The Goodness of Their Hearts

Where they went was the Cannons' home arena. There was no game, no practise, no other performances taking place.

"What's going on, Potter?" Draco asked.

"Nothing to get tense about. Come on."

One of the security guards - Stephen Ferris, former Slytherin, married, four children, as apolitical as one could get and still vote - let them in. So did Davis, who was haunting the arena virtually around the clock. Once this was all over, Draco was going to have to give everyone an extended vacation.

Potter led him straight down to the pitch. There was a small group of people there, just under a dozen, all rather sloppily dressed. There was also a collection of brooms and flags and a ball chest.

"Hey, guys!" Harry called out, and they answered and waved.

"You know these people?" Draco asked. "Why do you know people that I don't know?"

"I forgot to put them on the list."

"You forgot?"

"I don't really see them all the time. I didn't think of them."

"For Merlin's sake, Potter, you are the worst - "

Potter grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him once. "Malfoy, relax. You think it's someone in the club, right?"

"That's not the point. When I asked for that list we didn't know who would be - "

"Yes, yes, but you've eliminated people like them from your list of suspects, so no harm no foul."

"I haven't completely eliminated - "

"Come on. They're waiting."

"For what?" he snapped, following Potter to the crowd.

"Everyone, this is Draco. Draco, this is Barry, David, Lucille, Amelie, Anthony, Rodney, Vincent, Karen, Jingling, and Cara."

Like he was ever going to be able to remember all of that.

"Alright then, that's two teams," said one of the men. "Everyone grab a colour and a broom."

"Wait a minute," Draco said, finally cluing in.

"I'll be yellow," said Potter, tying on a yellow flag. "So you'll have to be purple if you want to play Seeker."

"I'm not playing anything."

"And screw up the game for everyone? We'll be short."

"I haven't played in years."

"So?"

"And I'm not dressed for it."

"That's what you get for dressing like a ponce all the time." Potter thrust a broom at him.

Draco looked at the instrument in his hand, felt the smooth grain against his skin. He'd left his last broom at Malfoy Manor, and he'd never gotten another. He got around on foot, by floo or apparating. Occasionally he took a taxi, when pressed and dressed in a manner Muggles wouldn't find too bizarre. He never flew. At the last game, dealing with that Bludger, that had been the first time he'd flown since he was a teenager.

He probably couldn't even see the Snitch anymore.

"Hey! Draco!" That was one of the women. "What's the hold up?"

He looked up. The woman was standing by the chest, waiting to release the balls. Everyone else had assumed their positions up in the air.

If he were to be thoroughly professional, he would refuse to join in. He would stay on the ground and watch, because even though he was sure the stalker was a high-powered member of the club, who was going to strike only during the matches, he didn't know this as an indisputable fact.

"Maybe he's gotten too old," Potter called out.

"We're the same age, Potter," Draco reminded him.

"Age is a state of mind." Potter indulged in a showy tight loop. "Or maybe you're scared."

"Do you really think I'm that easy to manipulate?"

"Yep."

Draco rolled his eyes.

He wanted to play. He wanted to recapture the exhilaration of flying, of diving with that pleasurable kind of fear that added spice to the excitement. He wanted to feel the drive of the chase.

There was no chance of him catching the Snitch before Potter. Absolutely none. But he could give it a good try.

He tied on the tacky purple flag and mounted the broom. He pushed off the ground and took his position opposite Potter.

Potter looked across at him and grinned. His eyes were glowing, and there was an excitement to his posture that Draco hadn't seen during any of his professional games.

Draco's eyes narrowed. He didn't have a chance against Potter. He was going to beat him anyway.

The Snitch was released, and then the Bludgers, and finally the Quaffle. The rest was chaos.

It was amazing how quickly fellow-feeling could be created. In no time at all Draco was cheering after the strangers who made up his team, voicing outrage over the fouls he witnessed - or made up for the sake of an advantage - feeling an absurd little flare of pride when one of his team-mates scored points or made a particularly good move. They were good, too. Not professional good, but definitely impressive.

This, of course, brought out his competitive streak. He'd be damned if he would be the worst player on the pitch.

He saw the Snitch. He swooped after it.

At first it was the most terrifying experience of his life. He couldn't believe he used to do these dives, these sheering chases through the structures of the stands, no less, without a thought to the possibility of breaking his neck. Now it was almost more than he could do to hold on and go after that Snitch at the requisite ninety-degree angle.

He was too young to turn into an old man.

But then his muscles warmed up, loosened. He remembered how to shift his weight, how to hold his ankles and knees and wrists, how to breathe when the wind was rushing right into his face, how to fend off the panic when said wind occasionally blinded him with tears.

He remembered how it felt to fly. And it was glorious. Crazy. Exhilarating.

He overheard someone howling with glee and realized it was him. For an instant he was humiliated, especially when he saw Potter laughing at him. But Potter was laughing, and there was nothing unkind about it, and Draco was having too much damn fun to give a hang for dignity. What had dignity ever gotten him, anyway?

And then the Snitch made another appearance. Both Seekers zoomed after it, side by side.

Like old times.

So he had to hit him once. For old times' sake.

And Potter looked at him, eyes narrowed with annoyance. Then he smirked, and started spinning on his broom.

Draco was driven from his side. "Cheap trick, Potter!"

And coming back to him was the response, "Whatever works, Malfoy!"

"How very Slytherin of you!"

Potter was laughing.

Draco dove after him, just to be moving, well aware Potter had the game. Still, he was right behind him when Potter reached out and snatched the Snitch, swooping up and holding up the golden sphere with more triumph than Draco had seen from him before.

"Alright, everyone, scramble," called one of the women.

Which meant everyone changed teams and positions. "To make it a little less easy for Potter," it was explained.

Potter ended up being a Beater. He had a good eye, but too often habit drove him to try to catch the Bludger rather than hit it. He dropped his bat twice in the confusion of signals his brain was sending his body. Draco was Keeper, which was fairly boring except when one of the Chasers came at him with the Quaffle. Then his heart rose up to his throat and rattled away at three times the healthy pace.

It turned out he was rather good at being Keeper. After all, he'd thrown himself between clients and hexes. Same basic principle. And he found himself crowing and applauding as loudly as everyone else when his team won.

They played a third game, and Draco was a Chaser. He was disastrous. In all his life he might have played in the Chaser position perhaps a handful of times. And his endurance for Quidditch had disappeared. Already his muscles were tired and becoming sluggish, his fingers were cramping up from maintaining their tight grip, and he was losing his breath. He often failed to catch the Quaffle when it was thrown to him, and his aim was wide when he threw it himself.

At least he wasn't the only one. Many of the others were moving more slowly, missing their plays. Potter, of course, was still going strong, the aggravating wanker, and had he been playing the Seeker position he probably would have ended the game long before it finally was. Everyone was rather grateful when the Snitch was finally caught.

Still, Draco felt wonderful. Exhausted but curiously satisfied, his muscles well used in a way he had forgotten. It had felt so good to fly.

He had won only once out of three games. He didn't care. He'd had fun. It had felt like such a long time since he's had fun.

They called it quits after that third game. But it appeared the festivities weren't over. One of the guys put away the gear while the others debated about which pub they were going to go to. Potter slung an arm around Draco's shoulders, startling him. "You are going to have one pint," the Seeker ordered, holding up an index finger. "No one will bother you to have a second, but a pint must be had after a scramble. It's like a law."

Draco was well aware that he should insist on maintaining absolute sobriety. He was a professional with a business reputation to protect. But he was loose and relaxed and warm. And thirsty. A pint sounded brilliant.

"So is it true?" one of the women asked me. She had a hint of an Australian accent.

"Is what true?"

"Are you and Harry sweating up the sheets?"

Draco pressed his lips together to keep his mouth from dropping open. He was sure he had been taught, once upon a time, that women were gentle modest creatures who strove for delicacy in their speech and manner. Where were those women?

"Amelie, how narrow-minded of you!" Harry chided her mockingly. "Can't men touch each other without it being sexual?"

She popped a stick of gum in her mouth. "So is that a yes or a no, then?"

"It's a no. There has been neither sweat or linen involved."

Draco could have smacked him for the grin he shot her, for it no doubt left Amelie with the knowledge that while the answer was true in its strictest sense, it left a whole lot of interesting detail unsaid. So he answered, a little more curtly, "I don't fuck clients." He slipped from beneath Potter's arm.

She was undaunted. "What about old school chums?"

"There are none of those here."

The resulting silence was heavy.

"Way to kill a mood, Malfoy," Potter said.

"She started it." He could have bitten off his tongue for saying something so infantile.

They ended up going to the pub where Draco had given Potter his trial by scotch, crowding into a booth too small for their number. They were all sweaty and ripe, their clothes damp, and normally Draco would find the thought of scrunching in amongst them revolting, but all he could think of was that pint. And really, he was too tired to care.

When that glass was put in front of it, he grabbed it and drank. Sweet sweet nectar. And he couldn't remember being so thirsty.

Potter was chuckling beside him. "Easy, Malfoy. You haven't had anything alcoholic for a while. I don't want my bodyguard getting legless."

"You've changed your tune."

"No, I just don't want to have to carry you home."

"How long do you think this will continue?" one of the men - David, Draco thought - asked with a gesture that indicated both Draco and Potter.

"I don't know. These things take as long as they take."

"But do you have any, you know, prime suspects?"

"We're not here to talk business, Davy," Potter interrupted. "Tell me instead why you were playing today like you started drinking before you hit the pitch."

"Why you arrogant little professional!"

And the conversation, to Draco's relief, was detoured into a rather ruthless critique of everyone's performance, including Potter's as Beater. It was quick and flip and Potter laughed. Throwing back the hair that insisted in hanging in his face in black tendrils, green eyes glinting, white teeth flashing. Laughter. It took Draco's breath just to hear it.

He finished his pint more quickly than he should have, and ordered another without thinking.

When was the last time he had sat in a pub with a group of friends, talking about nothing important? Maybe when he was back in Ireland, working at the bookstore. Certainly not since he got Malfoy Security up and running. And what a stupid item to eliminate from his schedule. A pleasant environment, good company, and time to just not think about anything.

The same with flying, with Quidditch. He loved it. He was surprised to learn he could enjoy the sport even when he lost at it, but he supposed one had to grow up sometime. It was fun. It gave the brain a break. And it was a much better way to get exercise than working out at the gym. He would look into amateur recreational leagues once the Potter assignment was finished.

He nursed the second pint through the rest of the evening, played a game of darts with Barry and Jingling, and regaled the former Hogwarts students with impressions of Flitwick, Snape and Trelawney. It reminded him of one of the more relaxed evenings in the Slytherin common room, when he'd forgotten to worry about who was watching him and what such foolishness might do to his reputation.

And seeing Potter laughing at his performance, pounding on the table, took him higher than his broom.

He was turning into such a wet, pathetic git. He knew it. What the hell.

He almost didn't want to go back to Potter's flat at the end of the evening. Potter's flat had come to represent to him failure and stress and frustration. It would be sure to extinguish the decadent glow the day had given him. In fact, he felt the glow dimming as soon as they stepped out from the floo in the foyer.

Potter didn't seem to feel the same way. He greeted the night guard with such warmth that the man appeared shocked. He once more slung an arm around Draco's shoulders as they entered the lift. "See?" he said. "You relaxed. You joined in. And the world didn't come to an end."

"It's too early to be so smug," Draco said tartly. "We've yet to see the state of your flat."

"Pessimist."

"Realist."

But there were no disasters waiting within the flat. Harry spelled on all the lights, and everything was as they'd left it. "Can I be smug now?"

"No. You lack the necessary panache."

Potter grinned and ambled back to where Draco stood by the door, realizing belatedly that he should have been the one to search the rooms for threats. When Potter stood in front of him, smiling, Draco thought he was going to say something.

Instead, the Seeker leaned in, leaned in close, so close Draco could feel his breath on his lips. And he stayed there, while the lethargy left Draco's body and his own breathing sped up.

And he stayed there.

Draco swore as he bridged the distance himself, and he felt Potter smiling as they kissed.

It began differently than it had the first time, softer, gentler, more exploration than conquer. Draco hooked a finger into the waistband of Potter's jeans as their mouths sealed, their tongues wrapping. But only a few moments after that Potter pulled away, stepping back a pace, clearly bringing a halt to the proceedings.

Draco was both disappointed and confused. "So what was all that about, Potter? Was it some kind of date, or something?"

"Yep." Potter winked at him. "Have a good night."

Left standing at the door, Draco realized a couple of things. One, he would fuck a client, if said client was Harry Potter. Two, he had been letting Potter have way too much control over their ... interactions.

That would have to be addressed.