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Draco stood stiffly before Scorpius, who sat on his bed and looked up at his father as if he had no idea why he was there. Draco had come home at noon, and now found that he didn't know what would occupy his son, whether he should play games with him-which seemed so childish-or leave him to his own devices-which would defeat the point.

Bloody Potter. He has no right to lay conditions on me anyway. Who does he think he is?

"Dad?" Scorpius sat up with the air of a student in Snape's class who was going to be scolded for interrupting.

Is that really the way he sees me? But Draco tried to make a smile come onto his lips, no matter how stiff and unnatural, as he replied, "Yes?"

"I know you were a good flyer when you were in Hogwarts. Mr. Potter said so." Scorpius stared at him wistfully while Draco tried to conceal his surprise that Potter would say anything so complimentary about him. "Can you show me how to do a Wronski Feint?"

Draco had to blink. Then he said, "Well, I can show you a few other moves. The Wronski Feint is dangerous even for an experienced flyer to perform properly."

"But you are one."

There was a light in Scorpius's eyes that made Draco feel very small. Did he always look at me like that? Did he always want to spend more time with me? How did I not see it?

"I know, but I'm out of practice now," said Draco, and held up a hand against the stream of protests he could tell was about to burst from Scorpius's lips. "Maybe I can do one during the end of the afternoon, if the other moves that I show you go well. I can't promise until I see if they will or not."

That was all it took to make Scorpius beam at him and run for his broom. Draco Summoned his own Nimbus, and shook his head when he heard the clangor of boxes and trunks falling to the floor. It must have been buried even more deeply than he'd thought.

When it landed in his hand, he stood looking at it for a moment. It seemed to shine with a light that came from younger and happier days. Even with the wild uncertainty of the war with the Dark Lord, those days seemed that way to him now, with less certainty that he was doing the wrong thing.

"Come on, Dad!" Scorpius was waving from the doorway.

Draco followed him, and watched how his son's hair burst into fire from the sun the instant they went outside. Scorpius swung an easy leg over his broom and turned to look at him with a dazzling smile.

Am I really a bad father?

Draco gripped his broom harder. If I am, it's time for me to start making up for it.

"Is your shoulder all right?" Harry asked in concern. Malfoy had been sitting in front of the fire, as close as he could get without burning himself, and massaging his shoulder in a way that made Harry wonder whether he needed a Pain-Killing Draught.

Malfoy promptly dropped his hand and sat up as though he wanted to prove he could straighten his chair out with his back. "Of course it is," he said, and stared through Harry in that haughty way that drove Harry mental. "Why wouldn't it be? Do you think I'm weak?"

Harry had suspected something like this would happen, that Malfoy would try to reclaim what he saw as his proper, stick-up-arse position in relation to Harry. But that didn't mean Harry needed to allow Malfoy to irritate him. No one had managed to irritate him in years, although some things had angered him, like Malfoy's treatment of Scorpius.

"No," he said. "I wondered if you'd like a potion."

"I didn't injure my shoulder," said Malfoy, and tilted his head back so that Harry could inspect his nostrils if he wanted to, although Harry couldn't imagine who would want to do that.

"Dad was showing me a Wronski Feint," said Scorpius from the table, where he was reading one of the books Harry had kept from him until now. It showed him a few simple potions that could be accomplished even by a child without a wand, as long as he could gather the right ingredients. From the gleam in Scorpius's eye, he was already plotting how he'd "acquire" those ingredients. "He fell off the broom."

Harry raised his eyebrows, and Malfoy gave him a murderous look. Harry tapped his wand on his knee, and the spells down in the kitchen engaged, opening a cupboard that had his potions in it and plucking the proper one out. "A Pain-Killing Draught will be here shortly," he told Malfoy. Other spells, linked to the empty portrait frames Harry had lined the walls with, let him keep track of the progress of the floating potion.

"I don't need your charity."

Harry shrugged. "You can think of it that way, or you can think of it as something to keep you from distracting me, the way that you rub at your shoulder."

Malfoy dropped his hand, on a return journey to his shoulder, as if it had been scalded. Harry grinned and cast another spell that made a mirror on the wall tilt and send out a beam of light. The fire flared hotter from it.

"Why in the world are you using complicated magical theory to do things like that?" Malfoy leaned forwards and studied Harry with a bewildered expression. "You could have used an Incendio. Or a Summoning Charm," he added, as the Pain-Killing Draught drifted into the room with majestic slowness, and up to him.

Harry shrugged. "I like to find different ways of doing things. The Summoning Charm brings a potion really fast, true, but it can jostle the balance of its ingredients and mix them up. And it would come to me, in that case, not to you. And an Incendio can only increase the heat of the fire by a certain, fixed amount. With the mirror, I can choose how much it increases."

Malfoy sipped at the Pain-Killing Draught, as if to prove he didn't need it enough to swallow it all right away, his eyes never leaving Harry. "It seems an odd pursuit to devote your life to."

"Oh, I have other things, too," said Harry, and turned around as he saw Scorpius rising from the table with his mouth open. "Did you have a question about the potion, Scorpius?"

"Yes." Scorpius trotted up to him, frowning. Malfoy stirred in his chair, and Harry beckoned him over with a flash of his eyes. Malfoy stood up and wandered over, although he stopped short of them both and leaned his shoulder against a bookshelf. "This potion seemed interesting at first, but then I realized...it doesn't really do anything, does it?"

"Ah." Harry smiled. He'd been waiting for Scorpius to come up with that question. "It can turn your hair different colors."

"But only my hair, not someone else's." Scorpius sneaked a look at his father and then turned away with pink cheeks.

"Right," said Harry calmly, biting the inside of his cheek over that look. "But a lot of people find that useful. If they want to dye their own hair, for instance." Scorpius's hand thoughtfully touched his blond locks. "And there's another way you can adapt that potion. You need to look at it. If you change one of the ingredients..."

Scorpius peered into the book, then looked at him reproachfully. "Mr. Potter, there are sixteen ingredients here."

"Then you'll just have to work slightly harder to figure out which one it is," Harry answered him cheerfully.

"Let me see, Scorpius." Malfoy stepped up and took the book from his son. "I was reckoned a Potions genius by some people in my day."

He shot another challenging glare at Harry. Harry only widened his eyes innocently back, and watched as father and son went to work on the potion.

Malfoy had also been reckoned skilled at manipulation by some people, if only by some professors and his Slytherin yearmates, but he didn't seem to have picked up on Harry's ploy with the potion and the book to get him closer to his son.

Either that, or he didn't resent it. But he resented everything, even the offer of a pain potion, so Harry thought it was likelier he hadn't noticed.

Humming, Harry returned to his own scroll, conscious of, and happy for, the soft background murmur of voices, accented by the occasional stabbing of fingers at pages.

Scorpius lay sideways in 'his' chair in Mr. Potter's library, listening absently to the murmuring voices of Mr. Potter and his Dad. His legs dangled over one arm, and his head rested on the other one, the chair was so wide. His belly was full of the steaming potato soup that Mr. Potter's house-elf seemed to be so good at cooking. His body was warm from the fire and from the attention.

His Dad had been with him at Mr. Potter's house all day, although he had said they would only stay one hour when they first came. Scorpius had argued with him about potions and listened to an argument between his Dad and Mr. Potter about magical theory and seen a few demonstrations of spells that his Dad had never wanted to cast in front of him before. But his Dad liked competing with Mr. Potter. Of course he would break out the complicated magic then.

"I do wonder what led you to come here. To become this person."

His Dad's voice was soft. Scorpius sighed and rolled over, tucking one hand beneath his cheek. He could just lie here and listen to the voices, he thought. They were like music. They soothed him. He barely even needed to pay attention.

"Simple," said Mr. Potter, and it did sound simple when he said it. "I wanted to get some privacy from all the people who chased me around in the streets screaming. Once I got some, behind the wards here, I found I liked it."

Scorpius giggled softly to himself. He knew that Mr. Potter had been a hero, he wasn't that ignorant of wizarding history-even if his Dad always told that part of the story with a really weird expression on his face-but he also found it hard to imagine screaming fans pursuing him. Mr. Potter was just Mr. Potter, and really ordinary with it.

"But the magical theory?" There was the slight rapping sound that meant Dad was tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He'd done that when they were looking through the list of Potions ingredients in the book earlier. "That doesn't seem such a straightforward choice."

"I had to do something to keep from going insane," said Mr. Potter simply. "And everything else-Defense Against the Dark Arts and Quidditch and even Potions-just brought up memories of the war. Hermione gave me a book on magical theory. It had nothing to do with the past. I started reading it, and, well. It puzzled me. I didn't understand half of what was going on at first."

Scorpius would have raised his head at that point if he hadn't been so comfortable. There was something that Mr. Potter didn't understand? That seemed so strange. He was the smartest person Scorpius knew.

"Of course you didn't," said Dad, and his voice was edged, his tone kind of like what it had been when he'd been telling Scorpius that portion of wizarding history with Mr. Potter in it.

"Right," said Mr. Potter, and Scorpius smothered a smile with one hand. Dad could get most people angry most of the time, but not Mr. Potter. "But I was determined to understand. I got more books and read them, too. And some of what they said did make sense. Like how a Summoning Charm might be too fast to let a sloshing potion have its full effect by the time it reached you.

"So I spread out into other fields, and experimented, and when I didn't understand something and got it wrong-well. If you go downstairs at some point and into the drawing room, you'll see a scorch mark on the wall that should tell you what happened when I got it wrong."

Scorpius wanted to gape. He wanted to sit up. Mr. Potter had said that scorch mark came from something his godfather had done!

But he was too comfortable, and weighed down by the soup in his belly. So he just lay there and listened instead.

"So you can admit that you got things wrong." Dad's voice was heavy and full of meaning. But Scorpius didn't know what the meaning was.

"Yes," said Mr. Potter. "The magical theory taught me humility, honestly. I no longer thought that I had everything right when I was working on it. I was frustrated, a lot, and I fumed at myself and the books and even my friends, sometimes. But I got used to it, and I got smarter, and I worked. It was a way to work and have absolute privacy. I appreciated that."

Scorpius's eyes drifted closed. Or maybe they had been closed for a while, and he just didn't notice. He was going to wait until Dad or Mr. Potter said something embarrassing, and then he would sit up and surprise them and announce he was awake.

Yes, he was going to do that any minute now. All he had to do was wait for them, and listen to the warmth of the fire crackling.

"Mr. Malfoy. You seem distracted. The work is not frustrating you, I hope?"

Draco jerked and turned around. He'd taken lunch alone in his office this day, because the half-day's holiday to be home with Scorpius and the all-day one in Potter's house had put him farther behind than was acceptable. He still ought to have heard someone coming up behind him, though. Lunch, even as packed by his house-elves, wasn't so fascinating as to hold so much of his attention.

Estelle Vincy, his secretary, stood behind him with one perfect eyebrow raised. She had white hair, but an odd color, more like ivory, that didn't make her seem old. Draco didn't think she was old, anyway, if the effortless way she kept up with both his father's business and his own was any indication. "You are all right, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, as she passed him a file full of correspondence from one of the Muggle businesses.

"Yes, Estelle, fine," said Draco, and scanned the paper on top, then sighed. He would have to spend some time dealing with this, not merely sign it and forget it, which was the way he preferred to deal with Muggle correspondence. "Thank you for asking." He grabbed the first paper and flipped to the second.

After watching him one moment more, Estelle nodded and glided out of the room with her customary grace. Draco sighed, grabbed another bite of his cheese-and-olive sandwich, and applied himself with grim concentration to the intricacies of Muggle contracts.

It didn't help. They still remained far away from his actual topic of thought, the one he wanted to spend even more time thinking about than he was going to be permitted.

He thought of the light in Potter's eyes as he had explained his choice of career path, how that was wilderness and worlds away from the eyes that Draco saw in the mirror every day. He thought about how he had connected with his son in Potter's house, the way he hadn't in the Manor in months.

Potter only owns the Black house because of his godfather. It should have gone to me.

But even that source of indignation, a real one immediately after the war, didn't work this time. Draco sighed and leaned back, and let the Muggle contract fall unnoticed on the table for a moment.

He wanted to spend more time with Potter. That was the only new thing he had wanted in months, and beside it, his determination to work hard at the business so that Scorpius could have a fortune when he wanted it looked dull and brick-like. This desire glittered like a gem.

I have to work today, Draco decided, slowly. But I am going to spend more time with Potter, and soon.

That promise of a reward, embarrassingly, was the only thing that allowed him to go back to the contract.

Harry lifted his head when the fire flared and Malfoy stepped through. He waited a minute, but Scorpius didn't follow him. He blinked and focused on Malfoy's face. "Is something wrong with Scorpius?" He was already rising to his feet, reaching for the spell that would summon his cloak.

Malfoy stared at him, one hand raised as if he wanted to crush down Harry's suspicion. "Why would something be wrong with Scorpius?"

"Well, I don't think it's usual for you to come here alone." Harry took a look at the small clock above the mantel, and blinked. "And this late," he added, focusing back on Malfoy. "The same reason that most people don't firecall at almost midnight."

Malfoy ducked his head. "I did come home at a reasonable hour," he muttered. "And spend time with Scorpius, and eat dinner with him, and explain something out of a book you'd given him that he found difficult to follow."

"The Dolphin's Web? Yes, that's difficult." Harry sat back down slowly in his chair, and considered Malfoy. "Then you came for yourself?"

The immediate flush along Malfoy's cheeks and throat said it was that, and also that he hated being so transparent. He folded his arms and eyed Harry. "That's it," he said. "And you can tell me to go to hell, if you want."

"That's the last thing I want," Harry said, sincerely, although he didn't know if Malfoy would believe him. "I only wanted to know why you were here, and now that I know, we can talk." He folded his legs and nodded towards the chair in front of the fire, silently inviting Malfoy to join him.

Licking his lips, obviously still nervous or upset or whatever emotion he was really feeling, Malfoy sat down. Then he gave a brittle laugh. "I thought I needed so badly to come, and now that I'm here, without my son to stand between us, I don't know what to talk about," he said.

"There's something I've been curious about," Harry said, and he noticed the way Malfoy tensed. He probably thought there was nothing Harry could ask that wouldn't be tinted by pain or embarrassment. And that was true, but Harry knew his question was less painful than a lot of other things. "Why were so good in Potions? Was it sheer natural talent, or did you spend more time studying for it than for other classes, or what?"

A surprised snort slipped out of Malfoy. "Of course I spent time studying for it. Professor Snape was a holy terror on any Slytherin who didn't do well in that class." Harry almost opened his mouth to point out the obvious exceptions of Crabbe and Goyle, but Malfoy must have got there first in his mind, and added pointedly, "Any Slytherin who was capable, at least."

Harry nodded. "But some of it was natural talent, right?"

And he pressed the conversation gently and delicately in that direction, keeping up the flow, letting Malfoy relax and speak only of what he wanted, the bright part of those Hogwarts years, as if the dark parts didn't exist.

In its own way, it was dishonesty, but Harry had learned the value of avoiding certain subjects and letting others wander as they would. It was the way he had managed to achieve a measure of his own happiness.

Near the end of an hour, Malfoy stood at last, yawning. "I have to get to bed, or I'll be useless in the morning," he said, and then hesitated near the fireplace, looking at Harry with an expression difficult to read.

Harry gave him a measured smile in response. "What is it?"

"It seems unfair that you should have all the obligations of hospitality on your side alone," Malfoy said abruptly. "I'd like to extend an invitation to the Manor."

Caution would have checked Harry in accepting that only yesterday, but maybe because of the lateness of the hour and his own weariness, it didn't now. "I'd love to. A dinner one?"

Malfoy's smile smoothed out, became subtle, gentle, attractive. "Yes. Tomorrow?"

"Yes," Harry echoed, and Malfoy was still wearing the attractive smile when he stepped into the flames. Harry sat back in his chair and plotted ways that he could get that smile to stay on Malfoy's face.

Scorpius wondered how he should act when Mr. Potter came over to the Manor for dinner. He knew how to act in the Manor with his father there (polite), and without him there (bored), and over at Mr. Potter's house (alert and interested), but he didn't know how to act when his two worlds crossed.

But Mr. Potter made it easy, when he stepped out of the fireplace into the dusty room where Scorpius had first found the way to his house, and smiled at Scorpius, and inquired, "Did you ever learn that Wronski Feint?"

Conversation just flowed like that all through dinner. Scorpius talked about Quidditch and Potions and the books Mr. Potter had lent him. He listened to his father talk about Slytherin and Potions and some things that didn't make much sense but must to Mr. Potter, from the way his eyes glinted, like dressing up as a Dementor. Scorpius interrupted to ask why anyone would want to dress up as a Dementor, but his father told him that everyone was entitled to be young and stupid once.

And then Mr. Potter murmured, "Even many times."

Dad's face underwent a weird change when Mr. Potter said that. Scorpius still didn't feel that he really understood, but he could classify that as boring adult stuff he didn't have to understand, the way he did with his grandparents' obsession with their ancestors, and go back to talking about Quidditch.

And then, after dinner, Mr. Potter showed him the Wronski Feint.

Scorpius discovered he was staring with his mouth open as Mr. Potter's broom climbed into the sun. And then he began to swoop right down to the ground, and Scorpius began to be sorry that he'd asked, because clearly this was going to kill Mr. Potter, and everyone would hate Scorpius for killing a hero.

But Mr. Potter managed it with a sweep that sounded like it burned the grass, and Scorpius yelled and cheered and clapped, joined with Dad's softer, more polite applause. Scorpius did turn to Dad at that, because he didn't see why Dad would applaud a Wronski Feint the way he would a boring speech at a party.

But he saw something in Dad's eyes that he'd never seen there before, as Mr. Potter wheeled back across the rising moon and Dad tilted his head back to watch him.

Scorpius didn't want to be young and stupid, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Draco frowned into the fire. Scorpius had fallen asleep on the couch beside him the way he had on the chair at Potter's house last month, and Potter had gone home as usual after dinner and some Quidditch, so there was no one to see the way he wrestled with himself.

A month. That was all it had been. Well, for him, that was all it had been. Scorpius had visited Potter longer than that, of course. They had spent time around each other that Draco still knew nothing about, at least not from the inside. He knew he wanted to know more about it, the way he wanted to spend more time around Potter.

Until today, he had been able to fool himself into thinking that he had enjoyed Potter's company for what it meant to his son, and because Potter was an influence entirely isolated from the office and all the work Draco had to do there. That was reason enough to seek him out and permit his company in the Manor, where Draco usually permitted almost no one.

But now...

Now he couldn't fool himself any longer. He had watched Potter touch down from his latest Quidditch flight and twitch his scarf back over his shoulders, laughing and speaking some inanity about keeping warm in the high, cold air to Scorpius.

He had watched it, and felt the fire leap up from its embers, the fire that he had last felt when he was courting Astoria.

With anyone else, he would have worried about potions introduced into his tea, about manipulations to get the notice of the world, or the Malfoy money, or political influence, or even him as a bed partner. But there was no doubting the desires that Potter had spoken of, how he wanted to be left alone and enjoy company on his own terms. And he had enough money and influence that he didn't need Draco's.

One of the few people who didn't. Almost the perfect person for Draco to be attracted to, if it came to that.

Except that I couldn't have picked a worse person, in all the hopes of having my affection returned, Draco mourned, and put his hands over his face. It's not as if there's any chance.

Harry waited, patiently, until the next time Malfoy came over alone. This time, Scorpius was sick and couldn't come, and they sat quietly and talked about Scorp for a while, about the way that he'd probably caught his fever from playing out in the cold and not coming in when his father told him to and studying instead of sleeping. Malfoy had had to forbid his son books at the table.

"Maybe he'll be Sorted into Ravenclaw," Harry teased, wanting to see Malfoy smile.

He did, but only briefly, and faced the fire again a minute later. Then he sneaked a glance at Harry, and when he caught Harry watching him, he turned away again, his face as red as an apple.

Harry had been looked at like that before. He knew what it meant.

He smiled, slowly, and stood up. Malfoy's attention snapped to him at once, and that was another sign. Harry walked over to him, equally as slowly, giving him a chance to back away if he wanted to. But Malfoy only sat there and stared at Harry as if he had no idea what was coming, which might be the truth, for all Harry knew.

He put one hand on Malfoy's shoulder, and saw the struggle Malfoy had not to lean his cheek or chin on it immediately. Harry nodded wisely. He had been pondering his own attraction for the last week or so, wondering if it was strong enough for him to act on it. The main thing that had kept him still was not being sure if it was returned. He had no wish to make Malfoy uncomfortable about spending time with him, not wanting to put Scorpius or his father in an untenable position.

But now...

Now he thought that all they needed was someone with a bit of courage around here, which it was undoubtedly his duty, as the resident Gryffindor, to provide.

He leaned in and kissed Malfoy on the mouth. He went in as slowly as he had walked over, giving Malfoy plenty of time to back away, but didn't exactly get the kiss he had been hoping for. It was like kissing a statue, in fact. Malfoy was sitting there in shock.

Harry pulled back and snapped his fingers near Malfoy's eyes, which made Malfoy stare up at him. Still in shock, but this was an improvement.

"Your friends will hate it," Malfoy whispered.

Harry shrugged. "My friends accept my choices, because they love me. They don't always understand them, but they do get there eventually."

"My parents will hate it."

"You can tell them that you've done your duty by them, had their grandchild. And you can even tell them that Scorpius's fortune will increase if I leave him some of mine. I might. You never know." Harry grinned.

"Society will hate it."

"Do you know how long it is since I read the Daily Prophet?"

Malfoy's mouth worked for a moment. Then he said, "Scorpius might hate it."

Harry let his smile fade, and nodded. "That's the objection that would carry the most weight with me. We'll have to ask him, and see what he says. But outside of that...do you hate it?"

Malfoy lunged out of his chair and wrapped his arms around Harry. This time, Harry got the kiss he'd been hoping for.

"Let me get this straight," said Scorpius, swinging his legs as he sat on the chair in Mr. Potter's library and looked from Mr. Potter to his father. "You want to live together and kiss a lot-" he made a face despite himself, because books were a lot more interesting "-and both pay attention to me?"

Dad nodded shortly. He cast a glance at Mr. Potter that Scorpius thought he knew how to read. It was the one Dad used when he didn't think something would work out. He had used to use it a lot with Scorpius's mum.

"You want to live in the Manor?" Scorpius cocked his head at Mr. Potter. "Or would we be living in your house?" He had to admit, he would like to have somewhere with the space of the Manor, but also the comfortable atmosphere of Mr. Potter's house. He would probably choose Mr. Potter's if he had to, though.

"There's a spell I've been looking up," Mr. Potter began, pulling a worn leather red book out of a bag he was carrying. Dad immediately rolled his eyes. Scorpius smiled. He liked the way Dad did that. "I think we might be able to create what's called a transcendent corridor between the houses, a sort of magical wizardspace that links them as if it was a room that belonged to both of them. We'd have to have some of your blood or Draco's, because you're descended from both the Black and Malfoy families, and there's no other way to convince the house wards to accept a hole in their defenses like that."

"But no one else would be able to use the space," said Dad, his eyes narrowed in a way that told Scorpius they had already discussed this. Otherwise, Mr. Potter would have had to use a lot more fast-talking to get around Dad's safety concerns. "Only those already accepted as visitors within the wards of both houses could access it."

Scorpius nodded appreciatively. "Isn't that blood magic, though, Mr. Potter?" He had read some books about blood magic that were pretty scary.

Mr. Potter gave him a blank look for a moment, then snorted. "Technically, yes, but it would be used for a minor, safe purpose. I gave up on believing something is bad simply because of the name years ago."

Dad closed his eyes at that. Scorpius decided not to point it out. He used to point out things like that when Dad did them with Mum or his grandparents, but Dad hadn't appreciated it.

"So you're asking if I would like this?" Scorpius swung his legs.

"Yes." Mr. Potter studied his face closely. "You don't have to lie. Say you don't, and we'll...work out something else."

"Are you mental?" Scorpius hopped up and ran over to hug Mr. Potter. "You make me happy, and you make Dad happy," he muttered into his old jumper. It smelled like magic. "I would be an idiot to say no."

"You could never be an idiot," said Mr. Potter.

"Scorpius, I've told you not to use that word," said Dad.

But Scorpius just nestled his face into the jumper, and grinned. It wasn't like his father was about to really scold him.

Draco gasped aloud as Harry crowded him back against the wall that led up to Draco's suite of rooms. Scorpius had already gone to bed or they would never have got this far, but still...

The sharp tingles that erupted along Draco's arms when he thought of having sex against the wall outside his bedroom told him this was definitely going to happen. He supposed the signs had been there all along, the more and more frequent heated glances between him and Harry, the way their hands had touched under the table tonight, and the way their feet had. But Scorpius's presence had restrained them, as it should. Draco shuddered to think what kind of parent would indulge in this foreplay in front of their child.

Now, though. Scorpius wasn't here.

And Harry was moving as boldly as he had when he initiated the kiss, sliding his hand into Draco's robes as though there was nothing in the way-he'd probably used a spell to bypass the cloth, a form of cheating Draco would have to speak to him very sharply about in the morning-and rubbing his fingers lightly up and down the head of Draco's cock. Draco gasped and let his head fall back against the wall.

Harry chuckled and maneuvered so that he could rub against Draco's thigh. His eyes were closed in bliss by the time Draco looked again.

But not as much as they could be, Draco thought, and through his own bliss, made his hand move. He grasped Harry's cock, and found that he was using both hands in seconds, grabbing at it as though he was starving.

Harry made an incoherent noise and opened his eyes. Draco leaned forwards, holding them.

"And don't you dare look away," he demanded, and began to pull. Harry twisted a little and brought his second hand down, too.

Then it was a race to see who could jerk each other off the fastest, Harry panting into his face, Draco panting into his. The cloth got in the way, Draco's arms trembled with the effort in seconds, the pleasure racing through him was distracting, and he knew they would both make a mess when they came.

Nothing in years had exhilarated him so much.

When he came, it was with the sight of Harry's eyes all but imprinted into the back of his skull, and his head ringing with the pace of his blood. Draco kept rubbing until he felt a wet explosion all over his hand, though, and then leaned in and formed a complicated twisting shape with Harry that kept them both on their feet.

"More than worth waiting for," Harry said, and kissed him on the ear.

Draco held him, unable to say anything else. His life had changed so much in the course of only six weeks, and when he thought back to what had been and might have continued-lonely lunches in the office, guilty snatched glances at other wizards, constant weariness, more worry over than pride in Scorpius-he knew what he owed Harry.

But it didn't feel like a debt, as they leaned into each other's arms. It felt like the course of a normal life, opening, and however fast it flew, Draco thought he would enjoy every moment.

The End.