When You Say Yes

"Everywhere people stare, each and every day. I can see them laugh at me and I hear them say, 'Hey! You've got to hide your love away…'"

- The Beatles, "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away"

"Anything you can do, I can do better."

- Annie Get Your Gun

Hermione and Ron Weasley walked along the pier in Brighton, the sunlight reflecting off of the cold green sea, lazily. They were on holiday for the weekend, escaping their work at Hogwarts for the time being. Hermione always got stressed out by her students and needed a break every once and awhile to calm her nerves. Ron appreciated it; he was never one to turn down a chance to explore a new place.

The reflection of the sun on the surface of the water hit Hermione’s eye at a precise angle, making her momentarily lose her vision. She stumbled over a loose block in the pavement. Ron’s hand immediately reached for her, like instinct, yet in the process, he dropped his Belgian waffle that he had just bought at a stand along the way.

“Thank you,” Hermione said as he drew her back up to her upright position.

“Any time,” Ron said, shrugging, “although you do owe me a waffle.”

“Shall we go back now and get you one?”

“No, I’ll just have a bite of yours,” Ron said and grinned mischievously.

“No! My waffle!” She squealed and ran around in circles as Ron chased her. After a momentary game of tag, she gave it up to Ron who munched away happily, as they sat on a blue iron wrought bench facing the shore.

Hermione stared out into the waves, watching them move slowly towards the horizon, as if the whole thing were a giant tortoise making its way to another land, far away. She shivered in the cold of the sea air. Ron, after finishing the waffle, wordlessly draped his coat around her shoulders. She gave him an appreciative smile, and then paused. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“Who?” Ron asked. He was obviously playing dumb, and Hermione knew it. Ron had been worrying about Harry too; he had just not vocalized it.

“Harry. Do you think he’s okay?”

Ron’s face broke into a smile. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s Harry, isn’t he? He always survives. He’s The Boy Who Lived, and all that. And not only did he live, but he still continues to do so to this day. His record is pretty good in that respect, isn‘t it?”

Hermione sighed. “Don’t patronize me, Ron.”

“Like you have any room to talk when it comes to who's patronizing whom. I’ve been on the other side more times than I would like to count,” Ron grinned and put an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “And, I mean it. I really think Harry’s fine. I am, however, surprised that he took the assignment.”

“Me too.”

“I mean, it’s one thing for him to go off to America. But he usually calls us about shit like this. I guess, in this situation, no news is bad news.”

“I do wonder what he’s doing there, though. He’s never had a top secret mission before.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s had loads of top secret missions but the only difference is that he’s told us about all of them,” Ron chuckled and nudged Hermione in the arm. “Cheer up, Herm. I know he’s okay. I can just kind of feel it. Actually, I’ll bet you that he’s feeling pretty good.”

“He didn’t even tell us where in America…”

Ron seemed to be examining her, his eyes scrunched up. He was obviously deep in thought. She stared back at him, completely baffled.

“Do you know something, Ron Weasley?” She asked, her mouth open, the sides of her lips twisted into a gaping smile.

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t told me! Where is he? New York? Chicago? Boston?”

“…Los Angeles. I checked the ticket in his bag when he went to the toilet at the airport.”

“You little sneak," Hermione said, smiling. Yet she felt suddenly very disappointed. “Why would he be in Los Angeles? What the hell is there? It’s probably the least culturally interesting city on the face of this planet.”

Ron laughed. “You know, Hermione, sometimes people don’t go to places just to see museums. And I severely doubt that Harry’s Top Secret Mission is to go and stake out some brand new science exhibit.”

“True. But still… What the hell would be in Los Angeles?”

“I‘m surprised you haven't tried to find out yet. It's been two days. You're slacking.”

"Quiet, you. I'm still worried about the bastard. I mean, we called him and he never called back and I'm quite sure that is his number. Why would he pick up and not talk to us? I swear to God that I heard breathing that one time we called."

"You're imagining things."

"Am not."

"I'm sure that Harry is just very busy with whatever he's doing. He can't be bothered. We're not the number one priority on his list, anyway."

--

Number one priority on Harry's list at the moment was Draco Malfoy. Naked. In bed.

This was how they had spent the majority of their days in Hollywood. They went to clubs, as if Harry were just a good friend of Draco's, and then came back to Draco's hotel or house, depending on convenience, and he would shag his brains out. It was a very nice arrangement, actually, when Harry stopped to think about it. But he rarely stopped to think about anything at all. Hedonism has that sort of effect on people.

It was early on a Tuesday morning. Draco had been on some talk show the night before to promote his new film and he gave a sparkling performance that made Harry proud. The host, some fellow named Jay Leno, had been a bit of a push over but it didn't really matter to Harry… or to Draco for that matter. He had been given an enormous gift basket with a bottle of Cristal champagne, which they had uncorked when Harry had reminded Draco that it had been two days and there had been no word from his father.

But now, there they were, in bed, the sheets with a thread count higher than Harry could count and a man who was so physically beautiful that he couldn't help stroking him. It was the same sort of impulse people feel when they go to a museum and see a very fine work of art… the touch it, prod it, feel what such beauty feels like. But this work of art was his own.

He really liked this arrangement. He didn't have to deal with any of the sappy romantic crap if he and Draco were just fucking on a regular basis. He knew that Draco had changed a lot since they had being having their affair at Hogwarts, and besides, he, Harry, had really come to devalue the meaning of sex. It was rather refreshing, actually, to have a carefree fuck with somebody. Especially somebody as attractive as Draco. A very nice arrangement. He planned to fuck Draco until they got back to England, and then get back with his normal existence. Probably find some girl, settle down, have kids… It would definitely be hard to give something as good as this up, but oh well. Sometimes sacrifices are necessary.

Draco rolled over on his side and murmured something in his sleep that sounded like "Ellen mullberry."

Harry shook him slightly. "What was that?"

Draco turned over again, his grey eyes fluttering slightly. He drew a slender arm across Harry's torso.

"I love you, Harry."

Oh.

Fuck.

--

Draco woke up a few hours later. The sun streamed in through the gauzy curtains of his bedroom. He turned over on his side and threw out an arm to embrace Harry. With a soft thud, his arm fell onto the bare linen.

Harry wasn't there.

Draco lazily fished his boxers (or Harry's--they had been swapping, even though Harry's boxers were not silk or expensive--but it had gotten to the point that to check would take too much of an effort) off the floor and made his way down the cold concrete steps. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, trying to remove any evidence of sleep. He had called them eye bogies when he was younger but somehow, something had told him that was inappropriate.

Harry was making breakfast. Eggs, it smelled like.

"Morning," Draco said, and pulled up a stool next to the grey metallic kitchen island that was very nice to look at, but had hardly been used. "Let me guess… scrambled. Just the way you like them. No wait, excuse me. Just the way you know how to make them."

"Not quite morning; more like afternoon," Harry said and divided the eggs between two slices of toast. He pushed a plate over to Draco and took his place across from him on the other side of the island.

"Afternoon, then."

"Did you have a good sleep?"

Draco smiled. "An excellent sleep, thanks for asking. I slept amazingly well. It could have been the massive amounts of pot we smoked."

"You smoked. I didn't have any."

"I'll be sure to add that to the record, Mr. Law Enforcer."

"What did you dream about?" Harry asked with a forced nonchalance, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone counter in front of him.

"Why?" Draco asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Just curious, is all. You were talking a little bit."

"Impossible. I never talk in my sleep."

"That's interesting that you know that considering that you're actually unconscious during this period of which you claim to have such esteemed knowledge."

"You never said anything before," Draco sniffed.

"Well, you never said anything in your sleep before. First time for everything, you know."

Draco apparently was resigned to this fact, as he said nothing further. He simply scrunched up his face in a very obvious I'm-thinking-hard-so-leave-me-alone look. Finally, he said, "I dunno, don't remember."

"Okay."

"Think it had you in it, though."

"…Okay…"

"Oh wow, I think we were… Nah."

"What?"

"I think we were in Hawaii…"

"Doing what?"

"Stop interrupting me!"

"Fine. Sorry," Harry said and got up. He took a bag of oranges that had been lying on the counter and began slicing them.

"I think we were in Hawaii… and you were looking quite hot, you sexy thing. You were in a tux. And I was too. And we were on the beach by a beautiful cave and it was just the two of us. Oh, and there was one other bloke, who was also dressed like he was going to a funeral… or… actually… Yes. It was a priest. Or a minister. Or something. We were getting married."

"Holy fuck."

"Considering that we were getting married, I would say, Officially Sanctioned Fuck. Not quite up to holiness, per se."

"Whatever," Harry said. He was squeezing some of the sliced oranges very aggressively onto this yellow-type Asian inspired dish which looked like one of the mushrooms in Fantasia, except in the form of a juicer. Draco tried to remember where the fuck he had obtained such an odd creation.

"I have a better juicer than that."

"This is the one that was out."

"Yeah, stupid, that's because it was decoration."

"Pretty stupid decoration."

"Nobody asked for your opinion." Draco leaned over the counter, his grey sweatpants, already loose, revealed a tan portion of his toned buttocks as he retrieved the far superior juicer… stainless steel, very professional-looking. He handed it over to Harry, letting his hand linger for a bit, a flirty grin crept onto his face. He closed his eyes and waited for a kiss. Harry just took it wordlessly and began squeezing again.

"I would hate to see you in bed with a woman," Draco pouted, crossing his arms across his chest.

"What? What, Draco?" Harry seemed rather flustered. Draco chose to ignore this.

"I bet that's how you treat tits. Grab, pull, squeezeand squeeze them to pieces. You're much better as a queer."

"Whatever."

"What I’m trying to say is that you're doing it all wrong. You need to remove the seeds first."

"Is that your best Hermione impression?"

"Don't bring your stupid friend into this. And I don't want to hear you comparing me to her ever again. Besides, haven't you ever squeezed an orange before?"

"Like you have."

"That, love, is not the point. I have seen plenty of them squeezed. One of my ex-boyfriends was a chef."

"I thought you didn't have any ex-boyfriends. Just lots of random fucks."

"Who told you that?"

"Emily."

"Oh. Do you talk to Emily a lot?"

"Yeah. We've had lunch and stuff."

"Have you fucked her?"

"No."

"Good. Don't. I don't want her to lose her job."

"You would fire her?"

"Yeah. I need loyalty from my staff. And sleeping with your boss's boyfriend is a big no."

"She doesn't know we're fucking."

"That reminds me. I should tell her."

"Ah." Harry continued to squeeze the oranges forcefully. The last one he had attempted had ceased to look like an actual orange and, instead, a pulpy mash of orange guts.

"Okay, spit it out already."

Harry only grumbled. At that precise moment, there was a knock on the sliding glass door on the back of the house. Draco looked over to Harry, who seemed calm, cool, and collected (albeit a little bit angry at --something--Draco wasn't quite sure what exactly) and went to the door.

He looked straight ahead. There wasn't anything there, except for a spectacular view of his backyard (a perfect teal swimming pool and deck chairs made of bamboo), and beyond that, a view of the San Fernando Valley. It was quite stunning, actually. He opened the door and felt a sharp tug on his sweatpants.

He looked down. There was his old house elf, Dobby, standing in a mini uniform with a mini badge, standing up as straight as he could, trying to affect some sort of power position.

"Excuse me? Dobby?"

"Dobby is here to see Mr. Harry Potter," the elf said, nervously, which is understandable considering he was seeing the boy (now man) who had beaten him within an inch of his life for years. "Dobby has a job of being Mr. Potter's personal assistant."

"Oh my, I'll have to tell Emily. It'll be fun. We could double date!" Draco squealed and clapped his hands together in a kind of mock enthusiasm. "Harry and I, the two stunningly handsome gay men, and our personal assistants, both short and squat and surprisingly annoying."

"Is Mr. Harry Potter here, sir?"

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Draco said suspiciously, leaning his slender frame against the door.

Dobby's eyes had grown larger than their normal size and were looking like cantaloupes. His hands were shaking as he withdrew a set of papers from his jacket pocket detailing his employment under Harry.

Draco flipped through the papers carelessly, letting many of them drop to the floor. "Passport?" Draco demanded.

"Dobby doesn't understand, sir?"

"Fuck it. He's in there," Draco said, pointing to Harry. "He's in one of his moods. Tell him to lay off the oranges for a bit. I hear they're organizing a union."

Dobby just looked at him with muted bewilderment and carefully inched his way through the door, trying not to touch any part of Draco.

Draco followed him inside, closing the door, watching Dobby approach Harry, his lover, and he felt this odd sense of jealousy rise within him. Dobby was a personal assistant to Harry. Dobby had been with Harry all these years when he had been in California whittling away his time. Dobby had talked to Harry, seen those girls Harry had fallen in love with. Dobby knew why Harry was here. Dobby… Dobby… Dobby… his former house-elf. Formerly under the employment of his household. Something was not quite right about this whole arrangement. He knew that Dobby had once been his family's house elf and then, one day, he wasn't. His father hadn't talked much about it, just mentioned that it was Harry's fault and wasn't he a bleeding heart but don't worry, no, don't worry, he'll get it in the end.

Draco ran a hand over his abdomen, tensing it, feeling the outline of his own muscles. If any trouble ever happenedoccurred, he could crush Dobby with one well-orchestrated sit up. If it ever came to that.

He wandered into the other room and plopped himself down on one of his leather sofas, overhearing the conversation in the next room.

"Dobby? What are you doing here…?"

"Dobby has come to talk to you, Mr. Potter."

"Why didn't they just call me?"

"They wanted you to have this information, sir. They wanted Dobby to give it to you personally so that there was no chance that it might fall into the wrong hands."

"Wrong hands? And… really. I don't think that there is much chance of Draco being harmed here."

"Mr. Potter has got to take the information Dobby has very seriously. This information is the difference between life and death."

"Excuse me? Dobby, just what are you getting at?"

"Dobby has to give you this, sir. Dobby is very sorry, sir."

There was an odd shuffling in the room. Draco heard an unsettling thud. He rose quickly and ran into the next room. The hardwood floors were slippery and his socked feet were not giving him the traction he needed. He slid haphazardly into the room, seeing Harry knocked out on the floor, Dobby standing over him with his arms crossed and an evil look on his elf face, before he crashed right into the sliding glass door head first and passed out.