Delicate Sound of Thunder

by geoviki

Summary:

Draco Malfoy has always known that happily ever after is only true for fairy tales.  When someone threatens to expose his wartime past, he risks his life to protect his secrets, but learns he's not the only one with something to hide.  The sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things.

Chapter 1: Original chapters 1-3

Delicate Sound of Thunder

by Duinn Fionn (aka Geoviki)

Summary: Draco Malfoy has always known that happily ever after is only true for fairy tales.  When someone threatens to expose his wartime past, he risks his life to protect his secrets, but learns he's not the only one with something to hide.  The sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things.

This story was first published May, 2005, and was last updated in February 2013.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters created by J.K. Rowling and am not using them for profit but out of respect and appreciation.  Delicate Sound of Thunder is taken from the album name of a 1988 Pink Floyd concert album.

Author notes:    I owe many thanks to my beta editors – some of the best writers in fandom – who wouldn't let me settle for good enough.  Isis(isiscolo), who's edited everything I've written, and who went over every line with a sharp eye and skilled ear; A.J. Hall (ajhalluk), a far better writer than I'll ever be, who encouraged me to keep rewriting the ending until it delivered and who Britpicked my sad Americanisms; Ralph (ravurian), a writer's inspiration, who spent marathon online sessions with me helping to hack through my writing jungles; and Kat (kattiya), experienced in the modeling world, who made sure I didn't stray too far afield in the JayKay Studios scenes.

For Julia (painless_j), who showed me that distance is no barrier to friendship, and who has always shown enormous faith in me.  I hope it was worth the wait, PJ.

---

Prologue - Five Letters

We all have a dark side, to say the least.
Dogs of War - Pink Floyd

Jerald Carr was a methodical man, one who never neglected to take good care of what was his.  So even though he could feel his heart anxiously racing in a way that his doctor would lecture wasn't good for him these days, he turned his attention first to his owl, setting aside the letter she'd brought.  She was expectantly eying the cage of mice he kept in his office particularly to reward her successful deliveries.  Wand at the ready, he threw open the cage door.  With a burst of racing feet, one nimble rodent broke loose and scarpered hell-bent for freedom.  He aimed his wand with a deliberate flick and paralyzed the creature – although not completely; where was the sport in that?  In an instant, his owl was silently airborne, feathery talons grasping the mouse before he'd even lowered his wand.

Carr, on the other hand, was stretching out his own reward with the deliberate pace of a man whose youthful recklessness – if he'd ever owned to such behavior – was far behind him. 

The letter rested in the precise center of his desk, the only object on its spotless expanse.  Unnatural, his partner never failed to mutter at the sight of such neatness.  But the empty surface allowed him to wholly focus on the scraps and jots that came his way, and he'd often pull out tiny but crucial details that his younger, more impatient colleague often missed.

Carr finally sank down in his desk chair, which objected to his weight with an undignified squeak, and picked up the letter.

The paper was plain, unremarkable, with nothing written on the outside to betray its origins.  A black seal held the flap shut, and the mark from the seal was annoyingly slapdash and off-center.  He drew the dark seal closer, then snorted when it failed to come into focus.  Damned business, this growing old, he thought with his usual irritation.  Taking his reading glasses from the drawer, he shoved them on and took another look at the seal in his hand.

And there it was - the starkly outlined shield he hadn't let himself hope to see until this instant.

He closed his eyes and slowly raised the letter to his nose, sniffing it as if it were one of the fine cigars his doctor sternly forbade him from enjoying.  Not that he expected much from the action, but sometimes - very rarely, but often enough so that he made it part of his habit - he could sense the lingering trace of the sender.  A suggestion of cologne, perhaps, or a trace of wood smoke from a nearby fireplace.  But he could detect nothing beyond the pervasive smell of warm feathers and dampness – the long journey over the Channel had erased any other scent.

Carr indulged in a long moment spent fingering the letter, feeling its weight and imagining the unseen connection to the hand that sealed it.   Then, slipping a meaty finger beneath the seal, he broke open the letter.   He was just about to unfold the parchment when he detected a tiny disturbance on the seal.  Faint, almost invisible even through his reading glasses, it caught the light with an unexpected glimmer.  He tilted the letter to better reflect the nearby window's light, until he abruptly identified what had been trapped in the hardened black wax by the careless writer.  Curving gently against the seal, fine, pale, no longer than a quill tip, was a single hair.

Carr smiled.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Draco caught sight of a deep violet bag bearing Madame Malkin's scrolling gold logo, and sighed.  Harry must have tossed it on the chair last night; it was a sure bet the new robe Draco had persuaded him to buy would be a mass of wrinkles by now.  Even though Sully adored doing chores for Harry, it wasn't on for someone who'd been a charter member of S.P.E.W. to be so slovenly.

He opened the bag and jumped back, startled, when something flew out and nearly clipped him in the eye.  A Howler.  He batted at it fruitlessly, then gave up and went for his wand instead.

HARRY POTTER,  YOU DISGUSTING, LOATHSOME SODOMITE.  THE WAY YOU LET THAT DEATH EATER SCUM MALFOY TREAT YOU LIKE A KEPT BOY IS A DISGRACE TO YOUR NAME.  IF YOUR PARENTS WERE ALIVE—

The parchment disintegrated into bits of gray ash, and he lowered his wand.

His heart was hammering and his hand trembling, but he didn't know if that was from the unexpected trespass or from hearing the filth screamed at him.  Howlers rarely crossed his threshhold: Sully scrupulously took care of them without mention.  Someone had been unusually clever to sneak this one past her vigilant eye.

He picked up Harry's robe, battling his fury by imagining a creatively spiteful death for the unnamed sender.  It was fine, he told himself; he would just go about his tasks and make himself believe nothing was wrong.  Forget it.

With one hand holding Harry's new robe and the other fumbling with a hanger, he instantly noticed the unwelcome change coming over him.  Most noticeable was that raw, choking tightness in his throat that robbed him of his voice.  Reflexively, he tried to call out even as he knew he couldn't.  He could hear a low, organic sound; a little like far-off thunder rolling over hills, or the sound of waves crashing on some invisible ocean.

Damn. Damn and fuck.

Just when he thought the pressure would send him to his knees, he heard a sudden explosion.  He barely managed to throw his arms over his head for protection.  Looking around, he saw the now-fragmented and waterlogged pieces of a snow globe littering a nearby shelf – one of his mother's mementos of a long-ago trip to Vienna.

"Damn and fuck," he said, aloud this time, mostly to mask the fear coursing through him.  He thought about trying a reparo, but decided the splintered ornament was a lost cause and accio'd the remains to the dustbin.

A short time later, he sat down at his desk, dipped his quill carefully, and began to write.

Dear Healer Fenestrane,

I write to
you upon the advice of Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry, on a matter of some delicacy.  As you may understand,
after Recent Events I am reluctant to share my trust, but I pray that your oath
of confidentiality will extend to these circumstances.   

Recently, I
have been experiencing episodes of what may be described as uncontrolled
magic.  These events are similar to those that I had undergone as a child but
have not suffered for over sixteen years.  Needless to say, these episodes are
disconcerting and embarrassing.  The most recent occurrence happened a few minutes ago.

I was at home, alone in my bedroom, when I was surprised by a Howler.  I won't bore you with the contents, except to say it was addressed to Mr. Harry Potter.  After I destroyed it, I noticed symptoms that always seem to announce the onset of the magic: I felt my throat tighten and I was unable to speak, and I heard a strange pounding in my head.  These symptoms disappeared immediately after an object in the room exploded – in this case, a glass snow globe, which had no particular significance to me.

I hope you can suggest some course of action.  Please let me know by return owl if you are willing to take on my case.  Barring your assistance, I suppose I shall have to banish all my breakables to the attic.

Sincerely yours,

Draco Malfoy

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Hermione felt the thick handful of mail escaping her grip but wasn't quick enough to prevent most of it from hitting her office floor. 

"Oh, bloody hell," she muttered, but very softly, so that her words wouldn't carry past the door she'd left ajar.  It wouldn't do for her secretary to hear – or worse, pass on – that the newest member of the team was unpredictably short-tempered.  So far, he'd seemed to have a good impression of her, and she was working hard to keep it that way.

She'd been transferred here three short weeks ago, after this department had imploded in dramatic fashion when a nasty political battle left most of the team looking for new careers.  Since her arrival, she'd taken care to stay in shallow water and keep away from the unmarked rocks and shoals farther out.  And all the while, the department's shell-shocked survivors strayed around her, pretending to engage her sympathy or looking to shift some of the blame her way.  She often went home mentally exhausted.

Nevertheless, her new job was interesting, and she wasn't sorry she'd made the jump.  But never in a million years had she expected to find herself caught up in the Malfoy estate settlement.  Of course, she never mentioned her new assignment to Draco, or Harry for that matter. 

She slipped into her chair with a barely-uttered sigh and began sifting through the letters and packages, marveling at the sheer quantity and suspecting – not for the first time – that someone in the office was diverting their share of work to her desk.  Probably Marcus, she decided, who spent quite a bit of his time buttonholing everyone else and forcing them to listen at length to his post-disaster critique.

One large envelope in particular caught her eye and she pulled it from the stack.

Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellow was embossed on the envelope in a beautifully scrolling hand.  She could feel the quality of the parchment with a single touch; it was almost too lovely to unseal.  But she took out her Ministry-issued letter opener and slit it open with anticipation.

Miss Hermione Granger
Department of Restitution
Ministry of Magic
Diagon Alley, London, England

Dear Miss Granger,

In response to your most recent inquiry, we have verified the amount claimed against the Malfoy estate by your Department, to wit: 425 Galleons were indeed authorized and paid by the estate on January 25, 2002, to the Ministry upon our receipt of proof of expenses incurred on behalf of D.  Malfoy.  In addition, an amount of 360 Galleons was paid by the estate to the Ministry on February 2, 2002.

If, as you have suggested, these two claims were erroneously made against the Malfoy estate, that would constitute an abuse of the Ministry's authority to exact its legitimate expenses needed to conduct estate business until the final settlement is reached.  However, as you have requested, I shall agree to a delay before filing a formal complaint of mismanagement against the Department of Restitution.

You must understand that I am prohibited from discussing many aspects of the Malfoy estate with you.  However, in consideration of your discretion and diligence in this matter so far, and because it appears we have the same interest in seeing a just and fair outcome, I will endeavor to assist you within my ability to do so.

Yours Sincerely,

Lysander Redmund
Solicitor
Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellow

So.  Her suspicions had panned out – her predecessor had found the Malfoy estate too tempting a prize and had dipped her greedy hand into its coffers.  A fair few number of times, if the numbers were correct.  The departmental purge had probably swept through so quickly that she'd been unable to cover up what she'd done, but the evidence of her theft was clear.  What wasn't so clear, Hermione realized with some alarm, was who else among her new colleagues was involved.  And was, in all likelihood, looking over an uneasy shoulder, watching her and waiting for discovery.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Daniel rummaged through his oversized bag, shoving aside the latest issues of OK! and Elle magazines, his favorite leather gloves, an empty Bassett's Allsorts bag, a red folding umbrella, his best scissors, a thick programme from his niece's Christmas concert months ago, a tube of Neutrogena hand cream, and a handful of loose change, but he didn't find what he was looking for. It wasn't until he'd gone through everything twice more that he remembered slipping the letter into the zippered outer pocket.

He thought it rather clever of him to wait to open Jeremy's letter until he was at the studio.  The last one he'd read left him so furious and upset that he'd pitched a tantrum and ended up breaking a faux-Tiffany lamp that he'd been fond of.  Here, among his friends and co-workers, he would be forced to behave himself.  Well, somewhat.

He took a steadying breath and tore open the envelope.

Daniel,

Look, I know this isn't easy for you.  It's not easy for me, either.  But that's no reason for you to make things so ugly.  It would be nice if we could keep some good memories of the past three years and not ruin things with petty fights.

You agreed when you moved out that it would be better for the dogs to stay in the only home they ever knew.  I don't see why you're changing your mind now.  Your flat is much too small for three dogs - even if you were allowed to have pets, which I doubt.  I shouldn't have to remind you that I paid for them in the first place.  Plus, there'd be no one to take them out for a walk when you run off to the bars straight from work.  And bloody hell, Daniel, no way can you pay a lawyer to fight me for them, so I don't know why you even bothered to threaten me with that.  It's not like they're our kids.  Get a grip!

I'll let you visit them only if you agree not to make a damned scene like last time.  I can take them over to Dorothy's and you can get them from her.  Then we wouldn't have to run into each other.  It's too bad you can't behave like an adult.  People break up all the time and get along afterwards.  But you've always been such a drama queen, in all senses of the word.

Jeremy

Stupid fucking fucker.  Leave it to him to bring everything down to money.  What the hell did it matter who paid for the dogs?  He felt the familiar grip in the back of his throat and sting behind his eyes, but he would not let himself cry.  Not here.

To take his mind off the violent things he imagined doing to Jeremy, he made himself watch the photo shoot.  Of course, that mostly meant ogling Draco Malfoy, who was looking especially edible in a black wool jacket and a black shirt.  Unbuttoned.  He'd recently let himself develop a bit of a crush on Draco, not that he had any hope of taking it anywhere.  A pity, really – few male models were actually gay, although people assumed that they all were.  If there ever came a time, though, when Draco was available, Daniel swore he wouldn't waste a second.

Draco and Harry always seemed so mesmerized with each other, though, when they weren't quarreling, and Daniel had to admit they made a cute – and very mysterious – couple.   Draco was even more closemouthed about Harry than he was about himself, although once he'd let slip that Harry's past was more fucked-up than his own, and that was saying something.  No amount of teasing could make Draco reveal anything more.

Neither of them had ever wholly explained that business about Draco's long silence, either, although he got the impression that Draco had done something noble and heroic for Harry.  There were other big gaps in Draco's history, too, that drove Daniel to become a little nosy.  He'd managed to work out a few things on his own.  For one thing, Draco, who had no family to speak of, was tangled up in some inheritance problems that tended to set him on edge.  Last week, after a visit to his solicitor, he'd come back to the studio in a foul mood and got into a screaming match with Beatrice, calling her a mudblood bitch.  After hearing that fanciful word, Daniel decided that Draco must write poetry in his spare time.

He'd have to try out the new epithet on Jeremy.  That dognapping, greedy, cheap, heartless, mudblood prick.

.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Harry hadn't bothered dressing before he came down to the breakfast table.  Draco had already gone off to his studio a good hour earlier – not that Harry's sleep had been disturbed.  Draco was surprisingly considerate that way.

"Good morning, Harry Potter," Sully said warmly.

"Morning." 

He took an idle minute to watch her at the window, disarming the morning's crop of Howlers.  She was actually quite skillful at the trigger-and-disintegrate method that Malfoy house-elves had apparently perfected over the years.  He picked up two pieces of piping-hot toast, juggled his plate and his teacup, and plopped down at the table.

The rest of the morning mail was sitting beside the spot he normally took.  His own letters always showed up here, although Sully never remarked on it.  Not for the first time, he wondered about the complex social communication among owls that must accompany that kind of service.  Did Hedwig get the word out to her fellow owls – don't bother flying off to Potter's flat, he's at Malfoy's nearly all the time – and did they shake their feathered heads at the news and twitter that things had certainly changed, and not for the better, since they were chicks?

He thumbed through a flashy advert from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, an overlarge envelope bedecked with childish writing and a flock of pink hearts, and a complimentary copy of Witch Weekly – gratefully noting that for once his face wasn't staring back from the cover.

The bottom of his pile was anchored by a thick packet, which he lifted cautiously, even though he knew that Sully always rigorously checked for spells before he touched a single item.  Inside was a fat sheaf of loose papers, but no covering letter offered an explanation.  Tea in one hand, he took up the top sheet with the other and glanced over it.

The first thing he noticed was the Ministry of Magic emblem, and below that three symbols – Harry recognized the stylized phoenix feathers and sat up in surprise.  He hadn't seen anything with that level of secrecy since the end of the war.  He scanned the page more closely, but there was nothing to show who the sender might be.

Setting down his cup, he began to read.

This report details the activities of Draco Malfoy (son of Lucius Malfoy), covering the period of time he spent amongst Death Eaters, and was compiled from the preliminary testimony and subsequent interviews of Severus Snape.

His tea had long grown cold when Harry took his next sip, more to settle his stomach than from any genuine thirst.  He examined the cup with sudden intensity as if seeing it through the eyes of a studied collector – admiring its hard-edged frailty, its bowl as thin as an eggshell.  His hand shook only a little as he set it down in its saucer, jostling aside a beautifully polished silver spoon.  It, too, was finely made, and Harry could almost see the countless Malfoy hands that had curled around this very spoon, before reaching across the breakfast table to caress a waiting lover...

But Harry wouldn't let himself think of them; he wanted to study all the things in this room, because they were fascinating, weren't they?  Nothing at all like the Dursleys' commonplace clutter.  The matched crystal candlesticks – what a nice contrast they made, with their ivory candles stark against the dark wood of the sideboard.  And the still life above it – vivid, colorful, and certainly worthy of his attention.  He supposed it had been a part of this room for decades, long before the first stirrings of war, before the events that followed had brought down the prestigious Malfoy name.  Before Draco had been forced to do the things Snape had recounted in unadorned words that Harry desperately wanted to forget.

Draco had avoided any mention of his war years, and Harry – no more eager to bring up his own experiences – had let it slide.  The brief thought crossed his mind that Draco himself might have sent this report to Harry, but that seemed too far-fetched.  Draco never would have dropped this bombshell without being here to pick up the pieces.  But who had sent it, if not Draco?  Certainly not Snape; Harry could guarantee that the bastard would rather die than expose Draco like this.  Still, the report made clear how much Snape had failed him during the war, and his disturbing testimony had oscillated between loathing himself and the Ministry for it.  It also went a long way in explaining the angry rows that flared up between Draco and Harry.  And the distance Harry felt growing between them.

No, someone else was responsible for sending the package; someone who could easily get at the deepest secrets of the war.  Someone who knew that Harry wouldn't be able to brush aside what he'd just learned.  With a sick feeling, Harry wondered if that hadn't been the whole point.

We were meant to be young back then, he thought.  Young and silly and worried about NEWTs or Quidditch or house points.  Draco Malfoy was sixteen years old when he came to me, the report began.  At eighteen, he joined his father and the Death Eaters.  At nineteen, the war machine spit him back out to make his way as best he could.  By twenty-one, he'd lost nearly everything he'd had, but by then he was no longer young.

Harry wanted to rage at – whom?  What?  Where did all his wordless complaints go?  Who listened to humanity's useless railing at the injustice that poured down on all of them like bitter rain?  Harry had never heard any answers to his own prayers, his begging demands, his attempts to make deals with his Maker. 

Draco's hands, he knew, were empty, too.

~~..~~..~~

---

Chapter 1

Sometimes we search too deep,
that’s when the darkness feeds our fear,
We turn away from one another just in case we get too near.
She Will Find Me - Dougie MacLean

Tuesday, March 26, 2002

Three years had passed, and Draco still woke up listening for the whisper of a falling mask or the stealthy rustle of a robe.  Woke up expecting to glimpse something dark on a too-white forearm.  Every morning he jerked himself awake and lay there, wild-eyed and gasping, until finally he remembered:  that's over.  He was careful to remain motionless, seeking instead that still-new presence beside him – there.  A small release of breath let him know that Harry was beside him, deeply asleep.  He opened his eyes.

One more morning.  One more time he woke up feeling part of something unexpected.  One more day in a curious relationship no-one would have ever predicted or believed.  One day closer to its inevitable end.

Draco was always the first to wake up.  Harry liked to sleep late, and Draco allowed him that.  Seven months ago, when they were so new to each other that the slightest movement roused Draco with its novelty, he would find himself entangled with Harry, a hand tucked around a forearm or a knee pressed against a warm thigh.  But this morning, Harry was folded in on himself, miles away on the other side of the bed, his back to Draco, even in sleep careful not to offer more than he was prepared to deliver in daylight.

The distance was one more signal that their time together was growing shorter.  Draco was certain – he'd noticed all the recent clues, the awkward silences and nervous glances – that Harry was secretly practicing his goodbye speech.  Not that Draco needed to hear it.  Or even wanted to hear it, for that matter.  Short as their time together had been, he knew he wouldn't regret it.

Checking the time, he finally tore himself away from Harry-watching and slid gently from under the blankets and out of bed.  Harry shifted over in his sleep, seeking out the warmth where Draco had been, then settled back into stillness.  Draco smiled, snatched up his robe, and headed for the bathroom.

He was lost in thought, absently soaping himself, when he heard Harry moving around just outside the shower.

"You're up early," he called over the sound of running water.

"Mmm.  I missed you," Harry replied.  "Time is it?"

"Early.  Half-past seven."

The next thing Draco knew, Harry, naked and warm, was sliding into the shower with him, a most unexpected – but certainly not unwelcome – surprise.  Without his glasses, Harry looked barely awake.

"Bad dreams?"  Draco asked, trying not to sound mothering.

Harry shook his head.  "No.  I just thought we could—" He gave up words in favor of a hands-on demonstration, resting his cupped palms on Draco's shoulders and pulling him in for a subdued kiss.  He tasted of mint.

"It was a year ago, you remember," Harry said quietly, leaning into Draco almost naturally after their many months together.

One year ago today Harry's life had been nearly ruined with dramatic, Malfoyesque flair.  Draco hadn't wanted to mention it, secretly hoping Harry would overlook the grim anniversary.  That it was one of the first things he mentioned this morning didn't bode well.

"I remember."

For some reason, Harry smiled at him.  "If not for you, Draco, I'd still be under that curse.  When I think of everything you did—"

"Don't say it, Harry."

"But— all right.  I know you don't like me to bring it up, but I thought I could at least say thank you today.  I'm grateful."

Grateful.  That word stuck in Draco's throat.  He'd been taught from an early age that grateful ultimately becomes resentful.  Harry had been repeating it nonstop all week, as if he'd been dwelling on the idea, listening to it nag at him.  Any day now, Harry would be fed up with feeling grateful to Draco and would announce that he'd paid off that invisible debt.

Then it hit him: what better day to cut the cord binding them together than the anniversary of the curse?

Today.  It would be today.  Harry never woke up early for morning sex.  But he'd certainly make the effort for kiss-and-say-goodbye sex.  Draco decided for both their sakes to at least make it memorable.

Harry was still drowsy, and their first embrace was clumsy and awkward before Harry got his bearings.  Tiny beads of water were gathering in his dark hair, looking like miniature pearls in the dim light.  Draco moved them both into the shower spray, enough to get Harry wet.  They were both already hard – it was morning, they were both not yet twenty-three, it was too easy.  Draco maneuvered one hand and worked it between them, grasping both cocks and stroking together.

"Yes," Harry sighed.  Draco was used to Harry talking during sex, so he was surprised when Harry didn't say anything else.  Draco covered up his confusion with a long, lingering kiss, using a lot of tongue, because he liked it that way.

Memorable was quickly giving way to can't wait.  Harry pulled out of their kiss with a sharp gasp, leaning forward into Draco's neck and breathing raggedly.  Too soon, Harry let out a muffled fuck, and his cock was pulsing between their stomachs.  Harry tipped back against the shower tiles with a low groan, and Draco felt Harry's hand wrap around his own and continue stroking until his own release followed.  He collapsed against Harry, feeling the sweep of his orgasm relaxing every muscle in his body.

For one vivid moment, he pushed back the inevitable loneliness and held on to the feeling of being wholly desired and known, always held close, always needed.  This feeling kept his darker thoughts at bay, if only for this moment; chased all doubts and fears to the dark corners where he knew, if he let himself know at all, that they would soon edge back out to scurry at his feet, and let themselves be caught out of the corner of his eye.

When he gathered himself together enough to open his eyes, Harry was staring at him with a half-smile on his lips. 

"Good morning, Draco."

"Good morning."

"What a great reward for waking up early."

"See what you've been missing," Draco answered, trying to sound equally lighthearted but feeling a little sick with dread.

Harry tugged him into the shower's flow, washing away the evidence of their activity, and Draco waited for him to say something more.  How did goodbye begin?

"You up for drinks after work?"  Harry asked, which was so far from what Draco expected to hear that he stuttered, "What?"

"Drinks. After work," Harry repeated patiently.

"I'll be at Redmund's," he said.  "I've got an afternoon meeting."

"Okay.  I can meet you there.  What time?"

"Oh. Four?"

"Okay."  Harry moved in for a quick kiss.  "Think I'll catch a few more zzzs.  You get up too bloody early," he said, then was gone.  Draco could hear him toweling off before the door clicked shut.

Maybe there was some unwritten code Draco didn't know that said it was bad form to break off with a lover within an hour of sex.  Like swimming too soon after eating.  Delayed, then, until four o'clock.  Parting words served up with a parting drink, discreet yet public enough that if Draco hexed Harry there'd be witnesses.

He wouldn't know.  He'd never said goodbye before.

~~..~~..~~

Come on, you boy-child, you winner and loser,
Come on, you miner for truth and delusion, and shine.
Shine On, You Crazy Diamond - Pink Floyd

The day went emphatically downhill from there.

The entire crew had been cooling their heels at JayKay studios for well over an hour already, waiting for some inconsiderate Brazilian tart to give them a once-over.  She was apparently so bloody important, Draco had been told – repeatedly and by various nervous assistants – that no-one was to dare mention that over a dozen people were wasting their morning doing nothing.

A huddle of models had collected near the door to sneak cigarettes, and for the first time, Draco entertained picking up the habit just for something to do during these tedious waits.  Levon had smoked, and his kisses always tasted bitter from it.  But just at that instant, an errant breeze wafted the sharp smell of smoke over to where he sat, reminding him of horrifying ceremonies he'd been hoping never to remember again, and his stomach lurched.  He had to stand up and walk across the room, as far from the door as he could, before he was able to relax.

Of all the bloody days to have nothing but time to think.  Bad enough he had to remember his father today; unwanted thoughts of his own time among the Death Eaters were entirely too much.  He'd carefully arranged his schedule with non-stop activity – the morning at the studio, lunch with Severus in Diagon Alley, an afternoon meeting with his lawyer that he'd been putting off too long, drinks with Harry.  Instead, his whole schedule was being thrown off by some inconsiderate cow who couldn't be bothered to show up on time, and he'd probably be running late all day.  His irritation grew.

He noticed Daniel perched on a table in atypical solitude.  Feeling a mix of affection and wariness for his newest friend – not that he had all that wide a group to chose from – Draco made his way over to him.  No-one else could distract him as well as Daniel could, with his bantering words and blatant flirting.  Harry had explained to him once that Daniel's behavior wasn't unusual within the Muggle gay culture.  Apparently it was some kind of social statement.

Daniel watched his approach and smiled in a way that made Draco want to turn around and instead brave the smoke.

"Draco Malfoy.  My favorite enigma," Daniel purred.  "Come have a sit-down, right here beside me."  He shifted over and patted the chaise longue invitingly. 

Draco hesitated a minute before resigning himself to the grilling he knew was forthcoming.  Conversation with Daniel was often like training hippogriffs – stimulating but dangerous.

"Please, Daniel, not twenty questions again.  I'm not—"

"—in the mood.  You're never in the mood.  So just give it up, love, and tell me everything I want to know, and we won't have to play these little games.  We can go on to other little games."

Draco adopted a pained expression that he knew Daniel would laugh at and ignore.  "Believe me, if I were a tenth as interesting as you seem to think, I wouldn't be here doing this, would I?"

Daniel waved his hand dismissively.  "Obviously this is just cover for that other life you lead.  James Bond, secret agent, right?"

He briefly wondered who James Bond was, but shook his head.  "Hardly.  No time."

"Harry keeps you that busy?"  Daniel embellished that with an obscene chuckle, and Draco couldn't help remembering Harry in the shower that morning.

"Right.  I'm Harry's love-slave," he said in as bland a tone as he could muster.

Daniel laughed.  "No, that's not it.  He wouldn't let you out alone if that were the case.  He'd keep you tied up to the bed with silk shackles day and night.  No, our poor Harry has to be content with drooling over your photos while you're gone."  He looked mischievously at Draco.  "Well, no.  Wrong verb.  Not drooling – wanking."

"Oh, stop."  He lifted a hand to run it through his hair, but the glare that Daniel gave him as he noticed what Draco was about to do stopped him.  He lowered his hand with deliberate care.

"Thank you," Daniel said darkly, then appended an all's-forgiven smile.  "You know, of course, that thoughts of you and Harry fill my dreary existence with exotic fantasies and lurid gossip.  You're my very own in-house Posh and Becks."

Draco hesitated, wondering just how risky it would be to admit his ignorance of Daniel's reference.  He decided to brave a weak, "Who?"

The look on Daniel's face let him know he'd once again misjudged the universality of one of Daniel's references.  He was getting too relaxed around Muggles and mentally berated himself while maintaining a blank face.

"Who?  Posh and Becks?  Victoria Posh Spice and David Beckham, the most famous couple in Britain?  More famous than Charles and Di?  Or Charles and whatserface, whose unholy name I refuse to utter?"

"Oh. Right."

Daniel gave him an exaggerated smirk.  "Spare me your upper-class pretense.  It's wasted on me, I'm not impressed. "

"I wasn't— Look, I don't read the papers much," he finally volunteered, feeling far more chagrined than a Malfoy had a right to feel.

"Or watch the telly?"  Daniel asked, suspicion clear on his face.

Draco shook his head.

"Do you even own a telly?"

How uncommon was that?  Could he admit it?  He finally shook his head again.

Daniel exhaled forcibly.  "Draco Malfoy, you're certainly the oddest person I've ever met.  What planet did you drop in from, anyway?"

"Wiltshire," he said, and Daniel instantly guffawed.

"Wiltshire?  Never Wiltshire.  But I've never been able to place your accent.  I've never heard it before, but it's definitely not Wiltshire.  Diplobrat, possibly.  Or from a Services family."

He shrugged.  "No, really, Wiltshire."

Daniel stubbornly wouldn't let it drop.  "No, it's your vowels.  All wrong.  Say 'obnoxious'."

"What?"

"Go on.  Just say 'obnoxious'."

He didn't understand what Daniel was railing on about, but he repeated the word carefully.  "Obnoxious.  And you are, too."

Daniel beamed with pleasure.  "Hear yourself?  It's the oh sound.  Almost South African.  And the sh has this odd lisp to it, too."

Draco looked at him without expression.  "I don't sound any different than anyone I know in Wiltshire," he started to explain, when it suddenly hit him.  Every last one of them was a pureblood wizard.  Why hadn't anyone ever warned him he had a wizard accent?  He scowled at Daniel.  "Wiltshire.  Born there.  Reared there."

"Where, then, in some kind of commune?  Cut off from the outside world and the wickedness of television and newspapers?  Bound to a cult leader who demanded your utter loyalty and made you raise sheep and goats for ritual sacrifices?"

Ouch. "Ah.  No."

"Explains your hippy name, though.  I bet you have a sister named Skye Moonbeam, too."

Now Draco laughed at the sheer absurdity of Daniel's chatter.  "No, sorry.  I'm the sole ... I'm an only child," he finished.

Daniel jumped on his near-slip.  "You were going to say you were the sole heir of the Malfoys, weren't you?"

Draco didn't answer.  They were on dangerous ground again.

"C'mon, Draco, give me a hint, at least," Daniel whined.  "Not royal, are you?  I checked, but I might have missed something."

"What?"

"Public records.  I looked you up on the Internet.  I'm sure you don't have a computer, either, so I won't bother to embarrass you over that.  But I didn't find any Malfoys in the British Royal line.  Oh— Malfoy's French, though.  I didn't think of that.  Are you a long-disguised Duc de Malfoy?"

"Hardly. English for generations."

"But I haven't been able to uncover a single thing about the Malfoys.  And you certainly don't act nouveau-riche.  No, clearly you are to the manner born.  Tell me, Draco.  Please?  Please, please, please?"

"No. Stop now."

"Not until I get to the bottom of the mystery that is Draco Malfoy.  Let's see, you're such a pale thing, you could be Scandinavian.  A Danish prince?  Our own Hamlet?  Or more like a Danish queen, right?  And your family disowned you when they found out—"

Daniel stopped abruptly when his brain apparently caught up with his mouth.

"Oh, shit, Draco, that's it, isn't it?"  He sounded horrified and disconcerted.  "You and your parents were on the outs because of Harry. God, I'm sorry.  I'm an idiot."

Something about Daniel's distress made Draco let down his guard, and he found himself admitting, "No, my father and I weren't–" speaking? close? – "on good terms even before Harry."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up." 

Draco held his tongue, but then decided to capitalize on his chance to shift the topic to something less dangerous.  "How long are we supposed to sit here and wait for this idiotic cow, anyway?"

Daniel looked relieved as their awkward moment passed.  "Long as she deigns to make us wait, of course.  To her, you're nothing but a clothes hanger – pretty boys like you are common as houseflies.  It's all part of the game, and she's being very careful how she plays.  She's not that well-known yet.  Otherwise, she'd be checking out Storm or Select.  Not JayKay.  Right now, she's famous for being famous.  The Boy George syndrome.  I suspect her real skills can't be spoken of in polite company."

"Sounds like we'd be better off if she decides we're not up to scratch."

"That's my thought, too.  She started out as very expensive arm candy, so now the world revolves around Solange.  But you already know that."

He didn't, but he didn't dare admit it.  Jake had only given him the impression that this woman was a Somebody.  He needed to be careful not to display any more ignorance of the Muggle world.  The fact that she and whatever powers were behind her had idled Jake's studio and everyone in it on very short notice spoke volumes.

"I feel a little like a rent boy," he said.

"Well, if you're selling, honey, I'm buying," Daniel shot back with an evil grin.  "Seriously, that's about what you'd be if you worked for anyone besides Jake."

"What do you mean?"

"JayKay isn't run like other places.  You're too new to the business to know that.  But Jake keeps everything in-house as much as he can – no model's agents, no hangers-on, no corporate pimps.  He hated the way things were done when he worked for the big agencies.  Get him to give you his impassioned I-hate-those-fuckers speech if you've got a few hours to kill."

"Thanks for the warning."

"So maybe you could be making a lot more money if you were on your own.  Maybe you could.  Or maybe they'd give you a taste of the possibilities and then kick you to the kerb.  It's a cut-throat business.  Here, we've got stability and a happy family.  And I don't know much about you – yet – but I've sussed you're not here for the money."

"I—" 

A sudden commotion at the door was enough to announce to the waiting studio that Solange had finally decided to show up.  Curious to see just what kind of girl could command this kind of deference, he waited impatiently for the gang around her to clear off.

"Speak of the devil," Daniel murmured.  "Avert your eyes, lowly peon."

Draco did just the opposite.  Nothing he hadn't seen before – tall, of course; thin, of course; long, silky hair and wide, expressive eyes.  Big deal.  He knew what a good transfiguration spell could do.  So what if she came by it genetically?  She was no more to be congratulated for it than Flitwick was for being short.

He half-expected Daniel to get up and escort her to his work area, but he didn't move.

"Don't you need to get to work?" he finally asked the hairdresser.

Daniel snorted.  "Think she'd let the likes of me touch her precious hair?  Not bloody likely.  She brings her own crew.  I'm here for the rest of you plonkers."  Actually, he was only here for Alex, who would be posing with her; everyone else was only there to be looked over like brothel fodder.

Daniel's snickers made her turn her head on that impossibly long neck, but her imperious gaze slid right past.  Draco, accustomed to the more common glance, stop, refocus, recognize, glare, ignore, was momentarily nonplused at the way she had disregarded him.

Who does she think she is, a Malfoy?  He couldn't hide his smile at the thought.  That caught her attention, and he was rewarded with an irritated frown.  It didn't affect him in the least – he'd been exposed to plenty of disagreeable looks in the past few years.

"Why is everyone just sitting around, then," she snapped in a vague accent, as she turned away with a last glare.  That got everyone in motion.  Draco glanced at the clock – if they managed to get started in the next half-hour, there was a chance he wouldn't be late to lunch with Severus.  Being late after inviting his mentor all the way from Hogwarts would be sure to earn his wrath.  And that was one glare he'd do his utmost to avoid.

~~..~~..~~

A flight of fancy on a windswept field.
Pink Floyd - Learning to Fly

The JayKay crew, to Daniel's surprise, had managed to muddle through the morning without ripping out every hair from Solange's empty head.

Actually, it was Daniel's opinion that the most deserving of exfoliation that morning was Solange's hairdresser.  He was a New York City tosser who'd made protracted catty remarks loud enough for Daniel to overhear about certain people who saw fit to work in a pigsty – then left an even bigger mess behind before trotting off to a power lunch with some London fashionistas for a heady combination of name-dropping and arse-licking.  The prick.

Daniel had managed to wedge himself beneath an overloaded table trying to retrieve a bottle of his favorite conditioner that was tantalizingly out of reach.  So it really wasn't unexpected that Draco didn't notice him when he wandered over with his friend, Dean Thomas.  The abandoned clothes rack, wedged between them,  helped to conceal him, too.  Maybe it wasn't quite polite to stay silent, and if pressed, he would have to admit it did look as though he was eavesdropping.  But, really, if Draco wasn't always so secretive, Daniel wouldn't be tempted to quietly rearrange himself in order to watch them, or listen in just a little.  Draco was his friend, after all, and friends shouldn't play at being such a mystery all the damned time. 

"I've planned to lunch with Professor Snape," Draco was saying.  "But if you'd like to join us—"

"Oh, no, that's all right," Dean said, and laughed nervously.

"He's not as scary as all that."

"Maybe not to you.  But then, I don't remember you serving detention with him.  I used to hate it down in his dungeons, with all those creepy jars of bat wings and toad eyeballs to sort.  And Snape himself, glaring the whole time and threatening to turn me into a puffskein if I so much as jostled a single claw or scale."

Professor Snape must have been their biology teacher, Daniel decided.

"We Slytherins knew his bark was worse than his bite."

"Yeah, right.  Try telling that to Neville."

"C'mon, that's not a fair example.  Longbottom was an absolute menace in class.  Don't you remember the time he bollixed up the Interruptus Potion and half the class ended up newts?"

It sounded like newts, but he must have said nuts.  The kid must have accidentally cooked up some mind-altering fumes in chemistry class.  His own art school background was no help translating this science lingo.

"But Neville did better than any of us in Herbology," Dean said.

"Wish he'd found his calling sooner – he'd have saved us all a lot of pain."  The way Draco said that made him sure that this Neville bloke was the school pot dealer.  Art school had more than a fair number of those.

"Anyway, I really stopped by to see you—  To see how it's going with you today, I mean.  Because it's the anniversary of your father's death."   There was an awkward silence.

"Ah.  Well," Draco said quietly.  He buttoned up his shirt as though cutting himself off from Dean's pity.

"Harry reminded me.  Hard to believe it's been a year.  Anyway, apart from the rest of it, I'm sorry your dad's dead."

"Thank you."

"I mean, he was a bit of a shit, I have to say.  Well, anyone would say.  But I thought it was badly done.  The Ministry wanted their pound of flesh."

"Flesh was the least of what they wanted."  Draco fussed a long time with the buttons on his sleeves, then turned back to Dean.  "Do you know, I found out when we were with the DE's, Father was actually good at running an organization.  He would have made a good business – what do they call that? COE?"

"CEO."

"Yes.  He had plenty of ambition and a mind to match.  Too bad, though, about all that torture and murder he went in for."

Daniel expected Dean to laugh at the joke, but he looked as serious as a judge.  "I suppose if he'd been given the right outlet, things would have turned out a lot different."

"We might have avoided the war, for one."

Daniel cursed his ignorance of current events – which war could they be talking about?  Somewhere foreign – Bosnia, maybe, or Sri Lanka.  There was always some war or other going on in Africa or the Middle East.  The Americans were in Afghanistan now, and before them the Soviets.  But how did Draco's father get caught up in a foreign war?  Unless he hadn't been English after all.

"Voldemort just would have found someone else," Dean said.

And who was Voldemort when he was at home, Daniel wondered.  A French-Caribbean dictator?

"I could think of a few candidates, come to mention it."

"Someone that charismatic, who promises power and looks like a good shot to deliver it, can always drum up followers.  I'd say it was only a matter of time.  Harry would definitely agree."

"War was inevitable, then?"

"I think so," Dean replied.  "No denying your father was a big part of what happened.  But even he was replaceable."

"Oh, he would have hated to hear that."  Draco leaned over, all grace and poise, and pulled out his jacket from the tangle of clothing on the floor. "Did you ever meet him?"

"No, but when I was captured, I expected to.  Dreaded it.  I was scared shitless as it was when you walked in."

"Really? I always thought that was from seeing Severus."

"No," Dean said.  "He was fairly terrifying, but it was mostly you.  I knew it was only one short hop from you to your father, and one more from him to Voldemort.  I thought Seamus and I were dead men.  I couldn't believe my luck when you turned out to be one of our spies."

At that, Daniel sucked in his breath with an audible hiss, but fortunately his friends were momentarily distracted.  Draco's jacket sleeve was caught up awkwardly behind him, and his maneuvering had knocked over an abandoned water bottle with a sharp clatter.  Dean reached over and held the wayward sleeve to let him slide his arm into it.

"Thanks.  I was damn glad for the excuse to get out of there, honestly.  Between the treachery and backstabbing, I spent a lot of my time trying to be invisible.  Father kept an eye out for me, but there was only so much he could do.  I don't know what I expected, to tell you the truth."

"Well, you never had a chance to hear Harry's stories about them."

"Yeah, when they're actively trying to kill you your whole life, I suppose know your enemy becomes more than a slogan."

"Still, the name 'Death Eaters' didn't tip you off?"

"Smart arse.  Oh, shit, look at the time.  Severus won't be fit to eat with if I'm late.  Well, if you won't join us, at least walk me out." 

Daniel listened until their footsteps faded in the distance.  At first, he was too frightened to move, but his left foot, awkwardly bent, had fallen asleep, and he could feel a cramp beginning to creep up his calf.  Slowly, he unfolded himself and stretched, still trying to come to grips with the strange conversation.

Draco Malfoy was a spy.  It was almost too outrageous to believe, but he'd heard it with his own ears.  You turned out to be one of our spies.  And Dean had said he'd been captured somewhere, and Draco had been there, too.  He envisioned Draco in some Afghani warlord's cave, draped from head to toe like Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia.  They'd said quite a bit about Draco's father, too, and none of it good.  With a group of Death Eaters.  Christ, even the name sent shivers down his spine.

No wonder Draco never wanted to talk about his past.  Or Harry's or Dean's.  It sounded as though all of them were spies.  That bloke who'd asked him all those questions about Draco just last week – he must be one of them, too.  Fuck, though – if they ever found out he'd been eavesdropping just now, what would they have to do to him?  He felt as if he'd landed in that Mission: Impossible movie.  It was all too bizarre.

He stopped short when it hit him: it really was too bizarre.  Then he began to laugh, softly at first, then with loud relief – Draco and Dean must have seen him hiding and were taking the piss.  Ooh, they were good.  He'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, those prats.  Not even their faces had betrayed them, and everything they'd said sounded so serious and dire.  The next time he saw them, he would have to congratulate them on their acting skills.  Funny, though, how they didn't stick around to see their joke to the end.  They could have all had a good laugh together.

~~..~~..~~

Climbing as we fall, we dare to hold on to our fate,
And steal away our destiny,
To catch ourselves with quiet grace.
The Stairs - INXS

Bluebeard's Bloody Blade, the disgustingly creative sign hanging over the door to the establishment proclaimed.  Draco slowed his brisk pace when he noticed he had arrived only a dozen steps behind his lunch guest.  Severus Snape was on the verge of pulling open the door when he withdrew his hand abruptly – the door handle he had nearly grabbed was a literal, if not historically accurate, knife.  The sharpened blade glistened mere inches from his fingers.

"You may not want to do that, Severus."

Severus turned his head at the sound of the warning.  "So I've noticed." 

Draco brought out his wand, calling out a sharp, "Alohomora."  The door swung open.

"Not a particularly welcoming place," Snape said. 

"But the food is superb.  I think they're trying to keep out undesirables.  The owners must figure if you can stomach the name and the decor, you just might not collapse when you see your bill."

"Ah.  Well, since you are more familiar with this place, I think I'll let you lead the way, Mr.  Carmichael."

He granted Severus a smile.  "No need for formality.  You may call me David."

They were greeted by an extremely tall older man who was careful not to look at either one of them.  If questioned, I haven't seen you, he managed to imply.  With little fanfare, they were led to a secluded booth, but Draco didn't relax until the privacy shields were in place.

"Will I be dining with David throughout the entire meal?" Snape finally asked, peering up over his menu.

"Oh, no.  I just trotted him out for the stroll down Diagon Alley."  Even as he spoke, he allowed the nondescript features of David Carmichael to fade away.  "It's been a long, slow morning, and I needed to stretch my legs.  Jake's had me in the most uncomfortable positions known to modeling.  You wouldn't believe—"  He stopped, contemplating Snape with a devilish look.

"What?"

"Now that I think about it, you've never seen me working at the studio, Severus. Would you like to?"

"No."

"Oh, come on.  You might learn something."

"No.  I have no desire to watch you display yourself like some rent boy, Draco."

Draco laughed nervously at the echoed reminder of his own earlier words.   Still, the image that the phrase brought up while swapping idle words with Daniel was far tamer than it could ever pretend to be between the two of them.  Snape had wandered into dangerous territory.

"How would you know what I look like in the studio?"

"Sully cornered me with her beastly scrapbook, of course.  Although if she hadn't explained who it was – with great enthusiasm I might add – I doubt I'd have recognized you."

Draco let out a quiet groan.  "Bloody hell.  I should have guessed.  She carries that thing around with her like a baby.  I still haven't managed to figure out how a house-elf gets hold of Muggle pictures.  What's worse, I can't seem to shut off her source."

"For someone who presumably models clothing, there was little in evidence from what I saw.  I recall several where you were wearing nothing but a rather self-satisfied smile."

Draco remembered that particular session as awkward and uncomfortable: he hadn't been with JayKay long, and an embarrassed Jake had asked him to disrobe entirely, then positioned him carefully.  Still, he wasn't about to admit it to Snape.  "But you couldn't actually see anything you shouldn't."

"That's only because you were wrapped rather indecorously around a young woman."

"It was just the once, Severus!  Don't be such a bloody prude."

Snape ignored his defense.  "Then there was the series of photos where you looked like a vagabond.  Scruffy beard, hair combed with an egg-whisk, mismatched shirts."

"It's art.  Listen, I don't understand it myself, but it keeps me off the streets."

"You couldn't convince me of that from the pictures I saw."  Draco silently chafed at the overprotective tone, even as he knew what triggered it.

A timid voice interrupted their argument.  "Are you ready to order, gentlemen?"

"Yes," Draco answered, and the privacy wards shimmered and opened.  The woman – not much more than a girl, really – struggled and failed to hide her surprise at seeing them.

"You!  Ah, Professor Snape," she blurted, although she seemed to be staring at Draco, then froze, conscious of her faux pas.

A few moments passed before Snape answered.  "Miss Dovecote." 

An awkward minute later, she regained some composure and managed to project the indifferent look she'd undoubtedly been drilled on by the taciturn man at the door.

"I recommend their Dover sole," Draco said.  "Real sole, too, not the transfigured carp they try to pass off at the Leaky Cauldron."

The corners of Snape's mouth twitched up.  "I learned long ago never to question a member of your family on matters of decor, finance, or cuisine.  Feel free to order for both of us."

Draco didn't hesitate, snapping out preferences to the nervous waitress with only a few  modifications to the menu, a concession to the chef's temper.  He rattled off the name of a wine he'd recently discovered and knew to be exceptional.  She withdrew quietly and the wards reformed behind her.

Snape acknowledged Draco's unspoken question.  "Coretta Dovecote.  Recent Hogwarts student."

"Ah.  That explains the look of sheer terror in her eyes when she saw you."

"I don't think you escaped her notice, either, Draco.  She was a Ravenclaw, though.  Smart enough to keep her mouth shut."

"Ravenclaw?  Not smart enough to keep herself out of a dead-end job."

"Oh, I suspect this is merely temporary.  She was Ministry until the purge."

"Which one?"

Snape allowed Draco a thin smile.  "Point taken.  I heard she was drummed out during the last coup in the Restitution Department, after she found herself on the losing side of a contestation."

"Stabbed in the back or ordered to fall on her sword?" Draco asked carelessly, with a flick of his hand for emphasis.

"Undoubtedly a bit of both.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  The literal would be a gymnastic feat of some difficulty."

Draco simply nodded in unspoken understanding.  At that moment, a bottle of wine and two glasses appeared on the table between them.  Draco stroked the label to activate the sommelier charm on the bottle, which poured a small taste of its contents into his glass.  He sipped, nodded, and tapped the label again.  The bottle had apparently been charmed by someone with more than a bit of sense: the way it filled their glasses was dignified and understated.  He passed a filled glass to Snape and they touched the edges together gently; it had become their tradition after the Veritaserum incident in Draco's fifth year.

Snape took a sip before setting his glass down and asking, "So what drags you to Diagon Alley today?"

"Business with Redmund," Draco answered.  "Paperwork from the inheritance."

"Still?  It's been, what, seven months?  Haven't they settled with you by now?"

Draco shook his head, feeling the irritation he'd almost grown accustomed to whenever the subject came up.  "I wonder if it'll ever be settled completely.  It's taking one hell of a long time.  I'm not sure what the hold-up is this week."  His mouth quirked up in an impulsive smile.  "But believe me, Redmund's been worth every Galleon he charges."

He knew that Snape would never ask directly about the financial details, but would wait in silence for Draco to elucidate.   Another thing he'd apparently learned about the Malfoys.

"For starters, he's taking his fees from the Ministry's share of the inheritance.  So I don't ever worry that I'm taking up too much of his  precious  time."

"I'm beginning to see the benefits of engaging a clever solicitor."

Draco nodded.  "Still, his real value is in what he's managed to negotiate so far.  You'll remember the Wizengamot was clear about the property, but not about the cash.  'A fixed income with details to be presented to his attorney,' was how they put it."  He leaned back with a devious smile.  "But the Ministry bounced it around from department to department, and eventually it occurred to them that none of them wanted to handle it.  Redmund cottoned on to the confusion in short order.  Pretty soon, he was calling the shots behind the scenes, and the Ministry's underlings were happy to let him take charge.  Saved them the trouble, and at the same time made it look as though they were solving the problem."

"Redmund's obviously talented at persuasion."

"Lucky for me.  Then, well.  The thing with Harry happened – the curse-breaking, I mean, not the, ah, other—  Suddenly I wasn't such a persona-non-grata after all.  And Redmund took the Ministry's guilt, and stoked and fed it, until my portion got a lot bigger and theirs a lot smaller.  In fact, I suspect there's just enough left in the Ministry pot to pay Redmund."

"And could that account for one of the recent Ministry purges in the Restitution Department?"

"Well spotted.  Seems a certain Ministry faction had anticipated a Malfoy windfall, but it turns out all those apples were rotten.  There's no cash coming to the Ministry, and nothing but a fistful of expensive property that's ruinous to maintain and impossible to unload.  Thanks to the Malfoy taint."

Snape looked up from his meal.  "And thus, the Ministry is learning to be careful what they wish for, because they just might get it?"

"Exactly."

"So I take it you're not anywhere close to selling quills on the street."

"Hardly."

"Then this job of yours?"

"Strictly slumming," Draco answered quickly.  "Look, Severus, I know you think I'm wasting my time, but I like it.  I'm where I need to be right now.  I'm even making new friends.  Muggle friends, can you imagine?  I like it."

"I never thought I'd greet the day when you'd ever admit to liking the Muggle side of the Cauldron.  Your father would—"  He stopped abruptly.

Draco didn't need a telltale sign to know that Snape had broken an internal vow of silence regarding his father and was cursing himself for doing so.  "It's okay.  We can talk about him, you know.  Anyone who pays the least bit of attention to today's Daily Prophet has already seen the maudlin anniversary stories anyway.  'A year ago today, Lucius Malfoy died, alone and unmourned, but not before cursing the hero of the wizarding world, blah, blah, blah'.  His photo looks good, though, doesn't it?"   His own attempt at pretense fell flat, and he knew his strained voice hadn't matched his flippant words.

"It's not a sin to admit you have divided feelings about Lucius.  I've told you enough about my own father for you to understand that I know what it's like."

Draco abruptly dropped his light-hearted and wholly false tone.  "It shouldn't be like this.  I mean, I rejected him totally.  Both what he stood for and what he did.  I don't understand why I'm feeling so bothered today about his death."

This was the first time Draco had admitted his ambivalence – in fact, he was surprised that it had taken him this long to recognize it. 

"I don't believe it's because you miss the man he was when he died.  I think you mourn the man he could have been."

Draco's fork was making tiny shreds of the remains of his fish.  "Still, by the time he died, he meant nothing to me.  You were far more like a father to me during the war—"

Snape cut off Draco's confession.  "I would have done it for any of my students."  For one silent minute, they both pretended that wasn't a lie.  "Look.  I don't mind talking about Lucius, but if you're going to become nostalgic for our Death Eater days, I'm really going to have to invent another engagement and take my leave."

The poor attempt at stoicism didn't fool Draco, who smiled the way he always did when he thought Snape was being paternalistic.  "No, I'm sorry, I'm just edgy today.  It'll pass.  It was the morning from hell at the studio."

"Then why on earth do you bother?"

"It's simple.  No-one there knows my name or my history.  No-one brings up the war and then has to stop short when the memories are too much."  He knew that Snape was well-versed in post-war etiquette, but he went on anyway.  "At one time, meeting new wizards meant worrying over what to say.  Now the biggest worry is what not to say."

"Which means?"

"Which means, I suppose, that I'm content that to JayKay Studios, I'm just another pretty face."

A sour grimace accompanied Snape's answer.  "A pretty face.  Such ambition."

Draco ran the tip of his finger carefully around the edge of his wine glass and didn't look up to reply.  "When did I ever earn my way based on my own talent, Severus?  It was always the Malfoy money or the Malfoy name.  Now it's the Malfoy looks.  I just play to my strengths."

"The Order—" Snape began, and snapped his jaw shut.

Draco picked up the unspoken thought and suddenly felt reckless.  "Oh, yes, my first taste of a real meritocracy.  Or maybe it was communism, from what I've read of it.  From each according to his ability—"

"That's not—"

"How long did it take the side of Light to assess my most noteworthy ability?"

He hated himself for saying it before the words were even out of his mouth.  Snape looked back at him, shocked and dumbfounded, as though he'd been slapped.

"You—"  he began, but Draco interrupted, his recklessness fading as quickly as it had come.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry.  I don't know what made me say that.  It happened, it's over, and you're not to blame, Severus.  We don't need to talk about it."

"Maybe we should."

Now it was Draco's turn to be dumbfounded.  "Why?  Neither one of us could have predicted the way things turned out, and you got me away from the Death Eaters in the end.  It was... it was just the war.  The times.  It's done."

"Don't tell me you think having your mentor turn into your pimp was justified?"

"Please don't.  Please.  It wasn't like that—"

"Draco, it was exactly like that.  By all rights, you should hate me.  I don't know why you don't."

"Because if not for you, I'd be just like my friends.  Dead.  All the rest of it, what the Ministry wanted – well, that was just sex.  Just sex, Severus.  They told us it made a difference in the end, and we have to believe that.  You did what you had to, and so did I, and we survived."

"You don't think the price you paid was too high?"

He thought of too many nights spent in the arms of men he hated, of the deception and lies he'd lived with for months on end.  Then he thought of Harry and their too-frequent rows, when he helplessly felt the emptiness steal over him that he could never hope to explain. 

When he'd walked in to the restaurant, he'd had some idea of talking over their impending break-up, but now he realized Severus would blame himself for that, too.  He would say that Draco was too fucked up from the war to have any kind of normal relationship.

"No," he lied.  "I've moved on.  I'm a model now, and there is a definite difference."

"All right.  If you want to play at being a Muggle, I won't stop you."

Draco refilled their glasses with polished flair, trying not to remember Lucius teaching him how to do it just so, as the crème of wizard society should do.  His younger self would have undoubtedly fallen into sullenness after that chastisement, but he contented himself with a shrug.  He'd gone too far.

They sat in awkward silence for a while, and Draco scoured his memory for something to offer up to ease the tension.

"I took your advice and saw a specialist at St Mungo's a few weeks ago," he said.

Severus looked at him with undisguised concern.  "About your unexpected magical discharges?"

Draco laughed.  "You make it sound like a wet dream."

"Must you be so vulgar?"

He absorbed Severus's glare with a blithe smile.  "Anyway, she told me it's not all that common in Europe.  It's seen more often in Asia – places like Japan and Thailand.  Somehow it's related to all those months of silence."  He didn't add the rest of her sentence: especially when connected to an altruistic cause.  "Bottom line, it's nothing to worry about."

"Are you certain?"

Draco nodded.  "She's going to check into it a little more, but she seemed to think it would disappear on its own.  Good thing, too, because Sully's as nervous as hell from it."

"Doesn't it make you nervous as well?"

"Not really.  I can feel it building up, so it's not such a surprise.  But I can't always predict what form it's going to take.  Although I've noticed that my best china would barely serve a half-dozen these days."

As they prepared to leave, Snape laid a thin hand on his arm, both in comfort and warning.  "You do understand that you're probably not the only one dwelling on the anniversary of Lucius's death.  Extra caution wouldn't hurt."

"I realize that.  You saw me – I'm using a glamour in public.  Believe me, I don't want any rogue DE trying to prove a point or impress his girlfriend with my murder – today or any other day."

"Do you think David Carmichael is still much of a secret?"

Draco was concerned for an instant.  "I'm fine," he said blandly, as much to reassure himself as Snape.  At some point in the past year, he'd stopped debating whether his death would be considered a tragedy or a statistic.  Now he knew it would only be a footnote.  Still, he placed a high premium on keeping the debate theoretical.

Even though Snape was as tempting a target as Draco was, he rarely appeared outside the strong wards of Hogwarts.  On the other hand, Draco hated to curtail his own social life with his all-too-famous boyfriend and was far more accessible than he knew Snape liked him to be.  He was marginally safe in the wizarding world, but Snape usually objected to him working unprotected in the Muggle world.  He'd certainly nagged Draco often enough on the subject.

Draco suddenly decided he'd had too much wine with lunch.  Or too little.

As they said their goodbyes outside the Bloody Blade, Draco found himself irritated over something he couldn't quite put his finger on.  He let himself think it was that Severus had managed to get through the entire meal without mentioning Harry even once.  When Harry finally gave Draco his walking papers, he was sure that Severus would be right there to offer up his cynical I-told-you-so's.

~~..~~..~~

---

Chapter 2

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?  Hot air for a cool breeze? 
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

Severus's warnings about his vulnerability did nothing but make him nervous and paranoid.  He walked back along this unpopulated stretch of Diagon Alley with the edgy feeling that someone was following him.  He felt oddly exposed and found himself falling back into the automatic habits of earlier years – scanning doorways and shadows without appearing to be looking at anything, glancing at passers-by for dropped hints of recognition, stopping and turning to retrace his steps to watch for the distinctive stutter of someone caught tailing him.

For one alarming instant, he thought he'd seen the thin shadow of a wand from around a darkened corner; it was gone when he jerked his head suddenly to check.

Nonetheless, he let himself relax – marginally – when he passed through the polished doors and into the quietly understated offices of Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellow.

Redmund's secretary glanced up and smiled at him with professional decorum.  "He's waiting in his conference room, Mr. Malfoy," she told him, with only the faintest wisp of flirtation in her voice.

Draco stopped cold in the doorway when he noticed that Redmund was not, as expected, alone.  He recognized neither of the two men sitting at the table with his solicitor.  But he knew their type.

"Mr.  Malfoy," Redmund said, and Draco heard the cloaked uneasiness in his voice.  "These gentlemen arrived a few minutes ago and insisted on speaking with you.  I found it impossible to refuse their request."

That told Draco everything he needed to know.  Almost no-one had the clout necessary to trump Redmund's prestige and worm their way into a meeting with one of his clients, especially with no warning.  Aurors.  And not just any Aurors.  Redmund had just made clear he had nothing to do with the visit, didn't approve it, but lacked any authority to stop it.  And moreover, was deeply offended by that lack.

"My name is Jerald Carr," one of the men said, in an offhand manner that told everyone in the room that Jerald Carr was definitely not the name he was given at birth.  "And this is Ted Macumber."  No hands were offered.

They didn't add A.W.L., but Draco took that as a given.  The acronym stood for the purposely benign Aurors – West London, but everyone in the wizarding world knew them as Aurors Without Limits.

Fuck.

He didn't bother answering.  He could feel his heart hammer in his chest as he deliberately strolled around the conference table to take the empty chair beside Redmund, easing down into the fine leather with a pretended confidence he didn't feel.  He noticed that Redmund had conspicuously foregone refreshments – no tea or coffee, not even a glass of water that might give a false impression that the visitors were at all welcome.

"Are we going to play at good Auror – bad Auror, then?" he asked, with hollow civility.  He remembered Severus telling him years ago that interrogations are never won.  Only lost.

"We don't intent to play at all, Mr. Malfoy," Carr replied in the same polite tone.  Carr – or not-Carr – was an overweight, slovenly-looking man of middle-aged appearance and middle-class style.  He looked as though he'd been trying to get by for too long on too little sleep.  His partner, not-Macumber, looked a good twenty years younger: tall, underfed, and overeager.  Neither one would have merited a second look on the street, which he supposed was probably the point.  Here in Redmund's private conference room, with its lush, expensive carpet, its highly polished, expensive furnishings, and its sleek, expensive ambiance, they seemed to fade into near-insignificance.  And Draco knew for certain he'd be making a huge mistake if he believed that.

"We have a few things to discuss about some issues you have with the Ministry," Carr began with a practiced detachment.

"Things that could help you," Macumber added.  Draco thought that statement easily outranked I won't come in your mouth as the most worthless assurance of all time.

He turned to gauge Redmund's reaction to their opening salvo.  Carr seemed to anticipate Draco's questions by telling him, "Mr.  Redmund is here with the understanding that he isn't allowed to speak.  As a rule, we don't let outsiders intervene, but he positively refused to leave you alone with us and insisted on staying."  He gave a brief, phony smile.  "If I were you I'd hang on to him – usually the lawyers we come across are more than happy to make themselves scarce when we show up."

Macumber nodded, and Draco was left with the grim impression that the Aurors thought they'd already made the first concession – which he would be paying for shortly.  Still, depending on how the conversation went, he might not regret having even a voiceless Redmund at his side.

There was an uneasy pause, but, with Slytherin caution, he refused to be the first to break the silence, a practice he'd perfected during dozens of post-war sessions with Aurors exactly like these two.  Carr finally spoke up.  "I take it the settlement over your inheritance hasn't been resolved as quickly as you might have hoped for."

At these words, Draco felt a chill in the room he hadn't been aware of.  Until that instant, he'd blamed the delay on typical bureaucratic fucked-up-ness.  He hadn't considered a more threatening reason.  He had definitely grown too complacent since the war.

"We're here to help expedite things," Macumber said, watching him closely.  He seemed to have a fixation on things.

It seemed to be Draco's turn for the obvious prompt.  "In exchange for—"

Carr leaned forward with renewed interest.  "I think you remember Rabastan Lestrange?"

On hearing that name, a sudden wave of nausea gripped Draco, making it nearly impossible to remain expressionless.  "No," he answered, and didn't dare say more without betraying his shock.

Carr was frowning at him like a disappointed parent faced with a stubborn child.  "Funny, but I find that hard to believe.  Seeing that you're related."

"We're not."

"He's your late uncle Rodolphus's brother—"

"Uncle by marriage.  I repeat, we're not related.  Would you like me to explain the finer details of consanguinity?"

"But obviously you do remember him," Macumber said impatiently, and it could have been Carr still talking for all the difference between them.

Draco shook his head.  "You misunderstood.  I didn't mean 'No, I don't remember him.'  I meant I remember him all too well, and I don't want anything to do with him.  I meant 'No, I won't help you.'"

Carr looked at him with distaste.  "I'm sorry you feel that way.  I would have thought you'd be interested in helping to catch one of the most notorious Death Eaters still at large."

"You thought wrong, then."  Draco emphasized his statement with a Malfoy glare.  Did Carr really think he'd jump at the chance to tangle with any of the Lestranges?  Bad enough he'd had to mix with them at the Manor when he was young.  "You forgot to add he's one of the most notorious nut-jobs still at large.  Last I checked, chasing after DE psychos was your job, not mine."

Macumber looked oddly sorrowful at Draco's refusal, as if he'd just been rejected for offering up his hand in marriage.  "It seems to me we all have a part to play in making sure people like Lestrange are brought to justice."

"Are you trying to play on my loyalties to the Ministry?  Oh my God, you are!"  Draco laughed spitefully.  "They really ought to deliver the Daily Prophet to West London.  You might have caught the story of how the Ministry chose to repay my loyalty.  You could've saved yourself the trip here."

Carr had been looking at him steadily.  "A pity you say that, Malfoy.  Seeing that the settlement over your inheritance is turning out so complicated.  Until the papers are signed and everything's done and dusted, things are so...up in the air."

Draco noticed Redmund shift beside him, but he remained obediently silent, and Draco followed his lead.

"All those high-brow properties, for example.  I believe there are nearly a dozen—" Carr's eyes shifted to his partner, who nodded his eager agreement.  "A dozen.  Any one of which I would reckon is expensive to maintain.  Now I don't think it's settled yet who's responsible for upkeep while the settlement is still hanging."

Draco looked at him blankly.  "The Ministry is going to confiscate all those properties.  The Wizengamot was clear on that.  I believe the Ministry is responsible—"

"Yes, that would be your belief.  But it's not enforceable, as Mr.  Redmund would tell you – if he could."

He didn't understand where Carr was going with his argument, and the uncertainty heightened his annoyance.  "It would be brainless for the Ministry let the properties deliberately fall apart.  Their value—"

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean that.  You'll have to forgive me; words aren't my forté.  Not like you and Mr. Redmund.  Of course, the Ministry would do their best to see that the properties are maintained to the highest standards.  Regardless of the cost.  No, the real issue is who would bear that cost.  And the ministry's position is that you, Mr.  Malfoy, are financially on the hook, being the owner of record – until the settlement is signed, of course."

During Carr's little speech, Macumber had pulled out a lengthy scroll, and he started reading from it in the detached tone of a bored scholar.  "The property in New York:  the mayor of that city insists that secondhand cigarette smoke is quite hazardous – carcinogenic, actually – and the flat has a noticeable odor of this harmful substance.  Our recommendation is to strip and replace all the furnishings.  The property in Prague:  humidity is causing some slight deterioration in the existing artwork.  Our recommendation is to begin a complete restoration of each of the twenty-seven paintings.  The three warehouses in Hogsmeade might contain a hazardous material known as asbestos.  Our recommendation is to hire a specialized Muggle contractor to seal all the exposed surfaces in each building, which I'm told takes months.  The property in Paris—"

Carr waved him quiet.  "I'm afraid your father did a rather poor job of keeping up maintenance.  But he wouldn't be the first person to leave ruinous expenses for his descendants to bear.  It seems to me that expenses like these could easily wipe out all the cash you managed to hang on to."

Macumber nodded.  "Definitely.  These kinds of repairs are notoriously expensive."

The message was now clear:  play ball with these jokers from A.W.L., or stand back and watch the Ministry force him into bankruptcy.  Whatever they wanted from him was important enough that they'd pulled out all the stops to get him to agree.  The words rock and hard place came to mind.

"We'd fight you on this," he said, more to gain time than to offer it as a defense.

Macumber answered matter-of-factly, as if the conversation was scripted and he'd spent weeks learning his part.  "You could fight it, yes.  Probably take years, of course.  The Ministry would insist that the cash go into escrow, though, until the final settlement."

"I—"

But Carr appeared suddenly bored with the exchange and interrupted Draco's answer.  "I bet Harry Potter will put on his crusader's cape and save the day for you again.  His adoring public will surely take up the banner for their hero's fuck-buddy.  Won't they?"

Draco could feel his anger flare at Carr's attempt to step up the pressure on him, and he fought to keep his voice level.  "Leave Harry out of this."

"Fancy living as a pauper, then?  How romantic.  Of course, Potter could support you.  Ah.  In the manner to which you are accustomed.  As they say."

"Leave Harry out of this," Draco repeated with the same flat expression.  Bastard.

Carr was speaking as calmly as though he were discussing the chance of rain this afternoon.  "I'm sure he wouldn't mind keeping you.  With all that implies."

The script seemed to call for Macumber to jump in.  "You mean as long as he gets his money's worth."

Draco refused to answer either one of his tormentors, choosing to let his attention drift to the flawless polish of the tabletop, but they didn't seem to care.  Instead, they shifted to addressing each other while continuing to pin their eyes on him.

"I've heard Malfoy's quite talented at that sort of thing," Carr told his partner.  "It makes me wonder who else is aware of his unique skills."

"I don't reckon he's been broadcasting it, do you?" Macumber replied with a smirk that stretched his too-thin face.

"Doubt it.  Can't recall it was brought up during the Order of Merlin presentations, either."

"Suppose it's engraved on the back?"

Carr snorted.  "Or on his back, where he performed all the services.  'The Ministry's sincere thanks to Draco Malfoy, the perfect honey-trap.'"

Draco finally snapped.  "Is there a point you're dancing around?  If there is, let's get to it."

Carr seemed to relish how he'd got under Draco's skin and grinned.  "We're just saying that it's too bad more people can't appreciate your war deeds, Malfoy.  I mean, you managed to blackmail William Pritchard for months.  How you got him to pass you secrets without Voldemort ever catching on....  Well.  I can only suppose you made it very much worth his while."

Was Carr going to drag this all out in front of Redmund?  Fortunately, the lawyer had been associated with the Malfoys for decades; Draco doubted much would shock him.  For his part, Carr seemed to know how to play bad Auror with surprising finesse, and along with a growing anger Draco felt a sliver of appreciation for his skill.

"I—"

Again, Carr cut him off.  "Must have been a bitch when Pritchard went and got himself killed.  Did you mourn him for long, Malfoy?  Oh, no, I suppose not.  You moved on pretty quickly to – who was it again?  Ah, yes.  Rabastan Lestrange.  Your non-relative.  He was just starting to come sniffing round when you defected."

"I didn't defect."

"What?"

"I didn't defect," Draco repeated, knowing Carr wouldn't like the contradiction in the middle of his performance, and said it once more very loudly so that they got it.  "I was told to leave.  By the Order.  If you're going to throw my sordid history in my face, at least get it right."

"Oh.  Sorry."  He wasn't, of course, Draco knew.  "You know what, though, I think your most impressive piece of work was the way you got rid of Erasmo Jugson.  Christ, that was sheer genius.  How you managed to talk him into fucking you in your father's bed – or was that just part of the forbidden thrill?"

Macumber sniggered like an immature adolescent.  "I don't suppose talking had much to do with it."

Carr laughed, but afterwards his voice lacked any trace of amusement.  "Still, casting Petrificus on yourself just before you heard your father walk in – that was absolutely brilliant!  They say that your father killed Jugson so fast he didn't even have time to pull his cock out of you."

Don't answer, he told himself fiercely.  Just don't answer.

Carr lowered his voice, sounding perversely intimate.  "I've always heard rumors about what happens to a bloke the instant he dies.  But it just occurred to me that you must know the truth, Malfoy.  So tell me – did he come?"

Draco found himself halfway across the table before the threat of Macumber's wand froze him in place.  He could feel Redmund pulling him back.  "You bastards!" he hissed. "I did it for your side.  The fucking side of Light!" 

Right then, he didn't know whether he was angrier at the turn of the conversation or the fact that he'd utterly lost control.  He slid back into his chair and forced himself to at least appear calm, staring boldly at Carr as though he had no doubts or regrets over what he'd done during the war.

Carr leaned in for the kill, the expression on his face letting Draco know he'd already been beaten.  "Oh, well, of course.  And Mr. Potter will say the very same thing when he's made aware of your noble, ah, sacrifice."

So that was it, then.  Pinned between bankruptcy and the threat of exposure to his lover, Draco's choices evaporated.  He suddenly wished – not for the first time – that he'd never tiptoed to Severus's rooms that night long ago, wished he'd never joined the Order and let himself be used for their ambitious games, wished he'd scuttled off to Athens or Washington or Siberia rather than take part in a secret war that gained him nothing but the universal contempt of friends and enemies alike.  Did he even care why the A.W.L. wanted to reel him in so badly?  He waited for his breathing to slow before he made his concession. 

"What is it you want from me?"

To his credit, Carr didn't waste time gloating.  "We just want you to finish the job you started with Lestrange.  We know he's still interested – he's been taking notice of you in the past month—"

Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.  "You mean, he's been having me followed.  I suppose I have you to thank for letting him know where to find me?"

"Not entirely.  We're not sure how he tracked you down.  Well.  You've not exactly been hiding your light under a bushel.  Posing for Muggle magazines."  He lifted a suggestive eyebrow.  "Lestrange does have a thing for beautiful young men.  Probably wanks to your picture."

"Lestrange is probably far more interesting in killing me than fucking me.  It's hardly a secret which side I ended up on."

"Doesn't really matter," Macumber said.

"Well, it does to me," Draco shot back heatedly, feeling fully justified at this burst of anger at least, and was rewarded by seeing Macumber shift uncomfortably and look away in embarrassment.

"No, what I meant was he'll never get close enough to you to get the chance to do either one."

Carr nodded.  "We won't risk you, Malfoy, if that's what you're worried about."

Draco sat back in his chair with a snort of disgust.  "Oh, of course not.  Don't know why I ever thought you'd let anything happen to me."

Carr curled his fat fingers around the edge of the table and shook his head impatiently.  "Listen.  All we need is you to make an appearance, get him to show up in a time and place of our choosing.  At this point, he suspects you're interested in switching sides."

"Sending him the odd note now and again, are you?"

"Could be."

"Look, if I'm going to play along, you'll have to tell me what you've set up so far.  If I learned anything at all during the war, it's how plans have a way of going pear-shaped.  I need to be able to think on my feet."

"All right," Carr said.  "We've sent Lestrange a few vague messages using your name.  You claim to be in contact with disaffected Order members."  Carr smiled suddenly.  "And the Daily Prophet, bless their hearts, has been chock full of stories about just how disaffected you are these days, Malfoy.  So it wasn't that much of a stretch."

Draco could appreciate the irony.  "Go on."

"So.  Your studio's putting on a benefit in two days.  We've made sure you've mentioned it in your notes to Lestrange, so he's aware of it.  With you as our draw, we expect him to make a rare appearance."

"There's just one little problem, Carr.  I'm not in the show."

For the first time, Carr's look of cocky assurance eroded a little.  "What do you mean?  Why not?"

Draco regarded him with trumped-up pity.  "I'm not trained in runway work.  I've never done it."

Like the perfect sycophant, Macumber tried to gloss over Carr's error.  "Well, how hard can it be?  Someone dresses you up, sticks you on stage, and tells you to walk back and forth.  You do know how to walk, right?"

"Shut up and listen," Draco said.  "There's more to it than that."  Macumber closed his mouth with an abruptness that Draco found oddly appeasing.  Somehow, he'd just regained a minuscule amount of authority, at least with the younger Auror.  "The fact that you haven't been ordered to Polyjuice yourself as me should tell you it's not as easy as you think."

Carr shrugged.  "Is it something you could learn to do by Thursday night?"

Draco paused, then muttered, "Probably."

"Then do it."

At that point, it crossed his mind that Carr wanted Lestrange very badly indeed.  The hungry look on the Auror's face told him that this was more than just another assignment; that it had gone beyond business to pleasure.  Or obsession, which was worse.

"You can't wait for this, can you?" Draco said.  "You're practically pawing the damned ground to get your hands on him."

Leaning back in his chair in a way that made Draco think of a business magnate, Carr laid his hands palms-down on the table and ignored the challenge.  "I suggest you get cracking.  Look, Malfoy, we are offering you something in return.  Talk to your boss, get in the show, give us a chance to get Lestrange off the street, and we'll meet you here the morning after and sign the inheritance agreement.  And we'll agree to keep Harry in the dark about your more colorful Death Eater activities."

"And how long do you keep Harry in the dark?  Forever?  Or just until the next time you need me to do more dirty work for you?  I may not be good enough to introduce around your social circle, Carr, but I bet I'm good enough for that." 

Macumber looked as though he was about to rush to Carr's defense again, and Draco suddenly had had enough of both of them.

"Save it," he snapped.  "We'll take as read your lies about keeping your word and my pretense at believing you."

Surprisingly, Carr didn't argue with that.  "So you're in, then?"

As if there was an alternative.

"I'm in.  With the conditions you laid out – you settle the inheritance, I get whatever protection from Lestrange you can come up with, and Harry is left out of it."

"Agreed." 

At that, Macumber made a move forward as if to shake hands – surely not, Draco thought in horror – but Carr stood up quickly and deflected whatever awkward impulse his partner might have had.

"I'm expecting you'll set up Thursday night with your people without a hitch," Carr said.  "Owl me if there are any problems.  Otherwise, you won't hear from us.  And at the show.  In the audience, we'll have three" – he looked at Macumber, who mouthed four – "four Aurors, and at least four more around the building."

"Try to get them to look like they belong, won't you?  This is a Muggle crowd,"  Draco couldn't resist telling him. "And see that they pay for their seats.  It's a charity event.  For children."

The look of loathing Carr directed at him was surprisingly intense given the comment, and Draco stored that observation away.

"The tickets are already bought and paid for," Carr replied through gritted teeth.  "And listen.  If you notice Lestrange in the crowd, don't react—"

"I won't be able to see him.  The lights will be in my eyes.  More important, I won't have my wand, either.  So you bloody well better be protecting me, or after burying my pieces you'll be answering to Harry."

"Yeah.  Okay.  That's it, then.  We won't talk to you again until the morning after the show.  Shall we say Friday, 10 AM, here?"  He looked at Redmund as if the lawyer had been part of the conversation all along.

Redmund nodded.

"'Til then, keep your head down, Malfoy," Carr tossed back over his shoulder on his way to the door.  It had been a good performance, all told, and he seemed to know it.

"Your concern is so touching," Draco snarled. 

"All right," Macumber said.  Draco watched him fumble with rerolling his scroll, rushing himself to avoid being left behind, and making a hash of it.  Macumber's clumsiness made Draco abruptly frustrated beyond endurance, and it washed over him in a cold wave.

"I do have one last question," Draco said.  "I never did catch on.  Which one of you was playing the good Auror?"

Carr half-turned from the door, and answered before his partner had a chance to.  "Good, Malfoy?  I'd have thought you'd spent enough time during the war learning there's no such thing.  Is there?"

~~..~~..~~

I can't explain, you would not understand, this is not how I am.
Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb

Harry knew he was making Sully nervous, poking at the eggs and toast on his plate, so he ate three more bites and rearranged the rest.  Silly to try to appease a house-elf – as silly as cleaning one's plate because there were hungry children in India.  But it took so little to make her happy, so he managed two more bites before giving up.

"I'm done," he told her.  "No, really, that's all I want." She, the plate, and the copious amounts of food on the sideboard disappeared.

Draco was long gone, off to some special shoot he'd mentioned.  It was getting on for nearly ten, but still Harry dawdled, wavering between heading out as he'd planned or putting it off another day.  He thought of this morning in the shower – it was always an enormous turn-on to see Draco thoroughly wet, to watch water pouring off his skin and running softly across his collarbone, down his chest, and lower, darkening his hair to an almost tarnished pewter.  It reminded him of the day he'd chased Draco on a broomstick, and they'd ended up together in the shower in a baptism of forgiveness.  Harry still thought Draco was at his most beautiful when wet.

He always went through a mental stutter when he thought of Draco as beautiful.  It still took some getting used to.  Although Hermione and Dean seemed to have another take on it, brought to light a few weeks ago when Seamus had teased Harry for sleeping with a gorgeous model.

"He's not gorgeous," Hermione had announced, so seriously that he had to check her expression to see if she was joking.  "Not in the movie-star sense, anyway.  The kind of gorgeous that ninety-nine people would all agree on, and the hundredth is blind.  Like, oh say, Jude Law gorgeous."

"Keira Knightley gorgeous, you mean?"  Seamus said.  "Still, you wouldn't throw him out of bed, would you?"

She'd laughed.  "Who, Draco?  Actually, I would.  Mostly because three's a crowd."  Then she'd given Dean a sly look and added, "Although I might make an exception for Jude Law."

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter if we think he's gorgeous or not," Harry said.  "JayKay Studios does, and they ought to know."

Hermione's expression was thoughtful.  "I don't think they think he's gorgeous, either.  Striking, maybe.  Unusual, definitely.  He's tall enough and thin enough, and clothes look good on him.   Help me out here, Dean.  What made you use him as a model for your drawings?"

"Draco's a chameleon.  He's got a million different looks.  He can be innocent or knowing.  Soft or edgy.  Masculine and feminine at the same time.  How'm I doing?"

"So you're telling me my boyfriend is a great, ugly git," Harry had told them with a grin.  "Still, I wouldn't throw him out of bed."

"Not ugly, Harry.  I never said ugly.  He's just—"

"A pale, pointy ferret."

"Seamus!"

Gorgeous or not, Harry certainly found him tempting.  He'd have to work at waking up with him more often.  He swallowed the dregs of his tea and set the cup in its saucer. 

It was probably time to make a stop at his flat to check on things.  He tried to remember the last time he'd been there.  It wasn't as if he needed to go there very much – nearly everything he owned was here at Draco's flat, brought over little by little over the past months.  In fact, the only time Harry ever stayed at his place was when he and Draco were having a row.  Like two weeks ago; he'd been there the better part of three days until they both gave in a little and settled things.

And technically, he reminded himself, Draco had never officially asked Harry to live with him.  It had just happened.

The Muggle mail hadn't piled up too much in his box.  He made a show of rifling through it before tossing it all into the dustbin before climbing the stairs to his flat.   His living room looked untouched, dust beginning to build up to a thickness where even he felt inspired to take action. He tugged open the refrigerator door, took out the milk, and dumped it down the sink, letting the water run to get rid of the smell.  Wandering into the bedroom, he was embarrassed to notice that his bed was still in shambles from the afternoon when he and Draco had finally made up, and he hastily pulled out his wand and shot off a quick cleaning spell, then tucked the duvet back into place.  He should probably give his sheets a real washing one of these days.

He was putting off his other errand, and he knew it.

Still, he found himself quietly proud that he'd delayed this trip for three weeks, instead of haring off in all directions the minute he'd read Snape's testimony about Draco.  Hermione was always after him to think before he acted; well, he'd thought about things for an awfully long time.  For him.

He'd made himself reread Snape's words dispassionately, as though studying a newly discovered language.  For the first week, the only thing he'd permit himself to think about was who had sent it.  Any deviation he dealt with strictly – he would not let himself wonder, while watching Draco sleep, who else might have been watching him sleep years ago.

After a week, he was no closer to knowing who sent the report, but only then did he let his mind stray to broader and far more uncomfortable questions.  They began like the rain sometimes did: first one, then a second, then a sudden unwelcome deluge.  Had Snape known what Draco would be ordered to do?  Had Dumbledore?  The night Harry had met Draco preparing to leave Hogwarts – had Draco known then, or was he told later?

Who decided what a 17-year-old boy should have to do for the Order?

But then the questions would tumble out willy-nilly, each a little harder to come to grips with than the last.  Did Draco remember that world every time Harry touched him?  Was that one of the reasons that they argued so much?

Harry decided that driving himself crazy with questions wasn't getting him anywhere.  He needed to look for more concrete information, so here he was, planning to go back to West London to look for answers.

Before he'd said goodbye that morning, Draco had fixed him with such an intense look that Harry had been taken aback.  At that moment, Harry had almost been convinced that Draco had sent him Snape's testimony and had expected Harry to know that.  Was he waiting for Harry to mention it?  Had he been waiting the past three weeks?  Harry wished he could shake the feeling that he wasn't handling this well at all.  But deep down, he wasn't sure how he felt or how to act.

It was past the lunch rush, and Harry hadn't had anything more substantial than the eggs and toast he'd nibbled on that morning.  So he wasn't avoiding his destination; he really should eat, and he knew just the place.  Cheap Chinese.  He Apparated out of his flat, aware as he did so of how often he used to make this trip.

This part of town hadn't changed.  The streets were still full of litter, the same storefronts were still shuttered and begrimed.  He wondered briefly if it was Monday – the days seemed to get away from him, and the restaurant was closed on Mondays.  One glance at the neon sign boldly proclaiming P   COCK  let him know it wasn't.

The beleaguered owner of the Peacock, Mr. Li, had had a running battle with the local hooligans for as long as Harry had visited the place.  Habit had become ritual – the word proved too tempting a target, leading to a sneaky nocturnal visit, a quick burst of black spray paint, and the erasure of the E and A.  Every Monday afternoon, Mr. Li would take out his rickety stepladder and slowly drag it outside, carefully climb until both feet perched on the warning: do not stand on or above this step, frown intently, and scrub at the paint with a wire brush until it was mostly gone.

Every Tuesday morning, the paint would be back.  None of Mr. Li's aggrieved complaints to the Local Authority made a jot of difference in catching the culprits.  Harry had once made the mistake of suggesting that Mr. Li might want to rename the restaurant something less tempting like the Peahen.  Mr.  Li had given him a horrified look as though Harry had suggested he chop up and serve his revered mother in the daily special.

"Is Peacock.  No Peahen."

Harry had become a regular at the Peacock during the last months of the war, when he'd spent every day in West London.  The Peacock seemed like the kind of restaurant that the Dursleys wouldn't be caught dead in, which was enough to recommend it to Harry.  The food was plentiful, if mediocre.

He hadn't been back here since then.

Mr.  Li nodded politely – a rather exuberant greeting for him – and did Harry the courtesy of not looking at his hands for traces of black paint, which was his usual Tuesday rite.

Harry splashed some of the jasmine tea into his tiny cup and took a sip.  It was as bad as he remembered.

He let himself imagine what he'd find today.  He was unshakable in his refusal to approach the Ministry proper, but he still had contacts at A.W.L.  He may not know where his search would lead, but he knew where he'd start.  After he made a dent in this huge mound of tepid fried rice.  He shoveled a few mouthfuls in, but the pile looked even larger.

After his tenth microcup of jasmine tea, he decided he really hated the filthy stuff.  The smell reminded him too much of the flower garden at Number four, Privet Drive.  Smothering and too sweet.

He shrugged on his coat and headed out to walk the three blocks to his destination.  A lumbering lorry, sounding as though it hadn't had a tune-up since the Thatcher administration, pulled up close to the kerb next to him and hit a water-filled pothole with a resounding thunk.  He jumped back, too late, and the muddy water splashed up over his trouser cuffs.  Glaring at the driver, who didn't seem to register the look, he managed to ease into the alley and mutter a cleaning charm between gritted teeth.

The entrance to A.W.L. headquarters was a nondescript storefront; the sign above the door read Lubimova Imports and Exports – London, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, New York.  The location was a compromise between obscurity and safety after some of the women – and a few men – complained they were being accosted outside their last headquarters.

A handwritten card next to the buzzer instructed visitors to ring and wait.  Muggles would wait forever, presumably, because the wards here were serious and complex.  Apparition into the building was restricted to one interrogation room and then only in the company of one of its senior Aurors.  Harry was by no means sure he'd still have any kind of access, but after he tapped his unique entry code using the buzzer – funny how he still remembered it after all this time – the door opened and he walked through.  He looked round him, uncomfortable and nervous and not quite sure why.

"Well, look who the kneazle dragged in.  Harry Potter."

Nothing had changed.  The same mismatched furniture graced the entry room, the same eerie light glowed with no visible source, and the same wide grin greeted him from Marilyn, the receptionist.

"Hello, Marilyn."

"My God.  Look at you.  You haven't come round here since—"

"Yeah.  Nice to see you.  Look, I'm going to pop in to the loos for a minute."  That bloody jasmine tea.  At least he didn't need special access for the toilets; the door was close enough to Marilyn's desk that he'd heard her complain about it at length.

The overpowering scent of the disinfectant that had permeated the place when Harry was still a regular here hadn't changed – the same artificial lemon tang assaulted his nose.  That odor, more than anything, reminded him forcibly of the months he'd spent here.  Abruptly he found himself shoving away unwanted memories.

Coming here had been a mistake. 

Then again, maybe it wasn't.  All his ambiguity about how to react to Draco's history vanished the instant he found himself walking back through the door to his own past.  Why had he been so obsessed about Draco's skeletons when his own cupboard remained firmly shut?  In the face of that, Harry had no right to question anything Draco had done or not done. 

In that moment, all his uncertainty faded away.  It was obvious he needed to tell Draco everything – how he knew that with such certainly, he couldn't say – about reading Snape's secret testimony, about his doubt, and about his own war experience.  And the sooner, the better.  Good thing he'd made plans to meet up with him for drinks.  Sometimes, things just fell into place.  Sometimes.

Full of resolve, he went back out to Marilyn.  "Look, I changed my mind.  I'm not going to need to talk to anyone after all," he told her.  "Have a nice afternoon."

Back on the street, he began to whistle tunelessly under his breath as he headed back to his favorite Apparition spot.  Oddly enough, despite the fact he hadn't gone beyond the receptionist's desk, he had managed to resolve his questions at A.W.L. all the same.   He just hadn't expected to find his answer in the loos.

~~..~~..~~

Look at us, baby, up all night,
tearing our love apart,
Aren't we the same two people who
lived through years in the dark?
I Can't Tell You Why - The Eagles

Draco spent five full minutes crouched in front of Redmund's refined and expensive toilet, vomiting up his carefully prepared lunch, and ten minutes after that trying to stop shaking and vigorously cleaning the horrid aftertaste out of his mouth.  By that time he was late meeting Harry, but the last thing he wanted to do was to sip civilized cocktails while Harry politely told him that he was buggering off.

Still, the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could lose himself in oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.  For days at a time, if he had his way.

Harry was waiting for him outside Redmund's door, rubbing his hands together in the chill air – he never bothered to wear gloves in winter.  He was peering warily across the street at the offices of the Daily Prophet as though any minute he expected a battalion of brutish, pen-wielding reporters to burst out of the doors and accost him with rude questions.

"Harry," he called.  His greeting was almost drowned out by the incongruous sound of wheels on paving bricks – a young boy had the audacity to sneak a Muggle skateboard into Diagon Alley and was finding that the going was quite a bit rougher on the ancient bricks of the wizard street than it was in modern London.  Disapproving heads were swiveling in his wake as if he were jerking them behind him on a string.

"Hey, Draco," Harry said, and clutched Draco's arms, pulling him into a clumsy embrace.  Seconds later, Draco was squirming under an enthusiastic kiss until he managed to get his arm between them and push back.

The dismay on Harry's face made him feel guilty at first, until he remembered what Harry was planning.  "Trying for another go at the front pages?" he muttered.  Not that he had anything against public displays of affection, but that was something other people could get away with, not them.

"No," Harry replied, hurt evident in his tone.  "I'm just glad to see you.  Nothing wrong with that."

"No need to announce it to all of Diagon Alley.  Unless it's part of the Harry Potter's ongoing programme to publicly redeem the infamous Draco Malfoy."

In the second it took Harry to register the remark, Draco watched his mood change from sunny to greatly irritated.  Well, good.  A level playing field, then.

"Christ, Draco, you're in a snit.  What the hell happened in there?  Meeting not go well?"

"You could say that."

"I'm sorry you're having a bad day."

Christ, he couldn't stand it when Harry felt obliged to apologize for every brick the world threw at him, as though it were a personal failure:  I'm sorry I can't always make your world a bright and shining place.  Mea fucking culpa.

"No, what I'm having is a bad life."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and Draco could almost hear him counting to ten.  "Maybe we ought to call off this little outing.  Drinks at your place, then?"

"Fine."

Neither one spoke in the messy aftermath of Flooing back to Draco's Belgravia flat.  They held their silence in front of the fire in one of the odd little suites he rarely used.  Deliberately chosen so that he'd be able to avoid bad break-up memories in one of his favorite rooms.  Above the fireplace hung Constable's Salisbury Cathedral, from the Bishop's Grounds, which generations of Malfoys pretended wasn't authentic: it was meant to be hanging in the Victoria and Albert.  Draco had never liked it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry finally ventured.

"What's to tell?  The Ministry are being their usual fuckwit selves.  Just in case I haven't got the message yet that every crumb dropped into my mouth is from their tolerant hands."

"But I thought Redmund was—"

"Was."  Harry opened his mouth to say something, and Draco pounced.  "And don't say you're sorry."

"But I could—"

"No, Harry.  You can't and you won't.  Just— Leave it.  It's fine.  It's the least of my worries today."

"Why?  What are you on about?"

"Most people would have noticed it's the anniversary of the day my father died.  Even the Prophet managed to drag it up."

Harry sat in stunned silence for a moment, before saying, "Well, I did remember – I mentioned his curse this morning."

"Oh, right.  The part that affected you; I do remember now."  He studied the whisky in his glass as he swirled it around and around.

"No need to be nasty about it.  I thought it might mean more to you that I'd been hit by a pretty horrible curse than to bring up someone you'd pretty definitely broken with."

"Oh, I forgot.  It's always about you, isn't it?"

"What?  No!  I thought we could celebrate together – you breaking the curse and all."

"And we're back to that again.  It's always back to you and your curse.  Tell me, Harry, is that the only thing you think about when you look at me?  How fucking grateful you are?"

"No!  What's eating you today?  Nothing I say is right."

He couldn't believe that Harry was going to make him bring up the reasons for their impending breakup – shit, this was all Harry's fucking idea, wasn't it?  If Draco had his way, Harry would be consoling him over drinks in some nouveau-chic bar and trading off-color stories about Ministry sycophants. 

"Please, Harry.  Are you going to sit there and tell me you're not here because you think you owe me something?"

"I do.  But not—"

"I thought so."              

"You're being utterly impossible!"

"No, I'm just being honest.  One of us needs to be."  He took an angry swig of his whisky and set it down with a satisfying reverberation of glass against marble.

Harry was in motion, halfway to the fireplace in an instant.  "It's pointless arguing with you when you won't even listen to me.  When you come down off your high horse, you know where to find me."  The Floo powder was in his hand and he was gone before Draco could come up with a fitting response.

His whisky glass made such a satisfying crash when he threw it into the fire that he followed it with Harry's abandoned drink.

"Fuck," he said quietly, and repeated it several times at a louder pitch.  Fuck if he'd let Harry drag out their breakup another day.  Which meant he'd have to chase him down.  Which meant another screaming war of words.  He was abruptly sorry he'd tossed away his whisky.

He caught up with Harry in Harry's tiny kitchen.  "Why do you think you can just walk out like that?"

Harry didn't bother to turn around.  "Why?  Because I was tired of you attacking me for no reason."

"Don't try to play the innocent, Harry.  I'm not buying it.  You've had one foot out the door for weeks.  That yoke of gratitude getting too heavy for you, is it?"

That made Harry look up. "Wait — what?  I thought this was about Lucius.  Actually, I'm not sure what the hell this is about.  Who are you really pissed off at?  First it's the Ministry, and then it's your father."  Color was rising in his cheeks.  "But mostly, I hear it's me."

Draco barely hesitated.  "All of the above."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"You, then.  Your noble experiment to save me.  The way you dress me up and parade me around Diagon Alley to show everyone how good I am now, how well-behaved, how you've redeemed me—"

Harry was watching him with distaste.  "Fuck, Draco, you can' t think—"

"Well, Harry, a year's long enough.  You don't have to shower me with gratitude any longer."

"You.  Are.  Mental."

"Do you need me to have Redmund send you a receipt?  Paid in full?"

"No.  Stop being so arsy.  Why do you have to come unglued every time we talk about what you did for me?  I don't get it.  You act like being grateful is some kind of failing.  But—"

"Only because sooner or later it becomes resentment.  You're starting to realize that, aren't you?  Yes, I thought so.  I can see it on your face."

Harry scowled as if to disprove any suggestion that Draco knew what he was talking about.  The look was so familiar from years ago that Draco wouldn't have been at all surprised to see the pulsating wings of a Snitch appear between them.

"Look again.  This is what I look like when I'm pissed off."

"And here you tell me you're just grateful."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Harry rounded on him, very angry indeed.  "Fuck you, Draco!"

"Listen, Potter.  I've been trying to let you off the hook here.  Because apparently you're too chicken to tell me to my face.  But it doesn't matter."

He'd been steeling himself for this conversation for days.  In his imagination, Harry had been apologetic, distant, a little choked when he delivered his pious farewell, and Draco had been almost blasé in his acceptance of the inevitable.  But if he'd actually thought about it – about their temperaments and certainly about their early history – he should have been able to foretell this ugly scene.  His own departure through the Floo was only a little slower than Harry's had been.

He'd barely begun to calm his fury when Harry burst out of his Floo, ready for round three.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  When Harry was especially angry, his voice would become softer and softer.  Right now, Draco could barely hear his question.

"Your work is done here, Harry.  You've redeemed me about as much as any saviour can.  I'll just have to live with whatever taint is left."

"What are you talking about?  I'm not— I can't redeem you!"

"No, really, I appreciate it.  I'm grateful.  Is that what you've been waiting for me to say?  Thank you."

"You can knock off your little drama queen act and tell me—"

"We're even.  I saved you; you saved me.  Kudos to the hero of the wizarding world," he said carelessly.

"You have no right to throw that in my face!  It's not like you don't know me.  You're the last person I expected to parrot that Boy-Who-Lived shit!"

"If the cap fits...."

"Shit, Draco.  If you don't know by now why I'm here—  Do you need me to spell it out?  Because I will."

Harry's voice barely rose above a murmur; Draco was trying to control the tremor in his own.

"No. I get it.  Believe me, I do get it.  You're going to play the noble Gryffindor right up to the end.  Big surprise.  Anyone else but us might have done this with some dignity, but I suppose that was too much to expect.  So, goodbye, Harry."

Draco heard the pulsating thunder in his head moments before the choking feeling in his throat cut off anything else he might have said.  Suddenly the whisky decanter shattered with a loud crack, and the sharp smell of alcohol permeated the room.  Harry jumped in surprise, and even Draco was startled – he hadn't noticed the magic gathering within him until the last seconds.  They looked at each other for a long, painful moment.

"Fine, then.  Fine."

Draco closed his eyes just then so he wouldn't have to wake up at night and remember the wrenching image of Harry leaving him.  Not when every part of him so treacherously wanted him to stay.

~~..~~..~~

What are all these voices outside love's open door,
Make us throw off our contentment and beg for something more?
Heart of the Matter - Don Henley

"Daniel, my hair is still pink," Draco complained with practised petulance.  The special shampoo that the hairdresser had promised, on the graves of his hallowed ancestors, would do the trick – hadn't.

Daniel looked shamefaced.  "Pink hair suits you, Draco."

He frowned.  "Are you admitting to me you can't get this shit out?"

Daniel shrugged, then caught Draco's growing look of outrage.  "I can.  It'll just take a bit more work than I thought.  Come on, sit back down, and let me—" Draco was happy not to hear the details of whatever Daniel was planning. Bad enough he had to endure it.

As he settled into the chair, he watched an evil grin spread across Daniel's face.  "Hey, Draco.  A little bird told me you're giving up your virginity tomorrow night."

"You can no longer shock me with what comes out of your mouth.  Does your little bird have a name?"

"Jake Knightley himself.  He's thrilled you've agreed to do his benefit.  Geoffrey isn't going to make it after all, and you're so close to his size they won't have to refit his clothes."

It wasn't paranoid to immediately suspect more behind that coincidence, Draco told himself.  Not when he was dealing with A.W.L.  "What happened to him?"

"Oh, he called in sick – flu, he said.  Meaning drugs or alcohol.  Or both."

A.W.L. was using a light touch, then.  He was grateful they hadn't obliviated the unfortunate Geoffrey and left him wandering the back streets of Rome or Miami or Addis Ababa.

Daniel didn't seem too worried about Geoffrey.  "I'm glad," he told Draco.  "This is a great show to start with if you want to do runway.  What made you change your mind?"

He thought briefly of Carr's threats.  Now that Harry was out of his life, he'd have more free time than he knew how to fill.  Knightley had been subtly pushing him for weeks to consider runway modeling.  It would require some travel, of course.  Milan, Paris, New York City.  He'd never been to America; maybe he'd have a chance to stay at the Malfoy flat before the Ministry took it away from him.

"I thought it was time," Draco said.

"Well, good.  That means I get to see more of you.  Who's showing you the ropes?"

"Alex."  Draco had worked with Alex a fair number of times and thought he probably had more patience than most of the regulars at JayKay.  "As soon as we're done here.  That is, if we're ever done here."

"Don't make me get temperamental with you, Dragonboy, or your hair will end up worse than pink."  Daniel gave a friendly tug to Draco's hair to emphasize his insincere threat.

"Why on earth does anyone think that some pink-haired bloke will sell more clothes, anyway?"

"You really don't get it, do you?  Such an innocent you are."  Daniel leaned forward to whisper in Draco's ear:  "Androgyny."

"What?"

Daniel stood back and repeated slowly in a smug tone, "Androgyny.  You've got it in spades, my friend."

"I do not," Draco bit out.

"Au contraire, Dragonboy, I say you do.  I say, Jake says, everyone who works here says, our clients put good money into saying it—"

Draco closed his mouth and tried not to look as if he was sulking.

Daniel hummed softly, the exulting sound of One Who Knows.  "Even your all-too-straight gay boyfriend has an inkling of it.  Speaking of—  Harry's late today.  Aren't Wednesdays your usual sushi-for-lunch dates?"

His stomach clenched in response, and he fought down the nausea that gripped him.  He had promised himself he wasn't going to talk about it.  "He isn't coming."

Daniel looked at him sharply.  "Dare I ask why not?"

"Doesn't matter whether you dare or not.  You always do."  There was a too-long pause before he found himself admitting, "We had a row last night."

"A row?  Oh."  Daniel took a minute to pour a handful of strong-smelling foam in his hands, working it through Draco's hair with a sure touch.  "Give me a moment.  I'm trying to disguise my schadenfreude.  Since we Brits are too well-mannered to have a word for it, I'm stuck with German."

Draco didn't bother to hide his irritation as he muttered, "Well.  I'm glad someone finds pleasure in my problems."

Daniel kept massaging Draco's scalp. "You're being unfair.  If I thought it was a serious row, I wouldn't joke about it.  But you'll be over it quick enough."

At first, Draco didn't know how to respond.  Whatever he'd expected Daniel to say, that hadn't come close.  "No, it's really over," he said, although from all the attention Daniel paid, he ought not to have bothered.

"Now, if I were at all clever," he was saying to Draco, "I'd tempt you to tell me all about it over a drink or six.  Then I'd offer to comfort you in my own special way."

"Right.  And what would your boyfriend say?" 

There was an unusual silence from Daniel, who finally said, "Nothing.  We broke up."

Caught off guard, Draco could only stutter, "What?  When?"

"About a month ago.  Five weeks, three days, some odd hours and minutes ago, but who's counting?"  Daniel wasn't smiling.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah.  Me, too.  But I wasn't about to change."  He forced the last word out as if it was an obscenity.  "Not the way he wanted me to."

"What does that mean?"

The bitterness in Daniel's laugh surprised him.  "Jeremy thought it would be best if I trotted quietly back into the closet.  He said that we were – how did he phrase it? – too obvious.  'Everything doesn't always have to be such a bloody banner for the gay movement, Daniel'.  As if I needed to embrace my inner straight boy."

Well, that explained their breakup clearly enough.

"And the arsehole kept our sodding dogs, too.  He's not so fucking straight that he didn't mind keeping them.  Just to spite me, really.  I mean, who's he likely to fool anyway, walking through Holland Park with three seriously poofy dogs?  I bet he's using them as bait to pick up those uni boys who dabble in weekend sex with strange men.  You really ought to see those mutts, Dragon – well, too late now.  But Bichons Frises, you know?  'Bark, bark, look at me, I'm just such a gay pooch.'"

Draco couldn't help smiling at the image.  "How long had you been together?"

"Little over three years.  We were—  Well.  We were, and now we aren't."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Sorry but not surprised?  I'm hearing that a lot.  Well, you never met Jeremy, so I suppose you're exempt from having to say it.  It's funny, though – no-one had anything bad to say about him when we were a couple, but now everyone's rushing to confess they never really thought we were suited."

Draco didn't expect to hear his own worries voiced so matter-of-factly by someone else.  He was used to thinking that he and Harry were unique in winning universal disapproval.

"Does it matter what your friends think?" he said.  It seemed the right thing to say – after all, he said it to himself all the time.

Daniel gave him a pointed look.  "No man is an island, Draco.  Of course it matters.  Mostly because I'm coming to think they're right.  So I'm hauling out the appropriate platitudes – care to let me practice a few on you?  It's all for the best.  That one has a nice banality to it and no substance whatsoever.  Or how about It just wasn't meant to be.  Got a bit of fatalistic philosophy going for it.  Or for sappy sentiment, there's always If you love something, you have to let it go."

"Some day you'll look back on this and be grateful," Draco said with a sly half-smile.

"Good one!  Yes!  Usually followed by, There's someone special out there for you."  Daniel picked up another large bottle and gave it a few vigorous shakes.  Flipping open the cap, he poured out a sizeable handful and began massaging it into Draco's hair.

Draco tried not to wince at the sudden feel of cold liquid – Daniel's strong fingers rubbing his scalp quickly warmed him, though.  "Do you believe that, Daniel?  That there's one perfect partner somewhere out there for each of us?"

"The true romantic ideal?  No, not really.  I mean, what if your soul mate lives somewhere like Botswana – how will you ever connect?  Unless part of the set-up is that your ideal mate is right under your nose the whole time.  Might work then, I reckon."  Daniel's massage had slowed as he spoke.  "What about you?"

"I.  Ah.  No."

"Well, you could be the exception that proves the rule.  Harry was right under your nose for years, wasn't he?  At school?"

"Well, we ... weren't friends, if that's what you mean."  They were abruptly treading on dangerous ground again.

He looked up to see Daniel grinning at him in the mirror.  "I bet you two met cute."

"What?"

"Met cute," Daniel repeated.  "You know, like in every Meg Ryan film ever made."

"No," Draco said firmly, once again mystified but determined to get them off the topic of Harry.  "Why?  Did you and Jeremy meet cute?"

Daniel snorted in amusement.  "Met drunk is more like it.  After eight drinks, Jeremy wasn't quite as straight as he thought he was when he'd walked into that party.  He surprised me, though, the next morning.  I fully expected him to pull out the 'I was so drunk I don't remember a thing' line, but he actually stuck around.  We had good times that first year.  Then reality barged in.  It finally dawned on him that maybe having a flamboyantly gay boyfriend wasn't all that cunning a career move.  Jeremy's a pharmaceutical rep – which means hours socializing among a conservative crowd.  The kind who think our last decent ruler was Queen-bloody-Victoria.  You could say I became an obvious liability."

"Maybe it just wasn't meant to be," Draco drawled, and Daniel gave him a friendly swat.

"Git."  Draco's chair was tipped back gently.  "Rinse."

Closing his eyes, he prepared for a shock of cold water after his taunting remark, but Daniel waited until the temperature was perfectly warm before he rinsed away the sweet-smelling lotion.

"Well?  Did it work?" Draco murmured as Daniel's fingers threaded through his hair.  He loved being pampered like this, but he couldn't help being worried – he didn't dare face Severus with pink hair, or he'd never hear the end of it.

"Patience, love.  We'll know after it's dry."

"But can't you—"

"Shush, darling.  That's why I'm the expert here and you're just the pretty face."  Daniel laughed blithely at his own joke.  "We're doing what we can to perpetuate the gay stereotype."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh,  I do.  With a definite and pronounced lisp.  Just to get their goat, you know."  With that, Daniel wrapped a deliciously warmed towel around Draco's head.

"You're seriously batty.  And a wanker besides," Draco said with a conciliatory smile.

"Hey, if I were one-tenth the wanker that Jeremy claims I am, I'd be telling you that you and Harry obviously weren't meant to be, either, and I could have my pick between you.  But my noble nature prevents me from turning into such a crass opportunist, and my lips shall remain sealed."

"Right."

"And now we're back talking about Harry, and I'm a thoughtless git.  I'll just shut up, now, shall I?"

"Is that even possible?" he couldn't help asking.

"No.  Probably  not."  Daniel smiled apologetically.  "But while we're on the subject—  Look, Draco, are you sure you're reading him right?  Because I have to say that you two breaking up is the last thing I think of when I see you together.  You were definitely not in my realm of  'Sorry, but not surprised.'  I am surprised.  Very."

Draco felt the first scratching of doubt, but then remembered all the times in the past few weeks when he'd caught Harry looking uncomfortable and distant when he thought Draco wasn't aware of it.  He'd secretly hoped that Daniel might be able to tell him just how long he'd feel as if he'd been kicked in the gut just hearing Harry's name. 

"No.  I'm sure.  And let me assure you there's a long line of Harry's friends who can vouch for the 'Sorry, but not surprised.'  Except for sorry, make it finally."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating.  What do your friends say?"

They're silent as the grave, he thought, surprising himself at how bitter that sounded in his own head.  "Well, you just told me what you thought."

"So I did.  I feel the urge to come up with another platitude or twelve, but that particular well, it seems, is sadly dry.   Let's see, Rogers and Hammerstein would say this calls for a song—"

To Draco's astonishment, Daniel began to sing, with raw enthusiasm and some talent.

"I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair—"

Daniel punctuated the louder parts of the chorus by brandishing his comb, as he raised his voice over the hum of the blow-dryer.  Finally, both song and hair drying peaked with an elaborate finale, and Daniel turned the chair to the mirror.

Draco gently cleared his throat.  "Daniel.  Look.  Ah.  Thanks."  Hopefully, Daniel could read into that more than Draco was able to say aloud.  "But it's still pink."

~~..~~..~~

---

Chapter 3

Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Time - Pink Floyd

"I shouldn't be here."

Hermione could see Snape about to make a presumably pithy comment, but she held up a hand to forestall him.  She'd worked out her speech in a scrambled hurry this morning and had polished it on the walk up from Hogsmeade.  She was determined to say her piece before her courage failed her, but found herself irritated for agreeing to meet in Snape's dungeon.  It reminded her too much of their last regrettable conversation.

"If the Ministry found out I was telling you any of this, I'd lose my job.  But when you hear it, you'll understand why I'm here.  And thank you for agreeing to see me on short notice."  Damn.  She'd meant to start off with that.

Snape merely nodded in the inhospitable way she'd expected, so she took a steadying breath and went on.

"There's no easy way to begin this.  It's about Draco, and I know the last time I saw you, I was asking about him then, and—" she tried to slow herself down and not sound like an utter fool.  "Look, I'm not obsessed with him or anything like that.  I learned my lesson.  I realize that I nearly ruined everything for him when I suspected him of casting Harry's curse.  Actually, that's why I think it's worth coming here and taking a risk, because I know I owe him this."

Snape was looking at her without betraying the tiniest hint of encouragement, and she felt as though she were eleven years old all over again.

"I think Draco's in some kind of trouble," she finally said, cards on the table.  "And you're the only one that I knew I could tell.  That I can trust."

Leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands in front of him, Snape showed only a trace of irritation and said, "Perhaps if you attempted to start from the beginning, I might make some sense of why you are here, Miss Granger."

She wasn't going to let him unnerve her.  "All right. About a month ago, I moved to the Department of Restitution.  Right now, I'm responsible for settling all Ministry claims on unsettled estates."  She was on solid ground again, and took her time relating the political infighting that brought her to her new position and her discoveries about the irregularities with Malfoy estate.  He started to look interested when she told him how she'd shared that information with Redmund.

If they had been meeting as equals, she wouldn't have been so willing to tell him everything without reservation.  But in the same way that she owed Draco for her past mistakes, she also owed Snape, so she took care to proceed with great deference.

"The woman I replaced, the one we think was stealing from Malfoy's accounts – she was a student here.  I assume you knew her.  Coretta Dovecote." 

Snape frowned suddenly.  "Yes, I know who she is."

"Redmund and I are tracking down all the dodgy receipts.  It looks like she'd only begun embezzling in the last month she was there."

"Does Draco know you're involved with his inheritance?"

"Oh, no.  He and Harry don't like to talk about the Ministry anyway – well, no surprise.  They haven't asked."

"Nothing you've told me, however, explains why you're here.  It sounds as though you and Mr.  Redmund are tracking down the embezzlement quite well on your own."

"There's more."

This was the part of her story where she was counting on engaging Snape's curiosity, because otherwise, there was every likelihood that he would toss her out on her ear with a parting shot to go and bother the Divination professor with her crazy theories.  But to her relief, he took the bait.

"Go on."

"This morning, an Auror paid me a visit, looking to draw on the Malfoy estate for a bill he wanted paid.  Instead of forwarding it through interoffice mail, he brought it to me himself.  He was ever so smooth and charming, the way some men act with women they don't know.  Sweet-talking me.  And since I was suspicious anyway about anyone submitting bills to Draco's estate, I played along and got him to tell me a bit about himself.  Well, it turns out he's not just any Auror – he's A.W.L.  Name of Ted Macumber.  Do you know him?"

Snape nodded, clearly interested.  "Ravenclaw, left about eight years ago."

"So at that point, I started to wonder why A.W.L. was tapping into Draco's account.  Then I read the invoice and alarm bells really went off.  It was for eight tickets to a benefit tomorrow night in London."  She couldn't resist pausing for effect.  "And the entertainment just happens to be a fashion show by JayKay Studios."

"Draco's studio."

"Exactly.  And an unquestionably Muggle studio."

Snape sat for a long time without saying anything, but his eyes seemed to hold a new appreciation of her.  When he finally said, "Would you care for some tea, Miss Granger?" she knew she'd broken through at least the first layer of mistrust.

"Yes, thank you."

She waited for him to give her some kind of signal to resume her story, remaining silent through the staged maneuvers of tea preparations, as ceremonially formal as if they were in a Japanese tea house.  She sensed that he was debating with himself how much to trust her, how much to tell her, and how to properly value the nuggets of information they would trade back and forth like rare coins.

"Two things crossed my mind when I saw the studio name, and I didn't like either one," she said.  "It hinges on whether or not Draco knows about A.W.L's sudden interest in him.  If he does, it means he's working with them, although I can't imagine why.  Not after everything the Ministry's done to him.  And if he doesn't know.... then maybe he should."

It would have been so much easier had Snape done his part in helping the conversation along, but he remained mulishly silent.  She was battling her own impatience at their slow, drawn-out dance – didn't he realize what she was gambling by telling him any of this?

"Look, here's the reason I came.  I know you were his mentor during the war, and if he's involved in something I shouldn't poke my nose in, I thought you'd probably know.  Tell me to leave it alone and I will, no questions asked."

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise, you're the closest thing he has to family, and I thought you might give me some advice.  The last time I was here I asked you if Draco could be trusted.  This time round, I know he can be trusted.  It's the Ministry I'm not so sure of."

Snape took so long to say anything, that when he did speak, it was as though he were passing Final Judgement.

"I am not aware that Draco is working with A.W.L.  In fact, I'd be astonished if that were the case.  Neither one of us had any connection with them during the war."

Hermione somehow knew that more would be forthcoming if she had the patience to wait for it, but all Snape said was, "Let's go outside."

Another layer of mistrust had been stripped away.

By unspoken agreement, they didn't talk as they walked the ancient halls.  Hermione was always taken by surprise, on each rare visit, how small everything at Hogwarts seemed to her now – the Great Hall didn't seem nearly so enormous as she'd remembered, the corridors not so vast and endless as they'd appeared when she was in peril of being late to class.

The staff weren't as invincible as she'd once believed, either.  Still, Snape was an uncommon resource, and she found herself not sorry she'd chosen to confide in him, as awkward as this was.  If only he weren't such a Slytherin – it was the one house whose members she never had fathomed.  Their cryptic nature, their inscrutable thoughts, their unpredictable actions – none of it had ever made her comfortable.

They walked side by side.  It was unseasonably warm – the kind of weather that would invariably inspire her Muggle friends to bring up dire threats of global warming.  An earlier rain had dissolved back into mist and made a marble faun along the path glisten as though alive.  Soft bird sounds seemed mere inches away.  Her shoes were already beginning to soak through before she thought to cast a water-repelling charm on them.  Snape, meanwhile, looked utterly impervious to the damp.

Eventually, Snape stopped in the path and turned to her, his face blank.  "There's something you may not be aware of.  Coretta Dovecote is Ted Macumber's sister.  Half-sister, to be accurate.  Although they were closer than most siblings usually are when they were here together."

The statement was so unexpected, she almost didn't know what to ask first.  "Then what's the connection to all this?  Are they working together?   Is Macumber trying to stay on the same gravy train as his sister, and he's hoping I'm too dense to notice?"

"Perhaps.  It may also mean that A.W.L. was behind the embezzlement."

"But why?"

"I don't know.  One thing I do know is that A.W.L. will not take kindly to questions on the matter."

A sudden chill came over her, one that couldn't be blamed on the dampness.  "So you're warning me off."

"Actually, Miss Granger, I'm not.  I think we will have to act with extreme caution."

She was so caught up in her thoughts about A.W.L that she almost missed his implication.  "We?"

"Am I mistaken?  Did you not come here for my assistance?"

"Well, yes, but..."   She broke off to study his expressionless face.

"Very well, then.  I am offering it."

Hermione found herself murmuring, "Thank you, Professor," in a kind of daze.

He was walking again, a deliberately slow pace she suspected was meant to accommodate her.   "It was rather imprudent to try to get the estate to pay for those tickets," he said, almost to himself.  "Or a careless habit.  I'm sure Miss Dovecote never questioned her brother's judgement while she held your current position."  He lapsed into thoughtful silence, then said,  "I think we might be wise to attend the benefit tomorrow night.  At the very least, we'll be in a position to observe, and if anything else develops, we can act accordingly."

"You think we both ought to go?" 

"I assure you, I am perfectly capable of attending a Muggle affair without calling undue attention to myself.  I 'll leave the school robes in my wardrobe."

She tried not to look amused at the way he'd gone off on that curious tangent.  "No, that's not it.   It's just there's no reason for the two of us to be together.  How are we going to explain that to Draco?"

"He has mentioned in passing that I would be welcome to observe him in his... career.  And two people are always less conspicuous than one."

An Order expression.  "And three less than two.  In that case, I'll ask Dean Thomas to come along.  We're, ah, seeing each other, and Dean has more of a connection to Draco and the studio than I do.  I mean, it's not the cleverest alibi, but it's workable."  She hesitated.  "What do you think we'll find?"

Snape only shook his head.  Hermione realized with surprise that, although the fog had given them a measure of privacy, it had also hidden their path, and they had reached the gate leading to Hogsmeade.

"I'll owl you with the details for tomorrow night," she said.  "Dean doesn't know the specifics of what I'm doing at the Ministry.  Should I tell him, in case—"

"Do what you see fit," he said, and she was grateful for the liberty, however small.  It made them seem more like partners, which was astounding in itself.

"I appreciate your help, Professor Snape.  I mean, I get the impression that Redmund would like to do more – he's pretty protective of Draco's interests.  Still, he doesn't share much with me beyond what he passes on about the account discrepancies.   I swear, if I asked him to tell me the time, he'd first have to decide if I have a need to know, and then if it would help Draco by telling me.  And after all that, his answer might turn out to be: "Some time between three and seven."

"I'm familiar with Mr. Redmund.  And his ability to protect his clients."

"Oh, that's putting it mildly.  For everything he tells me, there are ten things he doesn't say.  Just this morning after Macumber left, I tried to rattle his cage a bit.  I found out that Macumber's been to his office, but when I asked him about it he refused to tell me much of anything.  Just that Macumber had been there recently with his partner, someone named Carr."

Snape stopped so abruptly that she was three or four steps beyond him before she could react.

"Not Jerald Carr?" he asked, and the way he said the name left her feeling frightened for a moment.

"Yes, I think so.  Why?  Is he someone we should be worried about?"

"Very.  Tell me, how did Macumber's visit to Redmund's office come to your attention?"

"Something he mentioned in passing when he was chatting me up.  More of a throw-away comment, about how unfair it was that Draco's estate could afford the best lawyers.  He described the inside of Redmund's office to prove the point."

"Did he mention why he had gone there?"

"No.  So, who's Carr?"

"Jerald Carr is probably the most uncontrollable Auror at A.W.L.  His reputation is on par with a Red Cap in certain circles," he said with a pronounced scowl.  "If I'm not mistaken, I think Redmund was trying to pass on something fairly critical.  Otherwise, he would not have mentioned Carr at all.  Do you remember his exact words?"

She thought hard.  "He told me that Macumber and his partner Carr had visited – no, interrupted – yesterday afternoon.  That he was sorry he didn't have the most recent information I'd asked for about Coretta Dovecote, because as far as his client's interest was concerned, their visit took priority over ... over a mere financial matter.  Which I thought was an odd thing for him to say, actually."

"Very odd, for someone who is known to be so taciturn, wouldn't you agree?  He managed to let you know that Macumber and Carr forced the meeting – that it wasn't planned.  He also linked the meeting to Coretta Dovecote and tried to tell you that whatever was discussed is more significant than the embezzlement."

"Significant to—"

"Draco, of course.  Who I happen to know was meeting with Redmund yesterday afternoon."

She felt all kinds of stupid for not recognizing Redmund's message, and even more bewildered when Snape passed through the gate with her and started down the path towards Hogsmeade. 

He must have seen her uncertainty.  "In light of what you've just told me, Miss Granger, I think I'd like to buy you a drink.  Are you familiar with an establishment rather regrettably known as Bluebeard's Bloody Blade?"

~~..~~..~~

We all need a little tenderness,
How can love survive in such a graceless age?
Don Henley - The Heart of the Matter

Daniel thought Draco's hair looked improbably blonder than it had before lunch.  In fact, he was hard-pressed to notice even the faintest trace of pink.  So much for Draco's lack of faith in his expertise.

"Hey, Dragonboy," he called, and Draco stopped just shy of the door and looked back at him curiously.  "Not rushing home are you?   Fancy a drink?  Or are you too good for your old friends now that you're a trained runway model?"

Draco looked as though he were about to decline, but then he offered up one of his trademark smirks.

"Yes, all right."

Oh .  Daniel hadn't actually expected him to say yes, and was quietly thrilled.  But that left him in a sudden panic about where on earth he was going to take him.  He'd planned on the usual stopover at his regular watering hole, but was the Flame truly vulgar enough for someone probably used to upper-class slumming?

On the other hand, there was something to be said for the home field advantage.  Plus, it was within walking distance of his flat.

Draco's behavior on the Tube left him wondering if his friend had ever traveled before in such a lower class way.  He mimicked Daniel's every move, and he almost made it look natural.  But his eyes were a little too occupied, his expression a little too interested.  He tried to keep from brushing against his fellow passengers just a little too fastidiously.  And when Daniel stopped to get some pocket money from the ATM, Draco nearly choked in astonishment as the notes dropped out of the wall.

Roy, the barman, hooted his usual raucous greeting, then bit it back too late when he noticed Draco following Daniel in.

"Roy! Roy, my love, sorry to break your heart – oh, my mistake, you don't actually have a heart, do you?  This is my—" he floundered for an appropriate word and settled for the most innocuous "—friend, Draco.  He'd like—"

He looked at Draco expectantly.

"Oh, I don't really know," Draco began in his clipped, elegant accent, and Daniel could feel himself swell with something like pride.  "Whatever you're having."

Roy nodded, but shot him a secret look of well-done, which Daniel acknowledged equally secretly.  Roy wasn't the only one giving him hole-and-corner looks, and Daniel didn't have to question the reason.

The Flame was one of those unobtrusive gay bars of London that tried to actively discourage accidental heterosexual trade, although it did a small business in gay-friendly women from time to time.  But the understated façade and the pedestrian décor sent unwritten signals to tourists and mixed-sex couples alike: don't bother with this one. 

Daniel's friends were guaranteed to show up sooner or later, although the early evening hours weren't the best time to take in the camaraderie or the ambiance – everyone was much too sober.

Unfortunately, he heard an unwanted and not-so-sober voice bawl out of the corner as they passed.  "Hel-lo, you lovely creature. You must be one of the models that Daniel 's always on about."

Maxwell.  Shit.  Maxwell was, technically, one of Jeremy's friends, and it was a guarantee that he'd blab the news to all and sundry as soon as he headed out.  On second thought, maybe that wasn't a bad thing at all.   He seemed even drunker than usual, which Daniel hadn't thought possible.

Draco had already turned to the interruption.

"Yes, that's right.  My name is Draco Malfoy.  And you are—"

"Maxwell Stewart.  Max to my friends."

"Well, Maxwell," Draco said, and Daniel didn't bother to hide his amusement at the subtle reproach, "It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine.  Really.  Hell, Daniel, I always suspected you were a fast worker."

Sodding arsehole.  "Oh, behave yourself, Maxwell, or I'll make sure Roy cuts off that lovely supply of courage you're drinking."

Maxwell mumbled something vaguely threatening into his drink and lapsed into silence.  Daniel took the opportunity to lead them to an empty table far away from Maxwell.

Two drinks later, Daniel was half-listening to Draco rail against Fiona, JayKay's most recent addition.  Actually, the subject was Fiona's colossal stupidity, which Draco seemed to find insufferable.  With the half of his brain that wasn't listening, Daniel was mentally beaming all his own usual chattiness into his friend.  As though through sheer osmosis – filtered through the smoky air between them – he could compel Draco to keep talking, and that just maybe all the missing pieces he was dying to hear would start spilling out.

"And then she was idiot enough to ask me if it was true a girl couldn't get pregnant sleeping with a gay man," Draco said, with an offended huff.  "Clarisse told her that.  Probably to see just how stupid she truly is."

"Christ."  They shared a moment of indignation over the ignorance of mankind in general and Fiona in particular.

Roy had cranked up the sound system – it was worth twice as much as the rest of the bar, Daniel suspected, liquor stock included – and he had to lean in to hear over the pulsating beat of INXS.

"I've got to let you know you're one of my kind," Michael Hutchence was singing with that sensuous-edged voice that always left him weak-kneed.  Daniel, who always looked for the personal connection in the songs that formed the soundtrack of his world, agreed with Michael completely.

We're both discarded people, Draco and I, he decided.  With enough skill and finesse, maybe we can be recaptured.

To that end, he shot up a little prayer like an arrow.  Not to the conventional English God, of course; to the one that all the larger churches had a direct line to, the one revealed in old Charlton Heston movies, the one who didn't like people to call him by name.  That God was generally off-limits to blokes like him.  Had been for years, in fact, ever since he'd recognized that he wasn't cut from the same white cloth as the other altar boys at St. Stephen's.  Pity, though, because St.  Stephen's was perpetually short of decent tenors.

His own God was far more aware, a little more forbearing, not so quick to turn up His holy nose or grasp the hem of His stainless garment and back away, lest it accidentally brush against someone like him.  He never condemned Daniel for bothering him with his nattering about Jeremy night after night.  He didn't say a lot – in fact, Daniel had never heard Him say anything so far – but He was an incredibly talented listener.  Daniel was pretty sure that his God liked to be on a first-name basis, but Jehovah was such an unapproachable mouthful that Daniel just called him Jack. 

Halfway through his second drink, Draco finally mentioned Harry's name in passing.  It wasn't until Roy slid over the third that Draco said anything that mattered.

"We were never supposed to be together.  Harry and I,"  he added, as though Daniel imagined he was speaking of some other star-crossed lover of his. "So it's no surprise we didn't last."

"How long?"  He meant how long had they been a couple – it wasn't clear when they'd hooked up, although it hadn't seemed too long.  Months, maybe.  Not years.  But Draco took the question in another direction.

"We met when we were eleven.  On the train up to Scotland.  To school."

"Oh, God.  Was he wondrously wee and ickle?  Were you?"

"He wasn't what I'd imagined him to look like," Draco said, with a faint smile.

"So you knew him before?"

Draco looked suddenly worried.  "No.  It's just… I knew about him.  A little.  Not a big deal, really.  Friends of friends kind of thing."

"And then you got to be mates at school."

"Oh.  Ah.  Not exactly.  We weren't in the same house, for one thing.  Harry – he had other friends.  Like Hermione and Dean."  Draco was practicing that careful nonchalance that he'd pulled out earlier on the Tube.

"There's something you're not telling me," Daniel said.  "And I think I know what it is."

"No."

"Either you had a crush on him or he had one on you.  C'mon.  Right?"

Draco looked relieved.  "Wrong.  Not even close."

Daniel leaned back in his chair with the air of a card shark about to rake in all the chips.

"Then you were rivals, of course.  And the passage of time, the great healer of all wounds, let you both see that what you thought was hatred was really something else."

The shocked look told him enough.  He ignored Draco's protests and laughed with unrestrained glee, until he remembered that Harry had just walked out of the picture.  Even after two – three – drinks, he should show some decorum whilst talking about him.  It wasn't as though he didn't like Harry – he actually did.

Daniel almost didn't let himself ask the next question – he didn't want to spend the rest of the night listening to someone else moon over his ex-boyfriend.  He'd had his fill of doing it himself.  But this was Draco, talking about Harry, and he didn't think Draco really had anyone else he could confide in.  Birds of a feather, they were. 

"So what happened last night?"

Draco gave a light, dismissive wave, as though he were chasing away bad juju.  "Oh, I don't know.  The novelty wore off, I suppose."

"For him or for you?"

A beat, then a very low, "Him."

"I'm sorry."  Harry was an idiot, no question.  Harry was an idiot, and Daniel was a realist, with just enough optimism to carry him forward.

"Sorry, but not surprised?" Draco said to his drink, which was approaching low tide.

"Sorry and surprised.  Still."

The bar was getting more crowded, a blue cigarette haze beginning to settle around them.  He knew Draco didn't smoke, so he was glad he'd quit last year even if it had been at Jeremy's nagging insistence.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tommy, one of the Flame's newest patrons, sitting at the bar and watching him with more than friendly interest – well.  He'd been trying to suss out Tommy for the past three weeks, but couldn't ever decide if he were flirting or just feeling sorry for him.  So it had been flirting all along – Tommy didn't look too happy just now.

But Daniel didn't want to be on display anymore – he wanted something a little more honorable.

"Hungry?" he asked Draco.

Draco considered it a moment.  "We should eat.  It's not smart to drink on an empty stomach.  What do you have in mind?"

"I know a little place not too far from here that might suit."  Careful.  "Chez Daniel.  I hear the food there is absolutely second-rate."

Draco, fortunately, smiled back.  "Sounds like just the place, then.  Lead on."

Daniel allowed Draco to put on his jacket and cashmere scarf by himself, but he couldn't help resting a guiding hand at the small of his back as they walked out.  And if his gesture was just slightly possessive and hopeful, who could really blame him?

"Night, children," Roy called out as they left.

The evening was going remarkably well.  Draco, for his part, seemed in good spirits for someone who'd just been dumped.  While Daniel stir-fried vegetables and grated cheese for omelettes, Draco told him a story about Hermione's great beast of a cat and – of all things – a frog, that left him laughing helplessly and in danger of burning the eggs.  In return, he'd related the terrible tale of the first disastrous haircut he'd given, to an older woman who'd been so indignant that she'd hauled off and clobbered him with her not-insubstantial Hermes handbag.

"I swear, she had at least four Jilly Cooper novels in there, too.  Hardcover.  I was black and blue for a week!  Even better, in the best British tradition, she ended up tipping me anyway."

They were sitting side by side on stools at Daniel's counter, finishing up the omelettes that Daniel secretly thought were a lot better than his usual dinner fare.

"You lied to me," Draco said, with a false scowl.  "You said the food here was second-rate.  I'd say the quality has taken a turn for the better since you last dined here."

Daniel picked up his mimosa – the champagne had languished unopened in his refrigerator since New Year's Eve, but it was still decent – and toasted his guest.

"Thank you.  I bribed the cook to use honest-to-God quail eggs, you know.  Makes all the difference."

A peaceful silence had taken over, but Daniel's heart was racing as he leaned over and laid his hand gently on Draco's. 

He could feel Draco start in surprise, but he didn't pull away.  Neither one of them said a word.  All the clever and witty things Daniel had imagined himself saying at this juncture dried up and blew away like dandelion seeds in the wind.

This was always the most awkward point – should he draw back in studiously ignored embarrassment or push on and hope for the best?  If Draco had been just another bloke, Daniel wouldn't feel so timid, but they were friends.  Draco mattered, a lot.

Daniel twisted his stool to face Draco, who was watching him intently.  One breath, two fingertips on Draco's softly stubbled cheek, a three-second pause, and then they were kissing.

Draco relaxed tentatively under his mouth, and Daniel nearly sighed with relief.  It was the slowest and most careful kiss Daniel had ever had, as though Draco were slowly thawing.  Daniel shifted away slightly, testing Draco's resolve, and thought that maybe – barely – he could sense enough encouragement to keep going.

He leaned back in, his own heart racing in stark contrast to Draco's deliberate, unhurried pace. Finally, Daniel let his tongue stroke over Draco's, touching that devilish tongue-stud for the first time – and Draco instantly froze.

Hell.  Daniel could almost taste Harry himself.

He pulled away and tried not to look disappointed.  "We should stop."

"Yes," Draco said, and he looked as sad as Daniel felt.  "What makes you say that?"

"Maybe because when I said we should stop, you said yes," he answered, and Draco gave a slight laugh.  "Pretzel logic.  You're not ready for this, are you?"

He wasn't sure Draco would ever be ready – at least not for him – but he wasn't going to say that out loud.

They were floundering through awkward minutes of feigned normalcy, when Daniel tried not to feel crushed and full of self-doubt, and Draco pretended not to notice.  Draco had drawn back his hand and was clutching his champagne flute almost defensively.  Daniel watched him take a long drink as if he needed to wash away all traces of his brief infidelity.  Everything about him proclaimed noli me tangere.  Sadly, his Caesar was a clueless, speccy git.

"I won't apologize, Draco, but I promise not to try it again.  If you promise to leave off molesting my best stemware."

That broke the tension.  Draco finally looked at him and laughed softly.  "I'm sorry, Daniel.  If it's any consolation, I've been in your shoes.  Even worse, he was one of my professors."

"You kissed one of your professors?  You're even cheekier than I thought."

"Well, no.  I told him I'd like to, though.  It was fairly mortifying."

"I can only imagine.  Well, at least we're not having that other mortifying conversation."  At Draco's enquiring look, he went on.  "Don't tell me you've never heard it.  The 'oh-shit-I'm-not-gay-and-you've-made-a-huge-mistake' speech?"

"Oh, God," Draco laughed.  "No, I haven't."

"Obviously, I've got defective gaydar, because I've heard it more than I care to remember.  Damn, I even had one guy jump out of a parked car and take off running into the night.  And it was his car!  Talk about awkward.  I didn't get to hear the 'oh-shit-I'm-not-gay' speech until he rang me up the next day wondering where his car ended up."

His attempt to diffuse the tenseness between them seemed to be working, because Draco looked, if not exactly relaxed, at least much less sad.  Things were going to be okay.

But Daniel knew exactly where he'd stumbled:  he'd accepted Draco's explanation of his split with Harry and jumped to the conclusion that they were just like he and Jeremy had been – incompatible, and doomed from the start.  But it wasn't like that; something else was going on between them, and he could almost bet that neither Draco nor Harry knew what that something was.

He wanted to help, and he'd had just enough to drink that he threw caution to the wind.

"Listen, Draco, let me give you some gratuitous and unwanted advice about Harry.  Hairdressers and bartenders, you know?  Practically a job requirement."

Draco didn't look like he was ready to hear any advice, no matter how well-meaning the intent.  "Look, Daniel, don't—"

"No, just listen to me for a minute."

Draco gave him a steely look but didn't interrupt, which Daniel thought was the closest he was going to come to real permission.  "I've been watching Harry for months.  That's what I do best, you know, watch people.  Try to figure out what makes them tick.  Anyway, I've watched Harry.  I see how he looks at you.  Just you, Draco.  He's never distracted by anyone else, and you have to admit the studio is full of good-looking bodies.  But Harry never looks at them, not even a glance.  That's pretty unusual, wouldn't you say?"

Draco had that sad look on his face again, but Daniel was determined to speak his piece.

"And he doesn't stare at you like he wants to ravish you or have you for lunch, you know what I mean?  It's not that.  Not sex.  It's like – oh, how can I describe it? – like he's finally got something he's wanted for a long, long time, and he's afraid to look away or it'll disappear.  Like a genie granted him a wish, and he finally got his heart's desire.  Does that make sense?"

A very long silence followed, broken by a small, wordless nod from Draco.

"And when you're finished working, when you meet up, do you know what he does?  Every time.  He doesn't kiss you.  Not like that tart Beatrice and her boyfriend are always at, with all their show-off smooches for the crowd.  No, the first thing he does – he touches you.  Nothing grabby or obvious.  He's always wants to touch you, anytime he can.  Like he needs to prove you're real.  And after that, he can relax.  It's just the sweetest thing."

Draco was staring at the far wall, but Daniel suspected he was hanging on every word, which made him all the more certain he was doing the right thing.

"So, Draco, here's my gratuitous, unwanted advice.  That kind of desire is dreadfully rare – at least on my planet – and if anyone looked at me and needed me with half that intensity, I'd hold on to him and never let him go.  If Jeremy had wanted me that badly, I'd have put on a three-piece suit and voted Conservative for him."

He reached over and took Draco's hand, friend to friend this time, patting it the same way his sister had done to him when he'd unloaded his own woes on her.

"So you think I'm an idiot," Draco said.

"No.  Of course not.  I think maybe you've missed some signals, that's all."

"I don't know—"

"Of course you don't.  That's why I'm here – to set you straight.  Ah.  In a matter of speaking.  It's okay, though.  I'm finished."

Draco mustered up a weak smile for him.  "Look. I should probably head home."

"All right.  Give us a kiss, then, so we know there are no hard feelings."  He made sure this kiss was as chaste as the one he'd got from his sister.  "Now go home and think about what I've said."

Draco had his jacket on and his hand on the doorknob.  "Thanks, Daniel.  Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

A few seconds after the door closed, Daniel noticed Draco's scarf dangling from the back of the stool where he'd been sitting.  Grabbing it up, he hurried out into the hall.

"Draco?"

Too late – there was no sign of his friend, nor could he hear footsteps anywhere in the corridor or on the stairs.  Puzzled, Daniel retreated to his flat.  He couldn't resist stroking the soft cashmere or bringing it to his nose and inhaling Draco's distinctive scent.  A wave of regret washed over him.  Still, he couldn't help thinking he'd done the best thing for both of them.

But he knew there was more he could do – it was one of those unspoken arrangements he'd made with God.  And he didn't mind.  Not when he remembered that sad look on Draco's face.

"Listen, Jack," he said softly.  "I'm not sure why you sent Draco my way, but I'll give it my best shot.  You've got to pitch in, too, though.  All right?"

As always, Jack kept his opinions to himself, but Daniel had his confidence back now.  He dug into the messy depths of his leather bag and pulled out his mobile with a triumphant flourish.  No need to look up the number - he stored everyone's compulsively.

"Hello, Dean?   Daniel.  Oh, I'm fine.  In all senses of the word.  Listen, could you give me Harry's phone number?  No, nothing important.  I just need to talk to him."

~~..~~..~~

Relax, I'll need some information first, just the basic facts.

The drink that Snape had promised Hermione hadn't materialized yet.  First, Snape stopped at the public owlery in Hogsmeade to notify the Headmistress of his sudden absence.  Then there'd been an unexplained breakdown of the northern trunk of the Floo network, which Snape had endured badly, with pointed asides and sharp invectives aimed at the hapless attendant.  Hermione gathered from the young man's nervous behavior that he'd got an earful from the professor under similar circumstances in the past.

While they cooled their heels in Hogsmeade, she listened as Snape fleshed out his plan.

"There's always the off chance that Miss Dovecote is A.W.L. herself, although I doubt it.  I wouldn't say she had the temperament for it, for one thing.  Ravenclaw, yes, but odd."

"Like Luna Lovegood?"

"Well, not that odd.  More silly, perhaps.  Always fancying herself enamoured of some young man she couldn't have.  Or worse, some not-so-young man, availability unaltered.  For one interminable term, she imagined herself a dyed-in-the-wool romantic, with a nasty habit of transfiguring my window curtains into violet petals.  I predict she'll get herself into real trouble one of these days."

Hermione wondered if Snape was one of those unavailable men, but she knew better than to make even a passing joke about it.  She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

"Smart, like all Ravenclaws.  Easily influenced, though.  That failing would make her an easy mark for A.W.L.  Depending on what they wanted from her, they've probably not told her much.  We may be wasting our time, and tipping off A.W.L. besides."

"Wasting our time?"

"Talking with her."

"Wait a minute.  Won't she be suspicious – she'll start wondering if we're on to her, won't she?"

"Oh, we're going to tell her that up front.  After I've confirmed Redmund's intent, of course."

"So you're saying we tell her we're aware of the problems with the Malfoy estate—"

"And that we know she stole money and can prove it.  Whether or not she acted under A.W.L. orders, the Ministry still won't tolerate embezzlement.  Or maybe I should say, they won't tolerate it once it becomes public knowledge.  And Redmund would make sure of that happening.  When she's made aware of what we know, she may be persuaded to let us have the rest."

It came to her forcefully at that instant that Snape undoubtedly had experience in that kind of persuasion.  A spy within the Death Eaters – she'd heard it again and again, but never considered what that meant until now.

"Then we're blackmailing her?"

"Not at all.  We'll merely urge her to make amends by telling us what she knows."

"She won't have much choice."

"You'd be surprised.  One can never predict just who will want to dig in their heels and become a martyr over the oddest things.  Macumber is her brother – that's not just ideology, that's personal.  She may go to surprising lengths to shield him.  They were remarkably protective of each other when I knew them.  We'll have to be very careful."

"I still don't see why we're doing this."

"Because I think the embezzlement is a small part of something far more serious.  Redmund was trying to warn you, and fortunately he was successful."

Hermione thought that was a generous recap of what really happened – only blind luck had led her to mention the meeting with Redmund in the first place.  She was put out, though, by the idea that her investigation wouldn't end with exposure and punishment.  She nearly objected on general principle, but Snape seemed to know what she had in mind.

"It was easier when you didn't have to choose between keeping your inquiry into Miss Dovecote a secret and helping Draco.  I know when you came to see me, you thought you could achieve both ends.  But those two issues are no longer compatible.  You'll have to choose."

He said it as though the act of choosing was an everyday matter, and it struck her suddenly that for him it probably was.  In all the years she had known him, he'd been making these kinds of choices.  What information to share, and what to withhold.  Whom to trust, and whom to betray.  Even now, when his life no longer depended on his day-to-day choices, it must be second nature to him.

In deference to who he was and what he'd been, she did everything possible to signal her sincerity.  She owed him that.  It wasn't as though she'd come to him with the thought of backing out at the first sign of a challenge.

"I said I wanted to help Draco, and I haven't changed my mind.  Tell me what I need to know."

Snape looked at her guardedly, and she wondered what he had expected her to say.  Did his natural mistrust of the human race lead him to expect everyone to act from selfish interest?  He hadn't behaved that way himself, not during the war; she didn't think he'd make the mistake of being quite that jaded.

"The trick, I believe it's been said, is to become a shepherd," he began.  "A shepherd doesn't offer his sheep choices.  Just closes off other paths, until the only one possible is the one the shepherd wants the sheep to follow.  With two of us, the task is easier.  One closes off the other paths, and one encourages the sheep to go down the right one."

"Shall I guess which shepherd I'm to be?"

He ignored her remark.  "Threats and rewards.  Time-honored tools of the educational system as well," he said dryly.  "Although I can no longer use house points as currency, our information will substitute nicely."

"Do we plan to let her get off scot-free?"

"It depends on what she gives us in return.  For us to offer to ignore everything we know, she'll need to come up with something fairly impressive in return."

"Such as?"

"Such as who's behind A.W.L.'s interest in Draco and why.  And I'm not sure she knows."

To her surprise, Hermione found herself utterly content to let Snape call the shots.  There was a time, once, when she'd have been annoyed at finding herself playing second fiddle to anyone.  No more.  She felt the burden of being responsible for Draco slip off her shoulders like a heavy pack.  So much easier to nod her agreement when Snape told her to play up any similarities she could muster between her and Coretta Dovecote.  So much easier to let him decide what to reveal and when.

The nervous attendant was trying to attract their attention, and she suspected he was happier than they were that the Floo was back in service and Snape would be out of his waiting area.

The first thing Hermione noticed at the distinguished law firm of Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellow was the subtle aroma of furniture polish and money.  The carpet was so thick and sumptuous that their feet made no noise as they approached the receptionist, figurative hats in hands.  The woman's eyes lifted slowly from the papers on her desk, taking them both in as though she were St. Peter and they were the newly dead.  The indifferent look she adopted made Hermione feel as if she'd already been dismissed as a shameless gold-digger, deeply enmeshed in a wholly inappropriate affair with an older man.  She scowled back, trying to dispel the notion.

"If we could have a word with Mr. Redmund," Snape proposed.

"I'm afraid Mr. Redmund is rather busy this afternoon," she said, with a pointed look at the clock, which showed 4:15.  "Perhaps if you would like to speak with someone else—"  Much further down the hierarchy, Hermione filled in.

"If you could tell him it's Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.  Just that.  Please."

Apparently the names meant nothing to her.  "I don't think—"

"He does know me," Hermione told her.  "I'm from the Ministry.  We're working together on a project for one of his long-standing clients."

The woman tossed her ash-blonde hair in a tiny show of annoyance.  "If you insist," she said.  Hermione watched her carefully pen an interoffice memo, writing briskly and giving the parchment minimal time to dry before charming it airborne and down the hall.  She waved her quill in the vague direction of two overlarge chairs.  Snape sat down first, sinking so low that he looked in danger of being engulfed entirely.  Hermione primly followed, wondering if she'd ever be able to escape the chair's unrelenting clutches.

She tried not to gloat when Redmund's invitation came back to the receptionist, who waited impatiently while Hermione struggled to stand.  To her embarrassment, Snape had to pull her bodily upright.  Shrugging determinedly, she followed them down the hall.

The meeting was short and to the point.  Hermione found she needed to say very little.  Redmund, in a few meaningful and discreet phrases, confirmed that the Carr-Macumber link took priority, as far as he – and by inference his client – was concerned.  Still, he refused to elaborate on specifics, citing client confidentiality.  In a few short minutes, she and Snape were back on Diagon Alley.

"This should be an appropriately slow time at the Bloody Blade," Snape told her.  "I believe I promised you a drink."

Hermione was astonished that someone in Diagon Alley found gruesome murder an appropriate theme for a restaurant.  Even more astonishing was Snape telling her that it was a bit of an upmarket place to bring one's nearest and dearest.  She was content to let Snape make the arrangements for their seats at the bar, which was seriously underlit and fittingly macabre.  She let her eyes rest on a horrific mural of what were apparently the seven unfortunate wives of the restaurant's namesake.  The respective Mrs. Bluebeards looked rather chipper, despite being most thoroughly dead.

"I suppose I'll have a Bloody Mary, in keeping with the theme," she said.  Snape opted for a glass of whisky on the rocks.

After confirming that Coretta Dovecote was indeed working there this afternoon, Snape, through the bartender, passed on a request for her to join them at her leisure.

"She'll remember me," he told the man, who was utterly indifferent until Snape emphasized his invitation with a healthy number of Galleons.  "And she and my companion were friends at school."  Which was as close to a lie as Hermione could imagine – she barely remembered the girl from Hogwarts.  Fortunately, Snape made up for her lack as they waited, filling her in on the names of Coretta's friends at Hogwarts, and even came up with the titbit that she'd dated the Hufflepuff Seeker.  Hermione had always assumed that such trivia was beneath his notice; now she wondered how much he knew about his other students.  About her.

Five minutes later, Coretta Dovecote nervously approached them.  Snape greeted her with uncharacteristic good will.

"Please, sit down.  Of course you remember Hermione Granger.  She was just a few years behind you, wasn't she?"

He slid over to free up the stool between them.  Coretta hesitated, then sat down.  Hermione noticed immediately that Snape had forced Coretta into an awkward position – she was kept off-balance by having to turn first one way then the other to keep up with the conversation.  Hermione knew it had been deliberate, and was determined to do her part to interject often enough to keep up the distraction.

Snape insisted on buying Coretta a drink, which visibly added to her discomfort.

Hermione felt inspired to ramble on at length about their nonexistent but now fondly remembered past, all the while aware of Snape nodding his encouragement over Coretta's shoulder.  She babbled on about the respect and affection that Hermione had for her during their Hogwarts years.  Only now did she feel the sudden urge to say just how much of an impression Coretta had made on her. 

"And Miss Granger is following in your footsteps at the Ministry," Snape told her, and Coretta nearly gave herself whiplash snapping her head around to look at him in astonishment and a barely hidden look of fear.  "She's taken over your position, did you know?"

No, she hadn't known, and by the look on her face, it would appear she didn't like knowing it now.

"Oh, yes?" she asked faintly.

"I thought your brother Ted, must have told you," Hermione said.  "He's stopped by the office."

The nervous look was focused on her now.  "No.  Well, I haven't seen him.  Not lately."

"Oh," Snape said, sounding almost mournful at the news.  "I'm sorry to hear that.  You always seemed so close at Hogwarts."

"Well.  Look, I really need to be going—" Coretta said and started to rise, but in that instant, Snape had his arm braced up against the back of her stool, subtly preventing her escape.

"Please.  Stay."  Coretta obediently sank back down on the stool and latched back onto her drink, taking two long slugs in succession.  Hermione was reminded of a wild horse getting ready to bolt at the next word.  Then she noticed Snape send her the signal to begin the speech they'd prepared.

"I can't imagine how much trouble I would have had at Restitution if you hadn't left everything in such good order," she said, trying for nonchalance.  "They've been piling the work on me – well, I'm sure they did the same thing to you when you were there.  It doesn't strike me as a place where they appreciate the staff all that highly."

"Yeah.  You can see where it got me," Coretta said, with a quick glance at Snape, as though she were afraid of his censure, but he was nodding in apparent sympathy.

"Right.  Office politics – no one ever wins, do they?" Hermione said.  "But it's actually a good thing we happened to run into you.  I did have a question that maybe you could answer for me."

"Oh, I don't think—"

"No, I'm sure you'd know this.  It's about the Malfoy estate, you see."

Coretta stood up in thinly veiled alarm once more, but Snape's hand was on her shoulder this time.

"Please," Hermione said.  They had come to the most delicate moment, and even now she wasn't sure Coretta wasn't going to dash away or make a scene.  The bartender was studiously ignoring them from a distance, though, and there were no other patrons in the bar.

To her relief, Coretta again sat down.  Good girl, Hermione thought.

"From what I've been able to piece together, it looks as though some money has gone missing.  And I need you to tell me the truth, Coretta."

Snape coughed politely.  "Veritaserum takes six minutes to become effective after drinking," he told them calmly, with a pointed look at Coretta's half-empty glass.

"Oh, God.  Oh, God," Coretta muttered and fell into a long silence. "Listen, things aren't what you think.  I didn't— Well, I did, but it's not the way you think."

"And what do you suppose we think?" Snape said.

"Well, you think I stole the money, but.  Oh, God.  It wasn't my idea, not at first.  I'm telling the truth!  I know how things look—"

"Why don't you tell us the whole story, then? "

"All right," Coretta said, and Hermione secretly rejoiced at the simple capitulation.  Snape's advice had been to figure out on the fly which one of them she'd pick to be her confessor.  It was with a sense of relief that she saw Coretta turn her attention entirely to Snape – and by their earlier agreement, he would now take the lead.  Hermione unobtrusively nudged her stool around and leaned in so that Coretta would no longer need to turn to see her – building a comfy confessional for the three of them.

"My brother is an Auror.  But none of this is Ted's fault – he doesn't know about the money.  It's his partner."

"And his name is?"  Snape had reverted to his professorial voice, and Coretta responded with the answer in full, as though she'd be awarded points for it.

"Jerald Carr.  He's kind of a big name with the Aurors; a hero.  He'd heard about me from Ted, and thought he'd take a look at me.  Then he told me he thought I might do well in his group.  I've always wanted to be an Auror, you see, so when he told me that, it was my dream come true.  But he said he needed to test me out first.  That makes sense, right?"

"Yes," Snape said, and Hermione nodded along. 

"They wouldn't take on just anyone, not without testing them first.  That's what I thought, too."

"What did Jerald Carr ask you to do to prove yourself?"

"It was easy.  He had some files on Draco Malfoy.  He gave them to me, and I was supposed to find a way to get them to Harry Potter so that no one could trace where they'd come from."

If Snape was surprised, Hermione couldn't tell.  "And were you successful?"

Coretta shifted on her chair.  "Yes and no," she said.  "Mr. Carr changed his mind about sending the files.  But then....  Well, after I got fired, I sent them anyway."

"Why?"

Her expression turned ugly and her voice rose in anger.  "Because Malfoy's a Death Eater, isn't he?  Was, anyway.  Carr told me all about him.  How he goes about  pretending he was one of our spies, while really he's lying through his teeth.  'S not fair, is it?  Well, you can see what the Ministry's doing for him – letting him have all that money.  'S not right."  She shrugged as if to suggest there wasn't a lot of justice in the world these days.  Hermione, for utterly different reasons, agreed.

"Did you read the files before you sent them?"

"No.  Couldn't, could I?  Mr.  Carr put some kind of spell on them so only Harry Potter could read them."

"But you knew what they said?"

"Well, Mr. Carr told me they would let Harry Potter see what kind of person Malfoy really is.  I'm guessing that they were some kind of war records.  Real proof that Malfoy was a Death Eater."

"Why did Carr want to send the files to Harry in the first place?"  Snape sounded bored with her, which made Coretta's answer all the more enthusiastic.  Hermione suspected she'd been something of a teacher's pet at school.  Snape was obviously playing on that, making her work for his attention.

"Ooh, Mr. Carr hates Draco Malfoy.  Hates all those Death Eaters that got away.  He really gets upset at the idea that Malfoy is hiding behind Mr. Potter's good name.  Using him.  Mr. Carr has strong beliefs about that." 

Hermione imagined Carr in full rant, enticing new followers with his diatribe like a Reformist preacher.  After the chaos of the war, too many in the Wizarding world were eager for someone to give them simple answers and someone to blame.  Carr sounded like someone they'd clasp to their bosoms, unquestioned.  But he didn't strike her as someone a Ravenclaw would embrace so readily.

"But then Carr changed his mind and asked you not to send the files after all.  What happened?"

"I don't know all the details," she explained to Bluebeard's disinterested wives, peering down at them from behind the bar.  "I do know that he came up with a new plan.   He said he needed Malfoy to catch another Death Eater – someone he's been after for a long time, someone far worse than Malfoy.  It sounded to me that he wasn't giving up on going after Malfoy so much as he was putting it off.  Using him in the meantime.  He liked the idea of that quite a bit."

"I'm sure it appealed to his sense of justice," Snape said, biting off the last word.  "But you still haven't told us why you needed to tap in to the Malfoy accounts."

"Well, Mr. Carr came up with that.  He thought it was only fitting that we try to sabotage Malfoy in any way possible.  If the Ministry weren't going to see him brought down, we'd do it ourselves.  It was another test, too.  To see if I could do it."

And it was an utterly brilliant manoeuver on Carr's part to make sure Coretta was firmly in his pocket – all he'd have to do to keep her in line would be to threaten to reveal her theft.  Even now, the silly bitch was clueless at how deftly she'd been played.

"What happened to the missing money?"

"Oh.  It's still in my account.  Carr hasn't asked for it."  She looked briefly worried at that confession.  "Please, Professor Snape, Ted doesn't know anything about this.  I want it to be a surprise when Mr. Carr makes me an Auror.  You know I can't lie to you – not after you gave me Veritaserum."

"Oh, but you're mistaken, Miss Dovecote.  I did no such thing."

"No, you said... You told her—" she jerked her head towards Hermione "—that you put Veritaserum in my drink."

"As a potential Auror, Miss Dovecote, you should know that dosing an unsuspecting person with Veritaserum is strictly illegal.  I would not risk my position at Hogwarts by participating in illegal activities.  I was merely mentioning to Miss Granger the predicted course of such a potion.  My comment was strictly academic."

"But I told you the truth!  How could I do that without the potion?"

"Perhaps you needed to tell someone the truth," he suggested, his voice oddly gentle.

"Oh, God.  You tricked me!  I should—"

Snape moved in for the kill.  "But you cannot, as I'm sure you've come to appreciate.  You are not exactly playing from a position of strength, Miss Dovecote.  You've stolen money from an account you were responsible for while at the Ministry.  You've also transmitted secret Ministry documents without proper authority."

Coretta looked as though she'd been hit by a particularly vicious stunning spell.  "Oh my God," she repeated, barely audibly.

"To be quite honest, I'm curious as to how long it will take before you realize that Carr has tricked you far longer and far more effectively than I have."

Finally – finally – the scales fell from Coretta's eyes.  "Oh, God.  I don't believe it.  Please, Professor.  Please don't tell Ted.  Oh, God, if he gets mixed up in this, they'll fire him.  I'll pay the money back, I can pay all of it back today!  I will!"

"That would be a start, I think.  Don't you agree, Miss Granger?"

Hermione wasn't quite ready to let Coretta off the hook entirely.  "I think if you owl me at the Ministry tomorrow, I'll see what I can do."

"I'll go to Gringott's right now.  You'll have all the money by tomorrow."   She stood up once again, but this time Snape made no move to stop her.  She was out the door in the next heartbeat.

"Well.  That went well.  Partner," she added with a small grin.

Snape raised his barely-touched glass for a sip.  "You seem surprised."

"Surprised, yes.  I'm surprised that such an oblivious idiot ended up in Ravenclaw."

"You may be judging Miss Dovecote harshly.  She's always shown a weakness for following the orders of, well, let's call them father figures.  And there's obviously some strong hero-worship at work.  She wants to be an Auror like her brother, and I'd wager the promise Carr made her was too appealing to pass up.  Carr knew exactly where to apply his pressure."

"So what was in the files he gave to Coretta to pass on to Harry?  Do you know?"

"I have an idea, but I'm sure Draco would not want it to become known.  Not even to you, Miss Granger.  But presumably Harry knows now."  Snape didn't seem to like the idea at all.  "I think it's clear Carr poses a danger to Draco, which disturbs me greatly.  I wish we knew exactly how far his plans to use Draco have progressed.  At this point, I think our intention to attend the benefit tomorrow night is wise."

"I agree."  Something belatedly occurred to her.  "Ah.  Have you ever been to a fashion show?  Or to Draco's studio?"

"No.  Is there something you think I should know ahead of time?"

"Oh, no.  No."  She didn't dare turn her head to look at him.  But Hermione suspected that the clandestine smirks of Bluebeard's seven wives meant that they were privy to her secret amusement.