The Goodness of Their Hearts

In the days that followed, there had been no moves made against Potter. No shadowy figures following him down streets. No gifts delivered that were out of the ordinary. There were howlers, and Draco got to hear them. Vicious, filthy, unjustified accusations to which Potter listened with silent stoicism. Apparently they weren't out of the ordinary, either.

Once, Potter gave him a look of petulant glee when nothing suspicious could be found in the backgrounds and habits of his team-mates and entourage. Draco didn't consider that proof that his theory was wrong, though he was no longer so confident that it was right, either.

If it wasn't a member of the Cannon club, Malfoy Security Inc. had no idea who the stalker was. And without any theories to convince Potter to accept better security, Potter was impossible to control. Draco lived in his flat and followed him on his daily trips to the gym, the almost daily Quidditch practises, the luncheons and parties and clubs. Draco would have preferred to eliminate such outings, but Potter wouldn't have it. Draco argued, ordered, snapped and even once almost sort of pleaded, in a Malfoy sort of way. Sometimes Potter showed him the courtesy of listening. Or, rather, paying attention. It never stopped him from doing whatever he wanted to do.

And it didn't help Draco's lagging power of persuasion that nothing ever happened. It left him in a strange position. He had no authority over Potter, who treated him as though he were something between a guest and a friend. It was assumed Draco would go wherever he went, but Potter made it obvious he expected Draco to behave as though he were something other than on duty, drinking at parties and dancing at clubs. The Seeker became impatient with reminders about security and frequently told Draco to 'loosen up' and 'relax', as though he didn't remember, or didn't care, that Draco had a job to do, that he was being paid to be there.

Potter made him breakfast every day. Breakfast might be anywhere from seven in the morning to two in the afternoon, depending on the other's schedule or inclination, but every day there was a fry, or pancakes, or french toast. Potter always asked Malfoy if he wanted to eat, and Malfoy said no, as he wasn't one for large meals, and Potter served him anyway. Because, he reiterated, Draco was too skinny.

Not that it was any hardship to eat what Potter prepared. The Boy Who Lived was a fair enough cook. And it appealed to Draco's sense of humour, that his old time hated rival, who would have spat at him as soon as looked at him during their days at Hogwarts, was serving him breakfast.

Potter's general demeanour frankly puzzled him. He was always so calm, as though he just couldn't be bothered to feel anything stronger. Certainly, he got irritated, but he was never angry. He smiled but never laughed. If he resented Draco for their past hostilities, he couldn't be bothered to express it. Nor did he resent Draco's presence. He had asked Draco if there was no one in his life who would resent Draco living with him. Potter, likewise, seemed to have no one to care that Draco had moved in. No one stayed the night, there were no long telephone conversations, no requests from Potter to be left alone so he could meet someone. That blond tart from the kitchen never reappeared.

It was almost as though Potter just couldn't get up the energy to really care about anything.

Here it was, the first game the Cannons were to play for the season, and as far as Draco could tell it meant nothing to Potter. There were no nerves, there was no excitement. Just another day. One in which he'd appear in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans, but hey, nothing special.

There were record ticket sales for this game. Despite the lack of further threats to Potter, and a cool warning from Draco to Zimmer about the idiocy of talking to the media, there were nearly constant comments in the press about Potter's new security measures. That first article had spawned a series of others, with no further input from Cannon management, all about every other threat that Potter had ever received, as well as about Draco's company and past clients. He would be firing whoever at his office let that information out. This morphed into articles about Lucius Malfoy, his Death Eater associations and the possible impact such may have had on Draco, and more speculation on Draco's past relationship with Potter.

And this brought people to the game in droves. Potter had always been a big draw, but some of the novelty has worn off over the years. This new stalker, billed in the papers as a particularly twisted individual, had brought the numbers back up.

Draco thought it disgusting.

Potter didn't seem to care.

The Cannon players had no problem having Draco in their locker room with them. None of them knew they were under suspicion, for one thing. For another, people were wandering in and out of that room all the time. Various coaches, agents, janitorial staff, journalists, and determined fans. Draco had ordered the room closed to everyone but the players and their coaches, and still he needed to put one of his people at the door to keep the interlopers out.

So he got to be the only one to watch all those truly beautiful bodies in various states of nudity. And Draco had always enjoyed a healthy respect for the human form. All those art appreciation classes.

Yet it wasn't those gleaming, toned, efficiently moving bodies that made Draco's mouth go dry, his lower stomach twist and his blood rush south.

Harry Potter, though sleekly muscled, was not a physically imposing man. His Seeker's frame lacked the height and breadth to intimidate the casual onlooker. But dressed in his Cannon uniform, the cape falling gracefully from his shoulders, the slightly beaten leather guards moulded to his forearms and shins, his black hair slicked back into a small braid, his posture erect and confident, Harry Potter looked fine and feral and dangerous. A rapier as opposed to a broadsword, elegant and deadly.

And Draco couldn't have spoken right then for all the galleons in Gringotts.

Potter noticed him looking. He gave him a slow wink.

Bastard.

Draco recovered himself during the Head Coach's inane pep talk and followed the team out of the room. He was joined by four of his staff, who were all straining their eyes for magical and physical assaults. No wands or magical items were allowed in the stadium. Another member of Draco's staff was watching over the Cannon's equipment and refreshments.

Draco would have preferred Potter didn't play at all. The team had a reserve seeker, why not use him? The management wouldn't hear of it. Neither would Potter. So Draco was left standing in the crowd, watching Potter fly through the air, a target to thousands including, most likely, his own team-mates.

Draco hadn't watched a professional game in years. He'd been so angry with himself for losing to Potter that one final time, he couldn't bear to look at a broom or think about Snitches. While one couldn't avoid the sport altogether, he had banned it as a topic of conversation at the office.

He'd forgotten why he used to love it. Reasons that had nothing to do with Potter or house points. The excitement, the exercise of mind and muscle, the sheer exultation of flying like a maniac. Why had he let all that be stripped from him?

It wasn't time for him to be rediscovering his joy in the game. But he couldn't help it. They were so good, so fast, so insanely reckless. He'd forgotten how fast professionals could fly. The neat, stomach-twisting spins, the breath-taking catches. Draco caught himself holding his breath through the dives, chuckling over the fouls, and silently rooting for the Chudley Cannons. Because that was the team Potter was playing for.

Potter's own playing, though, surprised him. Draco had expected to be amazed by it. Potter was phenomenal, after all. Or so he had expected.

Yet, watching the Seeker, Draco found himself underimpressed. Potter was good, of course. As good as one expected a professional player to be. But Draco wasn't blown away, and he'd expected to be. He couldn't say what it was, exactly. Potter just seemed to lack the fire Draco remembered.

Maybe he was remembering it all wrong. He had had his own biases in school, after all. He'd been disdainful of emotional displays at the time, and disdainful of Potter. Maybe he'd only thought that when Potter chuckled he cackled, when he was annoyed he was in a ranting fury. And the intervening years no doubt contributed to the warping of his perceptions and memories.

Screw that. Something was wrong with Potter.

And it was none of Draco's business.

He watched Potter curve into a weird dive. As the Seeker dove he continually spun on his broom, which made it impossible for the opposing Seeker to fly immediately beside him. Just watching him made Draco queasy. He'd never seen anything like it.

And then the broom just stopped. It halted in mid-air. Potter didn't, tumbling on down but clutching the broom with one hand. His descent was halted with an abrupt jerk that brought a gasp from the spectators, while Draco's heart flew up into his tightening throat.

Harry Potter dangled awkwardly from the broom hanging vertically in mid-air, high enough over the ground to shatter bones should he fall. Swearing, Draco looked from team-mate to team-mate, the ref and the reserve players and the coaches on the ground. No one was pointing a wand. Everyone had their eyes on the target, their lips moving as they expressed amazement over the spectacle. The spectators were an impenetrable mass. Damn it.

And didn't the ref take his own sweet time calling a time out, a bludger swooping too close to the Cannon Seeker, barely missing.

Rose flew up under Potter, and he carefully dropped onto her broom behind her. He reached out and plucked his own broom out of the air. It came to him easily. But as soon as he remounted, the broom pointed to the ground and froze, and Potter tumbled off again, once more catching himself. Draco saw him wince.

"Damn it, Harry!" Draco hissed, once more searching for the source of the hex or the charm or whatever and failing.

Because he was a bloody useless incompetent! Fuck!

Rose once more offered Potter a ride, and this time when Potter settled on her broom and grabbed his own, she took them both down to the ground. Draco tried running to where they landed.

"Get out of my fucking way!" he screamed at two personnel who seemed to have no other function but take up space on the sidelines. They hustled. Still, there were others to run through, and by the time he reached Potter the Seeker was about to set off on a borrowed broom. "What the hell are you doing?" Draco demanded, grabbing his left arm and watching Potter pull in a pained breath.

"Game's not over, Malfoy."

"Someone hexed your broom!"

"Not necessarily, and I've got a different broom."

"Someone is trying to kill you, Potter! Show some fucking sense!"

Potter's eyes widened with surprise. "Calm down, Malfoy. No one's going to blame you if anything happens to me in the middle of a game."

For a moment, Draco honestly felt like pulling out his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he stupid? Was he so arrogant he thought nothing could touch him? Or did he have some kind of death wish?

Draco punched Potter on his left shoulder. "How's the arm then?" he asked.

Potter winced again, taking a step back. "Hands off, Malfoy!"

"He can't play like that," Draco said to the head coach. "He was injured when he was jerked off his broom."

"I've played with worse."

"Quidditch is a rough sport, Mr. Malfoy," the Head Coach reminded him primly.

Draco glared at her. "I am aware of the dangers inherent in the sport, Coach Oban," he informed her icily. "I am also aware that Potter is off his game today and that playing with an injury will do nothing to improve it. And finally, I am aware that you have a reserve Seeker. I assume you picked him up because you feel he has some talent."

"I am not off my game," Potter snapped.

"Oh, you are. I was watching." Draco looked at Oban. "You don't want to risk losing this game for the sake of Potter's pride, do you? Your first game of the season?"

Oban thought about that.

"You never change, do you, Malfoy," Potter said with some disgust. "Still sticking your nose into things that aren't your business."

"Nor do you, taking stupid risks for no good purpose."

"What's the hold up here?"

It was Zimmer, having come down from the stands and looking impatient about it.

Draco jumped into speech before the other two could. "Potter has a lame wing and the spectators got the death thrill they paid their tickets to see, so Potter should be pulled."

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Moonlighting as a Quidditch coach, are you, Malfoy?" Zimmer demanded.

What was wrong with these people? "Just doing the job you hired me to do, remember?"

"He's not exactly on fire today, sir," Oban added. "You're out today, Potter. Get Richards to look at that shoulder."

Potter glared at her for maybe five seconds. Then, all of a sudden, the tension drained out of him. "Yes, ma'am." And without a glance at anyone he headed for the ground exit.

"Where's that broom?" Draco demanded as Derek Hilton was sent out and the game's announcer spewed out some hyperbole about the change of players.

Draco sent Davis back to the office with the broom and headed off after Potter. He knew there was going to be a nasty explosion from his client, but that wasn't what was disturbing him.

In his experience, stalkers didn't kill their victims in such a spectacular, public fashion. Part of the obsession was a belief in a personal and intimate relationship between the stalker and the target. The stalker wanted the death to be a personal and intimate matter, just the two of them, alone together as they were meant to be. To share it with tens of thousands of spectators would spoil it, pervert it, just another very public event that the interfering and ignorant masses couldn't understand and shouldn't be a part of. Something about this was striking a chord with Draco, and it was completely out of tune.