The Goodness of Their Hearts

Draco would have imagined a jock's party would be loud and obnoxious, full of drunken boisterous men breaking the furniture and dull-witted underdressed women spreading their legs. It was one of the reasons he'd tried to get it cancelled, because he couldn't imagine anything more tedious. He was somewhat pleasantly surprised to find that there were fewer jocks than anticipated, and the bimbos were treated with tolerance and a certain courtesy. Aside from some players from the team, publicists, and an arena owner, there was a solicitor, an accountant, a book sales clerk, and a neighbour from another floor. Fewer people than Draco had anticipated, slightly more civilized, and all apparently normal according to the quick background checks Perona had performed.

The biggest surprise, though, was the absence of Granger and Weasley. They hadn't been on the list with which Potter had provided him. There was no mention of them from anyone. In fact, none of the people Draco remembered as being part of Potter's crew were in attendance. Had he dropped them all?

So much for the Golden Trio.

Draco was introduced to everyone as an old friend of Potter's, from Hogwarts, visiting the Seeker for a few days. No one in the crowd knew either of them well enough to understand that this was a lie. Years earlier it had been a hard blow to Draco's pride to learn that while everyone had heard of his father, and everyone had heard of Harry Potter, no one outside a few classes at Hogwarts knew or cared much about Draco Malfoy. Out in the real world, he was a bit player, and a forgettable one in the grand story that was the fight against Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

At present, though, it made his job easier as he sipped Potter's cola from a wine glass and chatted with his guests. Who were not as dim-witted as he'd expected but with whom he had nothing in common. He didn't know much about the current manoeuvrings in the Ministry of Magic, or the latest music group to hit it big, or that Gilderoy Lockhart had signed yet another book deal, this one with an advance royalty of over one million galleons.

He realized he'd been behind a desk too long. He was starting to lose his edge with small talk. Something one of the Cannons' beaters, a tall stocky woman incongruously named Rose, wasn't too shy to call him on. "Not too bright, are you?" she smirked.

Charming. "I am absorbed in my work."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I research and develop charms," he lied glibly.

"And have you been experimenting in here?"

"Your pardon?"

"There's a strange feeling in here. Almost oppressive."

There was a charm in effect. He didn't develop charms, but a member of his staff, Davis, did, and this was one of his current projects. A sort of blanketing charm that deadened the use of magic, though anyone with enough determination could break through its effects. It was the best Draco could come up with on such short notice, especially as Potter had refused to let him confiscate the wands of his guests. "I don't practice experimental charms on unwitting test subjects."

"How long have you been in town?"

"I just got in today."

"And has our Harry been showing you the sights?"

Her Harry had spent the afternoon in his room doing stomach crunches while Draco had brought in some of his staff to check out the wards and add some extra ones. The early evening had been spent bickering over the service people who'd brought in the drinks and food. "Harry is always a riveting experience."

"Hm." Rose pursed her lips and seemed to be studying his hair. "Is that your natural colour?"

"Of course."

Her gaze dropped from his hair to his crotch. "There's only one way to prove that beyond a doubt."

He wasn't interested in women, especially strapping wenches that towered over him, but if he were that figurative blow to the face would have changed his mind.

"Could you show a little less class?" A short wiry man had to stand almost on his toes to sling an arm around Rose's shoulders. "Sorry there, mate. She's in heat this year."

"Sod off, Derek," she hissed with such sincerity that Draco realized, to his horror, that she had indeed been trying to flirt with him.

"Derek Hilton," he said quickly, hoping Derek would not sod off and leave him alone with the heavy-handed Rose. "The reserve Seeker."

Derek's expression hardened just a little. "Yeah."

Interesting. "Chomping at the bit, are you?"

"Been playing reserve for a while. It gets old."

"Ah, the joys of signing onto the same team, and position, as the great Harry Potter," said Rose.

"Didn't expect him to stick with the Cannons so long, did I? He was supposed to be traded to another team by now, give someone else a chance."

"Sorry if I sound terribly naive," Draco said, "but can you not sign onto another team?"

"No one's had a chance to see me play, really. Harry's rarely out. If I got a deal at all it wouldn't be a good one." Derek took a chug of his lager. "Don't get me wrong. Harry's a great guy and I like him. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. It's just frustrating, you know? Being held back. I didn't picture my career going nowhere like this."

"Yeah, well, Harry's the star," said Rose. "He's got a couple more good years in him left, and he's showing no signs of leaving the Cannons, so you might as well just get comfortable."

Draco knew better than to start suspecting every person who voiced a grudge against Potter. Besides, the letter writer didn't despise Potter. He loved him, in some twisted way. He probably had nothing but good things to say about the sun in his sky and the moon in his night.

Draco returned to the kitchen to wash the taste of flat cola out of his mouth. He froze at the doorway, for Potter was in there, pressing a blond woman against the counter and kissing her passionately. One of her legs was crooked up high against his waist and their pelvises ground against each other, her hands clutching his buttocks to push him harder against her. From their panting it was clear they were moments from getting each other off right there in the kitchen.

Draco stepped back, disappointment slamming into his chest. He leaned against the wall by the door until he realized he could hear moaning from inside the kitchen. He pushed away from the wall.

Disappointment. How could he be disappointed? Surely, surely he hadn't been hoping to get into Potter's pants? On the basis of what? Seven years of juvenile hatred? Less than a day of virtual indifference?

Alright. Fine. Potter was hot. So were a lot of men who didn't have all that baggage.

Fuck.

Didn't matter. Potter was a client. No one at Malfoy Security Inc. slept with clients. Aside from the pretty comment at the door, which could have meant anything, Potter had given no indication that he was anything other than 100% straight. And Draco wasn't desperate enough to throw himself at a handsome hunk of meat who no doubt received a dozen offers a day.

Besides, it was Potter.

He found it a little more difficult to deal with the guests after that, especially once Potter returned to the party wearing a fresh pair of jeans. Draco couldn't help examining the guests until he found the little slut who'd been humping herself to an orgasm with the host. She was wearing a ridiculous amount of make-up.

"Don't you think?" a voice said into his ear.

"Yes-s-s-s," he hissed.

"When did you see it? I saw the premiere."

He frowned at looked down at the mousy little creature yapping at him. "Your pardon?"

The woman he'd been allegedly talking to - the neighbour - looked annoyed. "Flying Spheres. The Muggle movie we've all been talking about the last ten minutes."

The Malfoy came out in him. He couldn't help it. "Why would I know anything about a Muggle movie?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because it's been splashed all over the papers. It's all about a flying broom sport and people are wondering if Spielberg's been violating his agreement with the Ministry."

"Ah." No, he'd missed that. He really wasn't that avid a reader of the press. He suspected most of the 'news' was crap. After all, Rita Skeeter had used him as a source, and he'd sold her a pack of lies. "Is it accurate?"

She shrugged. "They make the game seem more dangerous even than it really is. But it's all very much from the players' point of view. I've never played beyond a few pick-up games as a child, so I couldn't say whether or not it accurately reflects the perspective of the players. Do you play?"

"I did at school." And never since. Since that final match for the Quidditch Cup, seventh year, between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Which he'd lost. He always lost to Harry Potter. Because he'd been playing against the future professional Seeker Harry Potter, and he had lacked that extra edge, that inherent raw talent, that a future professional Seeker would have. No one could have convinced Draco of that at the time, though. He'd been so angry, so frustrated and disappointed and ashamed, with no future chances of redeeming himself, that he hadn't known what to do with himself. He'd wanted to hurt someone - preferably Potter, but really anyone would have done - with his bare hands. He'd wanted to blow up the school. He'd wanted to eliminate everyone who had witnessed his failure. He had expected to shine at Hogwarts, from the time he'd learned what Hogwarts was. He had expected to shine at Quidditch. And year after year, Potter had taken it all away from him.

He'd almost scared himself, he was so angry. So he'd hidden himself in a cupboard in a classroom, stealing two jugs of firewhiskey, and he'd quickly drunk himself to unconsciousness. And he'd never played Quidditch again.

He realized he missed it.

The party wrapped up at close to three in the morning. There was some drunken stumbling about but nothing had been broken and there'd been no complaints from neighbours. And, most importantly, no one had ended up dead. Good party.

The last guest left unescorted by the post. Draco grit his teeth, having no doubt why Potter was absent. He went through most of the flat, making sure locks and wards were properly re-engaged. He left Potter's bedroom for the last, because he really didn't want to go in there. But he was going in, he didn't care who the Seeker had in there with him. Women killed too, and that blond tart could easily distract Potter and leave him dead in the morning.

But the door to the bedroom was open, the bedroom itself empty. Draco was surprised to find Potter alone on the balcony, stretched out on steamer chair, smoking. One sniff told Draco he wasn't smoking tobacco, and he tsked as he leaned against the doorway. "Harry Potter, doing drugs," he drawled. "Whatever will the kiddies think?"

Potter took a long drag. "What took him so long?" An even longer exhale.

"Where's your friend?" The question was out before Draco knew he was wondering, and even to his ears it sounded edgy and bitter.

Potter's eyebrows rose. "What friend?"

Draco didn't want to answer that. He sat in the other chair. "Did anyone strike you as being a little off tonight?"

"How do you mean?"

How did he think he meant? "Like they'd been writing nasty letters."

"Oh." Potter smiled. "That's your job."

"It's your life," Draco snapped back.

Potter shrugged.

"You seem pretty apathetic about all this. Is that what the grass does for you?"

"We all have to die sometime."

So he'd said before. "Doesn't mean we have to hurry it along."

"Does your payment rely upon my surviving?"

Draco's lips thinned. A snarky way of asking what the hell he cared.

Not that he did. Not on a personal level. Potter was nothing more to him but a bad memory and a high-priced client. Really.

But Draco was wondering if his memory was at all accurate. He would never have claimed, at any time, to know Potter well. His impression of him was teacher's pet - a curious title for such an indifferent student - and attention seeker. Everything Potter had done, he had done to extreme. He had broken rules spectacularly. The people he liked were bigger than life, the people he disliked were not just unpleasant but evil, in perception or reality. When he was angry he blazed with it. When he grinned he was goofy and unreserved.

If anyone had asked Draco to imagine Potter as an adult, he would have described someone reckless and wild and living life within an inch of spontaneous combustion due to sheer unceasing activity. Not this subdued, faintly withdrawn creature who appeared to be going through the motions merely because he had to be doing something.

"I believe I've mentioned it's bad for business when the client dies."

"Ah, yes." Potter took another drag from his toke, looking up at the sky.

Draco looked up, too. Clouds obscured the stars. There was nothing to see.

Draco had found, in the past, that everyone was better off when no one became personally interested in the client. Ask the questions one needed to ask in order to better understand security needs and risks. Never ask purely out of curiosity. So Draco didn't ask Potter what had happened with Granger and the Weasel. Or what had happened to Potter himself. Or what, in general, was wrong. He didn't really need to know.

But he found himself wanting to.