as he was to come face to face with Loony Lovegood, he was less prepared to see Neville Longbottom. Potter seemed not to have expected Longbottom either. For a moment the three of them stood blinking at each other.

"Neville," Potter finally said.

"Hi, Harry," said Longbottom, his voice warm, then regarded Draco with a calm, if somewhat puzzled expression. "Malfoy." Draco nodded stiffly. Longbottom clearly wasn’t intimidated by Draco, as he had been during their school days. In fact, he probably expected Draco to be intimidated by him. The silence again stretched out, to the point that Draco was on the brink of saying something rude or possibly antagonistic, just to clear matters up, when Longbottom held the door open wider. "Come in."

Potter started to move forward, then stopped, looking back at Draco. "Is Luna…will she be all right with…guests?"

Neville paused, considering, and then his mouth quirked up on one side. "She’s Luna. You know she will."

Draco followed Potter into the house, stepping past Longbottom, keeping as large of a distance from both of them as he could maintain without risking the appearance of feeling threatened by either.

They were standing in a circular kitchen with a spiral staircase at its center. The walls were entirely bare in places, but other sections were painted with a variety of scenes--mostly landscapes. Small bunches of greenery were hanging in various places on the ceiling, in the manner of mistletoe.

"It’s good to see you, Harry," said Longbottom.

Potter turned away from a painting of a wooded grove, which he had been inspecting. "I heard you saw me last week and didn’t say hello."

"Sorry," Longbottom said, after another brief, puzzled glance at Draco. "I wasn’t sure if I’d be interrupting."

Potter flushed, but whether from embarrassment or anger, Draco couldn’t tell. "You wouldn’t have been," said Potter. Draco wanted to punch him in the face.

At the sound of steps, Draco looked up, to see Lovegood entering the room, by way of the spiral staircase. She looked much the same as she had back at Hogwarts, but she now lacked the eccentric jewelry. "Hello Harry," she said, smiling. "I wasn’t expecting to see you again until the Christmas party. Hello Draco." Draco was unnerved. He cleared his throat and looked down at the floor.

"I think you only had five paintings done last time I was here. Is that one new?" Potter pointed at the one he’d been inspecting.

"Not very new," said Lovegood, "but there’s another one I did just a few days ago. Would you like to see it?"

"There’s not time for this," Draco whispered to Potter as they followed Lovegood up to the sitting room.

"Shut up," Potter whispered back. "You’ll look at whatever she damn well wants to show you."

Draco attempted to put as much hostility as he could into the glare he was directing at the back of Potter’s head. When they were through here, he might just punch Potter twice.

Lovegood and Longbottom were standing by another painting of a wooded area, but this one was a winter scene. Despite the snow, it contained small patches of the same greenery that was hanging in bunches all over the house.

"I didn’t find any evidence of the Snorkack, but I did get plenty of hygeia anise," Lovegood said, gesturing at the hanging greenery.

"Are those to keep the Nargles away?" Neville asked, sounding amused.

"You know," said Lovegood seriously, "I’ve actually begun to wonder if there is such a thing as a Nargle. No, these are for attracting Dandelian Waglers."

"Are those the ones that don’t like cleaning spells?" Potter asked.

"That’s right," said Lovegood, sounding pleased.

"About that. The cloth I gave you that cleans whatever it touches. Could I get it back? I’m sorry. Malfoy needs it."

"Oh," said Luna. "Is that what you gave it to me for? I didn’t think it was for that sort of cleaning."

Harry wondered what she meant, but was distracted from asking by Malfoy, who’d made an odd choking sound.

"Yes, you can have it back," Luna continued. "I haven’t used it yet anyway. Come with me, and I’ll get it for you."

Malfoy was glaring at Harry, bright spots of color in his cheeks. Neville leaned carelessly against the wall.

"Don’t worry, Harry," said Neville. "Malfoy and I can catch up for a minute. He can tell me what he’s been up to these days."

"Malfoy’s been selling overpriced magical objects," said Harry, "except when he gives them away and then demands them back without explanation. Here’s the first one you sold me, Malfoy. Why don’t you tell him about that?"

He took the small sphere out of his pocket and threw it at Malfoy, hard. Malfoy caught it, took one look at what he was holding, and shoved it in his pocket.

"Was that a Remembrall?" Neville’s voice was amused.

"No," said Malfoy furiously. His hand slipped back into his pocket, and he appeared to be clenching the Respitorb tightly in one fist. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. For a moment, Harry felt guilty, until he remembered Malfoy’s face when he’d demanded his gifts back, just minutes after Ron's Splinching. Whatever Malfoy was feeling, he deserved it. Harry turned to follow Luna.

As if he really had held a Remembrall and been prompted to remember things he should not have forgotten, he thought back to that day he'd confronted Malfoy in the Atrium and left with the Respitorb in his pocket. It had been almost a year. Harry should have let him keep it, he thought bitterly, along with every other overpriced, useless item he’d sold to Harry since.

Luna glanced at him curiously when they reached her room, and Harry quickly smoothed out his expression and searched for a topic of conversation. "So…you’re not so sure about Nargles these days? How about the Rotfang Conspiracy? Should I be on the lookout for dark magic and gum disease over at the Ministry?"

"I’ve heard you’ve already been keeping a lookout at the Ministry this year. We probably don’t need to worry about the Rotfang Conspiracy, now that the Ministry has been reorganized. Still, we can’t be too careful. You spend a lot of time there, don’t you? Have you considered placing protective charms on your toothbrush?"

Harry laughed. "I’ll take it under consideration."

As Luna walked over to the dresser beside her bed, Harry looked up and saw that she’d found time to repaint in here too since the repairs. He was happy to see two new faces on her ceiling, smiling peacefully along with the other five.

"Like I said, I hadn’t used it," said Luna, who had removed the cloth from one of the drawers. "Not that it matters, I suppose, considering it’s impossible to get it dirty."

Harry supposed that was true. "So you did know it was for cleaning then? I thought you said before…"

"Oh, I understood it was for cleaning. It was just so soft and delicate, I assumed it was for personal use."

"What? Oh. Oh!" Harry suddenly felt very embarrassed. "No, I, er, didn’t mean it that way."

"I was a little surprised when you gave it to me," Luna said. "It seemed like a more romantic gift than you would have meant to give."

Harry darted a glance at her face, hoping he hadn’t given her the wrong idea. But Luna looked as calm and unruffled as ever.

"Are you and Neville…?"

"Oh, no. Neville and I are just friends." Her face lit up as she said the word. Harry resolved to visit her more often. "Didn’t you know?" Luna continued. "Neville fancies Ginny. I think he’s been hoping this thing with Malfoy will mean you aren’t going to try to get her back. He doesn’t think he’d have much of a chance if you did."

"There isn’t any thing with Malfoy," Harry said with force.

"Oh?" said Luna, looking honestly surprised. Though Luna always looked surprised. "I thought there was. He made this cloth, didn’t he?"

"He’s the person I got it from."

As they made their way back down the stairs, Harry thought about the cloth, and romance, and Malfoy. The cloth had been very silky, he remembered, and he couldn’t prevent himself from imagining ridiculous, stupid things, like him and Malfoy, in bed, doing a disturbing assortment of things with that piece of soft fabric.

Neville was still leaning against the wall, and Malfoy was across the room, staring out the window.

Luna handed the cloth to Malfoy, who accepted it wordlessly and shoved it in his pocket along with the Respitorb. "It was a lovely idea," she said. "Have you considered trying spellwork on toothbrushes? I think those would make an excellent gift as well."

Malfoy stared at her.

Luna crossed the room to speak with Neville, and Harry took the opportunity to step closer to Malfoy. His voice accusatory, he whispered in Malfoy’s ear: "Luna said this cloth was for personal use."

Malfoy shivered, then glared at Harry. "I assumed your 'friend' had a body odor problem, and that’s why he never went out in public or had the guts to speak to me in person."

"Neville and I need to be going," said Luna. "He needs to pick some Vespertencia, and I’m going to show him where he can find some."

"It’s best picked in the hour after sunset," Neville explained.

"Would you like to come with us?" Luna asked.

Malfoy’s head whipped back to Harry, and Harry was tempted to accept the offer just to piss him off. But then, he had no idea what Malfoy might say or do next. "I’m sorry, but we can’t."

"All right," said Luna. "I’ll let you see yourselves out, then."

Harry shook Neville’s hand and accepted a hug from Luna. By the time they had left, Malfoy was again staring out the window. He’d taken the cloth out of his pocket and was alternately twisting it and sliding it through his hands. Harry’s breath caught at the play of fabric over Malfoy’s long, graceful fingers. As angry and frustrated as if Malfoy had been doing it specifically to taunt him, Harry snatched the cloth out of his hands. "I think your hands are clean enough, don’t you?"

Malfoy flushed, and his very clean hands tightened into fists. "I still need the other two," he finally said.

"Fine," Harry said tightly. The sooner they ended this disaster of an evening, the better. Harry reached for Malfoy’s arm, intending to Apparate, and Malfoy’s eyes widened.

"No!" Malfoy shouted, snatching the cloth back from Harry’s hands and taking several quick steps away. "You can’t Apparate while you’re holding this!"

"Why not?"

Malfoy pressed his lips together and stared at Harry.

"Why not, Malfoy?"

"It could be dangerous," Malfoy finally said.

Apparating. Dangerous. Harry reeled as it hit him. "It was the ring."

Malfoy swallowed.

"You have it, don’t you?" demanded Harry. "Give it to me. Now!"

Malfoy silently produced the ring. Harry grabbed it and the cloth from his hands. "Where did you get these, Malfoy? Hrothgar's doesn’t make products like these."

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

"That’s right," said Harry, "I knew you were selling me recycled products, and at a bloody ridiculous markup."

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth a couple more times before finally producing a response. "What, it took you this long to figure that out? I feel sorry for you."

"Feel sorry for me! You should be sorry. So fucking sorry. It’s your fault Ron’s arm was ripped off!"

Malfoy paled. "Look, I am. I’m sorry. I had no idea that— "

Harry had never before heard Malfoy say he was sorry. He hadn’t apologized for any of his terrible behavior over the years. They’d just moved past it. Or so Harry had thought. He didn’t know what to think about Malfoy apologizing for this, now.

"I don’t want to hear it," he interrupted angrily. "Just tell me where you bought these."

"I didn’t—"

"Tell me!"

"I made them myself!" Malfoy shouted. "I made these new ones myself, and I fucked up, so let’s just shut the fuck up about it and get them back!"

Harry suddenly realized that Ron wasn’t the only person he’d unwittingly put in danger. He’d put Luna in danger, and also—

"Ginny," Potter breathed out, and Draco felt as if he’s been slapped. In the wake of that slap, he was flooded with a furious resentment. He still remembered when he’d learned that Potter and the Weasley girl had broken up. That had been the first time he’d admitted to himself he had certain interests in Potter. Interests he bloody well should have cut his bollocks off before he acknowledged. He wondered which she had, the comb or the watch? Did she spend her time combing her long red hair, luxuriating in the sensation of it? Or did she hold the watch in her hand and think of Potter, every hour of the day?

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said, striding to the fireplace. "We’re going to the Burrow." Potter grabbed a pinch of Floo powder. "Don’t you dare give me a reason to regret bringing you there."

Potter stepped into the fireplace, and Draco realized that though the ring was no longer a danger, Potter was holding the cloth as well.

"Potter, stop!" Draco shouted, grabbing Potter’s arm, as Potter threw down his pinch of Floo powder and said, "The Burrow."

With a jerk, they were dragged into the Floo together in a swirl of green flame, arms and legs banging painfully against the walls as they whirled to their destination. Draco’s head took a sharp knock, and he pulled himself in closer, wrapping his arms and legs tightly around Potter, and tucking his head in to prevent further injury.

When they arrived at their destination, they fell out of the fireplace, Draco on his back, Potter sprawled on top of him, with Draco’s left leg still wrapped tightly around Potter’s right. Draco had only been this close to Potter, or any other man, once before, and he hated himself for the pleasure he couldn’t help but take now in the burning, brilliant sensation of Potter, pressed against him from head to toe.

Potter lay on top of him, not moving, and after several rapid breaths, in which even the scent of Potter permeated his senses, Draco began to wonder if Potter was all right. Shifting slightly, he tightened his grip on Potter’s shoulder and attempted to get a look at his face. Potter jerked his head up, and their eyes met. In a spasm of rushed movement, Potter pulled himself free and scrambled to his feet.

Draco stood as well, and it was then that he realized they couldn’t possibly be in the Weasleys’ home. They were standing in an entrance hall, and Draco was certain the Weasleys couldn’t have one. From the way Potter was blinking at the Christmas tree in the corner, he was trying to figure out where they were too.

Potter turned to him and glared. "What were you thinking, grabbing me like that?"

"I was thinking I didn’t want my head bashed in. What were you thinking, Potter, sprawling on top of me? I thought you would never get up."

Potter flushed, and Draco took comfort in the fact that Potter looked every bit as humiliated as Draco privately felt.

"I meant, what were you thinking grabbing my arm in the first place."

Of course that was what Potter had meant. Draco attempted to cover his discomfort with a scathing look. "I was thinking that, considering Weasley’s recent mishap with Apparition, it would be extremely foolish to rely upon Floo travel as safe either."

"Well, it’s certainly not safe with you hanging off my arm! You’re supposed to keep your elbows tucked in, not Floo with someone dangling from one of them." Potter rubbed at a scraped wrist.

"Stop pretending you know how to Floo, Potter. You’ll embarrass yourself."

Potter’s brows drew together. "Right, next time I’ll remember to wrap myself around someone like a vine and cling for safety. That’ll be much less embarrassing."

Potter’s accusations of vine-like clinging lit in Draco a fury that even he, in the midst of his outrage, could recognize was disproportional to the insult. For a moment, his anger was so great, he couldn’t even find the words to respond. Draco took four steps toward Potter, closing the distance between them, and Potter’s eyes widened.

"What--" said Potter, and then a door opened, and a middle-aged witch, followed by a package-laden house-elf, entered the room. As the door closed, Draco caught a glimpse of the darkening street outside.

"Hello there," said the witch, with a smile, and Draco managed to swallow his anger and nod with civility.

"Overdressed, aren’t we?" she said.

Draco glanced at their clothing in confusion. The witch’s robes were quite stylish, if understated, but Draco’s robes were really nothing special, Potter’s robes were barely adequate for a social outing, and none of the three of them were wearing formal dress robes of any kind.

"Walby," the witch said to the house-elf, "please take my packages and my robes to my room."

The house-elf nodded, and with a snap of its fingers the elf, the packages, and every scrap of clothing the woman had been wearing disappeared. Draco expected the woman to run from the room, screaming, but she simply turned back to them and smiled, as if nothing was amiss. Draco had to struggle not to stare at her in horror, and a quick glance at Potter showed he’d been similarly affected.

"So glad to see we’ll have more company this evening," the witch said pleasantly. "It’s never very busy here this time of year, but I’ve found this is the perfect place to stay when I do my holiday shopping. Have you been here before? I don’t remember seeing either of you."

Dumbly, Potter shook his head.

"The garden in back is delightful, and they always keep it comfortably warm. I’ll see you two at dinner!"

The woman left the room, and after a quick glance at each other, Draco and Potter both rushed for the exit. Once they were safely in the street, they turned back, to see a single-story building with a tiled roof, and a sign hanging above the door: The Bungalow: Clothing Optional Wizarding Nudist Get-away.

"I’m never traveling by Floo again," Potter muttered, staring at the sign.

"Where the fuck are we?" Draco demanded. He scrutinized the surrounding buildings in the increasingly dim light, but he didn’t recognize any of them. He hadn’t really expected Potter to know the answer, but when he turned back to look at him, Potter was staring at a pub across the street. "Margin Alley," Potter said.

"What?" Draco inspected the pub more closely, agitated. A shiver ran through his body when he saw the sign.

Draco had heard about this place, through gossip and whispers. He’d fantasized about coming here as a younger teenager, but never seriously considered it. His father’s scathing remarks about Margin Alley and the deviants who came here had been far too fresh in his memory. After the war, once his father was in Azkaban, and the ghosts of his old speeches had carried less weight, it still hadn’t been an option. Not when Draco was still on parole, and under a curfew, when it would have been insanity to risk everything by leaving the house after dark. But he’d thought about it. He’d lain in bed at night, and thought about what he might do once his parole was over. Imagined coming here, to this place, to that pub across the street, and finding other men. Touching and being touched. He’d been nearly obsessed with the idea in the months following his trial.

But by the time his parole was over, and it had been a real option, he hadn’t wanted to. He’d thought of only one person when he’d lain in bed at night.

He turned to stare at Potter with a bitter fury.

"And how do you know about Margin Alley? Been to the Bull and Feather, Potter?"

It was only at that moment that Harry realized what he had just revealed about himself, and his stomach clenched tightly. He stared at Malfoy, a growing panic welling within him, as he searched for some plausible excuse. Of all the ammunition he didn’t want Malfoy to have, of all the ways in which Malfoy might hurt him, this was the worst. But as the silence lengthened, Malfoy’s eyes narrowed further, and Harry realized he’d gone too long to plausibly deny knowledge of the place.

"Interested in blokes, are you?" Malfoy said, voice uneven. "Is there a reason that Weasley was wearing that ring? Particularly worried about his temperature? He’s so hot-headed, I suppose that’s a reasonable—"

"Shut your mouth about Ron! You give him an object that tears his arm off, and then have the nerve to—"

"I didn’t give it to him! I gave it to you!"

They stared at each other, in the wake of Malfoy’s furiously shouted words. Malfoy’s lips were pressed tightly together. What had Malfoy meant by that? Had he known the object was dangerous? Had he been targeting Harry?

No, Harry finally decided, he couldn’t believe that. Malfoy might be a bastard, but he’d been truly horrified at the accident. And that apology—Harry might not be ready to accept it, but he thought that it, at least, had been genuine.

And then something else occurred to Harry that chased all other thoughts away.

"How do you know about the Bull and Feather, Malfoy? Have you been there?" And he couldn’t help it. Despite everything, he felt a hot surge of jealousy at the thought that Malfoy might have been here, that someone else might have touched him in the ways that Harry had never been able to. That someone else might have seen and felt him come undone in their hands.

"Of course I’ve never been here," said Malfoy, curling his lip. "But you have, haven’t you Potter? Found some cheap thrills in the seamiest part of wizarding London?"

"Yeah," shouted Harry, hurt and fury pulsing through his veins. "Yeah, I have. I’ve been in that building, and I got a handjob there. From a bloke. A hot, Muggleborn bloke. Got anything to say about that?"

Malfoy’s face trembled between several expressions, none of them readable to Harry in the short time he was able to see them. "You’re disgusting," Malfoy said, his voice shaking.

Harry threw himself forward, hands clenched into fists, and punched Malfoy in his filthy, bigoted mouth.

Potter’s glasses lay smashed in pieces at their feet. Draco braced himself for yet another blow, but it didn’t come. They both stood, panting, covered in dirt, and spattered in blood. Neither of them had been vitally injured, neither had been knocked unconscious, and there had been no clear victor, but the fight seemed to have come to an end.

Draco spat, attempting to rid himself of the sharp, metallic taste in his mouth, then winced at the pain of his badly split lip.

"Potter?" he finally said. "Are we done?"

"Yeah," Potter said grimly, not even bothering to look at him. "We’re done."

Potter wiped ineffectually with his sleeve at the blood on his face. Draco had broken Potter’s nose. Again. He should have known they could only ever end up back here.

Amidst the blood on Potter’s face was a streak of ash on his cheek, in the same spot Draco had wiped clean only an hour ago. Draco stared at it, feeling suddenly sick. Potter swiped again, and the ash disappeared in a crimson smear.

"You should use the cloth," Draco said, then clamped his mouth tightly shut.

"What?"

Draco wanted to flinch away from the derisive incredulity in Potter’s gaze, but he straightened his back instead. He tried to sneer, but quickly remembered his lip, and settled for crossing his arms.

"The cloth. You know, the magic one? In your pocket? If you ever get tired of soiling your robes and making your face look like a small child’s finger painting, you might want to give it a try."

Potter stared at him.

"Of course, I’m making the assumption here that you actually want to remove the blood and not--"

"God, Malfoy, just…shut up!" With an angry jerk, Potter pulled the cloth from his pocket and began wiping his face.

Draco removed his wand from his own pocket and spelled his skin and robes clean. Potter could have done the same, rather than using the cloth, he realized. He’d got too used to thinking of Potter as magically disabled.

Potter had managed to wipe up most of the blood and dirt and was occupied closing his scrapes and healing his bruises. Draco wondered if he had learned the spells before leaving Auror training, or perhaps sometime during the war. If the bastard hadn’t been casting them nonverbally, perhaps Draco could have learned them too, and healed his own injuries. And why the fuck had Potter gone so many months without using his wand in front of Draco anyway? He certainly didn’t seem shy about using it now.

Potter was now healing his broken nose. He’d want his glasses back soon.

Not letting himself think about what he was doing, or why, Draco gathered the pieces of the frame—it had shattered in two, at the bridge of the nose--and the shards of glass, and cast Reparo. And then he was holding Potter’s glasses in his hand, whole again. His fingers wrapped tightly around them as he thought of all the things that could be repaired with a single word and the wave of a wand, and all the things that couldn’t.

Slowly, he loosened his grip, to inspect the glasses more closely. They looked the same as the ones Potter had worn in school, and Draco wondered if they were, or if Potter, despite all the options available to him, had continued to buy glasses identical to the ones he’d grown up with. He ran a finger along the frame, slid a thumb across one lens. It left behind a smudge of a fingerprint he had no intention of removing. He remembered wanting to smash these glasses back at Hogwarts. Wanting to pluck them from Potter’s face in recent months.

Potter stepped closer, and Draco’s fingers tightened reflexively around the glasses once again. When he looked up, Potter was staring down at Draco’s hands. Draco waited, and when it became clear that Potter was unwilling to either ask or grab, perhaps unwilling to touch at all, Draco offered them silently, held pinched at a single point, between thumb and forefinger.

Potter stood staring at Draco for a long moment after placing the glasses back on his face. "Are you going to fix your mouth?" he finally said.

"No, I like it like this."

Potter crossed his arms.

"I don’t know how," Draco said, frustrated and resentful.

Potter’s frown deepened. Draco was turning away when, without warning, Potter reached out and gripped Draco’s jaw. He held it tightly. Too tightly—it hurt.

"Potter, what—"

"Hold still and be quiet. Open your mouth again, and I’ll leave you like this."

Potter stared at his mouth with a quiet, intense focus as he repaired the split lip. As Potter healed a cut above Draco’s left eye, Draco remembered to breathe again. When all of Draco’s visible injuries had been healed, their eyes met.

"Here," Potter said, shoving the cloth rudely into Draco’s hands and turning away.

As Draco wiped away the blood that had gathered since his cleaning spell, Potter gripped his wand, thrust out his arm, and with a loud bang, a three-tiered, purple bus appeared and screeched to a halt in front of them.

Draco stumbled in shock. "Potter, what—"

Potter turned to glare at him. "We can’t Apparate. It’s not safe to Floo. You want the other two back? Get on the bus."

Draco had never ridden the Knight Bus before and was appalled to find it filled with beds, and no proper seating at all. The bus was crammed nearly full of teenagers who had missed their Portkey, according to the pockmarked conductor. The man seemed to worship the very ground Potter walked on as he ushered them on board. Draco thought he remembered Potter testifying at his trial—he wasn’t certain, having been far more concerned about his own upcoming trial at the time.

Draco perched on the edge of the bed containing the one teenager who was asleep and not babbling excitedly. He certainly wasn’t going to climb into the free one with Potter. Amidst the babbling, Draco heard quieter whispers, some shocked, some intrigued, and several including some combination of the words "Harry Potter" and "Margin Alley."

As the bus lurched into rapid motion, Draco watched Potter out of the corner of his eye, and took a thin, fleeting pleasure out of seeing the hot chocolate the conductor had foisted on him spill over the front of Potter’s robes.

No one tried to talk to Draco, or Potter either. Potter sat hunched over, arms crossed, glaring down at the blankets on his bed. Whether that was due to the whispers, or the hot chocolate, or the temperature of his complimentary hot water bottle, Draco didn’t know. Whatever the cause, Draco had no sympathy.

Sick of looking at him, Draco turned away and stared at the window.

There was nothing wrong with Potter’s magic. Potter had been giving the objects to his friends. Potter felt sorry for him.

When, a few weeks after their exchange in the Atrium, Potter had first approached him, wanting to purchase items for his "friend," Draco’s interest had been feverish and immediate. When viewed in conjunction with Potter’s mysterious and unexplained withdrawal from Auror training, the story about his "friend" had sounded even flimsier than it otherwise would have. As he continued to never see any evidence of Potter doing any difficult spellwork, his suspicions had cemented into firm conviction.

He’d been consumed with the need to prove those suspicions, that the almighty Potter had been brought just as low as Draco—lower, even—in his magical abilities, rendered just as powerless as Draco had ever been.

As time passed, though, his focus had shifted, and rather than spending his time imagining Potter’s very public humiliation, he began imagining Potter’s private moments. What sort of problems might Potter be running into at home, when spells were so difficult for him to cast? That wasn’t so hard for Draco to imagine, after the problems he’d had with his uncooperative wand and the surveillance spells placed on it, during his year of probation.

And then had come June, when Draco’s probation had been about to end, and Potter’s relationship with the Weasley girl had ended, and Potter had had no more requests or suggestions when Draco had asked him what his friend might need that month. No, instead he’d looked at Draco for a long, strangely intense moment, and finally said, "I’m sure you can think of something he’d like."

Warmth and excitement and arousal had curled in his belly, and ever since that night, Draco had chosen every item with care, offered them sometimes more than once a month just so he could see Potter again a week or two sooner. And he’d once again been filled with feverish speculation, but it wasn’t Potter’s magical ability he had been scrutinizing. Instead, it was every look, every touch, and he’d been sure. Almost sure. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t risk everything by making his own feelings known until he was absolutely certain that Potter felt the same way.

That was when he’d got the idea for these items. It had taken months of research, and Draco had poured himself into their creation. He’d been confident that he’d succeeded. Far too confident, as this disastrous evening had proven.

When he’d thought Potter had needed him, had been turning to him for help with a problem about which he dared not tell anyone, he’d felt empowered, stronger than he’d felt since his first foolish weeks of exhilarated pride and determination at the beginning of sixth year. When he’d thought Potter had wanted him as well, he’d felt he could do anything, that no aspiration was beyond his grasp. A world that had shut him out, shunned him and metaphorically shackled him in the months following the war had seemed open, full of possibility again. And nothing had seemed more filled with possibility than his interactions with Potter.

But now he knew. What had seemed like fondness and attraction had been pity. Draco’s carefully chosen and crafted offerings had been tossed aside like junk. And all the while, Potter had been getting his thrills elsewhere, in Margin Alley. They might even have seen each other there, if Draco hadn’t been so weakened, first by his fear, and then by his foolish affections.

Draco wanted to hold onto his anger, to fill himself with it, find strength in it. But it was as if the receptacle of his emotions had been split along with his lip, broken along with Potter’s nose, shattered with Potter’s glasses. He felt completely stripped of power and, now that the first fury had passed, strangely hollow. There was no way he was going to weaken himself further by ever letting Potter know how he had felt.

It had been fully dark for some time when the bus finally pulled to a stop in front of the Weasleys’ sprawling house. It was lit brightly, and Harry took a deep, relieved breath, looking at it. It still felt almost like home.

Most of the whispering teenagers had left the bus at earlier stops, but the two remaining girls had continued staring at him with speculation in their eyes, until he’d wanted to scream at them both to mind their own business, to leave him alone, for once. Now that his anger had cooled some, he couldn’t believe what he had admitted to Malfoy. He’d known for months that he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret forever, that sooner or later he’d have to tell someone beyond Ginny, but after Malfoy’s sneering disgust, and the teenagers’ intrusive stares, Harry was having a hard time remembering why he’d ever thought it would be a good idea to tell anyone, under any circumstances.

Especially Malfoy. Telling Malfoy had quite possibly been the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Malfoy, who had spent most of the trip staring broodingly out the window, was now staring at the Burrow. The headlights of the bus illuminated the front of the house and a portion of the yard. He wasn’t looking at Harry, but Harry glared at him anyway, silently daring him to say even one disparaging word.

"Blimey, I forgot to give you a toothbrush!" cried Stan as Harry stepped out of the bus. "What color would you like?"

"No, thanks, I really—"

"’Ere, take one of each!" Harry wanted to refuse, but Stan, eyes sincere in his acne-scarred face, thrust the toothbrushes at him as if they were the only reparation he could offer in the world, and he would ever after count himself a failure if Harry did not accept them.

The bus disappeared, and he found himself standing at the Weasleys’ front door, late at night, with Draco Malfoy and a fistful of toothbrushes.

He’d always thought his life after the war would be more predictable, more meaningful. He’d thought his life would make sense. He stared darkly at the toothbrushes.

"Are we going to stand here all night, Potter? What, are you trying to decide which color to give to which Weasley?"

"Fuck off." Harry knocked on the door, a bit too hard.

"That poor bastard thought he was giving something to you, but then we both know better, don’t we?"

His tone was bitter, and Harry turned to stare at him. "Wait, is that what you—"

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and an instant later his expression turned deeply hostile. "Whatever you’re thinking, Potter, I can assure you, you’re painfully, embarrassingly mistaken."

The door opened. Ginny stood blinking at them for a moment, glanced over at Malfoy, then turned back to Harry, her eyebrows raised.

"Sorry, Gin, it’s a long story," said Harry. "You hadn’t gone to bed yet?"

"No," she said slowly, "I was helping Dad with his fairy lights. He wants to finish with them before Mum comes home tomorrow from her visit with Bill and Fleur."

"Can we come in?"

After another appraising glance at Malfoy, she opened the door wider.

Arthur was standing near the fireplace, holding a large, tangled mass of Muggle fairy lights. "Harry," he said. "I’m surprised to see you here so late, but it’s always—" Then his eyes lit on Malfoy, and his smile slipped from his face. Harry wondered if he ought to have told Malfoy to wait in the chicken coop.

Malfoy stood stiffly, staring into the fireplace. Harry looked from him, to Arthur, to the toothbrushes in his hand.

"Er… Sorry to come by so late," Harry said to Arthur. "But if you wouldn’t mind, Draco has some questions for you." Harry hadn’t thought it possible, but Malfoy stiffened further. Harry ignored him. "He’s interested in charmwork, and has done some interesting experiments, but doesn’t want to get into any trouble. He’s been thinking about working with toothbrushes next." Harry displayed his handful of toothbrushes. "Could you give him more information about the laws when it comes to charming objects used by wizards and Muggles both? Ron mentioned the list of Proscribed Charmable Objects…?"

Arthur looked thoughtful, then interested. "It can be difficult when you don’t know enough about Muggles to know what might be in common use among them. I suppose you didn’t have much opportunity to learn about them as you were growing up. Did you take Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?"

"No," said Malfoy, voice wooden.

"No, I thought not," said Arthur. "Here, let me just…" Arthur turned to set the fairy lights down. Malfoy’s frozen expression melted away as he whipped his head around to glare at Harry.

"You want me to get the watch back from Ginny?" Harry whispered to him. "You can talk to her dad for a minute. If you don’t like it, leave."

For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy would do exactly that, but then he mastered his expression and stared back at the fireplace.

"Let me get a look at those toothbrushes," said Arthur. "Are they wizarding, or a Muggle brand? The laws distinguish between them…"

Harry held the toothbrushes out to Malfoy, and after a brief, awkward moment during which he appeared to be ignoring the existence of everyone in the room, Malfoy reached out, grabbed the toothbrushes, and rigidly approached Arthur.

Harry turned to Ginny, who appeared to have noticed far more of Harry and Malfoy’s interaction than her father had.

"Care to explain what’s going on here?" she asked.

"Ginny. I’m sorry, but I need to get back that pocket watch I gave you."

She placed one hand on her hip. "Care to explain what’s going on here?" she asked again.

"I will, just…could I get the watch back?"

"It’s right over here," she said.

She walked over to the sofa, scooped the pocket watch off of one of its arms, sat down, and gestured at the cushion beside her. "Sit. Explain."

Harry sat down and immediately took the watch from her hand. He knew how unlikely it was that she would choose to Apparate away without warning, but he felt vastly relieved to know she was no longer holding it.

"Why did you give that to me, Harry?" she asked.

"It made me think of your clock. The one your family has here, at the Burrow." He turned to look in the direction of the kitchen, but found his eye caught, instead, by Malfoy’s pale blond hair.

"If I hadn’t known better," she said frankly, "I’d have thought you were trying to seduce me."

"What?" He whipped his head back to look at her. She was raising one eyebrow at him. It reminded him sharply of Malfoy, and he shook off the odd image.

"I always found myself thinking of Neville within fifteen seconds of holding it."

This was truly bizarre. Why would Ginny think he was trying to seduce her by making her think of Neville? Why would Malfoy have wanted to create a magical object that made someone think of Neville? He turned to get a better look at him.

Malfoy was standing by the fireplace, doing a poor job of looking polite or interested, but Arthur was speaking so enthusiastically, he didn’t appear to have noticed. Malfoy turned slightly, and Harry was struck by his profile in the lamplight.

"Harry!"

All at once, Harry was filled with an epiphany and a horrible embarrassment. He shoved the watch in his pocket, and turned back to face her.

She was staring at him with wide, amazed eyes.

"Oh my god," she said.

"Look," Harry said, his throat tight. It was difficult to force the words out. "I told you…last summer…"

"It was him," she said, sounding awed. "I knew you were seeing him, as part of your investigation, but…" She turned to stare at Malfoy. His veneer of patience seemed to have worn even thinner in the previous thirty seconds. His mouth kept trying to form itself into a sneer, before he pressed his lips together again. "I can only assume he doesn’t always look like that?"

"No," Harry said. "He didn’t always look like that."

"Harry," she said. "How did this happen? I’m not trying to be rude, but…Malfoy? I don’t get it."

Harry swallowed. "You know I was…after I quit Auror training to investigate at the Minstry, find out which employees were still corrupt…I was spending a lot of time there. I saw Malfoy one day, in the Atrium. Of course I wanted to know what he was up to. He’s Malfoy. I mean, a Malfoy. He could have had contacts. Could have been there for all sorts of reasons. I followed him."

Ginny crossed her arms.

"Look, that’s what I was there for," Harry said defensively. "I was following all sorts of people."

"Spying on, you mean?" asked Ginny.

"Whatever," said Harry. "The point is, he had this thing. In his pocket."

Ginny raised an eyebrow, and Harry flushed. "He had a magical object in his pocket," Harry continued. "It looked sort of like a Remembrall, but it obviously wasn’t, when I got a good look. He took it out, was doing something with it. Holding it in his hand, closing his eyes, concentrating. It wasn’t the object itself that seemed so suspicious, but the way he used it. He didn’t seem to want anyone to know he had it, to see what he was doing. So I confronted him."

"I’m sure that went well," said Ginny.

"He didn’t want to tell me anything, but when he found out I’d already seen him use it, he got really upset. He told me he wasn’t using it, just testing it. That he’d made it himself, and was offering them for sale."

"What did it do?"

"Well, he said it gave the holder wisdom, insight. He said the employees at the Ministry could obviously do with some."

"Charming. Did you believe him?"

"Of course not. I wanted to know what it really was, so I bought it myself."

"He actually sold it to you?"

"Well, he didn’t have much choice, did he, if he wanted me to believe his cover story. So I bought it, and I had Hermione look at it for me. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, nothing dark, nothing dangerous. But of course he hadn’t made it himself. He’d owl-ordered it from some specialty shop that caters to Squibs. Doubled the price on me, too. Just like him. But it wasn’t for improving insight or intelligence. It was to ease anxiety and nausea. He’d been holding it like that because he’d been terrified."

Ginny made a soft sound; whether of surprise or sympathy he didn’t know.

"I asked around," Harry continued, "found out what he’d really been doing there that day. Do you know what it was? He’d been trying to get permission to get a new wand, switch his surveillance spells over to it. You know how he didn’t have one, and I handed his old wand over to the court during his sentencing, so they could put the restrictive spells on it? It wasn’t working for him well at all. He kept getting flagged for casting spells a suspicious number of times, and it was because the spells kept not working properly. The DMLE kept showing up to his house to investigate, and it would be over stupid, piddly spells that he’d tried to cast twenty times in a row. Their surveillance spells always were arbitrary like that… Though one time I guess he really was using a forbidden spell. Having some sort of a tantrum, using blasting charms. That was shortly after his trial. They put a note in his file."

"I take it you’ve had a close look at that file," said Ginny, and Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Did they let him switch wands?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don’t know. Maybe because they thought he was trying to get around the restrictions somehow. Maybe because he was a prick about it when he asked. Anyway, I’m sure that’s why he’d been using those charmed objects—because his wand wasn’t working well for him. Though now that I think about it, that wand seemed to have been working well enough lately… He must have convinced the wand he was capable of mastering it after all." He paused, frowning. "I wonder if back before his parole was over he was using any of those objects to get around restricted spells…"

"None of this explains why you fell for him."

"I didn’t—"

Ginny gave him a familiar look. He finally placed it as the one Molly always gave her boys when she wasn’t buying their story and wasn’t going to insult her own intelligence by listening to it any further.

Harry cleared his throat. "I don’t even know what made me contact him again, and ask him to sell me something else. I told myself it was because I wanted to investigate him more, as part of the Ministry cleanup. But I’d seen how beaten down he was there in the Atrium. I knew how unlikely it was that he’d have any contacts. I think I just wanted to…" He trailed off, not even knowing how to finish that sentence.

"I never understood why he kept meeting with me," Harry finally said. "I wondered if maybe the Malfoys were harder up for money than they were letting on. But I hoped…" He shook his head, suddenly frustrated. "It doesn’t matter what I hoped. I was stupid. Do you know I actually avoided using my wand around him much, because I felt bad for him being chained to the one I stole from him?"

Ginny’s face was filled with sympathy, and that just made it worse.

"Look, forget about it," Harry said. "He’s a complete bastard. We’ve known that for years. I don’t know what I was thinking." He glanced back over at Arthur and Malfoy. "And if I wait any longer, even your dad’s going to notice what a prick he’s being. I need to go." He stood up.

"Hey," she said, catching his arm. "You want me to mess him up? I can still cast a mean bat bogey hex."

Malfoy looked over at them, and his eyes narrowed at Ginny’s hand on Harry’s arm. He gave up whatever struggle he’d been waging to maintain a neutral expression; his lip curled upwards and stayed there.

"Thanks, Gin," Harry said. "But I can fight my own battles."

"Yes," said Ginny, "I’m well aware of that. I seem to recall being left out of some other key battles a couple years ago?"

Harry winced. "I said I was sorry for that."

Ginny laughed. "All right, I’ll go easy on you. You look like you’ve had a rough night."

"You have no idea," said Harry.

He walked back to the fireplace. "—which is a common mistake," Arthur was saying. "Just because an object is familiar to us does not eliminate the possibility of that object being in far more common use with Muggles. Especially when you consider that we have magical alternatives that aren’t available to them. Take this toothbrush, for example. My son’s future in-laws are both Muggle dentists, and I had the opportunity to ask them—"

Harry cleared his throat. "I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to get going." He glanced at the fireplace, suddenly wondering how they were going to get going. He wasn’t up for another bus ride, that was for damn sure. Surely there had to be some other… "Arthur."

"Yes?"

"Where do motorcycles fall on that list of Proscribed Charmable Objects?"

For a moment, Draco was so appalled, he forgot his plans to murder Potter as soon as they’d left the Weasleys’ sight.

"You keep your motorcycle in the Weasleys’ chicken coop?"

"Arthur was fixing it for me."

"Were the chickens helping?"

"Molly doesn’t approve," Potter said, as he rolled the motorcycle out of the coop.

"Well, I don’t approve either! I’m not riding on that. It’s only got one seat."

"It used to have a sidecar," Potter muttered. He wiped at the seat with his sleeve. "But it doesn’t now, so we’ll just have to make do without."

"I’m not—"

"Look," Potter said, fixing Draco with a furious gaze. "Our options are limited here. Considering some of the things you’ve said and done today, you are bloody lucky I’m even willing to give these things back to you, let alone bring you along with me as I retrieve them. You can shut your mouth and Apparate home, or you can shut your mouth and get on the bike. Either way, shut your mouth."

Draco stared at him. He’d almost rather leave, just as Potter had suggested, but the thought of leaving these particular items in Potter’s hands for him to inspect, and scrutinize, and mull over was nauseating. Even leaving out the botched spellwork he would have to trust Potter to deal with, going home without the objects in his possession would still be unacceptable.

"Fine," Draco said. "I’m driving."

"You are not," said Potter. "You’ve never flown on a motorcycle in your life!"

"I’ve flown a broom. It can’t be that different."

Potter climbed onto the motorcycle and gripped the handlebars. "This isn’t up for discussion, Malfoy. Get on, or I’m leaving without you."

"Leaving for where? You expect me to climb onto this thing without any idea as to our destination? Where is the comb?"

"My flat."

"You--you kept it?"

Potter didn’t answer. After a long, silent moment, Draco climbed onto the back of the motorcycle.

Potter had been right; Draco had never been anywhere near a motorcycle. He hadn’t expected it to be so loud. Draco had grudgingly placed one arm around Potter’s waist, as lightly as could be deemed safe, and used the other to brace himself on the back of the seat. But when the motorcycle roared to life, Draco’s arm had tightened reflexively. Potter froze, and Draco loosened his grip immediately, but the damage had been done. The only possible benefit was that Draco’s embarrassment helped fuel an appropriate anger.

After the first exhilaration of their rapid climb upward, when there was nothing but the star-lit sky, the rumble and vibration of the motorcycle, and Potter, Draco fell back on that anger, reminding himself that Potter had lied to him, Potter had humiliated him. Potter had given away the cloth and the watch that were now in Draco’s pocket, the ring that was now on Draco’s finger.

But not the comb. Had Potter used it, Draco couldn’t help wondering.

It didn’t matter. But suddenly anger wasn't the only thing he was feeling.

He felt the muscles under Potter’s shirt, bunching and moving as he leaned into a slow turn. He felt the vibration of the motorcycle beneath him and the wind, whipping through his hair, caressing his skin. Potter shivered, even as Draco felt perfectly, wonderfully warm.

Draco scooted back. He’d rather jump off the motorcycle than for Potter to feel the evidence of Draco’s arousal pressing into Potter’s back.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Potter shouted above the roar of the engine. "Stay still."

"Shut up, Potter." Draco yanked the ring off his finger. "Here, take this. I don’t want it."

Potter glanced back at him, with that same bewildered look he’d given Draco when Draco had first told him the ring was free of charge.

"Thanks," Potter finally said.

It helped, some. The wind was colder than he’d imagined it would be. The warm caress of the wind had turned to icy fingers, creeping under his robes, chilling his face and hands. It was hard to maintain an erection in that cold, but even now Potter was a beacon of warmth and comfort. Draco kept as much distance as he could.

"Does this remind you…" Potter suddenly began, but then said nothing more.

"What?"

"Never mind."

But Draco knew exactly what Potter was talking about. It was too easy to remember, too easy to imagine that his face, his arms and hands, were burning from heat rather than cold. He’d been so powerless. How dare Potter have put him in this position again, dragged him up here into the cold night sky and given him no choices, no control. And most infuriating of all, was Draco had let him. Draco pushed back further, striving to avoid contact with Potter at any point. His leg slipped, hit the side of the motorcycle, and suddenly he did feel fire, his leg was burning, and he screamed, jerked, and almost fell.

Potter’s arm whipped back, latching onto Draco with a crushing grip. Potter pulled him flush against his back and yanked Draco’s arms around his waist. "Draco!" Potter shouted. "Don’t you fucking let go!"

And then they were plunging downward far too quickly, the ground rushing toward them. Potter pulled up, sharply, and not soon enough—the landing was rough, and Draco tumbled from the back of the motorcycle.

Draco leapt up and put an immediate and much-needed distance between himself and Potter, before wheeling around on the infuriating, insane man in front of him. "What were you thinking," Draco shouted, "taking us into a dive like that?"

"I had to take us down quickly--you were going to fall! What the hell was that?" Potter yelled, furious. "Were you trying to kill yourself?!"

"I think you were doing an excellent job of that for me! This thing is a death trap!"

Draco expected more anger, perhaps even expected Potter to hit him again, but instead Potter’s face closed in on itself, and he turned stiffly away.

Draco stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg.

"You’ve got your wand," Potter finally said, his back still to Draco. "There’s nothing stopping you from Apparating home right now."

Potter was right, Draco could have Apparated. He could probably have Apparated right off the motorcycle. For a moment, he considered it. A very short moment.

"No," Draco said. "No fucking way. I’m not leaving this for you to deal with in whatever way you choose."

Potter turned around. It was too dark to see his expression clearly.

"Then what do you suggest?"

Harry stood blinking in his bright, empty flat.

He wondered why he hadn’t thought of this himself—Ginny would have loaned him a broom, he was sure. But he hadn’t given himself—or Malfoy—a chance to think of any alternatives. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to think of any alternatives.

He strode to his bedroom, the door slamming against the wall as he threw it open. The covers of his bed were rumpled, and his dresser and bedside table were cluttered. They wouldn’t have been, if he’d thought he had any chance of persuading Draco Malfoy to accompany him home tonight. That thought made him furious too, and he kicked over a laundry basket.

Grabbing his Firebolt from where it lay, propped in the corner, he Apparated.

Malfoy was leaning against the motorcycle, arms crossed. He accepted the Firebolt wordlessly. It didn’t take them long to reach Harry’s flat.

It wasn’t until they entered the sitting room that Harry realized Malfoy was walking with a limp.

"What’s wrong with your leg?"

"I burned it," said Malfoy, "on that Muggle monstrosity. I almost think that must have been your intention—you could have warned me."

Harry wanted to tell Malfoy to piss off, he’d deserved it. But the truth was, he felt ashamed. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Malfoy.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I haven’t actually ridden that motorcycle much before, myself."

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. "And just how many times had you ridden it?"

Harry thought quickly. Once as a baby, once shortly before his seventeenth birthday. "Twice."

"That’s just brilliant, Potter."

Harry gestured at Malfoy’s leg. "Look, do you want me to…?"

"No," said Malfoy coldly. "Just get the comb."

Something occurred to Harry. "How do you plan to get them home?"

Malfoy didn’t appear to have thought of this before either. "I’ll…owl them to the Manor," he finally said. He glanced around. "You do have an owl, don’t you?"

For the second time that night, Harry was reminded, painfully, of Hedwig. "No."

"Well, never mind, I’ll think of something. Just go get it."

It was in his bedroom, on the dresser. He went to retrieve it. After a brief, indecisive pause, Malfoy followed him.

The room looked a mess, with the laundry scattered across the floor, and Harry felt stupid for kicking the basket over. Malfoy didn't comment on it, though. His attention was instead focused on the rumpled covers of Harry's bed.

Harry walked over to the dresser and picked up the comb. He found it easily--he'd meant to try it out that night, before meeting Malfoy.

When he offered it to Malfoy, he didn't know what to make of the strange expression on Malfoy's face.

"Did you..."

"Did I what?"

"Never mind," said Malfoy, grabbing the comb from Harry and stuffing it in his pocket. They both stood, staring at each other. It was time for Malfoy to leave, but he obviously still had no idea how he was going to do so. Instead he was just standing there. In Harry's bedroom.

"I'm going to...make some tea," said Harry, turning abruptly and striding out the door. He didn't want Malfoy to follow him. "There's some burn ointment in the loo," he added, over his shoulder. With any luck, Malfoy would by then have figured out an acceptable method of transportation. If not, he could damn well leave anyway, and figure it out from Harry's front steps.

It was only after the tea had been made, and he'd drank half a cup, that he began to wonder what was taking Malfoy so long. Surely Malfoy should have finished applying the ointment by then.

He had.

A wave of humiliation and outrage rushed through Harry and left him trembling, as he saw Malfoy, standing in front of his bedside table, the drawer half-open. He held the black, silk sleep mask he had sold to Harry three months ago. And he'd found the photographs.

Harry made a choked, furious sound, and Malfoy's head snapped up. His eyes were wide, and his cheeks flushed. The sleep mask fell from his hands.

"Potter, I--I just saw it sticking out of the drawer--I didn't know you'd kept--"

"Get out," Harry growled.

"But--"

"Get out!"

Malfoy flinched. "I--it's not safe for me to Apparate."

"Do you think I care?"

Malfoy stared at him.

"You can Apparate with them and Splinch yourself. You can Apparate without them, and Splinch yourself anyway, for all I care. Just get out of my flat before I do something we'll both regret."

Malfoy pulled the items from his pockets with trembling hands and dropped them on Harry's bed, and then, infuriatingly, didn't leave. He stood looking down at the floor, hands clenched into fists.

Harry took a menacing step toward him, and Malfoy Disapparated.

After a long, silent moment, he walked stiffly over to the drawer to verify the extent of his humiliation.

There was the sleep mask, on the floor. That wasn't so bad--it was supposed to be by the bed, Harry remembered. There was no reason for Malfoy to suspect--

But then his gaze fell on the half-open drawer. At least a dozen photographs, and Malfoy's face on every one of them. Malfoy had to know. He had to--

Harry shoved the drawer closed with a slam, then sank to his bed, weak-kneed. This had been the worst day. The absolute worst.

The sleep mask was still on the floor, by his feet. Leaning over, he picked it up.

He still remembered the day Malfoy had given it to him. He remembered, vaguely, Malfoy's explanation of how it protected from nightmares, provided peaceful dreams. Far more clearly, he remembered Malfoy's hands, the way he'd slid the sleep mask between his fingers, stroked the soft silk. It had been maddening, and Malfoy hadn't even realized he was doing it.

When Harry had got home, he hadn't been able to help touching the soft fabric in all the same ways, imagining how it would have felt on Malfoy's fingers. Imagining how it would have felt if it had been Malfoy's fingers. Or his hair. Or his lips.

Pressing the mask to his face, Harry leaned over his bent knees, head in his hands.

Draco stared at the wall of his bedroom, heart pounding in his chest.

Potter had wanted him.

Potter had wanted him last month, when he'd owled Draco and asked to meet again, a week early, and then spent most of the evening clearing his throat and staring down at his hands. Potter had wanted him last week, when his legs had kept brushing against Draco's under the table. Potter had wanted him today, when Draco had rubbed the ash from his cheek. Potter might even still have wanted him this afternoon, in Margin Alley--right up to the point when Draco had told him he was disgusting.

He ran a still-trembling hand through his hair.

Potter had wanted him, and he'd fucking ruined everything. He'd never needed to give him the watch, or the comb, or the ring. If he'd just taken the opportunity to kiss Potter, any one of those times, or if he'd shown up at Potter's flat late one night, and kissed him right there at the door...

The idea was so fucking perfect, and so fucking impossible now. He wanted to rip it out of his head.

He walked over to his desk and began methodically collecting every book, every parchment, any scrap that had anything to do with his recent projects. He shoved it all in a drawer, out of sight. He'd burn it in the morning.

That task completed, he looked around the room, agitated. It was late, and there was nothing left to do. Nothing except get on with his life. He needed to plan how to get the charmed objects back with as little contact with Potter as possible, and destroy them. He needed to get enough sleep that his mother wouldn't ask questions as soon she got a glance at his face in the morning. He was never going to talk about this, with anyone.

He removed his robes and set them on a chair. He inspected his burnt leg--the ointment had worked well, and it was nearly healed--and he cleaned his teeth. He moved to get into his bed, caught sight of his face in the mirror across the room, and was reminded, sharply, of his own face, on photograph after photograph, looking back at him from Potter's drawer.

He sank down on the bed, hands shaking again.

He couldn't believe Potter had those pictures. Where had he got them? And did he...? He must have. They'd been right there in the drawer by his bed.

He knew it was too late, that there could be no hope at this point, but he couldn't keep the images out of his head, couldn't control his body's reactions to them.

He curled on the bed and closed his eyes, shivers of desire coursing through his body. He wanted Potter so badly.

Turning further, he pressed his face into the mattress and the vee of his arm, and groaned quietly as he finally grasped himself with his other hand.

Potter had done this. Potter had done this while thinking about him.

He'd never felt this close to coming and crying at the same time.

He stroked himself harder, the urgency building, panting into the mattress, thrusting into his hand.

And then there was a loud pop, and utter confusion, and warm skin against his.

He jerked his head up to the impossible sight of Potter, there in bed with him. Potter, who was naked, and hard, and trembling. Potter stared at him, panting, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

"Draco? What? What--" Potter's arm wrapped around him tightly as he trailed off into a moan, tucking his head down against Draco's shoulder, shuddering. Draco felt warm, wet pulses against his stomach and realized with a shock that Potter was coming.

"Oh my god." Grabbing a fistful of Potter's hair, Draco jerked him into a brutal kiss, thrusting against his hip, moaning into his mouth, and he was coming too, with an intensity he had never felt before.

He lay still, amazed at the miracle of Potter's breath against his neck.

As his own breathing deepened and his heartbeat slowed, Draco kept his eyes closed and his arm tight around Potter. That had been his first time. His first time, and it had been over by the time he'd known it had begun. He thought, perhaps, if he could just keep his eyes closed tightly enough, just keep a firm enough grip, that Potter might let everything go and stay there, pressed against him.

He knew he hadn't held tightly enough when Potter's body tensed and pulled away. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer anyway. He'd been torn open. He couldn't yet look into Potter's face, wasn't prepared for what he knew he would see.

But prepared or not, his eyes flew open when he felt the weight of Potter's body leave the bed entirely.

Potter was standing naked by his bed, staring down at him. "How did I get here?"

Draco swallowed. "You... Maybe you Apparated. By accident."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "Apparition doesn't feel like a hook behind my navel. I know a Portkey when I feel one."

Draco sat up, pulling the sheet around his waist. When he spoke again, he'd killed nearly all the trembling emotion that had been present in his voice. "If you know how you got here, then I don't know why you're asking."

"I don't appreciate being Portkeyed without my consent." Potter grabbed the sheet Draco had just wrapped neatly around himself and jerked it off the bed. The comb and the sleep mask both lay there on the mattress. His gaze was hard as his eyes met Draco's. "The comb. It was a Portkey."

Honesty wouldn't get him anywhere, not at this point, but neither would a lie. There was nothing left to tell but the truth. "They were all Portkeys--all the ones I gave you last week. The cloth, the watch, the comb, the ring. That's why Weasley was Splinched. The Portkey activated at the same time he tried to Apparate."

The creases in Potter's brow deepened further. "That doesn't make sense. I Portkeyed here. Are you saying that Ron's was set for the table in that pub?"

Draco didn't want to answer. He looked down and was appalled at his nudity. "Give that sheet back to me!"

Potter blinked, suddenly seeming to realize his own lack of clothing. He tossed the sheet back on the bed. As Draco covered himself again, Potter grabbed Draco's robes from the chair and slipped them over his head. When he turned back to Draco, he appeared only a little uncomfortable to be clothed in Draco's cast-off apparel. "Answer my question. Was Ron's--"

"You both Portkeyed to me."

Potter's eyes widened. "You can do that?"

Draco crossed his arms. "Obviously."

"But why did Ron--"

"Because I botched it! There's no way that Weasley would have been--"

"Would have been what?"

Draco had balked at revealing so plainly the purpose behind the creation of the Portkeys, but it was going to be obvious to Potter anyway, as soon as he got some clothes on and spent a few minutes thinking about it. "Having sexual thoughts about me," he muttered.

Potter stared at him. Draco eventually began speaking again, just to fill the silence. "It must have reacted badly to the Apparition, and went off for that reason. The spells to make that sort of Portkey are complicated. They have to be more sensitive to pick up on... The ones I made must not have been completely stable. It's the only explanation--"

"He could have been," Potter interrupted.

"What?"

"He could have been having sexual thoughts about you."

Draco pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'm going to pretend I never heard you say those words."

"Not because he's attracted to you, but because I'd just told him--" Potter suddenly stopped, looking angry. "I thought you weren't gay."

Draco looked away from Potter's gaze. Which didn't help, because his eyes settled on the damp spot on Potter's robes, where the streak of come on Potter's hip had soaked through. "I never said that."

When he glanced back up, he saw that Potter had caught the direction of his gaze. There was embarrassment in Potter's expression, but also a new awareness, and an intensity that had Draco fighting not to shiver in response. "No," said Potter, "you just said that gay people were disgusting."

"I said that you were disgusting for getting a random hand job from some filthy, anonymous man, when you could have--"

"Could have what?"

Draco froze. He thought about Potter, feeling sorry for him. Then he thought about the photographs in Potter's drawer. "You could have been with me."

Potter sank to a seated position on the edge of the bed, and Draco felt a sharp burst of hope.

"You made those Portkeys. For me. To activate if I had sexual thoughts about you."

"Yes."

Potter stared at him. "Why didn't you just talk to me, like a normal person?"

"Because I had to be sure." Draco heard the defensiveness in his own voice. It was unacceptable. "Which I certainly would have been if I'd ever had a glance in that drawer." Potter flushed, and looked down, and Draco pressed forward in his attack. "It's all really quite stalkerish, if you ask me."

Potter's head snapped back up. "I'm sorry, this from the person who was plotting to kidnap me?"

Draco blinked. "It wouldn't have been kidnap. It was set to only activate if you'd already given good indication you'd be not at all adverse to..." The look Potter was giving him was truly unnerving. "Look, I just wanted to make sure. That you really wanted it. Before I said anything."

"Then why didn't these activate earlier today?" Potter finally asked.

"What?"

Potter shifted uncomfortably, and Draco was suddenly aware of how nearly naked they both were, and how little distance separated them on the mattress. "Well I held them part of the time. And I've had...thoughts."

A sharp thrill ran through Draco at those words. "When?"

"On the motorcycle."

Thoughts, on the motorcycle. If Draco hadn't pulled away, if instead he'd put both arms around Potter and pressed forward... But Potter, he suddenly remembered, was waiting for an answer. He cleared his throat. "They were one-time Portkeys. The ring had already activated."

"And when you...before it activated. When you gave me the ring."

Draco had thought so at the time, he'd seen it in Potter's eyes, but to hear it confirmed, said out loud... "We were touching at the time. The Portkey would only activate if we were at least a few feet apart."

Potter wet his lips. "And when we fell out of the Floo."

"We were touching then too..."

"I know," said Potter.

Draco looked down, not sure what to say or do next. The comb was still there on the mattress. "What I want to know is why this one waited so long to activate. It wasn't supposed to wait until you were thinking quite so...intensely."

Potter flushed. "I wasn't holding it at first. I may have...er...rolled on top of it."

Draco's pulse spiked at the image of Potter, on his bed, thinking of Draco, and... Draco noticed the sleep mask, lying beside the comb. He picked it up. "And what is this doing here?" Potter's flush deepened. Had Potter been... "Were you wanking with this?" Potter didn't answer, but the humiliation on his face spoke for him. Draco knew it was stupid, but he felt something had been healed inside of him. "So in fact," he said with growing delight, "you weren't spurning my gifts. You were turning them down politely because you were already having an intimate and monogomous relationship with this one."

"Oh my god, shut up."

"I don't know why you gave the cloth to Lovegood. It was much softer and self cleaning. Only you would--"

"Shut up!"

Potter looked utterly furious, and Draco didn't care. Potter wanted him. "I should have made that sleep mask a Portkey; we would have resolved this weeks ago."

"You shouldn't have made any Portkeys, you horrendous prat! Or have you forgotten that this seduction attempt of yours took my best friend’s arm off?"

"It went right back on," Draco said, feeling aggrieved.

"That’s not the point!"

"And what is the point?"

"The point is, you owe him, Malfoy. For starters, an apology. Or." Potter paused, reconsidering. "Maybe hold off on that. But you’ll be getting him a Christmas present. And it had better be the most extravagant, brilliant, wonderful Christmas present money can buy. Especially now that I know you can afford it."

"I’ll make him a toothbrush. What color do you think he would like?"

Potter didn't answer. He was staring down at the comb and sleep mask, as if seeing them for the first time. "So you thought these were for me. You made these for me."

And as quickly as that, Draco's exhilaration and confidence melted away in embarrassment.

"I'd have kept them if I'd known you had," Potter said quietly. He looked up, and when their eyes met, Draco's chest grew painfully tight. "I just thought. If I gave them to friends...I wouldn't really be lying."

Draco swallowed, and waited to speak until he could trust his voice. "That's all right, Potter. We both know the real reason you didn't keep them." He looked pointedly at the sleep mask.

A bit of color returned to Potter's cheeks as he rolled his eyes and picked up the comb. "So what does this do, anyway?"

"You really hadn't used it before?"

Potter shook his head.

"It..." Draco swallowed. "Here. Give it to me." He gathered the sheets around him, shifted closer to Potter, and took the comb from his hand. Slowly, he ran it through Potter's hair.

Potter took a sharp, indrawn breath. "Oh... That feels... Oh..." His eyes fell shut. Draco ran the comb through Potter's hair one more time, and then another. He was sitting, nearly nude, on his bed, combing Harry Potter's thick, wild hair. It was bizarre.

"The truth is," Draco said, doing his utmost to keep his voice steady, "the comb doesn't actually do anything but this. Some of these spells were incredibly difficult, but I decided a comb that would make your hair look good was beyond even my talent."

"You are such a prat," Harry muttered, leaning into Draco's touch.

Draco let the teeth of the comb press sharply into Potter's skin.

"Ouch!" Potter's eyes slitted open in a warning look. Draco ran the comb again through Potter's hair, more gently, still in disbelief that this was actually happening.

"The theory was," said Draco "if it felt really good, you might decide, of your own volition, to comb your hair often enough to make a difference."

Potter remained silent. His eyes were closed again.

"So, does it? Feel really good?"

"Yes," Potter said quietly.

"I wonder how it would feel if..." Draco tugged at Potter's--no, Draco's robes, and after a moment of hesitation, Potter shifted and allowed Draco to pull them up, revealing his back. Draco traced the comb along Potter's skin. "How does that feel?"

Potter didn't answer, but his breaths came faster. Draco let the comb slip under the robes, teasing the skin of Potter's shoulders and neck. He pulled at the robes again, and Potter tensed, but allowed Draco to tug them over his head. As he did so, Draco saw, with fascination and desire, that Potter was hard again.

Without warning, Potter turned around, and pushed Draco back on the bed. Tossing the comb aside, he pinned Draco's wrists above his head. Draco stared at Potter, unable to decide if he should throw Potter off or revel in the exquisite sensation of their naked bodies pressed together.

"Your plan was terrible, Malfoy," Potter said into his ear, before lifting his head and looking into Draco's eyes.

Draco glared at him and contemplated kneeing him in the groin.

"But I want this," said Potter, and Draco's breath caught in his throat at the expression on Potter's face. He thought he should say it back, but he felt he'd already said it that day a hundred times. He couldn't say it again. He stared at Potter, trembling.

Potter kissed him, and Draco melted into it, then pressed upward, into Potter, and the kiss, and everything Potter was inexplicably offering. Potter's hold on Draco's wrists loosened, and Draco jerked his arms free, bringing them around Potter and gripping him tightly, as he attempted to put everything he couldn't say into that kiss. He thought it worked, as the kiss went deeper, and slower; Potter's breath was on his face and in his mouth, and Draco had never in his life experienced something so deeply intimate. Then Potter shifted, bringing one arm down beside them on the bed, and a moment later, something slipped over Draco's eyes. The sleep mask. Draco realized that Potter was using it for a blindfold, and a full-body shiver ran through him.

Potter kissed his chest, and his throat, and the spot behind his ear. And in the dark, and warmth, with Potter's body pressed firmly on top of him, he found he could say the words after all.

"I want this too."

Harry woke in a bed that was not his own, and his eyes snapped open. There was white-blond hair on the pillow beside him. Malfoy's hair. Carefully raising himself up on one elbow, he reached out a hand and tentatively stroked it.

Malfoy shifted in his sleep, but didn't wake. The sleep mask lay on the pillow, by Malfoy's face. Harry picked it up.

Of all the things he had learned yesterday, this was the most amazing to him. Malfoy, thinking that Harry had little magic, had ultimately chosen to give him things like this. He'd wanted to soothe Harry's dreams, and keep him warm. He'd wanted to caress Harry's skin, and make him shiver with pleasure.

"This is going to work," he whispered, slipping his arm around Malfoy's waist.

Malfoy moved sleepily, stiffened, and then slowly relaxed against him. Harry pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

"You were wrong, Potter," Malfoy said, his voice rough with sleep.

"Wrong about what?" Harry pushed himself up again and stared at Malfoy, filled with a sudden fear that the things they'd said in the dark might actually have vanished with the light of day.

Malfoy's eyes were still closed, and his expression unreadable. But then his hand found Harry's arm and squeezed it tightly, and his lips curved up in a small smile. "My plan was brilliant."

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