Facade

Draco was bored. A half-dressed woman of the night rested in what she believed to be a seductive manner on his lap, and he had been playing cards for nearly four hours with little luck. He suffered such agony being the young, single heir to a rich fortune who also happened to be devastatingly handsome. His life in town was filled with routine, and Draco loathed routine. He awoke in the late morning and pored over Harry's letters, holding them to his face in a poor substitute for Harry's touch. He spent the afternoon either in the pleasant company of various connections, business or social, or attending upon his mother, if there was no escape available. The evenings were spent out, at balls, theatre, or various nightly entertainments such as the card game at hand.

He had not gone back to Knockturn Alley, or encouraged any of the men and women, professional and amateur, who draped themselves upon Draco in the hope of intimacy. His vivid recollections of Harry were already fading, and the last thing he wanted was to replace the memory of making love with Harry with gross coupling with someone else.

He spoke softly in the woman's ear. She made no effort to hide her disappointment before sliding off Draco's lap and onto the lap of one of the other young lords. Relieved, tired, and annoyed with his company as well as himself, he stood and straightened his clothing. If he had luck, he would be able to make it to the door before the other men around him roused themselves from their drunkenness.

"Leaving so soon, Draco?" A silky voice purred near his ear.

Draco sighed. Indeed, he had no luck tonight. Putting on an expression of bored indifference, he turned to meet the challenging green gaze of his companion. He was older than Draco by perhaps six or seven years, but one would hardly know it from looking at him. The man turned his face into Draco's neck, inhaling deeply and brushing his lips against the underside of Draco's chin with the permission of one who has been allowed to do much more than that in the past.

Draco swallowed, closing his eyes to strengthen his resolve. When he spoke, his voice held no clue to his inner struggles. "Sorry, my dear friend, you know how it is. Can't afford to lose much more tonight," Draco said smoothly.

An arm was slung around Draco's shoulders, the other man smiling a little too broadly to be sincere. "Just because you're finished losing does not mean that you must leave. Stay. Seek the company of a girl for the night. Or perhaps, someone else would be more to your taste?" An eyebrow arched meaningfully and Draco felt his insides twist with something he hoped was disgust. His polite smile remained firm only due to years of practice.

"Alas, my mother expects me to be presentable tomorrow. She plans to trot out the goods for the ladies before they start the bidding. I think she's finally resigned herself to the fact that Miss Parkinson will never be a member of the family. Rather than freeing me from her designs, however, she seems to think it's open season." He extracted himself from the embrace and smiled charmingly in a way he knew the other man could not resist. "Another time, perhaps."

"Of course, Malfoy, of course. Give my regards to your father. I'll be seeing him tomorrow regarding the investments he's chosen." The other man paused, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Draco.

"My pleasure," Draco said hurriedly, exiting the dark club. He did not feel the green eyes that followed his progress, like a predator stalking its prey.

Harry disliked London. The streets were too dirty, too crowded. He made his way down High Street, barely managing to avoid several puddles filled with he knew not what. Where was that damned clubhouse again? His arrival in London the previous day had been stressful, and Harry was annoyed with himself for the way his pulse thrummed every time he caught sight of a head of blond hair or slim shoulders in a dark blue overcoat. Not yet ready to face the task of his father's (now his) investments, he had decided to seek out some exercise to relieve his tension.

At last he pulled up in front of a brick-front building and smiled. The Lion and Snake Club had been his home during his school years. It was his sanctuary, and the only place other than his home in Godric's Hollow where he felt he belonged. Here he could prove his worth based on his own physical skill, and not his background or family.

He opened the door and ran into a firm body.

"Beg your pardon. Completely my fault," he said, flustered, looking down at his boots.

The other man laughed, a loud, lusty sound. "Not at all." The man squinted. "I say, is that you, Potter?"

Harry looked up in surprise and then his face broke into a smile. "Hello, Wood."

"Bloody good to see you," Oliver said, patting Harry's shoulder affectionately. "What brings you to our old stomping grounds?"

"I'm actually here just to get some fencing practice in," Harry admitted.

"Fencing, eh? Never liked that sport very much. Not enough contact, you see," Oliver grinned and Harry blushed, realizing the attraction he had once felt for the good looking man hadn't changed since boyhood.

"It's good to see you, Wood."

"And you as well. Come back in the spring and we'll play some cricket," Oliver said with a grin, shaking Harry's hand warmly.

Harry nodded, promising to stay in contact, and then entered the clubhouse, inhaling deeply. He loved this place. The smells of leather, wood, and energy absorbed him, as well as taking him back to his past and the long hours he had spent here rather than studying in his room.

He made his way to the changing room, hearing the shouts of various partners in sport, and changed his dress, putting on the white uniform. Picking up a light Italian foil, he confirmed that the button was firmly on the tip. Satisfied, he headed to the large workroom they used for fencing matches, carrying the light wire mesh mask with him. The clash of metal on metal caught his attention and he peered inside the room to see his favorite instructor in combat. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, known affectionately as Nearly Headless Nick, due to the gruesome scar he bore as souvenir from his famous match with the Bloody Baron of Eastborne, had taught Harry the basics of the sport, as well as encouraging Harry in his pursuit of other skills.

Nick's opponent was dressed as Harry was, as well as being masked, and Harry concluded he must be another club member. His back was to Harry, but Harry still shamelessly admired the long limbs of other man, comparing them to his lover's. The masked man fought against Nick with an elegance that Harry envied. Every movement was controlled, and precise. Even when Nick threw in an unexpected thrust, the man blocked it effortlessly, as if he had known it would come.

Harry watched from the doorway, in awe.

At last the match ended with Nick conceding. "A hit, a hit. A very palpable hit, my lord." He spotted Harry in the doorway and grinned, waving his foil. "Harry! My dear pupil, it's been many months since you've sought to partner me."

"Too many months, Master," Harry said, bowing his head to his old instructor. "I've been admiring your partner," he admitted.

"And so you should," the masked man drawled, removing his mask as he turned to face Harry for the first time. His silvery blond hair was attractively mussed from being confined and then released by the wire mask, and his cheeks flushed as he looked Harry up and down. Any surprise he might have felt upon seeing Harry was carefully concealed behind an impenetrable blue stare.

Harry found himself struck speechless. His senses overloaded completely, and he was reminded of how it felt to fall from a great height. The fall itself did not cause pain. During the fall you felt elated--your blood surged, pulsing rhythmically throughout your body, your chest felt tight from the inability to breathe, you knew the inevitable was coming, but somehow could not do more than wait for it to come. Helpless. Paralyzed. Seeing Draco Malfoy after three months was exactly like falling from a great height. Harry wondered when he would hit the ground.

"Malfoy," he breathed at last.

Their reunion was interrupted by Nick, who appeared not to notice that Harry had preempted his introduction. "Mr. Malfoy is an exceptional partner. You should try him out, Harry," he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder encouragingly.

Draco smirked at Nick's comment, which made Harry feel bolder.

"Perhaps I should," Harry replied slowly, and then moved his gaze from his mentor to his lover, asking a silent question.

Draco said nothing, but held Harry's eyes with that same cool stare.

Harry swallowed, and searched for some confidence. How would he react in a normal situation? He couldn't let Sir Nicolas become suspicious of his behavior. "Shall we find out if you are indeed my match, Malfoy?" he said with as much boyish arrogance as he could muster.

"Are you sincere?" Draco asked. His voice was gentle, chiding, even though he returned Harry's unasked question with a slight smirk. Yes, let's play, Potter, Draco seemed to say. Let's find out how it's going to be for us. It was a surreal experience. The script for their public performance had private echoes. Harry was not going to back down now.

"Completely and utterly," Harry replied.

"I daresay you cannot be so sure as to make a wager on the outcome, now can you?" The heat was back in Draco's eyes, even though the question was spoken lightly, almost playfully. Hiding in plain sight, Draco had said. And here was the first attempt at it. But there was something else that caused shivers of desire to course through his body. Not since their first meeting had Harry considered Draco a rival, and that moment had been fleeting. To realize there was still something they could prove to one another made Harry's pulse race, reminding him of schoolboy cricket matches when it seemed life and death depended on the result.

This new thrill of competitive intensity between them made Harry felt alive, and sensitive to every breath or movement. He looked Draco and then grinned slyly, attaching his foil to his wrist with a white scarf. "You know, gambling in excess is considered a vice. With your affinity for bets I would say you run the risk of eternal damnation."

He watched Draco check to make sure his French foil was still firmly attached to his wrist. The blond gave him a smirk as he raised his foil, holding it to his face in salute. "Refusing my bet to save my soul. How thoughtful of you, Potter."

Harry returned the salute, positioning himself across from Draco and waiting until they were out of Sir Nick's hearing before he replied. "Just trying to save your father's money, Malfoy."

Draco glided forward, the tip brushing against Harry's shoulder even when he attempted to avoid the attack, provoking a grin from the other man. "You ought to try to save your pride, Potter. That's one."

"Are you questioning my motives?" Harry asked incredulously, raising his foil again and attacking with a small but quick disengage.

Draco blocked the attack easily with a counter parry. "You would truly sacrifice your soul for my benefit? How noble of you to appear cowardly for my sake."

"I am nothing if not selfless," Harry said, mouth curled into a smile. He had missed more than the sight of his fair partner. The playful banter that had accompanied their every encounter stirred feelings under his skin, close to his heart. It was painful to be in such proximity, and yet unable to touch, to have Draco so near to him, after so many months of separation, and be a short measure away.

They clashed again. The sequence paused momentarily as Harry was kept in opposition by Draco, who appeared almost bored. Harry took a step back to reconsider his strategy, when Draco spoke.

"Of course. A true gentleman," Draco replied.

Harry frowned, licking his lips thoughtfully before advancing, sliding the back edge against Draco's inner thigh tantalizingly, before striking a hit against Draco's navel.

"Good form," Draco said, voice slightly breathless and strained to Harry's ears.

"Likewise," Harry murmured.

"The months have treated you well, I see," Draco said.

Harry attacked again, aiming high at Draco's shoulder. Draco seemed to drop to the floor, his weapon arm extended. And oh, did Harry ever remember what Draco Malfoy looked like when he was on his knees, gazing up with flushed cheeks from beneath the fine fringe of blond hair. "You're too kind. I feel rather out of practice with this," Harry replied between shallow breaths.

"A marvelous Passata Sotto, Mr. Malfoy!" shouted Sir Nicolas.

When Harry scored another hit a few minutes later, Draco failing to bind his way out of the coule, Draco smiled wryly. "Could have fooled me, Potter. I think your skills are in good shape."

They moved in close quarters again, neither one wanting to break the conversation. Foil tips were stopped millimeters from the other's skin, blocked at the last second. To a casual eye it would appear they were tiring. But Harry had never felt more awake. He realized, belatedly, that the lack of attention (intended and accidental) was due to arousal as desire began to cloud their judgment. He was not used to being this close to Draco, panting, flushed, and aroused, except in one other circumstance, and his body was reminding him of that, very painfully.

"Some things," Draco said softly, as if he could reading Harry's thoughts by merely looking at him, "the body remembers, even if the mind does not."

"What do you remember, Draco?" Harry dared to ask.

Draco did not smile. "I remember wanting to fall inside your eyes and get lost in the never ending emerald sea. I remember the feeling, that the vision of you pressed against me, breathing heavily and glistening with sweat, induces in me," he whispered heatedly before breaking ground, stepping back a few paces.

Harry blinked, momentarily mystified by the intensity in Draco's eyes. He faltered, and Draco pressed the advantage, scoring another hit on Harry's flank, lips curling into a smirk.

"Match point!" Nick shouted cheerfully from the sidelines.

In a moment, Harry understood. His features hardened. Draco had had the insufferable conceit to use Harry's reactions against him. Well, Harry decided, two could play at that game.

"You know what I remember, Draco?" Harry said, presenting himself in invitation.

He felt Draco eyeing him, no doubt weighing his options. Inevitably he answered the invitation, attacking where he judged to be Harry's most vulnerable area-which was precisely what Harry wanted.

"I remember how you feel . . . from the inside," Harry said in a low voice. "I remember the small gasps you make when I press myself into you." Harry pressed closer, parrying Draco's moves as he waited for the opportunity to make the final hit. "I remember the way your tongue moves across your lips restlessly, calling to my own. I remember the way you look . . . eyes raised heavenward . . . when you . . ."

Harry stopped, and watched as Draco's traveled downward and froze. The tip of Harry's foil was pressed against Draco's breastbone.

"Good game, Harry," Draco said softly, before Sir Nicholas stepped forward. Harry took a step back, and untied his foil before extending his hand.

"An amazingly effective feint, Mr. Potter. I feel quite honored to have witnessed such spectacular dueling this afternoon," the elder man said, as Harry and Draco shook hands.

Harry smiled graciously before releasing Draco's hand. "Thank you, Sir Nick. I think, though, that I am more out of practice than I realized."

Draco arched a brow in query, mouthing "Massage" over Sir Nick's shoulder, and Harry nodded.

He stretched casually, wincing as a particular kink of his neck was pulled. "I think I'll visit the massage parlor."

"Excellent idea, Potter." Draco said quickly, inclining his head towards Sir Nick politely before moving towards the door himself. "I think I'll join you."

They walked slowly towards the changing room, foils by their sides, acutely aware of the proximity of the other, their bodies close enough to touch but not yet touching.

"It's good to see you," Draco said softly.

Harry closed his eyes, turning his face towards Draco's, his lips near enough to Draco's skin that Draco could feel each breath as Harry exhaled. "And you. I did not expect to see you."

Draco fingered Harry's foil with an elegant gloved hand. "Nor I, you. I thought you would write to me, were you to come to London," he said, slightly reproachfully.

Harry swallowed nervously, his breath tickling Draco's ear. "I was under the impression you did not care whether I came to London."

They entered the changing room. Finding it deserted, Draco's hand slid from the foil to Harry's hip. He felt Harry shiver beneath his hand. "If you would come away with me, back to my home, I would be more than willing to show you exactly how wrong that impression is," Draco offered.

Harry looked regretful. "I can't. I have to see my Father's investors this afternoon."

"You're not going to collect on your victory? Seems unlike you, Harry, not to relish a triumph," Draco said, moving his hand from Harry's hip down his backside, grazing the top of his thigh slowly, his eyes shadowed by the fall of blond hair.

Harry exhaled slowly, trying to find some semblance of control. "You are making it hard to resist. But in faith, I cannot. Much to my own regret."

"Can I at least persuade you to come to my Mother's tonight? She's throwing a grand ball with plans to auction me off to some poor chit. How lucky it is that I actually have to consent to marry," Draco finished dryly.

Harry smiled and leaned forward, unable to resist at least tasting the lips he had dreamed of the past few months. Draco responded hungrily, and to his great surprise, Harry yielded to his kiss, letting Draco plunder and claim as he saw fit. When it ended, Draco brushed the hair, damp from sweat, from Harry's face and studied him.

It was Harry, but a different Harry. In the months of their separation, he had become more sure and more demanding, and yet more willing too. It make Draco ache that he could not become reacquainted with other parts of his lover to compare what else had changed.

Harry smiled and stepped back, smiling almost coyly as he turned away and began undressing. "I still would like a massage before I go. Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me?" He stood there, damp from exertion, wrapping a white towel around his hips, raising his eyes to Draco's challengingly.

Draco's lips parted in surprise, but he quickly recovered, discarding his own whites eagerly. "I believe a private room would be more conducive to a . . . hard . . . rub down. Don't you?"

Harry leered.

"Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," the sign on the dusty, nondescript building proclaimed. Nothing else alluded to the fact that this was the place where his father's investments were handled.

Harry straightened his shoulders, feeling the sore, abused muscles protest even that small movement. The massage with Draco earlier had resulted in more sore muscles, rather than less. A small smile played on his lips, remembering. And he was to see Draco tonight, at a ball. The second test of hiding in plain sight.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the building. A small bell jingled above the entrance, signaling his arrival. Two men were deep in conversation in a small corner around a large writing desk. One had pale blond hair, and for a brief moment Harry thought that Draco had followed him here. However, this man's hair was tied back in an elegant knot, and his hair was much longer than Draco's. The man turned in his direction and Harry bit back a gasp of surprise. The man looked like Draco. Well, an older version of him. For a small moment, Harry was hit by the dizzy thought that this is what Draco would like when he got older. And damned if he wasn't every bit as handsome and attractive as Draco was now.

The blond man rose and moved to speak with a short, squat man, with almost ratlike features, who had come to his side. His dark-haired companion, a younger gentleman with a bored, aloof expression that also struck Harry as extremely reminiscent of Draco, turned and saw him. Harry was surprised to see green eyes remarkably like his own staring back at him, with a burning intensity that Harry could feel even from this distance. Nervously, he turned away, looking for another clerk to help him.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Wormtail is the only clerk here today," a voice said, and Harry turned back. The attractive, dark-haired man had spoken. "And he is currently engaged with my . . . friend. It could be hours before they finish," he continued, rising from his seat to walk where Harry stood.

Harry fought the urge to retreat, offering a polite smile. "Oh, I see. Thank you. Perhaps I should make an appointment and come back at a later date." He turned away again, looking for a place to leave his card.

"Or you could wait, and save me from an afternoon of boredom," the man said, now directly beside Harry. He waved a hand at the two in the corner. "I meant it when I said they could take hours. Prattling on about Lord knows what," the man grinned broadly. "I generally sit there bored out of my mind. And I would be doing so today, as well, had you not entered my life. May I be so bold as to invite you to share my tea?" The green eyes gave Harry a subtle once-over, and Harry was surprised to find himself flattered. Could he be mistaken, or was the man flirting with him?

Harry smiled shyly in return. "Thank you. Tea would be lovely."

The man radiated brilliance and charm. Harry took the opportunity, once he was seated across from him at a small tea table, to study him casually. Dark hair, almost as dark as his own. Judging by his appearance and clothing, he was a gentleman of some stature and rank. More than likely the stranger's rank was higher than his own, but not by so much that he would think himself condescending to speak to Harry. A few years older than Harry. Perhaps ten, if one was very, very generous, but filled with a spirit that seemed eternally youthful, and eternally wise, at the same time.

The man poured for them both, and handed Harry the tea, which he accepted graciously.

"Tell me about yourself," the man asked. "It's not every day that a man like you finds himself in this area of town, now is it?"

"I could say the same thing about you," Harry said.

"Oh, you flatter, to be sure." The green eyes sparkled with amusement, and something else. "Can I at least know the name of the man whose company is so delightful?"

"Harry Potter. And the feeling is mutual," Harry said, blushing slightly despite himself. They shook hands, and Harry's touch lingered longer than was strictly polite. The man seemed appreciative of that fact, lowering his eyes and smiling.

"A pleasure to meet you, Potter. And please, allow me to introduce myself." His companion set down his tea and looked up, holding Harry in his gaze. "My name is Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort."