I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues.

He was busy when Draco found him. Head bent down, sorting through papers and notes and memorandums and letters and invitations and clippings, the detritus of The Boy Who Lived Inc. A daily lesson in how to be a celebrity, and one that Harry seemed to fight with constantly.

His secretary, Barbara Wright, gave him a knowing glance, and turned back to her own work. Draco stopped in front of the desk and planted his hands on top, determined not to move until his husband acknowledged his presence.

Minutes passed. Draco fought the temptation to cough, or tap his fingers on the mahogany surface, or perhaps sweep all the papers onto the floor in a large, grandiose and ultimately self-defeating gesture. Instead, he merely ground his teeth together.

Messy raven locks angled themselves upwards. Piercing green eyes resting behind black wire glasses examined him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, rimmed with tiredness and near-exhaustion. "Do you need to go see a dentist?" Harry asked, his lips curving in a smile.

"No," Draco replied, his glare softening. He never could be mad for too long with Harry. Well. That was a lie. He could. Just not now. "When are you going to be free?"

Sighing, Harry leaned back in his chair, tossing the quill to the desk. "I don't know," he murmured honestly. "I'm completely snowed under at the moment. I've got that reporter from the Daily Prophet coming at eleven, and this afternoon, I'm supposedly fielding calls from Hollywood, isn't that right Barbara?" He glanced at his secretary as if needing affirmation, and she nodded, continuing her filing.

"Hollywood?" Draco was the picture of sullen disbelief, an eyebrow raised, and looking like he'd tasted something horrid: a vision of the British upper class when confronted with anything American. "What do they want?"

"I told you about this a month ago, Draco. But obviously you were too busy with your own work to notice," the resident celebrity retorted through thin lips, and immediately regretting the harsh tone of his voice. "They want to make a movie based on my life. Or a series, rather," he added.

Draco looked even more sceptical, if that were possible. "Harry Potter, the film franchise," he said aloud, as if testing the words.

"That's right," nodded Harry. "Like the Bond films, you know."

His husband was not impressed. "Just make sure Timothy Dalton stays well away, and it has my blessing."

"I liked his Bond films," sulked Harry.

"Yes, I know you did. You liked them because they depicted how the life of a secret agent might actually be: sad and depressing and angry, with many psychological problems." Draco paused, considering his next words. "But Harry love - the public doesn't like their heroes to be real. They want them to be able to fix every problem, make no mistakes and do ten impossible things before breakfast. That's why they make heroes: to comfort the rest of us that perhaps life isn't an unending torment for some people, at least."

"But that ideal - that comfort - is based on a lie."

"Yes. Your point?"

"Merlin, you're a cynical bastard sometimes."

Draco laughed. "And you know you love me for it, so shush."

The phone rang, and Barbara went to answer it.

Draco leaned forward, so that their eyes were firmly locked on one another. "I'm not leaving till you do," he whispered. "I had to apply for this week off three months ago, in order to get it. And you didn't have to fill out the paperwork! Ever since they put that Weasley friend of yours in charge of reforming the Ministry, we have to do ten forms in triplicate if we want to sneeze!"

Harry's mouth quivered, but he suppressed the laugh. "Percy's just very thorough about such things," he stated, trying to support an old friend. "Besides, he's concentrating on work because of the problems he and Oliver have been having. Give him some sympathy. And I'm certain the forms are necessary - after all, an Auror's sneeze is a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, surely?", he finished, teasing.

The implacable force was not to be swayed by the immovable object. "You promised you'd take this week off, or at the very least, restrict your appointments to a minimum. You get up at six, you're awake until all hours; I barely get to see you anymore. You promised, Harry."

"Tomorrow, Draco," Harry chorused, taking the phone from Barbara.

After cooling his heels for a few moments, Draco could stand it no longer. He plucked the phone out of Harry's hand and held it to his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding appropriately contrite, "But Harry's husband wants to fuck him now, and he can't take anymore calls." Placing the handset back in the receiver he stood there, eyes blazing, looking down at Harry as if daring him to question his behaviour. Unbeknownst to both of them, Barbara Wright decided this was a good time to leave, and did so. Being caught in the crossfire between those two was not a particularly fun activity.

"Bloody hell, Draco! That was the editor of Magical Vogue! How could you say such a thing?!" He opened his mouth and closed it, speechless for a while, before composing himself. "It's bad enough now that Colin Creevey's autobiography has come out, calling us 'the rampant sex-maniacs of Hogwarts' and other such nonsense. And you've just gone ahead and seemingly confirmed it."

"Harry," Draco began, "I love you more than anything in the world. And I haven't had a chance to properly talk to you in over a month. I see you driving yourself to desperation to play a role you don't even like, and you won't let me near you, or help you, or anything. You don't have to be the bloody martyr anymore, Potter! I'm supposed to be your support and all I feel is useless!"

"I don't know what else I can do," Harry said softly. "When you're famous, you're supposed to be a celebrity, whether you want to or not." He took his glasses off, resting them on the desk to rub his face. "And being a celebrity takes work."

"Why don't I take you out to dinner tonight?" Draco pleaded. "Or cook you something at home? Just the two of us?"

"We're supposed to go to that premiere, remember? I'm not going to have all tabloids coming up with reasons for why we didn't attend."

Draco swore. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"I used to say the same about you."

There was a pause. "You agreed to this months ago," repeated Draco, emphasising every syllable. "And now I'm only asking for a few hours, when I'm damn well entitled to the entire week!"

"Oh yes? And who branded me 'property of Draco Malfoy', hmm?"

Cool grey met blazing emerald, and cool grey won. "You did, dear," Draco responded dryly, "although if it's any consolation, I'm yours in return."

Harry smiled softly. "It would be good to just be Harry again. Someone's friend, someone's husband, someone's lover - no responsibilities and appointments and whatnot." He sighed, and then looked around for his secretary. "Typical - I finally make a decision and she's not here to hear it," he muttered under his breath. "Barbara? Where are you? Barbara?!"

"Just out in the anteroom, Mr Potter," she called, and walked in. "You wanted me?"

"Yes. Please, cancel my appointments for the rest of the week. Reschedule where you can. Make my apologies, of course, let them know I've been called away for...personal reasons." A sly grin was on his face as he looked up at Draco. "Happy?"

"Mildly pleased. I'll be happy when I get some 'quality time' with you."

Harry pushed his chair back, and got out from the desk, stretching briefly, taking Draco's hand in his and smiling fondly at Draco's reassuring squeeze. Draco led him out of his study, and into the maze of corridors and rooms that comprised their London townhouse. "So, did they give you any names for the film?" Draco asked, pulling him forward.

"Names? Film? What?"

Draco chuckled, shaking his head gently from side to side. "That film they want to make about you. I presume you will have right of veto when it comes to casting, won't you?" he asked, giving Harry a look.

"Yes, yes, I won't let them cast anyone ugly: not as you, anyway," Harry reassured him.

"Good. So, any names for the cinematic moi?"

"Oh, the usual. Jude Law was mentioned, for example."

"Oh? Interesting. But the question is, is he sexy enough to be me?"

"Well, that's just setting anyone up to fail." Harry pointed out.

"Really?"

"Really. After all, how could I ever find anyone as sexy as you?"

"Yes, it is a shame. Poor wretches, having to look in the mirror and not see perfection."

"Sadly, you no longer have the body of a fifteen year old, or I'd nominate you for the part."

"I have the stamina of a fifteen year old, though," Draco mused darkly.

"Care to test that?"

"Why else do you think I'm leading you towards the bedroom?"

And Harry stammered, unable to respond.

"Of course, now that you have a biopic, you're a real celebrity now, you know." Draco teased.

"Oh?" Harry beamed. "Do I get groupies?"

"Oh, I'd say you already have one, Mr. Potter."

"Honestly, Draco, I never figured you for a starfucker."

Strong hands wrapped themselves round Harry's waist, and Harry was suddenly aware he was being steered to rest against the wall. One hand raised itself to run slender fingers through black locks. "You thought you had some kind of inherent value, I suppose?" Soft lips pressed themselves against Harry's neck, kissing gently along the semi-tanned skin. Harry both praised and cursed Draco for knowing his body so well, his breathing already picking up, a thousand small shudders running themselves through his frame with every contact.

"Well," he panted, running his hands along Draco's arms and back, "you are my husband, and therefore I presumed I must mean something, if only to save you from the embarrassment of having married someone unworthy."

Draco kissed his scar then, and chuckled low in his throat, the sound crashing against Harry like silken waves upon a beach, and Harry found it suddenly very difficult to think. "I'm just after the insurance payout, Harry dear." He smirked, and for all his celebrity poise, Harry swallowed, unable to do anything but look at the man standing opposite him. Coherent communication of any type had left the building some time before. "Let's get you to the bedroom, eh?"

"What about going out together?" Harry stammered, yet following Draco's gentle lead.

The man who was leading him stopped, looked back, and licked his lips. "I have a week of you all to myself. If you think I'm going to let you out of bed, love, you're sadly mistaken."

"A week? In bed with you? Merlin, I'll probably collapse."

"Shush. We'll just end up doing a lot of cuddling and talking and such, you know we will. Don't tell anyone, though - it would spoil my reputation as resident sex god."

"Yes, and we can't have that."

"Lord no. Who would you learn anything from?"

"Hey! I resent that!"