At home

Sum: When Lucius is accused of stealing a dead man's property, Harry finds out his parents' love for each other isn't as perfect as he thought. 'Home' gets a whole different meaning when James' home turns out to be none other than Lucius Malfoy.

AN: Harry is merely a spectator here, so excuse me if there's a lack of response from our ever-so-beloved raven.

"What exactly are we doing here again?" Harry runs his eyes over all the people he knows—all the pupils from his class, and professor McGonagall—everyone else looks unfamiliar, except for the minister, and Dumbledore, one of the known judges of the Wizengamot.

He's been in this room two times before. Once, in a memory of Albus Dumbledore, for the trial of Barty Crouch Junior, and once for his own. Hermione has told him what they are doing there, more than ten times already, and McGonagall has been preparing them for this trip for weeks. Of course no strict date had been set, but she'd explained the procedure, and had pressed the fact that they were to remain absolutely quiet.

"We're here to see how a trial at the ministry of magic works," Hermione repeats, and Ron's eyes keep fixed on the doors—the defendant will come through those soon enough, "it will help us prepare in case any of us ever has a run in with the law. It's part of our education."

Malfoy looks down-right furious and Harry wonders why—instead of asking anything else he studies the faces of the Wizengamot. Some of the students are shifting in their chairs—some have the misfortune of being placed behind a rather long adult, their heads blocking their views. Harry will be able to see all the action—he can even see the chains on the armrests wriggle in anticipation. He's been on that chair, and really, he almost feels sorry for whoever is to sit on it next.

Then the doors open, and a tall man is escorted into the room by two Aurors—Harry knows immediately why Malfoy seems so angry, and every Hogwarts student gasps like one man—McGonagall's eyes widen and she hides her mouth behind her hand, opened in a quiet 'o'. She had no clue of who the defendant would be, but there he is, in all his glory: Lucius Malfoy.

His robes look slightly battered, but still in perfect condition, his hair combed backwards and tied into a deep-green ribbon. He still looks decisively handsome, even though Harry figures he must have been in Azkaban for at least some days.

He brushes the Aurors off with such superiority it's nearly scary. Without a mere glance at his public he sits down on the chair in the middle of the room, crosses his legs and looks right up at his interrogator, Amelia Bones. The witch studies him through her thick glasses and stands. The students move in their seats to get a good look at the oldest Malfoy. Icy silence rules the room.

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, you know why you are here today in front of the Wizengamot?" the witch speaks loud and clear, her voice echoing through the room.

"Actually," Lucius gives a fake-apologetic smile, "I'm not sure."

"Exactly one week ago at the annual run-through in the Auror-department, an oddity was found in the case of the 31st of October. You know which case I am talking about?"

"Well, I suppose," he pauses to think, and Harry feels his heart fail, 31st October? "The Potter murders."

"Indeed," the woman glances down at her parchment, seemingly reading through, "in the mission report it says that, around the neck of one James Ignotus Potter, there was a necklace found. His finger held a ring that was not, his wedding ring."

"Oh?" Lucius quirks an eyebrow, folding his hands, his elbows on the armrest—ignoring the small rattle of the chains.

"Both the ring as the necklace bared the Malfoy crest. At the raid of Malfoy Mansion this Monday, a drawer was unlocked and one item baring the Potter crest was recovered: one ring. When we searched your persons, you were wearing a necklace baring the Potter crest as well," the witch's eyes try to bore into Lucius'—but the blonde stares back unblinkingly, "can you explain what those jewels were doing with Mister Potter? Why those items—rightfully belonging to Harry James Potter, James Ignotus Potter's heir—were in your house?"

"They weren't Harry's," Lucius' eyes flit to the left, only for a second—and Harry thinks maybe he has scanned the room in that one instant—before he looks back at his questioner, "they were given to me as a gift before Mister Potter passed away—therefore rightfully mine."

"You want us to believe that you and Mister Potter—who from what this court understand, were not the closest friends—exchanged such precious gifts?"

Harry turns to Hermione—what makes one necklace precious? Though, really, he has no idea why his father would give Malfoy's dad anything to begin with. Hermione whispers: "exchanging crests in a sign of a strong companionship, a means to express extreme affection," then shushes him.

"They weren't exchanged per say," the blonde turns to the door, his hair moving and glimmering in the dim light, then turns back, "they were given on four different occasions, at four different times. Each gift had no real relation to the other. For example, one was…"

"Mister Malfoy," the witch pushes her glasses up her nose, bending forward slightly, "can you please, begin at the beginning."

"The beginning?" Lucius frowns—as if this is a very stupid thing to ask of him, and he doesn't wish to concede in it longer than necessary—he shifts in his chair, then smiles, "well I suppose it all began when I found out about Potter's friend. Apparently Remus John Lupin had one very furry secret, and I was one to accidentally stumble upon it. I planned on blackmailing Mister Potter—ever the loyal Gryffindor he is—exchanging my silence for anything I might possible want from him. When I contacted him about this, oh he was quite startled," Lucius laughs—looking to all of them as if he isn't on trial, as if whatever he says next doesn't make or break his freedom, "he believed I wanted a more… fleshly reward," he chuckles, and Harry can see by the look in everyone's eyes that they know exactly what he means, "but then again, he was right."

Harry's eyes widen and everyone gasps—the witch nearly trips over her feet as she flops back into her chair in surprise.

"You tried to trade your silence for sex?" she whispers, hushed and briefly forgetting she is interrogating the man before her—she sounds as if she is talking to her best friend, a young teen who has the latest gossip.

Lucius, never loosing the businesslike tone in his voice, nods, and continues: "not only did I try—I succeeded. It was very nice too, though I'm sure that's not relevant. Of course it could have been the fact that there is one word, two letters, that means nothing whatsoever to Mister Potter or myself: no."

"Mister Malfoy…" the old woman batters her eyelashes rapidly, at a loss of words, "is there any sort of…"

"Evidence?" Lucius chuckles again, "well of course I knew I would need some of it to be able to prove that all four objects were at their rightful place. You think I robbed a dead man and I am here to prove you wrong. I have a set of memories just for you, if you wish. Unfortunately they are the only prove I can offer you."

The witch nods and leans back in her chair—Harry sees the minister and another wizard lean in, and he knows they're discussing this 'prove'. Harry hopes it's a lie but he doesn't know that yet. Lucius sits in silence, and Harry thinks maybe he's afraid to look at anything but the witch in front of him—maybe Lucius isn't as strong as Harry's always thought him to be. Maybe he's frail on the inside. But when he meets the Minister's stare dead-on, Harry knows he's not.

"We are willing to take the memories as prove, but only if they are shown here, in front of the whole Wizengamot," the witch speaks, and she indicates for an Auror to step forward, closer to the blonde, "do you agree to these terms?"

"Of course," Lucius reaches into his pockets, fiddling for a moment before bringing out a small vile—all eyes are on him and they never leave—when Lucius Malfoy is in the room, all eyes are always on him. It's an unspoken rule that will never be broken.

He hands the Auror the vial, and the man uncorks it with a soft pop. Hermione is fascinated, and Harry can see it on her face, as liquid spills from it. Instead of splattering to the floor it rises up and clouds the whole room, as smoke would, except that it's thick. Harry can see it, but he can't feel it, and suddenly he's all alone—as is every other person—in an old room. A dungeon, where a ravenhead is working by a table. He realises he's in the memory then and there, and when he turns to the side, so is the entire council, so is every student.

"I should begin, at the beginning," Lucius' voice says—but he's not there, the chair gone.

James Potter works at his potion—his hands grasp something slimy and chopped-up, and he flinches at the feel but disposes it in the cauldron anyway. He grasps a handful of powder and reaches for a glass measuring cup. There is a shadow of a man in the doorway.

"I know," the ice-cold voice obviously startles James, the glass falls and breaks, the powder evaporates in the air as both hands release in shock and he spins on his heel.

"Malfoy?" his eyes try to focus on the figure, and they can see them straining—it's dark and his table is only lit with the fire under his cauldron and a few candles.

He doesn't reply, and James' fists clench.

"You startled me," he says, as if suddenly deciding he can be friendly, if only he wants to be, "what do you want?"

"Well, seeing as it's just you and me I thought that would be clear," he steps from the shadow and reveals himself—black jeans, tucked-in shirt and undone waistcoat, his robes floating around his figure, following his every move, "I want you."

"Don't play games with me," James frowns—he moves away as if wanting to avert his gaze, but finds that he can't, and tucks his hands into his pockets defiantly—his jeans are worn out and his dress shirt is dirty from working hard all night, trying to get the potion right, "it's too late."

"Don't worry," Lucius smirks, his voice mocking, "I'll be playing games later—when you're naked."

James leans slightly forward, thinking he's misheard, but he knows he hasn't.

"Are you trying to mess with my head?" then, suddenly remembering the words that startled him so—that caused the glass to break, now creaking under his feet, "what do you know?"

"I'm telling you you'll be naked—what could I possibly know?"

James blushes at the statement, and Harry thinks maybe Lucius lied earlier—maybe he didn't blackmail him with Remus' secret at all. Maybe he blackmailed James with his own. Maybe he didn't even blackmail him.

"It's not…" James stumbles over his words, determined to solve this, whatever it is, "I don't… know what you mean."

"James," the lack of his last name is shocking and James visibly gasp—he wants to grab his chest, sure the pure softness of the man's voice will cause his heart to beat out of his chest, "the mere thought of me makes your knickers drop and I know it."

"But…" even though it's not necessary, since Lucius hasn't moved one inch since leaving the shadow, James backs away against the table, "I… I don't swing that way."

"Well I never said you did," Lucius' amusement is evident, and James' cheeks darken, the shade a deep crimson, "is there anything else you'd like to share?"

"I don't think about you," James lies and now it's even more clear than before—he figures that if Lucius knows, he might as well be honest. Lying to a Malfoy is never a good idea, and James might not be very bright, he does know that much, "you have no power over me."

"I'm glad to see you are a true Gryffindor mister Potter," Lucius' chuckle bounces off the walls and in two strides he's pressing James against the desk—James' hands grasp onto the sides and their eyes meet, pure fire, "I never expected it to be this easy."

"I'll admit I might be…" the raven is suddenly stronger, and he refrains from biting his lip, "infatuated. That doesn't mean I'll let you play me."

"I don't intend on playing you," Lucius steps back—and it feels as if James' air is gone, and without the blonde against him he can't breathe, "I intend on making you mine."

"I won't let you have me," he growls, offended that this man thinks he'll be just anyone's—he's no thing, no man's hole, and he wants to tell him, but saying that, would mean he's admitting more then he wants to.

Lucius doesn't need to know that he wants him to have him—it would only add to Lucius' advantages in this situation.

"I doubt that," he returns to his shadow, and James thinks he's gone, before the voice, cold as ice, says: "I know Remus Lupin doesn't very much like moon-strolls, though he is forced to take them once a month."

With those words, James' heart crashes—because Lucius has him in all the wrong ways.

Then the image shifts, and instead of in the dungeon, they are in Trelawney's room—Lucius is at one of the round tables, all by himself, looking deep into his orb, then into his textbook. It's not long before a raven appears, pissed-off as hell, and Lucius doesn't even look surprise.

"You are a sardonic inconsiderate bastard!" James hisses and he wants to make it sound real, but the blonde is giving him that what-the-fuck look he's mastered over the years, so instead of throwing a tantrum, like he'd planned, James sits down.

"Now I can get sardonic," Lucius chuckles and James tries scowling but it doesn't become him very well, "I can even get bastard. But inconsiderate?"

"Are you fucking me?" immediately James regrets his words—but it's too late.

"No, but I will be," Lucius retorts, and a sort of half smile forms on his face.

"That's exactly what I mean!" his chair makes a violent sound when shoved back but he doesn't care—he pushes the glass orb from between them, and it glides smoothly over the wooden floor, colliding but not breaking, "I admit I have a maybe-very-small crush on you and you think it'd be nice to have sex with me—because oh, if he doesn't I'll just tell the school about his friend's secret!"

The words are harsh and their faces are inches away—Lucius is still smiling and James wants to hit him so bad; but he doesn't.

"Ah, I see," he nods in understanding, "I may perhaps be a little inconsiderate."

Agreeing is forbidden here, and James lashes out to hit the man—he catches the fist quite easily, and holds it to his chest, restraining the youth.

"You wanker!" James' words are venom, but Lucius laughs them off.

"Now if I were such a wanker, what would I need you for?"

And James' heart breaks—because Lucius'll get him but for all the wrong reasons.

The smoke thickens, and the image changes once more, indicating a new memory.

"Undress," they are in the reading part of the library—comfortable chairs and sofas, in a cosy, dark corner between bookracks, separated from the world by volumes and volumes of ancient wisdoms. When James opens his mouth to protest, the blonde cuts him off: "it was not a question."

Lucius is on the sofa, legs crossed and arms outstretched leaning against the cushions, obviously relaxed. He sits with superiority, a clear sign that he is in control of this situation, and nothing is taking that away from him. The corner is lit with a couple of candles, and they throw shadows on his face, his lashes suddenly long and eerie, making dark spots reflect on his cheeks.

James looks uncomfortable in the light of the wading candles—his body is tense and he seems afraid to move, standing perfectly straight, fidgeting with his robes. He is clearly afraid to disobey the direct command and his fingers start working on his buttons, loosening one before outing his protests.

"This is wrong," he says, "it's not supposed to be non-consensual."

"This isn't non-consensual," Lucius folds his arms behind his head, acting like a man watching television—with every flick of James' finger a piece of skin is revealed, and Lucius is enjoying it all, "you're undoing those buttons all by yourself."

"Lucius…" there is a small pause and the air shifts—Lucius' eyes narrow, as if saying his name is a trick—and Harry believes that Lucius really thinks it is, "it's not supposed to be because I don't want Remus' secret revealed," he undoes the last button, and slides his shirt off, the fabric drifting to the floor, his chest is completely revealed, chiselled and tanned—a heavy locket hangs around his neck, a family gift baring his crest, there always, "it's supposed to be because you can't resist my charm, or because we—"

He is stopped with the raise of Lucius' hand—afraid of the consequences he starts on his belt, unwilling to meet the blonde's eye. He knows that if he looks up now, he'll be lost forever.

"There are no pictures," his voice is cold and James frowns—when he does raise his head, Lucius is looking at a spot next to the raven's shoulder, "I have no prove Lupin is a werewolf. I realised he's always absent the day before and after the full moon. You call it his furry secret and Black says he resembles a woman in that way, it's like he's on his period. I takes a nitwit not to notice but the point still remains that I have nothing to prove my theory," and in that sole minute James knows exactly what he's saying—his heart swells and mends again, because Lucius… "you are here half-naked because I want you to be."

…wants him.

He stands there, and lets his trousers fall to the floor. James says nothing but bends forward to take off his socks. When he straightens his back their eyes meet and they're pure fire—then he speaks.

"I'm not taking off my boxers until you're half-naked as well. I think that's only fair," James runs his hand through his hair, a sign of nerves—Lucius offers him a hand, it is taken, and the image shifts.

They are in the same place, but now James is very naked and sweaty, leaning against the couch with his back, his head hung back against the pillows. The necklace sticks to his skin and it's too heavy, overbearing. His legs are tucked up to his chest, and his arms are wrapped around them, no obscene nakedness showing. He's leaning slightly into Lucius figure—the man is doing the last button on his t-shirt, the others still undone, and reaches into his chest-pocket for a pack of old-fashion muggle cigarettes.

His hair is brushed back in front of his chest, his legs slightly spread, but his dress-shirt is too big, hiding his nakedness from their view. He lights the cigarette and looks at James—who is staring at the ceiling.

"Was it…" James swallows visibly, his hair stuck to his forehead and his legs squishy against each other, "good for you too?"

"Hmm," Lucius nods, and he takes a drag from his cigarette, raising James' chin to look at him instead, "very satisfying. You're at disease," he notes the strange behaviour but doesn't really ask about it, merely stating a fact.

James turns his body and for two full seconds they can see all there is to see, James in full glory, and sits down on his legs, looking at Lucius—he sits sideways on the couch, and Lucius, feeling this is important, turns as well, giving the raven his undivided attention.

"Lucius, you had my heart from the first second I laid eyes on you," James speaks in a soft voice, caring and oh-so-true, "I would like to believe that I now have a small piece of yours."

Before the blonde can comment, James reaches around his neck, and lifts the heavy chain—soaked with his sweat, but he doesn't care—he brings it around Lucius' and it hangs there, over his hair, the locket touching his naked skin. James lays his hand on the pale flesh, on the metal of the necklace, right above his heart.

"Either way, you have mine forever," he says, and he means it—when their lips touch it's unrushed and Harry likes to think that in that moment, they feel as if forever is theirs to have.

But it's not and Harry knows that—even if they don't.

In the next memory they are both on a bed. It's obviously in the Slytherin's dormitory, the drapes of the four-poster green and drawn shut tightly. The linen are silver and Lucius' nightshirt is from white silk. He's reading a book, his hair hanging free, framing his face beautifully, as he pushes a lock from his eyes every now and then. His short barely reaches his knees, and sometimes he tugs it down slightly, as if embarrassed of the skin that might be showing—he leans back into his pillow and chuckles, flipping the page.

James is by the foot of the bed, wearing only tight black boxer-briefs. He doesn't seem embarrassed of his own nakedness, busy cutting figures from coloured paper—he's all muscles from playing Quidditch, his stomach taut and flexing every time he reaches forward to paste them into a red, leather-bound album. They seem at ease with each other, and Harry realises they've gotten comfortable. Some time must have passed between this memory and the one before—there seems to be no talk of any sort of blackmailing, no pretences of anyone forcing another. They just sit in easy silence, until suddenly James swears, gives a yelp and crawls over to Lucius' side, dropping the scissors and the paper to flatter himself against the blonde's side.

"What did you do baby?" Lucius sets his book aside, his aristocratic face rumpling into a frown and he places his hand on the inside of the younger's thigh, genuinely concerned.

His thumb draws little circles and James gives him a pout.

"The damn thing cut me," he scowls at the pair of scissors offensively, and offers the blonde his hand—the palm has a deep cut and blood is gushing out of it in a steady stream, "shit."

"It's okay," Lucius slides his hand to the boy's knee—ignoring the shiver that racks the strong body—and gets a handkerchief from his side table with his other, "come here."

James bites his lip, the cut stinging painfully, and flops onto his lover's lap—the blonde wants to protest but refrains when he takes off his heavy-set ring, murmuring about not wanting to get it dirty. The ring has the crest strategically hidden on the golden band and it's barely even visible. It reminds Lucius of his own family ring—the Malfoy-crest almost invisible.

"It's all soiled," James grumbles, displeased and tries cleaning it with the handkerchief Lucius' holding.

"Clean it some other time, this is for your hand," the blonde carefully cleans James' hand, emitting a small hiss from the raven, then binds it around his palm, securing it tightly, "there."

"But I feel so naked without it," he complains and Lucius rolls his eyes.

"Here then," he takes off his own, and James' eyes widen in realisation, "take mine."

"Lucius…" his voice is soft and breakable, but his eyes are pleading, wondering perhaps, is this real?

"James, it's fine," Lucius easily slides the ring around James' ring finger, even though the other one had been around his index finger, "I want you to have it."

The raven's smile is radiant and widens even more so as Lucius takes his injured hand and kisses the palm.

Harry realises that now they must be halfway through the memories, as two jewels have been given—part of him feels… sad he supposes, even though he can't quite grasp the feeling.

"Is it easy?" they are in a bathroom, with two men sitting in the tub—the water hides most of their nakedness, but every now and then when they move they'll flash bits of naked flesh.

Lucius looks up at the question—the thick chain baring the Potter crest ever present around his neck—he cannot see the other's face, since they are sitting back-to-chest, James leaning into his body. He wants to understand the sentiment, but doesn't for the life of him know what James means.

"Is what easy?" he questions, because he feels that maybe this is one of those really important, life-changing moments—perhaps this is it, the real thing, this could make or break them even though he doesn't know, he's not willing to lose what they have just yet.

"Owning another's soul?" it's ambiguous enough but Lucius immediately understands.

"Now it is," he decides, but wishes he could see James' face, "sometimes it's not."

"When isn't it?" James turns, his limbs squeaking on the tiles of the tub, and Lucius notices unshed tears in brimming eyes.

"When you're not here," it's the only thing he can think of—the only things that sounds tangible.

"Would you love me openly," James presses matters further then he should, because even he is afraid of the answer, "if discreet?"

"Would that make you happy?" he ventures—when he receives a nod, he chuckles, "than I would."

James takes off his ring—the one he was cleaning mere seconds ago, which he now wears on the same fingers as Lucius'—and gives a small sniffle. The blonde presses his hand against the other's cheek, rubbing it with his thumb, and a single tear falls.

"Please don't be sad," he kisses his temple softly, "it'll be fine."

"You know it won't be," James says matter-of-factly, and Harry wonders, have they realised they don't get a happily ever after?

"It doesn't matter who you spend your life with," the blonde means it, and he lets his hand run circles over the tanned thigh—they can't see it, but when James blushes they realise what's going on, "please don't be sad."

"Hmph," James makes a face and gasps, swatting the hand away and leaning forward, his head against his lover's strong shoulder, "you just want sex."

There's a small chuckle and a kiss.

"I just want you, really."

They kiss again and James puts his ring around Lucius' finger, entwining their hands and then murmuring softly: "you have me."

And he means that, too.

The smoke thickens for what will be the last, time, and a bedroom comes in view again—though not in the Slytherin dormitory, or the Gryffindor one. By the sight of it, it seems that they are actually in the Malfoy's family mansion. There's a four-poster with white linen and pillows, but no sheets in sight. The room is a hazard, clothes everywhere and most of the blankets on the floor.

"James?" Lucius looks at the man from his fort in the pillows, body resting easily, snugly on its stomach.

James is next to him and panting—his hand, placed right over his heart, moves rapidly, prove of his fast breathing—a thin sheet covering his groin, his eyes up at the ceiling, staring in wonderment. Their bodies have transpiration on them that glimmers in the sunlight, James' hair sticks to his forehead. Without replying, he grabs the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, and throws it to the blonde—the packet landing on the curve of his back, right above the cleft of his pale arse. In return he gets a chuckle, and he turns, just in time to see Lucius flick the pack off to the floor.

"What?" he asks, out-of-breath and confused, "I thought you wanted cigs?"

"I said 'James'," Lucius laughs half-heartedly, because he's too tired.

"Yes, but 'James' after sex means 'hand me my cigarettes'," James retorts, and he throws his body on top of the blonde's, cuddling into his side—the blanket slipping off his form completely and they're naked and everyone can see it, though no one even cares any more.

Lucius laughs again, and pets his hip—then James remembers that apparently the cigarettes weren't what he wanted, and he turns a bit, propping his head up.

"What is it then?"

"Can you give me my jeans?" he smiles sweetly, and James wants to glare—but then he sits down onto the blonde man's back, and reaches over for the blue jeans.

"Here," he gives him some room to turn, and Lucius lays on his back instead—James' locket shinning around his neck, sticky and cool against his pale skin—reaching into his pockets. James looks distracted and runs his thumbs over the broad hipbones, not caring about the jeans or whatever it was Lucius needed.

His thumbs crease over the jutting bones into the hollow to his navel, and he settles more comfortable into his lover's lap.

"Come a bit closer," Lucius orders, and James leans forward, forearms on the pale chest—he doesn't look confused, but smiles dreamily.

He makes himself at home on the marble chest, leaning onto his arms and staring at the blonde, their stomachs shivering as they meet. Lucius strokes the sweaty hair from his lover's face and they hear him purr lovingly in approval. The long fingers soon weave themselves in the dark mop, stroking through the tresses, and James draws nonsensical figures on Lucius' sweaty abs.

"Are we really having a post-coitus snuggle?" James teases, but then moans when Lucius' hand moves out of his hair, and over his back, settling on his arse instead.

"Wow, I'm impressed," Lucius doesn't sound malicious, merely teasing the younger man back, "where did you learn such a difficult word?"

"Since when do you cuddle?" James retorts immediately, and their lips brush together.

"We're not cuddling," the blonde speaks against his mouth and James laughs, diving in for another kiss.

"No of course not," his voice drips with sarcasm, and he maps the column of Lucius' throat with his lips, "because this isn't a cuddle."

"Actually, it seems more like sex to me," James chuckles and continues his way downwards, kissing at two deserted freckles dusting the otherwise pale skin.

Lucius' hand automatically slips up again, and soon it's resting on the tan shoulder—his grey eyes shut from the world and his lips part in bliss at his young lover's ministrations, the soft lips caressing any skin they can reach, slowly but surely moving down to his groin.

"Wait—" suddenly Lucius remembers what he'd been doing before James had decided to distract him oh-so-strategically—since the raven doesn't seem to have heard him, he grabs a hold of the shoulder, not only to repress a rather violent shiver, but to get his attention, "Jamey..."

"Lucius," James' eyes lock with the blonde's, and the usual brown is hazy with lust, his mouth hovering inches above the dip of his navel, "do you realise how close I am to blowing you? And you want me to stop, why?"

Lucius grins at his lover's indignant tone, but instead of commenting he kisses the damp forehead—the only part he can reach—and tugs at his shoulder to get him closer. The naked body slides up between Lucius' naked thighs and their lips smash together in a hot open-mouthed kiss. The blonde is the one to break it, smirking at the youth with the man's bottom lip between his teeth. James scowls, but when Lucius presses a last kiss against his mouth before straightening up slightly, James follows without protest.

"Well are you gonna tell me what's so important that I can't go down on you?" James asks, fake-innocent, and Lucius reaches up his hand to cup his cheek.

"So impatient," Lucius purrs and James flatters his cheek into the hand, Lucius holding his head as if he is the most precious thing he possesses.

His body moves languidly into a sitting position, his feet tucked under his ass as he sits on his knees—James, instead of levelling with him, slides down and places his head in the man's lap, resting his hand on the strong thigh and nuzzling his face into the soft skin. The man doesn't mind the affectionate gesture, and combs his fingers through the untameable locks.

His other hand reaches back and he takes the object he fished out of his pockets earlier, a small smile on his face when he looks back at James—they make a funny sight, James' face buried in Lucius' lap as if he's bowing for the man, his own figure on all fours, completely naked and exposed to the Wizengamot's curious glances, as well to anyone who might walk into the room at that moment. His spine curves into his full arse, and Lucius slides one finger, following the path seemingly laid out for him—he enjoys the view of the other's body, on full display for him like this, but he has other plans for now.

James looks up in surprise as he sees the object dangling before his eyes—Lucius' locket, which he hasn't worn since James gave him his, but which is always kept with him—and he adjusts his position to look up at Lucius with wide eyes.

"I've decided that I am yours, if you'll have me," his voice sounds frail and broken, as if he knows that this won't work anyway, but is still willing to put out—and Harry knows it's just that. And he can't help but find it extraordinary that he's willing to give his heart to someone who won't be his. But Harry's wrong, though can't see it.

"Lucius..." James' eyes are brimming with tears and he heaves himself up on his arms, his happiness evident as he literally attacks Lucius' lips, throwing them off balance and sending them crushing down onto the mattress in a mess of limbs.

They don't care as their teeth clash together, and what matters is that their bodies are touching absolutely everywhere, and Harry can barely see the line between their attached skin, where one waist begins and the other ends. It's strangely comforting to watch, and Harry wonders if Lucius feels that way too, as his memory engages in intensive snoggage with his long-lost lover, does it make anyone else feel so oddly reassured? It is as if suddenly all the pieces click together, and Harry's whole idea of love changes like that, to become something more solid. Before, love seemed a bit hazy to him, but now, facing his father and a man he thought he hated, in such an intimate and vulnerable position, it's easy for him to understand. They are comfortable and willing to bare themselves naked and open for the other—pure and unspoiled, that was real love.

Their lips separate a bare inch and James' breath ghosts over the other's damp mouth as he speaks: "I'm never letting you go."

Lucius locks the necklace around James's neck and pecks his temple softly. They're a bit melancholic, but suddenly a mischievous grin appears on James' face and the sweet-and-innocent moment has passed.

"I think," the raven starts, grin still in place and lifting himself slightly off the older man's body, "you've earned that blowjob," he winks seductively, pressing a kiss on the hollow of the pale throat, "what'd ya say?"

Before they find out what Lucius had to say about the matter, the thick smoke shrinks, and like that, flows up and back into the bottle the Auror is still holding—they are back in the room, nothing changed, except for the looks on every single person's face. Where they'd been interested before, they are now shocked—except for Lucius' and Draco's, both stoic and stripped of any emotion.

"Mi...—Mister Malfoy," Amelia Bones is the first to break the eerie silence, falling back into her role of interrogator, "if you can prove that these memories are real you will be freed of all charges. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I have..." he pauses and feels his robe, extracting something from inside it—a red, leather-bound album—the one James had been working on, "well, it's the only thing I have I'm afraid," he gives a small smile, "should I...?"

"No, please," she smiles as well, gesturing for him to stay seated, "would you like to present the evidence yourself? Make sure we can all see though."

"Sure," Lucius shrugs, setting the album in his lap he taps his wand against the cover, and an enlarged view of the book comes up to float in mid-air.

As he opens it, the projected image turns too, showing them the first page—hastily scribbled words, small messages and little black, ink hearts cover the two pages—but before Harry can properly focus, Lucius has already flipped the page.

The picture is one of James Potter. He is in front of a dresser, leaning against the surface with his weight supporting on his arms. His glasses are in one of his hands, his face turned to the camera, lips in a smirk. He's wearing a white dress shirt, the clothing too big and falling down his shoulders, reaching just below his tan arse. His legs are almost completely visible, long and muscled, glowing smoothly in the light, and he's scratching his calve with one of his feet.

But Lucius isn't on the picture, and he knows it doesn't count as valid prove, so he turns the page.

James is wearing a red flannel pyjama, sitting on a desk. He's reading a letter, his legs crossed, and covered till mid-thigh in red shorts. There's no sign of Lucius.

He turns the page and suddenly there are four pictures—taken in a photo booth—this time Lucius is there as well, and they can't help but chuckle at the sight. James is wearing green, fuzzy earmuffs, and Lucius has a green scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. There are snowflakes in their hair and on their clothes in all four of the pictures.

In the first picture James is making a face, his tongue stuck out and his eyes crossed—Lucius is next to him with a look of utter disbelief on his face, staring at the raven as if he's lost his mind.

In the second one, James has crawled into Lucius' lap, and he's fitting his earmuffs over Lucius' blonde hair, focussing on the job.

Then they're kissing, James' bottom lip caught between Lucius' teeth, both wearing a mischievous grin—the earmuffs and shawl gone.

In the last one, it's only James—his head thrown back, his jacket opened and his lips parted in obvious bliss. The only sign of Lucius is a pale hand working on undoing the buttons of James' shirt.

Lucius coughs in slight discomfort, apologising: "I'm sorry, I'll just..."

He leaves the rest unsaid, flipping further into the album.

A picture of them in a super market—it's summer and James is wearing jeans shorts and an old grey sweater, but his hand is entwined with Lucius'. The other man looks refined, the perfect opposite of his young lover, wearing a suit and examining a brand of shampoo, a cigarette dangling between his lips. They stand apart, James' eyes focussed on the other queue, but their hands refuse to let go.

They are on a bed, completely naked and fast asleep. Lucius is on his stomach, head buried in his arms, his eyes closed peacefully. On his pale back, James' tanned body is resting, curled up and his legs comfortable between Lucius', head resting between Lucius' pale shoulder blades.

Lucius coughs again, and flips another page, frustrated that he seems to be unable to find a picture that shows them being together, without being too sweet or too naked.

"Mister Malfoy, it's okay, you may stop," Bones saves him and he immediately relaxes, "we've seen enough. It's clear that all four objects were with their rightful owners. You are cleared of all charges."

The image of the last picture hangs innocently in the air. Lucius is by a riverside, sitting by the side in just his trunks, the silver locket leaving a blinding spot of light in the picture. His feet are dangling inches above the water, legs crossed properly, one over the other. He's leaning back on his arms, his hair so long it falls into the grass in a small heap. His eyes are closed against the sun, and the picture has such an angelic look—a look of perfect bliss, and plain perfection, his pale skin gleaming beautifully. In the corner there is a small text, a little heart next to it. 'Lucius, you're absolutely drop-dead-gorgeous, you sexy bastard! I love you so much – and not only because your body is absolutely divine – I really do, you pervy molester! We should make love again tomorrow baby, I miss you already. Always yours, James.'

Harry barely has time to read it before Lucius closes the album and the projection disappears, but he manages and it makes him smile slightly, because it's more real than he wants to admit.

Lucius stands and Bones hands him the two confiscated items, asking a last question before he can leave: "how come you didn't get your happily ever after Mister Malfoy?"

Lucius laughs, but before he chooses to answer, he fits the necklace around his neck—carefully fitting it under his robes and shirt—and he lets out a sigh he didn't even know he was holding. It seems to Harry as if he had trouble breathing, like the necklace was something that calmed him and put him at ease.

"My father threatened to kill us both," he says without trouble, honest and smiling, "ah well, I got my son, you got your saviour," he sounds bitter with the last line, and Harry feels himself blushing—when he glances sideways only briefly, he sees Draco smiling sadly, "may I go?"

"Of course," she gives a nod and then turns away, facing the judges—Lucius is barely gone when their whispers start spreading through the room, and Harry knows he's being watched.

Hermione and Ron are looking at him, perhaps afraid he's about to go mental, but instead he stares at something... papery, right in front of the chair. When Harry realises what it is, he gets up, and without listening to McGonagall or Dumbledore he picks up the picture, and runs out the door, in pursuit of the older Malfoy. He hears quick footsteps behind him before he's even halfway down the room, and knows who they belong to.

"Leave my dad be!" Draco snarls and catches up with Harry—who catches a glimpse of the tall blonde before he turns the corner.

"He dropped something," Harry manages a glare, but feels bad about it—knowing Draco's only watching out for those he loves, "I'm returning it."

"I can do that for you!" they both turn the corner as well, nearly bumping into some of the people.

Harry rolls his eyes, glances down at the picture and spontaneously runs into something solid—his shock evident as he sees what is depicted.

"I'm..." he really wants to apologise but feels captivated—he is on that picture and his heart drops.

It seems like they're posing for a family picture—but they're not family and Harry knows that. They're on chairs, next to each other with a blank background, and Harry figures they went to see a professional photographer for it. Both wearing dressrobes and holding a baby. Harry's eyes are vivid green, where Draco's are grey like his father's. They're not wearing matching costumes, but both look neat enough to fit in with the fancy scenery—Harry is sticking his tongue out, and he hates to realise it about himself, but it's cute—and Draco is holding tightly onto his father's hand, as if afraid he'll fall off the man's lap.

Lucius' free hand is resting between James' thighs, and he's kissing the man's cheek—they both seem older, tired, but the smile on the raven's face has never been more radiant.

When Harry turns the picture around, he can read the note on the back—and isn't surprised when it's the same handwriting he's seen not long before on the picture of Lucius by the water.

'We'll make a fine family one day love, I have no doubt in that. I love you more with every passing minute, and I miss you before you're even out the door. I'll never let you go, you're in my heart, always. Yours truly, James.'

"...sorry," he recovers before being too rude, but his eyes are still fixed on the text—how long has he been standing there? What if Lucius is gone and he can't catch up and...

A hand appears in his line of view and takes the picture from him, he's trembling so much he can't even stop it, and he looks up to yell at Draco for being a bastard, but when he raises his head it's not Draco.

Lucius is looking at the picture he holds now, and says: "I believe this is mine. Thank you for returning it."

"I..." Harry bit his lip and coughed, "I'm sorry, I just... found it and—"

"It's quite alright Mister Potter," Lucius stares at a point behind his head, and when he speaks again, Harry realises he was looking at his son, "Draco, I expect you home for Christmas."

"Of course dad," Draco comes up to kiss his father's cheek, and Harry can't help but notice how he wants that too.

"Mister Malfoy, I..." he nervously runs his hand through his hair, and refuses to look up, "I always imagined my mum and dad'd be these two perfect people, a perfect couple. I know that's not fair of me, but he wasn't around and it was just so easy to paint a picture of him, fortify all the praise and ignoring anyone who disagreed. It was so simple to make him into anything I wanted him to be. I just always saw them as a great couple, really, role models—I never once imagined that my dad belonged to someone else."

It's quiet for a moment, and Harry's eyes are brimming with tears, even though he doesn't want them to be.

"I'm sorry to have ruined that for you," Lucius' voice holds mere regret, and suddenly there are pale finger, forcing Harry to meet the oldest Malfoy's stare, "I hadn't meant for you to find out like this, if ever."

"No, but you see, that's the point really," Harry sniffled and unwillingly noted that they'd attracted quite a crowd, not to mention the entire class is there, observing the spectacle of two Malfoys and a Potter, "in all the years that I've tried to figure my father out, somehow, this image makes the most sense. In none of—" he hiccups and inwardly curses himself, "in none of the pictures I have of him does he look... at home. And I get why now, it's because to him, you are home."

He's full-out crying now, and it's stupid but he doesn't care. Lucius wipes the tears away in one of the sweetest gestures Harry's ever know, pressing his palm into the side of Harry's face and picking up tears with his thumb, and it's strange but it feels like he's with family. Like somehow it doesn't even matter, because Lucius was James' and that makes Harry Lucius' family. Real family, in a way Harry's never had before.

"Please don't cry Harry," the use of his first name stirs something within his being, and it feels nice to be talked to by his father's love, "it's alright," Lucius bends through his knees, and Harry feels really small, because the Malfoy is so tall, "you don't have to cry, come here, it's okay."

Harry knows Lucius is only kind to Draco—and extra-nice to James—and it's very good to be at the receiving end of his 'kind' voice. It's as if Lucius knows everything, because he envelopes Harry into a hug, and Harry realises that's what he wanted all along: a family hug.

"Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore speaks, and Harry curses him because he doesn't... "we should really be heading back to Hogwarts."

...want to let go.

The blonde nods, but when Harry doesn't unwrap his arms from around his neck, Harry hears him chuckle. He easily lifts the young Potter, kisses Draco's cheek once more, tender and sweet, and follows his son in the direction of the class—people staring at them as they go. When the four of them reach the elevator, the class stills in shock—having been gossiping about the events none-stop—at the sight of their saviour in the arms of Lucius Malfoy.

Harry falls asleep, feeling for the first time in his life, at home.

AN: in the end, they all got what they wanted. Draco; a brother. James; his family of four: Lucius, Harry, Draco and himself. Lucius; a piece back of the man he loves. Harry; a piece back of the father he's always wanted.

I'm ashamed to admit that I had no idea what Lucius or James' middle name was, so I took it after their fathers or close relatives.

Comments, anyone?