The Goodness of Their Hearts

Potter didn't sneak into his room. Draco didn't even try to pretend he wasn't disappointed, in his way. It had been an attractive idea, Potter seducing him while he slept, so no one could hold him responsible for what happened. And it was actually a little insulting that nothing came of it, no pun intended, that Potter could flip from teasing him to virtually ignoring him.

Probably he wasn't that good at sex, anyway. One had to be really there to be truly good at it. That seemed a little much to expect of someone of Potter's psychological state.

His physical state was fine. His shoulder was back to normal the next day. He played the second game to a huge crowd with no incident aside from a series of nasty articles accusing Potter of increased volatility, painting a picture of an intemperate egomaniac who was becoming increasingly impossible to work with. Draco wondered if the 'reliable sources' that were quoted had ever met Potter. For while Potter was, for Draco at least, impossible to work with, the Seeker couldn't work up enough interest to become volatile.

Potter had reiterated his suggestion to the team management, with a "no offence" to Draco, that he didn't need protection. There had been no more letters from that particular writer, the thing with the broom had been a fluke, and there'd been nothing else to raise suspicion.

Zimmer wouldn't hear of it.

Draco didn't like Zimmer. There was something false about his protestation that Potter's safety was of primary concern. Of course, that could be merely that he was trying to claim some interest in Potter as a person, when it was as clear as day that to him Potter was nothing more than a meal ticket. Because if he really cared about Potter, he would bench him for a while. The team wouldn't suffer for it in the rankings. Daniel had brought the team to victory after Potter's near fall, and had been palpably disappointed when Potter returned for the next match ready to play.

No one would listen to him. He didn't know why he even bothered, because he'd lost all control over the situation. If he had any spine at all he'd quit. Because Potter would get killed, and not only was that bad for business, it was too possible that he, Draco, would get killed right along with him. That would really be bad for business. Anyone with any intelligence, in his situation, would hand in his notice post haste.

So anyway ....

Game three. The Cannons had won the first two games of the season and the players were all glowing about it. Even Potter seemed moderately pleased, in his understated way. Draco suffered through another motivational speech from the Head Coach - her rhetoric was clichéd and melodramatic - and followed Potter to the launch floor, running down to the ground as soon as the players were in the air.

And as soon as the game began, it become clear to everyone that one of the Bludgers was cursed, aimed at Potter, and vicious with the intention. The Quaffle was passed perhaps four times before everyone on the pitch realized that the Bludger was going for Potter, and the game was forgotten as the players joined the spectators in watching Potter dodge and dive to avoid the missile.

Draco had to admit, beween strings of curses, that the deadly pursuit was bringing out the best in Potter's flying. The twists and swoops made his stomach clench and the spectators gasp. The Beaters from both teams chased after them, trying to bat the Bludger away. It was quite the spectacle, Potter demonstrating the finest in death defying flying, the Bludger screaming and careening after him, and the four Beaters scrambling to keep up, bats swinging.

Someone was laughing. Draco looked at Daniel in astonishment, and the reserve Seeker swallowed his next chuckle. "You have to admit it does look kind of silly." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Never mind."

The Bludger was moving too fast to hit with a charm. Those fool Beaters swarming around made it impossible to throw a shielding spell at Potter. Draco paced, nearly dancing with frustration.

"Give me that," he said to Daniel, snatching the Seeker's broom from him.

"What? Why?" Draco swung one leg over the broom. "Wait! You can't. They're in the middle of a match."

Draco shot him a look of disdain and pushed off.

He flew straight at Potter.

He was flying into the middle of a professional match, in a professional pitch and on a professional broom. An adolescent dream he now had no time to appreciate. His appearance in the air sent the announcer into paroxysms of hyperbole.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing. At first he tried to get close to Potter, following him into dives that scared the hell out of him, he no longer the idiotic teenager. But he couldn't catch up with the Seeker, and his stomach lacked the fortitude to try for long. But at least he was in a position to avoid the Beaters somewhat, to angle around them and get a better shot at the air between Potter and the Bludger. He pulled out his wand and cast a shielding spell.

Not an elegant solution. It jarred Potter to a halt, and he once more nearly tumbled from his broom. In the instant between Potter stopping and the Bludger hitting the shield, Draco added a rigidity element to the spell. The Bludger struck and flattened on impact, dropping straight to the ground.

There was a brief moment of silence, before the spectators erupted into screaming chatter.

Draco flew up to Potter's side. The Seeker was pasty, panting, his pupils dilated.

Draco was almost relieved. Finally, finally, Potter was scared.

"Let's go down, alright?" he said, and Potter nodded. They flew down to the ground in a slow, gentle slope. The audience applauded. The Boy Who Lived had lived again, and had given everyone quite the show in doing it.

"I can still play," Potter said to Oban when they reached her, but the flat mechanical tone of his voice suggested his brain hadn't had much to do with the statement.

And even Oban could see it. "I think it's time we all started taking this seriously, Potter," she said. "That Bludger was no mistake. And you're rattled."

Potter blinked. "I was in the war," he reminded her, a little more strength to his voice. "I've faced far worse that this."

"You're older and less stupid now," Oban smiled at him. "And there's no good reason to send you back out and every reason not to. We've got it covered. Hilton is raring to go."

He was indeed, Draco thought sourly. Perhaps he would have to re-evaluate Hilton's potential as a threat. Later. "Come on, Harry, that's enough excitement for one day. I don't think my heart can stand any more shocks."

Potter looked at him as though he thought Draco had said something bizarre. He didn't resist, though, when Draco took him by the arm and led him from the pitch, to the sound of renewed applause from the spectators.

Potter was subdued as he showered and changed, and Draco began to realize that perhaps, up to that point, the Seeker really hadn't thought his life was in any particular danger. Bludgers did go wild, but so quickly after the 'mistake' with the broom it was difficult for anyone to claim this was just another accident. Perhaps, now that Potter's face had been really rubbed in it, he'd be easier to manage.

Draco let Potter step into the floo first, but stopped him from naming his own block of flats. "Dragon's Keep," he said.

And Potter frowned. "What?"

"A place I want to show you. And no one will know to hound you there. Dragon's Keep."

"Dragon's Keep," Potter announced, dropping the floo powder and disappearing into a flash of flame.

Draco followed him, landing in a small living room with wood floors and area rugs of solid colours. The furniture all matched, and it was comfortable, too, for Draco saw no reason why something couldn't be functional and look good all at the same time. A few discrete plants and watercolours graced the walls.

"Where are we?" Potter asked.

"My home."

Potter's eyebrows rose and he looked at his surroundings with more interest. "Not ... Malfoy Manor."

"Certainly not." He hadn't been to Malfoy Manor in years. "Very few people know this place exists, or where it is. Come this way."

Potter chuckled. "Years ago, the very idea of being alone with you in a place no one knew about would have had me diving back into the fireplace."

So what, now he was completely harmless? Who was he, Longbottom?

The house was modest compared to Malfoy Manor, on a lot of only two acres. Draco was not prepared to spend the time, money or effort it took to watch over an estate. Living room, dining room, breakfast room and kitchen, office, three bedrooms, a games room, three bathrooms, a gym, and the room to which he was leading Potter right then.

The outer wall of the room was somewhat circular and comprised of floor to ceiling windows. The remaining walls were a warm off white, delicate watercolour murals painted right onto the surface. The carpet was the colour of heavily creamed coffee. The plants in this room were much larger and more riotous, their leaves wide and vines crawling up the walls. There was a subtle musky scent to the room, not overpowering. The centre of the room held a small pool, surrounded by flat white rocks and white sand, a tiny waterfall filling the air with the soothing sound of sloshing water.

It felt like it had been ages since he'd been there. A tight tension between his shoulder blades loosened and he nearly sighed. "This is how I relax. Not fucking around indiscriminately."

Potter, who had been attracted by the windows, shot him a grin over his shoulder. "No law saying you can't do both. All at the same time."

He was not having sex in his relaxation room. The relaxation room was serene, quiet, and orderly. Sex was a loud, sweaty, messy business. Not that such things didn't have their places. It was just that his relaxation room wasn't one of them.

He watched Potter lean in close to one of the watercolour murals, examining the delicate detail. "Will you accept, now, that there is a real threat against you?" He watched Potter's shoulders tense. "Different from the other kinds of threats you've faced?"

Potter shrugged.

"Potter!"

"Alright!" he snapped, then added in a calmer tone of voice. "Alright."

That was a significant part of the battle won, but by no means the hardest part. "And that it's probably a member of your team or - "

"No!" Potter whirled away from the wall to glare at him. "Just leave it alone!"

"I can't leave it alone, Potter."

"Listen, I accept that this time it's different. That this person is more determined and organized that the rest. But look at what you're trying to say. Someone fell in love me and suddenly got good enough at Quidditch that they got on a professional team, just to be around me and send me threatening letters. That makes no sense."

"I'm not saying a team-mate is the only possibility. It could be any member of the club or its staff. But you have to leave yourself open to - "

And Potter was walking out of the room.

"Hey!" Draco strode after him. "Learn some manners, you arrogant jerk."

"Shut up about the team! It's not one of them!"

Enough of this. It was getting juvenile and ludicrous and dangerous. Draco grabbed Potter's arm. "Listen to me!"

Potter yanked his arm free and turned on him. "Shut the fuck up, Malfoy! I mean it!"

There it was. That was what he remembered. The fire in the eyes, the hard set to the jaw, the tension in the body so strong he was practically vibrating. Delicious.

"Dean Thomas, Harry. Remember him? A Gryffindor, your mate, and a spy for Voldemort. Sometimes the people we trust betray us. It happens all the time."

Draco found himself pulled up to his toes by the front of his shirt, looking right into the face of a feral Harry Potter. "Do you know what happened to me after I graduated from Hogwarts?"

Nothing that justified excessive violence. Draco curled his hands around Potters' and tried to gain some balance. "You were picked up by the Cannons."

"That's right. No one else wanted me. Not Dumbledore. He was done with me. Not the Ministry of Magic. Not any other team. Because people thought I was unstable. Mad. Useless. But the Cannons took a chance on me. They took a risk no one else would take. And they've been good to me ever since. And now you," Potter sneered, "are trying to get me to turn on them because you're too incompetent to find the real stalker."

"It's not a stalker, Harry. This isn't some obsessive romantic. This is something else. Sabotage or something. And for Merlin's sake, put me down."

"It's nothing," he snarled. "It's you trying to earn another fistful of galleons and making a hash of it. You go to hell. And you're fired." He released Draco with a small push that had the former Slytherin dancing for balance.

"You can't fire me, Potter. You're not the one paying me."

"Zimmer will fire you if I tell him."

"After what happened today? I doubt it."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Listen to me, Harry. Listen to me! I'm not saying it's the whole club, or the whole team. It's one person. One person who is being paid to sabotage the Cannons. Or someone with a grudge against you that you don't remember or don't even know about. Not the team who saved you from obscurity. One person. One person who is trying to kill you."

Potter wasn't interested. He turned and started walking and Draco knew he was heading back to the living room with its floo.

"What is with this ridiculous loyalty you're ranting with, Gryffindor? You don't even care about Quidditch anymore."

"Fuck off, Malfoy!"

"You know it's true, Potter. I saw you. You were going through the motions. It's become a duty to you. I don't know why you're still doing it."

"Because you don't know jack, Malfoy. Go to hell."

"What's so wrong with admitting Quidditch isn't your grand passion anymore? You did it. You did it brilliantly. And now you're done. What's wrong with that? You can do something else now. Or do nothing but lounge around on beaches in exotic locations." And right then, at that inappropriate moment, Draco was struck with a very clear image of Potter sprawled out on the sand, bronzed and glistening and wearing nothing but that silver torque.

And while he was distracted, Potter was fumbling with the various containers scattered about the living room. "Where the hell is your floo powder?"

"Don't go, Harry."

Potter found the bowl and carelessly flipped off the top.

Draco didn't grab him so much as put a hand on his forearm. "If you go back to your flat, you'll only be waiting for the reporters and other busybodies to descend on you. If you go anywhere else, you'll get mobbed."

Potter froze. "And why should you worry about that? It's not part of your job to protect me from the press, and you don't think the public is a threat."

Draco really wanted to tell him fine, be an immature brat and go. But his job at the bookstore had taught him a lot about patience. "Look at this place, Potter. Do you like it?"

He sneered. "Fishing for compliments?"

Merlin save him. "Do you like the way it feels?"

The jaw was still in a stubborn line, but the shoulders were relaxing a little. "It seems quiet," he admitted.

"There'll be no howlers or reporters or annoying well-wishers."

"I don't mind that sort of thing, really."

"Liar."

Potter didn't challenge it.

"You're frazzled. And I'm sick of dealing with the chaos that you live in. So we'll just spend the rest of the afternoon here. Alright?"

Potter fiddled with the floo bowl.

"And I won't talk about who's behind this. For the rest of the afternoon."

Potter rolled his eyes and sighed and handed back the bowl. "It turns out that my afternoon has just opened up. Lucky you."

Lucky him. So he had brought Harry Potter into his home for some unknown reason, and had eliminated the one real topic of conversation that they had. And here Draco had always thought he was a bright lad.