Archive of Our Own

Resistance

For Luciology

Harry pressed the large, green copy button for a third time and held his breath. The old photocopier had just been un-jammed for the fourth time that morning - by none other than himself - and it could not be relied upon not to jam again. And he really needed his document copied. He'd tried explaining late reports away by virtue of the useless copier before, but Moody traditionally did not take excuses well. Besides which, now that Voldemort had been defeated, the Ministry had cut back on the Auror Department's budget to the point where new photocopiers were a dream of the past.

The fact that over half a dozen Death Eaters were still out there, roaming loose, was apparently less of a concern. As far as Scrimgeour was concerned, they hadn't hurt anyone in at least three months; therefore the activity was dying down. Funds were needed elsewhere.

The machine whined midway through copying Harry's report and stopped abruptly. Harry resisted the urge to smash his fist down onto it. "Fucking piece of trash," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

Harry half-turned. Malfoy, lounging against the doorframe, a paper coffee cup in one hand, a dossier tucked under the other arm. "Nothing," he said stiffly. "Just another paper jam."

Malfoy came over. "Another one?" He looked disgusted. "God, if I'd known the Department was going to be this under-funded, I'd have thought twice before joining."

Wish you had, Harry thought sourly. He pulled the legs of his trousers up slightly and crouched, pulling back the front cover of the antiquated device. "I guess the money's needed for the field assignments."

Malfoy snorted. "Right, because those are completely underwritten. No out-of-pocket expenses there whatsoever." He was beside Harry, dropping down to inspect the copier's innards. "What's going on in there?"

Harry pulled up the flap where the paper always got caught, not answering. His traditional hatred for Malfoy had simmered into mere dislike - a watchful, wary dislike at that - and he had little use for small talk, especially from him. Malfoy had changed sides early in the war, offering his services as a spy for the Order. Harry had never really argued it out with himself over whether or not he fully believed that Malfoy's allegiances had really shifted.

When he'd killed Lucius during the final battle (Lucius had turned on him, challenging Malfoy to a duel that would have been impossible to resist save by conceding), that debate had seemingly been laid to rest. However, it didn't mean that Malfoy had changed from being an utter snob, obnoxious to work with, frequently complaining about the Ministry's inadequacies. He complained if people brewed the tea or coffee wrong; he would borrow things like one's stapler and return it later (if at all) with all of the staples gone. Harry privately wondered how Malfoy had even got past the Ministry's rather rigorous character testing for the Auror position in the first place. Malfoy was petty, small-minded, and just... himself, Harry had decided. He did not need Malfoy there, interfering in his professional life.

Or with the copier, for that matter. Malfoy's fingers snaked in, dislodging the guilty bit of paper. He had to tug to get it out, and his elbow ended up hitting Harry in the shoulder. "Oops, sorry," he said, rather carelessly.

Harry nearly fell over. He caught himself and stood, anxious to be further away from the other. "No problem." His voice was still stiff.

Malfoy deposited the torn paper in the Muggle paper recycling box next to the machine and scowled at the ink on his hands. "Glad to help," he said dryly. "Especially for such overwhelming gratitude. Hurry up and make your copy, Potter. I've got stuff to copy, too." He stalked over to the counter to wash his hands at the sink.

Harry bit his lip and forced himself not to comment at this. He wished again that the Ministry had not decided to make the shift from parchment to paper at last. He turned his back on Malfoy without a word and set up the parameters for his copying job again.

"You know," Malfoy said thoughtfully, turning off the taps, "you really don't have to be such an unapproachable git all of the time. I mean, you can't hate me because of the war and all that. I think it's quite obvious which side I'm on. I gather it's just me, then. Is that it? Or what does a person have to do to get at that famed Potter charm, hmm?"

Harry, shoulders tense, watched guardedly as the copier produced the first page of his report. "I don't see why we need to talk about this."

Malfoy came around to the side of the machine where they could see each other. "We do have to work together," he observed. "It might be nice if we weren't always at each other's throats. That's all."

Harry paused, rubbing his forehead and trying to think of a way to avoid this conversation altogether. "We're not."

"You know what I mean. You're only like this with me."

Harry glanced at him. Malfoy actually looked genuinely concerned, a fine crease between his eyes. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Malfoy's eyes flashed in annoyance. "Tell me why you dislike me so much."

Harry shrugged. "Does it need an explanation? You're you. I'm me. That's just how it is. You're nasty to my friends, you never stop complaining. You just made fun of my clothes again yesterday. That doesn't exactly engender a desire for your lifelong friendship, Malfoy."

"I was just teasing, about your clothes," Malfoy said, his lips twitching in suppressed amusement. "And I - " he stopped, watching the third page of Harry's report knock the second one off the paper tray. He stooped and retrieved it before Harry could. "There you go. Look. I'm sorry about the rest. Can you at least try not to hate me?"

Harry shot him another glance, dubious. "Why is it so important to you?"

Malfoy's eyes held his for a moment, then shifted away. "I don't hate you. And I think we have more in common than you realise."

That went against the grain. Harry bucked mentally and refused to acknowledge what he heard Malfoy saying between the lines. "I doubt that."

Malfoy took a cautious step closer. "Neither of us has any family," he began. "Of course, your parents tried to save your life, and I ended the life of at least one of mine." At least? Harry caught this, but didn't have a chance to comment before Malfoy went on. "We're both Aurors. We both left school before seventh year and had to do our NEWTs by correspondence under the same tutor. We both live in Bayswater, though I know you've pretended not to know that. And I could name at least one other thing which I know you'll refuse to acknowledge, too."

Harry couldn't help it; he took the bait. "And what would that be?" he asked frostily, lips hardly moving.

Malfoy reached out and took the end of Harry's silk tie between his thumb and forefinger and Harry wondered why he didn't slap the git's hand away. "We both prefer men," he said simply, his eyes on Harry's tie rather than his face.

Harry's face blazed. "I do not," he spat. He grabbed his tie out of Malfoy's fingers. He should have known there'd be an ulterior motive, that Malfoy was just trying to pinpoint another thing to use against him.

Malfoy sneered at him, eyes narrowed into crescents of scorn and contempt. "Just keep denying it, then, Potter. Don't think I don't know better, though. And if you think I'm hitting on you, you're sorely mistaken. I just thought it could be a point of conversation. Never mind, then." He directed a pointed glare at the copier. "If you're quite finished," he shot.

"I am," Harry cut him off, face still burning. He grabbed his copy, stapled it with the built-in stapler on the copier, and made his escape without looking back.

The report was dropped in Moody's inbox and then he was back in the safety of his office, alone. The door closed. A flick of his wand dealt with the blinds and Harry buried his face in his hands, shoving his glasses onto his head. Damn it. How did Malfoy know? He'd continually dropped hints and bits of innuendo concerning Harry's orientation for weeks - always when it was only the two of them, which was surprising in and of itself, but still. He'd never actually said it aloud like that before, that plainly. Harry could ignore the hints, but that - why did Malfoy know? Where there some sort of sign that gay men accidentally sported, alerting every other gay male out there?

It was a subject he preferred not to think about. It wasn't that he was in denial; he just didn't want anyone to know. It was the last thing he needed, the entire wizarding world talking about how Harry Potter was gay. The shock, the letters, the bloody Howlers, just everything. Having to deal with Ron and Ginny both. It had been a long time since his fling with Ginny in sixth year - at twenty-five, longer than he cared to think about, in fact - but Ron kept harbouring hopes that it could still happen, and he rather suspected that Ginny did, too. Hermione probably wouldn't care, but sometimes Harry wondered if she also wanted him and Ginny to end up together again. Now that she and Ron were married, they probably figured it was just a matter of time.

And he hadn't even had a chance to experiment, like normal homosexuals. Oh certainly, there had been the odd fumble in the dark of anonymous bars, back during the war, or a wank, once, behind the Quidditch stands at a London-Manchester match two seasons ago. But it was nothing, really. Harry contented himself with his right hand and tried to convince himself that life was more than sex and that it didn't matter that there was no way he could get it up with Ginny if his life depended on it.

There was a knock at his door. Harry's head jerked up and he replaced his glasses hastily. "Come in," he called.

It was Malfoy. His cheeks began to burn again. "You forgot your original," Malfoy said, bringing it over to toss on Harry's desk. He closed the door behind him and fixed Harry with a long, measuring look. "Just wanted to double-check: if there was a naked male in your cubicle right this very minute, you wouldn't be in the least bit interested."

Harry ground his teeth together. "For someone who's not hitting on me, you seem unusually interested in my sexuality, Malfoy."

"Defensive, aren't we? I think that answers my question." Malfoy's smile was malicious. "You're welcome for bringing your original back. Good report, by the way; I hadn't thought of using Veritaserum that way."

Harry pressed his lips together and refused to rise to the bait. He kept his eyes firmly on his report. "Thank you. You can go now."

"Oh, thanks," Malfoy said sarcastically. "Since I need your permission and everything." He rolled his eyes and strode out of Harry's office.

Harry dragged his eyes off Malfoy's rear, adjusted his glasses, flicked a locking spell at his door, pressed his thighs together and made every effort to convince himself that Malfoy's bloody innuendos had not given him a hard-on.

* * *

Some days later, Harry wandered into the tea room at half-past ten, rubbing his eyes tiredly and hoping that someone had made Earl Grey. And that the someone hadn't been Edmund, who was absolute rubbish at making a good cup of tea. As well, the coffee was very nearly as bad as Malfoy had implied the other day; Harry rarely drank it from the office tea room if it could possibly be helped. Ugh. Malfoy. Harry's heart sank. He hadn't seen the other since their last exchange, save in passing and with many other people between the two of them, preventing conversation. However, ten-thirty was the most popular break time and chances of Malfoy being in the room were great. There was nothing for it but to go in - Harry refused to be kept away from the tea just because that wanker happened to be there.

He was. And worse, no one else was in there. Just Malfoy, stirring obscene amounts of sugar into his tea, as he always did. Bastard should have the bloody sugar bill for the Department taken off his salary, Harry thought sourly. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and waited for Malfoy to clear the area.

He seemed to be taking a very, very long time over it, stirring a bit, then taking a tiny sip and testing, then adding a bit more sugar, stirring that in, and on and on it went. Finally, Harry couldn't stand it any longer. "Bloody hell, Malfoy!" he exploded at last. "Are you dissolving each grain separately, or what?"

Malfoy stiffened, and it was only then that Harry realised that the other had perhaps not even known he was there. With a particular deliberation, he laid his spoon on the table beside the saucer that was set there specifically for used spoons so that they wouldn't get tea on the table. "I'm not blocking your way," he said coolly, his back to Harry.

"Are you done?" It came out rudely and Harry didn't care.

Malfoy turned around and glared at him. "I'm not going anywhere," he said stubbornly. "In fact, I'm going to spend my entire break standing right in this very spot."

Harry gritted his teeth and went over, yanking a clean cup off the tray and sloshing tea into it. The smoky aroma of Earl Grey drifted up to his nose. It smelled good. He added sugar and milk and stirred hastily, pointedly dropping his spoon onto the saucer, rather than making another little tea puddle on the table as Malfoy had done. He then moved pointedly away and tasted it. It was good. Harry took a second sip, appreciative, then stopped. Malfoy was looking at him with a peculiar light of triumph in his eyes. The unhappy realisation that the git had probably made the tea himself made itself known to Harry. Oh, well - at least there's one thing he can do right, Harry thought nastily and continued drinking his tea as though he were ignorant of the fact.

"You know," Malfoy said conversationally, but there was a distinctly nasty undertone in his voice, "it's one thing to make fun of people for being gay. It's an entirely separate issue to be gay, yourself, and to deny it. That's worse, you know. That's not just discriminating against someone else, that's an even deeper level of homophobia."

Harry was instantly angry. "I am not homophobic!" he said, rather more loudly than he'd meant to.

Malfoy opened his mouth, cheeks flushing darkly, but Harry cut him off before he had a chance to reply.

"I'm also not - "

"Yes you are!" Malfoy was enraged. "You are so patently, flamingly gay that it would make the colour pink look straight. I can't believe you're even trying to deny it!"

"If you would let me finish," Harry ground out, his jaw practically crushing itself in its tension, "what I was going to say was that I just don't give the topic much thought. I'm not interested in dating anyone, full stop."

They glared at each other, Malfoy still rather pink in the face - speaking of the colour pink, Harry thought meanly. "You're full of it," Malfoy said. "I don't think you even hate me. I think you're so bloody attracted to me that you can hardly muster speech in my presence, Potter. That's what I think. And you're so worried that the world is going to find out that the great Harry Potter likes cock that you'd rather jerk off in the corner bathroom five times a day than grow a ball and try something with an actual male." Malfoy's words were hard and fast and Harry wanted to wince, cover his ears, anything to avoid them. "I've seen the way you look at me sometimes," Malfoy said, and his voice was lower. To Harry's surprise, there was hardly any venom in it; he was just stating it as though it were a simple fact. "When you think no one's looking," Malfoy went on. "I've caught you at it."

Harry didn't know what to say to this, and floundered. "Wh - I was probably just thinking about whether or not you'd brought back my stapler or my Spello-tape or whatever thing you borrowed and left in your office this time. I don't look at you like that." He hesitated, wanting to say that he wasn't even remotely attracted to Malfoy, but was afraid that it would come out sounding like the utter lie it was.

Malfoy gave him an absolutely withering look. "Potter, that is the most pathetic thing I have ever heard. Honestly, I - "

Harry's fingers tightened around his cup and for a moment he thought he was going to lose control and have it shatter in his hand, spraying china and hot tea everywhere. "For your information, Malfoy, I really don't care what you think of me, you insufferable little - "

At this point, Hestia Jones walked in, looking surprised. "Harry? Draco? What's going on?" She gave Harry a sternly reprimanding look. "Really, Harry, I'm surprised at you. It's only Draco's fourth month in the Department, after all - you could give him a bit of a break."

She was reprimanding him? Harry's jaw nearly dropped. "Hestia," he said with forced restraint, "this is a private issue. One which I would agree has nothing to do with the workplace, so it would really better to drop it anyway." This last was accompanied with an acidic look at Malfoy, and Harry abruptly left the tea room, heart racing.

He had just reached his office when he heard his name. "Potter!"

He turned. Malfoy was just down the corridor, three doors away from him. "Yes?" It was as ungracious as he could possibly make it.

Malfoy had the audacity to grin at him. It was a nasty grin. "Does that mean you'd prefer to discuss your blatant homosexuality with me somewhere away from the workplace? Because if you wanted to see me sometime, all you had to do was ask - no need to be so coy. All this reverse psychology is a lot of work to unravel, you know."

Harry's temper snapped. "Fuck you!" he snarled. He went into his office and slammed the door closed behind him - not quite in time to avoid hearing Malfoy's nasty, mocking laugh from down the hall. Once again, his put his head in his hands, his face hot with humiliation and rage.

* * *

Work became a nightmare. Malfoy did not attempt to talk to him any more, and Harry ignored him at every possible juncture. Moody had rotated the offices again, however, and Malfoy was now right across the hall from Harry. The other maintained an icy cold calm that bothered Harry almost more than the provoking conversations, for reasons he could not distinguish, but he told himself that he was relieved that Malfoy was leaving him alone at last, and went on with his work.

His work was rather dull, truth be told. Complicated, but dull. Far too much research these days. Harry began to itch for a field assignment of some sort, almost anything would be better than sitting in his office day after day, trying to avoid the shirt-lifting ponce across the way. For half the problem of being so bored was that Harry kept finding himself turning Malfoy's words over and over in his head. So it was obvious, then. That he was gay. And Malfoy also spied on him when he used the bathroom. Perfect. Harry had all but stopped using the Department bathroom sheerly to avoid having Malfoy think he was off wanking. And it rankled, how Malfoy had hit the nail right on the head where it came to Harry's dating life. That was exactly what Harry had intended, to simply stay off the public's radar entirely when it came to dating and relationships, not that it stopped them from projecting false news. Still. It could be nice to have somebody like that, but Harry absolutely refused to open himself to further public ridicule like that. And he couldn't even imagine what a relationship with a bloke would even look like. Did males even have relationships, or was it all just sweaty, backroom smut, like in the magazines he'd once surreptitiously bought? He tried to imagine some random, nice face tucked into the curve of his arm and the image failed. He couldn't picture it, somehow. No. Clearly, he had not been intended to have a relationship with another bloke, and he didn't want one with some random female or Ginny, which appeared to be the options, so no relationship.

Which meant no sex. Which was admittedly something of a drag, and a serious one, at that. He certainly knew that a relationship was not a pre-requisite for sex, but he was simply not that sort of person, or so he preferred to think. He had standards. He was not going to have his cover blown (along with certain other things) all for a one-stand. So no random sex, either.

He sighed gustily. At that precise moment, there came a knock at his door. Warily, for Malfoy had taken his stapler sometime before their last confrontation and had not yet returned it, Harry called, "Come in."

It was not Malfoy. It was Kingsley. Harry tried to pretend he wasn't somehow disappointed. "Hi Kingsley," he said, surprised. "What's up?"

"Assignment," Kingsley said briskly, wasting no time. As was his wont. "You're going to Devon, and you're going in about an hour. We think we've got solid confirmation on Rabastan Lestrange."

"Really!" Harry sat up straight, dropping the quill he'd been toying with listlessly. "Who am I going with?"

Kingsley smirked. He never smirked, but suddenly, he was smirking. "Malfoy," he said. "Time you two got over that schoolboy rivalry, I think." He raised his hand, forestalling any argument. "Just do it, Harry. Get through it, come to understand that he's actually a pretty decent sort who's been through as much as you have. The rest of us have figured that out already, and the tension between the two of you is bothering everyone. There is no need to discuss it; my mind is made up. Get your things together. Remember what you know. Here." He dropped a stack of parchment on the table. "All the old reports on all three Lestranges. Rabastan is usually an accomplice, rarely the instigator. He's the only one who's been seen, though, so we have a mystery on our hands. Unravel it, all right? And check in before you leave."

Harry thought of a dozen things to say at once and ended up saying none of them. Instead, his eyes dropped to the parchment. "Parchment? These must be old reports."

"Yeah, some of them are," Kingsley agreed. "But some of them - well, that copier doesn't like me any more than it likes you. I get a little frustrated."

"Still." Harry managed a wry grin. "You could have used paper. You're not usually a rule-breaking type."

"I think you and Malfoy cover that area adequately for all of us," Kingsley said dryly. "Be good to him, okay? See you in a few minutes. Don't forget anything."

He resented being lumped with Malfoy like that, but nodded in resignation. "Okay."

Kingsley smiled and closed the door behind him.

Harry stared at the top report for about three solid minutes before realising that he had yet to begin to actually read what it had to say.

* * *

"Oh, not good," Malfoy commented, eyes squinting behind the binoculars.

"What?" Harry snapped tersely, his nerves jagged from the stress of having waited in silence for so long. They were both on their bellies, crouched behind a small hill in some nameless bit of Devon into which they'd been ordered to Apparate.

"Really not good," Malfoy said again with that same, irritatingly unfocused sound to his voice, as though he was unaware that Harry was even there.

Harry snatched at the binoculars. "Give me those!" Damn the Department for not having already loaned out the two sets of Omnioculars on other assignments, but also for having given them only one pair of binoculars, too.

Malfoy surrended them without a fight. "He's talking to two other people, but I can't see who they are from here."

Harry focused the lenses slightly and located Rabastan and, yes, his two companions.

"In the old days, it would have been obvious, right?" Malfoy continued. "Rabastan, his brother, and his wife."

Your aunt. Harry didn't say it. "But Bellatrix and Rodolphus are supposed to be dead."

"Do we have proof that they are?"

"For Bellatrix, yes," Harry said, lowering the binoculars. "Rodolphus was listed as 'inconclusive but probably dead'."

"Yes, I saw that on one of the reports," Malfoy said, frowning. "Hmm. Think we should get closer?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Come on. Around that way."

* * *

It was their fourth day in the field. Harry found himself constantly surprised that he was having such an easy time working with Malfoy. The other had said nothing whatsoever of their earlier dissension, and Harry certainly wasn't going to bring it up. In fact, working with Malfoy was just like being on assignment with anyone else from the Department. Although he was also surprisingly witty. Harry refused to acknowledge Malfoy's competence aloud, but grudging withdrew his former opinion of the other's abilities. They lost their quarry unexpectedly one day, when the lot of them Disapparated seemingly mid-conversation one day, just as they'd been getting close enough to nearly hear what they were saying over the Extendable Ears.

They'd waited thirty minutes, as per regulation, but when it was twenty-five minutes past, Malfoy sat down and dropped the binoculars in disgust. "Bugger."

"I know," Harry said dispiritedly. "Damn it."

Malfoy checked his watch. "Five more minutes, and then I suppose we should go."

"Right." Harry thought about it. "We'll have to check back tomorrow before we give it up, though."

"Of course." Malfoy's eyes bored into his forehead. "Think I don't know the rules, Potter?" he asked lightly.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably and didn't answer. Awhile later, he said, eyes still on the place where the Death Eaters had been, "I guess we should stay somewhere around here."

The previous nights, they'd taken turns sleeping in the little tent - again, Department regulation for two Aurors on field assignments. One person always had to keep watch. Malfoy took his time answering, and when he did, he also carefully avoided Harry's eyes. "I guess so," he said, too casually. "Any ideas?"

Harry was willing to bet that Malfoy had researched every town, village, and hamlet within a twenty kilometer radius, but he'd put the ball back in Harry's court nonetheless. "I know a place," he said after a minute, reluctantly. He described its location to Malfoy and after he'd agreed, they Apparated separately.

* * *

There was a knock at Harry's door. It had to be Malfoy; the wards wouldn't have allowed anyone else even that close. "Malfoy?" he asked at the door, mouth close to the crack.

"Who else?" He sounded a touch annoyed, or perhaps a touch - uncertain? Harry wasn't sure, but disabled the wards and opened the door.

"What's up?" he asked, peering at Malfoy in the dim of the corridor.

He got a shrug. "Figured I'd go down to the pub, get a drink or something to eat," Malfoy said, a shoulder twitching slightly. "And I thought maybe I'd see if you wanted to come. With me," he clarified, though Harry hadn't missed it.

Harry paused. What was this? Was Malfoy - no, he'd been quite blunt about not being hitting on Harry. He'd only been using the information to taunt him. Right. So - Harry supposed it was simply the civility Kingsley had been so hoping for. "Sure, why not?" he returned, just as warily. "I'm getting tired of that freeze-dried stuff, anyway," he added apologetically.

Malfoy gave him a thin smile. "As good a reason as any, I suppose." There was little warmth in the smile and he turned abruptly away.

Harry, feeling as though he'd just make an awkward social gaffe, flushed. But Malfoy, already making toward the staircase at the far end of the corridor, did not see this.

* * *

Downstairs, it was noisy and crowded. It was a bigger pub than it looked from the street, and one of the reasons Harry liked it was that it afforded one a little more anonymity than some of these places. He slid in behind a table in the corner, claiming the bench side and leaving Malfoy with the chair.

Malfoy picked up one of the laminated paper menus on the table and began to scan it. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully, his eyes moving over the pub's humble offerings.

Harry braced himself for an onslaught of snobbish remarks about pub food and the sort of people who enjoyed it, though Malfoy had actually been rather conspicuously neutral on topics that might have proven controversial over the past few days. He read the menu for the fourth time, realising belatedly that he was had not been taking in any of the information.

"What were you thinking of having?" Malfoy asked pleasantly, as though they were simply any two people out for a casual lunch or something.

Harry glanced at him, then returned to the menu, selecting something almost at random. Whatever he picked, Malfoy was sure to make fun of it, anyway. "The Irish stew. And also a beer. Or two."

"Beer," Malfoy repeated, eyebrows drifting upward.

Harry rolled his eyes toward the wooden rafters above their table. "Yes, Malfoy, beer. The brown stuff. Lager. Ale. Bitter. Stout. Whatever you like. I'm going to have one. We're not on duty, so please don't go quoting rules at me."

"Thought that was your job," Malfoy threw back, and it came with an annoying grin. Not even a smirk - a grin. Insufferable git.

The beer couldn't come soon enough. Harry waved at a serving person and put his menu down. "What are you having?" he asked, not caring about the answer.

"The roast beef stuffed Yorkshire pudding," Malfoy answered, putting his own menu down. "I wonder - " He stopped.

"What?" Harry asked, not looking at him.

"Never mind."

Harry refused to ask what Malfoy hadn't said. He was already questioning the wisdom of this, of them trying to sit down at eat together. It didn't matter that they worked well together. That was strictly professional. But clearly the social thing was not going to work out.

The server approached. "Take your order?" she asked, sounding frazzled.

"Yes, I'll have the Irish stew and a pint of Kilkenny," Harry said.

He got a smile for this, and she turned to Malfoy. "And your cute friend?" she continued, scratching Harry's order onto a little notepad and consequently missing the look Harry felt come over his face at what she had said. Not to mention the blush. (Had she meant "friend" as in… "friend", or… ? It hardly bore thinking about. It didn't matter that she was just a Muggle who didn't know who he was.)

Malfoy shot Harry a wicked smirk before turning a sweet, disingenuous smile at the server. "I'll have the Yorkshire pudding stuffed with roast beef."

"Righty-ho. And to drink?"

Harry got another look, this one unreadable. "I'll have a bottle of your house white," Malfoy announced, as though he were dining at the Savoy. Harry was embarrassed and stared hard at the table until the server had retreated, after responding in amused fashion.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair. "I'll need it," he said, still smiling that obnoxious smile.

"You are the biggest git I have ever known," Harry hissed. "Who orders wine in a pub? And why didn't you tell her that you and I are not friends?"

"I'm hurt, Potter. After the last few days, I thought we'd got past that."

Harry leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. "We are not friends. We never have been and we never will be and we most certainly are not friends."

Malfoy's mouth smirked even harder, humour laced with contempt. "Afraid for your reputation? Is that it? Even among the Muggles, Potter? God, you're hopeless." This last came out as a disgusted pronouncement and Harry felt momentarily thrown back upon himself.

"I am not," he said stiffly.

Malfoy leaned forward himself, challenging Harry with his eyes to back away. Given that, Harry couldn't, and it was uncomfortable. "Admit it," Malfoy said, his voice lowered. "You haven't had anywhere as horrible a time with me during this assignment as you thought you would."

Harry hesitated. "Well - "

"Admit it, Potter. Admit I'm more competent than half the Aurors in your beloved Department."

He was unrelenting. Harry could feel himself starting to weaken, wanting to protest, but knowing how feeble it would sound, how untrue - Malfoy had been exactly what he was claiming, but Harry could not tell him that. "It's - it's been okay," he began, cautiously, meaning to go on and assure Malfoy that working with him was not normally all right, that this was a one-time occurrence. To his relief (and Malfoy's apparent exasperation), their drinks arrived at that fortuitous moment. Harry grabbed his pint and downed about half of it while Malfoy's wine was still being uncorked. The wine was poured under Malfoy's watchful eye, and the server cast an eye over the half-full glass Harry was clutching.

"Another pint, love?"

"Yes. Please."

"Shan't be a moment."

Malfoy raised his glass and drank slowly but steadily, his eyes focused on his menu. The glass was set down and refilled. "You were saying?" he said, but his voice was not quite as confident as it had been.

Harry stalled. "What were we talking about?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

* * *

It was much later, and the outlines in the room had grown decidedly blurrier. Harry pushed his glasses up his nose for the seventieth time and squinted at Malfoy. Who was still talking.

"… that bit when Lestrange - Rodolphus, that is - and - Potter, are you even listening to me?" Malfoy demanding, breaking off.

Harry attempted to focus. "Yeah. Still listening. What?"

Malfoy stared at him. "You're staring at my mouth."

The mouth wasn't smirking at the moment. Harry dragged his thoughts back together. "No'm not."

"Yes, you were. You are, I should say," Malfoy said, sounding irritated. "What is it, Potter? Are you almost ready to drop the act, or do I have to come over there?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest, and found he couldn't remember what he'd been about to say. "Come over here?" he repeated, instead. "What for?" Damn it, was he leering at Malfoy? God - he couldn't have been - and yet Malfoy was certainly giving him a very strange look indeed, and Harry realised that his challenge of sorts was still hanging out there between them, unanswered so far.

Malfoy's eyebrows were arched, and his tone was arch, too. "What do you want me to do, Potter?"

Harry blushed and dropped his gaze, furious with himself. "I - nothing. Nothing. I'm not - " He couldn't even say it aloud, that he was not interested in Malfoy. Not at all.

"The hell you're not." In one smooth motion, Malfoy had got up from his chair and was sliding in beside Harry, preventing his escape. Save slipping right off the bench and onto the floor, which could still happen if he had any more to drink. And before he could react to this, Malfoy had placed a hand high on the inside of Harry's denim-covered thigh, his shoulder pressing into Harry's to pin him in place. "I don't believe that for a second," he went on, just as smoothly.

Harry looked at him, saw the wicked expression on Malfoy's face. "Sod off."

"I don't think you mean that."

It was simple, factual. And bugger all, he was right, too. Harry's face warmed again, aware that he was half-hard and had been since - when? He couldn't remember. He struggled for words to refuse, to tell Malfoy that even if he was queer (and all right, so he was, but there was no need for Malfoy to know that), then he'd be the last person Harry would - do whatever it was Malfoy had in mind - and in the middle of a pub, too! He meant to say all that. He did, only it never quite came out. Nothing did, in fact, save an unintelligible noise of some sort.

Malfoy's smile was almost a genuine smile. "Thought not." The hand moved up to cup the bulge in Harry's jeans, lightly, as though learning its shape, its weight, its fullness. Fingertips traced equally lightly over his balls, the hard, coiled form of Harry's cock. "Shall I continue?"

Harry bit his lip and tried with all his might to summon the will to say no, but Malfoy's palm was distractingly warm and sure, he'd had these sorts of anonymous gropes and fondlings before, but this wasn't anonymous, it was Malfoy, and they were not doing this. But his body had other ideas. "Mmm," he said, meaning to say no, but that didn't happen either, and his hips were tilting up, giving Malfoy better access.

"Good boy. Give me your hand," Malfoy ordered, seizing Harry's wrist without waiting for a response. This he dragged over to his lap, half-turning on the bench, and placed Harry's hand on the hard outline of his own erection.

Harry was rather shocked to discover how very not-unpleasant this actually was. Suddenly, everything turned around in his brain and all of this made much more sense than it had a moment ago. He heard himself groaning, and knew that he was holding Malfoy's wrist in place with his free hand and frotting shamelessly against Malfoy's. His own palm was grasping and squeezing at Malfoy, then pawing gracelessly at the button of his (designer) jeans. Malfoy's eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, and at this, he gently pushed Harry's hand away and slid the buttons out of their holes. Then, giving Harry a long, deliberate stare, he reached in and brought out his cock. It was pink, flushed with excitement - rather like Malfoy's cheeks, in fact - and shiny where moisture had smeared over the head. Harry shuddered, a hot bolt of something he couldn't identify at the moment shooting through his bloodstream. Without being prompted, he reached for it, and Malfoy let him have it.

They both watched Harry wank Malfoy off, Malfoy's back to the rest of the pub, though it must have been patently obvious what they were up to, had anyone been looking. The moisture made Malfoy's cock slippery in Harry's hand, and it felt good. It felt right, like he'd been doing this for a long time already, only he hadn't been. It had been awhile since Harry's last encounter, but he had not forgotten what to do. Malfoy was panting, his weight braced on the elbow that was on the table, and a handful of the shoulder of Harry's shirt was twisted in his fist. His hips jutted forward occasionally, but mostly he let Harry do it, watched while Harry's fist jerked up and down his shaft. His breaths were getting shorter, Harry noticed, and Malfoy's face was even more flushed than it had been. And then, almost soundlessly, Malfoy's entire body tensed and jerked, and then he was coming, long jets of it spurting out over Harry's fist and jeans and t-shirt. And that was perfectly fine, because it was hot, and Harry's cock was still throbbing for attention, trapped in the confines of his own, still-fastened jeans.

For a moment, Malfoy sat where he was, his mouth falling slackly open, breathing hard. "God," he said, after a bit.

Harry had no patience. "Malfoy, are you going to - "

"Of course. What do you take me for?" The eyes were open again, glaring momentarily, and then (to Harry's surprise), the other slid right off the bench to kneel under the table.

"What are you doing?" Harry hissed.

A mocking laugh was all he got in answer and then his hips were being pulled forward, fingers crawling up his fly and unzipping, freeing Harry's aching cock. Malfoy's breath hit his sensitive skin, and then the warm wet of his mouth was all around Harry, a tongue pressing in from underneath. Harry had to bite his lower lip hard to keep himself quiet - it felt so good, he couldn't have formed an intelligible sentence if his life had depended on it, but making some sort of loud noise expressing his hearty appreciation for Malfoy's mouth was certainly not out of the question. He had only ever experienced one other blow job before, and Malfoy was definitely better. Much better. His mouth was sliding up and down Harry's cock and he had to look down to see that, see Malfoy taking him right in, and God it was hot, watching. Malfoy caught his eye, a wicked gleam in his as he knelt on the dirty pub floor, and Harry looked hastily away, busying himself with his mostly empty beer glass. He gripped it with both hands and felt himself shaking, trying not to just let loose and starting fucking Malfoy right down the throat. And that thought wasn't helping, either. He let go of the glass and grabbed the edge of the table, watching his fingernails turn white through hazy eyes. His breath began to wheeze as the pleasure wound up through his body, rising higher and higher, until - oh, he was coming and coming, just shooting down Malfoy's throat like he'd waited a year to come, and nearly biting clean through his lower lip in an effort to keep himself quiet. But the truth was that he could have screamed, it felt so good. Once his balls had emptied at last, Malfoy let his cock fall from his mouth and wiped the latter with his hand.

After a bit, Malfoy came back up, looking quickly around to make sure that no one had witnessed his reappearance. "Do you want to leave?" he asked, glancing at Harry.

He was slumped against the back of the bench, thoroughly sated. But he turned his head to look at Malfoy, and another sneaky curl of desire tingled pleasantly in his nether regions. "Yeah."

A slight pause. "With me, I meant."

Oh. Harry paused himself, thinking about it. His brain darted around in a brief but frantic search for a really solid reason to refuse, but came up dry. "Okay."

The eyebrows quirked again. "That was easier than I thought it would be," Malfoy half-mumbled, but was already moving away, out of the booth. "Come on."

* * *

Harry woke because the moon was shining directly onto his face, and it was too bright. He opened his eyes, squinting, and his head pounded. A hangover, then, or perhaps he was even still drunk. He attempted to work some moisture back into his mouth, then shifted and made to gingerly turn over. And froze in shock.

There was no mistaking Malfoy's pale blond hair, gleaming eerily in the moonlight. For approximately thirty seconds, he simply stared blearily at the back of Malfoy's head and unpleasantly began to remember how he had come to be in bed with the git. Was he even in his own room? Harry chanced a look around. No. Spying Malfoy's things stacked neatly on a chair, that was clearly not the case. Which meant that the course of action was clear: he needed to leave. A Muggle alarm clock stood on the bedside table. 4:51. A faint red glow from the numbers glinted on Malfoy's hair. Harry slowly, painfully attempted to exit his side of the bed without waking Malfoy.

Where were his clothes? The answer made itself known at the foot of the bed where his clothes and Malfoy's lay scattered about the floor in juxtaposition to the neat stack of garments on the chair in the corner. Harry located his underclothes, jeans, shirt. Had he been wearing robes? No, he decided. The socks were stuffed inside his trainers (by the bathroom) and he felt for his room key. Apparition would be a seriously bad idea just now. Harry quietly slid the deadbolt out and hoped they hadn't cast any sort of wards on the room. A quick test showed they had not. He looked back at Malfoy over his shoulder. He had shifted, turning onto his back. The moonlight was now hitting his face, his features chiselled and clear-cut in the light. He looked quite peaceful and for a moment, Harry hesitated.

Then common sense returned. It was Malfoy, and just because he looked different asleep did not change the way he was the rest of the time. Harry opened the door and eased out into the hallway. The door closed, he paused to recall which his own room was, walked the ten steps or so to the door and let himself in. The door locked behind him, Harry stood facing his still-made bed and dropped the articles he was still carrying, a hand going up to his eyes. "Shit."

He went to the bathroom and poured a glass of cold water, drank it, poured another. Still sipping this, Harry went to the bed and pulled back the covers. The clothes came off, the water was deposited on the table, and he crawled wretchedly back into his own, cold bed. More awake now, he was remembering what had happened in the pub - to say nothing of Malfoy's room. It was a little vague as far as details went, but he definitely remembered the feeling of Malfoy's mouth on his nipples, his belly, his cock again - remembered Malfoy's lazy, half-drunk voice guiding Harry into fingering him, stretching him - and he most definitely remembered plunging into Malfoy at last, Malfoy on his hands and knees and Harry pounding into him from behind.

The memory made his face hot. God, how could he have been so monumentally stupid? He remembered Malfoy's oh-so-casual advances in the pub - why hadn't he just said no? Now the smug bastard would be eternally convinced that Harry was indeed gay, and he would probably tell absolutely everyone.

But - and this was a thought that Harry attempted to suppress before he'd even finished thinking it - if one was going to not only be gay but be having gay sex, then it had been beyond words. Incredibly good. He clamped his thighs around his hard-on and cursed it to infinity for having led him into this. The ultimate weakening. Why couldn't his first real experience have been with some random Muggle or something, like the other times? Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about seeing Malfoy in the morning. Later in the morning, that was. What a nightmare. He curled into a ball, steadfastly ignored the throbbing in his cock and eventually managed to fall asleep again.

* * *

It was ten when he woke again. Someone was knocking at his door. Harry, feeling as though he was surfacing from a deep well or something, forced himself to swing his legs over the edge of his bed and reached immediately for the glass of water. Processed the information his brain was trying to relay. Someone knocking at the door meant one of two things: either he had not remembered to ward his room when he'd returned, or else it was Malfoy.

Malfoy.

Harry drained his water and decided that he couldn't decide whether he wished it was hangover potion or firewhiskey. He went to his suitcase, rummaged until his found pyjama pants and stepped into them, and went to the door. "Who is it?"

"Open the door, Potter."

Malfoy. The headache grew in proportions. Harry cracked the door open. His eyes met Malfoy's tired-looking grey ones and immediately skittered away again, choosing rather to fixate on Malfoy's rather nice blue shirt. "What?"

"We need to check back, remember?" Malfoy sounded tense. "The Death Eaters, Potter. The assignment. We should have left awhile ago."

This was undeniably true. "Fuck," Harry mumbled. "I just woke up."

"I never would have guessed." This was sarcastic. "Well, snap to it and let's go."

"I need to have a shower."

"You don't have time. Just use some sort of cleaning charm." Malfoy was irritated, and not quite looking him in the eye.

"I'll be five minutes."

"No you won't - Potter - "

"Five minutes," Harry repeated, and closed the door. His heart was pounding from the encounter. That had been bad enough, and Malfoy hadn't even said a word about the night before yet. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Harry made for his suitcase and the vial of headache-relieving potion he kept there. This he downed, then removed the pyjama pants and went to the shower.

He was nearly ready within the promised five minutes and, his wet hair sticking up everywhere, opened the door again. Malfoy was still there, loitering with annoyance in the hallway. "Come on," he hissed. "This isn't a vacation, Potter!"

"I know that," Harry said, his own annoyance rising. "Fine, let's go."

They Apparated back to the place they had been the day before for a cursory last check, but of course the Death Eaters were long gone. The wind ruffled Harry's still-damp hair, chilling him, and he shivered.

"I suppose we'd better go and file the report," Malfoy said stiffly, after a bit.

"Right," Harry said. He silently waited for it, waited for Malfoy to say something about it all, but nothing more came. He picked up his shrunken suitcase and said, "I'm Apparating now."

"Right behind you." The words came as an echo, even as Harry Apparated.

* * *

Kingsley was troubled by their lack of success, which was to be expected. Everyone got the same treatment after field assignments that came up dry, which was too many of them. But eventually the report was done, all the questions asked and answered, and they were dismissed for the remainder of the day. Harry followed Malfoy silently down the corridor to their offices, and they both went inside without another word to each other. Harry waited a full ten minutes, hoping to avoid Malfoy altogether, but whether or not the other had had the same plan, there they were, face-to-face again when Harry opened the door. Harry sighed without meaning to, ducked his head and said, "See you tomorrow."

"I suppose so." Malfoy was just as stiff as before, and rather cold. Harry imagined him going home to wherever it was he lived and scornfully relaying the tale of his conquest of the world's gayest Fag Who Lived to all of his friends. Harry turned crimson at the thought and tried not to think of the Daily Prophet getting wind of it. That was the last thing he needed.

He Floo-ed home from the Ministry foyer, located a bottle of hangover potion and heated it with a simple charm. This he drank, then went to have a long nap.

* * *

Because of the field assignment, Harry had two days off. He spent them mostly in his flat, trying not to think about that ridiculous mistake. So far, the Prophet had been quiet; some of the humiliation was to be spared, apparently. He wondered how many people in the Department would know by the time he returned. It occurred to him that Malfoy would have the same two days off, and that made him feel a little better. Surely he couldn't tell all that many people if Harry was around, too.

Harry pulled on his socks and tried to convince himself that he loved being an Auror, that going back to work was not as large a drag as it seemed. He muttered something under his breath which contradicted this rather severely, and went to see where he'd left his tea.

He spent the first two hours of the morning in his cubicle, dreading the first encounter with Malfoy. Damn it, they should have talked about it before. Harry should have apologised or something, blamed it on the alcohol, and they should have agreed then not to talk about it, and so forth. It should have been made absolutely clear that it was a monumental mistake, that it never should have happened. Harry's thoughts returned to the matter again and again, distracting him repeatedly. Finally, he threw down his quill and decided to brave the tea room. It was mercifully empty. Nothing had been made, so Harry put the kettle on and added a charm to accelerate the boiling process. After a moment, the water was ready. He had arranged the English Breakfast in the tea pot and poured the water, put the lid on the pot and waited.

The door opened. Harry, nerves about to leap through his skin, turned with a jerk. It was only Hestia and Kingsley, but his heart was hammering.

"Making tea, Harry?" Hestia asked brightly.

He had to fight to get his tongue working properly. "Er - yeah. Just English Breakfast, hope that's okay." Good, that came out right.

"Sounds lovely. Anyway, Kingsley, I was saying that we should try that lead we heard of in Leeds - something's bound to break here, you know it is. We've never gone this long without catching someone." The frustration was evident in Hestia's voice, and Kingsley's jaw tightened uncharacteristically. He was about to respond when the door opened again.

Malfoy came in alone, but he had a sheaf of parchment in his hands. Harry recognised a blotch of purple ink on the back of one of them and realised they were the old Death Eater reports they'd been reading before the assignment. He cleared his throat and hastily turned back to check on the tea. It was ready. Thank God, something to do with his hands, which were a little shaky. He poured his own tea and moved out of the way. Perhaps he should just drink it in his office, but he did feel some need to speak to Malfoy, or at least find out how the other seemed to be thinking of the entire thing.

Malfoy, however, seemed as keen to avoid Harry as Harry was to have the air cleared, awkward as that was bound to be. He looked up from the parchment and his face paled further, noticing Harry. His lips compressed into a thin line and he made a beeline for the tea, to which Hestia and Kingsley, still conversing, had not yet helped themselves. Much sugar was added, and then Malfoy was thrusting the bundle of parchments at Kingsley with a muttered word about having forgotten to return them earlier, and then he was leaving. Harry swallowed too quickly, scalding the roof of his mouth. He waited a second, fighting the indecision, then left the room, himself.

The tea was set on his desk. Harry took a deep breath, then went across the hall to knock at Malfoy's door.

"Who is it?"

Harry hesitated. "Me. Er, Harry."

There was an answering hesitation on the other side, then the lock clicked. Harry turned the handle and quickly closed the door behind him. Malfoy regarded him through half-lidded eyes, his expression clearly unimpressed. "What do you want?"

"J-just a word," Harry stuttered. "Uh - I - "

Malfoy spoke over his words, but his voice was so quiet that Harry could hardly hear him. "If this is about the other night, then there's really no need to talk about it."

Harry stopped, not sure what to say to this. "I - well - don't you think we - I mean, don't you have anything to say about it, or anything like that?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed even further, his pale face looking rather pinched. "What do you want me to say?"

Harry fought to find an answer to this. "I - I don't know. I - are you going to tell anyone? Have you told anyone?"

The unimpressed look deepened. "Who do you think I would tell, Potter?"

Harry shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know."

"I think you know," Malfoy said levelly, and his eyes met Harry's very directly. "You think I'm going to tell the entire world. Starting with the Daily Prophet, I'd wager. That's what you think of me, isn't it?"

The embarrassment grew. "Well - no, not exactly - I didn't think that - " Harry fumbled, but he was aware of how insincere it sounded. "I just mean that I didn't know if you were - if you - how you were thinking about it. About what happened."

Malfoy stood up, his long, pale fingers splayed out on the desk in front of him. "Listen, Potter," he said fiercely, his jaw clenched, "all I think is that you were pissed out of your mind and didn't know whether you were fucking me, Ginny Weasley, or your own fucking hand. So that's all I think happened. What the fuck do you think?"

Startled and a bit shaken, Harry didn't know what to say. "Er - I don't know," he stammered. "I guess it was - yeah, just a bit of a mistake. Nothing important, then."

Malfoy's eyes darkened. "That's right," he said coldly. "Nothing important. Now excuse me. I have work to do."

Harry nodded quickly and backed toward the door as fast as he could. He pulled the door open, and Malfoy's voice stopped him.

"Potter."

He turned back. "Yeah?"

The stapler nearly hit him, but his old Seeker instincts flashed back to life and caught it before it could. "Your stapler," Malfoy said through clenched teeth.

Something twisted in his abdomen. "Thanks," Harry said tightly, and closed the door.

The stapler was replaced with deliberate care in its old place on the corner of his desk, and Harry found himself strangely upset by the entire exchange. What was wrong with Malfoy, anyway? If it was just a meaningless, drunken fuck to him, too, then what was the issue? He sat at his desk for a long time, staring off into space.

* * *

The next couple of weeks were uncomfortable in the extreme. Every time he saw Malfoy, the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. Frosty politeness was all Harry got from him, and he, still feeling awkward about the entire affair, dropped something or forgot to pay attention to what he was trying to do or say every time some sort of contact was made. Staff meetings were the worst; the tension between them was obvious. Malfoy would sit in his corner and glower silently, while Harry tried to look anywhere but at him. He nearly always arrived slightly late, by which time all the other seats were taken (the other Aurors were all terribly territorial about their places), and he was left sitting nearly directly across from Malfoy.

Kingsley took Harry aside one day, wanting to know why relations seemed to have deteriorated even further since the assignment, and Harry had no answer for him.

"I - I don't know," he fumbled. "I just - look, Kingsley. We're just not friends, and we never will be. We're both doing our jobs, aren't we?"

Kingsley frowned, his expression darkening with discontent. "Yes, but both your performances have slipped a little in the past few weeks. The tension is obviously getting to you both. Though Malfoy in particular seems to be bothered by it. Why can't you just give him a break? God knows he could use some friends. Hasn't he done enough for our side to make up for his past?" He gave Harry a stern look. "More than enough, I would say," he said pointedly. "Get off your high horse, Potter. We've all made bad decisions in the past. Maybe you'd have done the same, had you been raised in his position. He's made more good decisions since then than the rest of us put together, with the possible exception of you. You have that in common, in fact. Besides which," Kingsley continued, his tone going hard, "it's simply unprofessional. I'm not asking you to get over it. I'm telling you. This is enough. You both need to stop behaving like such children."

The injustice of it boiled in Harry's chest. "Have you given Malfoy the same little chat?" he asked, scowling.

Kingsley's eyes hardened. "That's none of your business," he said coolly. "I think I've said what I wanted to say. You're dismissed."

Harry was stung. Kingsley had never been quite that abrupt with him before. He nodded stiffly, angry, and went back to his office.

* * *

He made an effort. Or at least, he told himself that he did. The problem was that Malfoy was still an insufferable ass most of the time. Harry avoided speaking to him unless it was strictly necessary, but when he did, he made sure it was polite. And Malfoy rebuffed him with icy disdain every time. In fact, he frequently left the room whenever Harry entered it. Once, Harry had been chatting to Stuart Jones in the tea room when Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. With an audible sniff of disproval and irritation, the other had abruptly turned and gone the way he'd came without a word. Harry, annoyed, had faltered and lost the thread of the conversation.

Other times, he was downright rude. Harry had been wrestling another of the endless paper jams in the recalcitrant copier when Malfoy had come in. Harry's fingers slipped, and he got ink all over them. He scowled and wished it hadn't happened in front of Malfoy. Who wouldn't have been flustered, with Malfoy lurking darkly in the background, waiting impatiently? It was as though his impatience was actually making a sound, beating against Harry's eardrums. He struggled for another moment. The bit of paper most responsible for the jam ripped, trapping a small part deep within the recesses of the spools. "Damn it!" Harry sat back on his heels, out of patience, himself.

"For God's sake, Potter!" Malfoy sounded both incredulous and exasperated. "How many times can you jam this thing? Some of us actually have work to do, you know." He was across the room in three strides. "Get out of the way."

Harry felt the rush of angry words spring to the tip of his tongue, but there they met his humiliation and pooled. Before he could speak, Malfoy was sniping at him again.

"You'd think you didn't know what magic was," he sneered, his wand executing a complicated-looking series of flickings and swishings, his cold eyes never leaving Harry, lip curled in disgust.

Harry was both insulted and annoyed. "I do so," he threw back. "It happens to be Department regulation that unnecessary magic is supposed to be avoided."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and looked away, as though the very sight of Harry was offensive. "Yes, it's obvious that your way got the paper out instantly. Of course." He jerked the lid of the copier open. "Is this yours?" he demanded.

"Yes, and I'm not done, so leave it there," Harry said, teeth gritting.

"Before I get old, then," Malfoy snapped, and shut the cover with more force than strictly necessary. He put his own page of parchment down on the table (another old report? Harry wondered what he was working on) and went over to stand by the enchanted window, muttering under his breath.

Harry turned his back on him and pressed the copy button again, hoping fervently that it would work this time, so that he could escape the frigid atmosphere in the room. Malfoy was ignoring him, and Harry wanted it that way. The bickering was tiring. Though the icy silence wasn't great for a person's nerves, either. He noticed that his palms were clammy, his pulse too fast. He told himself that Malfoy wasn't worth getting that upset over, and tried not to think of that one night. He was unpleasant in the extreme, and always had been. Though the reluctant thought came to Harry's mind that Malfoy had actually been perfectly pleasant throughout the field assignment, including that night. Oh. Harry felt a stirring of something not exactly related to the hostility in the room, and tried to ignore it. No point in thinking with anything other than his brain.

He stole a glance at Malfoy. He was standing at the window (showing an overcast day, mirroring the above-ground weather), turned three-quarters away from Harry. He was tall and lean, his shoulder blades protruding slightly into the crisp, white shirt he was wearing. The shirt was tucked into the charcoal wool-blend trousers, fitted closely to the firm curves beneath - Harry caught his train of thought and slammed on the breaks. No. He would not even contemplate it. They had both agreed that it had been a mistake, and it was patently obvious that they did not enjoy one another's company. Although, under the influence of a great deal of beer, Harry seemed to remember having enjoyed himself very much, indeed.

You were drunk, he reminded himself sternly. And you're sex-starved, another, snider voice added in the back of his head. This was also true. Harry cleared his throat and attempted to gather his thoughts. The copier had actually produced a duplicate of Harry's report, so he bent to retrieve it from the tray. He glanced at Malfoy and didn't say a thing, just went to return to the quiet and peace of his own office.

"Potter." Malfoy's voice was full of contempt, and it stopped him again.

"What?" Harry asked belligerently; Malfoy was looking at him like he was an insect on the carpet.

A muscle in Malfoy's jaw twitched. "Your original," he ground out. "If you think I simply exist to deliver them to your office when you've left them in the copier, think again."

"I didn't forget it on purpose!" Harry said. He went angrily to the copier and yanked his pages out of the feed tray.

"No, you're just too special to clean up after yourself - after all, this is your Department, isn't it?" Malfoy said, sarcastic. "You're the greatest Auror of all time, I suppose - having defeated Voldemort and all that. You've got bigger things on your mind than remembering to clean up after yourself. How could I forget?"

Harry looked into Malfoy's cold, hard face and wanted, more than anything, slap it as hard as he could. Scratch that: punch it. He was hurt and he was furious. "Shut the fuck up," he bit out. "You don't know anything about me. Of course it's not my Department."

"No, but that's what you think, isn't it?" Malfoy countered. "No one has a greater license on talent when it comes to Dark wizards or the right to determine morality or enforce tiny, insignificant Department laws. You're the Boy-Who-Lived; who could ever compete with that?" He leaned closer, and his eyes got colder still, glittering with hatred. "Let me tell you something, Potter, and listen well: that shit doesn't impress me. I don't buy it. I know you. You're nothing but a scared, homophobic coward - ironic, after being Sorted into Gryffindor, isn't it? - someone who's afraid of his own shadow and plays petty control games around the Department. I know you think I'm an incompetent fool who can't do my job. I overheard you say as much to someone about two months ago. But we're at the same level here, Potter. Bear that in mind when I get promoted over you, will you?"

Harry's ears were flaming by the end of Malfoy's tirade, both with anger and with something else that was flinching under the attack which might well have been his pride. His eyes met Malfoy's and he fought to come up with something to say to that, to knock that bitter sneer off those flushed, pointed features. "Shut up!" he repeated. His face was prickling with heat, his chest tight with tension. "You - you don't even know what you're talking about. And I am not homophobic. I just - "

" - can't let yourself get off with someone you're actually attracted to unless you're completely pissed," Malfoy retorted, cutting in. "Don't lie to me, Potter. I know damned well how much you liked what happened that night. But it was nothing, right? Just another day in the life of Potter-style denial."

"I am not in denial!" Harry hissed, shooting an anxious look at the partially-open door. "I just happen to keep my private life private, that's all!"

"Which is why," Malfoy inserted nastily, "you drop things and trip over your own feet every time you see me, I presume. Nice try, Potter."

Completely enraged now, Harry felt himself trembling on the edge of an explosion. The copier began to rattle - no doubt jamming itself sheerly out of reaction to the magic in the air - and his spine went rigid, fists clenched. His report crumpled along one side in his fingers. "If you're trying to imply that I - that I have some sort of crush on you, you're completely off-base! I think the shoe's on the other foot, actually. You're the one who can't stop acting like a git and bringing up this whole, stupid topic. You're just pissed off because you've always been jealous of me and you wish the world didn't know about you being the biggest shirt-lifter in the history of Britain. You want me so badly that you don't know where to leave yourself, don't you, Malfoy?" The malicious words poured out, one phrase after another, and a large portion of Harry's mind was shocked at himself and already ashamed, but he was too angry to correct himself, take any of it back. The words hung between them like an oily, black cloud.

He was prepared to have Malfoy attack, either physically or verbally, or both. What he was not prepared for was the blood to drain from the other's face as quickly as it had flooded earlier. Malfoy throat bobbed, swallowing, and he looked far too angry to speak. He walked very calmly over to Harry, like a predator approaching its prey. A jolt of apprehension ran through Harry's bloodstream - he really had crossed the line. And Malfoy knew it full well. Harry barely saw him move before Malfoy's fist connected to the left side of his jaw in a flash of furious motion. Unprepared, Harry staggered and nearly lost his balance. His hand flew to his face, which was throbbing with pain. No blood. He looked up, but Malfoy was already gone.

* * *

It had been a Friday, that day. At the time, Harry was grateful when he remembered that he wouldn't have to see Malfoy at the office for at least two days, but then he got lucky, or so it felt - Malfoy called in sick on Monday and stayed away for the remainder of the week. Stuart Jones said once that Malfoy had been working on something from there, after the first few days. Harry thought it was for the best. He, at least, needed a break from the constant stress of having Malfoy around.

By Thursday, he was getting restless. Wishing Malfoy would come back and just be normal. Ignore him, but in a comfortable way. He found himself slightly unfocused and short-tempered, though whether this was eased or exacerbated by Malfoy's absence, he wasn't sure. He began to spend more and more time in his office, not even leaving for breaks. On Friday afternoon as he was about to leave, Kingsley dropped by.

"Harry?" He stuck his head around Harry's door.

He looked up. "Come in. I was just about to go."

"Glad I caught you, then. Look, I have a quick assignment for you. It's a short one and shouldn't take long, and I don't think you need anyone to go with you. Just stay sharp. Can you go tomorrow? I know it's short notice, but…"

"But it goes with the territory," Harry finished, and sighed. "Sure. I didn't have anything particularly important up. How long?"

"Just a day or two. You should be back by Monday at the latest," Kingsley said reassuringly, smiling. "Thanks. You're one of our best, and there's no one else to send, anyway."

Harry thought briefly of Malfoy and his illness and wondered what was wrong with him. He thought about asking, but decided not to. "Okay. Thanks. I suppose you should give me the details."

"That might be a plan. Listen up."

Harry leaned against his desk and abandoned thoughts of getting home early. "I'm listening."

* * *

It had been a shorter assignment, and just as inconclusive as his last field assignment had been. He got back to London on Monday afternoon, and although he was owed a day or two off to make up for his missed week-end, Hestia owled him Monday evening and said that there'd been an alert and that everyone was needed. Harry was tired and sick of work, but saved his cursing for Ron's ears that evening in the pub.

Tuesday, everyone was busy and the memos were flying from office to office. Buried under a flurry of news and the requisite reports that went with the new information coming in, Harry didn't leave his office until the afternoon. Lunch was a sandwich that one of the Auror apprentices had offered sometime around noon. By three, Harry had had enough. The corridor had quietened down a bit and it seemed like a good time to slip away to the tea room without being caught up with more unwanted conversation, assignments, or random trivia that he didn't need at the moment. He stretched for a long moment, his spine crackling, and stood. Not thinking of anything other than a scalding cup of tea, Harry opened his door and stopped in shock.

Across the hall, the door to Malfoy's office stood partway open, and the sight that confronted Harry's eyes was positively offensive.

Blaise Zabini, from the looks of it, was standing behind Malfoy, very close to him. They both had their backs to the door, or were at a three-quarter profile, at least. It was immediately obvious what Zabini was doing; his wrist was jerking repeatedly back and forth somewhere south of Malfoy's waistline. Harry took note of those long, pale fingers curved like talons, reaching behind himself to grip Zabini's thighs. His head was bent forward, his hair falling over his face, and then he threw it back, gasping. "Close the door!"

Zabini made a sound of negation, a low, dark laugh curling like smoke around Harry's - and presumably Malfoy's - ears. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not - I'm at work," Malfoy panted, fingers clenching a little tighter, his knuckles white.

Harry was torn in a whirlwind of emotions, most of which were decidedly negative - how dare the presumptuous git get off in his own office?! That wasn't what the Ministry had in mind when they'd hired him! Maybe now they would finally fire him. Harry thought of all this with malicious satisfaction and resolved to tell Kingsley at the first available opportunity. Something else was also stirring in his gut, washing over him like a wave, and that quickly overwhelmed the other thoughts. He became aware that his hands had curled into fists, and that his fists were clammy. At least Malfoy seemed to be trying to stop it, or to realise the complete lack of propriety here. But even as he thought this, Malfoy leaned more of his weight back on Zabini and made a sound Harry clearly recalled having heard him make before.

"Harder," he moaned, transferring one hand from Zabini's thigh to the other's hand on his cock.

Zabini laughed softly. "Knew you couldn't keep the protest up. Unlike some things."

"Bastard," Malfoy shot, but it was extremely half-hearted.

Zabini lipped at his ear. "I know you very well, dear. Don't forget that."

Malfoy moaned again, the sound punctuated by his jagged breathing. "Don't - fucking - call me - 'dear'. You know I hate that. Oh God, more - " The sound was agonised, cut off as Malfoy resorted to breathing hard, his hips jerking forward into Zabini's fist and his own.

Harry stood there, watching them as though Petrified, unable to tear his eyes from the sight or drag himself away. And then he must have made a sound of some sort. Zabini heard it, turned his head to give Harry a long, hard look. Then a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Harry remember that smile well from Hogwarts days - it was the sort that one saw after having dropped all of his books in a crowded stairwell or had a sauce-covered meatball fall off his fork and directly onto his robes. It was not a comradely sort of a smile; it was the smile of a person who knows that he has the more secure footing in the situation and knows your every insecurity.

"Well, if it isn't our favourite little queer from the closet," Zabini drawled, his tone belying the sharpness of his gaze as they penetrated Harry's every façade, or seemed to. "Enjoying the show, Potter?"

Malfoy's head snapped up and to the side, startled. "Potter!" he said, attempting his usual wrath, but his current mood detracted somewhat from the effect, making his voice breathier than it should have been. "What are you doing?"

Harry finally found his voice. "What am I doing? What are you doing?" He sounded incensed, and he was.

Malfoy paused, then laughed rather suddenly, his voice harsh. "I'm getting a hand job, and a fucking good one, so if you don't mind - you're not invited. Shut the fucking door, Blaise."

Zabini narrowed his eyes, the smile not going anywhere, and a languid hand detached itself from Malfoy's bits and pushed the door closed.

Harry forgot every thought of tea and retreated hastily to his office. He closed the blinds on the windows, starting with those looking into the corridor, and raked his fingers through his hair, confused, hard, humiliated, and swimming in bad feeling. He didn't get why it felt so very horrible to have witnessed that particular scene. He wasn't jealous. Why should he be jealous? If Malfoy was with Zabini, then maybe he wouldn't have enough time to make Harry's life a living hell any more. Why should he be embarrassed? They were the ones doing something they shouldn't have been doing. At the office, at least. Anywhere, an obstinate little voice in Harry's head insisted. He tried to ignore this. Malfoy could fuck (or get fucked by, which seemed more likely) whomever he pleased. It had nothing to do with him.

He got nothing done for the rest of the afternoon, and he told himself that he wasn't waiting until he heard Malfoy's door close and lock for the night across the hall (and did the footsteps pause a little too long before he went?) before he got up and dragged himself home at last.

* * *

Harry tossed and turned that night, unable to stop thinking about Malfoy with Zabini. The memory of it made him hard every single time he thought of it - the telltale stirring in his loose pyjama pants, and there was his hand, sneaking in there again - and he was wishing that he didn't find it so damnably hot. Malfoy had looked so wanton, though, and Harry was forcibly reminded of their drunken episode. He wondered if Malfoy let Zabini pound into him the way he had. No, there was no question - he was sure that they did that. He pictured Malfoy bent over his desk and Zabini, trousers around his ankles, pumping his cock into Malfoy's pale, firm arse. The images were vivid, and his hand was moving, fingers almost catching on the thick, dilated veins of his cock, his balls lolling warmly between his legs. Harry heard his own breathing, hot and heavy in his ears. When Malfoy came all over his own desk in Harry's fantasy, Harry came, too. It felt dirty, his fingers sticky and coated with his own, Malfoy-inspired come. Disgusting. He spelled it away, but the unclean feeling remained.

He was miserable. Why couldn't he just jerk off to porn like normal people? Why Malfoy? He had nearly bitten Ron's head off earlier, when he'd Floo-ed by to see whether Harry wanted to grab a bite for supper, and though Ron had attributed Harry's nasty mood to the uproar at the Ministry, alone in his room, Harry knew better. He wondered if Malfoy was dating Zabini. If they kissed and took each other out for dinner and made love, or if it was just sex, plain and simple. I know you very well, Zabini had said, the insidious familiarity oozing from his voice - possessive. Staking his claim on Malfoy. They had been at Hogwarts together, in the same dorm. How well did they know each other? Harry thought of Ron, of Neville, Dean, and Seamus. That well. It was clear to him now that it had not been the first time that they had been together sexually. Everything about their movements, especially Zabini's, underscored that familiarity all too well, their movements coordinated to one another's.

Something burned in his belly and Harry turned over again. The physical desire had been sated, but not fully - it would return again and again, until he found some way to shake this ridiculous obsession with Malfoy and his sex life. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to count to a thousand. Perhaps he would fall asleep before then.

* * *

On Wednesday, he arrived at work deliberately late and shut himself in his office. Most people took a mid-morning break around ten-thirty, so he decided to wait until a little after eleven. His timing was perfect; there was no one in the tea room. Harry refilled the kettle and was just pouring the steaming water into the teapot when a voice behind him startled him so badly that he nearly dropped the kettle, his nerves just about popping through his skin.

"Making tea?" It was very casual. Too casual.

Harry swallowed hard and finished pouring. His balls tightened, reminding him, and he set the kettle down too hard. "Mm-hm," he said, not looking up. He set the lid on the teapot and made a fuss of putting his spoon into his cup, then taking it back out to lay it on the table beside the cup, then changing his mind again and putting it back where it had been in the first place.

"What kind?"

Harry shrugged, his shoulders stiff. "It's just tea."

Malfoy made no response. When Harry risked a glance at him, he was biting at a fingernail, his weight shifting from one leg to the other. Harry didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat and wished that the tea would steep faster. If he left now, Malfoy would know that he was uncomfortable and the git would probably feel that he had the upper hand now.

The silence lengthened. Harry poured a bit of tea into his cup. It was dark enough. Whatever. It didn't matter. He filled his cup and decided that he would drink it black today. He picked it up and made for the door.

Malfoy never said a word.

The next day, it was the same. The same bad timing, the same uncomfortable silence. But this time, as he left, he heard Malfoy give a nasty laugh. A snigger, even. Harry felt his cheeks warm in anger and embarrassment, and he picked up his pace the instant he had rounded the corner.

Malfoy followed him. "Where are you going, Potter?" he called, his voice ringing mockingly. "What are you so afraid of? Are you that scared that I'll do something to you - or vice-versa? I'm just - "

"Silencio!" Harry hissed, nearly spilling his tea all over the carpeted corridor and his left hand as his right hand shot out to throw the spell. It was purely reflexive and illegal as hell, but he had reacted before he could think it through. "Shut up, Malfoy!" he added angrily - and unnecessarily.

Malfoy made a rude gesture and gesticulated at Harry, his vindictive smirk giving way instantly to fury.

Harry turned his back on Malfoy and marched to his office door. Only then did he turn around. "Inside," he said, his voice tight with equal fury.

Malfoy stalked past him into the office and Harry closed the door behind him. Malfoy pointed at his throat and mouthed something angry-looking at Harry.

"Finite," Harry said.

"I should have just gone to Kingsley and shown him that," Malfoy spat. "Now who's above the Department rules, Potter?"

"You have no right saying anything like that, right out in the open!" Harry shot back.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his face pinched with rage. "It's called a joke, you fucking twat. They'll only know it's true if you keep reacting like that. Besides, that's hardly grounds for hexing a co-worker."

"Neither is having sex on Ministry property," Harry snarled. He was hot, his blood about boiling in his veins, vessels about to pop.

"Oh, so that's what this is really about?" Malfoy seized upon this with outstretched claws. "You know, you're pathetic, Potter. Absolutely pathetic. You're jealous and you can't even admit it. Has it ever occurred to you that - "

"Shut up!" Harry roared. It occurred to him that a general Silencio for his office might be in order and he shouted that, too. "I am not jealous!" At the moment, he believed it. Malfoy's face and posture were sour, his cheeks sucked in tight, making his face look positively skeletal, and his eyes had turned sullen and dark. Who wouldn't prefer someone with less baggage, fewer stupid hang-ups? "If I had been sober and you hadn't pushed me into it," Harry said, keeping his tone very controlled and steady, "it never would have happened. I would rather have - would rather get off with almost anyone else in the world."

Malfoy shook his head and refused to look at him. "I can't believe this. This isn't even about who I'm going to tell or anything like that any more. You just can't even handle a normal conversation on the topic, can you?" It was not a question. The dark eyes shifted up to Harry's. "I hate you, Potter," he said, very distinctly. "I hate you so much, I wish that you had never been born, except for the thing with Voldemort. Thanks for that. Otherwise, I don't care if I never see you again."

With that, he made for the door.

Stunned by Malfoy's words, Harry felt something else stir, something that was feeling very unpleasantly queasy about this entire affair and suddenly there was no time, only panic - "Wait!"

"Fuck you, Potter." Malfoy's voice was flat and empty, his hand on the doorknob.

Harry moved four steps without remembering it later, his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Wait," he repeated, his voice dropping several decibels. He was right behind Malfoy, his chest pressed into Malfoy's back. Malfoy stopped trying to leave. For a moment, there was silence, just the sounds of both of them breathing. Harry didn't even know what was going through his own head, but his pulse was pounding loudly in his ears. Malfoy's back curved, his arse tilting back to hit Harry's pelvis, his cock, fully hard within the confines of his trousers. Harry's breath hitched, but he didn't miss the fact that Malfoy's did, too.

"Going to fuck me?" Malfoy asked, his voice careful, his head turned halfway back over his shoulder, but his eyes were down, looking at some indistinct spot on the floor.

He wanted to. He was burning with the need to. He realised that he had moved closer still, and that Malfoy was trapped between the door and his body, and also that Malfoy was not struggling. Of their own volition, his hands ran up Malfoy's sides, over his tucked-in cotton shirt. He lifted Malfoy's arms to stretch them out to the sides, pinning his wrists in place beneath his palms. "You want me to." That, too, was not a question. His voice sounded hoarse in his ears, rasping from this unwanted want of Malfoy. Or his body, at least.

Malfoy shifted slightly, the crease of his arse now lined up directly against Harry's throbbing cock. His body was tight with tension, practically trembling with it. "Not nearly as much as you want to," he returned, rubbing his arse hard against Harry's cock. "Admit it, Potter. You're dying to do it again."

No one was saying anything about Zabini. Harry bit down on his lower lip. "I should. Just because you want it so much. I bet you haven't stopped thinking about it since that night."

"That's rich," Malfoy sneered. "You mean, you should do it before you come all over your pants anyway. I know that."

Harry couldn't think of a decent response to this. "I - no - "

Malfoy suddenly twisted himself out of Harry's grip and turned around. Their faces were too close together, Malfoy's hard and angrier than Harry had ever seen it, his eyes glittering with wrath. "And that's why you can't," he said. He tilted his hips forward to grind his erection into Harry's, his hands settling themselves insidiously on Harry's arse to hold him in place. "I wouldn't have let it happen if I hadn't been drunk, either. But no one forced you into anything, Potter. You just took the opportunity to be honest with yourself about what you really want for once. Pity that's not the real you." He released Harry abruptly and pushed him roughly away. "I have better things to be doing, if you don't mind," he said, the sneer returning.

For a moment, they faced each other, Harry still trying to put the ten thousand angry things running through his head into words. Fuck talking. Harry, desperately humiliated and hornier than he could remember being in a very long time, suddenly hated Malfoy so much that he almost wanted to kill him. Instead, he slapped Malfoy hard across the face, wishing even as he did it that he'd used his fist instead, the way Malfoy had.

His hand left a stinging red print on Malfoy's hot face. Malfoy made no move to defend himself, but he laughed, a cruel, soul-stripping taunt that cut Harry to the quick. He slammed the door behind himself, leaving Harry alone in his office, a wet spot forming on the front of his trousers.

* * *

Harry couldn't bear to think about it at all, even in general terms. Thinking about it made him so angry and embarrassed that he immediately lost his concentration on whatever he was trying to do. He didn't know what he wanted, but he didn't want to deal with any of it. He called in sick the next day, too humiliated to handle seeing Malfoy the very day after that last confrontation. It was a Friday, but everyone had been called in to work the week-end. With things as they were, he couldn't really miss more than one day of work without being genuinely ill, so he did go in on Saturday.

The first thing on the agenda was a Department staff meeting. Moody and Kingsley ran it, everyone looking terribly somber. An Auror apprentice had gone missing, possibly deliberately, possibly due to having become tangled in the dubious politics involved in trying to walk both sides of the road at once. No one had known where the young witch's loyalties really lay; in fact, it became obvious that no one had really known her all that well in the first place.

"Didn't she - " Phipps, one of the senior Aurors, looked at Malfoy - "didn't she join the Department about the same time as you, Malfoy?"

Harry, along with everyone else, looked at Malfoy, too. Vindication raised its evil head in Harry's mind's eye.

Malfoy didn't move, but the air around him seemed to freeze. "What would that have to do with anything?" he asked, his lips hardly moving.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, someone else did. Several someones, in fact.

"It seems an obvious connection," one person said.

"Considering your background," someone else added.

"Did you know her well, Malfoy?"

" - once saw them together in the tea room - "

"What were they doing?"

"Just talking, it looked like, but - "

" - her allegiances, Malfoy - did she ever say - ?"

Harry heard the barrage of questions and murmured commentary and his own comments died unspoken on his lips. He watched Malfoy, two spots of high colour burning on his former rival's face.

Finally, Kingsley raised a long-fingered hand. "Order please," he said firmly, looking disturbed by the murmurings from around the room. "That will do. Draco, can you answer the question? Did you know Michelle?"

Malfoy looked at no one but Kingsley. "Not particularly well. But we started on the same day, so yes, I have run into her on occasion around the office."

A dozen or more sharply-worded thoughts formed themselves instantly in Harry's head, but he kept them to himself. He wanted to hear what Malfoy had to say.

"To say hello to? Or was it more?" Kingsley was leaning forward across the table to where Malfoy sat, alone at one of the corners. The Auror apprentice sitting nearest to him moved her papers away ever so subtly.

"Just to say hello to," Malfoy replied, his tone very clipped. A muscle in one cheek twitched. "I didn't know her."

"But your connections - " someone across the room from Malfoy said again, one of the voices that had spoken before.

"I have no connections," Malfoy said tensely. "None. I am not going to repeat myself on this topic. If you want to take me to trial, then do it legally and get it over with." This all came out very fast and tight and Malfoy's mouth snapped shut when he had finished speaking, lips pressing themselves whitely together.

There was a dubious silence, and then Moody began to talk again, changing the subject. "That won't be necessary," he said gruffly. "Now then, the reports coming in have been linking the activity in Suffolk with that group in Wales. Is there anything to this? Who can comment on this?"

The meeting proceeded, and Harry only half-heard it. His gaze lingered thoughtfully on Malfoy, for once thinking of him apart from the mess between them. Malfoy's entire form looked tense for the remainder of the meeting, isolated by his unique status and his aura of resentful martyrdom. And Harry wished that what had almost happened the day before had actually happened - only he realised now that there had never been any real possibility of it happening in the first place.

* * *

He ended up staying until past eight, until he heard voices across the hall. He went to the door and cracked it slightly, listening. Zabini. Evidently he liked to leave doors open.

"… don't know why you have to stay this late," the latter was complaining. "It's Saturday night, for fuck's sake. How much longer?"

"I don't know," Malfoy responded, quiet but agitated. "But I have to get my work done. Especially right now."

"Fuck that." Zabini was eloquent. "They hired you knowing who you are. They know you're loyal, don't they? If they're having doubts, then they can fuck themselves."

"I don't want to get fired. I like this job, despite the circumstances." Malfoy's voice was still as tight as it had been during the meeting.

"You're full of tension," Zabini said, and Harry stole a look. Malfoy's desk faced the door of his office, as Harry's did, but his head was bent low over a report and he did not see Harry. Zabini's fingers were massaging Malfoy's shoulders, rubbing the length of the back of Malfoy's neck. "I know you like the job. But if they're going to treat you like this - "

"I would suspect me if I were them, too." Malfoy rubbed his eyes and propped his face up on his hands. "Stop that. I have to get this done."

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes. Are you listening to me?"

Zabini leaned over and tried to kiss Malfoy's cheek, but Malfoy pushed his face away. "Don't."

Zabini straightened and returned his attentions to Malfoy's shoulders and back. "If I were the head of the Auror Department, I'd have promoted you by now," he resumed. "It's obvious that you're good at your job. I just hate to see them mistreat you like this. Why should you have to answer their questions? You have no more to apologise for than Potter."

"Fucking Potter," Malfoy mumbled. "That feels really good."

"Was that an 'I take it back about telling you to stop'?" Zabini smirked and bent to place his mouth on the back of Malfoy's neck.

Malfoy's quill stilled in his hand, his eyes closing. "Mmm."

Harry caught a flash of Zabini's tongue on Malfoy's neck. "I just want you to feel good," he said, more tenderly. "You're all alone here in a sea of people who don't trust you. You could always come back to my uncle's firm. You know he'd take you."

"I don't want to be taken by him," Malfoy murmured, his voice slurring as Zabini's hands worked.

"I don't want to hear you say who you'd rather be taken by," Zabini said, mouth twisting, half-muffled against Malfoy's neck. "Unless it's me, for once."

"For once? What was last night?" Malfoy demanded, not opening his eyes. His brow creased in the center with the question.

"You know what I mean."

For a moment, Malfoy was silent. Then he turned his face to the side and reached up to pull Zabini's mouth down to his. Harry watched with increasing horror. The kiss was long and looked rather passionate, and Harry needed to stop seeing it, but he couldn't drag his eyes away. His stomach twisted painfully, knotting itself several times over. Malfoy released Zabini's mouth, but his hands kept the other's face close to his, whispering something that Harry couldn't hear. His face was full of an odd mix of pain and compassion, and Zabini wasn't responding.

Harry finally turned away, nearly reeling in a nausea of jealousy. He realised with a sickening jolt that he wanted exactly that. What they seemed to have. And he wanted to have it with Malfoy. He didn't just want Malfoy's body, which he couldn't deny - he wanted to kiss him, be allowed to be that intimate. Wanted to be the one who was that close to Malfoy, who got to hear the private things that went on behind the constant mask. He couldn't watch Malfoy's quiet utterances of whatever it was - love? It looked that way, though why it seemed so painful for Malfoy was a mystery to him. And now that he'd realised, it was much too late. He'd had his chance. He saw that now. On the field assignment. Malfoy had made the move, as Harry had later insisted. And he'd turned it down. Insisted that it had been meaningless. And it had been, at the time. In retrospect, the entire thing instantly gained significance in Harry's memory, and he was just as sure that it had lost any significance that it might ever have had for Malfoy. He'd blown it.

He sank onto the visitors' chair across from his own desk, hunched over his cramped abdomen and wished he could feel less sick about the whole thing. There it was, laid bare before his eyes with a single kiss. He'd never felt anything like this before. His similar realisation with Ginny, seeing her kissing Dean back in sixth year was nothing in comparison. With this, he felt like he couldn't see how he was supposed to keep on living, going about his daily routines, with Malfoy so close by but completely unattainable. He hardly thought of Zabini. It made too much sense. Friends all the way through Hogwarts and then the war, too. Zabini had stayed out of it all, but the two of them had obviously kept in touch. It kept making sense in flooding waves of retroactive awareness. And Malfoy had said that he wished that Harry had never been born, that he never wanted to see him again.

Harry's head was suddenly pounding.

* * *

Work became a constant stress, people jostling for the latest reports, half the field teams being called back to the Ministry while the other half were left exactly where they were and without enough information. The Death Eaters were gathering again, and the question of Malfoy's loyalties came up over and over again. Once, this would have filled Harry with glee. Before, he'd thought he was the only person who had questions about Malfoy. He had no doubts now, not that it mattered.

Relations had never been worse. For the most part, Malfoy ignored his existence, saw through Harry as through he were not in the room. It was a silence like a vacuum, blindingly obvious to Harry, but apparently unnoticed by everyone else. Only three days had passed, but they felt like weeks, each one characterised by some sharp reminder of how badly Harry had mishandled the entire situation. He wasn't thinking clearly, and he wasn't sleeping enough. It had gone past the point of exchanging jibes in the tea room; they did not speak at all. And instead of feeling annoyed by Malfoy, all Harry could feel was self-recrimination and regret. He'd rejected Malfoy repeatedly, and it was surprising that Malfoy had given him more than one chance in the first place. And he had; Harry could see that in retrospect.

Moody had sent a memo around, telling everyone to be ready to be sent out at any point. Harry had no time or energy to be dealing with something like this now, but it was distracting him so badly that his hands shook every time Malfoy came anywhere near him.

The Department was reorganised into units, excluding the field teams. Harry was put on a team with Kingsley himself, a junior Auror that he didn't know particularly well, and Malfoy. Bloody figures, Harry thought, re-folding the memo to send on its way. He picked it up, walked to the door and opened it, releasing the memo into the corridor. It flew directly toward Malfoy's door and directly through it, a trick that still caught Harry's attention even after a year and a half in the Department. He listened, but heard nothing from the other side. He had just closed his door when Malfoy's opened, releasing the note into the corridor once more.

* * *

Around three that afternoon, another memo arrived, announcing a Unit Eight meeting for four o'clock the same day. Harry got up and began to pace. The memo was from Kingsley and had been copied to the other two parties, so he left it where it was. By three-thirty, he gave up on trying to get any work done before the meeting, trying to calm himself down. He went to the tea room and tried to avoid conversations with anyone and everyone. By ten to four, he couldn't take it any longer and went to the small room where the meeting was to take place.

He stopped in his tracks in the doorway. Malfoy was already there, bent over some papers. There was a quill gripped tightly between his fingertips, and it clattered to the table upon seeing Harry. His fingers found it again, closing around it, his mouth tight, eyes avoiding Harry's. Harry was stuck - he couldn't leave now, but to sit down with Malfoy and wait in silence for the next ten minutes was too much. He cleared his throat. Malfoy didn't look up. "Er - I'll just - go and get some more tea or something," Harry said stiffly, trying not to trip over his own words.

Malfoy's eyes flicked up then. There was a long silence, and Harry could not read his expression at all; his face was closed. Almost wary. "You don't have to leave." It was cool, very distant, and extremely controlled. As though nothing had ever happened, but that they were back to where they had always been. Never friends, or even friendly.

Harry was somewhat taken aback. "Okay, then." He hesitated, then pulled back a chair and sat down across from Malfoy. He'd brought a notepad, but nothing more. He opened it and tried to pretend that Malfoy wasn't there. Should he say something? He stole a glance across the table. Malfoy looked perfectly composed, save the slight tightness about his lips. He was writing something, or perhaps just reading and skimming the text with his quill. "Malfoy, I - " he blurted out, then stopped, not sure what he was even going to say.

Malfoy looked at him. One eyebrow rose. "Yes?" It was icy.

Harry lost his nerve. "I - I don't know what I was going to say."

The lips went white, but Malfoy just resumed his reading.

Harry cursed himself in the ensuing silence and wished he'd thought before trying to say whatever it was that he thought he'd been about to say. Perhaps he should apologise. But how was he supposed to do that? What did one say, after repeated bad behaviour? Sorry about all of that… suppose we shag again? Right. No. He cleared his throat again and flipped a page of his notebook. "What are you doing?" he asked, trying not to stammer.

Malfoy did not answer, his quill moving just as evenly over the page. His eyebrows were a little higher than they should have been, though.

Harry waited. The silence stretched out like an old elastic band, taut enough to snap. He grew irritated. "Are you not going to - "

"Working," Malfoy said, very tensely, not looking up this time.

Oh. Harry decided not to say anything more. There didn't seem to be any point.

The door opened then and the junior Auror came in. "Oh good, I'm in the right room," she said, and some of the tension dissipated.

"So it would seem," Harry said, trying to sound - well, if not cheerful, then at least professional. Composed. Which he wasn't, but apparently he was going to have to learn how to be, because this was how things were going to be from now on.

* * *

Harry spent another week burying himself in paperwork. Zabini was occasionally seen in the early evenings, loitering about and waiting for Malfoy. He nodded at Harry once, his eyes cool and narrow, but there was a suppressed curiosity to his demeanour as well. One which Harry did not appreciate. He scowled and did not return the nod, hurrying by Zabini to get to the lifts as quickly as possible.

Thursday of that week, they lost an Auror in Wales, on some deserted pebble beach where the team had stumbled into a hive of trouble. The survivors had all been Obliviated, but the Death Eaters had left the Auror's body on the beach for the Ministry to find later. Tensions rose in the Department. Harry shut it away, tried not to deal with it. Part of his job was to decode encrypted owls; it was part of the job of every Auror at his level. At least he hadn't had to translate that one.

At long last, there was a success. A large one. Antonin Dolohov, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, and Augustus Rookwood were all taken into Ministry custody that Saturday, captured on coast just outside of Swansea. All of the field teams were recalled, and Moody declared that the Department would be closed until Tuesday. A large banquet was to be held for every Department employee on Monday evening, mandatory attendance. Medals would be awarded by the Minister, speeches were to be made, and so forth.

Harry was relieved about the Death Eaters, but didn't particularly want to go to the dinner. Black tie, no less. Official invitations were sent around the Department, requesting to know numbers of guests. Harry frowned, then wrote in Ron and Hermione's names. Not Ginny. Not for this; it would seem like a date and he didn't want a date. Not with her.

He did, however, decide to try to apologise to Malfoy for real.

* * *

Despite the success, Malfoy was sitting behind his desk as usual, bent so low to the desk over his report that his longish hair was nearly touching it, elbows splayed out to the sides. Not seeing Harry through the glass, his lips were moving, perhaps dictating his words as he wrote, his neat longhand pausing only to dip his quill in the inkpot standing inches from his right hand every so often. Harry knocked.

Startled, Malfoy's head jerked up. "Come in!"

Harry opened the door. "Uh, hi," he said, feeling like an idiot. "Are you busy?"

Malfoy's eyebrows twitched upward. "Does it look like I'm not? Yes, I'm busy, Potter. You can see yourself out, I'm sure."

He resumed writing. Harry coughed. "Um, look - I just wanted to talk for a second. I - "

"What part of that," Malfoy asked, eyes on the paper as he continued writing, "was unclear to you, Potter? Get out."

"I wanted to ap - " Harry started desperately, but Malfoy was ruthless.

He was on his feet so quickly that Harry took an involuntary step away. "There is nothing I want to hear from you," Malfoy said, almost hissing. "I thought I made that very clear. I will work with you, because I have to. However, as you yourself made abundantly clear in the past, we are not friends and never will be. There is nothing to discuss. Now get out of my office."

Harry had been expecting Malfoy not to accept his apology, but he'd thought he would at least have the chance to offer it. Malfoy's face and tone were colder than ice, and there was no give to either. He could see Malfoy's fist, gripping his wand in his pocket. Harry was shaken and hurt by this reaction, but tried not to show it. He nodded, backing toward the door, his hand still on the knob. As he closed it, he paused, looking back at Malfoy's stiff frame for one last second. "I'm sorry," he said softly, almost too quietly to hear, and closed the door. He listened for a moment, but there was only silence.

* * *

The dinner was delayed when they lost another Auror, in Norway this time. Just another murder in Oslo's eastern district, or so the Muggles had reported it, but a French spy of theirs in the Muggle Interpol said that suspicious figures had been seen in the area not long before that. The stress grew. Kingsley and Moody jointly decreed that every fully-qualified Auror was to be sent to Oslo to track down the Death Eaters. Of course, Harry thought later, it was only when the Ministry began losing people that they finally began to take the danger seriously. It bloody figured. The units were reorganized yet again, and Harry was shunted into Unit Three. Malfoy and Kingsley were both kept in Unit Eight, while the junior Auror was moved to Unit Twelve.

His visit was wholly uneventful, and they received word on the third day away that they were being recalled to London.

The rest of the team went directly to the Ministry, but Harry decided to check on his flat and to take a shower first. By the time he arrived in the Department, the rest of his unit had shaken their tired looks - instead, they and everyone else looked concerned - too concerned, Harry realised, looking around the conference room at everyone.

It seemed that not every team had had such an uneventful trip. Harry's heart was suddenly lodged in his throat, fearing the worst before even hearing the news.

Unit Eight had gone missing.

* * *

The shock had faded, but a large part of the numbness had stuck with Harry. Without meaning to, he'd assumed a rather authoritative role, and only Moody resisted this in any way, staying with Harry to give the odd instruction or two. They were in the conference room, a few other people coming and going. Harry was on the Floo constantly, occasionally emerging to take a phone call on Moody's mobile (magically altered to work both within the Ministry and the Muggle world). He had no idea how much time had gone by. All he knew was that he had to find Malfoy. And Kingsley. And the other two members of the team.

There wasn't enough information, and this frustrated him more than anything. Fear was eating at his belly, fear that he would never see Malfoy again, have the chance to explain what an ass he'd been, and apologise properly. Beg Malfoy to hear him out, and then forgive him. He was right, Harry thought despondently, even as he dialled a number that Moody was barking out to him. I am a coward. I've never been in such a panic before.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, jerking Harry's attention back to where it should have been. It was only Hestia, giving him a reassuring pat. The phone rang on the other end.

"Ja." The voice was distant, the line crackling with static.

Harry glanced at Moody, and said, "Code Nine-Three-Eight. This is Auror Seven-Two-Two-Three-Zero-Six. Please confirm."

A pause, and then, "Confirmed. This is Agent Two-Seven-Zero-Two. Go ahead."

The voice was heavily accented, and Harry thought that he had spoken to this particular agent before. "Auf Deutsch," he said, speaking very slowly and clearly. Part of Auror qualification for full status and international relations in the Ministry's training program meant mastering a second language. Harry's German was adequate, but only just. "Bitte sprechen Sie langsam," he added. Please speak slowly.

"Ja. Fahren Sie fort." Yes. Go ahead.

"Wir haben einige Leute in Norwegen verloren ," Harry said carefully. We have lost some people in Norway. "Wissen Sie etwas darüber?" Do you know anything about it?

Another, longer pause. "Warten Sie." Wait.

Harry waited. There were more clicks and buzzings on the other end, and then at last, another voice came on the line. "Ziss is Agent One-Zero-One-One," the new voice said. "Ja, ve haff new information. Your team has been apprehended in Oslo, zey are being kept hostage. Ve are dealing vit it."

Agitated, Harry shot to his feet. "What do you mean, you're dealing with it?" he asked, abandoning the attempt at German. "Can we be involved?" A hostage situation. Horror. "What do they want?"

"Ziss information comes from Norwegen," Agent 1011 responded distantly, though that may have been the poor line. Harry was grateful that it worked between London and Berlin at all. "Zo it may not be correct. Zey are asking for release of ze captiff Todesser."

The Death Eaters. Harry swallowed. The one thing they couldn't give. This wasn't like asking to borrow money from some wealthy citizen, to be paid back out of the Department's dwindling treasury at some point. He looked across at Moody, who seemed to already know.

"It's the Death Eaters, isn't it?" he growled, his magical eye swivelling to focus on the mobile as though he could glare directly through it to the agents on the other end. "Tell them we said no."

"Moody - "

"Tell them, Potter" he repeated, his mouth working. "One does not comply with terrorists."

Harry, glaring back at him, tilted the mouthpiece back toward his mouth and said, "Where are they?"

"Das wissen wir nicht." We don't know.

"Take care of it, and quickly," Harry said, struggling to keep calm. "I'll call again within the hour."

"In Ordnung." A click, and the call was over.

Harry pressed End with his thumb and closed the phone. The fear had returned in full force. They hadn't just failed to report in (though with Malfoy and Kingsley both on the team, it would have to be a serious lapse for both of them to forget). They really had been captured.

"Which agent?" Moody wanted to know, rubbing at his normal eye.

"Two of them," Harry answered. "2702 and 1011."

"Oh, him. He knows what he's doing," Moody said. He coughed loudly. "His father spied against Grindelwald in the last war. He can be trusted."

"I would hope so," Harry replied sardonically. "Otherwise, the top security codes have just been wasted."

"Cut the attitude, Potter. Have you eaten today? You look like shit." Moody was, as always, blunter than hell.

"I'm fine," Harry snapped. He put the mobile down on the table and went to the door. "Call me if there's anything."

"We will," Hestia promised.

Just then, the Floo popped and crackled. It was the only secured Floo in the Department and the only one they used. All three of them started and turned to face it, waiting. Hestia gasped - Kingsley's face appeared in the flames, flickering in and out as though the fire was about to go out.

" - ello?" His voice was distorted, too.

Moody and Harry got there first, both of them dropping to their knees. "Hello!" Moody shouted. "Can you hear me?"

" - ust barely - not enou - oo powder," Kingsley was saying, wincing from the heat of the flames. "Can't send anyone thr - " He was cut off again, looking frustrated. "Can you - ear me?"

"Yes!" Moody looked frantic. "Can you wait? We'll get some more - "

"No time!" Kingsley's head turned, as though looking back over his shoulder. "Have to - " His head disappeared, and the flames died down.

Frustrated, Moody sat back on his heels. "Damn it!"

Harry got to his feet. "I'll get a pot of powder in case they get a chance to use the Floo again."

"Good."

* * *

They waited. Hestia made tea. There was a brief meeting involving the senior Aurors and Harry, but he was burning with impatience, his eyes straying back to the fireplace every few seconds. The meeting was adjourned, and he returned his full attention to waiting for the Floo.

When the flames leapt again, it was three hours after the first time. The second call to the German intelligence proved equally inconclusive, and Harry had put every hope in Unit Eight finding their way to a Floo outlet again. He was on his knees in a heartbeat. "Kingsley?" He heard the urgency in his own voice and ignored it.

"Just me, Potter." The sound was slightly clearer, and so was Malfoy's face. "We need Floo powder."

"I have it. Here. Put your hand out." Harry held out the full pot of Floo powder.

Malfoy withdrew his head without a word and his hand appeared, palm turned upward. Harry placed the pot into it and didn't say anything; Malfoy couldn't hear him with his head in Oslo somewhere, if he was still there. But he let his fingers linger a little too long. Malfoy's arm was retracted quickly, and that was it. A moment later, a junior Auror that Harry didn't know particularly well Floo-ed through. Harry had already moved out of the way. The young woman was dizzy and weak, so he caught her and helped her to a chair, quickly pulling out two more. It was all he had time for before a second Auror and then Kingsley came through. He had no time before Malfoy came through, and he was as weak as the other three. He would have collapsed if Harry had not been there. His fingers tightened around Harry's arms, trying to push himself upright and away, but Harry held on.

"Just wait," he said roughly, and led Malfoy to a chair.

"Harry - get Moody," Kingsley said, his voice much thinner than it usually was.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, already moving to the door.

"We haven't had anything to eat since we left or to drink since the first day - they were waiting for us," Kingsley said. "Just hurry, Harry."

"Will do." Harry opened the door and ran down the corridor, calling for Moody.

* * *

Everyone was given something to eat and sent home. Hestia told them all very particularly to make sure that they had someone to come for them to take them home. Malfoy was the only one who objected, saying he would be fine. Harry, loitering about on purpose, watched him surreptitiously. Hestia argued, but Malfoy was adamant. Finally, she offered to go with him herself, and he refused that, too. Politely, but firmly. "I'll be fine," he said again.

She made an exasperated sound and left the room, muttering about stubborn people. Malfoy very pointedly didn't look at Harry.

"Er - can I call someone for you?" Harry asked quietly, swallowing down his jealousy. "Blaise Zabini, maybe?"

This earned him a sharp look. "You just don't give up, do you? I said I'll be fine, Potter."

Harry felt a dart of anger. "You're weak and tired," he stated. "Can't you accept help from anyone?"

"You get used to doing things yourself when no one helps you," Malfoy said coolly. "I'm going home. You can lecture me the next time I'm in."

He was almost at the door. "Can I check on you sometime?" Harry asked, feeling awkward.

"I'll be in tomorrow."

"Shouldn't you - ?"

"It's none of your business, Potter," Malfoy said shortly. "I'll be here." He went through the door without looking behind him.

* * *

True to his word, Malfoy was there in his office the next morning. He came in a little later than usual, and though he stayed there through the morning break, he seemed to be all right. At least physically. Harry brewed a pot of Earl Grey and took a cup of it with him to knock on Malfoy's door around eleven-thirty.

"Who is it?"

"Harry," Harry said.

He heard Malfoy curse under his breath, then get up and come to the door. "What do you want?" he asked abruptly. "I'm trying to work here, Potter. If this is some sort of attempt to sabotage me somehow - "

"It's not," Harry interrupted. "It's a cup of tea. I thought maybe you could do with one. That's all."

"If you still think that I should be malingering at home - "

"I don't." Harry cut him off again. "That's not it at all. I just thought you'd maybe like some tea. And I was told to tell you that the Department dinner's been rescheduled for tomorrow night. That's all. Nothing more."

Malfoy's eyes weighed him dubiously. "That's it?"

"Just tea." Harry held it out, and Malfoy grudgingly took the cup.

"Thank you." It was cool.

"Unless," Harry ploughed ahead, determined, "you'd be up for hearing my apology."

Malfoy's cup stopped just before it touched his lips. Then he sighed and lowered it again, backing away from the door to go back to his desk. "I knew that couldn't be all you wanted."

"I just want to apologise," Harry said. He went inside and closed the door behind himself, leaning against it. "Please."

Malfoy lowered himself into his chair and took a long sip of his tea, wincing slightly at the temperature. He seemed to be stalling, but Harry waited. Finally, he gave a slight wave. "Fine. Get it over with."

Harry took a deep breath and launched into it, his meticulously planned words all flying out of his head. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy. God, I just - I was horrible to you, and I wish I hadn't been. I didn't mean to blow you off all those times - well, I mean, I did, but I wish I hadn't. I - er - I really, um, I - especially after the field assignment we were on and everything - I was really bad about that. What I'm trying to say is that I don't have any regrets about that. I don't think it was a mistake, like I said before." Malfoy's eyes were focused on the tea, his features perfectly neutral, betraying nothing. Harry went on, taking another steadying breath. "What I mean to say is, I'm glad it happened. And if we could go back, I would do it again - if you wanted to."

Malfoy raised his head, his eyes half-open and clearly unimpressed. "Am I supposed to feel grateful for this?"

"No - I just - I mean - "

"I don't need your pity, Potter," Malfoy said, his tone quiet but dangerous. "I believe I already agreed that it was a mistake. A rather large one. I think we should both forget it ever happened. What happens under the influence - "

"I'm in love with you," Harry burst out. "Yesterday, I - I nearly went out of my mind, worrying about you, worrying that I would never have a chance to put things right between the two of us, and I - "

"Some things aren't within your power to put right, Potter," Malfoy interrupted, shaking his head, lips twisting. "You're not all-powerful, though I'm sure you hate to realise that. This isn't open for discussion. What's happened has happened. I'll accept your apology, but that's the best you can expect."

Harry's chest was heaving, his pulse beating a tattoo against his eardrums. "Is this about Zabini?"

"No." Malfoy was very definite. "This is about you. And me." His eyes met Harry's. "I'm sorry, Potter, but what's done is done. Now, if you would excuse me, I have work to catch up on."

He was so upset that he could hardly speak, he was so choked. "I'm in love with you," he repeated, his palms sweaty. "Did you hear me say that?"

"I'm trying not to," Malfoy said, refusing to meet his eyes. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Just go."

There was nothing else to be said. Harry nodded once to show he'd heard, then left Malfoy's office without another word.

* * *

He was in front of his mirror, trying to tie his tie and wishing with all his might that he did not have to go to this ridiculous (but mandatory) dinner. The Department had been closed for the day, as Moody had given everyone the day off. Hopefully the seating plan would put Malfoy on the opposite side of the room, leaving Harry to lick his wounds in the safe, familiar company of Ron and Hermione. Not that they knew. He wasn't about to tell them about this. All he could hope was that he would feel less terrible about it after some time had gone by.

He Apparated to the Ministry and made his way down to the fifth ballroom, where the most formal of events were held. One could never be sure how it would look - its dimensions were completely different every time he saw it. The noise level increased as he walked down the long, marble corridor. The double doors stood open, and outside there was a list of the tables and who was sitting where. Harry scanned, noting with dim unhappiness that the exact seats had been assigned. Almost always, he ended up with Hermione on one side, Ron across the table somewhere, and some elderly witch he didn't know on his other side. Table two, seat eight. Eight. Harry suppressed his thoughts about this unwelcome reminder and began looking for Ron and Hermione's names. Miraculously, they were beside him, though not on either side. Ron was on his right at seat seven and Hermione next to him at seat six. Some people he didn't know… Harry's eyes travelled to the bottom of the list. Malfoy. Seat nine. Bloody well figured. For a moment, Harry contemplated leaving. Just then, Moody came limping along, looking as odd as he always did in formal wear, his dress robes hanging unevenly off his sloping shoulders.

"No hanging about!" he barked, thrusting a half-grin in Harry's direction, a heavy arm slinging itself around Harry's shoulders. Harry was very forcefully propelled into the room.

"Er, hello," he said, forced to smile despite his annoyance.

"Hate these things, but the Minister insisted," Moody said gruffly. "I could see you thinking about it, you know. Body language expert, Potter."

"I wouldn't have left," Harry said, gloomily reflecting that it was probably true. Not and leave Ron and Hermione there.

"Good man. Table two, is it?" Moody scanned the room and zeroed in on Harry's table. "There you are. Front and center." He chuckled wickedly and gave Harry a bit of a shove, stumping off toward table eighteen, or wherever he was seated.

The tables were sparkling with the Ministry's finest crystal and silver, globe candles causing everything to sparkle. Better than takeaway curry at home, Harry thought, looking for Ron and Hermione. They were there already, turned toward each other and away from one of the only other occupants at the table. Malfoy was turned away from them, too, one knee crossed elegantly over the other. He had opted, like many, to wear a Muggle tuxedo rather than dress robes, which Harry had once heard someone say was a reflection on his father more than his taste in clothing. He'd forgotten how good Malfoy looked in them, though. The angle of his shoulders, sharp in the crisply tailored tuxedo, was sharp. He appeared to be absorbed in reading his menu. Ron and Hermione appeared to be oblivious to his presence. Better for everyone, he supposed. With an inward sigh, he walked over, pulled out his chair and sat down.

He detected a faint trace of Malfoy's aftershave, which was a particularly attractive, expensive-smelling one, and he swallowed hard. This was going to be harder than he thought. "Hi," he said, to Ron and Hermione.

"Harry!"

"Good to see you, mate." Ron smiled, a genuine, happy smile, and Harry smiled back reflexively.

"You, too. Hi, Hermione."

Ron nodded over Harry's shoulder and grimaced. Harry shook his head and shrugged at the same time. It was fine. Or it would be fine. If Malfoy just kept ignoring him, he could deal with it, just keep his feelings to himself.

The table slowly filled, and Harry busied himself by reading his own menu. Typical Ministry dinner, very standard fare. But good. The welcome was made. The longer speeches would inevitably come after dinner, of course. The servers came around and poured the wine. Harry requested red and noticed that Malfoy did, too, keeping his voice as low as possible. Harry glanced at him then, and when Malfoy caught him at it, immediately looking away, Harry felt his face turn hot, embarrassed.

He spent as much time as he could keeping up the conversation with Ron and Hermione, and if they found him too talkative, neither one said so. If Malfoy noticed his brittle, hyperactive conversing, he kept it to himself as well.

Sometime after the soup dishes were removed, there was a lull in the conversation. Ron had taken himself to use the facilities and Hermione had slipped over to another table to speak to someone she knew. The other people at the circular table were all involved in their own conversations and seemed to be unaware of the constrained silence between Harry and Malfoy. With no food to give him something to do, something to pretend to be interested in, Harry didn't know what to do. He could hardly read the menu card for the sixtieth time. Finally, he said, "Where's Zabini?"

Malfoy jerked slightly, as though startled that Harry was actually talking. "He couldn't come," he said stiffly.

Harry couldn't help it. "Prior engagement?" he asked lightly, looking at Malfoy's fingertips, which were resting on the stem and base of his wineglass.

He got a shrug. "I don't know. I didn't ask him, if that's what you're trying to find out."

There was a hint of bite to Malfoy's tone, but he was actually talking. Harry tried not to be too happy about this. "I see."

Malfoy made a sound that might have been a sniff, or possibly a laugh. "You're completely transparent, Potter."

"I wish you were," Harry said, with feeling.

Malfoy turned his head then and gave Harry a long, probing look. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," Harry said. Hermione was nowhere in sight now, but he glimpsed Ron across the room, talking to Dean Thomas, who was dating one of the junior Aurors.

"You probably wouldn't like what you found," Malfoy said coolly.

"Why? Because you hate me so much?" Harry asked, trying not to sound bitter. It didn't quite work.

"The opposite," Malfoy said, almost inaudibly. "I - "

Harry held his breath. "What?"

Hermione slipped back into her seat just then. "Oh good, they haven't served the main course yet," she said happily, adjusting her necklace.

Harry leaned back, hating her timing. "No," he said, and his voice sounded disappointed. Perhaps she would attribute it to his hunger or something. "It looks like they're coming around, though."

"Where's Ron?"

"Over there, by Dean," Harry said, nodding with his head.

"Oh, of course." Hermione turned to the person next to her then to answer a question, and Harry was on his own again.

Ron returned just as the rack of lamb was being served, and he and Hermione began to talk to each other, something to do with the gutters or some other bit of the external plumbing of their house. He turned back to Malfoy, watched him cut a steamed carrot in two and eat it.

"What were you going to say, before?" Harry asked, under his breath.

"This hardly seems a good place to talk about it," Malfoy said tersely.

"Well, can we talk about it later, then?" Harry asked, trying to keep his impatience out of his voice. It was still progress. Malfoy was talking to him, which was not something he had thought would happen again after yesterday.

"I have plans," Malfoy said, shaking his head.

Harry's heart plummeted. "With who?" he asked, before he could prevent himself.

"That's none of your business."

That seemed to end the conversation. Harry was dogged, though. "Then what about tomorrow?" he asked, still very quietly.

"We have to work."

"After that," Harry pressed.

Malfoy made no response at first, cut one of the roasted potatoes in two. At first, he didn't eat it, just toyed with it. Then he said, "We'll see."

Harry sighed audibly and took a long sip of wine.

* * *

By the time the speeches had begun, Harry had decided to stop drinking. He wasn't even tipsy, just relaxed. But if Malfoy decided to change his mind and talk to him, he would not be accused of being drunk this time. The speeches were too long. At one point, Malfoy was required to stand, along with the other members of Unit Eight, and the entire assembly applauded. When Malfoy took his seat again, Harry smiled at him. His pavlova had been abandoned partway through, and a server came to remove his plate.

Malfoy almost smiled back. Not quite.

"Was it pretty bad?" Harry asked carefully.

Malfoy looked down at his water. He, too, had stopped drinking. "I didn't think we'd get out of there. Kingsley only found the loose brick - the one that led to the room with the Floo, I mean - on the third day. There wasn't any powder. Just the stuff we scraped up with our fingers from the mantle and the floor."

Harry shivered. It was the same sort of nightmare that they were trained to anticipate, but he didn't even know what had happened. "They were waiting for you?"

Malfoy nodded. "By the harbour, where we Apparated. There must have been some sort of prior notification. I wonder about that apprentice who went missing."

"Yeah, so do I," Harry said. They were speaking quietly, even as the Minister's speech went on and on. "Were you…" he trailed off, not wanting to finished the thoughtless question.

"Scared?" Malfoy looked at him. Harry opened his mouth to say that that hadn't been what he was going to say, but Malfoy was faster. "Yes. We could have gone longer without eating, probably, but not much more without drinking anything. It would have been - " He stopped. "I'm sure you can imagine."

"I thought I was never going to see you again," Harry said, somehow feeling that it was all right to say this now.

Another almost-smile. "And that would have bothered you?" Malfoy asked, rather rhetorically. "Really, Potter?"

"Don't call me that," Harry said, his pulse subtly gaining speed. "Come on. Not after what I said."

Malfoy smiled reluctantly. "Have it your way."

"Tell me what you were going to say before," Harry said, with a cautionary glance at Ron, Hermione, and everyone else at their table.

Malfoy seemed to think about it for a long while. "The thing is," he began, but just then, the Minister's speech finally ended. The ballroom burst into applause, which drowned out any possibility of any conversation.

Harry clapped and gritted his teeth in frustration. The dinner was over, and people began to stand up, move around. Harry didn't go anywhere, save to stand when Malfoy did. "Don't leave!" he said. "I need to know what were going to say. Please."

Malfoy looked off to the side. "I should really get going. This could be a long conversation, and I don't want to - "

His eyes kept going to the door, and Harry knew that he was trying to escape. "No, that's not - Malfoy - Draco - come on," he said, grabbing Malfoy's elbow. "Just tell me. You can't leave me hanging like that!"

Malfoy looked down at Harry's hand on his elbow and raised his eyebrows. "Let go of me."

"Where do you have to go?" Harry asked, knowing he sounded desperate. He was aware that Ron and Hermione were waiting a tactful distance away, but he didn't have the patience to think of them.

"Potter, I really don't think we should - not here - " Malfoy pulled his arm out of Harry's grasp.

"You started by saying 'the opposite' to my saying that you hated me," Harry said determinedly. "That's how it started. The opposite. What does that mean?"

Malfoy blew at a nonexistent wisp of hair in exasperation. "You don't know the opposite of hate, Potter?"

"Harry," Harry insisted. "Not with you. I don't know anything when it comes to you."

"Obviously," Malfoy said. His mouth had a stubborn set to it.

Harry refused to back down. "But I want to," he said firmly.

"I think," Malfoy said deliberately, "that you don't have the first idea what you mean when it comes to your feelings for me. I think that you're feeling guilty about having been such an ass, and now you're mistaking that for something else. I don't want to talk about it because I don't want to have to tell you that - not when I want so badly for it to be true."

Harry gaped at him for a moment. "You do?"

He got a sarcastic smile for that. "Yes, and this is the part where you bite my head off for having lied about being interested in you, back before everything got so - "

"I don't care about that!" Harry said. "That doesn't matter at all. I just - "

"What?" Malfoy asked, voice very even and mostly composed, but there was a slight unsteadiness to it, and that was what convinced Harry.

"You're in love with me," Harry blurted, before he could prevent himself.

"Brilliant deduction, Potter," Malfoy muttered, staring at the floor somewhere near Harry's shoes. "I think I already said that, somewhere in there."

Harry couldn't speak. But it felt as though all the pieces were coming together, falling into places that they should have found a long time ago. "I think I've been trying to tell you that, too, but I didn't know how, exactly."

Malfoy gave a nervous-sounding laugh. "You always were an incompetent fool."

He was smiling, and Harry laughed, too, and it sounded strange to his ears. Malfoy was biting his lip and still smiling, and he knew then that everything was going to be all right. He put his hand on Malfoy's elbow, heedless of anyone else in the room, and pulled him closer. Malfoy's hair was soft under Harry's palm where it grasped the back of his neck, his arm fitting exactly around Malfoy's shoulder. And Malfoy said nothing, but his eyes were clear and perfectly easy to read for once. It was the final confirmation, and the only one Harry needed. When their mouths came together, he heard nothing but the pounding of his heartbeat, saw nothing, but felt a thousand things at once. Malfoy was warm, and his mouth was strong and soft and wet and perfect. Malfoy's lips opened and their tongues touched shiveringly, so intimately close, and Harry realised that they had never kissed before this, not even once during that whole night. Everything that had been wrong was slipping away, the months of tension and misunderstanding and bad behaviour and fear, and Malfoy's arms were around him, his long hands clutching at the back of Harry's dress robes. Harry became slowly aware that most of the room had probably noticed by now, despite the milling and departures, and when he and Malfoy finally released each other, he found that this was true.

Malfoy smiled at him and licked his lower lip in a somewhat nervous gesture. He gave a slight nod with his chin to the rest of the room, or possibly just to Ron and Hermione, both of whom were gaping at Harry. The area immediately around them had gone silent, speechless with shock. And Harry found that he suddenly didn't care. He felt rather self-conscious, but it was okay. The next few weeks were bound to be something of an uproar, but he knew that he would rather have Malfoy than his safe anonymity now.

"You have no one to blame for this but yourself," Malfoy murmured, though he was still smiling.

"I know," Harry said obstinately. "I don't care."

"I think I might just believe you," Malfoy said. His eyes were glinting with humour and something else that would take a lot more analysis.

Harry leaned toward him again. "Good." He smiled, relieved. "Tonight, I'm not going to think about all this," he said, indicating the onlookers. "Do you really have somewhere to go right now?"

Malfoy's mouth quirked at the corners. "Did you have something in mind?"

Harry lowered his voice even further, very much aware of their audience, though everyone was trying to pretend they weren't watching, talking loudly while shooting very obvious looks in their direction. He put his lips against Malfoy's ear and murmured, "I want you in my bed."

Malfoy shivered and was nodding before Harry had finished speaking. "Let's get out of here."

"Definitely." Harry glanced around, shrugged apologetically at Ron and Hermione, neither of whom looked particularly happy with him (they would come around, once they got over being hurt that he hadn't told them, Harry told himself), and he casually began to make his way toward the door. He could sense Moody's eye upon him from across the room, and that was fine, too.

Out in the night air, Malfoy looked at him. Without saying a word, they kissed again, and then again. It was all that Harry had ever wanted, whether or not he had known it for all that long. He was brimming over with things that he wanted to say and do, and choosing which to do first was agony. His hands were cradling Malfoy's face, possessive and tender at once. Malfoy's breath exhaled against his neck as he buried his face there, kissing Harry with more passion than Harry had known he could have. His eyes were closed, a light wind ruffling the back of his robes and his hair, Malfoy's lips hot on his skin. He drew Malfoy's face back up to his and their next kiss went on for what felt like ages. Hours. It didn't matter how long.

Finally, Malfoy broke the kiss. "Harry - "

"Yeah?" It came out hardly more than a whisper. He opened his eyes and saw Malfoy watching him.

"You really burnt your bridges there," Malfoy said, rather seriously.

"Maybe they needed burning," Harry said.

"I didn't have any to burn. People could hardly think less of me." Malfoy shrugged. "But if you're really okay with it, then I guess - "

"It'll be fine," Harry insisted. But. There had to be a but. "What about Zabini?"

"What about him?" He shook his head. "He knew what I wanted. Who I wanted. And he's with someone else now, anyway. It's all right. It took him awhile to get used to. He'd always had this thing for me. But I never lied to him about you."

The last of Harry's worry dissolved. Trying to contain himself, he held out his hand. "Are you really coming with me?"

Malfoy looked at it, then took it. "If you're sure you want me to."

"I'm sure," Harry said, very positively. "Come on."

Malfoy stood very close to him and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, putting his face against Harry's. Neither of them were resisting this enormous thing that had been between them all along any more, and to give in to it at last was very sweet. "Okay," he said simply, and with that, Harry knew that his entire life was about to change in a rather permanent way.

He couldn't have been happier.

-fin-