Wizards Abroad

And this is heaven

And this is hell

Who cares

Or who can tell

Anyone for the last few choc ices?

The morning dawned damp and overcast, with a grim grey and lowering sky (even though it was no further away than it usually was). Six in the morning is not a time consciously welcomed by most people, except perhaps prostitutes and those people sleeping snuggled under big downy coverlets, who wake up for five seconds to think, 'Oh yeah baby, I don't have to get up for another two hours!'

However, the five men who staggered out of the Burrow, singing 'We're going to Ibiza' at the top of their lungs, were determined not to be fazed by either the inclement weather or the unholy hour. It was Ron's goddamn stag party, and they were jolly well going to make the most of three Mrs-Weasley-free days even if the heavens pissed on them all the way to the airport.

The stag party to Ibiza for Ron, and its concurrent hen for Hermione in Lanzarote having been Harry's wedding present to them, he had booked plane tickets before remembering that he was catering for wizards, most of whom wouldn't know a Concorde if it crashed into burning flames in front of them. Once he'd done it - never being one to renege on an idea, however ill-thought-out, after it had been undertaken - he thought it could very well add to the fun of the whole thing.

He kept hanging grimly onto the idea, even when Mr Weasley told the taxi driver, in high excited tones that the innocent observer might be forgiven for mistaking as coming from someone who'd recently dropped acid, that they were going in the big metal bird in the sky, 'And I don't know how it's held up, exactly, but it probably has something to do with eckeltrickery, or plugs, even! Right, Harry?'

Harry tried very hard to pretend he'd been christened Bernie.

'Maybe it flies by magic,' the driver suggested facetiously.

'Oh no, we just use fires,' Mr Weasley dismissed the suggestion. Thankfully, the driver had already written him off as a nutcase, so he just nodded good-humouredly.

'I suppose you have a magic carpet, too,' he said, sniggering around his damp cigar.

'No,' Mr Weasley said, making a disapproving face. 'They're illegal.'

They kept this up as far as the airport, at which point Mr Weasley remembered that Muggles were not supposed to know about magic.

Ever.

Meanwhile, Harry endured a very cramped journey squashed onto Bill's lap. He could understand that this was a Muggle car that had never meant to seat four in the backseat, and that the two Weasley boys, Seamus and himself were no inconsiderable size, but still, did Bill have to hold onto him quite so firmly? And he was sure he could have squeezed at least some of his rear onto the car seat, but Bill was most solicitous for his comfort. To the extent that Harry could just relax and lean on Bill, no problem.

Harry reckoned that, by comparison, the edge of the car seat would have been immeasurably more comfortable.

All in all, he was never gladder than when the taxi pulled up in front of Stanstead airport.

Within minutes they were soaked by a sudden spring shower, hauling three bags apiece. Mr Weasley had never travelled Muggle-style before, and his method of packing for the eventuality could only have been bested by someone anticipating nuclear fallout on their home town. The four boys, who had enough contact with travelling in general and the Muggle world in particular to pack only the equivalent of a sports bag (Seamus' was filled with nothing but condoms, all flavoured), all ended up toting some part of Mr Weasley's luggage. Which was a matching set. In tartan.

Harry thought, on general terms, that it lowered the coolness quotient of the whole proceedings.

Even Bill's earring - a clenched fist - didn't help, merely making him look somewhat ... effeminate.

But Mr Weasley was having such fun with the tickets, Harry couldn't harbour mean-spiritedness in his generous soul for longer than a few, admittedly angst-filled, seconds.

Even when Mr Weasley accidently ripped his ticket in half.

Once Harry had undertaken to repair it by magic - while the others crowded around to shield him, making them look like lost tourists and at least explaining the tartan - they made it to the departure lounge without incident. Oh, Bill set off the metal detector with his earring, and Mr Weasley got some odd looks when his luggage was scanned (one tote bag contained his entire collection of batteries), but nothing to write home about or alert the Ministry with.

Harry found it somewhat enjoyable, besides being in the presence of some of his favourite people, to sit in a public place incognito. In the aftermath of Voldemort's final defeat, and so many deaths, his fame - or infamy - had only increased. He had taken to wearing his hair long to hide the scar, but it didn't help much, especially when it was windy. It was interesting, although almost disquieting, to be surrounded by Muggles who had no idea who he was, didn't know that he was the Boy Who Lived, or the Boy Who Lived Again, and that their peaceful existence was due, in part, to him.

His brief interlude of peaceful anonymity was rudely desecrated by Seamus when he leaned over to hiss, loudly, in Harry's ear, 'Cor! Check out the pair sitting by the door!'

Reluctantly - because several other people within a three-foot earshot were doing the exact same thing - Harry jerked his head in the direction indicated.

And felt, not for the first time in his life, that the world had moved without leaving a forwarding address.

For, lounging nonchalantly (the best take on the slump precipitated by slippery airport chairs seemingly undersigned for human use) not twenty feet away were two people Harry had not seen for five years and had, along with the small portion of the wizarding world who gave a damn, assumed dead.

These were not - flying in the face of narrative imperative, which would assume them to be people Harry would actually like to see - either his parents or Sirius Black. They were, in fact, a radically altered Blaise Zabini, whom Harry only recognised by his proximity to the still pale and pointed person next to him, one Draco Malfoy.

'Jes-us, get a load of the brunette,' Seamus groaned in undisguised appreciation, fulfilling the perverted interest of a couple of dozen listeners in.

'Seamus, he'll hear you!' Harry admonished - a not unlikely proposition, considering that Seamus' idea of a whisper could be likened to a cyclonic wind, and that the rest of his aural tone scaled up accordingly. 'Besides,' Harry added, out of the corner of his mouth, 'that is Blaise Zabini, you know.'

'It is?' Seamus said, his eyes widening in astonishment. 'Oh shite, I never realised.'

'You didn't?' Harry said incredulously. 'Didn't you point them out because you recognised Malfoy?'

'No,' Seamus said, making an embarrassed face. 'Skinny blondes are more your type - I didn't notice him. So that's Zabini, is it? I'd say he's changed but it's not a big enough verb.'

'Yeah,' Harry said meditatively, wondering if he could have been mistaken. He glanced over again, but the pair's seats were empty. At that moment, their flight was called, and Harry put phantoms of dead men out of his mind in order to focus on the nearer threat of Mr Weasley actually exploding with excitement.

They had been at the back of the queue, and it was a cheap flight on a matchbox plane. Harry counselled the others on the likelihood of their having to split up, at the same time trying to alert one of his peers to the need of keeping Mr Weasley from happening to some innocent Muggle.

Harry was proved correct, as the only seats left were on the aisle next to, almost without exception, someone's screaming children. In the end, he took it on himself to guide Mr Weasley to one of the few free adjacent seats, and take the other. Aside from a short tussle with the seatbelt, and a firm warning not to buy any overpriced condiments from the carmine-lipsticked air attendant, Mr Weasley made for an easy charge. From the rear of the plane, he could hear Seamus - who had ordered a pint of lager in the lounge, and another as soon as he boarded - start up another and slightly slurred round of 'We're going to Ibiza'. He winced, and thanked the random vagaries of fate that allowed him to pretend he didn't know Seamus from Adam.

Especially as the other air attendant - the younger, blonder one - had given him an alluring smile, unhindered by lipstick but enhanced by a rather false looking shine. One that seemed to bypass the extra-long haystack hair and glasses and settle on his kissable mouth, as always. A few minutes later Harry realised he was checking out the male attendant's arse as he bent over the drinks tray and found himself treading deep water in yet another sexual identity crisis.

He ruminated on his romantic history as they flew, and Mr Weasley experimented with earplugs. To be honest, it was more of a pamphlet than a tome. He had once confessed, drunkenly, to Seamus that he thought he might fancy boys, and spent the rest of the night alternating between snogging Seamus and berating himself. Seamus found Harry's denial crisis far too heavy going and merely trotted it out whenever he got bored, as opposed to pursuing any sort of relationship with him. Which was fine by Harry. Mostly. After all, he only found Seamus attractive when he was desperate, even though he was the only gay man Harry knew.

Although he was having his suspicions about Bill.

Hermione had once told Harry, disapprovingly, that he was searching for some kind of impossible ideal.

Whatever that meant.

He'd wanted Cho Chang, and got her. Eventually. And sort of. He'd wanted Ginny and Susan and Parvati, alternately, and got them. True, once he'd got them he didn't want them any more, but his commitment issues were nothing to the fact that he'd used the 'I think I'm gay' line on each one as a prelude to breaking up with them.

Now the whole world, its wife and their copy of the Daily Prophet thought he was gay.

A large percentage of male wizards was said to be Very Happy about this, causing concern over falling birth rates and the sad truth that there wasn't enough of Harry to go around.

Harry got around this quandary by pretending to be totally oblivious, a tactic that enjoyed disturbing success. He also tactfully ignored Seamus' magazines, which he would leave lying around open even when people visited, and which invariably gave hints on stalking, attracting and shagging Harry, whenever they needed a space filler.

After about half an hour, Mr Weasley fell asleep, still grinning, and proceeded to snore with the pitch and regularity of a steam train, all the while leaning on Harry's shoulder, quite heavily. Harry made an apologetic face at the disgruntled Muggle on Mr Weasley's other side, and looked away in embarrassment.

Right into someone's denim-clad crotch.

Lifting his eyes slowly, Harry found himself encountering some very familiar flint-coloured eyes, which were as hard as ever.

Harry had to admit that Malfoy had made a successful assimilation into Muggle culture, with worn-look dark jeans, a U2-at-Slane t-shirt and, it appeared, Lynx aftershave. Of course Malfoy would wear that. Harry thought uncomfortably that he had been almost too successful. If Malfoy's face hadn't been so thin and drawn, or his hair so obviously sun-bleached to the texture of hay and the colour of bone, he could have passed for one of those Calvin Klein models.

All this passed through his head with the same speed as a deep blush rose up his neck. This, too, was the norm - or had been, when Malfoy had been around to engender the reaction with his haughty scowls and disdainful remarks. Meanwhile, Malfoy just paused minutely, squinted briefly and mouthed 'Potter?' before hastening on, with almost unseemly speed.

Harry didn't know what to make of this response, and fell back on his standard course of action: ignoring it.

Still, at least he was proved right now.

Malfoy was here, and that meant Zabini was too. They were alive - very much so, and passing as Muggles into the bargain.

Which only begged the question of how on earth they had managed it.

~

The sun was splitting the rocks when the stag party emerged from the airport, each blinking like Thumbelina's mole. Once it had better candidates than indifferent minerals, however, the sun turned its attention to them, and switched to the 'pounding relentlessly the foolish homo sapiens' segment of its routine.

Seamus was very merry indeed, and insisted on trying to perform a jig whenever anyone addressed him.

'How many did he have?' Harry asked Ron, whose own eyes were crossing in an attempt to focus on one of the three talking Harrys.

''m not sure,' Ron replied at last, and giggled.

Harry sighed, and heaved his portion of Mr Weasley's bags over to where Mr Weasley was standing near the bus shelter, prodding the poster for shampoo with avid interest.

'Mr Weasley?' Harry said in an undertone. 'I think the others are completely smashed.'

He needn't have bothered; even as the words left his mouth Ron, Bill and Seamus had linked arms and were dancing a most ungraceful cancan, to the music of a spirited but distinctly unmelodious rendition of 'I just can't wait to be King'. As Mr Weasley and Harry turned to watch, Harry wishing he was drunk enough not to feel thoroughly ashamed, Seamus roared out, 'Weasley is our King! He didn't let the Quaffle in, that's why Gryffindors all sing: Weasley is our King!'

The surrounding Muggles clapped politely, and some threw coins near them. However, Harry heard more than one mutter, 'What the hell is a Quaffle? They are English, aren't they?'

'They're going to give the game away if we're not careful!' Harry warned.

'Ah, it's Ron's stag,' Mr Weasley said fondly, and Harry could forgive him, as Ron was his first son to get married. 'You're meant to get hammered, aren't you?'

'Yes,' Harry had to admit, although he would have preferred that they'd waited until the multitude of bags had been dumped in some hotel room, and they had no more transport to worry about.

He wondered, uneasily, if he was channelling Mrs Weasley.

'Come on,' he said to Mr Weasley. 'There's our bus over there.'

'A bus?' Mr Weasley's eyes lit up. 'You mean we get to go on more M - ordinary transport?'

'Unfortunately,' Harry muttered. Staggering over to the others, he made a face, and then frowned. Inching Mr Weasley's entire luggage behind the bus shelter as the others raced obliviously for the bus, he looked around quickly, then cast a Reducing Charm and stuffed the doll-size baggage into a pocket of his sports bag.

'Tsk, tsk. Doing magic in front of Muggles? I should report you.'

Harry flushed nervously, even as he realised that anyone using the word Muggle wasn't going to be one. He turned around, finding, as he'd vaguely expected from the mellifluous voice, Blaise Zabini.

'And Harry Potter, into the bargain!' Blaise said gleefully.

'Full marks for observation,' Harry snapped. 'Who, exactly, would you have reported me to? The Ministry who wants your hide?'

Blaise looked momentarily discomfited, but he recovered admirably. 'Nah. The Muggle police. They probably would have had you committed, now wouldn't that be interesting?'

'Not as interesting as what Mr Weasley would do without supervision,' Harry said, noticing the huge commotion his companions were making as they ostensibly 'queued' for the bus. Their actions bore as much resemblance to it as horse-riding did to a motocross rally.

'Oh my God, you've brought Weasleys!' Blaise said in tones of malicious delight. 'What's the occasion? Or are you just trying to spread them more evenly around Europe?'

'Not that it's any of your business,' Harry said, heading for the bus as Blaise, unfortunately, followed, 'but its Ron's stag.'

'His what?' Blaise looked around, apparently for large antlered mammals. Harry gave him an incredulous look.

'His pre-wedding party, Zabini?'

'Oh, yes. Yes, I knew that. Went to one once. My own.' Blaise blinked, looking distracted.

'You're married?'

'No.'

'Well, that makes sense. For a Slytherin.'

'Who's he marrying? Let me guess - the Mudblood?'

'No,' Harry said, trying to keep his voice even. 'Hermione Granger, in fact.'

'I see that pole is still firmly wedged up your arse,' Blaise observed sweetly.

'Why don't you do yourself a favour and push off, before I actually kill you?'

'No can do, Potter,' Zabini said, in tones of mock regret. 'You see, we appear to be catching the same bus.'

Harry looked up and realised that along with his friends, Draco was also among the crowd, sending him a look of unmitigated horror. Detaching himself quickly from Blaise, he made his way over to Ron, hoping he wouldn't notice Draco. Generally, homicide was not a recommended way of beginning your married life.

Once they were safely ensconced on the worn seats, Harry passed Mr Weasley's miniscule bags into his own keeping, and proceeded to get distinctly tipsy on the bottle of vodka Seamus had secreted in his bag. By the time they reached their hotel, Harry was reeling with the best of them, beyond caring that he kept lamping people with his suitcase. It was only about one in the afternoon, which was good, because in the event of darkness Harry reckoned they would have ended up kipping on the pavement.

As soon as they arrived in their hotel room, they decided to leave again for a bar, any bar. Harry wanted to take a shower. This conflict of interests was speedily resolved in favour of the as yet nameless bar, Harry ensuring Seamus took his mobile so he could catch up with them later.

As he dressed in a plain white shirt and canvas trousers, in deference to the heat, Harry wondered what would happen if they encountered Malfoy and Zabini, an event which considering they were staying in the same small hotel was a distinct possibility. Annihilation was probably too weak a word for the potential result.

He rang Seamus, who gave him hiccupping directions to one of the numerous Irish pubs in the near vicinity. On arrival he found his question speedily answered, as his friends were squashed into a booth with none other than their former adversaries. Mr Weasley was in raptures over Seamus' tiny silver 'fellytone'.

Deciding not to make an issue of it if no one else - read Ron - was going to, Harry shrugged and settled at the edge of the booth, uncomfortably close to Bill.

'What are you having, Harry?' Seamus roared, next to his ear.

'Heineken!' Harry yelled back, having been rendered temporarily deaf. Seamus clapped him on the back, almost sending him face-first into the table.

'I could get over my irrational hatred of Gryffindors for a piece of that arse,' Harry heard Blaise murmur, apparently apropos of nothing. Harry sent him a rather shocked look, and in response Blaise flashed him a pierced tongue.

A few minutes later Seamus returned with a tray of drinks, which he hefted onto the table carelessly before seating himself heavily opposite Harry, next to Blaise, who didn't look too unhappy about it. Seamus passed Harry his lager and took a gulp of his own, drinking off half of it in one go.

His fortitude hardened by the alcohol, Harry risked a glance at Draco, and found to his inherent surprise that he was apparently talking to Ron. Draco's face was set, but he didn't appear to be overtly discourteous, while Ron was in that stage of drunkenness that made him love everybody, up to and including Crookshanks.

'So what was it like, living in Luxembourg?' Ron asked, only a tad unsteadily.

'Well, we had a flat,' Draco said. 'On a clear day, from the balcony, you couldn't see Luxembourg at all. This is because there was a tree in the way.'

Harry almost spat out his drink in astonishment at hearing Malfoy making a joke. The words went together like oil and ice-cream, yet impossibly it seemed to be genuine.

Draco shot him an annoyed look, and drank off his vodka and orange juice before rising, somewhat unsteadily, and informing Blaise that he was going to bed.

Watching him leave, frowning at the tiny hint of - was it regret? - that he seemed to be feeling, Harry only half-heard Blaise's huge, false sigh.

'It's so sad,' he told the ceiling. 'Ruined for life.'

This provoked no response whatsoever from Harry, who thought that Blaise was simply being a drama queen, as usual.

'He lost his heart,' Blaise said, rather more sharply.

'Did he report it missing?' Harry asked vaguely.

Irritated, Blaise nudged Seamus. 'Poor Draco,' he said, without a trace of sympathy. 'His one true love went off and got married, isn't life cruel, deary me.'

Seamus sat open-mouthed for a few seconds, waiting patiently for Blaise's words to register. Once they had, he waited a few seconds more, for his next thought to arrive.

'Terrible,' he managed at last.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Bill's hand had strayed to his knee.

'They couldn't have loved him that much if they got married - to someone else,' he pointed out. 'Mind you, this is Malfoy we're talking about. Marriage to even a total stranger would be a happy alternative.'

Blaise scowled at him. 'He never told them.'

'That he loved them? Thank god for small mercies, I suppose. They remain unscarred for life.'

'You are an awful bastard, Potter,' Blaise pronounced in disgust.

'If you expect me to feel sorry for Malfoy, of all people, you might as well wait around for those aerial pigs,' Harry retorted, belatedly remembering he had promised himself not to make trouble during Ron's stag. Still, pointing out the blatantly obvious shouldn't count.

Blaise was giving him an odd look, and Bill's hand was creeping inexorably northwards. Harry thought it would be a strategic time to get himself another drink or four. At the bar. By himself.

On exploration, he found that the other end of the bar was actually open onto the beach, onto which several patrons had unsteadily ventured. Several lumps which bore a greater resemblance to beached whales than anything else were using the sand as an impromptu bed.

Carrying a luridly-coloured spur-of-the-moment cocktail, which had an innuendo-laden name Harry rejected in favour of 'Hello and Goodbye, Mr Brain cell', Harry made his way down the beach, with the undefined aim of reaching the sea. What he would do once he got there, except drown seeing as he couldn't swim, he had no idea, but he headed on regardless.

His tragic death was curtailed when he tripped over a sand dune and landed awkwardly, losing most of his drink into the bargain. He tossed the glass into a handy patch of marram grass, and found that his hands had gained a sticky sugary coating which was attracting sand grains like iron filings to a magnet.

'Littering is bad, Potter.'

Harry got unsteadily to his feet, not bothering to turn around to face Draco. It had to be him. No one else's voice dripped with contempt like melting fat. No one said his name like that either, like it was a disgusting swearword.

He continued walking towards the sea, with the brilliant plan of using it to wash his sticky, grainy hands. Behind him, he heard Draco breathe out impatiently through his nose. He remembered that too, from when they were briefly paired together during one term of Potions. Eventually, after their third potion had been deliberately exploded, Snape faced the inevitable, and Harry spent the next year and a half next to a perpetually snivelling Theodore Nott, in constant terror of catching his permanent-cold germs.

But when Draco was his partner, he'd made that sound on average once every five seconds, in despair of Harry's apparently non-existent Potions skills. The fact that Harry had scored an E in his OWLs cut no mustard with him. That Harry sabotaged their potions on purpose, in hopes of wiping the smug look off Draco's face, had probably coloured his opinions a little.

Harry stopped when he felt water seeping into his trainers, and recklessly discarded them. It was an interesting feeling, the wet sand squelching between his toes. He'd only done it once before, on a deserted beach in Australia, but it still felt just as good. Carefully rolling up his trousers, he knelt on the sand and laved his hands in the frothy, salty water.

'Potter, what are you doing?'

He'd followed him.

'Washing my hands,' Harry said scornfully.

'Right.' There was a pause. 'Why did you take your shoes off, then?'

'They were - wet.'

'Well, they're wetter now.' There was triumph lacing every word, and when Harry looked behind him he realised why. The incoming wave had completely swamped his shoes and socks. Not to mention his knees, he now came to realise. And he'd left his wand in the hotel room.

Even as he thought this, another wave washed in, and Harry realised he was in deeper water than he'd thought because it hit him square in the chest, the force of it knocking him back on his elbows. His trousers were completely sopping now, and the back of his shirt was drenched.

'Shit,' Harry said, without much energy. He'd never been to the beach as a child, and in his life had not had much chance to play in the sea. He thought he might as well make up for it now as not.

He stretched out his legs so they were completely submerged, and let his lower body sink into the sand. As the waves came in his legs floated, and Harry did something he'd never done before, and giggled.

'Potter?'

The voice was much closer at hand. Harry glanced up into Draco's upside down face, and saw that he was standing behind him. His expression was the picture of incredulous scorn.

'Are you trying to drown?'

'Yes,' Harry said, because it was easier. 'You're distracting me. Go away.'

Draco looked on the point of doing just that, before his eyes narrowed. 'I think not. Since when do I ever do what you want me to?'

'Never,' Harry conceded, and proceeded to ignore him, gazing out over the horizon and feeling the sand shifting under his hands.

Suddenly, Draco lowered himself into the water next to Harry, sending a splash of cold water onto Harry's exposed chest.

'Isn't this nice?' he said, with his customary sneer.

'No,' Harry said incredulously. 'You're here; the two facts are mutually exclusive.'

'And here is your lesson for today, Potter: that was what we like to call sarcasm.'

'What would we call it if I made you eat your own liver?' Harry wondered.

'Your slow and painful death, I think.'

Harry paddled his feet in the water, not liking the fact that Draco's hand was resting on the sand not two inches from his own. What with tides and water and constantly moving sand, he could end up touching him.

That thought was not as disgusting as it possibly should have been.

To distract himself from the disturbing tangent his thoughts were taking, he glanced at Draco's - awfully long - body to remind himself how much he hated him. His threadbare t-shirt was rapidly dampening and beginning to stick to his skin, clinging to every dip and curve, and there were an awful lot of those. Draco looked in serious need of a proper feed, not that Harry was feeling in any way solicitous or anything. He quickly moved on, and sniggered.

'Malfoy, you stupid git. Don't you know what happens when denim gets wet?'

Draco opened his mouth to snap out a sharp response, looked down and shut it again, almost sheepishly. 'I forgot about that.'

Harry was about to use this ideal opening to laugh him to scorn, but somehow, with Draco's head bent, the sinews of his arms deliciously tautened, the moonlight glancing off his bleached head, he just couldn't. He was rapidly realising how dangerously close he was to, well, wanting Draco. And that was not good, because it went against everything Harry stood for, and in a lesser way because of what Blaise had told him. Casual sex was not Harry's style, whatever that actually was.

He scrambled to his feet, dripping water like a dog, as Draco looked up in astonishment. Before he could say anything, Harry beat him to it. He just had to know, before he left this precarious situation.

'How?'

'I require a little more specification, even from you, I'm afraid, Potter.'

Harry grunted, and said, 'When you left. How did you escape? Lucius told everyone you were dead. Why?'

Draco looked up at him, his expression unreadable. 'Why exactly do you think you deserve to know that, Potter?'

Harry shrugged. 'Never mind.' He turned away and started sloughing up the beach. His clothes felt as if someone had slipped weights into the lining, and the breeze froze the water on his skin.

'Potter, wait.'

Draco's voice was as guarded as ever, and Harry turned slowly. A quick spin was out of the question, hampered as he was by two-tonne clothing.

'You forgot your shoes, you blithering idiot.' Draco held out his trainers, dangling them from one finger as if they carried a contagious disease.

'Oh.' Harry's voice was small, and he reached for them. Quick as a trained cobra, Draco's other hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Harry gritted his teeth; Draco's hands were very cold.

Draco leaned in close to Harry, so that the stiff outlines of his trainers were crushed between them. He spoke in a hurried whisper, as if the words pained him.

'You really want to know?'

'It was just idle curiosity, Malfoy,' Harry said. 'But yes, I have a taste for useless information. I'm a nosy person.'

'Fine. Come back here tomorrow, and I'll tell you. It'll cost you, though.'

'Will I have to keep it a secret?'

'Not if you don't want to,' Draco said, shrugging. His eyes flickered for a moment, as if the flint had struck out a flame.

'How much?'

'As much as you can pay,' Draco breathed, with the ghost of a snake-like smile, before dropping Harry's hand like a hot coal and disappearing into the night.

~

Harry woke to the faint smell of the sea and the incredibly strong feeling that he'd been sleeping in wet blankets. Five seconds later, all the covers were wrenched from his bed from the bottom, and an unfairly bright-eyed Seamus was bouncing on Harry's bed and clearly not caring very much if he bounced on Harry too.

'Did you go skinny-dipping last night?' Seamus wanted to know, at the top of his voice.

'No,' Harry said. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, leaving all its fur on the top of his tongue at the same time. The sunlight was poison.

'Bill missed you,' Seamus said.

'He can keep on missing me then,' Harry muttered, groaning.

'And the twins have arrived.'

'Oh sweet Jesus. Seamus, here's a tip - go away before I get sick on you, hey?'

Seamus bounced off the bed, backing off with an exaggerated look of apprehension on his face. Harry rolled onto the floor, noting that he'd had the sense to take off his wet clothes last night. However, his boxers had not exactly escaped a drenching, and leaving his shirt and trousers onto the bed pane accounted for the dampness that now pervaded them. Ignoring the fact that Seamus' eyes had widened in appreciation, Harry crawled to the bathroom and opened the door without getting to his feet.

'Uh, Harry,' Seamus said warningly, but it was too late. Harry was greeted by an almost full-frontal view of Bill answering the call of nature, utterly naked. At the sound of the door opening, Bill turned his head, but on seeing Harry his angry expression melted into a far more suggestive one. Harry winced and hurriedly pulled the door closed again.

Staggering to his feet, he lurched over to Seamus, who looked torn between sympathy and raging amusement.

'Hide me,' Harry said hoarsely, grabbing one of Seamus' shoulders before he overbalanced. Laughing, Seamus put his arms around Harry's waist to hold him upright, just as the room door burst open to reveal Fred and George, in matching Hawaiian shirts and shorts. They would have looked utterly ridiculous but for their toned chests, which the unbuttoned shirts did nothing to hide. Harry gulped.

'Ooh, Harry,' Fred said in mock horror, fluttering his eyelashes in a way that recalled the Bride of Chucky. 'Is there something you and Seamus want to tell us?'

'Yeah,' Seamus said, chuckling. 'Harry's hung over and hiding from your brother who has designs on his virtue.'

'Who, Ron?' George said, sounding genuinely dismayed.

Seamus laughed even harder. 'No, Bill. I think poor Harry's traumatised.'

'I am not,' Harry said, trying to retain his dignity while dressed in nothing but check boxers. He stood clear of Seamus' support, despite the way the room seemed to be turning into a merry-go-round.

'Right,' George said, not sounding reassured.

'I guess that explains the earring,' Fred said thoughtfully.

'Where are Dad and Ron?' George asked.

'The lump over there currently answers to the name of Ron, or Oh-God-I-Want-To-Die,' Seamus said, pointing. 'And your pa went for a walk, to clear his head.'

'You let him out unsupervised?' Harry accused.

'He's forty-eight, Harry,' Seamus said, frowning. 'I don't think he needs a walker.'

'Seamus, this is an island! An island of Muggles!'

'So's Britain,' Seamus pointed out, refusing to contemplate the seriousness of the situation.

Harry sighed, and grabbed his head. He wanted nothing more than to have a drink, but he couldn't leave Mr Weasley wandering around Ibiza, and he had to meet up with Draco too, although he couldn't recall setting an actual time for that. The twins watched in amusement as he wandered towards the bathroom again, halted and recoiled in horror. The sounds of flushing could be heard from within.

'Shit!' Harry said, glancing around wildly. Grabbing up a shirt and shorts and stuffing his feet into what looked like Mr Weasley's loafers, he dashed out of the room just as the bathroom door opened.

'What are you all looking at?' Bill said, disgruntled and clad modestly in a towel. 'Where's Harry? Didn't he need to use the bathroom?'

'I think he, um, had an urgent appointment,' Fred said brightly.

'Right,' Bill said, going to his suitcase and rummaging. 'Hey, has anyone seen my loafers?'

Outside the room, Harry quickly pulled on the shorts, assured that he was now decent. He buttoned up the shirt as he walked down the stairs, not noticing the rather shocked looks he was generating in fellow residents as they passed him.

He met Mr Weasley in the foyer. He was wearing a necklace of conch shells, and in the short time he'd been let loose on the Muggles he had got his ears pierced. Both of them. They now sported large, plastic pink hoops, of which he was inordinately proud. Harry forbore saying anything, wishing his wife the joy of that. At least Seamus would see what he'd been talking about.

For lack of anything else to do, as he'd left all his money in his bag, he wandered back down to the beach where he'd met Draco the night before. As it was the time of morning when most people were sleeping off their hangovers - something Harry should have been doing too - it was virtually deserted. Thinking Draco mustn't have even arrived, Harry shrugged mentally and took off the hideous loafers, planning to bathe his feet again.

'Going for a swim, Potter?'

'I can't,' Harry said automatically, looking around for Draco, but not seeing him.

'Don't let me stop you,' Draco said sardonically.

'No, I mean I can't - I don't know how. Where are you?'

'Down here.' Following the sound of the voice, Harry peered over the top of a large dune. Draco was nestled in its lee, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts. They made his pale skin look even sicklier. A cigarette was dangling limply from his mouth as he scowled up at Harry.

'You smoke?' Harry said, surprised.

'No, I just have a cigarette for the look of the thing,' Draco said.

Harry rolled his eyes, reached out and plucked it out. He looked at it considering for a moment, before tossing it over his shoulder.

'Hey!' Draco said in an injured voice. 'There was a load left in that!'

Harry just looked at him, and for once Draco took the hint. Harry seated himself on a rock close to Draco, and clasped his hands around his knees.

'Those are truly horrific shoes, Potter,' Draco said conversationally. 'Did you find them on a rubbish tip?'

'No, but I could hit you with them,' Harry suggested.

'Really Potter, do you get off on violence or something?' Harry raised one loafer, and Draco said hastily, 'But point taken.'

'So, let's go back to the day our NEWTs finished,' Harry suggested. 'I have a salacious interest in your dirty deeds, but I don't actually want to spend any more time in your presence than I have to, see?' Draco made a face. 'You and Zabini left, just like that.'

'We went to Blaise's stag party,' Draco began.

'Oh, so he was telling the truth,' Harry said, in immeasurable astonishment. 'He was getting married then? To whom?'

'Pansy Parkinson. As per his father's orders.'

'Nice.'

'Stuff it, Potter. In the middle of the night Blaise and I slipped out. Took a plane to Mexico.'

'You had it planned, then?'

'No. We just took all the money out of our personal vaults at Christmas. We knew we'd have to go, but we didn't know when or where. So we caught the first flight available to as far away as possible.'

'Why not Portkey?' Harry asked.

'Too easily traceable.'

'So, did your father catch up with you? Was he telling the truth when he told Voldemort he'd killed you?'

'Take a wild guess, there, Potter,' Draco said dryly.

'He's back in Azkaban.'

'I know. We came back a month ago to sort out our affairs, get the rest of the money, et cetera.'

'And the Ministry let you?'

'Yes. Why wouldn't they? We haven't done anything wrong, unless cowardice is suddenly against the law. Mind you,' and he chuckled, 'Blaise ran into some rather persistent creditors from the Department of Magical Games and Sports...gambling seems to be in the job description.'

'So that's it?' Harry asked disbelievingly. 'You just ran away, because you were scared.'

'Exactly, Potter,' Draco sneered. 'I know when discretion is the better part of valour.'

'Whatever,' Harry said impatiently. 'So is it true that Blaise killed two Aurors the week after you disappeared?'

'Unless they were in Torré on, I doubt it.' Draco paused, watching Harry's stunned face with interest. 'So is it true you're married?'

'What? No!' Harry laughed. He was aware that it sounded a little shaken, but the news that the Ministry or some high-ranking association had been spreading lies about how Kingsley Shacklebolt had died was rather shocking. He'd always wondered, though. He knew how difficult it was to cast the curses that a post-mortem had revealed, and Blaise had only scraped bottom of all his classes through his charm. He hadn't even taken Defence Against the Dark Arts to NEWT level.

'You're not?' Draco said, his face turning so white it was almost blue.

'No, Malfoy, not that it matters, but I am not married,' Harry said patiently. 'I think I would know.'

'I have to go,' Draco said, in a clipped tone. He stood up, brushing sand off his shorts onto Harry, mostly.

'What about your payment?' Harry demanded. Draco frowned, looking almost confused.

His expression cleared abruptly. 'I'll catch up with you about that,' he said peremptorily.

'Cheers,' Harry told the empty sand.

And because he was starving, headed back to the hotel to be fed.

~

In an unoriginal move, Seamus had decided to take Ron and the lads out to celebrate one of his last nights of freedom. To a bar. Not the same bar, of course. That would be boring.

It had all the same essentials, though - alcohol (lots of), drunks, strippers (happily, for the drunks) and even ordinary girls who were out to do the same thing, only for free.

Seamus was having the greatest fun of his life coaxing Ron to stuff Muggle money into the stripper's bra. As Ron had even less acquaintance with it than his father, he was dispensing fifties like candy and thus even the stripper was getting some enjoyment out of the whole episode. Harry spent quite a lot of time trying to panhandle Ron fives instead, and to wrestle the camera out of Seamus' hands.

By eleven everyone was plastered. Mr Weasley was getting a lot of attention due to his suspicious choice of ear jewellery, and had been propositioned more than once, mostly by burly men in leather and studs. Mr Weasley thought they were trying to buy his earrings, and he kept smiling widely and saying apologetically, 'Not for sale!' So the message was got across, even if he didn't realise it wasn't the one he intended.

Seamus had decreed that everyone should dress in blue, except for Ron, who was to wear black (symbolic of the death of his bachelorhood. Harry wasn't sure this was the greatest idea, but three vodkas up and Ron was prepared to acquiesce even to the mantilla). Harry didn't actually own anything blue, excepting jeans, all of which he had left at home, so Fred had consented to lend him something.

With the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Harry realised there had been no need to wear blue at all, much less fall in with anything Fred, of all people, proposed.

He was dressed in cut-off denim hot pants, and a navy string vest, and was tired of being mistaken for a hooker. Once Seamus discarded his shirt to show off his biceps, Harry stole it without a qualm. Seamus was too drunk to notice, although he did remark that it was definitely getting cooler.

Harry was rather hacked off. He was on pins and needles trying to keep everyone in check, and avoid Bill's advances. He was afraid that if he got drunk, everyone would get out of check and he'd wake up in Bill's bed, possibly (and this was the scary part) with Bill in it.

One thing he was thankful for was that there was no sign of Draco or Blaise.

When they walked in the door of the bar, he had one thing less.

Blaise's face brightened when he spotted the shirtless Seamus, and made a beeline for him. Harry thought about warning him, remembered the bagful of condoms, and decided Seamus could bloody well take care of himself. Within minutes, Seamus and Blaise were performing an impromptu table-top dance for a circle of female admirers.

Draco propped himself up at the bar.

Harry glanced around. Fred and George were making Ron the centre of attention in at least a quarter of the pub, while Mr Weasley nodded along amiably. Bill had disappeared.

Harry looked back over at Draco.

He was wearing that morning's shorts with a loose white cotton shirt and flip-flops.

His hair was wet and uncombed, twisting itself into ragged rats-tails.

The muscles in his arms and calves were impossibly sharply defined.

Harry gave up and went over to him.

'I'm not gay,' he announced.

Draco looked up, his thin face hard.

'I'm sorry,' he said, scowling. 'I think you mistake me for someone who gives a damn.'

Harry perched himself on a barstool next to Draco, and swivelled around so that his knees were knocking against Draco's legs. Draco glowered at him.

Harry ignored him, and said thoughtfully, 'For example, Seamus is gay.' He looked over at where Seamus was enthusiastically snogging Blaise, to the associated whoops, jeers and catcalls of their gathered audience.

Draco dragged his gaze away with difficulty, and recomposed his face into its Harry speciality, blistering condescension.

'I think Blaise probably is too,' Harry continued. 'And Bill. And you. So I was thinking -'

'Difficult, was it?' Draco enquired. Harry stared at him, and calmly picked up Draco's drink - well, he assumed it was Draco's, the bar was pretty crowded so it potentially could have been anyone's - took a sip, and emptied the rest over Draco's head. Draco spluttered at him through a dripping veil of lager, which made his hair look even dirtier and his eyelashes stick together.

'I was saying,' Harry said serenely, 'that there are altogether more gay men around than there statistically should be.'

'Potter,' Draco spat, then his face took on an altogether more sinister cast. 'Take a walk with me. I think I'm due my payment now.'

'Okay,' Harry said equably, a Gryffindor prepared to pay his debts, and moreover to hand the thinking over to someone else for a while.

Once they were outside, Draco grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him along behind him. Harry couldn't see the point of this, as he was prepared to walk quickly if need be, and would probably be quicker if left on his own; but he assumed being treated like a recaltricant pet was all part of the 'payment'.

Eventually Draco came to a standstill on a deserted pier, so abruptly that Harry, his wrist still in a vice-like grip, cannoned into him. Draco shoved Harry up against a stone pillar and kissed him, hard. Harry stood motionless, frozen, as Draco clutched at his - Seamus' - shirt and moulded his body closer to Harry's.

After a minute, one of Draco's hands gripped his chin as he pulled back.

'Kiss me back, you bastard,' he said, sounding breathless. 'This is my payment, goddamnit.'

Without giving Harry time to reply, Draco's mouth plundered his again. Harry opened his lips obediently to allow entry to Draco's hot, agile tongue. Tentatively, he brushed it with his own, and was rewarded with a moan from Draco, and one of his cool hands which roughly pushed up his t-shirt and grazed his stomach.

By the time Draco finally retreated, Harry though he might have kissed his brains into mush. By contrast, Draco looked cool and collected and totally in control of the situation. This was fine by Harry. Someone had to be, and it sure as hell wasn't him.

'The way I see it, Potter,' Draco said, 'is that Seamus and Blaise are very alike, in that they are, essentially, voracious sexual animals. They are only in it -'

'For the sex.'

'And aren't interested in -'

'A real relationship.'

'As that would require more maturity and brain cells than both of them together possess, although that doesn't necessarily -'

'Make them bad people.'

'Bill is just experiencing one of those homosexual attractions that happen to everyone. Almost nobody is completely straight or completely gay. In this world, I think it's enough if you find someone to love you and put up with you, no matter what their sex is.'

'Malfoy,' Harry said solemnly, 'that was very deep.'

'Harry, you're as shallow as a puddle in a drought.'

'But, you know what they say about puddles.'

'They don't say anything about puddles, Potter. Why would they? They're puddles.'

'But if they did,' Harry said insistently. 'They'd say: 'They'll be back'.'

He smiled triumphantly. Draco stared at him as if he had three heads.

'That was so, so lame, Potter.'

'What happened to Harry?'

'I dunno. What happened to Harry?'

'A second ago you called me Harry.'

'I never did,' Draco said assuredly, but Harry spotted a flicker of doubt in his flinty eyes.

'Did too,' Harry said smugly. 'And I'm guessing there's a reason you thought I was married.'

'Yes,' Draco said, rolling his eyes. 'It was in the papers. You and Ginny.'

'Oh god, I remember that,' Harry groaned. 'Poor girl. We got her counselling. She's okay now. Dating someone else. Called Henry. With black hair.'

'I can see she's moved on.'

'Why did you care?'

'God, Potter, you are thick. I'm starting to wonder why I love you.'

Draco stopped speaking as a deep blush stained his cheeks. They stared at each other in silence for a while, Harry wishing that so much of his stomach wasn't on display.

'Why are you wearing hot pants?' Draco said eventually. 'I mean, not that you haven't got the legs for them. Was it a dare?'

'No, Fred,' Harry sighed. 'By the way, did you cook your hair or something? Ever heard of the invention of conditioner?'

'I was out in the bush,' Draco said impatiently. 'I was more concerned about not dying of heatstroke.'

'In Australia?'

'Yeah.'

'I cannot picture you roughing it beyond the black stump.'

'It was Blaise's fault, of course. He had a crush on a trainee camping guide.'

'Blame anyone but yourself, why don't you.'

'Who else would I blame?'

'I see how insurmountable the obstacles in your path to love are. After all, you're a coward, a coward, oh yeah; a coward, plus you don't take responsibility for anything. No wonder your true love got married to someone else.'

'You didn't, Potter.'

Harry shuffled his feet uncomfortably. 'I wish you wouldn't keep insinuating that you love me. It's rather worrying.'

'I'd be worried too, if I were you and I loved you,' Draco said, grinning. 'But I don't have to worry about that. I leave it all to you, you lucky person you.'

'Hey, even if you hypothetically loved me, who said I'd hypothetically love you back?' Harry retorted, once he'd figured out exactly what the hell Draco had just said.

Draco laughed.

It was annoying.

Harry wanted to shut him up, permanently. So he kissed him.

As soon as he stopped, Draco opened his mouth to speak, so Harry had to kiss him again. A little harder. A little deeper. With a little more exploration on the part of Harry's hands. When he released Draco, he looked somewhat dazed, and didn't attempt to talk. Just smiled.

That Harry could live with.

Once he moved in with Draco, of course, he'd have to do it a lot more, because Draco tended to talk an awful lot.

Sometimes he seemed to do it on purpose.

~

'Maybe 'ideal' was the wrong word,' Hermione, the walking dictionary, mused a few months later. 'Maybe I was thinking of just plain impossible. It sums up Malfoy, really.'

'Harry doesn't mind us calling him Malfoy, still?' Ron asked worriedly.

'I wouldn't think so. All he calls him, generally, is Drmmmph.'

'Okay, then.'

~

For some reason, Blaise and Seamus took all the credit for getting them together.

~FIN~