::1::

Harry had head Susan Bones had taken over her Aunt's position at the Ministry, but it didn't stop the surprise that he was certain registered on his face when he saw her. Ron had said more than that she was somewhat flighty and unorganized, and quite often looked ruffled. The strange thing, his friend said, was that Susan had seemed quite content being second-in-command to such a position (she was her aunt's delivery girl, essentially—delivering files and organizing meetings) the rumor was that she had been pushed into taking on a job she knew she wasn't ready for because keeping such a position in the family was something to boast about. Secretly, Harry had just wondered if Ron was exaggerating before.

Seeing Susan Bones now, her hair cut chin-length, nothing like the long plait she'd worn at school, he felt inclined to agree with his friend. Her body had taken on its namesake, it seemed, because her skin stretched over her bones after every movement—her eyes looked owlish and large, her cheekbones jutted out. For lack of a better explanation, she looked like she'd spent far too many nights at the office and not sleeping.

"Harry," she said, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she saw him, apparently unaware of the thoughts running through his mind, "I hope you're well."

A short man came into her office, handing her a bag of what looked to be some kind of pie. He handed her a coffee.

"Black? No sugar?" she asked, unaware of how sharp her tone had turned. The man nodded feebly and exited the room quickly. He didn't even acknowledge Harry. Apparently Susan Bones had changed more than her hairstyle.

Her bone hands curled around the coffee as she took a sip. She looked at Harry again, smiling at him, apparently unaware of how much she looked like a bird of prey when she did so. "So, Harry, what is it that you're here for?"

"It's regarding the newest Deatheater investigation," he said, trying not to let his stare linger on her eyes for too long, "I've heard that they need some assistance and I have someone willing to, if the Ministry is willing to draw up an agreement with him."

The woman didn't seem surprised by this statement. In fact, it seemed to be what she expected. He couldn't help but notice the slight tinge of hunger in her eyes as she asked, purely for the record's sake, "And whom is this regarding?"

"Draco Malfoy," was the answer. Even though Harry knew he had a good argument, he couldn't help but feel a little uneasy about saying his name aloud.

There was also no surprise to this answer. Susan Bones just leaned in further, her lips twisted in what she may have interpreted as a cordial smile but to Harry simply looked awkward, "I have been hearing that name around here a lot, Harry. You have to know, of course, that the Ministry has been investigating Draco for some time—"

"Pardon me for saying," Harry interjected nervously, "but you haven't found anything either, have you?"

The woman looked surprised at this. If anything, she'd been expecting Harry to want to work on arresting Draco Malfoy, not defend his apparent innocence. "No," she admitted finally, giving him a gesture that suggested he continue.

Harry stared at her, certain that the awkward pause seemed much stronger to him.

"I suppose," she said finally, apparently taking his silence to mean that he had nothing more to say, "I will have to schedule an appointment with Draco Malfoy, then,"

The green eyes stared at her blankly once more, and Susan found herself wondering if Potter had suffered some kind of head injury.

"Er—this is the appointment with Malfoy." He stammered out.

The woman rose her brows at him, the air of her expression something Harry was certain he'd seen many times on McGonagall's face, and pursed her lips in a silent 'Oh?'

The dark-haired wizard gestured behind him. "He's waiting out there, they said I had to speak to you first and I thought they'd told you—"

"Bring him in, then," Susan said curtly, and watched as Harry left. This wasn't how she wanted to spend her day—with a headache the size of Hogwarts itself and a mountain of paperwork to do. She decided that if she was going to have to deal with Draco Malfoy, then she was going to eat some of the pie her husband sent to her.

Pie always kept her wits where they needed to be.

Potter did not seem like his usual self. The woman followed his gaze, ignoring the nervous smile that flittered across his lips when he saw her looking, and saw Draco Malfoy perched on the chair across from her, preening just like he used to at Hogwarts, giving her a very pointed stare. Just like his nose, she thought irritably.

Though still terribly pointy and undoubtedly still possessing the character traits of a vulture, Susan had to admit that some things about Draco Malfoy had changed since she had seen him last, skittering around like a rat.

His features had defined somewhat—he was still small (which he would always counter with simply being slender and how Malfoys everywhere were reviled for it in jealousy) but his jawline was more prominent, his silvery-blonde hair let loose, and, at least compared to Harry, was quite tall.

She reckoned if he wasn't Draco Malfoy, or just had a slightly better personality, more girls would have swooned over him. There were a few girls, mostly younger ones, who'd managed to get a glimpse of the pale man without his sneer and, for a short while, held delusions that he was someone a non-Slytherin would find desirable.

Soon, though, they all said variations of the same thing—It's a pity, he's quite gorgeous under the right light, if you wipe that sneer off his face, but his personality, well that's just plain ugly.

"Susan," the man drawled, "Fancy meeting you here."

The woman wasn't sure what the comment was supposed to come across as, but she took it as a sort of false encouragement (something Lucius was fond of) to start a conversation. On any other day, she'd have even given in to it.

But not today, when someone scheduled a meeting on her lunch break with the man no one could cancel on (not politely at least)—no, today was not a good day to be in Susan Bones's office. She turned to look at Potter, who was somehow not looking the slightest bit irritated to have to share space with his rival.

It was odd, to say the least.

"So, what are these," she paused, trying to let a polite smile settle on her features, though it took effort, "agreements, Mr. Malfoy?"

"In exchange for my help concerning these safehouses," the blonde said, airily, "I would like two things."

It should not have surprised her that Draco could be so brazen, but it did nonetheless. He apparently did not notice her expression, for he continued in that irritating, posh tone.

"I would like the Malfoy Manor back under my possession," he said, and that was logical to her, so even though every fiber of her being just wanted to scoff at him and turn away, she decided to listen to his second request, "and most importantly, I want the Dumbledore Centre for Wizarding Youth publicly funded by the Ministry."

Susan took a bite of pie for that, mostly to keep her unable to respond. It was quite the request, and she knew she would have to take it. Perhaps if Harry hadn't been involved, she could have knocked Malfoy down a peg or two…unfortunately, as much as she wanted to, she knew the investigation meant more.

"I think that is a reasonable request on your part," she said, nodding as if it wasn't Draco Malfoy she was speaking with, "and quite…kind…." the word was drawn out somewhat because kind wasn't exactly associated with the blonde, and it made the whole situation much stranger, "of you to make that request on Mr. Potter's behalf."

Malfoy could see she was bursting to ask just what in Merlin's sake was he doing, but knowing she had to keep a professional air about her, she ignored her curiosity.

"I will write these two requests up, and have you both sign them, if I may, for revision."

Shortly after, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were leaving her office, smiling at each other like they hadn't spent most of their childhood hissing and spitting at one another.

"I just saw the strangest pair today," she said to her husband, who was, for once, home when she happened to be.

"Stranger than a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw?"

"Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter?"

Terry looked up from his lamb roast on the stove, surprised to hear the first man's name at all. "What about Draco Malfoy?"

"He's with Harry Potter. As in, they're shagging each other."

The man grimaced. "Suse, I really didn't need that imagery. Not after the day I've had."

"It was your day off," she said curiously. He hadn't fulfilled any particular expected role one would expect after an education at Hogwarts (and his parents expressed disappointment at that)-Terry, straying far from his Wizard roots, had taken up a job as a fairly prominent pastry chef. He spoke of perhaps working with the Magical population directly, but currently he seemed to enjoy what he was doing.

"And what a glorious day it was until you filled my head with those two."

Susan went over and kissed him on the cheek, ignoring his comment. "Thanks for the pie."

"You know I make sure to send you some of your favorite when the restaurant makes it." There was something attractive about a man, Susan had to say, who could cook.

She found herself idly wondering if Malfoy knew how to cook at all, and if that was what stirred up the unexpected romance between the two men.

::2::

"You really are hopeless at this, Potter," Malfoy drawled, watching the dark-haired man frown at the directions in front of him.

Somehow, making treacle pudding wasn't as entertaining as he first thought it to be. "And you," he said, catching the blonde trying to rise up out of his seat again, "aren't supposed to be overdoing yourself. Sit that arse of yours down or I swear I'll hex you into doing it." Despite the scowl that settled on the pale man's face, he knew better than to ignore his threat. The last time Potter had warned him of something similar, he'd actually gone through with it.

Draco had made a comment about how that really revealed some secretive sexual desire, and the olive-skinned man, red-faced, looked mortified for a good five minutes over it.

He tried to stay quiet for as long as he could, but past the five minute mark it was less amusing and really quite boring, so he called Potter a prude. Suddenly, rather than be an actual insult to the Gryffindor, the man decided all seemed in balance again and took Malfoy's suggestion to make something for the kids at the centre.

Leave it to Potter to take something meant to be an obvious jab at his inability to cook something and not have it be overdone (and the Dursleys had him cook for them! Really!). He supposed the raven-haired wizard knew he was simply teasing—that he didn't really mean his cooking was all that awful (though how Potter was able to discern from simple teasing and an actual insult, he wasn't certain) but he chose to believe it was because, as well-intentioned as Potter may be, he could also be incredibly dense. Not as dense as Crabbe or Goyle, mind you, but still dense.

Draco didn't stop his dry, insulting commentary as Potter continued with the recipe, though he hadn't caused any grave mishaps and it actually appeared to turn out rather well. This, of course, wouldn't have been any fun to the blonde at all, so he chose to continue as if the art of creating pudding was as in need of a live commentary as Quidditch was.

Harry looked at Malfoy, taking a seat beside him. The kitchen was small, but it had a bar table at the end, which eliminated the need for an actual dining table (which Harry liked because he didn't want to bother with a table that, ideally, he would only be using for a few months, and he knew Malfoy secretly thought the same—the blonde wouldn't have had so many things to say about it otherwise) and the common area that was beside the kitchen had enough room for a sofa as well as a bookshelves, if someone would have wanted a setup like that.

As it was, the two decided to get the barest essentials possible (which left no chance of having a guest over for long, and Harry knew Malfoy liked that). The one thing Malfoy made certain of was the bed—specifically, how large and comfortable it was. He had no qualms about loudly asking the salesperson if there was one larger, or having Harry sit upon it with him. The blonde lived to make that familiar red of crimson rush upon his face—he smiled every time.

Had it been any other situation, Harry would have found it offensive. Somehow though, privately, he thought it adorable. Ron would have called him mental if he'd voiced that thought, but he supposed he liked how Malfoy still took roundabout ways of getting his attention from time to time.

For some reason, it made him it made him feel special.

"Are you nervous about seeing everyone tomorrow?" Harry asked Malfoy, who had, up until this point, managed to avoid the conversation topic—which meant he was feeling nervous about it.

The Ministry had finally returned his car after a long visit there, suspiciously more than a few miles registering on the dashboard before it had been taken away.

"As long as you don't leave me unattended in that wheelchair, I reckon everything should be safe enough," he answered idly, using his index and middle finger to 'walk' across the surface over to Harry's resting hand. Malfoy had an interesting quirk—try as he might, the blonde couldn't suppress it. He adored simply running his fingers along Potter's skin, exploring the different curves and angles, the way his muscles felt when he was tense and they way they felt when he was relaxed.

Potter found it amusing. He hadn't said anything about it, but the amusement was obvious all the same. This time, though, he remained serious—not enough to stop Malfoy from exercising his impulse, but enough not to be too distracted by it, which was what the blonde was going for.

"You don't have to go, you know," his green eyes raked across the blonde's face.

Two fingers brushed against his forearm. The touch left a tingling sensation behind, as if Malfoy was dragging a small electric charge across his arm.

"And I've told you fifty million times, Potter," the man answered evenly—which was one way it was obvious he was veering toward irritation, "I'll be fine. Don't bloody coddle me." Draco didn't even look up from his current fixed stare on the olive skin in front of him, "Don't apologise," he commanded, knowing that in just seconds he was about to.

The wizard took the other arm that Malfoy wasn't currently fixated on and brushed the silver-blonde hair out of his face. His silver eyes looked at the crooked finger dragging across his cheek. Truthfully, the blonde admitted to himself, Potter had done a good job of not hovering over him like some sort of flighty mother. He allowed him, within reason, to set his own schedule and didn't try to force meals together or make Draco use the wheelchair they'd taken on loan.

There were times, however, that Potter refused to let him stand up any further. The blonde had once made the mistake of presuming he could very well do without rest after a certain period of standing or walking, and had collapsed on the spot. He hadn't fainted, he simply found himself on the floor, his arse smarting a bit and his legs sprawled out in front of him. Sometimes he thought he must have looked like a doe just learning how to walk.

His pale hand continued its travels up the arm it happened to be on, making circles and random shapes as it did so. Sometimes, when he thought Potter wasn't paying attention, he'd trace hearts on the canvas in front of him.

A long but comfortable silence had passed. Malfoy lifted his pale eyes to meet Harry's pondering green ones and asked, "When do you reckon that Bones woman will get back to us?"

"Not sure," he answered absently, "Depends on how much trouble they give her about the stipulations we asked for."

The Slytherin had found himself thinking about it quite a bit. He really wanted the whole ordeal to be overwith—being in the limelight, and especially a negative one at that, was getting quite old pretty fast. He'd rather stay out of the limelight at all—there was a time, as a more naïve boy, he would have given his left arm for fame. He'd give it now to be left alone. Additionally, he worried about what it would mean for Potter if the papers got wind of the change in their relationship. There were still many who hated Draco, and probably still some that hated Potter. Being used as a weapon against the savior was one of his biggest fears.

This, however, he had yet to share. It didn't seem necessary to, really. At the moment his concerns were largely unfounded.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted their thoughts. Harry rose to answer it, looking into the peephole before opening it. Malfoy had made certain to instill that habit into him as soon as possible, and the blonde looked pleased that he had remembered to.

A deep frown was on the shorter man's face as he drew back. "It's Rita Skeeter, that awful gossip columnist." He turned, about to settle back into his former seat, when a loud rap accosted their ears again.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, I simply have a few questions! I know you're in there!"

Malfoy shook his head, wordlessly telling him to ignore it. "How long can she stand there without getting bored, anyway?"

The answer, however, was never found, because after long twenty minutes of continuous knocking and loud commentary through the door, Harry gave up, planning to tell her to, in much more polite terms, sod off.

"I'm not interested in any more interviews or stories," he said to the woman plainly, opening the door just enough to squeeze his head through.

"Oh, but Mr. Potter, don't you think the public deserves to know about the new developments with the investigation? The word is you're actually working with Mr. Malfoy on it! Your schoolboy rival!" Her words all came dripping with false kindness, an obvious sort of hunger behind them.

"And I'm choosing not to make any comments at this time." Harry said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice, "Please respect my wishes."

Though Draco had tried to keep himself out of view when Potter opened the door, the woman caught sight of his telltale silver hair and pounced on it like a lion would for dinner. "Perhaps Mr. Malfoy would be interested?" she said silkily, utterly failing at appearing sexy. The years had not been kind to her—wrinkles and age spots didn't disappear under the glamour she used.

"No." said Malfoy flatly.

"Oh, it appears I have enough to write about anyway," the woman said, a clear amount of glee in her voice, "Take care, Mr. Potter."

The blonde just looked at Harry after he'd locked the door, fuming. "What can she say anyway, Potter? She has nothing. It was a bluff."

"Skeeter's good at twisting things around," he muttered, remembering the first time she'd interviewed and written about him.

Malfoy rose to his feet, taking Harry's hand gently and leading him to the bedroom. He crawled onto the bed, standing on his nears near the edge, motioning for the raven-haired man to sit. When he obliged, Malfoy's thumbs worked through the knots in his neck.

"Your hair really is a mess," he murmured, pressing his forehead against the back of his skull, feeling the way the man was relaxing at his touch. He liked that he was able to rile Potter up as much as he could get him to lull into calmness.

The man twisted around wordlessly, pushing the blonde gently to the bed. His lips began searching across his neck, hunting for the spot that never failed to make him gasp with pleasure whenever he bit and sucked at it. Of course, there were other things to suck at that drew out much more than a simple gasp, but Harry enjoyed teasing him.

They ripped at the fabric on each other's bodies, caring only to rid of the irritating barrier. Malfoy got Harry's shirt off first, making certain to run both hands down his skin, over the taut abdomen and the scar above his left him from when Uncle Vernon had kicked a bit too hard. The blonde tried not to think about those things—it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a series of events in his mind that were hardly legal.

After both men had managed to remove their trousers and other garments, Draco wrapped one hand around the throbbing erection bumping against his own. The sound that tumbled past Potter's lips was nothing short of beautiful—the look in his eyes and the flush across his cheeks gave him a sort of wild appearance, as if the sensations elicited something much more primal, as if they made him alive.

What Draco enjoyed most, though, was the parted lips, the warmth of pleasure in Potter's eyes as his climax rose further, until the fiery, smoldering look that indicated he'd come. He found it beautiful every time, and probably the best incentive to want to shag the Gryffindor seven times a day.

They rested as a tangle of limbs, satiated enough to no longer need to kiss and nip and tease every inch of skin.

Harry brushed his lips against the alabaster forehead next to his own, leading Malfoy to tilt his head up, capturing them with his lips. He pushed further, prompting the blonde to roll and put one knee between his legs, the other resting on the opposite side, his hands slightly straining against his weight as they finally parted.

The dark-haired man tucked one strand of blonde hair behind his ear, leaving his view unobstructed. Sometimes simply looking at Malfoy created the familiar stir of emotion in his chest, of which the blonde referred to as acting like a Hufflepuff.

They didn't usually say very much after sex. Somehow it would have ruined the moment. Malfoy decided what females termed as 'pillow talk' to simply be a silly female trait, one he'd always found irritating. Women could be quite the adversaries, and proved to be fun in bed, but he'd never found quite the dynamic that he had with Potter.

He didn't think he'd find it in anyone else, either.

::3::

Despite the dessert Harry had brought the kids, it didn't prove to be as interesting as Malfoy in his wheelchair. Connor's face broke into the biggest smile he could manage, and he was among the first the throw his arms around him.

Then the second shoe dropped. "Where's Albus?"

Really wasted no time there, Draco thought. He'd been hoping his visit would keep that question at bay, but it appeared to do the opposite.

"There was an accident."

"What kind of accident?" Instantly the blonde knew he'd said the wrong thing, and after a glance at Potter, he knew he was going to be the one to tell the truth.

"There was a bad woman," he explained simply to the large eyes trained upon him, "this woman attacked me, and Albus did a very brave thing." He swallowed the lump that had somehow formed in his throat. "He went after the woman to try to protect me, and in the process sacrificed himself for me."

The wailing had started halfway into his explanation, but it increased in volume after he'd finished. Draco flinched at the crowd of children approaching him and Potter for hugs and reassurance.

It took a long, long time to calm them down—many bulbs had exploded in the process—and crying ensued the rest of the day, albeit quieter than it was initially. The news seemed to overshadow the happiness that surrounded Malfoy's return, because, even if they all approached him intermittently to give him more hugs, wiping his shirt with tears, there wasn't a smile for the rest of the day.

Harry had managed to busy himself with supervising the children in the dining hall, helping serve lunch. Many children had refused to eat, and the minutes ticked by agonizingly as the food sat, untouched.

Overall both men felt helpless and frustrated. The end of the day was difficult as well because no one wanted them to leave, and after many, many reassurances that they would come back as soon as they could, the children let them go. The permanent staff—the caretakers that supervised bedtimes—had suffered a heavy blow. Three of the nine staff remained, and it was a heavy job to manage. Harvey had taken over as one of the supervisors and managers. He avoided both Harry and Draco as much as possible, probably because of his hand in the demise of the savior's flat.

"That was terrible," Harry muttered when they returned to their temporary abode. Not even Malfoy took the chance to make a remark about how stupidly obvious that was—in fact, he'd stayed relatively quiet.

The man handed him a sandwich, and not one remark was made about his cooking skills.

"Thank you."

It had caught Harry off guard, because whilst Malfoy did use subtle ways to express gratitude, he didn't think he'd ever heard the man directly say it to him. He chose not to press the man then, eating in the silence and wordlessly taking the dishes to the sink.

When they both retired to the bedroom, however, with Draco actually curling up between his legs, expecting the arms that embraced him, he decided to. The blonde liked affection, but usually baited Harry into it rather than actively seek it.

"Sickle for your thoughts," Harry murmured, smoothing down the silver hair in front of him, watching the way Malfoy's eyes fluttered shut at the touch.

At first the strangled whisper that came out of his mouth seemed more to be a sigh. His mind deciphered it moments after.

"I hurt them. It's my fault."

Knowing better than try to convince the man he was wrong, Harry simply said, "You did what you had to. Don't apologise for simply being human. You did the best you could."

"No," the man sighed, a slight shake at the end of it, "I could have—I should have shown that book to someone, anyone. I shouldn't have ignored it. It was foolish of me."

Potter pressed his lips to his inner wrist. "Everyone has ghosts following them. You didn't want to give yours more power over you."

"I ended up doing that, though, didn't I?" A bitter smile twisted his features.

The arms around him tightened further, as if a tighter embrace would protect him from the venomous thoughts in his mind.

"Draco," It was a whisper.

He'd never heard Potter address him by his first name. "Yes?"

"Don't let those ghosts make you hate yourself."

"Might be too late on that one."

The man stayed silent for a moment. "I do."

Draco took one tanned hand, beginning his light, feathery drawing. "You do what?"

"Hate myself." The whisper came out broken, fluttering across his lips.

For some reason that made the lump in his throat reappear. He forced it down. "Mighty daft of you," he responded lightly, "you're the savior. I don't think it's supposed to work that way. What is it that made you hate?"

"The people that died—I couldn't save them. I was supposed to."

Draco thought that was perhaps the stupidest thing he'd ever heard Potter say. He'd done all that he could, for nothing in return. "Potter," he said simply, "You did more than people expected. You had no hand in their deaths, Voldemort did."

The blonde paused. "And furthermore, that was the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"Thanks," muttered Harry dryly.

"Weasley, Granger, Corner—even Susan Bones. Connor, and the others—they're alive because of you. You did that. No one else." Malfoy said in explanation, "You should remember that."

Harry leaned down to kiss the top of his head. "Only if you remember that you did what you could. You've helped those kids more than you know, and you'll help them more with your assist on that case."

Draco doubted it was even remotely the same. "Fair enough."

The man shifted to lay on his side, facing Potter. He mimicked him. One long, pale finger followed Harry's jawline.

"Harry?" he murmured, catching the flash of surprise in his green stare. The lips accompanying those eyes curled into a smile.

"Yes?"

Malfoy paused, somehow finding the next few words far too weighted to leave his mouth. A different set exited them. "We forgot about tonight's potions."

It wasn't what he was going to say. But before he could find the words, Harry kissed him briefly and strode through the bedroom door and corridor, out of earshot of the whisper that tumbled away quickly in the silence.

"I love you."