Likewise

by Reiko Katsura

*

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: NC-17 (M+)

Summary: There's something to be said about unrequited love. Primarily that it sucks. Draco Malfoy can attest to this.

Warnings: First person, Draco POV. Creature-fic. [Fl]angst. Sexual situations.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This was written for Charmed310 for HPValensmut 2010, and was beta-ed by the lovely Tania_Sings. I hope everyone enjoys this story!

Likewise- (Adv.) 2. In like manner; in the same way; similarly.

00: Beginning

"Malfoy."

I looked up from the overwhelming load of reports on my not-big-enough oak desk at the sound of Potter's voice. He stood in my open doorway with his arms folded over his chest and his back against the silver frame. He looked a mess, as usual, with his unruly hair in disarray on his head and his disheveled Auror robes wrinkled to the point that they were nearly unrecognizable. There was a smudge of black dirt, a scorch mark, on his left cheek, just below those ugly things he called glasses—an obvious sign that he'd been fiddling, once again, with objects that weren't of his department. His spectacles slipped to the end of his straight nose as he looked down at me, a tentative grin plastered on his stupid face.

I quirked a brow at him. "Come back from a mission at the zoo, did you? Kingsley made you stay in a cage full of apes and pretend to be one of them?"

Potter rolled his eyes in an obvious indication that he thought I was being far from funny and moved in.

"Half of the department's going out to the pub tonight, Malfoy. Just wanted to know if you'd like to come."

A twinge of something that had no business surfacing rose up and I shoved it down with a scowl. "Oh, certainly," I remarked sardonically. "Though, I apologize in advance if I'm not quite myself tonight and possibly tear off a couple of your mates' limbs, it being a full moon and all. Do you think anyone would mind?"

I'd counted to three as realization dawned on Potter and his almond-colored skin flushed rubicund. "Oh shite, Malfoy, I didn't think—"

I waved him off with a nonchalant flick of my hand. "Yes, yes, we all know you don't do that too often. What kind of person would I be if I couldn't forgive you for what is your nature?"

Potter snorted, though the brightness of his face hadn't decreased. "Right, wanker. I'll tell the guys, then." He faltered by the door for a minute as if waiting for me to retort, then turned around when he realized I wasn't going to. Potter grabbed at the knob and began to pull it closed when he paused, and craned his neck around.

"What now?" I snapped. Even though the moon was still hours off, I was feeling no less agitated than usual. I could hardly keep in my seat to finish my reports. I was supposed to have left a half-hour ago, but couldn't bring myself to. It was unlikely that I would be seeing out of my house for the next week, let alone my bed. I inwardly shuddered at the well-envisioned stack of paperwork I'd need to handle when I got back.

Potter sighed. "Never mind," he muttered—soft enough that he thought I couldn't have heard and obviously forgetting how sharp my senses became this time of the month—and turned around to leave. He shut the door sharply behind him and was gone.

I stared at the spot Potter had just been for a long moment before pushing my chair back and standing up. With a flick of my wand the reports on my desk were neatly stacked into two piles and the mugs of coffee that lined the edge vanished to the kitchens. I grabbed my robe from the coat rack and slipped it onto my shoulders and pocketed my wand.

There was no use staying: I couldn't concentrate, and it was a fine guess that things wouldn't change in the next half-hour.

With a sigh of frustration I tugged the door open and stepped outside into the wide, cool corridor of the Aurors' Sector. I pulled my wand out and was about to cast a locking charm on the knob when I noticed a square of parchment stuck to the door.

It read, in Potter's tiny, cluttered scrawl: I really wasn't thinking. Sorry, Malfoy. See you tomorrow. –HP

Tomorrow. He'd be visiting after the transformation, then.

As always.

I stripped the paper from the door and cast Incendio on it as it fluttered down. By the time it hit the floor, it was a nothing but a tiny scatter of black ash and dirty flakes.

I stepped over it and made to leave.

01

Something cool shattered the heated blaze that overwhelmed every inch of me, like the first drop of rain in a pile of desert sand, and I moaned appreciatively.

"Are you alright, Malfoy?"

It took me a while to register the words and even longer to recognize whom they belonged to. I groaned for another reason altogether.

"I'll take that as a 'no', then," I heard Potter murmur, then he pressed that cool thing once again on my burning skin.

You're quite right, I would have liked to retort, but I knew better than to attempt movement. That, and I don't think I would have even been able to. My throat felt raw, no doubt from the howling I'd done last night. Every part of me burned and pounded as if my skin had been carved off and then stitched back on. In a way, I supposed, that's exactly what had happened—at least in some form.

It shouldn't have surprised me that Potter was there. More than just saying he would be the night before, Potter had made a habit of visiting me during my transformations since we'd been assigned partners during training. Neither of us had liked that at first, not really, as it had been a suggestion (or demand) to "further our bond" by the Auror who instructed us. I hadn't wanted Potter—or anyone, honestly, but especially Potter—to see me when I was at my lowest, and Potter hadn't wanted to get so far involved with me. After that first time, I used to think that Potter must have seriously pitied me because he no longer had to be told to watch over me, and instead did of his own volition. We'd argued countless times because of it: I didn't want to be either pitied or seen, and Potter didn't want me to go through it alone.

I never told Potter, and I doubted I ever would, but I'd always appreciated him coming over (after Potter got it through to me with a nasty hex that the reason he came by wasn't because I was felt bad for). No matter how many transformations I underwent, they were all as horrible as the one before. Changing wasn't something anyone, I didn't think, could ever get used to, and I soon became addicted to Potter's visitations and grateful for the company, even I were only sometimes aware of his presence.

I was sure that Potter must have sensed my gratitude because since that very first time he'd never left me alone, and my objections to him coming over had been mild at best—if even that.

"It's just past three in the evening," Potter told me, continuing to dab at me with, I then realized, a wet cloth.

I didn't necessarily care about the time. Or anything, for that matter. I just wanted Potter to shut up and continue doing what he was doing. Maybe he was a mind-reader because he said nothing else as he persisted—quietly.

Content, or as content as any man being burned alive and plummeted by a hippogriff could be, I fell further into darkness and, eventually, back asleep.

02

The sight of my desk a week later, covered in piles of paperwork—and unorganized, since there'd be a field day if anyone did anything right in the Ministry anymore—made me cringe. Anyone would think I were the only Auror in the division. The only Auror who had to finalize reports, at any rate. And I certainly wasn't—my salary would have been much higher, otherwise.

With a sigh, and a mental shake, I trudged forward, sliding my outer robes off and tossing them to the nearby couch. I walked around my desk and fell into my chair, then turned to the hefty stack. Resigned, I reached for the nearest pile, pulled it toward me, and began to read.

03

I sensed Potter's presence just as my door was pushed open. Without asking for permission to enter—not that I was any bit surprised—he breezed in, hair and clothing in disarray as per usual, and walked in the direction of my desk.

"Potter," I said blandly, and didn't bother to even look up. "To what do I owe this honor?"

I didn't see, but I was sure Potter rolled his eyes.

"Ha ha," he deadpanned, then pulled out his wand and summoned a chair. He sat himself directly in front of me and simply waited.

I sighed, pushed the file back, and glanced up at him. "Well? Surely you have other things to do than idly sit there."

Potter flashed me that infuriatingly cocky grin.

"Just wanted to check in, see how you were," he admitted finally. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up with his forefinger.

"Well you've checked, and I'm fine, and—how do the Americans say it?—don't let the door hit you on the way out."

And Potter, because he was just so bloody insufferable, actually laughed as if I'd made a joke.

"No, really. Get out."

He stopped laughing that stupid laugh of his, but the smile never left his face. "Back to your old cranky self, I see. You must be feeling better, then."

I narrowed my eyes and felt my teeth grit together. "Potter. Out."

"Fine, fine," he chuckled, then stood up. Potter paused suddenly then lifted his arms above his head and let out a tired yawn. I tried not to stare as his hideous muggle shirt rose and revealed a taut stomach. A patch of dark hair poking out from his entirely-too-low trousers caught my attention, and I found myself blushing and hastily glanced away.

"Think you're up to grabbing a drink tonight?" he asked, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

I stared pointedly at the stack of reports on my desk.

"Try another time, Potter. Preferably when I'm not drowning in paperwork and can actually finish my job before I'm due to leave."

Potter looked at my desk and narrowed his eyes. "It always seems like you get so much more paperwork than everyone else," he said, scrutinizing, as if his answers were somewhere in there.

That's because I do, I almost said. The only reason I'm even here is because you fought so vehemently for my freedom and fair werewolf laws after the war. I'm an Auror yet I've never been on an actual case unless it was direly needed. And then Potter would be outraged, and probably try to storm out of my office to search for Kingsley, and I'd tell him as an afterthought, What, Potter, did you actually think this world was fair?

Of course I wouldn't tell him that.

"What do you expect? I miss an entire week of work a month. I have to make up the time somehow."

Potter still looked dubious. "But—"

"Leave it, Potter." I snapped, because I really didn't want to have this conversation with anyone, let alone him. I was lucky I even landed a job in the Ministry. If not for Potter's intervention, there was no doubt I'd be unemployed and quite possibly homeless. I knew, however, that all I had to do was complain to Potter about my circumstances and he, with his stupid hero complex, would go barging into the Minister's office and demand me my rights.

But I owed Potter enough and didn't fancy owing him any more.

"I need to get back to work if I ever hope to leave this ruddy place," I continued, and tried to soften my tone.

Potter still didn't look very convinced, but he nodded nevertheless.

"Right," he said. "Well, we'll hang out some other time, then."

I nodded to placate him.

He shot me a weary smile and turned around to leave.

My eyes, of their very own accord, dropped down to his arse as he walked away. I couldn't help but think that Muggle cords should be illegal in the Wizarding Ministry. At least on Harry Potter.

When he left, finally, I pulled out my wand and locked the door, then banished the chair he'd left there. After a moment of thoughtless silence I buried my head into my arms and sighed.

"I'm such an idiot," I said aloud.

And I was—for being in love with Harry Potter.

04

It took me a rather long time to realize that Potter wasn't the attention-seeking, egotistical, media-whore that I always thought he was. It took me a very long time.

My feelings for Potter surfaced around the time of the final battle—when he'd saved me, to be more specific. Any person in my position would have thought the stuck-up, self-centered Potter would have left me for dead in that fire. After all, he and I had never been exactly friendly. But he hadn't, and that's when my re-evaluation of him started.

I started watching Potter more and more—more than I did at Hogwarts, at any rate, which was quite a lot. I followed him in the newspaper, studied him all throughout our final (eighth, really) year at Hogwarts, paid him far more attention than anyone else at Auror Training. I'd already harbored a crush on him when he stood up for my mother and I at the post-war trials and bargained our freedom for some muggle thing called Community Service (which, for my mother and I, meant getting our hands dirty and being bossed around by lowlifes at the Ministry and at St. Mungos and various shops and stores throughout Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley for two years). And then he, and his group of nobodies, began to petition for the rights of werewolves—starting with me (who'd been bitten during the war by Greyback) as well as Professor Lupin.

We were partners at Auror Training (both to my good luck and bad fortune), and that was when I was able to spend most time with him and find out who Harry Potter, savior-of-the-Wizarding-World-and-Deafeater-of-Lord-Voldemort-and-Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died-Then-Lived-Again, actually was.

I realized that he wasn't as condescending as I always figured he was. Imagine my surprise when I realized that Harry Potter, the boy who I'd spent half my life hating, was actually…kind. He hated the spotlight, blushed and cowered at attention, fought for what he believed in, gave without asking for anything in return, was funny without trying to be, and—

was gay.

Yes, imagine my surprise.

In any case, it's not as if it mattered. I'd always been a smart boy (when there weren't madmen and crazed fathers breathing down my neck, rather) and didn't need to be told that I—Draco Malfoy; ex-Death Eater, still wanker, and forever werewolf—was not his type.

Not his type at all.

05

By the time the clock on the wall above the door chimed, indicating it was already half past seven—two hours after I was supposed to have left— more than half the stack of reports had been finalized and pushed aside to be sent downstairs. I yawned and stretched my arms over my head, more tired than relieved that I'd at least finished what I had. By tomorrow I'd be done with the rest, thankfully, and could do other things than sit at my desk all day evaluating reports that I was quite certain weren't even of my department. Until the head of the Aurors sent down more paperwork to clutter my desk, of course.

I shoved my chair back and the sound of wood scraping against marble made me grimace. Blearily, I cleared my desk and moved towards the rack to retrieve my cloak. As I moved towards the door I startled as it was suddenly pushed open, nearly slamming into my face.

I shouldn't have been surprised when Potter's head poked into my office.

"I thought you were still here," he said, then slid into the room.

"Well, as you can see," I gritted out, "I was just leaving. Good night, Potter."

I made to move around him but stopped when a hand latched on my arm.

"Would you like to go out for dinner with me?" he asked, seriously, fingers still snug by my elbow.

My eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and completely of their own accord. Hilariously, that almost sounded like Potter was asking me out on a date.

I shook my head, eager to dispel hopes that had no business rising, and drew my arm out of Potter's grasp.

"Sorry, but no," I said.

Potter's face fell and my stomach twisted. "I'm really tired," I continued hastily, because Merlin be damned if I was ever able to make Potter look that way without feeling like total shite. "I really just want to go home and sleep."

Potter's face lost its puppy-dog expression, but the disappointment from my refusal was still there.

"Oh," was all he said.

Uncomfortable silence ensued for a few moments and I cleared my throat, ready to excuse myself, when Potter said, "You and I don't hang out anymore, Draco."

His lapse into the use of my first name caught me off guard, followed by the abrupt question, and I just stood there, stared at him, and probably looked as bewildered and stupid as I felt.

"You and I," he continued, more than likely unaware of how discomfited I actually was, "used to hang out all the time when we were at the Auror Academy. I know a lot of that time was due in part because we were partners, but still. We used to at least have meals together or go out for a drink or two. I barely get to see you these days, and when I do it's always a bad time."

Potter paused, and I used that break to get myself back together.

"Did I—did I do something wrong or something?"

"What?" I asked, flummoxed once again.

Potter blushed, but nevertheless pushed forward. "I mean, it feels like you're always avoiding me or something. Ever since we left the Academy it's as if you don't want anything to do with me."

I made to interrupt, because really, what Potter was saying was a bit farfetched, but he didn't allow me to even get one word in.

"Which would be fine, you know, if that were true—well not fine, really, because I can't say I wouldn't be hurt—but you should at least tell me so I'd know and would stop asking you out all the time, which always makes me feel a bit mental afterward." Potter's arms were flailing about, as if he didn't know what to do with them, or they with themselves. I stared, fascinated almost, as Potter continued to rant until he wasn't making much more sense, then finally decided to stop the poor bloke's tirade.

"Potter," I started. He hadn't even heard me.

With a roll of my eyes I moved forward and, very boldly, clamped my hand over Potter's mouth. His lips, still moving for a few seconds more, slid back and forth across my palm, and a pull of something akin to unfathomable lust flourished in my stomach.

When he finally stopped he looked at me as if he had no clue what had just happened.

I steeled in my breath and brought my hand away, barely noticing as Potter's eyes followed its movement to my side, and said—before I could be interrupted again, "Potter, I'm not trying to avoid you, alright?"

Potter stared at me for a moment and then, unbelievably, licked his lips. I nearly let out a groan. My hand tingled from where his lips had been pressed against them and suddenly my entire body was on fire.

"Um, what?" he said, sounding dazed.

I swallowed heavily and inhaled. "Really, Potter, I'm surprised you managed to become an Auror with the way you pay attention." The room was becoming entirely too hot.

I breathed in again, fought the urge to shake my fogging head, and continued. "I said I wasn't avoiding you, and I'm not."

That seemed to get through to him, at least. Potter blinked once and narrowed his eyes. "But—"

"But nothing," I interrupted, and took a furtive glance at the clock above his head. "You're being paranoid."

There was a tiny voice in the back of my head that pointed out that I wasn't too far off, either, and I pointedly ignored it.

Potter folded his arms across his chest and looked at me dubiously. "I don't believe you," he said finally.

I rolled my eyes. "What, would you like it in writing or something?"

Potter stayed silent for a moment, simply staring at me. I wanted so badly to look away and break contact. His eyes, even behind those awful thick frames, were utterly smoldering. They always seemed to glow, like the flames of an activated floo-fire. I must have, without noticing, fallen into a trance because I flinched when Potter began to speak.

"Let me take you out for dinner tomorrow," he said, strongly.

My stomach knotted at the false implication.

"What for?" I asked hoarsely. The sound of my voice in a near croak made me frown and I cleared my throat. "What for?" I repeated again.

Potter shrugged. "To spend time together. If you're not avoiding me as you said you weren't—," the sharp look Potter gave me made me drop my eyes to the floor quickly, "—then you'll come out to eat with me tomorrow."

"Is that really neces—"

"Yes," he broke me off.

I sighed and slumped my shoulders, defeated. And there you have it; the secret of how Harry Potted defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named: perseverance.

"Fine," I muttered, resigned. When I looked up again Potter was grinning.

"Great," he said, and sounded almost breathless. I shot him a curious look and he only grinned wider. "Tomorrow, then. 6:00 o'clock. I'll meet you here. It's a date."

I froze at the word, startled. By the time I got myself back together and opened my mouth to ask Potter what he was talking about, Potter was already gone.

I stared at the open doorway, stumped.

06

I hadn't known Potter was gay until he invited Oliver Wood as his date to the Minister's ball. Harry Potter, who was supposed to have been dating the girl Weasel, it turned out, was a poof. Worse yet, I'd been mooning over him (though I'd never admit it aloud) and absolutely forlorn because boy-wonder was supposed to have been straight. He'd known I was gay since school—Merlin, everyone knew that. I couldn't understand why he hadn't told me his preferences, providing we had been partners at training for two years. At the end I'd came to the conclusion that Potter must have not wanted me to get any ideas. He must have been afraid that I, an ex-death eater, a werewolf, would start fancying him. There was no other reason I could come up with to justify Potter's reticence. I wish there had been, though, because knowing that Potter clearly wanted so little to do with me made that organ behind my chest that I tried very hard to believe was inexistent, hurt like hell.

Wood hadn't been the only one of Potter's lovers, but rather, the first of many. He'd dated Finnigan and Anthony and Hensley and McJaise and Conley and Brighton and Smith and Drake and Elliot, all after the other like a line at a buffet. Some of Potter's rather poor choices of men even included a Muggle, a part Veela, a Hufflepuff, and an Irish. To add insult to injury, he'd even had a few one-offs with Longbottom. Apparently I was beneath Longbottom in Potter's eyes. And, moreover, even Potter was above dating werewolves.

Like everyone else.

07

I truly did not want to go out with Potter.

I glanced at the clock from my work station, looked back down, and tried to finish up the rest of the day's work. After another ten minutes of staring at the reports from the magical law enforcement division and looking at the clock, I finally sighed and spelled everything into my cabinet.

Potter was the only person who could aggravate me from outside a twenty foot distance.

I folded my arms onto the desk and buried my head in them. It wasn't a particularly comfortable position, but I felt disinclined to move. I once again rolled the idea of fleeing the Ministry around my head, but gave it up with a sigh. Potter would never let me hear the end of it if I bailed on him.

I lifted my head and looked at the clock again, noticed it was 5:40, and set it back down with a groan. My insides were wreaking havoc amongst themselves, coiling and clenching in an incredibly uncomfortable way, causing me to fidget and squirm in an attempt to set it at ease.

Another glance: 5:41.

Potter telepathically aggravating me had turned into telepathic torture.

I couldn't imagine that Potter had actually been serious when he called our dubious tête-à-tête a date. He'd never even shown the slightest interest in me before; I couldn't fathom why he would suddenly start now.

5:43.

I tried to envision, mostly for my own morbid curiosity, Potter and myself sitting in a fancy restaurant, seated across from each other, breaking bread and sipping wine; I really couldn't.

5:44.

I could imagine the awkwardness, however. The unease of sharing absolutely nothing in common and having absolutely nothing to say. We'd send each other small, tight smiles throughout dinner, make small talk about work and out-dated Quidditch, and who went with whom to the latest Ministry event.

5:45.

I wasn't the best person to be around in quiet situations. Years of saying whatever the hell I'd want had never shaped me into the sort of person who wouldn't go blabbering something idiotic to ease my nerves.

5:46.

'So, Potter, fucking anyone new at the moment?' I'd ask him, possibly without thinking, to break the inevitable silence. Potter's face would flame red most probably. Later on, I would feel terribly embarrassed for being so crude when he denied it.

5:47.

Or horrible if he didn't.

5:48.

If I left now, went home, and slumped in my bed and pretended to be sick, perhaps Potter would actually believe me?

5:49.

I'd never been any good at lying to Potter, though. He always managed to get the truth out of me somehow.

5:51.

I wondered—because all thoughts of fleeing were, for the time being, shot down, and I really didn't have anything else to do for another ten tortuous minutes— what Potter deemed appropriate for dinner. He'd always fancied The Three Broomsticks as a fine place to eat, or that shabby little restaurant outside of Diagon Alley, run by half-bloods and quarter-hags. I'd showed my disdain for his choice before (though, to my chagrin, I'd always followed him anyway) and I held no qualms about doing it again. There was a new restaurant in London—a bit pricey, but Potter had the money—that maybe I could convince him to take me to. I don't think I quite remembered the last time I ate out somewhere with a higher standing than two galleons.

6:05.

What the hell was taking Potter so bloody long, anyway? Weren't people supposed to be early for dates? Not that we were actually going on a date, because Potter would have had to ask me out, which he hadn't, but even so.

I lifted my head and pulled my wand out of my pocket then cast Tempus, because maybe that bloody clock on the wall was off by a few, and scowled when it read six-oh-six. Potter was late. He had some nerve, really, considering how adamant he'd been about getting me to go out in the first place.

I forced my knee to stop bouncing as another minute went by.

6:09.

My nails were making a thrumming sound as they tapped the polished surface of my desk. I scowled again as I glanced up at the clock.

6:11.

I could have, I supposed, gone to get Potter myself. The prat was probably off mingling somewhere, no doubt, because someone had probably stopped him on his way to the elevator shaft or something. Potter couldn't walk five minutes without someone trying to get him to talk to them.

6:12.

The hyenas.

6:15.

I tidied up my desk; made sure that every pile was neat and orderly, collected all my quills and put them to the side, spelled the imaginary dust from corners, and tucked each folder away to the cabinet as a finish. I then went through each drawer one-by-one, tidying my supplies and re-organizing everything to my satisfaction. I'd been so busy lately that I'd hardly made the time to do such things. The amount of dust that accumulated at the sides and holdings was almost disgusting.

When I pushed the last cabinet back in its place I stretched my arms over my head, cracked my neck, and glanced at the clock again.

6:25.

Really, it was getting rather ridiculous. Potter had never been the most punctual of blokes—even daring to come five minutes late to most meetings with the Minister himself—but even twenty-minutes was a bit appalling. He should have at least sent someone to tell me that he was going to be a bit late, or left a note.

6:26.

I should have brought a book to read.

6:29.

My fingers strummed above my desk and my legs bounced below it. Potter was probably running to my office right now, I consoled myself. He probably had been kept back or something, and was now rushing as if his life depended on it.

6: 35.

Or maybe not.

6:40.

I closed my eyes and stood from my chair, gathered my robes and slid them on, then stormed out of my office. Potter had… Potter had such gall! He was the one who'd asked me to dinner, right after that stupid little sob-act of his! I'd even worked my bloody arse off all day to finish the shit-load of reports I needed to complete just so I wouldn't have my job hanging over my shoulder while we ate. That stupid, selfish, inconsiderate, moronic ruffian—

I shoved my way inside the lift as soon as it opened, barely noticing as people edged away from me—because of my anger or because of who I was, I didn't really know. I was too busy fuming to care, honestly. The elevator doors opened one flight up and I stalked out, then headed in the direction of Potter's office.

He'd better not be hunched over his desk working, I though dangerously. It didn't take me long to reach his office; Potter's room was located just down the hall, the largest one on the floor. The hall was, luckily, empty, which meant I wouldn't get in trouble if I decided to yell a little, and I really felt like yelling.

I reached Potter's door—which was open by inches—and grabbed the knob and pushed it open. My mouth was set, all too ready to give Potter what he deserved for making me wait nearly an entire hour for him. The sight I saw, however, made my words die back in my throat.

Potter stood there, in the middle of the room, body turned toward me, with another person tucked to his chest. With another man tucked to his chest. His arms were wrapped around the shorter person's shoulders, and Potter had his eyes closed, face turned upward to the ceiling so high I could almost see inside his nose.

He must have sensed he was being watched because he dropped his head down and ever so slowly opened his eyes and—

Froze.

The other man must have realized something was happening because he turned in Potter's embrace, craning his neck around to get a look at what Potter was staring at, and blanched when he saw me.

Finnigan, Seamus Finnigan, Potter's fourth lover, right after Anthony and right before McJaise, was holding him.

I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.

"It's not—" Potter started, and I snapped my gaze away from Finnigan (whom Potter still did not let go of) and looked up. Our eyes locked and Potter fell silent, eyes wide andpleading. For what, I hadn't an idea.

"So," I found myself saying, and my words tasted vile on my tongue. "This is why you stood me up."

"Draco," Potter implored, and it might have been my eyes deceiving me a little bit because Potter's eyes looked like they were actually moist, but I ignored that and shook my head.

"Right," I said flatly. Right.

"Well, glad to see you're back together again," I said. I really wished I could have just shut the fuck up and left, but my mouth never seemed to listen to me when I needed it to most. "But really, Potter, couldn't you have at least sent me a note or something so I wouldn't have been waiting for you like an idiot for the past hour? It's called consideration, prat."

I really needed to shut up. It didn't help that I couldn't get my voice to sound all that joking. I'm sure, even to my own ears, that it sounded absolutely dead.

"Right," I said again. I nodded for emphasis. It was on the tip of my tongue to announce my leave, but then something started pushing its way up my throat, and my sight began to swim, and area between my eyes and my nose began to positively burn. I turned on my heel and ran out, ignoring Potter's stupid cries of "Draco", towards the stairs. I rushed down them, all five flights, and nearly stumbled down a few in my desperate haste to leave.

How could I have been so stupid? So completely and utterly thoughtless? Of course Potter would have gone back to him! He was Potter's longest affair, after all, lasting almost seven months when most men rarely made it to three.

I shoved people out of my way, ignoring their angry protests, and continued moving across the ground floor.

I was such an idiot. Who was I even trying to fool? All that time I'd been secretly hoping that I hadn't been wrong, that Potter had truly asked me on a date. It's why I'd gone to work dressed in my finest set of robes, it's why I spent nearly an hour doing my hair in the morning, it's why I'd been checking the clock every five minutes for the entire day, so bloody eager for Potter to walk through my office door and finally take me out. I'd put every ounce of hope I had left in wishing that Potter wouldn't break my heart—not again.

But he had, and I was so foolish for letting him.

By the time I made it above ground, stumbling out of the phone booth like a man drunk, my eyes were so wet I couldn't see even a foot in front of me. I pulled out my wand, yelled out of the spell for apparation, and apparated out.

I didn't even care if I ended up splinching myself on the way.

It would be just punishment for believing, even for a second, that someone like Potter would ever want someone like me.

08

When I opened my eyes the next morning the sun nearly blinded me. Light was peaking through my sea-green drapes, falling over my bed in an iridescent hue. I shut my eyes closed tightly and turned around, intending to fall asleep again.

I didn't bother casting Tempus to check for the time. There wasn't any way in hell I was going to go to work. If Kingsley decided to bitch about me not coming then I'd just say I was sick—I'd earned a few personal days anyway considering that the only time-off I'd taken in the last three years were the days I took off for my horribly painful transformations. Not much of a personal day when you're stuck lying in bed, dying.

Even with my back turned to the window the light was bothering me. I was determined not to leave my bed, however, and only burrowed myself further beneath the covers.

I was sure I fell asleep once I'd gotten home last night but it didn't feel like it. In fact, despite what had probably been over ten hours of sleep, I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. I was incredibly tired, but my eyes were prickling behind their lids, leading me to believe that I probably wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. It didn't matter; I decided I'd lay in bed until I did.

There was always the option of just sucking up my pride and going to work, but then I thought about Potter, strolling down the halls with stupid Finnigan by his side (a possible occurrence as the bastard worked only a floor above Potter), and clammed up.

Not to sound like a melodramatic poof, but I'd simply rather die.

With that determination in mind, I clenched my eyes closed and laid there, trying very hard not to think about Harry Potter at all.

09

Contrary to what I believed, I actually did managed to sleep. It was twelve o'clock when I awoke again, groggy from too many hours of sleep. The room was still too bright for my liking but it didn't matter much since I was fully awake, anyway. I dislodged myself from beneath the blankets and dragged my legs over the bed. The floor was unusually chilly, and when my bare feet landed flat on top of it I hissed in discomfort. With an irritated scowl at the floor I marched over to my bedside table, grabbed my wand, and immediately charmed it warm.

There was that, then.

I considered briefly if I was hungry enough to go downstairs, but after my stomach started to rumble I decided it would probably be a good idea. Just because my heart was a little broken didn't mean I had to starve myself. Holing myself up in my home like an Mandrake in the dirt was pathetic enough, I thought.

The walk downstairs, if possible, wore me out even more. For a moment I had even bitterly chastised myself for moving back into the Manor instead of buying a smaller flat.

As I didn't own house elves anymore (and I damned Granger—who worked in the Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement, in the Rights Of Magical Creatures branch particularly—remarkably for this), I had to make my own meal (something I'd slowly learned to do throughout the years). I opened the refrigerator door—a muggle appliance that was introduced to me by he-who-I-would-not-currently-name—and scanned its contents, then frowned. There wasn't much there. As it happened, I'd forgotten to go shopping that week. I summoned a pan and moved it onto the stove, then eventually pulled out two eggs. It took me a moment to magically beat them into a bowl until the yolk was a bright yellow, then I levitated them into the pan and turned the fire on. It didn't take long for the egg to harden. I flipped it a few times, tossed in butter once, then placed the eggs on a plate when I was satisfied with their color.

I'd just taken a seat when the doorbell rang.

The fork froze just inches from my mouth, and I found my head turning in the direction of the open door. I thought of anyone who'd be visiting me during the day, and couldn't come up with anyone. And surely Kingsley himself wouldn't feel the need to drop by my doorstep and tell me off for taking off without word. No, he'd more likely send an owl. My frown grew deeper as I stood up, mentally writing off the people I knew one-by-one.

The bell rang again as soon as I hit the foyer, and the sheer volume of it made me cringe. There was nothing to be done with it—the heavy sound carried well throughout the Manor, loud and clear even in the furthest wings.

I brought down the wards on the door preventing outside entrance and pulled it open.

The person on the other end smiled at me when it opened, albeit a bit nervously, and I stumbled back.

"P-Potter?" I stammered.

Potter, wearing a thick dark green robe over what I presumed was muggle clothing, lifted his hand and gave a little wave. His hand then moved to the back of his neck and began to scratch.

"Er…hullo, Malfoy."

I stared dumbstruck as Potter twiddled with his fingers, that tentative smile still on his face.

"Um… can I come in?" he asked after a moment.

I should have said no, really. My heart had already begun to beat a little faster in my chest. Why I nodded and moved to the side to allow Potter entry—well, I hadn't the foggiest idea.

I closed the door as Potter began shrugging his cloak off. He was, as I expected, wearing muggle clothes—dark jeans and a scarlet sweater, to be more specific. He, without permission of any kind, hung his cloak on the nearest coat rack and turned to look at me.

"Well?" I asked expectantly.

Potter blinked, as if for a moment he couldn't understand what I was saying, then flushed and nodded hurriedly. "You weren't at work," he said, as if that explained everything.

I quirked a brow at him. "Your powers of observation never fail to amaze me, Potter."

He flushed a little darker, and began to physically squirm. I shouldn't have found his countenance to be at all endearing, but I did.

"Why?" Potter asked,

Because you stomped on my hope and shattered my heart to pieces. "Because I wasn't feeling very well," I said instead.

Potter frowned deeply. "You looked fine yesterday."

That was before I caught you and Finnigan embracing. "It didn't hit until last night."

"You don't look very sick," Potter continued to pester.

"Pepper-up," I lied.

Potter looked disbelieving. "I thought… I thought you might have been upset about what happened yesterday."

I forced myself to smile. "Why would I have been upset? Because you bailed on me?"

"Well," Potter said, looking uncertain, "…yes?"

I folded my arms over my chest and brought my gaze down and snorted. "Please. If I got upset over something as trivial as that then I'd never be very happy, would I?"

Potter didn't answer.

I shook my head and sighed, trying my best to appear completely at ease with both Potter and the situation. "I told you I was fine, hadn't I? I meant it, Potter. A bit miffed, perhaps, but I'm not angry or anything."

Potter again didn't say anything. After a moment of saying nothing, in which I stared determinedly at the ground, Potter finally said:

"Seamus' Mum died, you know."

Startled, I shot my head up and frowned at Potter.

"What?" I said finally, wondering if I'd misheard him.

He sucked in a deep breath, as if he'd rather not have gone in the direction of conversation that he had, but continued speaking anyway. "His Mum. When Seamus and I used to date, me and her used to take tea together sometimes, or swap Wizarding gossip. When you… found us like that, yesterday, he'd just finished telling me."

I let Potter's words sink in and nodded carefully. That might have explained why Potter was late, but not the kind of embrace that he and Seamus shared. You just didn't hold someone who you weren't seeing, especially if that person were an ex. It just wasn't done.

When I failed to respond, Potter persisted. "Seamus and I aren't back together."

My mouth had suddenly gone dry, and my thrumming heartbeat was pounding loudly in my ears. What did Potter care if I had been wrong about that, then?

"He just… he needed some comfort, and I didn't want to turn him down, you know? Not when his Mum just died and the three of us had been so close before."

"You… you don't have to explain yourself to me, Potter. It's not as if I care one way or another." It was a lie, a complete and utter lie, but I was so used to saying them to myself that maybe it had sounded a little convincing to Potter's ears. Hopefully.

Potter made a strangled sound, something caught between a groan of aggravation and an insistent grunt, and when I looked up again to see if maybe he choked on his own spit or something, Potter was suddenly moving towards me.

I took a step back, surprised as Potter rushed directly in front of me, and flinched when his hands latched themselves onto my shoulders.

"Malfoy!" he snapped, and I stared at him wide-eyed, "Can't you take the bloody hint?!"

I spluttered because no, I could not take any hint of any kind, and Potter wasn't making an ounce of sense at the moment, and he must have seen it in my confused expression because he suddenly rolled his eyes and dipped his head and the next thing I knew there was a pair of lips being pressed against my own, harsh and hard and soft all at the same time, and I was so completely shocked that I couldn't move.

When Potter pulled away… pulled away from kissing me… my eyes were still wide and all I could do was stare.

"I fancy you, Malfoy," Potter said lowly, and his green eyes were boring into mine with such strength that if I had not been frozen in place I would have certainly looked away.

Or died of a heart-attack.

"For a long time now. I've been throwing hints this whole bloody time, even asking you out on a date—"

"That… yesterday was supposed to have been a date?" I interrupted, stupidly.

Potter rolled his eyes again. Yes. There were supposed to have been many, but you could never get the clue, and after a while I started thinking that maybe you had gotten it and just didn't want anything to do with me—well, until I saw your face when you walked in on Seamus and me, and I figured you must have felt something for me to have looked as devastated as you did…" Potter trailed off, eyes never leaving mine.

"Are you, then?" he asked, and his face was so close to my own that I could actually smell his minty breath.

"Am I what?" I said. I really couldn't pay attention to anything else because Potter was really entirely to close, a mere hairs breath away, actually, and had he actually admitted to fancying me?

Potter grinned. "Interested in me."

"Oh," I said, eyes fixated on his mouth.

He chuckled, then lifted his hand to brush a string of messy hair that had fallen to my cheek behind my ear. Potter's fingers were warm as they swept across my skin, and their trail left a line of heat running from the corner of my lip to my left lobe. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

All I could do was nod.

"Great." And then Potter's lips were back on mine, pressing butterfly kisses to a closed mouth until I parted my lips and allowed him to deepen it.

My head was reeling. I could hardly make sense of what was happening. Potter was kissing me. Potter was kissing me. He said he fancied me. I should have tried to think about what exactly that implied, but it was rather hard to concentrate with Potter's tongue probing in my mouth, tracing wet heated lines at the roof of my mouth and across my teeth. He nibbled at my lips and suckled at my tongue, devouring me.

When I could no longer handle not breathing I pulled away, gasping for air. My mouth tingled and burned spectacularly, and I could feel a line of saliva—belonging to whom, I had no idea—dribbling down the corner of my mouth.

Potter's eyes were bright as he lifted a finger to my lips, using his thumb to smear the line of drool away. He leaned in again, slower that time, and ran his tongue over my bottom lip. I shivered at the sensation.

I was aching and heated all over. My pants were almost painfully tight, constraining my erection in a torturous way. Potter nibbled at my lips again and I shuddered.

"Let's not do this here," he whispered roughly, and slung his arms over my shoulders, pulling me toward him. "Your room."

It was somehow possible but I managed to push myself further into Potter's body. His erection brushed against my own and I inwardly groaned with desire.

"Too far," I rasped. "Four flights up."

"Fuck," Potter said.

And oh, how I really wanted to. Frankly, I didn't care if Potter and I sank to the floor and got off right then and there.

"Sitting room. Sofa." I managed.

Potter nodded against my cheek. He grabbed my hand, intertwined our fingers, and set off down the hall with me trailing behind him, as if he knew exactly where the sitting room was.

In a few moments I decided that yes, Potter must have known where my sitting room was, because we were soon tumbling on the large black couch, back to eating each other's faces.

"Merlin, Potter!" I hissed when his hips grounded into mine. We were grabbing and kissing at everything, lost in a complete haze of lust and desire. I couldn't take my hands off Potter for even a moment. I grabbed at his hair, sliding my fingers through the thick strands, more than just a little delighted that they were as soft as I'd imagined. I scratched at his back, bare after he'd removed that hideous sweater and shirt, and ran my fingers alongside his arms and sides and neck. I grabbed at the firm muscles that traced Potter's arms, flexing and throbbing and sliding, and if not for the fact that our faces were near-permanently attached I would have ducked my head and slid my teeth over his thick shoulder blades, would have run my tongue down the length of his biceps, down to his long, slender fingers. Potter was addicting; there was nothing that could be said for it. Even with our lips locked I felt as if I needed more. Even with our bodies pressed so tightly together we were nearly molded as one, I felt as if I hadn't enough of him. His scent, his feel, his taste; Potter was all and everything I'd dreamed of, if not so much more.

Potter was almost naked, his black boxers the only remaining thing on him, when he decided that I wasn't nearly naked enough and began to unbutton my night robes. His hands were trembling a little, and more than once I thought he was going to tear it open. When he finally managed to unbutton the entire thing—and without any rips or tears—he slid the sleeves over my arms and threw the robe behind the sofa. His eyes glanced up at me, dancing wickedly, and his hands pressed against my chest and pushed softly so that my back was flat against the sofa's surface, and began to glide down. Potter continued to look at me as his fingers ran over my stomach, dipped into my navel, and smoothed against my pelvis. He patted at the blond curls that poked atop my undergarments and I groaned when he tugged on them lightly. My erection was throbbing, burning, all too eager to be set free. As if catering to its needs Potter dipped his hands at the band of my briefs and tugged them down, sliding them artfully along my legs and over my feet, and I hissed as my cock sprung free. It didn't get much of a chance of air, however, because soon Potter's hand was curling around it, warm and tight and wonderfully strong, and I closed my eyes and fell back.

"Fuck, Potter," I moaned as his hand slid up and down my cock. His palm circled its head, his fingers dipped into the heated foreskin, and from top to base Potter's fingers scratched and massaged and petted.

I couldn't wait anymore.

I hoisted myself up onto my elbows and reached over, placing my hand over Potter's so that my cock was firmly in place against his palm, and began to glide it for him.

Potter, apparently not as thick as I expected, must have gotten it because he pushed me back flat on my back and began to take the problem at hand more seriously.

My mind became a whirlwind of feeling as Potter fisted me, alternating between squeezing and letting go, and sliding and circling. His fingers rubbed the head of my cock, nails dipped into the wet slit. His second hand, which had been rubbing circles against my thinly-haired thighs, dipped between my legs and began to fondle my balls, tugging and squeezing and pulling and patting. I was moaning incoherently, lost in a sea of Potter and passion. Every inch of me was on fire, every strand of hair on end. My thighs shook and trembled from his attentive ministrations. I couldn't stop gasping out Potter's name, couldn't stop my toes from curling or my feet from shifting or my eyes from rolling to the back of my head. When finally the ball of heat that was growing in the pit of my stomach moved down to my cock, my eyes flew open and my back arched and I gave Potter a his-name warning before I erupted in his hand, waves of pleasures moving through me like an electric current. Potter continued to stroke me as I shook from the remnants of orgasm, and I was just about to tell him to stop, because my prick was oversensitive to the point that it was almost painful, when Potter let out a desperate, barely stifled groan and warm liquid began to jet onto my stomach.

Still gasping I sat up enough to realize that Potter had gotten himself off on his own, cock pulled out above his shorts. Stream after stream pelted my tingling stomach until Potter shivered once more and came crashing down, landing flat on me. I didn't dare move, no matter how heavy he was. I could bear a bit of weight if it meant having Potter on me.

After a minute or so of catching our breaths, Potter breathed, "Bloody hell."

I could only nod in agreement.

I waited a moment more before I started fidgeting. Potter, sensing my discomfort, rolled to his side (and I thanked Merlin that the sofa was so adequately large) and scooted in beside me.

We lied there for a while silently before Potter said, "So."

"So," I repeated. And then: "I'm a werewolf."

I don't know why I blurted that out, but as soon as I did I cringed. It wasn't as if Potter didn't know that.

"I know." Potter said.

I continued to stare up at the ceiling. "And I used to be a death-eater."

"I know that, too."

"And my father tried to kill you."

And wasn't I just the Wizarding World's biggest moron?

"Mm." Potter hummed.

"And I'm spoiled. A real prat. Very sarcastic and rude."

"Mm-hmm."

"And I still don't like muggles all that much, either."

Potter sighed. "Draco—"

"Or muggleborns, for that matter. And no matter how many years pass, I'll always think the Weasel is a git and Granger insufferable and Kingsley a giant arse—"

"Draco!"

I flinched, and dared to glance sideways at Potter. I was expecting to see a scowl on his face, or a frown, or a sudden look of realization and disgust.

I hadn't expected him to smile at me.

"Yes, I know all that," Potter said, and his eyes were dancing in amusement. "And I really don't care."

"But—"

"But nothing. I fancy you; I said I did, didn't I? And I know who you are, Draco. If that hadn't scared me off already, then there's probably little else you could do to finish the job."

"But—" I tried to argue again.

Potter, because he really was a royal prat, leaned over and pressed his lips against mine. I hadn't realized that I'd effectively shut up until he pulled away with a smirk.

"Potter," I growled, but was interrupted again.

"It's Harry."

I rolled my eyes, hoping to convey just how insufferable I thought he was, and began to sit up. Potter—no, Harry's—arms snaked around my naked waist before I could even lift myself from the sofa, and before long I was right back where I started, only possibly closer to him than I was before.

"I want to take a shower," I grumbled petulantly. Po—Harry's spunk was still on my stomach. I wasn't exactly sure where my own had gone, but I reckoned I really didn't want to know. Not yet, at least.

"Use Scourgify," Potter mumbled, and buried his nose in the crook of my shoulder.

My stomach fluttered and I couldn't have stopped the smile from blossoming over my face even if I'd wanted to. I thanked Merlin that P—Harry was looking away.

"That's gross," I said, and batted him on the arm for emphasis.

Harry grumbled something unintelligible, and only scooted in further.

I sighed and tried not to indulge him, because we were both sweaty and hot and covered in stuff that was not meant to be used as body paint, but found myself relaxing into his hold anyway.

Potter made a sound of approval and snuggled further, and I found myself doing the same.

Everything still didn't make much sense. Or it did, but it was hard to wrap my head around. That was probably due to the fact that I was still reeling in the afterglow of an orgasm, of sex with Harry Potter, but even so. My heart started beating faster, pounding heavily against my chest, and I was sure that Potter was hearing it, if not feeling it.

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and whispered the words that I had, for so long, wished I could say.

"I love you, Harry." I murmured. I felt supremely stupid afterward for saying it, and ducked my head further into Harry's shoulder to hide my blush. Potter's next words made my chest swell.

"Likewise."

Which was, really, just another way of saying, I love you, too.

A smile flourished over my face and I pushed back the tears that threatened to surface.

It was a bit nerve-wrecking…thinking that maybe I had been wrong the entire time.

That maybe someone like Harry Potter… could love someone like me.

Nerve-wrecking…

And absolutely wonderful.

With a contented sigh I pushed further into Harry's chest and smiled;

Because Harry Potter, savior-of-the-Wizarding-World-and-Deafeater-of-Lord-Voldemort-and-Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died-Then-Lived-Again, was—

In love with me.

Yes, wonderful indeed.

10: End

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the story! Reviews are, as always, appreciated.

'Til next time!

~Reiko Katsura