HP: Draco/Blaise. Sort of. Part I.

Title: Drawing Down The Moon

Author: </a></a>scoradh

Rating: Ranging from a hardcore G to a light-weight NC-17.

Request: </a></a>furiosity : Blaise leaves Draco. Draco tries to get him back.

Summary: Yet again, the request bears the same resemblance to the story as a road map does to an earthquake. So, in my own words: After breaking up with Blaise, a drunken Draco begs Harry Potter for help in winning him back. In a fit of misguided philanthropy (and maybe with one or two ulterior motives) Harry agrees. In the midst of the ensuing chaos, at least one person falls in love …

Beta: kabeyk -- who ascertained that I cannot, in fact, spell. Ye gods.

Warnings: A bit schmoopy. Okay, really schmoopy.

Word count: 20, 800. It ran away on me. Stole all my pocket money too.

The night was drawing in, and the Weasley household was preparing for bed.

Screams reverberated around the house. Some words were discernable through the living room wall, where Ron and Hermione sat close to the fire. She was knitting; he was pretending to read the paper. As the sound of dulcet tones shrieking “I’m going to rip your brain out by your hair!” came through the wall with particular clarity, Ron folded his paper, and started creaking his joints as if he would get up.

“Don’t bother,” said Hermione gently. “I’m sure Sally has them in hand.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” grumbled Ron. All the same, he settled back into his orthopaedic armchair, which gave a sigh of contentment and started vibrating a little.

Hermione giggled. “Once upon a time, Harry would have said something terribly rude about that chair and what it did for our sex life.”

Ron sent her a smouldering look. “Once upon a time? Come to bed tonight, woman, and I’ll show you what rude really means --”

An embarrassed cough interrupted their banter. Ron had grown out of the blushing habit a few decades before, so he just smiled benignly at his daughter as she edged around the doorframe.

“Um, Dad, the kids want to come in and say goodnight.” She made a ‘grown-ups-stick-together’ face that Ron always found terribly amusing, especially when he remembered changing her nappy.

“We wanna story!” corrected an imperious voice from somewhere behind Sally.

“Yeah!” came the Greek chorus that always accompanied any of Tai’s pronouncements. “Story! Story!”

“Reminds me of Quidditch.” The way Hermione bent her head over her clacking needles didn’t disguise her smile. “Don’t you remember?”

“How could I forget?” Ron winced. “I think Malfoy’s lyrics of ‘Weasley is our King’ are indelibly engraved in my mind.”

“I was surprised at how right he got it, though.” Time had not cured Hermione’s blush, because it was far more insidious a disease than Ron’s. “You’re my King.”

With a slow unfolding, Ron pressed his hand to hers. He could hear Sally trying to shush the children, and was abjectly grateful for being too old to care that he looked soppy.

Tai was as irrepressible as a whirlwind, however, and within a very few seconds he had wriggled past Sally’s incomplete defence and was marching right up to Ron. He rested his small arm on Ron’s knee in a familiar manner and looked into Ron’s face, his thick-lashed eyes unblinking.

“Story.” His voice was firm, and he was as brief as ever. He didn’t need to be otherwise; his cohorts took up the cry with varying degrees of noise and persuasive skills.

“It’s all right, Sally.” Ron waved his daughter away. “I took care of you and Frank when you were going through the terrible twos, I think I can manage this bunch. Go -- have a coffee, or something.”

“Do you want anything?” Sally remembered to ask, half-way through her grateful escape.

“Boil up some milk. We’ll all have cocoa.” Hermione smiled around. Sally didn’t look thrilled by the idea -- Ron himself wasn’t sure that giving the children added theobromine would do anything for calming them down for sleep on Christmas Eve -- but she obeyed. People tended to, in the end.

“Right, well, what kind of story would you like?” asked Ron. The smallest grandchild, who was only three, crawled into the space between Ron’s legs and started nuzzling them. He’d be asleep in seconds.

“A good one,” said Tai. He smoothed his blonde hair back from his brow and fixed Ron with a gimlet glare that sent a shiver of recognition through Ron. “I want …”

“Dragons!” cried one child, and “Magic swords!” another. Soon the air was filled with suggestions, each more ludicrous than the last. Thankfully, due to his association with one Harry Potter, Ron had plenty of access to fodder for stories, and then some. However, he waited until everyone had calmed down and Tai was ready to speak again.

“I want a true story.” Tai’s words were carefully measured, as if he were being charged individually for each one. “I want you to tell me one about … Uncle Harry.”

Ron stifled a smile. When Louisa was born, Harry had been the third person to hold her. He’d looked both ridiculous and uncomfortable, but she hadn’t cried much more than she had with Ron or Hermione. Harry had joked, “I can be her pretend uncle, can’t I? Not that she hasn’t got plenty to go around …” They’d all seen what he was really asking, though; he was Uncle Harry from that day on. And the tradition had survived through generations.

“I have plenty about Uncle Harry.” Ron shared a significant smile with Hermione. “Any one in particular you fancy?”

“Dragons!” piped up one stubborn child. He turned out to be one of Ginny’s son’s, which didn’t surprise Ron in the least. Tai made a shushing motion at him and he subsided, although not without displaying quite a lot of furry tongue for inspection.

“Romance,” whispered another little girl. Her burnished auburn hair was almost straight, and she wore her grandfather’s fang on a chain about her neck. She clutched a doll so tight that it was in danger of decapitation, but Ron stroked her hair and nodded. He’d always had a soft spot for Elaine, because she reminded him so much of Bill.

“Romance it is, then,” he agreed, before he quite realised what he’d said. What could he possibly talk about? Perhaps, if he jigged the Triwizard Tournament so that Harry saved Cho from the Horntail, it would fit the bill. None of these children would know the difference; it had been well over half a century ago, after all.

Tai made a doubtful mouth. “Romance is okay, but it has to be true. I don’t want any silly Romeo and Juliet stuff.”

“And what would you know about Romeo and Juliet, young man?” Hermione’s lips twitched.

“Enough to know that it’s awful,” declared Tai. He sank to a cross-legged position on the floor; as if operated by invisible strings, all the other children sprawled on the hearth-rug. “Right, then. Begin.” He waved his hand. One day he’d be able to Wingardium Leviosa with the best of them, but for the moment he was only nine years old.

Severe censoring would be in order.

“Once upon a time,” said Ron, because it was expected. He heard Hermione’s quiet snort; it was a spectacularly inappropriate beginning, given the story that he was going to recite and that she knew he was going to recite. It was no fairytale, that was for certain; it wasn’t even that life-changing a saga. It had just felt like it at the time.

“Once upon a time,” he repeated, surer now, “there was a young man called Draco Malfoy, who was always late …”

* * *

Draco sauntered into the bar, tugging utterly unnecessary sunglasses out of his wind-tangled hair. He paused to throw his reflection a glance in the smoky mirror behind the bar, and frowned at what he saw. Nothing would do but to smooth out the snarls in his hair before he took another step, and this he did with a concentration that would have put a meditating monk to shame.

Satisfied that his coiffure was as neat as it would get without a liberal application of Mrs Skower’s Tame-All Gel and a thorough brushing, Draco proceeded into the depths of the bar. It had certainly changed since his schooldays, and for that the new proprietorship was to be thanked (or blamed, as appropriate). Gone were the soot-stained beams and tatty cushions; now the place was airy and the trappings were predominantly blue. Exciting and inventive things had been done with chrome, although as far as Draco could see you couldn’t actually do anything dull and mundane with chrome. He had to admit that the swirls of blue in the metal were a nice touch, though you’d never hear him admit it out loud.

“Here, again?” he sighed as he slid into a booth. The blue velvet caressed the palms of his hands and he repressed an involuntary shudder of delight, looking instead into the blazing eyes of his companion.

“You. Are. Late,” Blaise ground out. “Again. You promised.”

Draco winced. When Blaise spoke in italics, it was a sure sign that Draco was in for a excruciating tongue-lashing. Blaise had such a skilled tongue that it was a pity to waste it so; but he could be fiery when roused. And boy, was he roused now. Blaise could fume better than a faulty chimney at the mildest provocation, but today steam was almost spurting out of his ears.

“Why, is that the time?” Draco made a show of tossing back the sleeves of his robes -- Blaise had a weakness for wrists -- and checking his silver wristwatch. “I never realised! I was sure it was only four o’clock --”

“Draco. Shut up now.” Blaise leaned back, drumming out a heavy-metal solo on the tabletop. “I have been waiting here for an hour. People have been looking at me in a pitying manner. Potter has been looking at me in a pitying manner. Have you got any idea how reprehensible that is?”

“Potter?” Draco glanced over at the bar. Sure enough, he could spot a flash of zany hair; it appeared that Potter was stocktaking again. Whatever stocktaking was -- Draco didn’t like to dirty himself with knowing the intricacies of manual labour -- it seemed to entail a good deal of time and effort. “Well, Blaise, you only have yourself to blame there. You chose this bar --”

“Only because if I picked somewhere else, you’d pretend you got lost as an excuse to stand me up!” Blaise raked his fingers through his cropped curls. “At least there’s no way you can claim you forgot where the Leaky Cauldron was. Although these days, I wouldn’t put it past you --”

“It’s called the Hippogriff’s Head now,” Draco reminded him. He found it easy to remember, bringing to life as it did all his memories of being savaged by one of the bloody creatures.

“Draco! Focus, please!” Blaise leaned forward, his eyes tiny bores into Draco’s soul. Draco squirmed; he hated realising what a dick he really was. It tended not to fit with his mental image of himself. “I think we really need to have a talk about all of -- this.”

“Off you go then.” Draco signalled a barman with an imperious gesture. “Talk.”

Instead, Blaise leaned back, knuckling his eyes. This was so unlike his normal verbose self that Draco began to feel the inklings of unease. When the barman asked Draco what he’d like to drink, he snapped, “Margarita,” without even thinking. It was only when the barman added, “Anything for you, Blaise?” that Draco realised that the barman was Potter.

“No, thanks,” mumbled Blaise. His hands were still over his eyes. Draco, eyeing Potter with distaste, saw him raise one eyebrow in surprise. However, he tucked his notepad into his robe pocket and prepared to leave with nary a comment.

“Make it sharpish,” Draco called after him. He relished the whiplash of annoyance that twisted Potter’s features, even as he tried to drown it under a façade of professional indifference.

“He never calls you Draco,” observed Blaise. His randomness was hardly unusual; Blaise could summon up a conversational tangent about any topic under the sun. Draco was relived to hear him sound more like himself.

“Why should he?” Draco started to undo the clasps of his travelling cloak. “He’s just the man pouring the drinks, after all.”

“That’s almost polite, for you.” Blaise quirked his lips in a way that made Draco want to kiss him. He stretched his hand across the table, intending to take one of Blaise’s as a prelude to such a course of action, but Blaise snatched his hand away. “Don’t you remember the things you used to say about him?”

“Oh, vaguely.” Draco was annoyed. He hadn’t come all this way to trade anecdotes about Potter. “I didn’t like him very much, but I gave up wasting that much energy on him a long time ago.”

“Ahem.” A third voice broke into the conversation; it managed to sound annoyed even through the inadequate medium of throat-clearing. “Your drink, sir.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Blaise was staring at him with an intense expression and Potter was hovering in the most inauthentic servile manner Draco had yet seen.

“Are you going to stand there all day holding the damn thing, or will you give it to me?” Draco arched his neck up at Potter, sending a snide smile in his direction.

Potter whipped a sculpted blue bar mat out of nowhere and used two fingers to slide it across the table to Draco, using so much force that his fingers nearly left tracks in the wood. Then he twirled the glass from one hand to the other without spilling a drop, and sent it spinning to a halt in front of him.

“Enjoy,” said Potter, in the same tones as another would say, “Eat shit and die, you scum-sucking bastard.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the bar.

“How many people work here, that you’ve seen?” Blaise’s face bore a curious expression, a mixture of deliberation and distraction that would have been oxymoronic on anyone but him.

“Good lord, Blaise.” Draco raised his glass to his lips, wondering if Potter had poisoned him. It probably wouldn’t even be bad for business if someone died on his premises, if said person was the son of a convicted Death Eater. “I hardly keep track of such things. Are you planning to buy shares or something?”

“Never,” said Blaise fiercely. Draco stared at him, but Blaise was still looking away. “I see … three from where I’m sitting. And the place is hardly full.”

“It’s a Tuesday evening,” Draco pointed out. “We’re too early for the dinner trade. What did you expect? A trail of people looking for Potter’s autograph?”

“No … I just thought it was funny that Potter took your order, and served your drink.” Blaise tugged at his full lower lip. Draco put down his glass, suddenly not remotely thirsty any longer. “Anyway. What was I saying?”

“I have no idea.” Draco spoke quickly, hoping to permanently divert Blaise’s attention away from the borderline serious matters he’d been heading towards. Blaise, however, wasn’t fooled. He narrowed his eyes. Draco wanted nothing so much as to strip him right there, and make him moan until he forgot that Draco was an inconstant bastard who had all the emotional depth of a pencil.

“What do you really want out of life, Draco?” Blaise asked. “As far as I can see, it doesn’t involve anything normal. Like a proper relationship, or sharing a home, or love, or -- or -- trust, or anything.” The last word was a spit of pure frustration.

Draco was stunned. More to the point, he was unprepared. He had no soothing words to make Blaise forget this one, no half-lie that he could use to fob Blaise off for another few weeks or months.

“I don’t know,” he said, after a long pause. In the meantime, the lights in Blaise’s face shut off, one by one.

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Blaise fumbled in his pocket and slapped a few Galleons on the table. Draco frowned, confused and a little afraid.

“What are they for?” he asked, because Blaise seemed to expect it.

“Get drunk on me,” said Blaise. “It’s the only thing you seem to do with any real enthusiasm.”

Draco fingered a coin. Under his fingers, the edges seemed sharp enough to cut flesh. “You’re -- breaking up with me?” he whispered.

Blaise made a noise that was half-snort, half-strangled-moan. “How could I? There’s nothing to break.”

He Apparated too silently and swiftly for Draco to do either of the things he wanted to do to him. He settled for drinking his margarita instead of tipping it over Blaise’s stupid head, and willed away the slow-burn lust that had been accumulating in his stomach ever since he arrived.

“Damn him,” muttered Draco. He was surprised to feel the sting of tears against his eyes. He squeezed them shut, and then they had never been.

He decided to do something he’d never done before, and did what Blaise wanted. He got drunk.

* * *

Ron paused for breath. Tai’s face was bland.

“This isn’t wery excitin’,’ objected Ginny’s scion. “I mean, what’s all fis got to do wiv Uncle Harry? Why ain’t he drinkin’ his drinks?”

“Shut up, Gerold.” Ron blinked; Tai seemed almost -- enraptured. “This is a true story. True stories aren’t always perfect, are they?”

“Always? I think you’ll find they never are, dear.” Hermione’s needles had long since stilled. Ron could tell that she, too, was reliving those heady days just after Voldemort’s fall and Harry’s recovery. Probably there hadn’t been as much sunshine then as Ron remembered there being; but they had been good times, there was no denying that.

“I never knew Uncle Harry used to own the Hippogriff’s Head!” added Tai. “That pub’s a legend! They once had the Weird Sisters playing there!”

“Your twenty-first birthday, wasn’t it, Ron?” Ron and Hermione shared a very secret smile, which only Harry could have understood. If Sally had been there, she might have been able to count backwards from when her oldest sister Louisa had been born -- but she wasn’t, so she didn’t.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of the Weird Sisters, Tai,” said Ron. “Aren’t they a bit old for you? I mean, they were in their prime when I was your age!”

Tai sent him a stern look, which was so reminiscent of McGonagall that Ron almost expected to be told that he would serve detention with Filch tomorrow night. Sometimes it was hard to come to terms with the fact that most of the people he knew best were dead.

“Real music never dies. It just keeps on playing,” said Tai.

“True,” said Hermione. “But I think some of your audience is getting jittery, my dear.” She inclined her head towards Gerold, who looked exactly like he was harbouring nefarious designs on the figurines gracing a side table. “Perhaps you’d better continue.”

“All right.” Ron cleared his throat. “Well, Draco proceeded to drink far more than he should have -- and if I ever catch any of you doing that I’ll wring your bloody throats --”

“Ron!”

“Sorry, dear,” said Ron meekly. “Anyway, it got to closing time and Harry had to lock the pub …”

* * *

“We’ve got a lingerer.” Amy made a face and jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

Harry looked in the direction she’d indicated, and felt his chest give the usual lurch. He’d long since given over berating himself about that glitch in his otherwise impeccable good sense. Besides, the fizzling feeling was quite enjoyable, if you blanked out its source.

“Do you want me to chuck him out?” Amy looked eager. Harry looked at her skinny girl-arms and repressed a smile. It would be an Gargantuan effort for her to chuck out a bag of garbage, not to mind a full grown man who probably weighed about seventy kilos. Same as Harry.

“It’s okay. I can manage.” He gave her a friendly pat on the back.

“If you’re sure,” she said. She tugged at the hem of her Muggle t-shirt in such a way that it would have exposed bosom, had there been any to expose, and blushed.

Amy was always the last of Harry’s employees to leave, often hanging around to share tea and biscuits with him at four in the morning. She was a sweet-faced girl who reminded him a little of Luna; that was the main reason that he spared her any attention at all. However, Hermione had once said, only half-joking, that Amy had a crush on him. After that, Harry felt uncomfortable being alone with her and tried to avoid it as much as he could.

“You taking the Floo home?” he asked.

He was sure that was disappointment he glimpsed on her face, but he resolutely ignored it. “Yeah. See you Wednesday, Harry.”

“Take it easy.” Harry pretended to polish the bar, so that he didn’t have to accompany her to the fire, even though Eileen had done a stunning job on it not an hour before.

Within seconds, he had completely forgotten Amy’s existence. He was absorbed in dimming every light except the ones over the last occupied booth, enjoying the soft afterglow of naphtha.

He realised he was savouring the anticipation, and shook his head at himself. All the same, a faint smile crept on to his lips. As long as there was no one to see, what was the harm? As long as no one realised that, in a small way, Harry Potter was going completely loopy, it was fine.

But the fact was, he liked Draco Malfoy. Liked him in the same way that a boy liked a girl, in the same way that he’d liked Cho and Ginny and Kate. There was the same sickening, top-of-a-roller coaster feeling every time he saw him, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. Malfoy only ever came into the pub with Blaise -- or rather, quite a time after Blaise. That far from him, it was easy to wish away the Dark Mark.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when he’d stopped feeling blinding hatred for Malfoy and when it segued into a mild dislike. All he knew was that it niggled him more than any dislike should, right up until he’d reluctantly acknowledged that there was perhaps something more driving it.

Still, it didn’t matter, because Harry was never ever going to do anything about it. He was quite content to admire Malfoy from a purely aesthetic point of view, to ignore his nasty points (which did, of course, mean ignoring his whole personality), and wait for a suitable girl to come along.

It had been quite a while since any girl, suitable or not, had come along; but Harry wasn’t bothered. When he wanted one, one would present herself; it was one of the benefits of being Harry Potter.

He realised he was humming to himself, and grinned. While innocently buffing a pristine wineglass, he angled his head so that he could see Malfoy in the mirror, all sprawled limbs and white throat poking out of expensive robes. It was fortunate for Malfoy that his family had money squirreled away in a thousand little ventures and schemes. Otherwise, he’d never have managed to carry on in the style to which he was accustomed after Voldemort’s defeat.

Fortunate, indeed, because there was something about Malfoy that simply screamed “Class!” Although perhaps screaming was not quite the verb; it didn’t seem polite enough. Draco wore his robes like a priceless painting wore an ornate frame, but sometimes they overwhelmed him. Other times, his collar would poke up, or his cuffs would be a tiny bit scruffy, or his hair would stick up in the back like he’d run his fingers through it, and Harry liked that best of all.

“Fine,” he told his reflection, which was trying and failing to look disingenuous, “maybe I would like to … but I’m never going to, so shut up.”

From the booth, Malfoy gave a groan. Realising his chance to wake him up, and perhaps touch his shoulder for a minute, was slipping away, Harry hurried out from behind the bar.

Malfoy’s eyes were fluttering open by the time he got there. Harry swallowed his disappointment and marshalled his expression into something approaching indifference.

“Malfoy. I was wondering when you’d decide to wake up.”

“Muh?” Malfoy made a groggy little noise in the back of his throat. Harry wanted to smile. “Am I -- mi drunk?”

“Naw, you’re stone-cold sober.” Harry leaned against the side of the booth. “You’ve had three margaritas, two mai-tais, one of those disgusting White Russians and enough tequila to fell an elephant. To be honest, Malfoy, I’m surprised that you aren’t dead.”

“Too many words,” moaned Malfoy. He clutched his face, as if checking to see that it was still attached.

Harry was thankful that Malfoy was far too drunk to be suspicious of Harry keeping track of his drinks. Eileen had seemed amused that Harry insisted on serving all of them himself, and had even wondered at one point if Harry was going to go home at seven like he’d said he would, but aside from that no one else had noticed.

“You want to use the Floo?” asked Harry.

“Yeah!” Malfoy’s eyes widened, revealing two bloodshot whites. He managed to look gloriously debauched with it, although Harry had not, of course, thought that thought. “Where is it?”

“Uh, in the fire.” Harry wondered what Malfoy’s home was like; perhaps he had a special room just for the Floo Network? Harry wouldn’t put it past him. He’d already decided that Malfoy Manor had an orgy room, although that was more based on hope than solid evidence.

“Really?” Malfoy crinkled his forehead, seeming unsure as to what went where. “Always thought you were odd, Potter, but toilets in the fire? That’s a bit much.”

“Oh,” sighed Harry, realisation dawning. “I said do you want to use the Floo, not the loo, you tit.”

Malfoy clasped two hands to his chest. “Nope. Don’ have those either.”

“Ker-rist.” Harry eyed Malfoy, his brain working madly. Malfoy was in no state to Apparate; he’d probably get lost in the Floo Network; and Harry had no idea where to side-along Apparate him. That left Portkeys, but again, Harry didn’t know the destination; so that left --

“You’d better stay the night,” he announced, feeling a small coil of excitement in his chest at the thought. He crushed it. Something was bound to go pear-shaped. At best, Malfoy would think his motives highly suspect. But truly, Harry had a duty to society not to let Malfoy out in the streets in his highly delicate state. Anyone could see that.

“Okay,” said Malfoy. That, more than anything, convinced Harry that Malfoy was very, very drunk. Sober, he’d prefer to throw himself off a cliff than agree with any suggestion Harry made.

“Come on, then.” Harry took a deep breath and grabbed Malfoy’s hand to pull him upright. Yes; his chest did get even tighter, and his breath came quicker than normal, making him feel slightly dizzy -- but otherwise, he wasn’t affected at all by holding Malfoy’s hand.

Once Harry had got him on his feet, Malfoy’s head lolled alarmingly. He stumbled a few steps and pitched forward. Harry sprang into action, by instinct grabbing Malfoy around the waist. A deeper, more insistent instinct made him curl his fingers into the cloth of Malfoy’s robes, trying to feel through for the hard contours of his body. This time, the sensation robbed him of all his breath.

“Blaise?” whispered Malfoy. Harry could see that his eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Blaise?” he said again.

Reluctantly, Harry loosed his grip. His heart was pounding at a thousand beats a minute from Malfoy’s closeness, and he realised with something like despair that he could no longer treat this as a simple crush.

“No,” he said. “H -- Potter.”

“He left me.” Malfoy’s fingers came up to clutch his face and came away damp. “He left me!”

“It’s all right,” said Harry, somewhat hopelessly.

He patted Malfoy on the shoulder, trying not to let the touch deviate into a gentle stroking. It was so tempting -- and Malfoy wouldn’t notice -- meanwhile, Harry was babbling something comforting about, “He’ll come back, you’ll see.”

“No, no, he won’t.” Malfoy shook his head in big, wide swoops like a child. “Why should he? What have I got to offer?”

“What has anyone got to offer except themselves?” Harry laughed with a tinge of bitterness. What more could Blaise want than Malfoy -- his touch, his lips, his voice?

Blaise was an idiot.

“Potter.” Harry watched Malfoy’s mouth shape the word, and fell a little harder. “Potter, you save people. You’re a hero.” He grabbed Harry’s shoulders. “You help me! You help me get him back! Yesh!”

An old voice murmured in Harry’s ear, “You have a saving-people thing …”

Malfoy’s hands were pinching his shirt and Harry could smell Malfoy’s sweet-stale breath. He closed his eyes, sighing, but never for a moment contemplating denial.

“Yeah, all right. I’ll help you.” Harry couldn’t say Blaise’s name, but he didn’t think the now-swaying Malfoy detected the omission. “But, first, bed,” he added firmly.

* * *

Hermione giggled at the unintentional innuendo. Ron, who had done the same thing when Harry had sat him down to tell him “Everything,” blew her a kiss. None of the children had hit puberty yet, so they didn’t get the joke. Although Tai was an early bloomer if Ron ever saw one, and bore watching.

Tai was smiling happily.

“Is this real enough for you?” asked Ron.

“Oh, yes,” said Tai. “But why’ve you stopped?”

“Well …” began Ron.

* * *

Draco awoke to find himself fully clothed and in a strange bed. Both things had happened to him before, although never at once. He couldn’t imagine who’d be so kinky as to have sex whilst fully clothed, but he likewise couldn’t think of any other explanation for his state of dress.

He let his eyes travel around the room as he awoke fully, and began to assess the extent of his hangover. An open wardrobe spilled robes in shades of deep green and navy, which were the most boring Draco had seen since school. Blaise had robes in every shade of the rainbow, plus fuchsia.

Blaise. Draco felt a twist of pain in his gut, and whimpered. Blaise, who’d broken up with him last night. Never to feel those teasing hands or that hot mouth ever again … it was almost too much to bear. Knowing it was all his own fault was something that he couldn’t even contemplate without drowning in a wash of shame and guilt.

Draco fumbled his way to his feet. His new, ultra-conservative lover had removed his shoes and socks and stacked them, with more good intentions than finesse, beside the bed. Draco winced as he extricated his Italian silk socks from the toes of his leather brogues, where they’d been stuffed like a most unfortunate turkey.

Suddenly it seemed too much, to put on smelly wrinkled socks. His hangover chose that moment to make its unwelcome presence known with a symphony of pain in his head.

Taking a deep breath and summoning up some Malfoy steel, Draco wandered barefoot into the next room and almost dropped dead of shock.

Harry Potter was sitting at a table strewn with newspapers, calmly eating cornflakes and dressed in nothing but red polka-dot boxers. His legs, hooked on another chair, were covered in dark hair, but his chest was as smooth as cream. A shot of sunlight lit up his hair, which was as awful as Draco had ever seen it, and his bare shoulders.

“Oh my god, I had sex with Harry Potter,” moaned Draco.

Potter let out a yelp and snatched some papers to his chest, upending his bowl as he did so and dripping soggy cornflakes into his lap. As Draco watched with growing amusement, Potter completed the sketch by banging his head against the table with a growl and tangling his hair in an open pot of honey.

“Are you always this co-ordinated, or have you been taking lessons?” Draco seated himself across from Potter, helping himself to some toast. He didn’t have any idea what had possessed him to shag -- or let himself be shagged, he wasn’t yet sure -- by Potter, of all people, but he was damned if he wasn’t going to get a decent feed out of it. Hangovers always made him feel famished.

Potter raised his head. His fringe was clumped with honey and milk was pooling in the cleft of his chin. He gave Draco a baleful glance. “You surprised me.”

“You can say that again.” Draco edged Potter’s hand out of the way and retrieved a butter dish. It was mercifully unscarred by Potter’s attack of ‘surprise,’ which could also be read as ‘rampaging psychosis’ in Draco’s book.

“How are you feeling?” Potter held out a clean knife, which Draco accepted with barely a revealing flicker of astonishment.

“How should I feel? My boyfriend just dumped me and I appear to have had extremely tame sex with the hero of the wizarding world.” Draco sliced off some butter with clean savagery. “Actually, Potter, I’m on top of the world. The view is amazing.”

Potter appeared to be … blushing. Draco bit back a snort of laughter. Perhaps that explained why all his buttons were still firmly in their holes.

“We didn’t have sex,” muttered Potter. “You got drunk and I took you home. Here, I mean. To my home. I don’t know where your home is.”

“God lord.” Draco sat back, the better to observe his unlikely saviour. “But this must be all in a day’s work for you, Potter. Saving kittens from drowning and dastardly Slytherins from themselves, eh?”

“You asked for my help.” Potter’s voice was fierce in its calm. “You asked me to help you to get -- to get Blaise back.”

This time Draco couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and laughed. Potter looked highly affronted. After a time, Draco subsided, except for the odd chuckle.

“Potter, the relationship counsellor,” he sniggered. “Now I’ve seen everything, and can die happy.”

Potter shrugged. “If you don’t want my help, just say so. You can return to your miserable little existence. See if I care.”

“Oh, but you do.” Draco grinned wickedly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have an erection.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. This was not quite the embarrassed reaction that Draco had expected, and he frowned.

“Is this what you meant?” asked Potter coolly. He shifted in his chair to expose the end of his wand, poking out of the waistband of his boxers.

“Oops.” Draco covered his mouth with his fingers, not really embarrassed. This was Potter, after all. He achieved more humiliation by just existing than Draco did from a whole French dictionary’s worth of faux-pas.

Potter had been telling the truth, but once Draco’s eyes had been drawn to Potter’s crotch, there they stayed. There was a small fold of skin over the top of his boxers, and a shadow that Draco could imagine was the beginning of coarse hair, and the sweetest little bulge across the front --

“When you’re quite finished.” Potter did his best, but his voice was more mortified than dignified and the blush was spreading over his nose again.

“Yeah.” For once, Draco didn’t have a snappy rejoinder; and in another moment Potter had wrapped himself in a dressing gown, covering everything of interest.

“First things first,” said Potter, throwing a towel at him, “take a shower. You smell like a wino. Then, we’ll come up with a plan.”

“Plan?” Draco felt dazed, from an unappealing combination of detoxification and lust.

Potter’s expression was, for him, inscrutable. “To win back Blaise. The bathroom’s that way.”

* * *

By the time Malfoy had emerged from the shower, Harry had got dressed and was within eighty degrees of feeling composed. He had scrounged up a parchment and quill, written the word ‘Blaise’ at the top and underlined it a few times. Then, to amuse himself, he’d added, “I want to see Malfoy naked,” so of course that was one piece of parchment wasted and he had to go find another.

Malfoy sauntered in towelling his hair, with another towel slung about his hips. He’d got one of Harry’s Muggle shirts draped across his shoulders, and all in all managed to look more shameless than if he had been wandering around in just a fig leaf. Harry stared at his feet, feeling the childish refusal of his internal organs to stay sedately in one place.

“My robes got wet,” explained Malfoy. “They’ll have to be dry-cleaned before I can wear them again.”

“Can’t you just use a Drying Spell?” Harry asked Malfoy’s toes.

“On Blarney wool?” Malfoy sounded appalled. “God, Potter, you are such a plebe.”

“I do my best.” Harry grit his teeth. It didn’t follow that because he wanted to stick his tongue down Malfoy’s throat, Malfoy would suddenly become a decent human being, did it? In a fair universe, it would have, but it wasn’t a fair universe. Luna had proved that, as had Sirius and Dumbledore before her.

And in a fair universe, Harry would not be helping Malfoy win back his ex-boyfriend.

Malfoy dropped to the sofa beside him, stretching his legs on to the coffee table. The sinuous curve of his calves made Harry ache, so he quickly concentrated on his parchment.

“You’re going to make notes.” Malfoy’s voice was toffee-coated sardonic. “How sweet.”

“If you have any better ideas, let me know,” snapped Harry.

“If I did, do you think I’d be in this ridiculous situation in the first place?” Harry chanced a look at Malfoy’s eyes; they were hollow concrete tunnels leading nowhere.

“Well.” Harry played with his quill. He was fairly certain it was a relic of his school days, and raggy from biting. “I suppose the first thing you can do is tell me why you broke up.”

“How should I know?” snapped Malfoy. Immediately, his shoulders took on a defensive set.

Harry knew that look. He’d endured it all through the swansong of his relationship with Ginny. Denial was what it was.

“Let me simplify it for you.” Harry was unable to stop a sneer from creeping into his voice. Much as his heart might dance, it was far easier to slip into the age-old habit of cruel bickering with Malfoy. After all, it would never do for Malfoy to realise just how vested was Harry’s interest in his love life. “Did you cheat on him? Did he cheat on you? Were you fighting? Did you drift apart? Do you -- love him?”

“God,” breathed Malfoy, in such awe-struck tones that Harry half-expected that he was seeing a vision of some weeping deity over Harry’s shoulder. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“What? Religion?” Harry frowned. “I have nothing against it personally, it just isn’t my cup of tea --”

“You huge, huge pillock,” said Malfoy, sweetly. “I meant homosexuality. You’re entirely comfortable with the notion, aren’t you?” He shifted infinitesimally closer to Harry on the sofa. “Almost too comfortable.”

Harry shifted infinitesimally further away from Malfoy. His voice came out flatter than he’d meant it to be. “It’s 2006, hardly the Dark Ages.”

“What, you mean 1976?” Malfoy’s laugh was peculiarly throaty.

“No. I just meant -- oh, screw it. Trust you to get the entirely wrong end of the stick,” said Harry, impassioned. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to help you!”

“Nor do I.” Malfoy lounged back, allowing the shirt to slip off his white shoulders. “Pray, enlighten me, Potter.”

Harry grit his teeth, willing himself not to rise to the bait and gaze at all that lovely bare skin. Clearly, whoever was in charge upstairs was completely blind, to give someone like Malfoy such a wickedly tempting body.

Or perhaps that was the point?

And did that make Harry gay?

To clear his buzzing thoughts, Harry scrawled a large number one on the parchment. “So were you unfaithful?”

“How delightfully archaic of you.” Malfoy snorted. “‘Unfaithful.’ Yes, I shagged around occasionally, but Blaise knew about it. He did it too, for crying out loud.”

Harry made a non-committal noise. He’d heard about open relationships, of course, and felt a vague disapproval for them. Perhaps it was that which spurred his next question, for certainly his higher brain centres had little to do with it and later disowned it utterly.

“Do you think he did it too because he wanted to, or because you were doing it?”

The playful half-smile seemed to freeze on Malfoy’s lips. It was a long time before he moved, and Harry was half-contemplating going to fetch some tea when he spoke.

“I --” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Blaise never complained.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, it’s not why you broke up, anyway. You didn’t have some huge blow-out over an affair or anything.”

“Blow-out?” Malfoy licked his lips, restored almost instantly to his usual self. “Why yes, we often did after an affair. Thinking about Blaise with another man always made me frightfully horny.”

“Well, you always were a bloody perv,” muttered Harry. “I can’t believe you used the words ‘frightfully’ and ‘horny’ together, by the way.”

“That is because you’re as common as muck, Potter,” said Malfoy, with falsetto sympathy. “Build a bridge and get over it.”

“As far as I recall, it was only you and your ilk that ever had a problem with class,” Harry retorted. “Um -- but this is completely irrelevant. Why did you break up, then? You might as well be honest. Well, honest for you. I don’t care either way.”

Which was one of the biggest lies Harry had ever told, but Malfoy was hardly likely to realise that.

Malfoy sighed, and pulled some of his feather-light hair down over his face. “I was late.” His words were muffled by the pout that bunched up his lips like a drawstring bag.

“Is that all?”

“Oh, you don’t understand.” Malfoy huffed. “I was late repeatedly, whenever we were supposed to meet up. And Blaise -- well, he can be such a sensitive soul. He thought I was doing it on purpose.”

“And were you?”

“Of course!” Malfoy went very red. “Not. Of course not.”

Harry made a face. He didn’t much like the thought of Malfoy and Blaise together, that stood to reason. However, Blaise was fairly attractive in his own right. If Harry had been gay, and in any way on the prowl, he wouldn’t have kicked Blaise out of the bed in the morning. Malfoy seemed to be suffering from a bipolar reaction to his former lover, however; one minute belly-aching about getting him back, the next admitting to standing him up on purpose.

*

Part II