Clear as Mud

CLEAR AS MUD

You need cool, calculating bastards to save the world

-- THIEF OF TIME

A volley of laughter echoed from the cellar. This was not a good sign; in Harry's opinion, Malfoy's was the sort of cellar that was prime real estate for the discerning vampire in search of a new crypt.

Harry hung his jacket on the tarnished hook by the door and waited. Sure enough, the weight of the wool made the hook succumb to its inherent suicidal tendencies a few seconds later. Harry was soon retrieving the hook, the odd screw or three, his jacket and a lump of disengaged plaster from the floor, all with the same instinct that had once gained him the Snitch. He noted in passing that the bald carpet had managed to peel back from the last Sticking Charm he'd placed on it, revealing pitted floorboards and one very surprised woodworm.

Harry had long since given up wondering why Malfoy chose to continue living in a fleapit, even after most of his assets had been restored to him. It was no use asking Malfoy why, either; he had a way of flexing his jaw that clearly announced that the topic was not open to discussion. If Harry was honest with himself, it was really how whatever loosely-buttoned garment Malfoy was wearing conveniently slid off his shoulder at this point that precluded a thorough investigation. One thing was certain: Malfoy was making a "gesture," although what it was and who there was to see it, besides Harry, was anyone's guess.

A little bit of magic would have set even this slum to rights, but given the number of Muggle visitors that, surprisingly, Malfoy entertained, Harry supposed it was only sensible that Malfoy didn't Transfigure the house into something unaccountably palatial. Something that less resembled a rat's paradise would probably have been all right, but then again Malfoy did tend to cling so strongly to the core principle of things.

With a vague sense of unease at the chortles and guffaws that reverberated through the thin room divisions, Harry prodded down the carpet with his toe and repaired the hook. Glancing around, he saw that the hall cupboard door was off its hinges, again, and that the skirting board had chipped away from the wall in three places. Harry, who was now a dab hand at DIY magic, restored the damages. He wished, not for the first time, that such spells would work on his hair. They didn't, although not for his lack of trying. On one memorable occasion, Harry had spent two hours with a wooden skull before being been forced to seek Hermione's help.

Before venturing into the cellar, Harry smoothed down his shirt and had another go at flattening his hair. His shirt took the attentions far better than his hair, which only contrived to spring in even more directions as a result of his hasty petting. He'd been forced to admit that these attempts to smarten himself up, what Malfoy called "primping," were entirely for his own benefit. Judging from both Malfoy's own attire and that of everyone he knew, as well as his utter disinterest in what Harry looked like, said or did, appearance didn't matter much to Malfoy. Harry couldn't remember if Malfoy used to be vain, but he wasn't any longer.

Harry pushed open a rickety door that lead down a flight of damp stone steps. On his previous visits to the cellar he'd spelled away the colony of mushrooms that had threatened to encroach the entire stairwell. Malfoy had sulked for a whole hour after he'd found out -- Harry gathered that he'd been monitoring their growth. New stalks were visible at the shadow-hung corners of the stairs, but Harry's attention was diverted by the physical bloc of smoke wafting up to greet him.

Waving away some particularly tenacious tendrils, Harry descended the stairs. There was a handrail, or at least the skeleton of one, but Harry had no desire to contract tetanus and shoved his hands in his pockets instead. His jeans felt new and tight, as well they might; the last time he'd worn them was to see Malfoy. They hadn't stayed on for very long then.

A swell of voices burgeoned through the smoke. Harry could make out a number of hunched figures around a table, holding playing cards and glowing cigarettes. One of them had his booted feet up on the table. That would be Malfoy, of course.

"-- so then he said, I wouldn't do that even if you put a w-- a gun to my head."

And that would be Malfoy's voice, the accent sharp enough to cut diamond.

"What'd 'e do next, then?" asked one of the other card-players, puffing out a smoke-ring.

Harry recognised his red, grizzled face: He went by the name of Boxer, although Harry doubted that was what his mother had called him, always supposing Boxer had such a thing as a mother. He was a cross between a biker and a persistent remora fish and had the personality of a broken axle. His distinguishing feature, as far as Harry could tell, was having far too close an interest in Malfoy's personal exploits, whether these included Harry or not.

Harry made an effort not to share oxygen with Boxer, but sometimes it was unavoidable. More often than not, Harry would turn up to find Malfoy's house devoid of Malfoy but well stocked with various of his rabid, unshaven friends. Fortunately, most of them were too drunk, stoned, stupid or unconscious to be of much trouble to Harry.

Boxer was different. He was always "just peckish" when Harry was making tea. Ergo, Harry never got tea, because to drink tea from Malfoy's house that had not been subjected to stringent magical purification was to risk poisoning. Boxer was always "up for a bit of footy" when Harry got tired of waiting and flicked on the television to find Australian soaps full of blonde people who didn't look much like Malfoy. Boxer always sat or stood or slouched too close to Harry. While some of Malfoy's friends gave off a distinct whiff of rancid sweat or illegal substances, Boxer smelled slightly foetid, like something that had been preserved in formaldehyde.

"The usual," Malfoy was saying. "Rolled over and left. Always been a wham, bam, thank you ma'am kind of -- hello, Harry."

"Hi," said Harry, edging around bits of stray machinery and the chair backs of Malfoy's companions, none of whom did anything to facilitate his passage. By the time Harry reached Malfoy's seat, a tatty armchair situated farthest from the door, Harry was rubbing a bump on his hip and dearly wishing he could use his wand to get rid of the ache.

"Full house," announced Malfoy, spreading out his dog-eared cards on the table with a shark's grin. There was a soft chorus of sighs from the others.

"You playing poker?" asked Harry, not because he cared or even because he wanted to ingratiate himself with Malfoy's pungent friends, but because Malfoy had a way of treating Harry with the absent-minded affection you'd bestow on a household pet and Harry hated it.

"I am," said Malfoy. "I'm not too sure about these chaps, though." One or two of the other men coughed, either in assent or surprise, and someone else deigned to lay out their cards. Without looking at him, Malfoy wrapped his arm around Harry's legs and nuzzled his cheek into Harry's stomach. Strands of Malfoy's hair became attached to the threads of embroidery on Harry's shirt.

The Muggle salesgirl who had sold Harry the shirt -- for a ridiculous sum of money that would have fed ten house elves for a month and that Malfoy would call cheap -- had said that embroidery was "in." Judging by the rest of the stock, she was right. It wasn't what Harry had previously associated with the word: things like Aunt Petunia had used to make, cushion covers featuring twee flowers and birds and a lot of snarled skeins.

Harry hadn't been keen on the new fad until he saw the black shirt with a silver dragon crawling down one side of the buttons. When he was away from Malfoy it was easy to imagine that Malfoy would appreciate a gesture like that.

Hermione, who had a negative number of blinkers where Malfoy was concerned, had been angry when she found the shirt. Of course, it hadn't been a brilliant tactical move to leave it in its bag, with the tag on, in the sitting room when she made one of her bi-weekly visits. She just couldn't decide what to be more annoyed about : the stupendous price, or the fact that Harry had bought it because it correlated with "that fantasy image of Malfoy that you think is real, Harry."

"How's Harry?" asked Simon. He wasn't so much a chain as a steel-reinforced-rope-smoker who had an unfortunate combination of acne and grey hair, as well as a habit of talking to people as though they weren't there. He was one of the more personable of Malfoy's friends and had, on their first meeting, offered to put Harry in the way of several crates of Bensen and Hedges straight off the truck. Harry had politely declined, warm in the realisation that he'd discovered the reason behind Malfoy's heretofore inexplicable friendship with Simon.

"Fine, thanks," said Harry, trying to simultaneously get over his embarrassment at how Malfoy's fingers were absently stroking the curve of his hip and retain his balance. "You?"

"Eh, can't complain," said Simon, coughing up a gobbet of phlegm into one hand. He studied it with interest as his left hand extracted a cigarette from one of four stacked packets, swapped it with the almost burnt-out one in his mouth and lit one with the other. "How's work treatin' himself?"

"Er, it keeps me busy," said Harry. He wondered how 'paper-pushing Auror' would make the transition to Muggle terminology. The words 'civil servant' slunk out of the back swamps of his mind, but Harry pushed them back firmly. Uncle Vernon often had dinner guests who were civil servants.

"Guid, guid," said Simon. He released a series of hacking coughs between frantic puffs of his cigarette. Harry saw that Malfoy was stacking a pile of matchsticks in front of him; he had more than anyone else. "Won't 'ee take a seat?"

"Yeah," murmured Malfoy, pressing his bony temple against the strip of skin under Harry's bellybutton. "Sit down, Harry."

"Okay," said Harry. He tried to be circumspect, because Malfoy could do with a twitch of his fingers what a choice of specialist magazines, a warm shower and lots of scented soap often couldn't help Harry achieve. Before he could even look around for another chair, or more accurately piece of scrap yard rubbish, Malfoy pulled Harry down on to his lap.

Having all eleven stone of Harry draped across him couldn't be comfortable, but Malfoy managed to look relaxed, his eyes half-lidded. It was Harry who was awkward, holding his neck stiff so that his head wouldn't loll against Malfoy's shoulder like it had been recently severed. He didn't know what to do with his hands, two appendages he never gave much thought to. He ended up clasping them in his lap, feeling about five years old -- which was, no doubt, Malfoy's intent.

Malfoy was holding him steady by dint of a finger curled around Harry's belt loop, with his thumb inside his waistband. This digit tattooed tiny circles on Harry's skin. Malfoy liked un-contextual touching; Harry thought it should have a beginning and an end, both preferably in a bedroom. However, it was easier not to touch than to prevent someone else from touching; that was the first lesson that Harry had learned from Malfoy. The acute angle of Malfoy's body against Harry's, the hot, spicy breath on his neck, these were not unintentional, but they came so naturally to Malfoy that it was almost unconscious on his part.

Almost. Harry stiffened even more, wishing there was a way of sitting on someone's lap that didn't require you to actually sit on his lap. Most people probably learned how to do this literally at their parents' knees. It was just another of Harry's orphan-deficits.

Malfoy leaned forward to push a few matchsticks to the middle of the table; Harry breathed in through his nose, clamping his mouth shut. He looked up and into Boxer's sly grin, which suggested that he knew how to trace Harry's rampaging blush back to its site of origin.

"Last round," said Malfoy. "I'm bored."

"Why?" objected a scrawny man to Simon's right. Simon cuffed him over the head and the man looked properly horrified; the contact had most likely earned him three new diseases and a bonus rash.

Malfoy spoke, sounding as if he hadn't noticed the intervening spread of the Black Death. "You lot can keep playing, I don't care. Earn a fortune in little bits of wood." He gave the laugh that even in school had been a thing of silk and buttered gravel.

All the while the pad of his thumb had been marking trails of insanity on Harry's stomach, making it more and more difficult for Harry to keep still. When the cards had been dealt Malfoy leant back to study them, arching up to scratch under his hip. Harry managed to hold down a yelp.

"You never finished your story," said Boxer to Malfoy. His eyes were fixed on the place where Malfoy's shirt had slipped down his shoulder, the place Harry had to keep not looking at if he wanted to keep hold of his sanity, among other things.

"What?" said Malfoy, stretching his fingers over a yawn. Boxer did everything but lick his lips.

Harry, whose attention had never found a less arousing subject than Boxer's Brillopad face, narrowed his eyes. He'd never before got a chance to study Boxer's reaction to Malfoy and didn't like it much now he had. The Malfoy that Harry knew intimately was the polar opposite of the discerning snob he'd once been, but surely not ...?

With a sinking feeling, Harry remembered that the only thing that could be counted on with Malfoy was the fact that he couldn't be counted on. Harry only hoped that any relations with Boxer had been terminated a long time ago. Ideally, long before Harry had come on the scene and Malfoy.

"You know," said Boxer, his voice eager and the hand holding his cards limp. "What you did next when he didn't --" he nodded his head at Harry, who felt like the man had backhanded him with a frozen haddock "-- let you put it there."

"Oh, that." Malfoy frowned down at his hand, which was as good as the last one. Harry guessed through his ice-cold rage that Malfoy was cheating with magic again. "Nothing much, I think you just went home, didn't you?" He tilted his face towards Harry, his eyes still on his cards. "And I had a shower and went out for a curry with Fat Les. Usual Thursday night palaver."

"Oh," said Boxer, with the inflection of someone who'd found the punch line not worth the joke, but the expression of someone who'd just hamstrung the comedian and got back his entrance fee. His eyes nearly twinkled.

Harry didn't get off Malfoy's lap, didn't push him backwards and pound him until his eyes were as black as his heart, even though there was only one thing he wanted to do more. It was only too clear that raging against Malfoy's loose tongue was what Boxer wanted and expected Harry to do. Boxer was built like a steam train with fists the size of small boulders. Subtlety wasn't something he needed.

Instead Harry stood, or rather lounged, his ground. Boxer's challenge had allowed him to do what Malfoy had stopped him from doing before, when Malfoy's opinion actually meant something. Harry inclined his head so his lips were brushing Malfoy's ear and slid a hand from his own lap on to Malfoy's thigh, taking care to smirk at Boxer, to make it look as real as he could.

It worked, in a way. Boxer's face twisted and he slammed his cards on the table, then excavated a flask from the inner folds of his leather jacket. One by one, the others followed suit, replacing cards with alcohol containers ranging from beer cans to a cereal packet.

Without realising it, Harry had dug his fingernails into Malfoy's jeans as he won the staring contest with Boxer. The first he knew of it was Malfoy's voice, breathless but not low, saying, "You're impatient today. You must've missed me."

Fortunately, a babble of conversation had broken out on the end of the game, which Malfoy had won. It was little wonder he bored of it so easily, if he rigged every one. No one gave any indication that they'd heard what Malfoy had said.

"Something like that," said Harry grimly. "You finished here?"

"Yep," said Malfoy, grinning into his neck. Harry had learned to tell the difference between a smile, a grin and a pout -- the texture of his lips changed. "I now own three million pounds of matchsticks."

"How very useful, I'm sure," snapped Harry, jerking his head away. "Come on, then. Time is money."

He stood up, digging his hands deep into his pockets to prevent him from ripping his nails out with his teeth. Up to the point when he reached the door and Malfoy told the back of Harry's neck, "My time is matchsticks," he wasn't sure that Malfoy would follow.

Then again, Malfoy had always been good at following Harry.

* * *

Malfoy's bedroom was the only one that fit the description.

The house itself had lurched from noble grandeur to tenement to refurbished townhouse to listed for demolition. Harry had made a fairly astute guess as to how Malfoy had prevented it from being razed and it involved some highly illegal enchantments placed on influential Muggles. No wizard in authority enough about run-down real estate to investigate, which might have been half the reason why Malfoy chose to do it in the first place. It helped him to continue the notion that he was above the law.

During the house's most recent renovation, circa 1965, several walls had been knocked down to create five large bedrooms. Three of them were in regular habitation by Malfoy's friends and only escaped the term 'squatter's den' by being issued by invitation. Most of the occupants supplied their own bedding, so between them the three rooms housed one mattress with a full set of suspicious stains, two naked light bulbs and a dead houseplant. The fourth bedroom contained large gas cylinders, which were periodically removed and replaced without, it seemed, Malfoy's knowledge or interest.

And then there was Malfoy's bedroom.

After the rest of the house, it was a surprise. Then again, any room sporting paint and a floor that couldn't double as a sandpit would come as a shock to the system after the rest of the house.

It was ... well, the best expression Harry had thought of to describe it was 'a haven.' Unlike anywhere else, Malfoy kept it assiduously clean; there was even a cupboard in the en-suite reserved for specialised cleaning products.

It shone. Everything was white, from the silk quilt to the blonde ash floorboards to the bleached sunlight that drenched everything. Which wasn't to say it was tidy -- far from it. Pieces of Malfoy's clothing adorned every available surface; Harry was always treading on empty aerosol cans and the spines of open books. Malfoy always told him off for this crime if he spotted him. There were more books per square foot there than Harry ever seen anywhere outside of Hermione's flat.

At that moment, Harry only saw it as the site for the grievous punishment that he would soon inflict upon Malfoy.

Malfoy's shirt was already unbuttoned by the time he flumped back on the bed, which, squashy traitor that it was, curled around in dunes to embrace him. He'd left his boots somewhere; his toes were pink and creased, like baby mice.

How could you explain someone like Malfoy? Harry needed to try, if only because of the way Hermione and Ron's faces tautened when Harry tried to excuse himself. How could you define Malfoy's attraction? He was all hard planes of bone and a shock of hair the colour of champagne candyfloss. While there were words he used for his friends, in his own head Harry didn't try, he just did. Which, he realised, was a very Malfoy thing to do.

"Are you coming here, or will I have to go all the way over there and fetch you?" asked Malfoy, smiling as he sat up, leaving his shirt in a puddle around his wrists.

Harry debated where to say his piece, at the door or on the bed. The lure proved too strong, so he sat down gingerly beside Malfoy. The bed was too soft; it wanted to roll him against Malfoy's legs. Malfoy was teasing his belt out of the loops on his jeans. There was something about his expression of childish concentration that stung Harry. How could anyone be so self-absorbed?

"Why did you talk to Boxer about us?" he asked. To his surprise, his voice came out light and casual. Perhaps too casual. Malfoy didn't even look up.

"What?" he asked. "Do you have to leave tonight? Will it have to be a quickie?"

"I don't know," said Harry, still in that same oddly detached voice. "Perhaps you could ask Boxer."

Malfoy dropped his belt on the floor where it coiled like a tame snake. Free of the harness, his jeans gaped, revealing the furrowed top of his boxers. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," repeated Harry. "You seem to tell him everything. He should know exactly what's going on in our sex life."

"Harry," said Malfoy, his mouth quirking. "We don't have a sex life."

"What d'you call this, then?" snapped Harry, nudging one of Malfoy's knees with his own.

"Not a sex life, that's for sure," said Malfoy. "It's more like ... a sex intermission. Or a sex vacation. Something you do when you're not doing real life things."

He's done it again,

thought Harry, with the peculiar lightheadedness that he only ever experienced around Malfoy. He's twisted it all around.

Malfoy was laughing into his face now. Harry was aware that his jaw had clamped shut and that his arms were pinned to his chest, but he didn't think it a just cause for mirth.

"You're all upset now, aren't you?" said Malfoy. "You have the doublest double standards of anyone I know and that, let me tell you, is saying something."

"I'm not sure why I don't have a reason to be -- annoyed," snapped Harry. "Are you saying this is all a -- a game?"

"Yes, to you." Malfoy nodded, lying back again and lifting his hips to slide his jeans off. "You prance around with your girlfriend and your perfect hero's life, you turn up here now and then for your dose of naughty sex with boys and you expect me to say that it's not meaningless?"

"Is it meaningless to you?" said Harry, watching as Malfoy drew his slender limbs up on to the bed and scratched his ankle.

"Nothing's meaningful to me," said Malfoy. "It's people like you who weigh up everything that happens and decide if it's worthy of being 'something' or 'just some other thing that happened.'" He paused to excavate his ear. "You're not a bad kisser, mind."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" demanded Harry, feeling something slip away from him. Control of the conversation, perhaps, or most of his functioning brain cells.

"No, just a fact." Malfoy shrugged. The light dappled the moving muscles in his shoulders; the blades of bone looked like glass milk. Harry couldn't help himself; with a moan that he stopped in the back of his throat, he sunk his teeth into Malfoy's neck, his fist into his hair. Malfoy made a purring sound and Harry knew that Malfoy was more certain of him than Harry thought.

In a few full seconds, Harry's mouth made its way to Malfoy's. As ever, it took an effort to stop kissing him. At last, Harry drew back and stood up. There were a few tasks that needed doing, besides the usual spells: closing the door, switching the blinds shut, shucking off his shirt.

Malfoy sprawled back on his bed, a rosy mark already blooming on his throat. He seemed to wear his skin like another garment. He wasn't shy of taking off his clothes in any situation; it wasn't a great stretch of imagination to think that he'd done so with his skin as well, leaving behind gradually lightening sheathes like some sort of snake.

What happened next was what happened every time. It was the conversation beforehand that had deviated, as it usually consisted of 'Please,' 'Yes' and a whole orchestra of 'Oh's. In the muggy dimness, as he stroked over every part of Malfoy that he could reach and as Malfoy arched like a cat into his hands, Harry remembered the "wham, bam, thank you ma'am" comment. His vision darkened.

When it cleared again, Malfoy was gasping with every breath, not looking half so complacent but with a telltale blotchy flush rising up his thorax. Harry looked down in mild surprise at the marks of his fingers.

"Wh -- Where'd you learn that?" panted Malfoy, bringing down Harry's face between his hands to kiss it hard. "You been visiting some other bloke you're not telling me about?"

"No," Harry started to say, before Malfoy's lips crushed the words away.

Afterwards was a little different too. Harry didn't drop off to sleep, and Malfoy didn't scoot straight into the shower. They both lay on their backs, side by side, not touching. One of Malfoy's arms was balanced on his bent knee; one of Harry's was thrown over his stomach.

After a while, Harry turned his body sideways, resting his head almost on Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy let him.

* * *

Waking up was tricky at the best of times, but even more so when you woke to find yourself wrapped around the person you weren't supposed to trust, much less sleep with. It was worsened by the fact that Malfoy was snuffling into Harry's collarbone, little baby bubbles of spit breaking against his chest. Big, contented breaths swelled Malfoy's skin against Harry's. It was almost safe.

Harry caught himself relishing it.

The previous night's events, or at least the ones before Malfoy starting using his tongue for better purposes than talking, came back in a rush, like a Scottish rain of unpleasant thoughts. Obviously, Harry's attempt at punishing Malfoy had been less than a stunning triumph. When Malfoy was broadcasting the less successful sections of their relationship to all and sundry, the ideal reaction was not to hop into bed with him ten minutes later. Harry was pretty firm on this.

Unfortunately, it was firm thinking that had got him into the mess in the first place.

Malfoy stirred against him, giving Harry further cause to notice that for all Harry had started off with just one arm over Malfoy's chest, it was Malfoy who had burrowed into Harry as if he were a pillow with extra dimensions. Malfoy had inserted body parts into every possible nook that Harry's sleeping form had made, including a quantity of hair in his snoring mouth. Although it was Harry's knee that --

Malfoy's eyes fluttered open. He pushed his head off Harry's chest, winced at the pool of spit there and knuckled the sleep from his eyes. "Morning, I guess," he said, his voice rusty.

"Er," said Harry. It seemed to be early morning, because the room was gloomy and the air chill. He shivered a little, wishing he hadn't kicked all the bedclothes off during the night. With a crack of bones, Malfoy lay back down, half-covering Harry in downy warmth.

"You workin' today?" mumbled Malfoy, as he tucked one hand under the pillow on which Harry had his head.

"It's Sunday."

"So?"

"So I work Monday to Friday," said Harry. "What? You mean Boxer didn't know that too?"

All of Malfoy's soft edges hardened again. "Are you still going on about that?" He had the weary tone that suggested that Harry had been going on about it for simply ages.

"You told him about -- what we did," said Harry, struggling with his teeth. They wanted to stay gritted together on a permanent basis. "And what we didn't ... do."

"Why, Harry, are you embarrassed?" Malfoy was smirking, Harry could tell by the feel of his mouth. Plus, he only trailed his knuckles down Harry's belly like that when he was feeling particularly smug.

"Yeah, I am," said Harry shortly. "It's none of his business, and none of yours to be telling."

"Sorry, I thought I had some share in the process," said Malfoy, pressing butterfly kisses Harry's nipple.

"That's easily fixed." Harry tensed his legs, ready to roll away, but Malfoy's hand on his chest stopped him.

"Look, I promise I won't talk about our sex life with our friends," said Malfoy, heaving a lugubrious sigh and managing to look as if no one made more unreasonable demands than Harry. Despite the weight of his hand, Harry felt lighter all of a sudden.

"Our friends?" he repeated. "I dislike having to share a species with Boxer. He's certainly not my bloody friend."

"What do you define as friends, then? People you spend a lot of time with, or --"

"People I like," said Harry, poking Malfoy over until they were side by side. He got a grin for his troubles, and a spate of those feather-like touches that Malfoy used to such good effect.

"Am I your friend, then?" asked Malfoy.

Harry put his mouth to kissing him instead of forming a reply. Malfoy liked to use tongues. Harry wasn't such a great fan, but when he did it always distracted Malfoy, a lot.

"Come to dinner," he called, when Malfoy was in the bathroom washing the stickiness away and Harry had satisfied his post-coital, pre-guilt hunger with a packet of Polo mints he'd found in a drawer.

"Where?" Malfoy emerged, wet, his mouth sudsy with toothpaste. He didn't bother with a dressing gown, although Harry had wrapped himself up in the sheet, bourka-style. Malfoy had been known to walk around his house naked, even in the middle of the day. Then again, he wasn't really ever naked, he was just nude.

"My place," said Harry, fiddling with the silver Polo wrapping. He was sure he'd got some in his mouth along with the sweet. There was a flood of tin-flavoured spittle in his mouth all of a sudden.

There was a long moment. Then Malfoy shrugged, dripping foam on to the floorboards.

"I don't know where you live."

"I'll tell you."

"Fine. I don't like chicken."

Malfoy whisked back into the bathroom, removing his sublime arse from view. Harry picked shards of foil from his teeth and wondered if he could trick Hermione into cooking something for him.

* * *

Harry straightened a blue vase by hand, not trusting his wand to get the geometrical precision he desired. He'd copied the table setting from something that Ginny had left behind, a half-full notebook of pasted magazine cut-outs called 'ideas for the dining room.' He wasn't surprised that she'd forgotten it; Ginny's taste didn't run to minimalist.

The square plates, bulbous wine glasses and single drooping lily definitely came under the heading of "minimalist." At least it did to someone like Ginny, whose idea of the perfect dining room would be her mother's, except with flock wallpaper, bowls of pink roses and better cutlery.

Malfoy wouldn't take a scrap of notice. Harry kept telling himself that in order to distract himself from the shivers that ran through his body as though he'd been hooked up to an electrical current, and to keep from rubbing his damp hands on his shirt again.

It was another new one: raw silk, midnight blue, twice as expensive as the last. He'd taken care to hide it from Hermione's disapproving gaze, but he felt guilt in every switch of the slick material against his skin. He supposed it looked good. It was flattering compared to his wizarding robes, which could conceal a circus troupe complete with elephants in their billowing folds.

Harry preferred robes, except when he was with Malfoy. Malfoy meant a lot of exceptions. Malfoy put him on edge; the unfamiliar clothes heightened the sensation and it all added up to an adrenaline rush that Harry hadn't felt in years. Not since he'd faced down Voldemort.

Malfoy won't notice

, Harry lectured his reflection, which stubbornly showed a waifish face, unruly hair and crooked glasses. Malfoy wouldn't notice if he was served bangers and mash on paper plates by someone wearing a clown's suit. Even on That Trip to the strip club, Malfoy showed more fascination with the curlicues on the wrought-iron table legs and the fluorescent lighting than he did with the writhing bodies just above it.

Harry waved his arms to waft some air into his damp armpits and headed back to the kitchen to check on the rissole Hermione had prepared earlier. When he'd told her it was for a date, she'd complied instantly in cooking up a storm. Harry had never used the word "date" in connexion with Malfoy, so she'd automatically assumed that the date was with a girl, or even a nice boy.

It was Hermione who'd been earth-shatteringly furious about the break-up. Ron, after his initial contentment with Harry's suitability, had reverted to his default attitude towards his sister. He felt far more comfortable with her single, celibate and, preferably, in a wimple. He was also very good at blocking out things he didn't like, so the details of the infidelity, which filtered from Harry's confession to Ginny's best friend, ground to a halt right there.

It was Hermione who'd put two and two together about the reasons behind Harry's investigation of Malfoy. Her exact four had resulted in a confrontation in which she'd accused Harry of cheating on Ginny the entire time. Harry's lack of denial, or even defence, had lost him her friendship for a long time.

During the time when the file closed on Malfoy and his assets were restored, Harry still visited him.

"I don't understand," Hermione had wept. "Since when has Malfoy, has anyone, been more important to you than the Weasleys, or even me? Falling out of love with Ginny I could understand, but how on earth could you hurt her so badly?"

Harry still didn't know and he went to Malfoy with the intention, every time -- or at least, quite a few times -- of finding out that very answer. He tended to forget there'd been a question after a few minutes in Malfoy's company. It was like spending time with a stranger; one whom Harry fancied like mad, who cared nothing for him, yet still wanted to take him to bed by the most direct route possible. If the bed didn't even have a chance to enter into the equation, then that was a pity but certainly not a hindrance.

Hermione hadn't liked that answer. Not the part about the sex -- Harry had had enough sense to leave that out -- but about being with a stranger. First of all, she'd said, Malfoy wasn't a stranger, he was someone whom Harry had known since he was a child. Second of all, what was so seductive about that? Harry could go to any bar on any given night and find a stranger there to spend time with. To do anything with.

"After all, Harry, you're reasonably attractive. You could do far better than Malfoy." Hermione was the only one, now, who spat out the name like a curse.

After that, Harry gave up. Hermione didn't mention Malfoy's name and Harry didn't let on that he was still going to see Malfoy. They built an uneasy truce, much to Ron's relief. Harry hoped his recently married friends would have kids soon; he quite liked children and if he was going to invite Malfoy around on a regular basis, Ron and Hermione needed to have something to distract them from popping over so often.

The buzzer went and Harry snapped out of another discontented reverie in front of his mirror. Malfoy inspired an incredible amount of self-doubt in Harry by doing nothing more than looking like he had enough confidence for three people and enough scathing put-downs for another five.

Malfoy was peering up at the lintel when Harry opened the door. Malfoy's cricketing jumper was slipping down to reveal bare collarbones. He smiled and stood on tiptoes to kiss Harry's cheek, right there on Harry's doorstep, and said, "Did you know there's a sticker in the shape of a star on your door?"

"No," said Harry, feeling more than a little dazed. "Are you, er, hungry?"

"Starving," admitted Malfoy, strolling past him and tugging at the hem of his floppy jumper. He stooped to smell the lily on the table, revealing a jeans-clad curve that had tortured Harry during the early nights when Ginny still slept beside him. Before Malfoy had rolled his eyes one day and said, "It's not a bloody artwork you know, you can touch it," and had stretched up to flick his tongue over Harry's trembling lips.

"I've got beef rissole, and salad, and Scotch eggs," said Harry, following three steps behind Malfoy as if he was royalty.

"Strange combination," said Malfoy. "There is dessert, right?"

Harry felt deflated. Malfoy had condemned the meal before he'd even tasted it. Harry sank on to a blue chair, which was fashioned out of a hollow cylinder surmounted with a web of tortured wire. Contrary to its appearance, it was quite comfortable.

"I mean," added Malfoy as he prowled further in, trailing a hand over the small bookshelf, the magical gramophone, the African masks, "I like savoury meals, but I always think they're there to fill the time between aperitifs and chocolate." He hefted a tribal carving that had been a housewarming present from Mr and Mrs Bill Weasley -- Ginny preferred Delft china and had let Harry keep all the 'foreign' stuff without a fight.

Harry let himself relax in stages. He fumbled with the wine bottle, wondering what godforsaken individual had added in the unbreakable plastic around the top as Malfoy nattered on.

"-- Aidan collects fridge magnets. I think you've met him; he has dreadlocks down to his knees. No idea why he collects them, I mean, it's not like he has a fridge. But one of them said, 'Life's short, eat dessert first.' I wonder if people get paid for making up stuff like that. Eh, Harry?"

"Wine?" offered Harry, holding out a glass that he'd filled with Chablis.

"Cheers," said Malfoy, knocking back a slug as if it were lemonade. He let his eyes travel the circumference of the room, at last coming to rest on Harry. The way Malfoy let the tip of his tongue rest against his lips as he did so didn't make Harry feel any better about being subjected to the scrutiny.

"Well," said Malfoy, seemingly unaware of how his body tilted towards Harry so provocatively, of how his jumper had slipped to reveal so many creamy peaks and hollows of skin, "this is quite the bachelor's pad. Not too many of the old feminine touches, or do you have another flat where your girlfriend lives?"

Harry looked around at the plain white walls and remembered how the thick strokes of paint had eaten up Ginny's rich, warm yellows, reds and purples.

"Why white, Harry?" Hermione had asked, when she'd come over to help him with the spells. "I thought your favourite colour was red."

"White's neutral," Harry had said evasively. The idea of clean slates probably appealed to Hermione, because she didn't question his colour scheme any further.

Harry cleared his throat. "She kind of took her feminine touches with her when she moved out."

"So you did set her up in a second home," said Malfoy, looking delighted. "A house in the country, maybe, with chickens?" Without a single negative epithet, he managed to pour a gallon of scorn on the image he'd just conjured.

"Maybe." Harry ignored Malfoy's malicious grin. "I don't know. We broke up."

He took a sip of wine, not even tasting it as he concentrated on the difficult task of swallowing. When he looked up, Malfoy's grin had cracked in the middle.

"You broke up?" he repeated. "As in, you no longer have a girlfriend?" With each word, his brow darkened further.

"That's generally what the term means, yeah," said Harry, moving away from Malfoy to stare at the picture of his nineteen-year-old self, waving enthusiastically from the beaches of Ibiza with his arm slung around the neck of a bronzed youth. Harry couldn't even remember his name; he'd found the picture in the back of a drawer last week. The photograph had been taken before the reality of living the life of a public saviour had hit home, and Harry had got back together with Ginny.

"And you didn't tell me why ...?" said Malfoy. He still looked furious, but to Harry it was simple.

"I thought you knew."

It had been in the papers. Ginny, when interviewed by various journalists, had said they were still friends. Harry, who hadn't spoken to her since and had hardly done so for a year before they broke up, supposed it was pretty amicable of Ginny not to reveal the sordid details.

Malfoy's fingers tightened around his wine glass, but when he spoke again he sounded almost amused. "You'll be pleased to know that Boxer has decided to go on a tour of South America, visiting disadvantaged areas and whatnot."

"What? I mean, he has?" Harry shook his head. "He didn't strike me as a charitable type."

"Oh, no doubt his travels will take him past, or through, Columbia," said Malfoy, studying his fingernails. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Uh, you just told me now," said Harry, frowning.

"No, I mean your ... break up." During the infinitesimal pause, muscles tightened in Malfoy's exposed neck.

"Oh. Three months ago. Give or take." There'd been a few days when Ginny had reneged on her surprising and, as it turned out, false mature acceptance and had spent hours sobbing through his keyhole, begging for him to take her back. Harry guessed that it had been Hermione who was instrumental in luring her away; certainly Harry, miserable and longing for a certain white bed, hadn't been of much help to her.

"Ah, a suitable period of mourning." Malfoy nodded and a sharp note came into his tone. "I take it you've found a replacement, though?"

"Girlfriends aren't like kettles," objected Harry. "You don't just go the shop and order another one when they run out."

"You need a girlfriend, though." Malfoy sounded like an authority on the subject.

"Really?" said Harry, crossing his arms. "Why's that, then?"

Malfoy turned his eyes to heaven and rested his arm on the mantelpiece. He brushed his other hand through his hair, causing it to settle in drifts across his forehead, slaloming like blonde thistledown. "You're Harry Potter," he informed Harry, with a long-suffering look, as if Harry wasn't reminded of the unfortunate fact every time he saw his reflection. "You're the most eligible bachelor in the country. You take spiders out of my bath and let them go in the garden. You can't not have a girlfriend and keep coming round my house. People will talk."

This was the part where it unravelled in Harry's brain. "People are allowed to ... not have girlfriends," he managed.

"Yes, that's true," agreed Malfoy. "If they are awesomely hideous, antisocial or, alternatively, gay. I'm sorry to say that you'd only fit the last one."

"I'm not gay," blurted Harry, before he could stop himself. Malfoy raised one pale eyebrow, looking unsurprised.

"That's my point," he said. "I mean, you probably still call me Malfoy in your head, don't you?"

Harry made a face and friends with his wineglass.

"Look, Harry, I don't mind," whispered Malfoy into his ear, curling his fingers around Harry's neck, so close that Harry could feel the prickly fibres of Malfoy's jumper through his thin shirt. "It doesn't matter to me if you want the world to think you're as straight as a ruler, a die and a stair-rod all put together. I just don't particularly need my name dragged through the press as your corrupter, so could you please get a nice girl to beard for you? I won't even ask for a wedding invitation."

Harry shuddered involuntarily as Malfoy's lips traced the dip of his throat. His fingers were pushing back the fine cloth of Harry's shirt, baring the crest of his shoulder.

"How many people have you told about us?" asked Harry, his voice harsh with longing.

Malfoy paused in his tantalising ministrations. "Well, whoever asks who you are, I suppose. They're bound to wonder why this well-dressed bloke, who looks at me like I'm covered in chocolate, hangs around a place like my house. They probably come up with the answer themselves, in fact."

"I thought you said you weren't going to tell people any more," accused Harry, putting space between them with difficulty. His body wanted to melt into Malfoy's and was very annoyed at not being allowed to do so.

Malfoy tch'ed. "I promised you I wouldn't talk about the sex, Harry. I'm not going to deny that we're lovers, considering that it's blindingly obvious that you fancy me."

Harry started. He'd heard those words before, but in raw, agonised tones, not mildly exasperated ones. Hermione, again. The time she'd come to meet Harry at Malfoy's house during the investigation, to take him out to lunch. Harry had been as circumspect as he knew how, and assumed that because he hadn't acknowledged anything untoward in his behaviour, no one else could have noticed anything. Thus the half-accusation, half-rhetoric-question from Hermione had come as a shock and, as it turned out, as a catalyst.

"I do, don't I?" sighed Harry, looking at a fading love bite on Malfoy's collarbone, a testimonial to the previous weekend's ardour. Once, it could have been a love bite from anyone; four years ago, three, maybe even two, Harry had been used to finding marks on Malfoy's body that hadn't come from him. Harry couldn't remember when that had stopped, only that the gut-churning jealousy it engendered had been dormant for a while now.

"Terribly," agreed Malfoy, with a ravishing grin. "I can't think why, mind you. I'm a traitor, a coward, I don't pay my taxes, I live in a hovel and, oh, what was the other thing? Yeah, I'm male."

Harry felt his heart jolt all over his chest. Malfoy hadn't mentioned the past once since Harry had put him under Veritaserum to verify his story about hiding out with Muggles in London for the duration of the war.

From what scraps of information Harry had been able to glean about that time of Malfoy's life, Harry gathered that it had been Malfoy's Damascus. It went a long way towards explaining Malfoy's fondness for eclectic Muggle clothing, the sort that specialist and charity shops catered for, and also Malfoy's unsavoury host of friends. When it came to a choice between Muggles and being tortured to death by the Dark Lord, even Malfoy had managed to realise which was the better option.

"You were a bit of a bully in school, too," Harry reminded him, stepping forward to catch the end of Malfoy's jumper and tug it gently over his head. "Do you remember how cruel you were to Neville?"

Malfoy shook his head, looking exasperated. Given the tightness of Harry's not-entirely-controlled embrace, this meant that his forehead brushed Harry's chin and dusted his lips with strands of hair. "Only you, Harry, would think that was equivalent to being an accessory to a murder and then going on the run."

"Oh, I don't know," said Harry, sliding his hands inside Malfoy's jeans, making him sigh and stretch up on to his tiptoes. "Murder is something that could happen to anyone." He allowed the faces of Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Snape and Voldemort to wink in and out of his brain. "Bullying, on the other hand, is entirely voluntary."

Malfoy slid Harry away from the mantelpiece and up against the wall, which gave him leverage to lean forward and drag his teeth across Harry's earlobe. All the while his body melded with Harry's in several interesting places. "Didn't do him any harm," he said, sounding rather muffled. "Isn't he a criminal lawyer for the Wizengamot now?"

"Yes, and married with two children to --"

"That model from Witch Weekly!" finished Malfoy with a laugh that Harry felt against his sternum. "I remember that. Everyone made it, you know. Pansy's married to an Arab mage who sells oil to Muggles. Blaise is on his second or third wife and is as rich as Croesus. Theo's something terribly successful in the Gringott's Arithmancy Department. Even Greg settled down with Millicent to raise incredibly ugly children."

"Yep," said Harry, stroking Malfoy's smooth back and wishing he had three more hands, so that he could touch all of it at once. "Dean's got a show at the Tate. Seamus has six children and keeps boasting that he's going to beat the Weasleys. Ron owns that subsidiary board games section of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Hermione's running for government. Even Lavender and Parvati came good. Lavender opened a magical beauty shop and Parvati's the face for it."

"Were those rumours --"

"No, I asked Ron," said Harry, sniggering. "Parvati's engaged to some minor member of the Indian aristocracy and would be horrified to think someone was suggesting that she and Lavender were more than 'just friends.'"

"Bit like us, then," suggested Malfoy with a bite to his tone, wrenching open Harry's shirt buttons with disregard for the fact that the cubic zirconium inlay had cost five pounds more per button.

"Nah, we were never friends to begin with, remember?" said Harry, sinking to his knees and pulling Malfoy with him. Malfoy's almost invisible stubble rubbed Harry's chin raw. Harry briefly remembered all the creams Ginny had procured from Lavender when it had first appeared.

"Look at us, then, hey?" said Malfoy, licking his swollen lips when Harry let him up for air. "I draw the Muggle dole and live in a house that would fall down if I didn't hold it up by magic. You make paper aeroplanes in an office with a big brass plate on the door."

"How do you know that?" asked Harry, startled.

Malfoy shrugged. "I was bored one day. I snuck into the Ministry."

"You got past security?"

"Give me some credit," said Malfoy, prodding him in the chest. "I lived in Soho for two years with blonde hair and a body like an anorexic coat hanger and I didn't even get propositioned. Getting past that fat old coot on reception was child's play."

"I don't make paper aeroplanes every day," said Harry. "Sometimes I set fire to my in-tray, or call out for doughnuts."

"Whatever happened to the Avenging Angel of the Ministry, the Golden Boy hero?" asked Malfoy, tickling Harry's hip. Harry, who was getting carpet burn on his elbows, lay back and let Malfoy play.

"He's still there," said Harry. "A big gold-plated statue in the Lobby, to replace that one I exploded in fifth year."

Malfoy stopped tracing Harry's bellybutton to look at him quizzically. "You brought down Voldemort. Why aren't you fronting their crack team?"

"I did, at the start," said Harry, canting his hips up a little so that Malfoy's fingers touched his skin again. "It got a bit confusing, though. The people I was arresting kept trying to get me to autograph their handcuffs. Then, every time I went out on a mission I had to have a double team, one to help me and one to protect me, because of all the Death Eaters still at large."

"Weren't they the ones you were trying to arrest?" asked Malfoy.

"No, I was too precious to be risked with those," said Harry with a scowl. "I got the minor fish, the ones accused of enchanting their street with boils or something. But everybody kept telling me the Death Eaters would use any opportunity to get rid of me."

"They probably would," said Malfoy, sitting up to pull off his shoes. "They've got nothing to lose."

"And you?" said Harry, as Malfoy brushed his hair off his forehead and bent to lay a trail of light, teasing kisses down Harry's chest, making him squirm.

"I already lost it," said Malfoy, his eyes bleak but his mouth deft. "Voldemort killed my parents."

"A good reason to kill me in revenge?" Harry was sure he hadn't meant it to be a question, but a swift press of Malfoy's palm combined with his tongue on Harry's nipple raised his voice several involuntary octaves.

"He killed yours, too," said Malfoy. "Giving us something else in common, besides Quidditch, chips in our shoulders and hating each other's guts. I decided the universe was trying to tell me something. Plus, you turned up at my house."

"So?" said Harry. His legs trembled as he fought to free them of his jeans.

"Do you remember what you said?" asked Malfoy, leaning back on his heels and tugging Harry's jeans over his ankles. His face was soft and he looked almost embarrassed. "'I know you didn't kill Dumbledore. I'd put you on trial for being a sodding bastard but that's apparently not legal. Let's get you declared innocent so that I never have to see your ugly face again, okay?'"

"Oh god," said Harry in a hollow voice. "I did?"

"First impressions are always wrong, Harry," said Malfoy. "I mean, I never thought when I first met you that the scrawny boy in the specs would grow up to be this entirely shaggable man with legs up to heaven. You just took ... a long time to get over your poor first impression of me."

Harry felt his face burn. "Entirely shaggable ...?"

Malfoy's grin was the downfall of angels. "Not quite in the technical sense, I suppose. Then again, I never thought I'd even get you fancy me, let alone the rest."

"Yes, I fancy you, damn it," said Harry. His next words came as a sigh as Malfoy's damp fingers prised his thighs apart. "I fancy you." He squeezed his eyes shut and drank in a thousand breaths that weren't enough to fill his gasping lungs.

"Yeah, but I win," said Malfoy. He slid his body up beside Harry's and wiped his mouth. "I've fancied you since I was twelve. You've only been doing it for a year or two."

"Four," corrected Harry, carefully sliding out the buttons of Malfoy's Levis. His heart was still racing. There must have been something in the wine; usually Malfoy's idea of being open was to bend over a chair.

Malfoy let out a shaky moan. "What about dinner, Harry?"

"Life's short," said Harry, wetting his lips. "Have dessert first."

* * *

Harry looked around his office. He'd always hated it. He wondered how he'd managed not to realise that before. He closed his door on it for the last time, hoping that its next owner would be someone more worthy of the acres of empty shelf-space and the shag-pile carpet. There'd only been one occasion on which Harry had put the office to good use, and it had involved Malfoy sneaking past the security guard again.

He met Ron and Hermione outside Florean Fortescue's. It was almost like being thirteen once more. An older, battle-scarred Crookshanks had appropriated his own chair and was glaring at who passed with his one good eye; there was a bag of books under Hermione's chair. She and Ron were bickering, Ron breaking off every so often to stroke Hermione's pregnant bump.

Shaking petals off his hair and feeling the small, wet deaths of cherry blossoms under his feet, Harry approached. He was worried that this would be the last time his friends would greet him amicably. However, the underlying current was still one of fear that Malfoy would change his mind; the fact that it was stronger fuelled Harry's resolve to tell his friends, as he'd promised to do, come what may.

Ron bounced over to thump him on the back and Hermione beamed up at him, too swollen to move.

"When's it due?" asked Harry, after receiving the extra cappuccino with thanks.

"They're due in March," said Ron, glowing with pride. "Just in time for my birthday!"

"Well, don't expect any other presents," laughed Hermione. "I won't be in much of a state to go shopping."

Harry smiled at them, siphoning the foam from his cup with a spoon. "Listen, I have to tell you something ..."

* * *

The For Sale sign swung limply in the breeze.

Harry eyed the boarded-up windows with distaste. "Who do you think is actually going to buy this heap of junk, Draco?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco, sucking in his lower lip thoughtfully. "Boxer's expressed an interest. Provided we leave the furniture intact."

"There is no furniture," protested Harry. "Only your bed -- oh. Oh, disgusting."

Draco grinned. "So, did you tell them?"

"Yeah," said Harry. He felt a little pensive. "Hermione cried a bit, but I said it wouldn't be until after the babies are born, anyway."

"And until then ..." Draco's voice trailed off.

"My flat, of course." Harry plucked a few more petals from his jacket. He was attracting them like a magnet. "I reckon we should visit the travel agent's before we go home, though."

"Any ideas for destinations?" asked Draco, as they started to walk together down the damp pavement.

Harry shrugged. "The world is our mollusc. How do you feel about Sri Lanka?"

Draco spluttered. He was wearing the cricketing jumper that made him look as fragile as a baby bird. "I think you mean oyster."

Harry shrugged again and laced his fingers through Draco's with as much care and delicacy as if he were crocheting with a spider web. Draco, with the peculiar tendency he had of only latching on to the parts of a conversation that merited criticism, was still talking.

" -- I mean, I've eaten a lot of seafood. I'm pretty sure that crayfish, for example --"

"Sri Lanka it is, then," said Harry.

He thought it didn't matter very much, once you knew where the pearl was.

THE END