Draco was going to die.
Gregory lay unconscious in his arms. The searing breeze of the flames made his robes flutter about his ankles. The heat was overwhelming. Sweat leaked from his pores, drenching him and then sizzling against his skin. He couldn't breathe; the heat filled his lungs, as if he were being singed from the inside.
The terror hurt the most, though. It solidified his muscles and bent his stomach into a tight, twisted knot. His face was crusty with dried tears and snot, his throat raw from screaming. There was no elegance to the situation, not a shred of dignity retained. He was an animal feeling a predator closing its jaws about his throat--still desperately fighting against the knowledge of death whilst simultaneously knowing it was over.
He wanted his mother feverishly, like an infant wants the breast. He hated himself for letting her down like this, for the grief he knew his death would cause her. This was where his choices had led him. This horrific moment where he was about to die in agony, consumed by cursed fire. Dizzy and violently sick, Draco wailed, his voice high and wretched.
The flames drew closer, roaring, bellowing and shrieking. It was going to hurt. It was going to be agony. A final soundless scream forced its way through his throat, and Draco's mind evaporated into hysteria. Help me. Help me. Mother, please, please, no, no, please.
The smoke, ash and heat blinded him to the point where he almost didn't see Potter as he swooped down towards him on his broom. Potter's robes flapped around his body like dark wings, cutting through the billowing smoke as he bent determinedly over his broomstick. Draco raised his arm, reaching towards him, pleading with his smoke-reddened eyes, begging forgiveness for all the years, all the sins, for everything he'd ever done. Potter reached out in return, giving Draco his hand, his green eyes gleaming like spring, like life, like hope. Draco took his hand and gripped it, resolving to hold on tight, as tight as he could, and not let go for anything.
Harry slides his arm across the table and takes his hand. Draco's long, slender fingers feel safe in Harry's thick calloused ones. Their eyes meet. There's heat in Harry's glance--heat and warmth--and slowly he starts stroking the centre of Draco's palm with his middle finger. It sends a hard, tickling shiver up Draco's arm and down his spine, circling finally in his groin where it spirals and grows. Draco's cock twitches and swells as Harry keeps their eyes firmly locked, never looking away even as he pushes his knee between Draco's parted thighs. Their gazes are woven together. Harry leans forwards, lips red and slightly parted, moving closer, closer until his mouth is pressed, soft and firm, against Draco's, kissing him, turning the shiver into a blaze of heat that makes his pores open and his mind erupt with pleasure and excitement. Their hands are still clasped together, fingers entwined, sweat making them slippery. Draco leans into Harry's kiss, fearing that he won't be able to hold on and they'll slip apart.
Everything Draco had been taught was a lie. His entire belief system had turned to ashes and crumbled beneath his feet, leaving him airborne, weightless, and insubstantial as smoke.
Yet he stood in the newly refurbished drawing room and smiled. He shook hands with the portly man who was the newly appointed Minister for Health, because his father wanted him to. The man's too soft, greasy-feeling fingers lay limp in Draco's hand and his eyes were flat and cold despite his broad grin. Draco nodded, laughed at the man's jokes, offered to have the house-elf fetch him Goblin wine, and generally played the part of dutiful pureblood son--the part of Malfoy--as well as he could. He was genial and well-mannered with all the members of the carefully selected group at their cocktail party. He was doing his bit for the family, for his father's efforts to scratch their way back into a place of respect in the wizarding world. Lucius would do it, too; Draco had no doubts.
Whether Draco wanted to come along for the ride this time, well, that was another matter.
After watching Marcus Flint, who had bullied his way into a job with the International Association of Quidditch, practically grind his nose between the bum-cheeks of the Assistant to the Sub-Director of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Draco's mind began to wander. When Marcus subsequently turned to Draco and reeled off a sotto voce list of the man's secret sexual peccadilloes about which Marcus was planning to blackmail him in order to advance his career, Draco mentally left the room completely. It was all so familiar--handshakes, secretive glances, knowing winks. It used to be thrilling. Now it made him weary. Draco wasn't like that, not any more. He didn't want to become one of these brittle, avaricious men with their inflated egos and unending hunger for power at any cost. He wanted something different, something better. Something of his own.
When he looked for it, however, when he found time and solitude enough to pry open his psyche and peer inside, he saw nothing. Where his sense of himself used to reside, there was naught but an abyss. It must have burned up in the Fiendfyre along with his mother's wand.
Keeping his smile painted on, Draco let himself think about Potter. The idiot. The half-blood. He'd been brazenly disrespectful towards Draco and his way of life from day one. He'd also been right in the end, and Draco and his family had been so very, very wrong. It was Potter's world now, and Draco was only alive because Potter had made it so. And... there'd been that moment, right before Potter had cast the spell that brought an end to the Dark Lord. Voldemort. He could allow the name to form in his mind now. Voldemort. Right before Potter had cast the spell that had destroyed Voldemort, he'd invoked Draco's name. Draco had been the master of the Elder Wand and it was the fact that Potter had disarmed him that had made Voldemort's death possible. He'd even used Draco's wand to do it.
So, in a way, Draco had helped. Potter had made him a part of it.
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
They both stood, stiff and tense, staring at each other on the pavement between Madame Malkin's and Flourish and Blott's. It had been bound to happen eventually, but Draco hadn't thought it would happen quite so soon. They hadn't laid eyes on each other since the day the war ended. There was, at least from Draco's perspective, the sense that something should be said.
The Weasley girl was at Potter's side, holding his hand. She openly glared at Draco; he ignored her, having eyes only for Potter. He looked different. Draco couldn't put his finger on what exactly had changed, but this was definitely not the same ridiculous, irksome boy with whom he'd shared his Hogwarts days. He looked taller, for one. There seemed to be more colour in his face and more light in his eyes. The same frenetic energy permeated his aura, but it felt controlled--deliberate rather than scattershot.
Potter's expression was cool but not completely closed. He met Draco's eyes without frowning and with--Draco was certain--a certain amount of curiosity. Despite the flashes of memory--the heat of the fire, Potter's outstretched arm, his radiant eyes--Draco managed to remain composed.
He didn't lick his lips. He didn't let his shoulders tense up. Instead, he cocked his head to the side and smirked before drawling, "So, Potter. Hero business going well? One can't open the Prophet these days without seeing The-Boy-Who-Expelliarmused-The-Dark-Lord splashed across the pages kissing a baby or saving a Crup or so on."
The Weasley bint made an angry noise. Draco let himself glance at her the way one glances at a piece of lint on the cuff of one's robes before flicking it off.
Crossing his arms across his chest, Potter pressed his lips together, the light of interest dying in his eyes. Draco willed himself not to blink or fidget. He'd expected Potter to parry, to match insult with insult. He was primed for the burst of frisson that always came with their confrontations. Finally, Potter shrugged and then spoke. "We're all doing what we have to do to clean up the mess Voldemort left behind." Potter tightened his grip around Weasley's shoulders, keeping his eyes on Draco as he turned. "At least some of us are."
The girl beamed at Potter as they walked away. Draco wondered what she'd look like without any skin.
So what if Potter had saved his life? He'd have done it for anyone, that's the kind of berk he was. Of course it hadn't changed anything between them. Draco had no business feeling sick and slightly faint, the air around him going cold and dark as if he were stuck at the bottom of a pit and Potter was the only light and retreating steadily away from him as he got colder and then hotter as if his skin were about to blister--
Draco choked, turned and then coughed.
Fuck Potter.
Draco didn't need anything from him. He didn’t need Potter; he didn't need his father; he didn't need anyone. He was worth something on his own and he'd prove it. There had to be something he could do, some way to put the world back in an order that made sense.
He was a Malf-- he was Dra---
He spun on his heel and stormed down the street in the opposite direction.
The heat of Harry's body burns through Draco's clothing, leaving him damp and breathless. The soft, pressing heat of Potter's lips against the bare skin of Draco's neck turns his mind to bubbling liquid. He lifts one knee, wrapping his calf behind the back of Harry's thigh and tugs him closer, moaning, allowing himself to be crushed against the wall of the Ministry corridor. They could be discovered at any moment, but that only adds to the thrill burning through Draco's skin and the conflagration swelling in his chest. Harry's lips are on his now, his tongue wetting them, teeth nipping gently through the hard, sliding, desperate kiss. Harry's hips press forwards against Draco's and when he thrusts slightly upwards Draco can't help but moan, loud and helpless, at the rush cascading through his body. The wave of pleasure is so hard and so hot that Draco doesn't know if he can bear it. He's trembling, sucking in air, clinging tight to Harry in case he falls.
"But, Draco, are you sure?" Pansy's nose wrinkled and her lip curled. One finger brushed a lock of hair off his forehead the way she did when she was worried about him.
"Entirely sure," responded Draco, gazing up her nostrils, his head pillowed in her lap. "It's got all the requisite elements--an air of contrition, the appearance of an earnest desire to be virtuous and the physical act of sacrificing one's material possessions for the greater good. He-- They'll be eating out of my hand by the time I'm finished."
"Seems like an awful lot of hard work for no good reason, if you ask me." Pansy sniffed and ran her fingertips over his scalp. Draco leaned into her touch and purred. "And you'll have to deal with all that rabble they've got at the Ministry these days. Mudbloods and Weasley types. I heard they've even got an elf running one of the departments now. "
"One doesn't say 'Mudblood' any more, Pans. It's 'Muggle-born.'"
Blaise snorted and poured himself another glass of Goblin wine, saying, "What have you done with Draco Malfoy?"
Fluttering his fingers dismissively at Blaise, Draco went on. "It's simple propriety. One has to move with the times or one gets left behind."
"Why not just toss some Galleons at the Ministry?" said Pansy, rolling her eyes. "They'd be glad to have them. Really, Draco, things will go back to normal in no time, there's no need for all this fuss."
He'd instinctively known that money wasn't the answer. Not only was Draco reluctant to follow his father's example at this point, but he also sensed that simply pouring money into the post-war effort would look facile, lacking in the requisite blood, sweat and tears. He needed something better, something emotive yet subtle. War orphans were quickly dismissed as too obvious. Potter would see right through something so heavy-handed. He considered campaigning for werewolf rights, but then decided that would seem suspiciously out of character and he'd probably have to interact with the beasts, and that... no.
The answer finally came to him in a burst of Firewhisky-inspired insight. It would work.
It had to work.
He sat up and leaned back against the sofa, sucking at his cigarillo, letting the smoke curl lazily into his lungs before expelling it once again. The cloud he blew out between pursed lips formed itself perfectly into the shape of a Hungarian Horntail dragon. Draco loved Brimstone Tobacco. It tasted of treacle and let you blow smoke rings in the shapes of your favourite magical creatures.
Blaise coughed dramatically and waved his hand through the dragon, obliterating it. "You’re a fool, Draco. We could crawl naked through the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, flagellating ourselves and curing war-traumatised ministry workers as we went, and they'd still never forgive us. We lost. We're fucked. Mamma and I are off to Brazil come the spring. I suggest you two do similar. Britain is over for pure-bloods. We'll never have the status we deserve, not in our lifetimes."
Draco tsked, blowing a Basilisk-shaped stream of smoke straight into Blaise's face. "You go ahead and flee. I choose to adapt."
"Mmm," said Blaise. "Good luck with that. I'll send you an owl from Rio."
"You do that," replied Draco, letting his head fall against the back of the sofa. He took another drag on his cigarillo and exhaled, watching through slitted eyelids as another Horntail swooped and circled upwards towards the ceiling. Blaise meant well. He just didn't understand.
Draco knew exactly what he was doing.
"Gregory, you must promise me you'll never, ever tell me what you used that for," said Draco, levitating a knobbly, somewhat sticky-looking object into the cauldron. It vibrated slightly before glowing bright orange and then dissolving into the viscous, bubbling potion with the other surrendered dark artefacts. Greg shrugged sheepishly before signing the register and then shuffling away. A ragged-robed hag took his place, muttering to herself and then dumping an oil-stained canvas bag onto the table. The contents--which smelled rather like a combination of liquorice, dragon dung, and dried blood--wriggled, making high-pitched squeaking noises. Draco didn't bother repressing a shudder.
It was going well. A lot of witches and wizards had come forward, eager to grab a piece of absolution. One by one they'd gone to the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic and lined up to surrender their dark artefacts. There would be no repercussions for those who willingly participated in the amnesty, and it turned out that many were willing. Draco congratulated himself on so accurately judging the political climate. Adapt or perish--it was as simple as that. He'd even convinced his father to go along with it, although he wasn't naïve enough to believe that the small chest of shrunken heads and cursed jewellery he'd given up was the last of Lucius Malfoy's stash.
The fumes from the cauldron were making him groggy; he was sure it couldn't be healthy to be close to it for such a long time. His arse was aching from sitting. He'd had to smile, thank and interact with a wide variety of characters from the very dregs of wizarding society. It was exhausting.
Then Potter entered the Atrium and everything was made worth it when Draco saw his expression.
First his eyes widened, then his brow wrinkled. Draco steadfastly pretended not to see him and continued with his work, shaking the contents of an engraved wooden box surrendered by an unfeasibly tall witch into the cauldron before dumping the box in after them. The fumes were really starting to get to him, but he concentrated hard and only allowed himself to look up when he knew Potter was standing right next to him.
Cooly, Draco turned his head and met Potter's stare.
"You went through with it, then," said Potter. "I didn't think you would." His arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression was open. The spark of curiosity was back. Draco felt a spike of triumph.
"You never did have any faith in me, Potter."
"You're right. It had something to do with they way you were always bullying my friends and hanging around with Death Eaters, I suppose."
"We all make mistakes."
Potter snorted, and then picked up the register. Draco watched his eyes--sharp and bright behind his glasses--run over the list of names and objects, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. An increase in dizziness made Draco realise that he was holding his breath. He let it out in a sharp blast and snatched the roll of parchment out of Potter's grasp.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get through this lot before the end of the day." He gestured to the line of dubious-looking characters avidly watching their exchange. They muttered and fidgeted, whispering to each other. Consciously ignoring Potter--who seemed determined to stay and watch--Draco resumed collecting and disposing of dark artefacts. The fumes were making his eyes burn. He felt queasy; his stomach roiled, hot and tight. The ancient wizard standing in front of him now smelled terrible and seemed to have an endless supply of suspicious-looking books that he pulled forth from his sack one by one. Scribbling their titles on the parchment, Draco was hyper-aware of Potter watching the books as they evaporated in the cauldron. A rivulet of perspiration tickled its way down his back.
"Hermione'd have a fit if she saw you destroying books like that."
"Not that I particularly care what your Muuuu--ggle-born friend would think of what I'm doing, but this collection of novels is cursed to drive anyone who reads them mad. If you'd like to give them to Granger, be my guest."
Potter sighed, a bit dramatically in Draco's opinion.
"I'll let you get on with it, then." He turned and took a step away.
Draco flushed.
"Malfoy?"
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"This is a good thing you're doing. Thank you."
Draco's face lit up automatically, before he could stop it, and then he was squirming in his chair and glaring at Potter, who looked... amused.
He didn't know what he wanted to do then; his first instinct was to hit Potter, hex him hard. The condescending sneer the moment required refused to come, however, and Draco felt a hot flush move down his neck, back and chest.
He swallowed, tossed his fringe out of his face and said, "We're all doing what we have to do to clean up the mess Voldemort left behind."
Potter blinked. Then he grinned.
And in that one instant, Draco knew he'd won.
"It's you, Draco. It's always been you." Harry's fingers move through Draco's hair and over his scalp. He angles his head to the side and closes his eyes, moving in for a kiss. Draco remains still, hands clutching tight to the broom handle on which he's sitting. The world sprawls below them, distant and darkening as the sun sets. Potter is straddling the broom, pulling Draco close. They are balanced together, just the two of them amidst endless acres of sky. Draco is grateful for Harry's strong hands, as he's light-headed and dreamy. When Harry's lips meet his, Draco is sure that Harry's hands behind his neck are the only things keeping him from floating away, from slipping off the broom and falling, spiralling downwards until he smashes into nothingness on the ground far below.
His mother's fingers on his shoulder broke Draco out of his thrall. He'd lost himself staring into the flames of the fire in the drawing room, running the conversation with Potter over in his mind, relishing the good bits, making the most of his triumph. Potter had thanked him, and if that rankled as much as it pleased, Draco was willing to overlook it.
"Your father asked you a question, dear."
Automatically, Draco pulled himself into the moment, straightened his back and turned to face his father in the adjoining armchair.
"Dreaming, again." There was a dangerous glint in Lucius's eye. Draco had seen it often in recent weeks. He took a breath and tried to gather himself.
"Thinking, Father." Draco scrambled to pull the half-heard words of Lucius's question to the forefront of his mind. "Of what I shall do next."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Now that I'm in with Potter, I can--"
His father scowled and interrupted him. "If I'd known I'd live to see the day when the wizarding world lay limp at the feet of a teenage half-blood--"
"Voldemort was a half-blood."
Draco didn't consciously know why he'd given in to the impulse to bait his father. He only knew that the pink suffusing Lucius's cheeks gave him a dark satisfaction akin to peeling a scab off a wound before it was fully healed.
"You will not say that name in this house."
"Why not? He's gone now. And if it weren't for Potter, you wouldn't have lived to see it. Me either."
His mother's fingers tightened on his shoulder. His father leaned back in his chair in the way he had of appearing calmer and more collected when he was actually boiling with rage. With a snap of his fingers, a house-elf appeared and refilled his tumbler with cognac.
"The unfortunate events of the previous years aside, you are forgetting who you are and to what you have a right." Lucius gazed at the flames through his firelight-suffused glass and then took a sip before continuing. "We remain Malfoys, Draco. You remain my heir with the inherent responsibilities."
"How could I forget when you remind me twelve times a day?" It came out sharper than the mutter Draco had intended.
Pressing down painfully on his shoulder with her hand, his mother rose and cleared her throat. She spoke in a soft, calm voice that nevertheless cut right through their argument, killing it dead. "Enough. Draco, darling, I believe you must be tired. Let me walk you to your room."
He knew better than to argue and allowed his mother to link her arm through his and lead him away. She remained silent as they walked until they reached his door, which was a relief to Draco as he used the time to quell the cold shiver of anger and panic tightening his chest and stomach. Then she turned to him and took his face in her hands, searching his eyes.
"What's going on in that head of yours, Draco? You aren't yourself. Don't try to deny it; I'm your mother and I know. Tell me what's bothering you so I can make it better."
Gazing back at her, Draco wanted to cling--to fall into her arms like he would have as a child. He could smell her perfume and her sweet skin, the warmth of her body--still so thin. She'd never really recovered her appetite since their days of horror. He felt his eyes sting.
"Tell me, darling. Let me help you. Turn your troubles over to me and I'll make them go away; you know I will."
Draco pulled sharply away from her. "You'll swallow me whole," he gasped. "Just like he would. The two of you... there's no difference."
"Draco!" She clutched at him but he wriggled away and fled into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
"Potter. Potter!" Draco suddenly realised he was running. He forced himself to stop short, mortified, but it was too late. Potter turned, recognised Draco... and smiled. It was an odd smile, using primarily one corner of his mouth, but still--it was better than a glare, better than... disinterest. Draco hoped to hell his cheeks weren't turning pink.
"Ah--" he continued, desperately searching his mind for something to say now that he had Potter's attention. "So... you're joining Magical Law Enforcement. I read about it in the Prophet." That was suitable, wasn't it? "Still Rita's Skeeter's darling, I see."
Potter scowled and his face darkened. Damn.
"Revolting old bag," Draco continued. "You should read the lies she's printed about my father." That probably wasn't improving things. His stomach fluttered and he felt prickles of sweat forming on his upper lip.
His expression softening by the slightest amount, Potter crossed his arms. "I'm sure," he said. "And, yeah, I am becoming an Auror. What of it?"
"I was--" Draco coughed, and cursed himself inwardly, considering simply Apparating out of Diagon Alley and letting Potter wonder why. "I thought I might... It's not as if I need to work, but..."
Potter broke into a grin. "You want to become an Auror?"
A wave of fierce, dark anger flooded Draco's chest. "Of course not," he snapped. "I'd end up putting away half my friends and family. It would be social suicide."
And when Potter laughed, the rage dissolved like so many champagne bubbles leaving Draco feeling light-headed and off-balance. Potter seemed to be at a loss for words, too. He just stood there, looking at Draco and smirking. Once again, Draco took note of how much Potter had changed since the end of the war. His whole bearing was easier, his limbs looser. Easy for him, he thought.
"I've got to do a couple of things," said Potter. "But if you'd really like to chat about, heh, being an Auror, I'll be free in about half an hour. Do... er... Do you want to get a drink?" He ran his fingers through his hair, momentarily smoothing it before a stray breeze ruffled it back into chaos.
"Oh," replied Draco. "Well, I was on the way to Gringotts, but, yes, I suppose I could manage a drink. It's best to make the goblins, wait, I find. Keeps them in their place."
Potter snorted, and gestured with his head towards a nearby shop before opening the door and entering. As if on a lead, Draco followed Potter, helpless as a puppy. A bell rang as they entered, and it took Draco several long moments before he realised where they were.
Salazar's testicles, he was surrounded by Weasleys.
Potter's personal limpet, Ron, had frozen upon spying Draco and muttered loudly, "What's with the ferret?"
Flapping a hand dismissively at Draco, Potter moved towards the back of the store, Weasley at his heels. The older brother--the remaining sadistic twin, Draco presumed--was still watching him, his lips pressed tightly together, eyes cold.
"Any trouble, even the hint of a hex, and I'll transfigure your balls into puffskeins, Malfoy."
Draco, who had absolutely no doubt that the man could and would do such a thing, pressed his thighs together and sneered. "Keep your wand in your pocket. I'm just waiting for Potter."
The look of surprise on Weasley's face was beautiful to see. Yeah. I'm with your fucking saviour. Suck on that, blood-traitor. He almost didn't even mind when the wanker still took out his wand and laid it ostentatiously on the counter. Draco just lifted his chin and turned his back.
Feeling bored and impatient, Draco let his eyes wander about the shop.
'Edible Dark Marks.' Draco's upper lip curled. How gauche. 'Instant Darkness Powder.' That had been useful. Shuddering, he moved on, running his fingers lightly across the various boxes and objects, wondering what sort of people allowed themselves to be amused by such trifles. A shelf of love potions brought him to a stop momentarily, but then his attention was completely taken by the sight of something he remembered distinctly from his last visit. The box was colourful, almost gaudy, and definitely geared towards females. Yet the sight of it struck Draco like a spike in his chest. He wanted it. He wanted it badly enough to humiliate himself in front of George Weasley by buying it.
By the time Potter emerged from the back room, Ron Weasley still doing his spot on Jack Russell impression, the box had been wrapped in plain, brown paper and secured in a bag with a bright WWW sparkling across it. Potter's eyes dropped to it, and he turned to the Weasley behind the counter. "You aren't selling him anything you shouldn't, are you, George?"
George snorted. "Nah. Unless you consider fantasizing about--"
"Right," interrupted Draco, gesturing to a small sign on the counter-top. "One would think that 'Privacy Guaranteed--Your dirty little secrets are safe with us!' refers to all your customers, but if that's not the case, I'm sure--"
"Just get him out of here before I do something I'll regret," said George.
So they left, together, and headed towards the Leaky. Walking down Diagon Alley at Potter's side was exciting. All eyes were on them. Potter seemed oblivious to the attention, simply ambling forward, peering upwards momentarily to watch the painted Quidditch players swooping about on a poster advertising 'Pennifold's Improved Pepper-Up Potion.' Draco's bag swung against his leg as he walked, distracting him almost as much as the way the breeze made the hair on the back of Potter's hair flutter. He needed to concentrate, to focus on exactly what he was going to say once they were sitting down. Draco didn't want to be an Auror; the very idea was ridiculous. If he didn't come up with something plausible, however, Potter would suspect him of some kind of trickery. His mind spun. His face was cold and slightly clammy, and yet his palms burned.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crack, and then the Weasley girl was running towards them and leaping onto Potter, making him laugh and stagger backwards. It was Weasleys-All-Around day in Diagon Alley, apparently.
Potter swung the girl around and then kissed her--right in front of Draco. Draco's hand was already on his wand before it occurred to him that hexing Potter's girlfriend would probably be counter productive. The fact that Potter had no manners wasn't new information; neither was the fact that he was dating the Weasley bint. Yet, somehow, the sight of him snogging her so openly made Draco's ribs tighten in shock.
When they'd finally separated their tonsils, girl Weasley began demanding ice cream and yanking Potter away by his hand.
Draco didn't know if he should be relieved or enraged. He stood still, one hand in his wand pocket, the other hanging limply at his side. Potter looked back at him, lips red and hair mussed, as he was dragged away.
"Er, Owl me, Malfoy. We'll do this another time."
"Do what another time?" the girl asked, shooting Draco a suspicious glare.
"Nothing. It doesn't matter. Let's get to Florian Juniors, I've heard there's a new pumpkin custard flavour."
They stumbled away, half-running, holding hands and laughing. Draco felt a brick of coal take form in his stomach.
Then, just before they disappeared from sight, Potter turned back towards Draco and flashed him a wide grin, shrugging his shoulders.
The brick of coal evaporated and was replaced by a thousand tiny bubbles of joy.
The Weasley girl was a reality--an obstacle--but one that Draco was sure he could overcome. Potter was h-- They were connected. Connected to each other in ways that the silly little tart with her gaudy hair and coarse manners couldn't hope to match. His life had been over; Potter had saved him. That meant something. Their lives were inextricably bound together.
It meant something.
And Draco knew, given time, he could convince Potter to see that, too.
Before Draco could stop him, Blaise had his hands on the box. He'd never had any respect for Draco's privacy. Squinting, Blaise peered at the embarrassing illustration of a schoolgirl entwined with Oliver Wood; he turned the box over to read the back.
"What's this bollocks, Malfoy?"
"None of your bloody business, that's what it is," Draco fumed.
"'Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes?' 'Patented Daydream Charm?'" Blaise tossed the box back onto Draco's dressing table and smirked, his eyes sparkling. "Draco, we're your friends. You can be honest with us. Are you turning into a girl?"
Draco felt the bed dip and rise as Pansy moved towards him and then her hands came up to rub his shoulders. "Just ignore him, darling. Blaise wishes he could be as in touch with his feminine side as you are. He's just jealous."
Draco shrugged her hands off. He knew his cheeks were pink, but lifted his chin anyway and tossed his fringe out of his face. "It's not mine, Mr. Jumping-to-idiotic-conclusions. It's a gift for..." He coughed and then continued. "A family friend. Daphne's little sister, actually. Apparently she's a Wood fan. Mother thinks... Well, I'm far too young to marry now, but Mother thinks it's never too soon to start off on the right foot. The Greengrasses are a good family. Astoria looks far less like a carp than her elder sister."
"You and Astoria?" squeaked Pansy. "That's so sweet. You'd make a darling couple."
Blaise leaned back against the dressing table and gazed at Draco, his eyes narrowed. He pursed his lips, smiled, and then continued. "And you had nowhere better to shop than Weasleys' Ridiculous Whatnots? I can't imagine dear Astoria will be all that impressed."
The corner of Draco's mouth twitched upwards. He couldn't help it. "I was with Potter, if you must know. We had a meeting, and he stopped there beforehand. I merely made the best of a boring situation."
The humour dropped from Blaise's expression. "What on earth were you doing with Potter?"
Draco sighed heavily. "I was building bridges, Blaise. Do keep up. There's no sense retaining enmity with the people who are running the world."
"Ah, that again." Blaise prowled over and ruffled Draco's hair. "It's very sweet, you know. This 'new Draco.' Make sure you wash your hands after if he makes you interact with Granger, though."
Pansy cackled. Draco twitched his shoulders to show her that he was ready for her to start rubbing them again. "It is sweet, Draco, but we liked you the way you were. And don't go spending too much time with Potter. I know, back in school, you always--"
Draco abruptly jumped off the bed and onto his feet, making Blaise scowl and stumble backwards. "Mother had Squeekle make treacle-plum biscuits this morning. I think they're intended for tomorrow's tea, but Squeekle can always make more. Let's go raid the kitchen."
Pansy slid off the bed and took his hand, giving him a disturbingly sympathetic smile. "All right, darling. That sounds lovely."
Blaise followed along behind them, muttering darkly to himself, as they walked downstairs. Draco tuned it out. Blaise would never understand; he was stuck in the past. Draco was looking to the future, and the future revolved around Potter. Anybody with a bit of sense could see that.