At least one thing he had accused Potter of was untrue, Draco had to admit, as he watched Potter snap, "Triumph," at the obese portrait who guarded the Gryffindor common room. He did seem to care about his Slytherin students, even if it was only as innocent victims of Gryffindor pranks rather than as people in themselves. He strode into the lions' den with his robes swinging behind him as if he were riding the wings of a storm. That was a point on which Severus had managed to influence him, at least, Draco thought.

The chattering of the gathered students stopped at once, and several startled faces turned towards them. The startlement became even plainer when Draco climbed through the portrait after Potter. Draco wondered if it was his face or the Ministry emblem on the shoulder of his cloak that attracted the most attention.

"Sir?" a chubby boy probably in his fifth year asked as he climbed to his feet. He wasn't wearing his school uniform, but every bit of his casual clothing was in Gryffindor colors, Draco noted with a shudder. In fact, examining the others, he could see that this appeared to be a rather wide-spread plague. There was such a thing as too much House pride. Draco could recall people in his year who shouldn't have worn green and silver, either, though of course he looked smashing in either because he looked smashing in anything.

Potter glanced around the common room, his eyes seeming to linger especially on the stairs to the bedrooms and the stout armchairs, as if he wanted to make sure no one important was hiding. Then he nodded once. Turning to face the chubby boy again, he said, "I want you to fetch Rivers and Huntington-Smythe."

His face mystified, the boy nodded back and trotted away. Draco, suspicious by nature and accustomed to looking for the works of suspicion, saw the faces of several boys and a few girls off to the side of the room abruptly sprout expressions of pure panic. One of them stood up and started to edge towards the portrait.

Draco smiled at them and put his hand on his hip. The shuffler froze and then sat down again, looking resigned.

Two tall boys, probably seventh-years, came down the stairs behind the chubby one. Potter swung around to face them, and damn it, Draco's cock was again taking an interest that was entirely inappropriate.

Everyone knew he had split up with his wife because of a fight that had become too physical and too public. Not many people knew Julianna was absolutely irresistible when she was angry, and that Draco had an attraction both to angry people and to sex in public places. All the thoughts that should have calmed Draco down—such as the way Potter would probably react if he found out Draco was attracted to him and the fact that an entire common room full of students was staring nervously at them—only made him want to pant.

He clenched his fists at his sides and reminded himself that he was a professional. A Ministry employee. A worker for one of the most laid-back and under-used Departments in the Ministry.

But that last thought only reminded him of how long it had been since he'd seen any action, either physically or mentally, and that made him think of what kind of action Potter would probably get him into, and that made him want to moan. Draco bit firmly down on his lip and told himself to be quiet.

He blamed Potter's distracting fuckability entirely for what happened next.

The moment Rivers and Huntington-Smythe saw Harry, they tensed, and then their eyes flashed defiance, and they put their heads up and fastened false innocent expressions on their faces. Harry smiled grimly. He had thought they were the culprits: the organizer of Gryffindor's victory parties and his best friend, who had been one of the loudest students in objecting that it would not be "right" if Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup. The door and the space behind the Quidditch stands looked like something they'd do.

"I'm here to talk to you about a very serious matter," Harry said, seeing no reason to put it off any longer. His shaming them in front of their peers was perhaps the harshest punishment they could endure, unless McGonagall decided to expel them. "Namely, cheating at Quidditch. Cheating at Quidditch that almost cost lives."

The mouths of a few students had fallen open. Huntington-Smythe put a hand in his pocket. The cluster of people nearest the hearth, which included the Gryffindor team and a few people Harry had suspected at once of helping to devise the hexes, leaned in close together, and Harry could hear the sounds of furious whispering.

"I am beyond disappointed in you," Harry said, now speaking the words between gritted teeth. They were guilty, yes, and the very last hope he'd retained that maybe he'd been mistaken had vanished. "To try and disable Slytherin's team simply so you can win a Cup which is only a symbol of all the virtues Gryffindor House should stand for—"

Spells hit him from five directions. Harry flung an arm across his eyes to shield them from the light of a Dazzleburst Spell, swearing as he felt a Slicing Hex cut across his leg and something loud and noisy go past him with a whine like a Bludger. He should have anticipated this, but he'd never thought they'd attack a teacher.

Malfoy shouted, and Harry heard an enormous stampede of feet going past him towards the exit from the common room. Somehow, he managed to force his watering eyes open and move his legs, even the bleeding one. It was imperative that he stop those damn students of his before they could get in more trouble, or, worse, set up an ambush of some kind and take all the revenge they could on the Slytherins before being caught. It was the kind of thing Harry would probably have done.

Or the kind of thing my father would have done.

Malfoy shouted again behind him. This time, it had words in it. "Oi! Potter!"

Harry turned around with a curse, and found Malfoy tangled in an enormous spiderweb that seemed to have sprouted from the ceiling. Two of the girls who regularly came to watch the Quidditch practices had their wands aimed at him with scared but determined expressions on their faces. They were probably more afraid of a Ministry employee finding out their little secret than kindly Professor Potter, Harry thought.

"Raines!" he shouted as loudly as he could. "Golding! Put down your wands, now!"

None of these Gryffindor students had ever heard that voice, the voice Harry had reserved to scream the Cruciatus Curse at Carrow when he leaped to McGonagall's defense. They dropped their arms limply, and a moment later the web holding Malfoy dissolved. He dropped onto his rump. Harry would have found that funnier if his own leg wasn't oozing blood and his head wasn't filled with a mixture of rage and disbelief. He stepped forwards to help Malfoy up, keeping his eyes on Raines and Golding for only a moment. The next, he snapped his gaze about, daring anyone to meet it.

"Does anyone else want to challenge a professor in order to keep your little secret?" he asked. His palm was just itching for his wand. Of course McGonagall would be displeased if he cursed any of the students, but self-defense was a different matter. "Not that it will remain a secret for long," he added disdainfully. "And hexing a professor can earn you worse punishments than detentions."

There were tears in Raines's eyes now. She bowed her head and began to sob a moment later. "I told you we shouldn't have done that, Sara!" she yelled at Golding. "Now they're going to think we're all responsible! I don't w-want to be expelled!"

Harry smiled grimly. A crack in the wall of solid Gryffindor loyalty was what he had hoped for, the moment someone realized the seriousness of the situation. Raines was rather like Hermione, preferring to obey the rules when she could, although she'd break them for the sake of her friends. "Where did Rivers and Huntington-Smythe go, Raines?" he demanded.

Raines looked at him with misty eyes, sniffed once, and then said, "It was them, sir, mostly. I m-mean, we all covered when they wanted to go out to the stands early, and we helped research the spells, but they were the ones who c-cast them."

"Where are they now?" Harry lowered his voice, which he knew would sound more dangerous to Raines than full-out yelling.

She sniffed again, then said, "The d-dungeons, sir. There's a secret passage that leads out onto the grounds, a-and—"

"I know it," Harry said. Owning the Marauders' Map had more than one benefit. He looked impatiently at Malfoy. "You're fit to walk?"

"You look more as if you've been through the wars, Potter," Malfoy retorted, although he was rubbing his arse. He snatched his hand away when he noticed Harry watching. Harry bit his tongue to avoid telling him there was no need to stop the motion on his account. "I'm fine."

"Let's go, then."

Harry sprinted to the portrait, pausing only once to look over his shoulder and stare hard at everyone who tried to meet his eye. Their heads lowered. A few trembled. Some of the younger students had joined Raines in crying.

"I am very, very disappointed in all of you," Harry finished, and leaped past the Fat Lady with a flourish.

Draco never even considered turning back until Potter was pounding along one of the dungeon corridors—the one that led to the Slytherin common room—and he realized that he should probably leave the cornering of desperate Gryffindor students up to the Gryffindor Hero. But he was having too much fun to think of turning back now—nothing like this ever happened on a normal investigation for the Ministry—and Potter didn't look back to suggest he should. His face was set in grim lines, as if all he could think about was his students' perfidy.

Draco certainly hoped it was all he could think about. The nerve of attacking two adults, really! And the nerve of binding the heir to the House of Malfoy up in a web! Draco was only sorry that he was no longer their age and could not take a really satisfying revenge on them. He could hope to see them expelled, though.

Potter was counting stones under his breath by the sound of it, or maybe steps. Draco kept pace with him easily; the corridor was now wide enough for two to run together. Potter abruptly spun to the side and clapped his hand against the wall, drawing his wand at the same time.

"Together, Malfoy!" he shouted. "Cast Tergeo with me on the count of three!"

Draco opened his mouth to ask why in the world they needed to cast that spell, and then snapped it shut again when Potter glared intensely at him. He swallowed, and felt his knees wobbling. Yes, all right, Potter could get almost anything he wanted out of Draco by staring at him like that. Not that Draco was about to let him know this, of course.

He stepped up beside Potter and drew his wand. Potter gestured impatiently, so Draco put his hand on the wall, too. Then Potter counted to three, his voice rising from a bass growl to an open shout and making Draco wonder what other words would sound like if said in the same voice, when counting sounded so sexy.

"Tergeo!"

The magic flowed past them and collided with the wall in a series of blistering sparks, which made Draco duck; that was certainly not a normal result of a cleaning spell, at least so far as he knew. He brought his head up, panting, and then stared as he realized that he was peering into a tunnel that stretched away lengthwise from the dungeons for only a few steps before it plunged into the earth. The cleaning spell had scrubbed the stones blocking it away as if they had never existed.

"Come on!" Potter barked, and then hurtled into the tunnel. Draco took the time to prudently cast a Lumos charm on the end of his wand before he followed. Potter might know every step of this dismal, damp place by heart, but Draco didn't.

But it didn't take familiarity with this specific tunnel to know there was something very wrong with the sulfurous smell drifting past them.

Harry flung himself flat before he could say why he had done so. Then he consciously recognized the smell and swore as he realized Malfoy was still on his feet, peering down the tunnel and looking slightly ill.

"Malfoy, you great—" Harry gave up on scolding that wouldn't do any good anyway, and on warnings likewise—Malfoy would probably consider it his Slytherin duty to stay on his feet and investigate the mystery Harry didn't want him to investigate; no wonder he had become a Ministry inspector—and rolled sideways instead, knocking his shoulder into Malfoy's legs.

Malfoy went down with a yelp. Harry caught and cradled him so at least he didn't bump his head on the floor.

Evidently, the Slytherin custom was to interpret someone trying to save you as a murder attempt. Malfoy went mad, flailing and lashing out with his arms and legs as if that would prevent Harry from strangling him. Harry ducked, shielding his head with one arm, and got an elbow in the ear for his pains.

Deciding that this was useless, Harry grabbed Malfoy's arm and imprisoned it next to his side. Malfoy tried to smack him with the other one, with the result, probably unintended, that the hawthorn wand jabbed Harry in the eye.

Harry hissed a word which would have made Remus look at him in shock and rolled again, this time pinioning Malfoy firmly beneath him on the floor of the tunnel. Malfoy opened his mouth as though he were going to shout for help, or probably bite, and then closed it again as an enormous whoosh of brimstone-smelling flame went over their heads.

"Oh," Malfoy said, a lifetime later, when darkness and silence had returned to the tunnel, except for the glow of his wand and their rapid breathing.

Harry, left eye still tightly shut, nodded shortly. He took a few more moments to rest before he decided that he could probably let Malfoy go. Then he sat back, saying, "They're more desperate than I thought, setting up the Dragonsbreath spell to—"

His breath caught. Malfoy was looking up at him in a dazed fashion, and his glasses were caught by one earpiece around his face, just barely kept from falling off. One eye was covered by a lens and one was not. He looked ridiculously vulnerable, and Harry experienced the most powerful rush of longing he'd ever felt since deciding that glasses on a man were one of his things.

"What is it?" Malfoy whispered. Harry supposed his expression must have looked rather strange.

"N-nothing," Harry said, and then his voice cracked and Malfoy's expression became suspicious. It still didn't render him less vulnerable, of course, because nothing was going right for Harry today. Now he looked like a kitten arching its back at a dog big enough to swallow it whole. Harry closed his eyes and held his body very still so he wouldn't embarrass himself further, and reached out to readjust Malfoy's glasses.

"Your spectacles were sliding off," he whispered, and felt them settle back into place on Malfoy's ears with a sigh of relief. Opening his eyes proved the distracting sight erased, and the less distracting one of Malfoy back to normal.

"Fascinating," Malfoy said. "Do you always sit on someone and stare at him like he's edible when that happens?"

Harry could feel his face flushing. He forced himself to his feet and glanced down the tunnel, speaking the variant on the Lumos charm that would send a long beam of light stabbing out from his wand. He couldn't identify any more traps, though, no matter how he swept the light back and forth. He sighed in mingled relief and anger. There shouldn't have beenany traps in the first place.

Better run, he thought, addressing Rivers and Huntington-Smythe. They don't have words for how you're going to suffer when I catch you.

He looked over his shoulder. Malfoy was on his feet again, but swaying. Harry cleared his throat. "You all right?"

"Yeah." Malfoy peered at him myopically. Harry damned himself for finding even that cute. "You probably saved my life."

Harry shrugged. "Saving Slytherins is my new motif this year," he said, and broke into a trot down the tunnel. He knew where this emerged, and the culprits could hide for hours in the bracken on the edge of the Forbidden Forest if he didn't catch them soon.

"That's not the right use of that word—"

Harry relaxed, a little. Malfoy seemed to have forgotten the way Harry stared at him, and that was all to the good.

Draco stared at Potter's back, then shook his head. How was he supposed to keep track of all the thoughts running through that confused mind?

He was angry enough that he hadn't seen the Dragonsbreath spell coming. Of course, though it was the kind of thing seventh-year students might learn, it wasn't the kind of thing most adults could envision them using. Draco wondered idly if they were dealing with hardened criminals who would do anything to keep from being exposed, or simply panic-stricken teenagers using magic with no thought of real consequences.

Almost certainly the latter. But you are not a teenager with no thought of the consequences, so shape up!

Draco nodded firmly to himself, and did not aim his wand so he could get a better glimpse of Potter's robe-clad arse as it switched along before him. It was just coincidence that the Lumos charm revealed that so well.

At last they reached a set of stone steps leading upwards. Potter crouched and stretched his arms above his head, heaving a block of earth out of the way. A moment later, they were standing on a patch of flattened ground near the lake which Draco had probably walked over hundreds of times during his years at Hogwarts. He shook his head in bewilderment.

"How long do you think this has been here, Potter?" he murmured.

"For at the last thirty years, at any rate," Potter muttered, and began walking slowly forwards, his wand twitching as he cast several locater spells. None of them produced results, of course. Draco could have told him that. Someone sophisticated enough to time-delay the Dragonsbreath spell would be beyond such simple techniques.

"Do I wantto know how you know that?" he asked in resignation.

Potter turned and, unexpectedly, grinned at him. "Now, now, Malfoy. We Gryffindors have to have some secrets, too."

Draco was not so distracted by the smile that he didn't notice the glint of something bright and glassy moving in the bushes not far from them. He yelped and directed his wand at it before he thought better of the impulse, casting a Shield Charm in front of Potter.

A wash of pure white light hit the Shield Charm, blinding Draco temporarily. He knew what it was, though: the Mirror Reflected, a curse that could only be cast with the accompaniment of an actual mirror, and which brought out a blast of heat even worse than that caused by the Dragonsbreath spell. Draco yelped again and threw more strength into the Shield, holding it as steady as possible, whilst the magic in the Mirror Reflected beat as steadily as a wave against his own power.

It died shockingly fast, leaving the lakeshore in the fleeting May sunlight to seem as dark as the inside of the tunnel had. Draco blinked hard, waving a hand up and down in front of his eyes as if that could clear the afterimages away.

Potter was standing stock-still just beyond a scorched bare patch of earth, staring at the parched dirt and the fall of ashes that had replaced the normal grass and mud. Then he jerked around to stare at Draco in turn. Draco blinked at him.

Potter said, "You saved my life," and there was something still and solemn and not grudging at all in his voice. He looked at Draco as if he wouldn't be able to take his eyes away any time soon.

Then his gaze lit with a savage rage, and the impact hit Draco like the Hogwarts Express. Potter was as dangerous, in that moment, as the dragons from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, crouched over their eggs. He turned around and stared in the direction the spell had come from.

"When I catch Rivers and Huntington-Smythe," he said softly, "they are dead." And he began to run, whipping his wand up and down in what Draco could only assume was a more complicated locater spell. He certainly seemed to know where he was going.

Draco scrambled after Potter, dazed and filled with too many emotions to take in.

The two delinquents were leading them on a merry chase, looping back towards the castle on a convoluted route Harry knew he couldn't have bettered with a broom. They must be wearing Disillusionment Charms to leave no more trace of their passage than an occasional footprint, Harry thought in frustration. He had shot a few nonverbal Finite Incantatems ahead of them, but not hit anyone yet. He swore under his breath and continued to run. Sooner or later, the charms would fade, or the students would come in range of another professor and Harry could call for help.

They would be expelled for certain, and would be lucky not to go to Azkaban. Cheating at Quidditch was one thing; endangering the lives of a professor and a Ministry inspector was something else.

Young idiots, Harry thought, with a trace of pity. The worst thing in the world they can imagine is discovery, so they employ extreme measures that they would know didn't make sense if they just sat down and thought. I ought to know.

Abruptly, he paused and crouched down, staring at the dirt in front of him. He had thought something was odd about the trail for some moments, but now he was certain. Only one set of footprints led the way forwards. Probably Rivers'; he was the taller and heavier. Huntington-Smythe had separated from his friend and disappeared on them. Apparently the young idiots hadn't been too panicked to plan after all. Harry drew his breath to swear.

Something hit him in the back. As seemed to be the theme of the day, Harry rolled with the motion, briefly burying his face in the dirt and probably destroying that one clear remnant of Rivers' trail. He came up yelling for Malfoy.

And then he just stared with his mouth open, because Huntington-Smythe was hovering above him on a broom he must have liberated from the Quidditch shed, clutching Malfoy by the collar of the cloak and holding a wand to his throat. His face looked young and terrified.

"Don't come any nearer, Professor Potter!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I—I know dangerous spells!"

Harry narrowed his eyes, but didn't let the boy see that he was at all intimidated. After the curses he and Malfoy had encountered, he didn't doubt Huntington-Smythe knew dangerous spells. The point was to keep him from using them on Malfoy. Harry cast a nonverbal Summoning Charm, concealing the movement with his body, and then spoke in a calm voice. "We can discuss this like rational adults, Edward, can't we? You're of age now, after all. Come down here and we'll talk about it."

The reminder that he could potentially go to Azkaban for this rather than just receive a scolding seemed to double Huntington-Smythe's panic. He shook his head wildly and tightened his hold on Malfoy, whose robe collar had to be choking him. Harry caught Malfoy's eye and tried to nod reassuringly, but he couldn't tell if he made any impression, and he couldn't risk a more open signal; that would tip the boy off that Harry intended to help his prisoner.

"We aren't discussing anything!" the boy yelled now. "We just—I want you to throw down your wand! Now!"

Under the circumstances, Harry had no problem following this command. Raising his hands, he stooped down slowly and laid the wand on the grass in front of him. Huntington-Smythe's confidence seemed to have increased when Harry rose to his feet again. Harry was glad of that; he didn't want Malfoy injured in the way all those Slytherin students had been.

"That's right," the boy muttered. His Gryffindor tie flapped in the breeze behind him. "You know we can't let you report this to anyone, right?"

"Murder me and they'll be hunting you for the rest of your life," Harry said quietly, not out of bravado but out of sheer knowledge of how the British wizarding public would react to news of his death.

"It won't cometo that," said Huntington-Smythe sharply. "Just a few Memory Charms, and everything'll be squared away." He looked over Harry's shoulder. "As soon as Phillip gets here, then—"

But the CometStar broom Harry had Summoned got there first, soaring out of the Quidditch shed, which Harry knew Huntington-Smythe would have had to leave unlocked. The shaft smacked into his hand, and he wasted only one moment shooting a wicked grin at the astonished idiot above him before he kicked off from the ground.

In the air, he was master of the situation with or without a wand, and Huntington-Smythe knew it. He was already backing his own broom away wildly, making weird noises in his throat, and then he shot upwards with no obvious plan, hauling Draco after him like the tail of some oddly-shaped comet. Harry followed, bent over his broom and with his hands itching to grab Huntington-Smythe's cloak the way they'd grabbed many a Snitch.

He saw almost at once that it wouldn't be so easy. With the way the boy was fleeing from him, catching his broom or his clothes and trying to stop him with a quick tug would just make him lose his hold on Draco. And he was darting all over the Pitch now, trying stupid and outlandish maneuvers that had no place in a Quidditch game. Harry couldn't win this contest by thinking like the Gryffindor Seeker.

Maybe I could win it by trusting a Slytherin, though. Draco was a fine Quidditch player in his day, even if not up to my level.

Harry dropped down and then shot forwards, under Huntington-Smythe, causing the boy to miss him when he looked over his shoulder. For a moment, his broomstick slowed in sheer surprise.

Harry rose up then, smoothly, speedily, giving himself no time to think about what a stupid idea this was. Wind ripped through his hair, along the corners of his eyes—wetting them with tears—and across his cheeks, flushing them to bright and stinging redness. Harry didn't let it stop him. Up and up and up, and his hands were digging into the wood and his knuckles hurt and his throat burned and he couldn't believe how coldit was and still he aimed not for Huntington-Smythe but for the man dangling and choking from his hand.

He came up beside him at last, with his head pounding so hard that the gathering darkness of the sky and the ground seemed intermingled, and yelled as loudly as he could, "Draco! Porskoff Ploy!"

He was in time to see understanding, and then grim resignation, flash across Draco's face. Harry leaned across his broom and extended one hand as steadily as he could, waiting.

He's an idiot, Draco thought. And I am one, and the boy holding me still another.

He wasn't sure he had much choice, though. He'd seen how careless these students were with others' lives. The collar of his robe was cutting into his neck, and had already ripped in two places. Better to trust his life to Potter, and at least make a dramatic ending of it if he didn't survive, then wait to see what dangerous stupidity as yet unaccomplished lurked in the brains of seventh-year Gryffindors.

He jerked hard, once to the left and once to the right, ripping his collar's remaining seams. At the same moment, he pushed off hard from the broom. The Porskoff Ploy was a Quidditch move by means of which a Chaser flying upwards tossed the Quaffle to another Chaser beneath him. In this case, since the boy wouldn't really help him, Draco would just have to be both Chaser andQuaffle.

He fell.

The ground and the sky whirled dizzily around him, the sight nearly enough to make him sick up, and for a moment he wondered why in the world Potter had assumed he could do this. Then he remembered that he had been a Quidditch player himself, and no doubt Potter was counting on that to let him keep his head.

Besides, he was a Gryffindor who liked to save Slytherins. He probably assumed the Slytherin could help save himself when he was the same age, though.

His hand slapped, incredibly, into Potter's, and Draco immediately coiled himself towards the broom the other man was riding, desperate to swing his leg over it. One failed attempt, and for a moment his body seemed heavier than it ever had, swinging wildly beneath the broom. Draco resolved in an instant to stop eating so many rich dinners, a promise he knew he wouldn't keep once he was back on the ground.

If he reached it in one piece, anyway.

And then Potter, wonderful imbecile that he was, turned his broom upside-down, gripping it only with his knees, and briefly released Draco's hand, and then took hold of both his shoulders before he could fall more than a few inches, and yelled, "On the count of three!"

"You're crazy!" Draco shrieked back at him.

"One!"

"I'm not doing this!"

"Two!"

"St. Mungo's has a ward for people like you!"

"Three!"

And Draco flipped himself up behind and around Potter, reaching with his legs and screaming the entire time, whilst Potter near-deafened him with his whoops and hollers, so that the Pitch was full of the noise of them being a pair of very cheerful maniacs together.

Wood smacked into Draco's knee, and then into his ear, somehow, making it ring. He snatched a hold on the bristles and then on the shaft. For a moment he hung, gasping, as Potter wheeled the broom right-side up. Draco scrambled in an undignified fashion and pulled himself, finally, upright, sitting behind Potter. He immediately looped his arms around the other man's waist. After all the flopping about he'd done that afternoon, he was more than grateful for a secure hold.

Potter zoomed in a circle, yelling at the early moon, punching his fist in the air with every single noise. Draco would have told him to shut up and behave himself, but he was far too busy screaming himself, in relief and gratitude and the sheer fucking joy of being alive.

McGonagall had listened in tight-lipped silence to the entire story of Rivers and Huntington-Smythe, the students in the Gryffindor common room who had supported them, and the secret area behind the Gryffindor Quidditch stands. Then she had bowed her head. Harry maintained a respectful silence for some moments. It must hurt seeing her House—even though she hadn't been Head of Gryffindor House since the war, she still took a special interest in the Gryffindor students, Harry knew—sink to such a level.

"They'll be expelled, of course," the Headmistress said heavily at last, opening her eyes. "Huntington-Smythe will have to come to ground eventually; I'll alert the Aurors to be on the lookout for him. And Rivers is probably already back in Gryffindor Tower." She shook her head, and Harry thought, from the expression in her eyes, that the stupidityof everything the boys had done struck her even more than the moral turpitude of it. "What punishment the others deserve will have to wait for the gathering of evidence." She inclined her head to Draco; Harry found it hard to call someone whose life he had saved and who had saved his life and who had cooperated with him on the broom in the air like that by his last name. "Thank you, Inspector Malfoy, for uncovering the danger to our students in a timely manner."

"I live to serve."

Draco was almost the prissy Malfoy again, Harry thought. And yet he had seen those glasses—which hadn't fallen off, somehow, despite all their gymnastics in the air—covering gray eyes sparkling with joy. Things couldn't be the same between them as they had been when Malfoy sent that arrogant owl yesterday.

"Rather," McGonagall said, and turned towards her hearth. "Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have some unpleasant Floo calls to make."

Harry stood and held the door open for Draco. He paused as he stepped through it and tilted his head back to stare at Harry.

Harry returned the look, feeling his heartbeat quicken.

They were silent on the ride down the moving staircase, but the moment they reached the corridor outside the gargoyle, Harry couldn't take it anymore. He tapped Draco on the shoulder. Draco turned around to look at him again, raising a hand to push up his glasses, which had slid down his nose.

And maybe it was stupid and maybe it was just adrenaline and maybe it was because of those glasses, but Harry couldn't wait any longer, even if it would get him punched in the mouth for his pains. He leaned forwards, cupping his hands around Draco's face, and kissed him.

Draco did not object. Instead, his arms clamped around Harry's waist as if he had been waiting for this, and he sagged against the wall, murmuring fervent, half-broken words that Harry couldn't hear, his fingers exploring Harry's ribs and then sliding beneath his robes.

Harry spared a moment's thought for the fact that they were in a well-traversed corridor and someone could come by any moment. Then he decided his students had caused him enough heart attacks for one day and he could damn well cause them some, and pressed closer to Draco, shifting so that their groins were aligned.

Damn. Damn. How did he know that I like needy sex in public places? Is he a Legilimens? Has Severus been teaching him? Has—

Draco's half-hysterical maunderings about how much information that Prophet article on his last fight with Julianna might have contained vanished as he felt Potter's erection grind against his. He groaned aloud, and once again Potter's tongue was in his mouth, where it was most welcome. His hands slipped and slid on sweaty skin. Draco clamped them on Potter's hips to give himself a good position and pushed back, thrusting hard, trying to separate the sensations of flesh sliding and catching on his own from cloth sliding and catching on the tip of his cock. He was uncomfortably pinned, exactly where he wanted to be, and the half-painful friction had just increased, and oh God, his brain would begin dribbling out his ears any moment.

Potter pressed in until Draco knew he would have bruises on his spine from the wall, his breath puffing out erratically and bathing Draco's ears in wet warmth. His hips were slamming into Draco's now, and though most of the noises they made weren't audible beyond the two of them, Draco knew someone coming around the corner would see in an instant what they were doing.

I don't care, he thought, I don't care, and he clasped a hand behind Potter's neck between one thrust and the next and clamped his fingers down.

Potter gasped and tossed his head back, his lower body still driving forwards with exactly the weight and relentlessness Draco wanted. His eyes were unfocused and green, green, green. They surpassed the memories Draco had of Julianna. Even when she agreed to have sex with him in a place where they could easily be caught, she had always retained an awareness and wariness of her surroundings. Potter looked as though the entirety of Slytherin House could have marched past him naked and he wouldn't have noticed.

A moment later, though, Potter's eyes snapped open, and he grinned wickedly at Draco. And then he was on his knees, and his wand, which he had made sure to retrieve from the Quidditch Pitch after their wild ride, flicked once, and Draco's buttons undid themselves neatly. Potter simply dragged his cock straight out and fastened his mouth around it.

God, there was wetness everywhere, as Potter tried to swallow too much of him at once, choked, and then went right on trying. His mouth was full of pre-come, saliva, and what Draco liked to think of as liquid moans, with more dribbling down his chin every time he parted his lips. Draco had to close his eyes, because the sensation was sexier that way anyway, and if he was looking at Potter's barely-focused green eyes and shifting, moving jaws, he'd come too soon.

Not that he wasn't about to totally embarrass himself, with the way his body was tensing, his hips pausing for a moment and then moving with hard, instinctive rapidity, his blood and his orgasm boilingup out of his belly—

He came, flooding Potter's mouth. And then he had to open his eyes and watch it dribble down Potter's cheeks. He clearly hadn't been ready for it, and even though he managed to swallow most of it, some of it ran down his robes and puddled on the stone floor near Draco's feet.

Draco, trembling, slid down the wall, the better to shift into a position that would allow him to plunge his hand into Potter's pants. Potter lay back on his elbows, eyes half-closed, hips rising lazily into Draco's palm. He moved as if he could do this all day, relaxed and confident, to the point where Draco thought he might be ready for another round before Potter came.

Then Potter made a tiny noise and tossed his head back, his throat tensing and his jaw clenching, and Draco felt his hand sprayed with wetness. He drew it out slowly, wiping some of the come on Potter's robes and some on the floor, liking the look of it there beside his.

Potter moved dreamily to cast a few cleaning spells, and then knelt up and kissed Draco again, with his hands cupping his face and fingers feathering along his jaw as if he were precious. Draco kissed back, his eyes frequently fluttering shut, even though he had no idea what would happen next.

"What was that?" he asked at last, pulling back from Potter. He knew what it had been for him—fantastic sex along with the chance to fulfill one of his kinks—but he had no idea what had prompted Potter to pounce him like that.

"Fantastic sex," Potter said, in a voice only a few steps above a purr, wrenching a grin out of Draco. "With the potential for more." He leaned back and studied Draco questioningly, eyes so bright that any comparison with Julianna's burned to ash forever in Draco's mind.

"Why not?" Draco murmured and leaned forwards to kiss Potter's neck, just to see how it tasted. "We can see where it goes from here."

Harry leaped three of the steps down to the dungeon and landed hard enough to jar his hip. He heard Draco laughing at him in his head, saying Harry wasn't sixteen years old anymore and should remember that.

Harry grinned and ran on. He had been limber enough to satisfy Draco last night, and he was still great on brooms—of all kinds—and that was what mattered to him right now.

Well, that and one other thing.

Remus was in Snape's quarters as usual. He'd spent most of the last weekend with Harry, helping him to get through the difficult burden of testifying in Rivers' and Huntington-Smythe's trials. Both had wound up with short terms in Azkaban, their wands broken, and three other Gryffindor students had been expelled from Hogwarts. Rivers and Huntington-Smythe had run a betting pool in addition to disabling Slytherin students so they wouldn't win the Quidditch Cup; evidently they'd taken wagers on what would happen any time they used a particular spell, death or injury.

It had only been Gryffindor involved in the scheme after all, with no participation from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. Their Quidditch team had been removed from the running for the Quidditch Cup. Harry had been faint with disgust and disappointment. It didn't help that Draco had been absent last weekend for some kind of party at the Manor, the first time he hadn't been able to visit Harry on Saturday since they had begun their own "thing."

Slytherin was now sure to win the Quidditch Cup, and Harry had to admit they fully deserved it.

But now--

Harry paused only long enough to check that Snape's door was indeed unwarded before he flung it open and yelled, "Remus!"

Snape jumped like a scalded cat. Once again the cauldron overflowed and steaming red liquid poured along the floor. This time, Harry thought he saw it eat a few of the stones away before Snape waved his wand to contain the mess. Then he turned around with a stare that would have made Harry quail, except that he had Draco upstairs, sexy and sated and ready for the next round to begin as soon as he got back.

That was the potion to restore my voice, the predictable words said on Snape's parchment. Nearly complete this time.

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "Sorry. But is it really my fault that you're still not locking your door when you should be?"

If you knew what months of work you have ruined, Potter, what expeditions to gather blue spider eggs by the light of the full moon, what rarity of phoenixes' tears I shall not see again, what—

"Is Remus in the bedroom again?" Harry peered towards the closed door into Snape's private quarters. "Huh. Well, all right, then. Can you just tell him that Draco's agreed to get a house in Hogsmeade so we can live together?" Harry began to dance in place, grinning madly, unable to find any other way of containing his joy.

Snape's eyes narrowed. You know he is only here to indulge his own taste for exhibitionism. The moment he discovers you have little else to offer in the name of brains or companionship, he will desert you.

Harry gave him a patient look. "You really don't know him at all if you think that's the case. Besides, I'm very versatile. Who do you think has been checking out all the books on esoteric sex from the library? The ones you and Remus haven't already swiped, at least," he added as an afterthought.

Potter, if you do not get out of my rooms this instant—

"This is your office," Harry pointed out, anxious to help Snape achieve verbal precision. "God help me if I ever enter your rooms. You can give up any thoughts of a foursome, by the way. Draco is enough possessive, greedy Slytherin for me."

Snape began to stalk forwards. Harry eyed his expression for a moment, then the long ebony wand in his hand.

"Well," he said brightly, "only wanted to tell someone the good news. See you later!" And he fled, the door shutting viciously behind him.

Harry walked exactly three sedate steps—after all, it was rather ridiculous for the Hogwarts flying instructor to behave like a child—before he gave in and began running again. Draco was upstairs. He had agreed to make their little fling semi-permanent. And he might have muttered that he loved Harry before he drifted off to sleep this afternoon.

Harry was eager to see if he could make him say it again.

The End.